Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Read Free Page A

at the comments swirling around the room. My other option was to turn bright red and fidget, so it was nice to hide behind the face mask and pretend I didn’t hear a few things.
    Even though she’s naturally cheerful, Frankie was more bubbly than the situation warranted, and I had a pretty good idea why. I definitely needed to get to know Henry better — and soon.
    I’m also working on encouraging a budding interest the Imogene Museum’s director has recently exhibited toward Barbara. Rupert Hagg is sweet and absentminded and needs a woman in his life. See — what goes around comes around, especially in Platts Landing.
    I felt like a sack of Jell-O by the end of the night — so relaxed I could hardly keep my balance. Maybe I’d actually be able to sleep. I gave Mom a huge thank-you hug, promising to meet her and Alex, my stepfather, at church the next day. Then I dropped Harriet off with the same promise and drove home — to my last night alone in my fifth-wheel trailer.
    Well, not really alone. My hound, Tuppence, greeted me at the door with a lazy wag and pointed glance at her empty food bowl. Wedding or not, she had her priorities.
     
    oOo
     
    The church was packed. I squeezed onto a pew beside Pete, joining the assembly of my favorite people — Mom and Alex, Frankie and the new addition of Henry, the Tinsley twins, Sheriff Marge — in uniform, as always.
    A good turnout at Platts Landing Bible Church is not unusual, but I had to think some of the less-frequent attendees had put in an appearance due to the festivities planned for later. Pete and I had chosen a Sunday to save families a second drive into town during the week. Might as well line up big events — Sunday morning church service and our wedding — back to back to make it easier for everyone.
    After the service, Sally Levine pulled me aside for a quick status update on the food for the reception. Potlucks are carved-in-stone tradition for any sort of event in Platts Landing. There was no way we’d be able to stop people from bringing casserole dishes, crock pots and platters of brownies. Sally had taken on the monumental task of trying to prevent an epic showing of only baked beans.
    “We’re going to have Jell-O salads in every color of the rainbow,” she whispered. “Green salads, pasta salads, chopped salads. Jim Carter insisted on bringing his giant barbecue — you know the one that has a hitch of its own and he tows behind his pickup — and he’ll be cooking chicken and spareribs.” She wrung her hands. “We’re going to have too much, and it’ll all sit out there in this heat. You know how this town loves their mayonnaise.”
    It suddenly dawned on me why she was so worried. What was wrong with an abundance of potluck food? Food stored in less than ideal conditions for too long — patiently resting in coolers in car trunks or in crock pots plugged into all the outlets lining the church’s multipurpose room during the service — then displayed on folding tables outside on Herb and Harriet’s lawn during the wedding while the temperature soared into the high 90s.
    “Tell Mort to hurry through the ceremony,” I whispered back. “Pete and I don’t mind.”
    Sally squeezed my arm. “Whatever you do, make sure you and Pete don’t eat Mae Brock’s pork sausage and stuffing casserole. That stuff causes gastrointestinal distress even under the best circumstances. She crushes cornflakes on top — you’ll be able to pick it out of the lineup.” Sally flagged down a passing deacon’s wife and bustled off to attend to some other matter in her hectic morning.
    I gave Pete a quick hug and fled the mingling congregants as soon as possible, straight for the Tinsleys’ farmhouse and the white dress waiting for me in an upstairs bedroom. My stomach was in no condition to handle even the thought of food.
    I’d made it though the night and the church service fairly unruffled. But as the minutes ticked down to the ceremony start, my