Free Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) by Jerusha Jones Page B

what’s inside that counts.” I grinned at him.
    Ford fetched the museum’s selection of crowbars and hammers and climbed up in the trailer with Karl. Pete arrived shortly after, and we let the guys do the hard work of cracking the crates open. Frankie, Ginger and I loaded and wheeled — back and forth, back and forth — into the basement. I suggested Rupert manage the receiving end, and he promptly dragged a hideous ottoman upholstered in 1970’s psychedelic velour into the best position for proper oversight and took up his perch with scratch paper in hand for a rough diagram of which crate’s contents were placed where.
    He also kept an eye on Tuppence who dozed contentedly at his feet. Doc Corn had written that it would take a while for her to regain stamina after her distressing episode.
    Karl and Ginger had confirmed they had the time and inclination to help us, which was certainly above and beyond their job description. I think they were as curious about their cargo as we were. After interacting with them over the course of several sweaty hours, I was comfortable they operated with discretion. They weren’t long for the neighborhood anyway, since they had a load to pick up in Hermiston the next day. Everyone on our work crew knew how to keep their own counsel when necessary, for which I was grateful.
    Not that the DeVosses got to see any of the artifacts, though, since it turned out they were thoroughly, perhaps excessively, protected. We only dismantled the cartons enough to get them through the basement door. Greg and I would do the remainder inside the privacy of the Imogene’s thick foundation walls.
    Watching the unpacking unfold set my mind at ease about potential losses. The transportation phase is definitely the most risky element of a collection’s transfer, and I was glad to see Silas Guardado had taken excellent preventive care of the artifacts he was willing to give away.
    We wrapped up close to dusk with an empty semi-trailer and a full dumpster and about a year’s worth of new work sitting in the basement. Dirty, grimy, my muscles wobbly from the exertion, but it felt good.
    Ginger squeaked the truck out of our back lot and pulled it along the curb near the marina for their overnight stay in the sleeper cab. Rupert hurried off to keep his promise to treat them to “the best cheeseburgers this side of the Cascades” (his words) at the Burger Basket.
    I glanced at Frankie. Her hair was slightly askew, a big smudge on her cheek, but she was humming under her breath.
    “What are your plans for tonight?” I asked.
    She turned slightly pink, as I thought she might. “Clean up, for one thing.” She brushed her hands together in a futile attempt to dislodge the dirt ground into her palm creases. “Then cook dinner.”
    “Having company?” I whispered.
    Her eyes twinkled, and she bit her lip. Definitely a yes.
    “Make sure you use the blender,” I added.
    “Oh, I will.” Both of her dimples appeared.
    Pete and Ford finished sweeping up the wood shards and scraps, returning the area to its previous neatness and leaving no trace of our afternoon’s frantic activity. I waved good-bye to Ford as he took off across the lawn toward his living quarters in a converted outbuilding.
    “Harriet’s counting on our coming over tonight,” Pete said, sliding his arms around my waist. “And the fifth-wheel’s habitable again. It passed my sniff test.”
    Frankie giggled. “I don’t know another couple who would handle what you two have been through — and immediately after your wedding, too — with such equanimity. When are you going to take a real honeymoon?”
    “Soon.” Pete said, giving me a squeeze.
    Frankie’s back pocket rang. She pulled her phone out, checked the display and flushed pink again.
    I tugged Pete several feet away so she could have some privacy. But Frankie’s pert greeting was followed by a sharp gasp, and I knew the news couldn’t be good.
    “Are you sure?” she