Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

by Jones, Jerusha

  Sheriff Marge nodded at me. I would get to do the honors.

  I took a deep breath. “A painting’s been stolen.” I wondered how many more times I’d have to say those words.

  Rupert gripped his knees, propping himself up. “Which one? Only one?”

  “Only one that I know of. I’ll have to do a complete inventory—” I gestured over my shoulder toward the kitchen door and beyond, toward the swarms of festive guests. “Tomorrow. And the next day. And the next—”

  Rupert watched me steadily, waiting for the bad news.

  “The Cosmo Hagg still life, from the third floor.”

  Rupert’s eyes bulged. “That? Whatever for?” he spluttered. “The frame it’s in is worth more than the painting.”

  “Which they left,” I said. “They cut the canvas out.”

  Rupert went beet red, hacking out a sound between grunting and choking. I stretched toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder, but he waved me away. Then I realized he was laughing — hard — and tears streamed down his face.

  “Who knew it would come to this?” he wheezed. “I’ve hated that thing for years.”

  “Insurance value?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  “No need,” Rupert gasped. “Perhaps we should offer a reward to the person brave enough to steal it.”

  Jesamie whimpered, clearly bored with the goings on, then tested a few screeches in the echo-y room.

  I could tell from Sheriff Marge’s narrowed eyes that she was confounded by Rupert’s reaction. “I’ll get you a picture of the missing painting and a complete description,” I hollered over Jesamie. Sheriff Marge must have never seen the painting in person; otherwise, she’d remember it.

  The kitchen door swung open and Hallie Stettler, Sheriff Marge’s daughter-in-law, stuck her head in, an apologetic half-smile on her face. “I heard the ruckus. Need a break?”

  Sheriff Marge handed Jesamie over, and Hallie backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her, dampening Jesamie’s complaints. After five years of marriage to Sheriff Marge’s middle son, Hallie must know how to read the Stettler body language for official business. I’d noticed Ben Stettler adopting the same stiff stance, legs spread wide and arms crossed, earlier in the evening. It was the default pose for both mother and son — they were always in work mode.

  “Can you e-mail the image?” Sheriff Marge asked. “I’ll send it to neighboring law enforcement agencies and the FBI. They track stolen art.”

  Rupert snorted. “It’s a piece of crap, not art.”

  “But whoever singled it out must have a reason for doing so,” I said. “Or maybe there are others—” I didn’t want to finish. “I also think someone broke into my office. They must have picked the lock, because there’s no damage to the handle or doorframe. As far as I can tell, they didn’t disturb anything inside.”

  Sheriff Marge gave a curt nod. “I know it’s crowded, but take a walk-through. See if anything else is missing, any of your more valuable pieces. I’ll send Dale up to dust your office for prints.” Sheriff Marge removed her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He might as well check yours too, Rupert. I take it you haven’t been up there this evening?”

  Rupert shook his head wearily. “Much as I would have liked to hibernate, my duties were as a host tonight.”

  I’d seen Deputy Dale Larson and his wife, Sandy, in the dessert line earlier. It was a special occasion for them, one of their rare chances to get out as a couple without their kids. I hated to interrupt their date.

  Pete slid his hand under my elbow and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll go with you.”

  I’d already walked the majority of the museum’s rooms with Jesamie, but now that the demonstrations were over, the guests were inside, meandering through the building and creating a human obstacle course. Some of our rarest, and most valuable, items are small and tucked away in secure display cases scattered throughout the exhibits. It’s not like we lump them all together and label them with a big sign that says, “Look here — the most expensive stuff.” A thief would have to scope the joint first and know exactly what he was looking for to make the burglary profitable.

  Pete ran interference for me, stopping to chat here and there with friends, some of whom had come great distances to lend their support. I waved, tried to appear cheerful, accepted congratulations on the success of the event and condition of the museum, all the while darting nervous glances at the display cases, ticking items off the checklist in my head.

  In spite of Pete’s efforts, Barbara Segreti, proprietress of the Golden Shears Salon, cornered me near the velvet rope that blocked access to the basement stairs.

  “How is everything?” She stretched out a plump hand encased in a lace glove and patted my brown curls which were miraculously still in the elaborate pinned-up style she’d orchestrated. “Holding up?”

  I’m not too comfortable being primped in public and tried to dodge her touch without offending her. “Perfect. Thanks. Lots of compliments.”

  “Good.” Barbara sighed and clasped her hands in front of her. She was dressed in a flowing empire waist gown which flattered her short, round form, giving her some definition. She looked worried.

  She’d probably cut, dyed, highlighted, lowlighted, straightened, curled or arranged the hair of half the ladies in attendance sometime in the past few days. Maybe the thought of so much of her handiwork on display made her nervous.

  “Are you having a good time?” I asked.

  “Of course, hon.” But Barbara’s eyes drifted across the ballroom. “Is Rupert here? I haven’t seen him.”

  “I know — it’s so crowded. Try the buffet lines. He’s bound to show up there sooner or later.”

  “Right.” Barbara nodded, her lips pressed in a thin, bright fuchsia lipsticked line. She bustled off.

  I completed the tour in the photograph archive room on the second floor. Pete and I were alone because dusty cabinets stuffed with curling sepia prints and brittle negatives aren’t particularly appealing to visitors unless they’re doing specific research. I checked the last drawer of glass slides for railroad publicity photos of the Columbia River Gorge. They’re not valuable even though there are very few left. But they’re some of my favorites, so I scanned them anyway.

  “Well?” Pete asked.

  I turned to him and sighed. “Looks good. I might have missed something, with all the people—” I bit my lip.

  Pete wrapped me a tight hug, then backed off a little. “Babe, you’re crusty.”

  “Oh.” I brushed at the snail trails on my shoulders and dress bodice. “Jesamie residue. But it all came out her top end, so it’s okay.”

  Pete chuckled and pulled me close again. “You’re worried about something more. What?”

  “I never had the painting x-rayed. Maybe I should have,” I murmured into his chest.

  Pete tipped my chin up. “Why?” His brows drew together. “It was repulsive — and I like fishing.”

  I couldn’t help smirking. I’d forgotten he’d seen the painting. “Exactly. There’s no reason for anyone to steal it unless—” I picked at one of the pearl studs in his shirt.

  “Unless?”

  I took a deep breath. “I have a horrible feeling good ol’ Cosmo might have painted over something that really is valuable — either as a joke, or as a way to protect what’s underneath.” I gritted my teeth. “It didn’t occur to me until someone else decided the painting was worth stealing.”

  “What can you do now?”

  “I can have the paint on the canvas bits still pinched in the frame analyzed. Maybe the pigments are different ages or different types which might indicate multiple layers.”

  oOo

  It took a couple more hours for the museum to empty out. The guests seemed reluctant to return to real life. Frankie offered to stay and lock up after the catering crew, so I kissed Pete goodnight, drove to my fifth-wheel trailer, fed my hound Tuppence, stripped off my gown and flopped in bed withou
t bothering to wash my face or brush my teeth.

  But lying there in the dark, my brain went into overdrive. Why was such a personal item taken? A Hagg family piece. Was it revenge or a vendetta of some kind? I couldn’t shake the idea that whoever stole the painting knew the family’s history.

  Tomorrow, I would need to take an accounting of the collections in the basement. I was slowly working through the backlog down there, and most of it hadn’t been documented yet. There’d be no way other than a visual inspection to know if anything had been stolen from among the boxes and crates piled in the cavernous room that ran almost the entire length of the old mansion.

  I also kept coming back to the hunch that the painting must have been stolen during normal visiting hours if not tonight. The only reason I could see for cutting the canvas from the frame was to be able to roll up the painting in order to sneak it out of the building. Still, a tube 54” long would be noticeable. I flipped through my mental images of the evening, trying to remember if I’d seen anyone with such a bulky package. It’s hard to hide something that long when you’re wearing black tie. Since it was August no trench coats had been in attendance.

  The catering crew might have had opportunity — and large equipment that could be used to conceal the painting. But they were all ladies I knew — or at least I recognized their husbands. Finney had recruited the wives of some of his regular customers at the Burger Basket and Bait Shop — retired men who fished from the marina boardwalks and shot the breeze daily with their cronies. The ladies were a sweet bunch and had been so excited about the opportunity when I checked on them a few minutes before we opened the doors. They'd done a great job of applying motherly pressure to make sure the guests sampled Finney's approximation of cowboy fare — five-bean chili, blue cheese corncakes, sweet potato fries, grilled veggie kabobs, and best of all, apple fritters and peach turnovers. Finney is indeed a master of the deep fat fryer.

  An hour later, I was still wide awake and stewing. My phone rang, loud against the white noise of the campground’s sprinkler system cycling through its nightly rotation. I rolled over, checked the red clock numbers — 2:12 a.m. — and grabbed the phone.

  “Yeah?” I grunted.

  “Meredith?” A timid female voice. “It’s Hallie Stettler. Mom’s been in an accident. She’s at the hospital in Lupine. I just thought — maybe — would you come? I got your number from her phone.”

  “Sheriff Marge?” I leaped out of bed, my heart pounding. “Is she okay? How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. We just got here.” Hallie sounded close to tears, and I heard Jesamie wailing in the background.

  “Twenty minutes, tops.” I hopped around, trying to pull on a pair of shorts one-handed. “I’m coming.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I raced along a deserted Highway 14 and careened into the hospital’s parking lot. I sprinted to the double sliding glass doors of the emergency room entrance.

  Hallie waited just inside, bouncing a screaming Jesamie on her hip. “Could you take her, please? The doctor wants to speak with us, but—”

  “Sure.” I scooped the baby against my chest and cuddled her.

  Hallie shot me a distracted half-smile and hurried toward a curtained-off side room. My stomach knotted tight around my worry, but I turned to the teary and distraught matter at hand.

  Drawing on my wealth of experience from the fundraiser, I paced with Jesamie in the empty waiting room, humming to her. Poor kid. Maybe she had colic. Her sleep schedule must have gone haywire with the plane trip out here, staying in a new place, being jostled through a crowded event, then dashing to the hospital in the middle of the night, not to mention meeting her grandmother for the first time.

  I’ve always loved kids, as long as they’re somebody else’s. The biological clock — the burning desire for motherhood — that other women talk about is notably absent in my case. I’d rather plan a fun craft or science project, play with the kids and then send them home when they’re tired, which is why the museum has several hands-on exhibits designed especially for children and the young at heart.

  A soft hand squeezed my arm, and I turned. Gemma. I sighed with relief.

  Gemma’s the nurse who took such good care of my friend, George, a few weeks ago — saved his life, really. She’s one of those take-charge people who bosses you around, and you come away grateful for the instruction.

  “Let me.” She gestured for me to hand over the sobbing Jesamie. “You watch football?”

  I nodded.

  “Hold her like this.” Gemma demonstrated a tight football tuck with her right arm, the way coaches wish wide receivers and running backs would cradle the ball and quit showboating.

  Jesamie gurgled and calmed into jerky sighs. Just like that, her little body relaxed.

  Gemma blinked at me with giant pale green eyes behind burgundy-framed cat’s eye glasses. “Snug. So she knows you’re there, but has room to wriggle. Helps the gas pass. Think you can do it?”

  “You’re amazing.” I stretched my arms to assume the correct hold on Jesamie.

  “I’m old. I’ve done this too many times to count.”

  “What do you know about Sheriff Marge? Can you tell me?”

  Gemma pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. “You’re close enough to family. It’ll be all over the county later this morning anyway. Wrapped her Explorer around a tree.”

  I groaned. Sheriff Marge always drives fast, as though every moment of her life is an emergency. Given her job and how thinly stretched she and her deputies are, most of the time, that’s true.

  “Whole left side’s banged up. Broken femur for sure, maybe broken arm bones. Back pain. Doc just got the x-rays, and he’s discussing treatment with her son and daughter-in-law while the OR nurses are prepping Sheriff Marge for surgery.”

  “This won’t be—” I gulped a breath, “career-ending, will it?”

  Gemma snorted. “Sheriff Marge? Not likely. But the recuperation time — kick in the pants, that’ll be. She’ll need someone at home, to help care for her.”

  Jesamie was drooling on my arm. I massaged her back with my free hand, frowning. “Maybe we can do it in shifts.”

  The scooped ends of Gemma’s shellacked bouffant bobbed. “She’s gonna get cranky, being cooped up.”

  I frowned. “No kidding.”

  “Meredith. Gemma.” Deputy Dale Larson hurried up. “How is she?”

  “She’ll live,” Gemma said.

  “Well, I figured that, given the way she was ranting about the Lamborghini driver.” Dale shook his head with a wry grin. “Whooo.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “She finally got a bead on the phantom Lamborghini. He’s been on WSP’s radar the past few weeks, hitting speeds near 200mph, always after dark, but no one’s caught him yet. She missed a curve on Highway 14 near the Benton County line. Her SUV’s in chunks. Verle had to bring his flatbed tow truck out to pick up the pieces.”

  Dale ran a hand through his short hair and exhaled. “She’s really okay?”

  “I’m pretty sure all her broken parts are fixable.” Gemma patted his arm. “But she’ll need time to mend.”

  Dale sank into a mustard yellow vinyl-coated waiting room chair and stretched his legs out, nodding. He scrubbed a hand over his 3:00 a.m. beard shadow and exhaled again. “Okay. Ben and Hallie know?”

  I rocked Jesamie his direction.

  “Right. Man, I’m exhausted. You just don’t expect to have to respond to the scene of your boss’s wreck, you know?” Dale shook his head.

  I perched on the edge of the chair beside him and eased Jesamie onto my lap. Her tiny, wet eyelashes rested on pink cheeks. She gave a shuddery sigh, but didn’t wake.

  “Peaceful,” Dale said. “At least someone around here gets to sleep.”

  “It’ll be hours,” Gemma said. “You all could go home.”

  Dale and I glanced at each other. His brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but unwavering.
r />   “We’re staying,” I said.

  “Thought so. I’ll see about coffee.” Gemma’s stiff uniform swished as she strode away.

  “Since you’re here, and I’m here, how ‘bout some fingerprints?” Dale asked. “I need to take yours so I can eliminate them from the prints I lifted in your office today—” his brows drew together and he frowned “—yesterday.”

  I nodded.

  Dale retrieved the kit from his cruiser. Ben and Hallie joined us, silent and worried.

  Once Dale had captured my fingerprints with the digital scanner, I slouched in the chair and tucked Jesamie’s fuzzy head under my chin, her soft little body snuggled against mine. Hallie was too preoccupied to ask for her back, and I didn’t want to relinquish the infant anyway. She was solid and warm and comforting to hold onto while I waited.

  oOo

  I ended up getting home after daybreak. Sheriff Marge’s surgery went better than the doctor expected, with both breaks in her femur clean but still needing pins. Her elbow turned out to be sprained, not broken as originally feared. She was going to be sore for a very long time.

  I’d been allowed to slip into her room for a moment, to confirm to my satisfaction that she really was alive. She’d grunted and opened one gray eye for a second when I’d squeezed her hand. It would have to do, for now.

  I unlocked the fifth-wheel, trudged up the steps and dumped my purse on the kitchen table. I stared, blurry-eyed and groggy, at the coffee maker. There was no point in going to bed. Not considering what I needed to accomplish today.

  Tuppence whined and stretched on her big pillow bed, then tucked her nose back under her haunch and resumed snoring.

  I poked the coffee maker start button and stumbled into the bathroom. Maybe a cold shower would jolt me to full consciousness.

  It did — for about ten minutes. As I pulled on a work-appropriate blouse and skirt, my numbness returned. It was going to be a multi-espresso day.

  The Imogene felt like a ghost mansion when I unlocked the front doors and stepped through them, insulated coffee mug in hand. Crumpled paper napkins had been swirled into the ballroom’s corners by the whoosh of long-skirted evening gowns. Corncake crumbs and dropped sweet potato fries lay squashed on the floor. The stale air still smelled of chili.