Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “No — I mean, yes. I’ll get situated later. The couch will suit me fine, by the way. But I’d like to meet your friends, if that’s okay?” A little furrow appeared between Mom’s brows.

  It suddenly hit me just how out of her element she was. While only a few hours separate Platts Landing from Vancouver, the culture is vastly different — and even more foreign for someone like my mother. I had no idea why she would voluntarily visit. I also got the impression she didn’t want to be left alone. Something was definitely going on.

  “Sure.” I smiled.

  As we drove to the hospital, I told Mom how I’d found the painting missing, cut from the frame and how I needed to have the fragments analyzed for different paint types or ages.

  “If the thief knows something I don’t — if there’s a valuable painting underneath the mess Cosmo added, then why did he cut it out?” I said.

  Most of the fine art stolen around the globe is small, easily carried by a single person. The thieves just don’t bother with bigger works because they don’t have the time to properly remove the painting from the frame, and everyone knows that cutting it out slashes its value — both at auction and on the street. There have been a few instances of cutting out Old Masters, but the speculation is that the thieves were working for an obsessive private collector and that those paintings would never reemerge on any market, black or legitimate. The damage to the painting was the price the collector was willing to pay to possess the art.

  “Maybe it has nothing to do with art,” Mom said. “Maybe it’s personal.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “That’s what I’m thinking too, and it scares me more.”

  Mom’s voice was muffled, strained. “You love this place, the museum, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t see her face in the dark. “Yes,” I whispered. I hoped she didn’t think it meant I loved her less. Just differently. But how do you say that?

  CHAPTER 5

  Sheriff Marge lay, stiff and swaddled, propped in an elevated bed. She looked naked and shrunken without her Stratton hat, and the white hospital gown with little blue dots did nothing for her complexion — she was made to wear khaki. Her short salt-and-pepper hair stuck up in back — pillow styling. Dale was stretched out between two visitors’ chairs — his behind in one and his ankles crossed on the seat of the other. He had his notebook out, as though he was reporting on the day’s activities.

  A quick glance around the room showed it had been transformed into operations central — computer printouts covered the rolling bedside table. A handheld walkie-talkie quietly garbled static from its place on the blankets near Sheriff Marge’s right hand. A laptop was plugged into an outlet next to the IV stand.

  “You look like you’re feeling better,” I said.

  Sheriff Marge grunted, then quirked a brow above her reading glasses as Mom stepped into the room behind me.

  Dale jumped to his feet and hastily brushed off the chair his boots had been on. “Howdy.” He stuck out a hand. “You have to be Meredith’s mom.” His eyes darted from Mom to me. “Or sister.”

  Mom flushed and shook his hand. “Call me Pamela. Please.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sheriff Marge glaring at me. Of all the people in Platts Landing — other than Pete — she knows the most about my desire for separation from my family. It was her ‘what’s going on here?’ glare.

  I clamped a smile on my face. “I just emailed the painting image and description.”

  “Got it,” Dale said. “Already forwarded it to the FBI, state, border patrol, and PDs in Seattle, Portland, Sacramento, San Francisco and L.A. It’ll have to move through a major city if it’s going to be sold.”

  “We gotta put a dollar value on it,” Sheriff Marge said.

  “I’ll know more when the paint chips have been analyzed.” I sighed. “Let’s start with half a million.”

  Dale snorted. “Seriously?”

  “It’s not insured and has never been appraised, so I’m guessing — optimistically. But the bigger the number, the more law enforcement will be on the lookout, right? And maybe the thief’ll stash it if he thinks it’s too hot to sell right now — keep it from getting too far away?”

  He whistled softly. “I suppose. Fingerprints were a bust, by the way. All yours.”

  “And in Rupert’s office?”

  “Yours and his — what I could collect. The place is a pig sty, and he wouldn’t let me dust most of it — sensitive surfaces, he said.”

  I chuckled. Rupert’s office is a disheveled museum unto itself with his own personal collections and artifacts strewn in disarray. He’s threatened to donate everything to the Imogene, and I dread the day I have to categorize his precious mementos while he hovers over my shoulder.

  “Nothing else is missing from the museum. What can I do to help?” I asked.

  “Notify us immediately if you receive any communication from the thief, or from anyone else about the painting. They might try blackmail. Many museums are willing to buy back their own art in order to protect it — a form of ransom — and to avoid negative publicity.” Sheriff Marge shifted her rigid leg under the blankets, grimacing. “Does the Imogene have a fund for the retrieval of artwork, in lieu of insurance? Do you want to offer a reward?”

  My mouth hung open for a second, then I snapped it closed, shaking my head. “We really don’t. Nothing designated, anyway. I think the fundraiser went well. Frankie was doing a tally today, but I didn’t hear the final number. But that money is supposed to be used for much needed maintenance on the mansion. I need to talk to Rupert — maybe the board of directors could scrape up a little for a reward.”

  Sheriff Marge nodded. “We’ll just sit tight for a bit, see what comes up in the channels, keep our eyes open.”

  “You never know. Maybe the thief forgot to renew his vehicle tabs and he’s getting pulled over right now, with the painting in the backseat.” Dale grinned. “Stupid stuff like that trips up criminals all the time.”

  I bit my lip. I was pretty sure this criminal was more organized and intelligent than Dale suggested. Mainly because he knew something I didn’t — and it was driving me crazy.

  “So you’re here for a visit?” Sheriff Marge aimed her question at Mom.

  Mom nodded. “Meredith always speaks of Platts Landing and the people here in such glowing terms I decided to come see for myself.”

  I ducked my head as I winced, hoping Mom wouldn’t see. She was laying the charm on too thick. That kind of syrupy comment would never fly with Sheriff Marge, or Dale, or any of my other friends. Never mind that I wasn’t sure her statement was quite true since we rarely spoke to each other about anything meaningful.

  “Huh.” Sheriff Marge folded her arms across her chest. “How long are you staying?”

  Mom’s smile wavered. “Um, a few days?” She darted a glance at me.

  I pushed off the wall where I’d been leaning. “I guess we should get going.”

  “Me too.” Dale plunked his hat on his head. “See you in the mornin’.” He nodded to Sheriff Marge.

  “Huh.” Sheriff Marge scowled and watched us exit the room single file.

  As we walked down the squeaky waxed linoleum hallway, I laid a hand on Dale’s arm. “How is she — really?”

  His cheeks puffed in a prolonged exhale. “This is not going to be pretty. I think she’s about reached the limit of tolerating being bed-bound, and it’s not even been twenty-four hours. You saw the equipment we brought in to keep her connected.”

  “So the pain must not be too bad — if she has the energy to be grouchy?”

  Dale chuckled. “I suppose. She’s sure not comfortable though — shifts her leg around and adjusts the bed position every few minutes. The sooner she gets released, the better, even if it means she’s barking orders from a recliner down at the station.”

  “Did the doctor say when?” The hospital’s sliding glass doors whooshed open, and we stepped outside.

  Dale a
ngled toward his cruiser which was parked at the end of the ambulance unloading zone. “Couple days. Ben has to get back to work in Chicago, but Hallie and the baby are staying for a week or two to help Sheriff Marge at home.”

  I waved and headed for my pickup, Mom at my heels. Maybe this enforced downtime for Sheriff Marge would enable her to bond with her new granddaughter. I snickered at the bedtime stories Sheriff Marge could tell Jesamie. Good thing she was too young to understand them. Otherwise, the kid wouldn’t be sleeping for a week.

  oOo

  Mom was notably silent on the drive back to the campground. Normally, she has the ability to fill lulls in conversation with easy chatter. She’s a master at cocktail party mingling. Maybe the difficulty was that I wasn’t in a partying mood.

  The truth is, I don’t like who I am — or who I become — in my mother’s presence. We don’t bring out the best in each other. It’s something I’ve finally acknowledged, although I don’t have a solution.

  We worked in tandem to pull out the hide-a-bed couch and fit it with sheets and blankets. I dragged Tuppence’s big pillow bed up the short stairs to my bedroom and wedged it between the dresser and the end of my bed. I hoped I still had a pair of earplugs squirreled away in the medicine cabinet — I was going to need them.

  Mom and I quickly separated to our opposite ends of the trailer. I shut the bedroom door and dropped onto the edge of the mattress. Tuppence padded over and laid her muzzle on my thigh.

  I traced the black and white markings on her head with my fingers. Her eyes closed in dreamy contentment.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  Tuppence cocked one eye open and winked at me.

  “Any suggestions?”

  She yawned — a huge, tongue-curling, audible stretch — then ambled over to her bed and flopped on it with a sigh.

  “Good idea.” I quickly changed into pajamas and followed suit.

  I was floating — comfortable and dark, hanging by a thread — over the abyss of sleep when my phone rang. I lurched upright, heart pounding.

  “Ughh.” Not again. I checked the clock — only 10:15 p.m. And the caller ID said Alex Stephenson, my stepfather.

  “Hello?”

  “Meredith, is your mother with you?”

  I frowned. “Yes.”

  Alex groaned faintly, but I couldn’t tell if it was from relief or frustration.

  “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Where else would she go? But I wanted to make sure.” He paused — too long.

  “Alex?”

  “There are a lot of things your mother hasn’t been telling me. I know she needs some time. Take care of her, will you?”

  “Done.”

  “Thank you.” He hung up.

  Try sleeping after that. I sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering about the woman in the living room. We were never close, but how had she become so distant? Was it my fault, since I’d broken physical proximity by moving away from my hometown? I’d needed the change for my own sanity, but at what cost to my mother? I hadn’t thought she cared, except for the impression it gave others.

  oOo

  I only know of one effective way to deal with an unsettled mind — physical activity. I rose early and assembled a lasagna. I didn’t try terribly hard to be quiet, and Mom rolled off the couch shortly after the ground beef was browned. The whole RV smelled like onions.

  “You can have the bathroom first,” I said cheerily. “The service starts at 10:00.” If Mom truly wanted to meet the local residents, then Sunday morning was a good time to find a bunch of them congregated at Platts Landing Bible Church.

  I had decided not to mention Alex’s call. If Mom wanted to pretend this was a spontaneous, friendly visit, then I’d play along — for now.

  We worked around each other in the narrow space, eating breakfast and getting ourselves prepared for the day, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Mom was showing some signs of wear with dark circles under her eyes that even concealer couldn’t fully mask. I wondered how much she’d slept and what was weighing on her mind — or conscience.

  But she artfully diverted attention away from her face with a stunning outfit that showed off her tanned legs — a floaty knee-length sundress topped with a cropped lace jacket and mile-high platform peep-toe espadrilles that revealed perfect cherry red toenail polish. She must have had a pedicure somewhere along the way yesterday.

  I had Mom move her Mercedes to a shady spot next to my campsite. Her sleek, shiny car seemed inappropriate for daily life and the frequent gravel roads in Sockeye County.

  We climbed into my trusty old pickup, and I headed toward Highway 14.

  Already people were standing in loose groups in the church’s parking lot, enjoying the sunshine and catching up with friends. I slid out of the truck just as Pete roared into the spot next to mine. He rocked the motorcycle up onto its stand and removed his helmet.

  “Babe.” He grinned and swung off the bike. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a quick kiss.

  Normally, his scent of licorice and Barbasol — not to mention his warm lips — would make me weak-kneed, but I felt a little awkward knowing my mother was gaping from the other side of the pickup.

  I snuck a hand up to his chest and cleared enough space to whisper, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Good morning.” Mom’s voice was high and clear — and very close.

  I flinched and turned. She was standing a couple feet way, eyes narrowed at Pete.

  “Um, this is my mother, Pamela,” I muttered. “She arrived yesterday afternoon.”

  Pete’s grip on my waist tightened, but he didn’t hesitate. “Pamela, good to meet you.”

  “Is it?” She sighed. “Well, I’m here now. Shall we go inside?” She pivoted and marched toward the church’s double door entrance on those fantastic espadrilles.

  Pete fixed me with a stern look, his blue eyes intense, one brow arched.

  I swallowed, my throat dry. “No warning. No explanation. Just showed up,” I whispered. “Please, please, please come for lunch. I need backup.”

  His mouth didn’t smile, but his eyes did — flashing those crinkle-corners for me. “I think she’s going to have me for lunch. But if you need me—”

  “Do I ever.” I touched his cheek. “I made a huge pan of lasagna. I’ll try to keep it between you and her so she has something else to eat first.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Mom perked up at the prospect of meeting a bunch of strangers — one of the ways we are vastly different. She received a warm welcome. Visitors in Platts Landing are few and far between, so they are gushed over when they do appear. Most people would probably find so much enthusiasm overwhelming, but Mom reveled in it.

  She surprised me, too, by knowing the words to the first couple verses of every hymn we sang. How could have I grown up with this woman and still be mystified by her? And when was she going to fill in the blanks?

  After the service, Pastor Mort Levine and his wife, Sally, found us and introduced themselves to Mom.

  “Pete.” Mort pumped Pete’s hand. “How long are you in town?”

  “Just here for the weekend — for the fundraiser.” Pete smiled at me. “Leaving in the morning for Arlington. They’re unloading the last of last year’s wheat harvest to make room for this year’s. Looks to be a heavy crop.”

  “That’s what I’m hearing too.” Mort nodded. “Which is much needed good news. Out to Astoria with the load?”

  “Yep. It’s heading to China.”

  Mort shook his head. “International trade and how the goods move around still amazes me. We’ll be praying for safe travels.”

  Sally beamed in agreement and patted Pete’s arm.

  “Appreciate it.” Pete grinned.

  In the pickup with the windows down, now that our hair didn’t need to remain in place for church, I informed Mom that Pete would be joining us for lunch.

  She scowled, staring straigh
t forward. “How long have you known him?”

  “Um, six — no, eight months — wait, I think around a year.” I shrugged. “A while anyway.”

  “What does he do for a living? I didn’t understand about the load of wheat. Is he a farmer?”

  “Tugboat owner and operator. He moves all kinds of loads up and down the Columbia-Snake River System.”

  Mom’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and I knew what she was thinking — blue collar. My jaw tightened, and I felt my face flush. I hated those snap judgments she made about people based on their appearance or their jobs or the cars they drove — putting them into categories without really knowing them. I wanted to explain that Pete is the most patient, gentle, kind, caring, hard-working man I’d ever known, but I also knew it would be a fruitless attempt.

  “What was that about a fundraiser?”

  “Oh, uh—” I’d been expecting a disparaging remark about Pete. Fundraiser? Of course, that is much more in my mother’s territory. “For the museum. Friday night. Black tie and chili.” I giggled at the discrepancy, and yet the chili had certainly contributed to the success of the evening.

  “You planned it?”

  “Frankie and I did. Frankie’ll be at the museum tomorrow, so you can meet her then. She’s a sweetheart.”

  “How many attendees?”

  “Frankie’ll have the final count. I think between 350 and 400.”

  “Meredith.” Mom’s voice sounded choked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.”

  “Frankie’s great at event planning. She handled all the details—” I glanced at Mom. She was close to tears, blinking rapidly, still staring straight ahead. “Um — it was pretty simple, really. It’s kind of far for you—” I clamped my mouth shut. Whatever I said, it would be the wrong thing.

  I checked the rearview mirror. Pete was still back there on his motorcycle, trailing us to the campground. I said a silent prayer of thanks and exhaled slowly. I’d never make it through the rest of the day with my mother without Pete’s steadying presence.