Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

by Jones, Jerusha

  I didn’t have a large roster to select from, though. Sockeye County is rather lacking in single women of a certain age — or of any age, for that matter.

  Cosmo — right. I was here because of Cosmo. “He died shortly after the donation, right?”

  Rupert grunted assent. “A few months, a year or so, later. Freak accident — sneaker wave off the Columbia River Bar.”

  The Columbia River Bar is one of the most treacherous stretches of navigable water in the world. There’s a reason the US Coast Guard runs their Advance Rescue Helicopter School out of Astoria.

  “He’d taken a couple of his cronies out for a chartered fishing trip,” Rupert continued. “His body washed up three days later.”

  “Were the rest of the passengers and crew ever found?”

  Rupert glanced at me quizzically. “Sure. They returned to port. Badly shaken, but there wasn’t anything they could do.”

  “You mean—?” I frowned. Cosmo’s obituary had been seriously lacking in what I considered pertinent details.

  “Cosmo was the only one washed overboard. He’d taken off his lifejacket because he felt he couldn’t manage his pole properly with it on.”

  I shoved aside a plastic Alpenrose Dairy crate containing books so old they were held together with rubber bands. “Where’d the Hagg family money come from?”

  Rupert snorted. “Well, it’s not illustrious, if that’s what you’re wondering. Cosmo was an outlier regarding risky business ventures, but not by much. In the early days of commercial transportation on the Columbia, there were a few upstanding capitalists who held virtual monopolies on the movement of people and goods and even the production of those goods. My ancestors had shares in several companies, and their activities included things like colluding with Chinese mob bosses to man the fruit and salmon canneries, undercutting competitors until they went bankrupt, and stripping the forests.”

  Rupert straightened to wipe his brow with the handkerchief. “I think that history is what prompted turning this old place into a museum. The most recent couple generations of Haggs have wanted to make reparation for the family’s past pilfering — a way to return some of their shadily-gotten gains to the community.” He sighed. “Not that there’s much left anymore.”

  I nodded. The Hagg Family Trust made adequate provision for adding to the museum’s collections, but the founding board members had forgotten the old mansion would need tending to as well.

  We’d planned the fundraiser in order to be able to perform basic maintenance on the Imogene. She was quietly and elegantly cracking to pieces under our feet. We desperately needed an outside infusion of cash to hold her together for the next generation. The Imogene has my complete devotion — we’ll keep her running, even if she does appear to list to port.

  “Sheriff Marge wants to know if we’ll offer a reward for information leading to the safe return of Cosmo’s painting,” I said.

  “I don’t see the point,” Rupert grunted. “But I suppose we could spare a few thousand out of the acquisitions allowance. I’ll leave it to your discretion.”

  Rupert and I made good progress and reached the bank of filing cabinets just after lunch. I could tell Rupert was fading, and he mentioned needing to pack for his upcoming trip to Ireland.

  “Do you mind if I carry on without you?” I asked.

  “No, please.” He waved dismissively. “You’ll make more sense of the files than I could.” He patted my shoulder. “What would I ever do without you?”

  “Get buried alive in here?”

  Rupert chuckled. “Probably. Keep me updated with Leland’s results.”

  “Send me something nice from Limerick.”

  “I do have a couple appointments with local antiques dealers and an ironmonger.”

  “Let me know if I need to build a display for ancient hinges and locks. That would be fun.” Asking for advance notice regarding Rupert’s purchases is a futile plea, but I try every time.

  “Of course, my dear.” Rupert shuffled toward the door.

  “And take care of yourself,” I called.

  He waggled a finger in the air in acknowledgment before he disappeared around the corner.

  oOo

  I poked my head into my office, hoping to relieve my mother of the boredom of a morning by herself. She had settled at my desk, my encyclopedia of Victorian majolica spread open before her.

  “How’s Alex?” I asked.

  Mom’s head jerked up, and she nearly tore the page she was about to turn. “You startled me.”

  “Alex?”

  Mom flinched and swiveled the chair toward the window, blinking rapidly. “Not now, Meredith. Not yet.”

  “How long is he going to wait?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  I sidled around the desk and knelt in front of her. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  Mom traced a finger along my cheek. “Do you want to know how imperfect I am?”

  “Frankly, yes. That would help a lot,” I blurted.

  Mom’s tears were falling freely now. “I’m scared. This time it’s beyond my control.”

  “Isn’t it always? The idea that we humans are in charge of anything is a delusion, don’t you think?”

  Mom sniffed. “Pretending makes us feel worthy.”

  “Therein lies the problem. Would you like to talk to Pastor Mort? He’s a good counselor.”

  Mom squeezed my shoulder. “Maybe — later.”

  Her jaw was set, and she was swiftly wiping the tears away. The gap in her veneer had just snapped shut.

  I sighed and stood. “I have the world’s worst filing system to sort through, and I could use some help. You game?”

  Her eyes lightened for a brief moment. “Sure.”

  Mom caught her breath when I led her along the narrow swath Rupert and I had cut through his life’s history of collecting, but she didn’t comment. I stopped in front of the row of filing cabinets.

  “We’re looking for anything relating to Cosmo Hagg — his family ties to the museum, donations — any mention, really. I’m especially interested if he ran in artists’ circles — if he could have had access to paintings by famous or up-and-coming artists or hung out with serious art collectors in the 1930s to 1970s. I don’t know if any of that would be in here—” I swept a hand toward the cabinets. “What does a British forensic art examiner mean by the word ‘shenanigans’?”

  Mom managed a pinched smile and tipped her head. “I’ll start at this end.”

  Unfortunately, the files seemed to be organized by type of article donated — not by date or name of donor. I happened upon paintings pretty quickly and found a few more scraps relating to Cosmo’s donation of his own work. His painting was filed under ‘other’ as the medium — kind of hard to categorize fishing line and clumps of decoupage on top of acrylic.

  One of the notes included the title he’d given the scene — ‘Salmon Cache.’ Why didn’t we know this before? I would have put the title on the plaque next to the painting. Not that knowing the title enhanced the viewer’s appreciation of the composition.

  Mom was moving through the files faster than I was — probably because she wasn’t bogged down by the history of irrelevant items. I could spend years sorting through things like this, absorbing and assimilating the complete provenance of the Imogene’s treasures. Once I’ve handled, organized and arranged the exhibit of a collection, they feel like friends to me, and I become engrossed in their story.

  “Meredith.” Mom held out a yellowed paper. “Look at this.”

  I pushed a stack of manila folders off my lap and stood.

  Mom handed me the list handwritten on ruled legal paper. “It looks like code, but Cosmo’s name is here.”

  I glanced over the sheet. “It’s a photo list. These alpha-numeric tags are the way they used to designate duplicate copies of negatives.” There were about a dozen entries on the page, and at the bottom a date — February 27, 1973.

  “How long do you
think it took Cosmo to paint the still life?” I turned back to the paper slips I’d set aside earlier.

  “Depends,” Mom said. “I’d guess a couple months at least if it’s as thick as it looks. Those paint globs would need drying time to keep the design from becoming smeared or muddy.”

  I found the note I was looking for. “This says the painting was donated on November 2, 1973. Mention is made of the ornate frame, too, so Cosmo donated the work once it was completely finished, dry and framed — nine months after those photos.”

  “This doesn’t say he donated the photos. It’s more like he’s a subject in the photos. See these other names — Sam ‘Juice’ Junkerman and Charles ‘Gnocchi’ Nervetti. It sounds like they’re group shots.”

  I chuckled. “What’s with the nicknames?”

  “We are dealing with a man named Cosmo,” Mom pointed out.

  A phone rang, a muffled buzzing from the direction of Rupert’s submerged desk.

  “I guess they liked to eat — and drink.” I waded toward the noise. I plunged an arm into the tottering stacks of papers on Rupert’s desk, rooted around, and pulled out the receiver. “Hello?”

  “There you are.” Frankie sounded breathless. “I tried your office, the basement, then remembered you were going to do research in Rupert’s office. Are you okay?”

  I laughed. “I may need a compass to find my way out.”

  “Well, hurry. The courier is here.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I slogged my way to the door, dashed upstairs to my office to get the envelope containing the canvas strips, then clattered downstairs. By the time I reached the ballroom, I was gasping for air.

  I suppose the man waiting at the gift shop entrance was of average height, but he was so broad and muscle-bound that his proportions were off, making him seem short. His clothing appeared to be painted on, the garments stretched taut over a form that would delight Michelangelo. He was bald, but the dark shadow on his scalp indicated he had intentionally shaved off a full head of hair.

  Then he turned, and all I could stare at — rather rudely — was his perfectly waxed handlebar mustache. The ends twitched when he spoke. “Ms. Morehouse?”

  “Yes. Um, yes.” I shook his meaty hand, trying to place the accent.

  “Right pleased to meet you. Maurice Banks.” He sounded as though he was rolling ball bearings around in his mouth as he talked. The r’s slid into vowel territory. And then it hit me — Australian.

  “That for me?” Maurice indicated the envelope clutched in my other hand.

  I thrust the envelope forward. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Always looking for a reason to go for a spin,” Maurice replied.

  I tipped my head and glanced out the Imogene’s double glass front doors. A glistening fire red vision shimmered at the curb — all scoops and swoops and sexy curves, low-slung with wide tires.

  “What is that?” My mouth hung open most unattractively. I may have been drooling.

  Maurice grinned, the mustache curling up against his pink cheeks. “My LaFerrari. She’s a beaut, eh?”

  Of course the machine was a she. I nodded dumbly.

  Maurice checked his watch. “I could spare a few minutes. Not too many cops around here, eh?” He winked. “Want to see her?”

  Again with the nodding. My vocal cords had been rendered inoperable.

  Maurice held the museum door open for me, and we moved out to the sun-drenched sidewalk. All the while, he waxed poetic on the glory of driving along the gorge in a fine car — tunnels, hills, blind curves through forests, then clear sky, open road, and flying beside the river. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  Then Maurice turned his attention to the car itself and mentioned the 800 horsepower from the V12 combustion engine and the 163 horsepower from the electric engine. A hybrid sports car — it seemed a quintessentially Pacific Northwest accessory for the discerning driving enthusiast. I bet Ferrari’s copywriter had fun composing the advertising text.

  Maurice popped open the door to show me the cockpit. His accent plowing through the list of numbers and features jumbled in my head. I wasn’t getting as much meaning from the litany as he would have liked, but he clearly relished the details.

  My thoughts were of a more practical bent. “You fit in here?” I pointed to the narrow, semi-reclining black leather bucket seat. These cars should come with shoehorns.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Maurice cast a sideways glance at me. “You’d fit fine, sweetheart. Shall I come again sometime and take you for a ride?”

  I stepped back, flustered. “Oh, uh — I mean, of course — I’d love a ride. But I know you’re in a hurry. Wait—” My mouth hung open for the second time in our short acquaintance as a few things came together in my mind. I held up a finger. “Wait. Do Ferrari and Lamborghini owners fraternize?” I asked.

  Maurice’s eyes narrowed. “So my competition drives a Lamborghini?”

  “No, no.” I waved a hand, trying to get Maurice to switch tracks. “It’s just that our sheriff is in the hospital because of a Lamborghini.” I explained about Sheriff Marge’s unsuccessful pursuit and how the state patrol had tracked the car too but had been unable to identify the owner.

  Maurice stroked his mustache while I spoke, absentmindedly perfecting its spiral. He nodded when I finished. “It’s not uncommon. When someone finally springs for an elite car, they’re often so strapped financially that they can’t — or don’t want to — pay the extra costs of registration and insurance. Plus, he might be avoiding registering the car here in Washington because then he’d have to pay sales tax.”

  “That’d be a chunk of change,” I murmured.

  “Rich people can be real tightwads. There are two groups who drive true sports cars — those who are trying to impress others and those who love the experience, the performance and don’t care who is — or isn’t — looking.”

  “It’s the same with those who own art.” I nodded.

  Maurice grinned. “Which is how a couple of odd fellows like Leland Smiley and I can be friends. We tolerate each other’s crazy passions.” Maurice rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s also my mother’s cousin by marriage and pulls in a few favors from time to time. Not that I mind.”

  I chuckled. “So unregistered yellow Lamborghini owners — know any?”

  “Nope. I only associate with the up-and-ups.” Maurice winked. “But it’s a small community and somebody will know somebody who knows. I’ll find out what’s what, sweetheart. You can count on it.”

  oOo

  Mom and I moved from Rupert’s office to the photo archive room where the filing system is by subject matter first, then by date. Trying to find pictures of three guys doing who knows what took the rest of the day. Turns out the list Mom found wasn’t of negatives, but rather of slides.

  I recognized Cosmo right away. The images appeared to be of a backyard summer party. Croquet mallets, paper plates mounded with food, and lawn chairs featured as props, along with a soaked and bedraggled Irish setter standing in a kiddie pool in the background.

  Except only the same three men were in each picture, either alone or in groups of two or three. In a couple of the slides, someone’s shoulder, leg, hand, or a blur that could have been a running child appeared, but otherwise there were no indicators about the size of the party or who else was in attendance. I got the impression these photos had been removed from a larger original collection based on their subject matter.

  My stomach growled as I dropped the slides into a polypropylene archive box and banded the lid shut. “Let’s call it a day. The museum closed an hour ago, and I can examine these slides at home.”

  Mom pushed her bangs off her brow and sighed. The dark circles under her eyes had returned. I felt a twinge of guilt for working her so hard. She’s probably not accustomed to being on her feet most of the day. She looked as grimy and sweaty as I felt. Rummaging through the Imogene’s detritus brings one into
contact with enough dust and cobwebs to rival a catacomb.

  “Sorry I don’t have a bathtub for a nice soak, but you can have dibs on the shower while I pull together some dinner.” I linked my arm through hers and guided her out to my truck.

  oOo

  Tuppence kept me company in the kitchen while Mom showered. I bent to scratch behind her ears and to scratch the constellation of mosquito bites on my legs at the same time — they were driving me crazy. My reward for falling asleep on the jetty yesterday afternoon.

  Which made me think of Pete. I’m crazy about him too, but in a completely different way. I grinned and dialed his number.

  “Babe. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. How are you?” I wiped a dirty forearm across my forehead, pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder, and peered into the refrigerator.

  “I keep thinking about what you said last night,” Pete answered in a low voice.

  “Mmmm.” I smiled, picturing him at the tug’s helm, navigating the Columbia in the fading light, heading into the sunset. Someday I want to go on a job with him, just to spend time watching him in his world. I pulled out the egg carton, sour cream, blue cheese and a red pepper. “How’s the wheat?”

  “Behaving itself. Any more interaction with your new neighbors?”

  “Nope. But there are even more of them now. A mini-city of coaches with California plates moved in today. I guess Melvin is serious about this documentary. No one was around when Mom and I got back from the museum, so they must be out scouting or filming somewhere.”

  I flicked on a gas burner, and the shower turned off.

  “I only have a few minutes,” I said. “Mom’s about to join me.”

  “You holding up?”

  “I guess. Not loving the ambiguity of the situation. She still won’t talk to me.”

  “Sounds familiar.” But I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Hey. I’m already disturbed by my similarity to my mother. I don’t really need you pointing it out.” I dumped scrambled eggs into a frying pan and moved to the sink.