Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “Sets together,” I gritted out. “I’ll come help you clear space for arranging the items. We’ll need to take documentation photographs.”

  “What did I interrupt?” Mom whispered as we clumped down the basement stairs.

  “The fundraiser cleared almost $40,000.”

  “Meredith, that’s wonderful.” Mom’s eyes were bright. “This community must really value the museum — and appreciate you.” She squeezed my arm.

  Was that how my mother measured approval? I sighed. “We had a lot of out-of-town guests. I suspect that’s where most of the money came from. Sockeye County’s not exactly booming.” At least she was pleased — for the moment.

  Mom had made good progress on the jewelry. I quickly became distracted examining the juicy fruit, brilliant flowers and a few creepily realistic insects she’d spread out on the top shelf of a padded transit cart. I reached to snap on a spotlight and remembered Frankie’s paper.

  I uncrinkled the page and squinted to decipher Frankie’s loopy handwriting.

  “What’s that?” Mom leaned close.

  Frankie had underlined the title of her list — Short Fundraiser Guests. She’d organized the list by height, from 4’10” to 5’3” — bless her heart — each name followed by an estimate of the person’s stature. She’d even included her own name, toward the top of the list.

  I joggled in silent laughter while skimming my finger down the page. If these poor people only knew we were now analyzing them by linear inch instead of for their potential donation capacity. The vast majority of the names were women’s.

  “Do you know any of them?” Mom asked.

  “Most, but I wouldn’t suspect a single one.” My finger hovered over Barbara Segreti’s name. “This reminds me — I need to call Barbara for appointments for you and me this afternoon.”

  “She runs a spa?” Mom asked hopefully.

  “Not exactly, but it’ll do. You’ll see.” I drummed my fingers on the transit cart and grinned. “I have another idea. You good for a few minutes?”

  Mom nodded.

  I zipped upstairs and, from the privacy of my office, dialed the newest grandmother in Sockeye County.

  “Yeah,” Sheriff Marge grunted.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Not worth mentioning. Your mom still with you?”

  How does she hone in on the main issue so fast? “Yeah. I have a couple favors to ask, one of which might not be exactly appropriate.”

  “Yeah?” I could hear the arched eyebrow in Sheriff Marge’s tone.

  I took a deep breath. “First, are you up for babysitting the adorable Jesamie this afternoon and maybe into the evening?”

  “Course I am,” Sheriff Marge huffed. “I’m not an invalid.”

  “I just wanted to make sure, with the cast and all—”

  “I haven’t forgotten the basics. Since she isn’t crawling yet, we spend most of our time snuggling and looking at books anyway. She doesn’t cry when she’s with me.”

  I smiled at the pride in Sheriff Marge’s voice and the idea of her peering through her reading glasses, doing the voices for classic children’s stories and pointing to the pictures. She could pull it off. I’d love to sit on the floor and invisibly listen in.

  “Then Mom and I would like to kidnap Hallie around 4:00 p.m. — maybe it could be a surprise? — and take her to the Golden Shears for a little pampering. Sound good?”

  “Exactly what she needs. Perfect. Ben’s going nuts without her, and I feel bad she’s been cooped up with me. She’s sweet, but—” Sheriff Marge heaved a sigh. “I guess I’m accustomed to my widow ways. I like things to be where I left them.”

  I chuckled. “You and me both. Which leads to my second request.” I lowered my voice and pushed the door closed. “Mom.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s hiding something. Won’t tell me. I wonder — I guess it’s possible — if maybe she’s divorcing my stepfather. He doesn’t seem angry, but he is worried about her.”

  “He’s contacted you?”

  “Once. Told me to give her time and take care of her.”

  “Huh. She done anything like this before?”

  “Not that I know of. But my family’s not exactly forthcoming. Is there a way you can check, without doing anything illegal, if she’s been arrested or named in a police report? I don’t know — I hate to think it, but maybe drugs? Or a DUI? Shoplifting?” I dug my thumbnail into the edge of the desk. “I’m grasping at straws here, but what would embarrass her so much that she won’t tell me?”

  “Uh-huh,” Sheriff Marge muttered. Soft scratching rustled in the background — she was taking notes.

  I was spying on my own mother, but I’d just given Sheriff Marge a problem to solve.

  “You have any joint accounts with her?”

  “Bank accounts?” I asked in surprise. “Not since I turned sixteen. Why?”

  “You know her financial situation?”

  I frowned. “No. I can’t even watch her spending habits here, because what is there to buy? I could ask Alex, but that would arouse his suspicions if he doesn’t already have them. I don’t want to add fodder if a divorce is in the works.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Sheriff Marge clicked off.

  I slipped into the hallway and dragged the frame from Cosmo’s painting into my office. I’d left it tipped against the wall below its attribution plaque yesterday in my hurry to question Rupert and dig through his files.

  Now, the big empty spot gnawed at my imagination. What had Cosmo’s intentions been? From his pictures he didn’t seem like the type of man to enjoy painting as a hobby, and even more certainly not the type to inflict his artistic expression on others. He’d looked like a harried businessman. Then again, Winston Churchill had dabbled in painting, and he also wasn’t the type you’d think would do so based on his appearance.

  The last thing I wanted to do was advertise the painting’s absence. I stood the frame on its short side and wedged it behind the door. I grabbed a screwdriver from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and removed the plaque from the hallway wall.

  I shoved the marble-topped side table over, rummaged a ghastly and gigantic dried flower display from the Victorian ball gown exhibit and plunked that on the table. It sort of masked the screw holes and smudge marks from the hanging wires — my best solution until we could get the wall repainted. If people didn’t know what they were looking for, they might not notice.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mom and I established an efficient rhythm and emptied enough boxes of Bakelite that I needed to assign identification numbers in order to not confuse the pieces with each other. Mom manned the digital camera while I checked in each image and arranged the basic documentation information in folders on my laptop.

  The lights in our improvised photo studio create a lot of heat, and I was starting to wilt when a yoohoo came from the stairs.

  I blinked toward the dark end of the basement, and two forms — one tall and lanky and one curvy and blonde — appeared.

  “Frankie said you’d be down here. Isn’t she a sweetheart?” Tiffany gushed.

  I groaned inwardly at the sight of them, but I had promised my assistance when I met Melvin at the fundraiser.

  “Ooooo, Bakelite.” Tiffany snatched up a cherry charm bracelet and slipped it on her wrist.

  “Don’t touch,” Mom snapped. “These are official museum pieces.”

  Tiffany hastily pulled off the bracelet and dropped it back on the transit cart. “Sorry.” She retreated a couple steps and clung to Melvin’s arm.

  Melvin cleared his throat.

  I wondered if Mom knew something I didn’t about Tiffany’s habits. Maybe she’d gathered a few hints the other day during their bonding session in the motorcoach.

  Melvin cleared his throat again, and I decided to take pity on him. “How can I help?” I asked.

  “Oh just perusing the museum for old times’ sake Tiffany’s that is f
rom her school days seeing what she remembers and—” He shrugged and pursed his lips. The action raised his glasses on his ears, making him look uncannily like an academic, beatnik weasel. Like a malignant creature from The Wind in the Willows.

  I took a deep breath. I had to stop my personal dislike of these two from interfering with professional courtesy. “I’m afraid we don’t have any exhibits relating to food. Well, other than this jewelry—” I jabbed a finger at the transit carts, “—or locavore culture. We should. It would certainly be appropriate, but it’s an area the museum’s lacking in.”

  “What about salmon?” Tiffany asked. “I remember this really huge, horrible painting that had a fish on it and used to hang in the ballroom. We always started with that painting when we had school tours even though everyone hated looking at it.”

  A stab of surprised worry made me inhale too fast, too obviously — but I tried to recover and appear nonchalant. “I’m sure you’ve noticed a lot has changed at the Imogene since you were in grade school. We try to rotate through exhibits to keep things fresh.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but was technically true in the case of Cosmo’s ‘Salmon Cache.’ I guess you could say the painting was out on involuntary loan. I just didn’t know who to. And I really, really hoped its ‘loaning’ wasn’t going to have negative repercussions for Rupert.

  “Have you been to Willow Oaks yet?” I continued. “I’d be happy to call the owner, Dennis Durante, and introduce you if you’d like. He’s produced several award-winning wines from his vineyard, and he has a farm-fresh menu at the attached bistro. It would be a lovely, scenic spot for filming.”

  Melvin dipped and bobbed and acknowledged he’d appreciate my making the connection for him. I trotted upstairs to use the phone in the gift shop.

  Dennis became so excited he was stuttering by the end of our conversation. They say the camera adds ten pounds. I hoped, for Dennis’s sake, that it could also add 10,000 more acres of grapes, a larger, sundrenched patio and maybe some insulation in the pole barn that housed the bistro. His property does have an amazing view of the Columbia which I hoped Melvin would be able to capture to advantage.

  What Dennis really needs is a business manager, so that he can focus his energy on what he does best — tinkering with flavors. You never know, though — Dennis and Melvin seemed cut from the same habitually nervous, high-strung, artistic cloth. Maybe they’d hit it off.

  I also took advantage of the softly creaking quietness of the big mansion’s main floor to place another promised call to Pete. He didn’t answer, which is not unusual given his demanding job, so I left him a cheery, I’m-surviving-with-only-my-sanity-intact message.

  When I returned to the basement with a quickly scribbled map and directions to Willow Oaks, I pulled up short of the group, suddenly struck by a sense of unease. Tiffany and Mom were chatting while Melvin stood silently by still trying to figure out what to do with his hands and feet. But the women’s amicability was all on the surface. Mom was practically bristling with distaste, her mouth curled in a little sneer — a look I know well. And it was clear Tiffany had interpreted the look correctly. She was struggling to keep up a light conversation, her tones wary.

  I now knew that whatever friendship Pete had thought he had witnessed between these two Sunday night was his wishful thinking — or an incorrect perception based on the fact that he doesn’t know my mother very well yet. And if Tiffany’s spent the past decade or more in Hollywood, she’s probably a very different person than he remembers too. Women have an amazing capacity to spread a smooth fondant layer over the nastiest hardtack below.

  I glanced between the two women in the strong shadows cast by the spotlights. Add a couple six-shooters and Stetsons and we’d have an old-fashioned gunfight on a Burbank back lot.

  “Well then,” I said brightly, stepping forward, “Dennis is thrilled. He’s expecting you.” I handed the map to Melvin.

  “Thanks so much,” Tiffany called over her shoulder while ushering Melvin out of the basement.

  “Well,” Mom huffed.

  “Why do you dislike her?” I asked.

  Mom turned to me, wide-eyed. “You’re one to ask.”

  “You mean because of Pete?”

  “Pete’s not the problem. He’s all yours — in case you hadn’t noticed.” Mom glared at me, then jerked her thumb in a very unladylike manner toward the stairs. “She’s the problem. That glossy, ditsy exterior is intentional and meant to hide the conniving schemer underneath. Maybe she has designs on Pete, but I think it might be something else. She’s the type to use others to get what she wants. Melvin doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Maybe you should know—” I murmured.

  “Know what?”

  “I overheard someone — a man — threatening Melvin last night. And the threat included Tiffany, as though she might become collateral damage.”

  “A member of the crew?” Mom’s brows shot up.

  “I didn’t see him. But I’d recognize his voice if I heard it again. A bit slurry. Heavy breather. If his body matches his voice, he’s a big guy.”

  Banging rattled the basement door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Mom slapped a hand on her chest. “What is that?”

  “Phew.” I shook my head. “Sabretaches.” I jerked the door open in the middle of another round of banging.

  “Hey there,” Derek, the DHL delivery guy, said from behind a stack of boxes. “Sorry I didn’t have a chance to text you. But you’re always here anyway. Where do you want ‘em?”

  I stepped back. “Any place you can find room.”

  Derek shimmied the stack off his hand truck and bustled up the ramp outside for another load.

  “Sabretaches?” Mom asked.

  “The precursor to the fanny pack. Go ahead and open it.” I handed her a box knife. “Just be careful with the blade. I don’t know how well they’re packed.”

  Mom lifted a packet shrouded in acid-free paper from wads of bubble wrap. She carefully peeled back the layers. “Oooo.”

  Derek returned with the remaining boxes, then cast a glance at Mom who was caressing the embroidered flap of a worn leather pouch. “Wish I could stay for all the excitement.”

  I signed his digital clipboard. “We’ll put you to work.”

  “In that case, I gotta go.” He cracked a grin and shut the door behind him.

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a fanny pack,” Mom said. “But this would make an amazing handbag.”

  I slipped my fingers through the metal rings at each corner of the pouch and slung it at arm’s length from my waist. “Originally, they were designed to hold fire-starting supplies and other necessaries before pockets were common. Later on, they became dispatch cases for military officers and couriers, typically hung from the sword belt like this, and often having a rigid flap that doubled as a writing surface.”

  “A man purse.” Mom giggled.

  “Shows they like decoration as much as we girls do.” I spread the other sabretaches from the top box on a cart. Their ornamentation ranged from regimental crests to silver embroidery in a dense, all-over pattern. “They demonstrate the textile and leather-tooling techniques of the time as well.”

  “Beautiful,” Mom breathed.

  Bakelite or sabretaches? We were running out of space on the transit carts. You can see how difficult my job is. Since the jewelry was already partly documented and consisted of so many tiny, fiddly pieces, I reluctantly shoved the sabretache shipment to the side. Maybe I could get to them next week.

  oOo

  On the drive to Sheriff Marge’s house, I filled Mom in on the surprise relief mission we were running for Hallie. Mom perked up at the idea of throwing a mini party for someone she’d never met.

  True to her word, Sheriff Marge hadn’t uttered a peep to Hallie, so it took a few minutes to convince her to, one — come with us, and two — leave Jesamie behind. But once safely squashed between Mom and me on my pickup’s bench seat, the sparkle in H
allie’s eyes told me she was going to enjoy the treat.

  We left Sheriff Marge ensconced in a padded rocking chair on the front porch with her leg propped on a footstool and Jesamie on her lap, all necessary supplies for whiling away a few hours piled on a table beside her. As Sheriff Marge held Jesamie up and helped the baby wave bye-bye, I was struck by how disturbingly alike they looked. Add a few wrinkles to the pudgy cheeks, replace the bald head with tufted gray hair and a pair of reading glasses, and they could be cross-generational twins. They had the same serious, steel gray eyes and steadfast gaze which ensured you could never put anything past them and the ‘try me’ scowl — intimidating on Sheriff Marge, disconcerting on Jesamie.

  The Golden Shears is not technically a beauty salon. It’s a barber shop that Barbara inherited from her father. She cuts hair for humans — and animals — of both genders. I’d been startled, and a bit squeamish, the first time I had to wait for Barbara to finish blow-drying a poodle before I had a turn in the chair. But Platts Landing is far too small to support a dog groomer, and not many people around here fancy the high-maintenance breeds anyway. Barbara meets her clients’ needs as best she can.

  Her secret is a small backroom with a couple lounge chairs with foot basins and the girlier accoutrements of nail polish, wax, tweezers, body scrubs and the like. I pushed open the shop’s glass door, smiled to Barbara who was wrist deep in shampoo suds, and led Mom and Hallie straight through the beaded curtain to our hideout which I’d booked for the rest of the afternoon.

  “You two go first,” I said. “I’m next in line for a haircut.”

  “Is it — self-service?” Mom glanced around the room.

  “You just turn on the tap. Barbara will be in later for the polish phase.”

  Hallie grabbed a jar of Epsom salts and dumped a scoop in each basin. “I haven’t done this since before I got pregnant.” She scooted into a chair, slipped her shoes off and dipped her feet in the warm water. “Heavenly.”

  Mom handed her a couple gossip magazines and climbed into the other chair. She shot me an I-can’t-believe-you-dragged-me-into-this-dump look. I shrugged. Then she leaned forward, squinting, glanced quickly at Hallie who was already flipping through an old issue of People, and gestured for me to turn around.