Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “What’re you mumbling about?” Sheriff Marge’s brusque voice sounded behind us.

  “Just explaining the situation to Meredith, about taking you home later,” Dale replied quickly.

  “Sorry about that,” Sheriff Marge huffed. “Until I get this thing off—” she smacked the side of her full-leg cast, “I can’t—” she clenched her jaw, “—drive.” She peered at me over her reading glasses, and I realized how much she hated saying the word ‘can’t.’

  Mom pushed open the trailer door. “I thought I heard voices. Hello.”

  “Pam.” Dale touched the brim of his Stratton hat to Mom, then he ducked his head close to my ear. “Okay?”

  “Yes.” I nodded emphatically so he’d know I meant yes to everything. I’d do my best to distract Sheriff Marge from wondering what her deputies were doing on such a fine evening.

  We weren’t off to a good start, though, because Sheriff Marge was glaring at us, back and forth between Dale and me.

  “Right then.” Dale gave Mom one more nod and escaped to his car.

  “How are you?” I started with a falsely upbeat smile.

  “Gotta minute?” Sheriff Marge said in a low voice.

  “Uh, yes?” I was planning on most of the night, but she didn’t know that — I hoped she didn’t, anyway.

  “Privately.” Sheriff Marge muttered and tipped her head toward the fifth-wheel.

  I glanced up at Mom still in the doorway, and then it dawned on me.

  “Mom,” I called, “there’s peppermint ice cream in the freezer. Could you load that between the chocolate cookies I made the other day? Sheriff Marge is staying for dessert.”

  Mom frowned, but her good breeding forced out a cheerful, “Of course.” She disappeared into the trailer.

  Sheriff Marge clumped over to the picnic table, managing her crutches surprisingly efficiently for not having much of a swinging radius, and eased onto a bench. “Got a visit at the office today from a repo man. I was alone when he came, so nobody else knows yet. That’s why I had Dale bring me over, besides the fact I know I’m driving my deputies crazy. Thought it best to get out of their hair for a while.”

  I sank down beside her. “What don’t they know? I don’t understand.”

  Tuppence ambled over and laid her muzzle on Sheriff Marge’s thigh.

  Sheriff Marge absently stroked the hound’s head. “Your mom. He was tracing her Mercedes. I didn’t give him any help, but he’s a smart guy. He’ll find it tonight or tomorrow.”

  I inhaled. It was a lot to take in. “So her car’s going to be repossessed? Why did he stop by the sheriff’s office?”

  “It’s a courtesy the more reputable firms extend to local law enforcement — to let us know they’ll be taking action in our jurisdiction.”

  “How much trouble is she in?” I whispered.

  Sheriff Marge shrugged. “Nothing you imagined — no police reports, no arrests. I got whiffs of financial problems in my searches, though — a few accounts sent to collections.” She turned to face me. “I’ve done all I can. Anything else you’ll have to learn from her.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  Mom brought out the ice cream sandwiches. I made mine last as long as possible, nibbling and licking down to the last smooshy morsel. I just wasn’t up to faking pleasant conversation at the moment.

  Then the California motorcoaches pulled into their spots, and the crew emerged, giving us something to watch and postponing conversation even further. Doors slammed. People hollered at each other. Barbecues were ignited. From the savory smoke drifting our way, I’d say a few of the crew members knew about good food. Too bad Melvin hadn’t asked for their help on the script.

  I was debating whether or not to tell Sheriff Marge about the photos Mom had swiped from Vince’s backpack when I caught the sound of my phone ringing from the trailer. I scooted off the bench and trotted to the RV.

  Breathless, I picked up.

  “Meredith? Meredith?” The woman’s voice was frantic. “It’s Barbara. Barbara Segreti.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I-I don’t know. Yes, I think so. Yes. Yes, I am.” Her voice got stronger the more she talked, but her repetitions didn’t sound right to me.

  “Barbara, what’s happened?” I hopped off the fifth-wheel’s steps and hurried toward the picnic table.

  “They know,” she whispered. “They know.”

  “Who knows?” I laid a hand on Sheriff Marge’s shoulder and mouthed Barbara’s name.

  Sheriff Marge scooped a hand, indicating I should let her listen in. I bent my head near Sheriff Marge’s and held the phone so we could both hear.

  “The family. They know. They sent a message.”

  Sheriff Marge prompted me with a nod. “What kind of message?” I asked.

  “They trashed my shop. It’s all — it’s all—” Barbara was breathing hard. I heard crunching, clinking noises in the background, as if she was stepping on broken glass, shoving things out of her way.

  “Vandals?”

  “No. The family.”

  She wasn’t making sense. “Barbara, Sheriff Marge is here with me. We’re coming over.”

  “No — no. We have to go to the museum — before it’s too late.”

  “The Imogene?”

  “Meet me at the back door to the basement.” There was a thump, and the line went dead.

  “Come on,” Sheriff Marge grunted and pushed herself to standing. “I don’t like the sound of that. Barbara’s a sensible woman — not normal for her to get rattled.”

  Sheriff Marge’s cast made it impossible for her to bend her knee. As a squat, solid person, her center of gravity is stable — and low. Mom and I tried, as delicately as we could, to heave Sheriff Marge into my pickup. We had to put our hands and elbows on places we wouldn’t, normally — namely, Sheriff Marge’s posterior.

  Sheriff Marge spluttered and clunked herself on the head with an errant crutch. Mom jerked the crutches out of Sheriff Marge’s grasp and tossed them in pickup’s bed in order to make room for herself on the bench seat. She ended up with Sheriff Marge’s leg angled across her lap.

  I ran around and squeezed behind the steering wheel.

  “Hurry up.” Sheriff Marge braced herself against the dashboard. “You can speed.”

  In my haste, I hit the giant pothole at the entrance to Highway 14. We all levitated briefly then slammed back down onto the seat.

  “Blast,” Sheriff Marge muttered. She arched her back and reached a hand underneath her bottom and, in the process, squashed me against the driver’s door. I swerved. She yanked her holster to the side. “Stupid gun belt.”

  I pulled the truck out of its fishtail wobble, and air seeped back into my lungs. “Where to?” I wheezed.

  “Imogene’s on the way. Check the parking lot first, but if she’s not there yet, head to the Golden Shears. I don’t like the idea of Barb alone at her shop if it’s been damaged.” Sheriff Marge smacked my knee. “Faster, girl. Go!”

  I stomped on the accelerator, my hands taught white clamps on the steering wheel at the 10 and 2 positions. My commute’s short, thank God. The wheels chattered as I careened around the corner onto the access road to the county park, marina and museum. We all slid left on the seat, and I ended up with the air smashed out of me again.

  “Loop around back. Don’t stop,” Sheriff Marge shouted.

  I gunned the truck down the long parking lot, veered into the driveway reserved for deliveries, bounced off a curb, and shot into the tiny back parking lot, mostly occupied by a large dumpster, behind the mansion. No other cars.

  I threw the truck into reverse.

  “Wait. Wait,” Mom yelled.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and slammed on the brakes. A white Toyota Corolla with rust spots on the hood screeched to a stop inches from my back bumper. Barbara.

  We sat there shuddering for half a second.

  “Out. Get out.” Sheriff Marge started thrashing her way toward
the door.

  Mom popped her door handle and just about fell out of the truck. She pulled, and I pushed, and Sheriff Marge slid off the seat, landing on her good foot. Mom retrieved the crutches and handed them over.

  By the time we got ourselves together, Barbara was standing at the back door to the museum, wringing her hands.

  I ran to Barbara, Sheriff Marge pedaling as fast as she could behind me while Mom fluttered around her, trying to help.

  “Are you okay?” I touched Barbara’s shoulder. She was trembling.

  “I need to see.” She pointed an unsteady finger at the lock on the door. “Inside. Hurry. Please.”

  I unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped back. Barbara fled inside — in the dark. She seemed to know exactly where she was going.

  I flipped on the light switches, and the long, cavernous room flickered into view. “Barbara?” I called.

  She was hustling down the center aisle, her rubber-soled sneakers squeaking softly on the concrete floor. I trotted after her.

  “Barbara?” I caught up with her at the right-hand turn into the laundry area, an odd chunk of the building that seemed to have been an architect’s afterthought. But it was well-equipped with massive washing machines, wringers, industrial dryers, presses and several rolling carts for handling the huge quantities of table and bed linens the large Hagg family would dirty while on vacation.

  Barbara headed straight for the anomaly in the room — an avocado green washer and dryer set sized appropriately for a 1970s suburban split-level. I’d been meaning to get rid of them for a couple years now.

  She lifted the lid on the washing machine and peered inside. Then she whirled around and pressed her hands against her chest, which was heaving. “It’s here. It’s still here.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “What’s still here?” I leaned over the washing machine. Inside, a bulky crunched canvas roll was coiled in jerky angles around the center shaft. “Barbara, is this—?” My mouth was dry.

  “I had to hide it somewhere. And I couldn’t tell you because — for your safety. For everyone’s safety. But they know—” her voice trailed off in a whisper.

  “Know what?” Sheriff Marge asked, puffing hard.

  “Well, I don’t know — exactly,” Barbara said.

  Sheriff Marge scowled at me. “Will someone explain, please?” Then she glanced around quickly. “I need to sit.”

  Mom ducked into the big room and returned dragging a wooden rocking chair. Sheriff Marge dropped into it.

  “Let’s get it out.” I pulled and pinched and yanked. I finally swung a knee over the corner of the washing machine to get leverage for unwinding the unyielding canvas tube. “How’d you get it in here?” I grunted.

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t this hard,” Barbara panted, bumping shoulders with me as we heaved. “But I was racing on adrenaline. I had to find a place, fast.” She took hold of the loose end while I reached back into the tub to wrangle the other end.

  We lifted the canvas roll and flopped it on the large table originally used for folding clothing. My fingers itched at the edge of the roll, and I took a deep breath. The painting was probably irreparably damaged from its treatment. Acrylic paint retains some flexibility when dry, but not enough to withstand this much crimping, especially not with Cosmo’s heavy hand. But I didn’t care, did I? Why was I suddenly concerned about the condition of the most hideous painting I’d ever seen?

  “Well?” Sheriff Marge creaked forward in the rocking chair.

  I nodded and expelled my breath, cheeks puffing. Barbara helped me unroll the painting.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” she murmured, hovering over the longest paint crack which ran vertically down the end that had been at the center of the roll. “But I don’t think Cosmo would mind.” A feeble smile crossed her face. “It’s not about the painting itself. It can’t be. There’s something else.”

  She was right. It was impossible for the painting to ascend to a new level of repulsiveness. It was already at the top of the ugliness spectrum.

  “Is it about what’s in the paint?” I asked.

  “In?” Barbara’s mouth pulled into a worried frown. “I thought maybe under, or behind — like a false back, but I didn’t find any papers when I cut out the canvas.” Her forehead wrinkled as she glanced up at me. “In?”

  “Gold dust?”

  Barbara drummed her fingers on the tabletop and slowly nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Details.” Sheriff Marge stretched her leg into a more comfortable position and pulled a notebook from her chest pocket. “Want to fill me in?”

  “First of all, how do you know Cosmo?” I asked.

  “I don’t — or didn’t,” Barbara said. “Not really. Just in the way all little kids know of their parents’ adult acquaintances. Tall and intimidating and stern and just there sometimes. The ‘say hello to Mr. Hagg, Barbara. Now run along and play’ variety. Except sometimes Cosmo would slip me Necco wafers. He knew I favored the purple clove ones, and he saved them for me. I liked him for that.”

  Barbara plopped on the floor. With one hand, she massaged the back of her neck beneath her still immaculate beehive. There was probably a pound of hairspray holding it together which had to become even heavier throughout the day.

  “It wasn’t until my Dad died that Mom explained about our family’s connection to the Mafia, and how Dad had begged to be released. I had just graduated from beauty school and was going to take over the barber shop. I think she finally thought it was safe to tell me.” Barbara shook her head. “All those years, Dad was in exile here — the only safe way to leave the mob in those days was to get some higher-ups to pull strings and promise to stay out of the action in a very remote location and to keep your mouth shut. Even then, it wasn’t a completely free pass. The barber shop and our little house became a rest stop of sorts for wiseguys needing to cool their heels for a while.”

  Barbara sighed, rolled her shoulders and continued, “That’s when I made the connection — Dad’s many visitors and why they were visiting—”

  “But Cosmo was a local boy,” I interrupted. “And not Italian.”

  Barbara snorted. “They didn’t care about your pedigree as long as you produced. A man had to be Italian — preferably Sicilian, on his father’s side — to become a made man, but other than that, the mob was happy to collect their percentage from whatever racket you could come up with. I don’t know the details because I just overheard snippets during poker games in the backroom, but I got the impression Cosmo was always working on some scheme or other. He had connections in Los Angeles.”

  “So Cosmo was in the mob?” Sheriff Marge scratched behind her ear with the end of her pen.

  “I think it’s more likely the mob found out about his activities and suggested he share the proceeds with them. Under penalty of physical harm if he didn’t.” Barbara swept a few pieces of lint into a neat pile with her hand. “That’s how they work — a finger in every pie, whack you if you don’t comply. It results in a lot of pressure on low-level criminals to always be coming up with something new to meet the mob’s demands for money.”

  “You think Cosmo was a low-level criminal?” Mom crossed the room and sat beside Barbara. She leaned against an industrial dryer and pressed her fingertips over her eyes.

  “More like a one hit wonder. He’d done something to make him a golden boy in the mob’s eyes for a while, but it didn’t last. I remember him brainstorming with Dad late into the night many times. He always seemed desperate for cash. For some reason, Dad had a soft spot for him and tried to help him.”

  “What does this have to do with the painting?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  “Cosmo painted it at our house, in the spare room. He left it there and would come work on it every couple weeks. I was in high school at the time, and I remember how haggard he was. Something was dreadfully wrong, and it seemed as though he’d given up. He normally was mischievous, a jokester, but all the spark had g
one out of him.”

  “When was that?” I blurted. “He died shortly after, right?”

  Barbara nodded. “It was as though the painting was his masterpiece.” She glanced at the table where the curled ends of the canvas contradicted her. “Not that the work itself was good, but that, somehow, it was his best work. I guess I have a sentimental attachment to it. I always thought Cosmo led such a sad life, even though he forced a jolly exterior for the benefit of a little girl.”

  “Why steal — or hide — the painting?” I asked.

  “I saw that filmmaker at the fundraiser, and I knew. They’d finally come.” Barbara rose on one plump knee and pushed herself to standing. “Speaking of which, we have to get it out of here. They’ve searched my shop. Their next stop will be here.” She turned to Sheriff Marge. “Can you lock it up?”

  “Why?” Sheriff Marge snapped her notebook closed.

  “It’s Cosmo’s revenge. I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure how—” Barbara hurried to the table and started rolling the painting back up. “But the mob’s sent Juice’s nephew to nab it. We can’t let that happen. We can’t.” She worked fast, her arm flab jiggling with the effort.

  Barbara hefted the roll in her arms, turned toward us and let out an unearthly shriek.

  The top of the roll, near her head, disintegrated in a puff of paint powder and canvas bits as a gunshot reverberated off the stainless steel and concrete surfaces.

  CHAPTER 17

  Barbara hit the floor and rolled under the table. I’m embarrassed to say the rest of us were rooted to our spots for a couple nanoseconds while the idea that we were being shot at sank in.

  The hot water heater in the corner sprouted two neat round leaks. I cringed and ducked — the racket was deafening. From my knees, I spun around and saw Vince — the big goon — standing directly behind Sheriff Marge’s rocking chair, blocking the only doorway, his gun arm raised.

  Another bullet thwanged off the barrel of the wringer next to Mom.

  He might have the look of a mercenary, but he didn’t have the skills — the guy was clearly not a good shot.