“What next?”
“Like last time, I pushed the front door open and slipped inside. I saw Wade in the gift shop, and that lady—” Edna turned to me.
“Frankie,” I added.
“—on the floor, and Meredith trying to talk to Wade. And from the way he was standing, I knew he was holding a gun on her. And I just got so mad—” Edna clenched her hands into fists on the tabletop. “He thinks he can do whatever he wants — bully.” She exhaled a long breath. “I’m not big enough to stop him, so I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall case and I — and I pulled the trigger.” A little smile flitted across her face. “It worked.”
Sheriff Marge pushed back in her chair and interlocked her arms across her Kevlar-vested chest. “Uh-huh.” She shook her head. “Why do I think there’s more to the story?”
Edna and I glanced at each other in surprise.
“Do you mean—” Edna faltered.
“I visited Edna last night, after the fire,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” Sheriff Marge rubbed her chin then pulled out a pen and hunched over her notebook. “And?”
“I retrieved something, a few things actually, that Edna—” I wrinkled my nose, “—borrowed from the Snead cabin several years ago. Mainly because I’d reached a dead end in trying to figure out what Wade was after.”
I explained about the shareholder certificates and the email query I’d sent to Rakker Mining. “I’m not optimistic they’re worth anything, but Wade may have remembered them — may have expectations about their value. I think he’s assuming there’s a connection between Spence’s supposed wealth and British Columbia, but I couldn’t find any proof from the family papers.”
Sheriff Marge snapped her notebook shut. “Okay. Edna, you alright with driving yourself home?”
Edna nodded.
“Can you start tomorrow?” I asked.
She nodded again. Her pale eyes were solemn, but I sensed a small sparkle there. She slid out of her chair, scooted around the table and disappeared into the hall.
Sheriff Marge leaned her elbows on the table. “I feel old.”
I wanted to hug her — but my clothes were coated in chemical powder, and she’s not the type of woman you hug. “Have you talked with Dale lately?”
Sheriff Marge’s gray eyes regarded me over the top of her reading glasses. “He’s up to something. You’re in on it, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
Dale bustled in at that moment, cordless drill and a piece of plywood in hand. “Howdy. Sent Frankie home. She’s shaken up, but I think she’ll be okay.” He pulled a handful of screws out of a pocket and secured the broken window in the kitchen door.
Dale set the drill on the counter. “Quick thinking, Meredith, to get back in the building in this way. Not that we recommend civilians take that kind of action.”
I shrugged. “It’s my museum — at least I think of it as mine. I love this old place.”
“Sit down, Dale.” Sheriff Marge shoved a free chair back from the table with her foot. “What’d Frankie have to say?”
Dale pulled his notebook out of his chest pocket and flipped it open. “She’s surprisingly observant. Knew what time Wade walked through the front door, gave me verbatim quotes, precise movements through the building. Great witness.” He took a deep breath and shot a worried glance at Sheriff Marge. “I’ve been doing some investigating on the side—”
“Dale, I know.” She shifted her bulk on the flimsy chair and leaned forward, studying him intently. “What’d you find?”
Dale outlined the connection of the fake eye with Spence and the rifle bullet casings found near the marsh. “We never did an autopsy on Spence since the cause of death appeared so obvious, but I wonder if it would have told us that he was already dead when that shotgun went off. With Wade’s comments today and his suspicious behavior at the cabin yesterday—”
Sheriff Marge sat back, her lips pinched together. She slowly nodded. “I don’t like it, but it fits better than anything we’ve had yet. I never thought Spence would kill himself. Too many people depended on him, and he had a great sense of responsibility, despite his own struggles.” She removed her glasses and tapped them lightly on the table. “I wish Big John had known the truth before—”
I noticed for the first time the deep blue shadows beneath her eyes. Here in the Imogene’s cold kitchen, Sheriff Marge’s normal bustle and vitality slipped for a moment, revealing the tired woman underneath. She bore the burdens of so many.
“Alright,” Sheriff Marge continued. “Get a search warrant for the property — there’s not much left at the cabin, and it’s already slated for arson investigation — his truck, and any place else he might have stored things. You’ve bagged the two guns from today already?”
Dale nodded, making rapid notes.
“I have some of his stuff,” I said. “Can I just give it to you?”
“I’ll include it in a search warrant request — to be on the safe side,” Dale said.
“We’ll get a ballistics test on this rifle for comparison and see what we can do with any other rifles we retrieve. It’s been a long time.” Sheriff Marge sat with her arm extended on the table, fingering the badge on the front of her hat for a silent minute. “I don’t think it makes sense to exhume the body now. Unless a bullet hit a bone that’s still part of — even then — no.” She shook her head with finality. “We’ll question Wade when he wakes up. You and Archie’ll do it — I can’t.”
“It’s alright, Sheriff. We got it,” Dale said.
“I know you do.”
The sheriff and her deputies cleared out, and I decided the Imogene needed a break as much as I did. The place was a health hazard at the moment. I locked the front doors and posted a note about our temporary closure.
The white powder was confined to a ten-foot radius just inside the gift shop entrance, but that space included the front counter, cash register, postcard carousel rack, engraved keychain rack and a couple displays of formerly glossy coffee table books. A quick Internet search indicated the powder was corrosive to metal and would need to be vacuumed with a HEPA filter equipped shop-vac. Sure the museum’s resident ancient Hoover was not up to snuff for such an undertaking, I left a message for my favorite handyman, Jim Carter. He’d be able to fix the kitchen door too.
I retrieved my loafers and put them on, probably ruining them, but I had a few more things to do. Moving gently so as not to leave a white powder trail, I surveyed the first floor with a knot in my stomach. How much damage had Wade done?
Two display cases — the Klickitat beaded items I’d seen already and a case of Wishram fishing implements and stone net weights — were obliterated. The portrait of the mansion’s builder and first owner, Lyman Hagg, Rupert’s great-great-uncle, had been blasted to pieces along with a chunk of the wall behind it.
I happened to know Rupert had always thought the portrait was too imposing and intimidating to hang in public, viewable by non-family. But the rest of the board had overridden him out of a misplaced sense of obligatory gratitude for the money the elder Hagg had left in trust. To quote Ramona, Lyman’s image’s demise seemed fitting.
I rode the elevator to the third floor. In my office, I slipped the shareholder certificates into Wade’s leather valise alongside his other paperwork. They’d be ready for Dale when the search warrant came through. I checked my phone for messages — none.
I dialed Pete’s number and listened to it ring. I moved to the big picture window and watched rain streaks dribble and merge against the blurry background of a gray river. Good — we needed the rain. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass.
When Pete’s voice mail beeped, I said, “Thinking about you. Miss you. Will you come for dinner again? No interruptions this time.” I hoped I didn’t sound like a desperate, clingy girlfriend. At least I hadn’t sniffled into the phone.
I retraced my steps and let myself out the front doors, locking them behind me. The deputies had kindly po
pped Wade’s truck into neutral and rolled it into a marked parking spot before securing it. So I was free and clear — and exhausted.
I pulled an old blanket I keep in the truck — hairy from Tuppence — over and spread it across my seat. My truck already had a bullet hole — it didn’t need to look like the scene of a fire clean-up operation too.
CHAPTER 23
A long, hot shower later, with my clothes whirling in the washing machine and a mug of Earl Grey in hand, I huddled in front of the fireplace with my dog and a box of Kleenex. I propped my ankle on a cushion, and Tuppence stretched across my legs, amazingly relaxed for such an uncomfortable position. I stroked her silky ears and leaned my head back against the front edge of the sofa.
The fifth-wheel can be cozy, provided it’s sealed up tight. About the size of a New York City studio apartment, which means everything is in easy reach and floor space is at a premium. But sometimes the floor is where I need to be — eye level with my furry security blanket.
I wanted to think through the past few days, but slowly — let my brain ramble and my emotions catch up. Aside from occasional coughing spasms and swollen, scratchy eyes, I felt pretty good, considering. Rain pattered on the vinyl-coated roof, a comforting rhythm and one of my favorite sounds. Add a train whistle and I know I’m home.
Except that sound — the timid squeal of wet car brakes and soft thud of a door closing. I opened my eyes and groaned. Visitors.
One visitor — Frankie. I held the door open as she climbed the steps with a plastic-wrapped package under her arm. I took her dripping coat and hung it up.
Frankie set her purse and the package on the dining table and wiped a hand across her un-made-up face and red eyes. “It snowed this morning. Now this.” She was wearing a dark green sweat suit and white sneakers. It seemed as though she’d peeled off a few layers of façade and this was the authentic Frankie.
I chuckled. “Welcome to the Pacific Northwest. The weather can’t make up its mind, but at least we always have something to talk about.”
“Gloria told me where you live. I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Not at all. Tea?”
Frankie nodded.
“Please make yourself comfortable.” I gestured toward the sofa. “And, uh — thank you. Your quick thinking — and action — saved me today. I was not expecting that to turn out well.”
Frankie tucked her feet up under her and pulled a pillow onto her lap. “I should have done something sooner. I was — preoccupied. With what, in the end, is not as important.”
I handed her a steaming mug and sat across from her. “You brought the painting.”
Frankie sighed. “I thought I’d clean it, but now I’m afraid to touch it. Whatever I’d do would make it worse, and it’s already destroyed.” She blinked back tears. “That painting is the reason I’m here, the thing I valued more than all others — and I’ve ruined it in my selfishness, my stupidity.”
“I’ll ask Edna to work on it tomorrow.” I swirled the lukewarm tea in my mug. “We’ll see.”
“The woman in the painting — she’s my grandmother.” Frankie’s voice cracked.
I grabbed the Kleenex box and handed it to her.
“She came to the States, to Pennsylvania, from Paris in 1940 just ahead of the German occupation of France. She had relatives in Pennsylvania, so it was arranged without too much difficulty. She arrived pregnant, and the son born in November, 1940 was my father.” Frankie dabbed her face with a tissue. “She was married, but her husband was in the French army and had been deployed for over a year. When she fled, he was missing and presumed dead, and his death was later confirmed.”
Frankie shook her head. “It was a family secret — the kind everyone knows but no one acknowledges — that it’s hard for a dead man to father a child. Back then admitting an affair — well, you just didn’t. You pretended everything was fine. And my grandmother came to a new country where people didn’t know her, and she became a widow raising a young child — my dad. She never remarried.”
The tea kettle whistled, and I rose stiffly to refill our mugs and drop new tea bags in them. “Did your dad have a rough childhood?”
Frankie shifted and crossed her legs. “I don’t know. There are big gaps, time periods that weren’t discussed. My dad died when I was eight.”
“Oh — I’m sorry.” I perched on the front edge of the recliner and took Frankie’s hand for a moment. “Are you an only child?”
She nodded.
“Me too.”
She smiled through her tears. “When Rupert mentioned — when he said he thought Astruc was colorblind, well, it connected. I knew Astruc’s sense of color was off, but I thought that was part of his style, his expression. My dad was colorblind — deuteranopia — I found his records. It’s a genetic trait. Dad was having trouble with his vision at work, at the paper mill, and he went to an optometrist. Diagnosed, but he never told his employers. He talked about learning what the positions of the lights on his machine meant because he couldn’t read the colors correctly. Again, one of those whispered conversations in the kitchen after I was thought to be in bed. He died in an accident at the mill about a year later.” Frankie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, steadying the mug on her knee. “I wonder if his colorblindness caused the accident.”
She was pale, but for once, not fidgety. Did she feel guilty for overhearing those things and not being able to hold her family together as a child?
“I don’t understand the connection to Astruc,” I murmured.
Frankie opened her eyes and set her mug on a coaster. “He lived in the same apartment building in Paris as my grandmother. When my mother died three years ago, I found the old files and went through all the paperwork — family correspondence, photos, deeds — you name it — including love letters from Astruc to my grandmother in Pennsylvania. I pieced together a few hunches, tracked down the name of the landlady of the apartment building and wrote to her in care of her daughter. She responded immediately, asserted that everyone knew my grandmother and Astruc were having an affair. No one in the building seemed to like my grandmother’s husband, when he was around, and were sympathetic to the lovers. She said Astruc was frantic about my grandmother, urging her to leave as soon as possible — probably because he knew, before others did, that she was carrying his child — the child of a Jew. She had family abroad, a reason to leave the country. He couldn’t get out, and she didn’t want to leave without him.”
The rain had been steadily increasing and now pounded so hard Frankie had to raise her voice over the din. “When it became clear France would capitulate, my grandmother agreed to flee. The landlady and a few of her other tenants tried to help Astruc mask his ethnicity, providing him a backstory and alibis and even a factory job, but he was eventually picked up by the police during the Vel’ d’Hiv Roundup.”
Frankie stood and unzipped her purse. She pulled out a small case and opened the lid. She held the box toward me. “Go ahead.”
I removed the hinged frame and spread it open. A man and a woman gazed back at me — miniature portraits. They were each seated in what was probably the same wingback chair. He sat ramrod straight in a snug suit jacket with a thick mustache that drooped over his mouth. The left edge of his mustache was slightly higher, as though underneath he was smiling lopsidedly, and the smile extended to a slight twinkle in his brown eyes.
She was completely relaxed and happy — leaning gently against the chair’s left wing, her right arm resting across her lap and her right hand caressing the chair’s left arm. She held a slip of paper between her fingers. It was the same hand with the gracefully curved fingers, the same curled wisps of hair, as in the café scene. Her lips were parted — she was almost laughing.
I blinked back tears. Rupert was so right. A man who could paint portraits like this was wasting his time painting anything else. Astruc had captured her — and his love for her.
“My grandmother always kept those miniatures on her bedside table
.” Frankie blew her nose. “Her letters to him are lost. Everything about Astruc is lost except his paintings — some of them. I had no idea so many survived until — well, until I realized Rupert was buying them up.”
“It was you — the other collector.” My eyes widened.
“I saved and saved and — well, after the divorce it seemed like a good time — so I went to Paris, found the apartment building — it’s still standing — visited the old landlady and learned about the paintings they’d stashed in the basement after Astruc was arrested. There was no family to claim his belongings, so her son eventually disposed of them. I don’t think the paintings have changed hands too many times since then. There’s not exactly a market for — well, they’re unusual.” Frankie pressed her hands between her knees. “But I couldn’t match Rupert’s offers — to any of the dealers.”
“We have to tell Rupert.” I jumped up, too excited to sit.
“Oh no.” Frankie gripped the sofa arm. “I’m here under false pretenses, and I feel horrible for lying. I don’t want to — I can’t tell him. I’ll just leave quietly. I was hoping to buy that one—” she glanced toward the package on the dining table, “—since it’s the only other painting of my grandmother. But since I’ve destroyed it — I’ll try to find a way to pay the museum back.”
“You don’t understand. He’ll be thrilled to find you — to realize who you are.” I paced five short steps to the kitchen and back. “He wants to reunite Astruc’s artwork with his family. And don’t give up on the painting yet. The chemical powder is dry, so it’s not embedded. There’s a chance we can brush it off.” I wrinkled my nose. “Carefully. We’ll need to do it soon, before it interacts with any metallic compounds that might be in the paint.”
A sharp knock sounded on the door.
I frowned and shook my head in response to Frankie’s worried look. Most people stay home in weather like this. I opened the door.
Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Page 16