Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

  FAUX

  REEL

  an Imogene Museum mystery — book #5

  Jerusha Jones

  When Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, finds an empty ornate frame, the still life painting hurriedly sheared from its moorings, she and Sheriff Marge Stettler scramble to identify the intruder. Not because his taste in art is questionable, but because the thief’s intimate knowledge of the museum and its collections indicates much more is at stake.

  Is the thief a friend or stranger? It doesn’t help that the population of Platts Landing, Washington has just blossomed with the influx of Hollywood movie-types roaming the countryside in search of the perfect setting for their next documentary. Nor that Meredith’s hunky boyfriend Pete’s ex-girlfriend is part of the production crew.

  Can Meredith protect Sockeye County’s iconic cultural institution and her beloved employer, Rupert Hagg, from the thief’s sinister intent?

  Copyright © 2013 by Jerusha Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney. www.berrygraphics.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Sneak Peek Book #6 — Shift Burn

  Notes & Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  I sashayed Jesamie Stettler through the bowels of the Imogene Museum. She’s Sheriff Marge’s new granddaughter, and she’s adorable in a squat, elfin way — when she’s not screaming. Something about the general hubbub and crowds of strangers at our first annual fundraiser set her off, and she was venting the full force of her tiny lungs in protest.

  Her parents and grandmother had exhausted their resources, so I claimed a turn and took Jesamie to the far end of the old mansion, hoping her distress wouldn’t disturb the other guests. Her tears and slobber soaked the front of my coral-colored silk gown, but it was still less mess than I’m accustomed to as the museum’s curator — I’m usually up to my elbows in centuries-old grime. Not in an evening gown, though.

  The taxidermy exhibit housed in the library did the trick. A life-sized dusty black bear standing on its hind feet with bared teeth is kind of like a teddy bear, right? Jesamie considered the idea. She stared, wide-eyed, and gulped back sobs.

  Next up, a snarling cougar poised in a crouch on a realistic-looking pile of plastic boulders. The taxidermist had artfully extended the big cat’s claws in the pose, even though cougars normally keep the business end of their toes retracted. Jesamie rubbed her nose hard on my bare shoulder, smearing goop all over both of us.

  “Hey, kiddo.” I shifted Jesamie higher on my hip and patted her back. “Why don’t you fall asleep? Then you won’t be so miserable.” As if logic could convince an infant.

  I tucked her downy head under my chin and sang the closest thing I could think of to a lullaby — Louis Armstrong’s version of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” complete with deep, raspy voice. I totally faked it — not well, apparently — and garnered another wide-eyed stare. Babies must think adults are complete idiots.

  We wandered through the petroglyph and pictograph replica displays, Wishram and Klickitat woven baskets, Victorian ball gowns and Indonesian pottery. No one would ever pay to listen to me sing, but after the initial shock, Jesamie didn’t seem to mind. Finally, in the chamber pot exhibit, her little body went limp, disrupted occasionally by a hiccup.

  I was only singing because we were alone, and because Jesamie wouldn’t remember a thing about it by the time she’s old enough to talk. The majority of the guests were occupied with the current demonstration out on the museum’s expansive lawn. I’d lost track, but it was either mountain man survival skills or metal detecting or calf roping. Like the Imogene’s exhibits, the evening’s educational programs were diverse, eclectic and hands-on, and the attendees seemed to be having a great time.

  I had to admit the idea of starting a campfire with flint and kindling or firing a shotgun loaded with wadding while in your black-tie best held a certain appeal, especially for the city-bred male guests. I hoped they would show their appreciation with their checkbooks later on.

  Given Jesamie’s relaxed state, I thought I might be able to sneak a quick check on the collection of sabretaches en route from Hungary. Because we all know the more often you track a highly-anticipated shipment, the faster it moves. Crooning softly, I creaked up the stairs to the third floor then stopped in front of my office door, pondering the few inches it hung open. I was certain I’d closed — and locked — it.

  I poked the door with a forefinger, and it swung open on squealing hinges. My desk looked the way it always does — messy. My laptop sat blinking in power-saving mode. None of the piles on the floor seemed to have been disturbed. I stepped into the room and scanned the bookshelves lining the walls — nothing was obviously missing. Maybe I’d been careless this afternoon, distracted by the upcoming event and worried about being able to squeeze into this dress.

  Jesamie whimpered, and I knew I couldn’t risk sitting. Frowning, I flicked off the light, latched the door and locked it. I had to keep moving, keep the comforting swaying going for Jesamie.

  I two-stepped a few feet down the hall, then came up short in front of an ornate, gold-leafed — and empty — picture frame. My mouth fell open. Ragged canvas threads jutted from the inner sides of the frame. The painting, a big one — 54” by 72” — had been cut out with a dull blade.

  I stood, breath frozen in my chest, too long for Jesamie’s unpracticed patience. She whined and wriggled, turning her head to stare along with me at the gaping hole. Then she dissolved into loud wails. I was too shocked for tears.

  The missing painting was hideous. And I am not exaggerating. It had only been beautiful in the eyes of its long-dead creator. Why anyone else would think it was worth hanging, let alone worth stealing, was beyond me.

  I’d moved the painting in my first week on the job — I hated it that much. Originally, it had hung in a place of prominence in the ballroom — the main hall visitors enter first. I’d snuck it away to this remote location where few tourists ever ventured.

  We were stuck with the painting because the artist, of the founding Hagg family lineage, had bequeathed it, along with a large sum of money, to the museum with the stipulation that it always be on public display. He had failed to say exactly where the painting was to be exhibited, and I took advantage of that loophole.

  Rupert Hagg, the museum’s director, had applauded my action. “You got rid of that awful thing, I see,” he’d said. “Good riddance.”

  I’d felt bad explaining the fine print and that the painting wasn’t — and couldn’t be — completely disposed of, but that it was out of the main traffic flow.

  “Good enough,” Rupert had huffed, because his office is on the second floor, and he only rarely climbs to the third floor. “It gives me the willies.”

  De
ad fish willies. You know those still lifes by the great masters — the ones with bloody lifeless pheasants, blue and white pitchers and piles of fruit, maybe a crumbled loaf of bread and a cornucopia — that are supposed to portray abundance and contentment and the good life? Yeah well, substitute a gasping, bulgy-eyed salmon for the pheasant, glistening chicken gut bait for the fruit, a fishing creel for the cornucopia with a rod and reel in the background, and you’d have a pretty good idea of our gifted monstrosity.

  And that’s just the subject matter. The technique lent another level to the hodgepodge — literally. The artist had used a combination of thick acrylic paint and decoupage to create a disgusting depth of field so the salmon seemed about to slither off the canvas and onto your lap. The reel was exceptionally realistic with bits of tangled fishing line glued in place. Everyone who saw the painting instinctively took a step backwards.

  And now it was gone.

  So was the money that had been donated along with it decades ago, so maybe it didn’t matter.

  Except that someone had stolen it. And if they could steal this painting, what else could they — or did they — abscond with?

  I’d already started to worry about the burgeoning value of our collections. They’re odd, to be sure, but dedicated niche collectors have been known to drop crazy sums on items to round out their private specimen assortment. Many of our individual pieces were probably worth tens of thousands with some complete collections well into middle six figures.

  Just as abruptly as she’d started, Jesamie quit crying. She stuck the corner of her fist in her mouth, sucking noisily.

  I hurried down the hall and pushed through the swinging door to the servants’ stairwell. If I want to get anywhere in the museum fast, I take the servants’ stairwell — the direct and discreet arterial access to the old mansion’s main living areas, and also closed to the public.

  Clomping noisily in my strappy high heels, I lumbered down the wood stairs, Jesamie’s head bobbing in time with my lurching gait. At the first landing, I kicked something hard and metallic, sending it skittering.

  “Ow!” I pulled up the knee of the leg attached to my smarting toes and balanced, wobbling, like a heron. “Blast and poot,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Jesamie took her fingers out of her mouth long enough to give me a toothless grin.

  “Oh, you think that’s funny, huh? I’m not going to be the one who corrupts your vocabulary.” I dodged my head around, trying to see what I’d hit.

  A box knife, blade extended, lay at the base of a banister post.

  I quickly checked my toes again — bright red and swollen, but no blood. Apparently I hadn’t kicked the knife on the blade end.

  Using the hem of my dress like a handkerchief, I scooped up the box knife. Maybe the thief’s fingerprints were on it. And if it was the thief’s then he knew a lot about the mansion’s layout and floor plan. His level of preparation and timing made the knot in my stomach even bigger.

  oOo

  I spotted Sheriff Marge in a corner of the ballroom, near the buffet tables. The demonstration outside must have ended, because the room was packed with people in tuxedos and brightly colored gowns, but Sheriff Marge’s khaki uniform and big Stratton hat were easy to pick out. I’ve never seen her in anything else. I imagine she sleeps in them too. I hope she at least removes the poky bits, like the badge and gun belt, before relaxing.

  I sidled through the crowd with my arms wrapped protectively around Jesamie. She seemed to have gotten over her initial discomfiture about all the strangers, though, and she swiveled her little head around, taking it all in. I heard several murmured “cutie pie” and “sweetheart” comments which I’m pretty sure were for her benefit and not mine.

  I slid into the conversation circle beside Sheriff Marge. Her face lit up when she saw Jesamie, and I transferred the baby to her grandmother’s arms.

  I was desperate to tell Sheriff Marge about the theft, but there was no way I would do so publicly, not at our first fundraising event. I tried giving her a meaningful look and tipping my head toward the kitchen. But Sheriff Marge was absorbed with wiping Jesamie’s nose, so I was left giving the impression I have a nervous tick. I plastered on a smile for the others in the group.

  Sheriff Marge stuffed the tissue in her pocket. “Meredith Morehouse, curator of the Imogene.” Sheriff Marge pointed at me. “This is Melvin Sharpe.” She nodded to a tall, swarthy man with old-school 1950s glasses who looked like he didn’t know what to do with his feet. He kept bending his knees, dipping and rising, with lips pursed.

  Melvin extended a knuckly hand which I shook.

  “He’s a documentary filmmaker and just arrived. He’s scouting Platts Landing as a potential location for his next project.”

  “Really?” My brows shot up. “What settings do you need?” Documentaries are usually low-budget affairs, so I didn’t hold out hope for a big payout, but the exposure might be good for the museum.

  “Oh—” Melvin cleared his throat. “Fields and crops maybe a vineyard or two and fruit eating—” He didn’t speak with punctuation. All his words ran together and then just faded. I held my breath and leaned forward, waiting for him to finish, but he did the dip and bob thing again and clasped his hands behind his back.

  I glanced at Sheriff Marge. Her mouth was clamped shut as she focused on adjusting Jesamie’s ruffled dress.

  I scowled and turned back to Melvin. “What’s your subject?”

  “Oh — how people make food you know the plants it grows on and not shrink-wrapped packages like the real thing—”

  Sheriff Marge doesn’t laugh often, but when she does, it’s worth being present for. She emitted a stifled snort, then started jiggling in a solid vibration, her movement somewhat suppressed by the Kevlar vest under her uniform shirt. Jesamie’s little arms flapped with the bouncing, as though she was about to take flight.

  “Doesn’t her diaper need changing or something?” I hissed at Sheriff Marge.

  She snuck a thumb behind her ever-present reading glasses and wiped away a tear. “Right.” She nodded to the group. “Folks.” She spun on her heel and forged a wide path toward the restrooms.

  “Awfully nice to meet you.” I lunged toward Melvin, grabbed his hand and shook it again. “Let me know if the museum can be of assistance and please eat more chili.” I waved toward the buffet tables and ducked to follow Sheriff Marge before the wake she’d left closed in.

  CHAPTER 2

  My trajectory was snarled by politely chatting guests — it seemed the entire county had turned out plus a huge number of people I didn’t recognize. Frankie Cortland, the Imogene’s gift shop manager and conscripted event planner, had outdone herself. The evening was already a social success. I was waiting to see if it was a financial success, but the theft turned any celebration I might have been thinking of into a catastrophe.

  I finally located Sheriff Marge in the staff kitchen.

  “Her diaper’s fine.” Sheriff Marge frowned. “I thought you’d want to talk to that filmmaker.”

  “You dumped him on me. He’s surprised food grows on plants? Good grief. But this is worse.” I grabbed her arm and checked the doorway to make sure no one was lurking. “A painting’s been stolen.”

  Sheriff Marge’s brows shot up. She shifted Jesamie to the opposite hip and whipped a little notebook out of her chest pocket. “Tonight? Or did you just notice tonight?”

  I bit my lip. “I can’t be sure. I walk past it all the time, but there’s no appreciating it, so I don’t stop and gaze. I’m sure it was there last Monday, but since then I couldn’t confirm.” I mentally chewed myself out. This is my museum — why hadn’t I been paying attention?

  I dropped the box knife on the lunch table. My palm was sweaty from gripping it during my recent social interactions. Good thing I’d picked it up in my left hand and kept it wrapped in silk, and that my skirt was full enough for me not to look like a major fashion faux pas while doing it.

  “
I found this in the servants’ stairwell. Since the painting was cut out, I thought it might be helpful. I don’t leave open box knives lying around — it’s not mine.”

  “You got Ziploc bags?” Sheriff Marge started rummaging through drawers. “I’ll tag it.”

  “I thought I saw you dodge in here.” Strong arms encircled my waist from behind and pulled me close. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured against my cheek.

  I inhaled. Pete smells so good — licorice and faintly spicy aftershave tonight, a combination that reminded me of Christmas fruitcake. I should mention that I’m probably one of the few people on the planet who actually looks forward to holiday fruitcake deliveries. He must have just shaved. If we’d been alone, I’d have gone in for a nuzzle, but my mind snapped back to the matter at hand.

  “Third drawer down,” I told Sheriff Marge.

  Pete turned me by my shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  Wow, he looked good too. I have no idea where he got the tuxedo, but wow, wow, wow. I grinned into his crinkle-cornered sapphire blue eyes, then quickly sobered.

  “A painting’s been stolen,” I whispered.

  “What is this — a private party in the kitchen?” Rupert Hagg’s deep, gravely voice boomed from the doorway.

  “Shhhh.” I pulled him into the room and closed the door. It doesn’t have a lock, so I leaned against it.

  Putting it mildly, Rupert’s portly. I think his tuxedo fit him properly about forty pounds ago. His waistcoat strained across his midsection with gaps stretched between buttons. At least his jacket hem hung below his bum because I didn’t want to see what was happening to the seat of his pants. His everyday outfit is comfortable tweeds. Tonight he looked like an overstuffed sushi roll.

  Rupert glanced at each of us in turn, his flushed face falling by degrees. His patent shoes squeaked as he crossed the black and white checked linoleum and dropped into a metal folding chair. “Tell me.”