Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Page 10

  The wall behind me was covered with framed photos — a kind of family history of the barbershop. I’d seen them before and had thought it odd that Barbara kept photos — mostly black and white and of men with close-cropped hair from the Leave It to Beaver era — in a room that was dedicated to the more feminine pleasures. I swiveled back toward Mom, palms up. What did she want?

  She jabbed her finger lower and to the right and mouthed the word, “Cosmo.”

  I spun and stooped, scanning the pictures. Sure enough. Cosmo and his two buddies — Juice and Gnocchi. It was the same image as one of the slides. Had Barbara’s father taken the picture? Was the barbecue held in the Segreti family’s backyard?

  “Meredith,” Barbara called from the front room, “the chair’s open.”

  Mom and I shared a look. Should I ask Barbara about the family connection? Mom pressed her lips together and scrunched her shoulders.

  “Meredith?” Barbara called louder.

  “Coming.” I hurried into the barbering area and slipped into the elevated chair, still warm from the last occupant.

  In the mirror, I caught the eye of a lavender-haired old lady who was regarding me with particular curiosity.

  “You’re that museum gal,” she shouted over the roar of her dryer hood.

  I nodded and smiled. I wouldn’t be able to grill Barbara under these conditions.

  “I want the recipe for the chili,” the old lady shouted. “You know — from the fundraiser.” She gripped her chair arms with frail, blue-veined hands and lurched forward as much as the hood would allow. “No gas afterward. Never had that before from chili.” She shook her tightly permed head. “Must be a secret ingredient.”

  “Something’s wrong with you then, Hazel,” shouted a henna redhead at the other end of the dryer hood row. Her face and visible cleavage had more wrinkles than an elephant’s hide, and she wagged a pink acrylic-tipped finger. “Could be your digestion’s blocked up.”

  “How you doing, hon?” Barbara bustled over. “Trim? Your hair sure grows fast in the summer.” She ran her fingers through my brown curls, then wrapped a plastic cape around my neck and prodded me toward the wash stations.

  “I met your new temporary neighbor yesterday — Tiffany Reese. Knew her as a girl, too, but she sure has changed,” Barbara said in a low voice, leaning close. “You know she and Pete — but that was ages ago. I never did think that pairing would last long. Pete’s far too sensible, and he has you now.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Brought her current boyfriend along.”

  “Melvin?” My mind was jumping around, trying to keep track of the undercurrents in Barbara’s words.

  “Mmhmm. Tiffany was wanting a few wholesale cosmetic supplies, said she really has to make some of the subjects up so they look decent for the camera. Said she considered me a mentor when she was in high school.” Barbara snorted softly. “I barely saw that girl. Always buzzing about with her own ideas and never settling down for a real conversation, know what I mean? I didn’t teach her a thing — certainly not how to look the way she does now.”

  I slouched in the chair and tipped my head back into the basin. Barbara stretched over me to grab the shampoo bottle, dragging her polyester sleeve across my face. “Do you know anything about the boyfriend’s family or where he comes from?”

  “Melvin’s? No. I haven’t been that sociable with them.”

  “Oh, I understand, hon. Of course. But you needn’t worry. Pete’s so head over heels over you, there’s no recovering. I can tell just by watching the two of you together. We’re all waiting for him to pop the question.” Barbara patted my shoulder.

  I stared at the water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles while Barbara doused my head and decided — just for a few minutes — to forget about the gossip and the robbery and the threat against Melvin and my irritation with Mom and Cosmo’s checkered past and Pete’s former girlfriends.

  Barbara’s fingers worked magic on my scalp. Just for a few minutes I’d think of nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 13

  My relaxed state lasted through a pedicure and facial, through listening to Mom and Hallie chattering happily about not much on the return trip to Sheriff Marge’s house, and through a simple dinner of — yet again — grilled cheese sandwiches.

  Again, Mom insisted on cleaning up, so I stepped outside to replenish Tuppence’s rations and share a sandwich crust I’d saved for her.

  “Pssst!” Tiffany’s head popped out of the shrubbery at the edge of my campsite, past Mom’s parked Mercedes, just as I turned off the spigot.

  Tuppence growled.

  I dropped the full water bowl. It made several revolutions on the wet pavement before coming to a clattering stop against the trailer’s wheel.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Tiffany waved me over.

  “In the bushes?” I asked. Dumb question. But really — had she been stalking me?

  “Quick. Before your mom sees us.”

  My mouth fell open.

  Tiffany grabbed my arm and pulled me along the path to the river, moving amazingly fast for the pair of lemon yellow patent peep-toe platform pumps she had on. I stumbled and slid in my sandals, my heels still slick from the pedicure lotion.

  “Come on,” Tiffany hissed, giving my arm a yank.

  “Just a minute.” I jerked away from her grasp. “This is outrageous.” I almost said, “YOU are outrageous,” but I bit my lip instead.

  “Please?” Tiffany’s eyes welled.

  I wondered just how much of her emotion was melodramatic acting. I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled.

  Tiffany cast an anxious glance back at my trailer, then ducked around a thimbleberry bush. Before I could stop her, she squatted low in some upstart poison oak. She held a finger to her lips and motioned me to join her.

  Normally, Herb Tinsley, owner of the Riverside RV Ranch, wages successful war against poison oak. This little clump must have escaped his vigilante zeal. The reddish leaves — leaves of three, let them be! — were brushing against the back of Tiffany’s thighs which were exposed even more than usual with her miniskirt hiked up from squatting. She should have recognized the plant, since she grew up in Platts Landing. Her time in Hollywood had made her rusty.

  Half of me — okay, maybe more than half — wanted to engage Tiffany in a prolonged conversation, right there, without moving, but with my keeping a safe distance. I did need to consider my options for a moment.

  Then I reached out and grabbed Tiffany’s hand, hauling her to standing and clear of the poison oak. “You need to wash that off, right now.”

  “What? Where?” Tiffany hopped around trying to see her behind. “Get it off me!”

  “Too late,” I muttered. “You have calamine lotion?”

  “What? Oh no. NO. No, no, no, no.” Tiffany had spotted the poison oak and started peeling her skirt off.

  “Wait,” I hollered. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I’m allergic. I’m so allergic,” Tiffany moaned.

  “We’ll try super hot water. I’ve heard it intensifies the itching but also gets it over sooner.” I escorted her to the motorcoach and prepared the way for her so she didn’t have to touch anything like door handles or faucets.

  We huddled in the bathroom — no matter how glamorous an RV is, the bathroom is always minuscule — and I cranked on the shower to full hot. Steam enshrouded us as Tiffany disrobed.

  “Toss your clothes in the bottom of the shower so they don’t touch anything else,” I ordered. “Stay under the water until you can’t stand it.” I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found a lotion with aloe vera on the ingredient list. I plunked the bottle on the counter and slid the door closed behind me.

  In the galley kitchen, I lathered to the elbows — twice — just in case I’d inadvertently come in contact with any of the urushiol from Tiffany’s clothes. I soaked and squeezed two dish towels, then loaded them with ice cubes and folded them into thirds. I opened drawers until I found Ziploc bags
to seal the ice packs.

  The shower was still running. I had no idea where Melvin was, but he clearly wasn’t present. What would you do? Yeah — me too.

  The token office/desk area in the motorcoach was a mess. I uncovered a marked-up script and scanned it quickly. Whoever wrote it didn’t know the first thing about locavore culture, or about writing clear descriptions, for that matter. I hoped Melvin and crew would interview Dennis to get their facts straight. I found a list of desired backgrounds and types of locations, another list of foods the crew thought they could feature. Boy, these people really were from a concrete jungle — they had no concept of farming, climate zones, irrigation, what could and could not be grown in the Columbia River Gorge. I returned everything to its slipshod place.

  Then I flipped through a worn expandable leather briefcase that sat open on the floor next to the desk — a few manila folders, AC adapter for a laptop, highlighters, a pair of sunglasses. I pulled out the folders, and my breath caught in my throat. The top folder was labeled ‘Imogene’.

  I opened the folder, and pages slid to the floor. As I scrambled to retrieve them, the shower turned off.

  Someone — Melvin, or Tiffany? — had printed out the history and contact pages from the Imogene’s web site, public information. But what made my heart stop beating were the hand-drawn floor plans — all four floors. The rooms and passageways were marked with bold capital letters — ballroom, kitchen, Rupert’s office, servants’ stairwell. The drawings were rough and not to scale, but they were certainly sufficient to direct someone how to maneuver through the mansion.

  They were also old — or at least the information regarding exhibit locations was old. A few rooms had notes about the exhibits on display, and they were incorrect. Under my direction, the taxidermy exhibit had been moved to the library to provide an environment that was better for the preservation of both the books and the animals. We’d also expanded the gift shop and moved the Native artifacts into more prominent locations. So the information on the floor plans predated my employment at the Imogene.

  The bathroom door thumped open. “Meredith?” Tiffany called.

  I jammed the folders back in the briefcase and jumped up. “Coming,” I shouted. “Just stay there — you need to rest. I’ll bring a compress.”

  Tiffany was sprawled on her stomach on the California king bed wrapped loosely in a bath towel, her skin bright red from the recent scalding. She struggled to dab lotion on the backs of her thighs.

  “I can do that — if you don’t mind.” I perched on the edge of the mattress next to her.

  “Would you?” Tiffany groaned. “I can’t believe this happened to me.”

  She lay still as I gently applied lotion to the huge welts already rising. Then I balanced the ice packs on her legs.

  “I think you’re going to be either lying on your stomach or standing for the next few days. I’m sorry.” And I meant it. Poison oak rash would be an effective torture method.

  “I wanted to ask for your help,” Tiffany sniffled.

  “There’s nothing else I can do for you. I really am sorry. When the itching becomes intolerable again, get back in the shower. Alternate hot water then cold compresses. It’ll be awful but maybe not last as long. If you start swelling anywhere else or have trouble breathing, you’ll need to go to the hospital.”

  “No, I mean help for Melvin.”

  I slid onto the floor and sat cross-legged facing the bed so I was at Tiffany’s eye level. The memory of the threatening goon’s voice flashed through my brain. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s such an idiot.” Tiffany managed to make the statement sound affectionate. She sighed. “I guess that’s the curse of artistic genius. No common sense.”

  “You think Melvin’s a genius?” My nose wrinkled, quite involuntarily.

  “Oh, yes.” Tiffany propped herself up on her elbow. “Brilliant. Did you know he only films on the old-style 35mm celluloid?”

  “And how is that good? Not for longevity.”

  “It’s all about expression, grittiness, obscure reality.” Tiffany’s eyes widened — the dazed groupie look.

  I wondered if she knew what those words meant. She sounded as though she was reading from a brochure. “So why does he need help?”

  Tiffany deflated. “Money.”

  “Making documentaries is expensive?”

  Tiffany grabbed a pillow and wadded it under her chest. She rested her chin on her hands, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders. “Worse than that. He borrowed money to finish his last film. It was so great. And he was so sure he was going to receive a Sundance production grant, but it fell through.”

  “Has the bank called the loan?”

  Tiffany snorted. “No bank lends money for a film unless you’re Martin Scorsese or somebody.”

  My stomach dropped — that explained the goon. “How much time does Melvin have?”

  “Every week it doubles.” Tiffany sniffed again and pressed her palms over her eyes. “What are we going to do? We have to keep carrying on like everything’s normal, or the crew will desert us. But they’re getting cranky because they haven’t been paid in a while. We just need a little more time — time to finish this film. We’ll enter it in all the festivals — it’s bound to win something.”

  I grimaced inwardly. Based on the script I’d seen, the documentary would never make it into a juried competition, no matter how amazingly retro the cinematography was.

  “What is it you think I can do for you?”

  “Your boss — he’s rich, isn’t he? Could you put in a good word for us? We just need some to tide us over.”

  My eyes narrowed. She wanted to borrow money from Rupert? What were the museum floor plans for? This little scheme had the hallmarks of a shakedown. But I couldn’t be sure they’d had anything to do with the painting theft. They’d just arrived in town the day of the fundraiser, and I couldn’t imagine this pair pulling the theft off on such short notice. Besides, if they’d stolen the painting, why specifically ask about it this afternoon?

  In icy tones, I informed Tiffany that Rupert was, one — out of the country and, two — dirt poor when it came to cash, since all the family funds were tied up in the trust for the museum. Granted, he might appear as though he was jet-setting, but any money we had was narrowly earmarked for museum acquisitions only. I didn’t think Tiffany needed to know about the success of the fundraiser.

  “What are we going to do?” Tiffany clutched my arm.

  “I’d tell the sheriff if I were you. She might be able to offer you protection — in Sockeye County, anyway.”

  “Oh no.” Tiffany drew back. “They said—” She shook her head. “No — no — we can’t.” She bit her lip as more tears came.

  “Well, that’s your call.” I rose and stared down at her. She really was scared. And the way the goon had referred to her as a complication, a distraction didn’t bode well for her future. “Even if Melvin won’t take action, you need to — for your own safety. It’s not too late.”

  “He needs me,” Tiffany whimpered. “I can’t leave him. He can’t function without me.”

  I didn’t doubt it. “Is it worth risking your life over? Melvin’s life too?”

  “He’s going to win an award.” Tiffany blinked red-rimmed eyes. “I know it.”

  “Don’t pretend with me. We both know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Get out,” Tiffany hissed. She flung an arm out, pointing toward the door, as if I didn’t know the way.

  I stepped back. “The sheriff’s a friend of mine. I can help connect you with her if you want. But it’ll only work if you’re willing to face reality.”

  “Get out!” Tiffany dug her nails into the edge of the mattress, the muscles in her forearms bulging as though she was about to spring off the bed.

  “You know where to find me.”

  I fled to the freedom of the outdoors and fresh air and the absence of hysteria. You know where to find me? Why on earth had I s
aid that? Now I’d be jumping at every branch crackle and pinecone dropping on the lawn. I fought back the irrational fear that Tiffany would sic the goon on me. I wasn’t sure she even knew about him.

  Anyway, everyone knows where I live. Not exactly a secret. I trudged back to my campsite and scratched Tuppence between the shoulders.

  “How good of a guard dog are you?”

  Tuppence shook, slapping her floppy ears over her head and under her chin.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The next morning, after sleeping — not well — on it, I decided to inform Mom of the troubles next door. I figured she had a right to know since I’d sort of gotten mixed up in the mess as well, thanks to Tiffany. And in staying with me, Mom might be in harm’s way.

  She took the news remarkably well — silently, in fact, but with the little divot between her brows that indicated she was worried.

  “So,” I said breezily, “it would probably be best if we stuck together. No midnight ramblings—” I grinned sheepishly since I’m the one most likely to wander off, “—or staying home alone. Besides, I appreciate all your help at the museum.”

  Mom stared down at her hands clenched in her lap on the drive to the Imogene. When I pulled to a stop in my usual parking spot, she was spinning her wedding ring on her finger.

  “Who did Melvin borrow from?” she asked.

  “Tiffany didn’t say, exactly. Someone who thought it necessary to send an enforcer along.”

  “Shylocking,” Mom muttered.

  I bit back a smile. Leave it to my mother to phrase Melvin’s problem in Shakespearean terms. “A loan shark, yeah.”

  Mom sighed. “I’ve seen that — seen what it does to people — good people.”

  “Who asked the wrong person for help.”

  “Who didn’t have anyone else to ask,” Mom said sharply, with some heat.