Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Read online

  I stared at her, but she refused to meet my eye, still fidgeting with her ring. My phone rang. I heaved a sigh and dug it out of my purse.

  “Meredith, my dear, it’s not too early, is it?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Smiley. I’m glad to hear from you.”

  “Well, I have bad news — or rather, bad news from my point of view since I find even the hint of scandal rather exciting. I suppose it will be good news for you.”

  “No older underlayers then?”

  “Acrylic paints through and through, consistent with an early 1970s estimated date.”

  “Thanks for checking, and for the expedited treatment. I can’t tell you how much I apprecia—”

  “You have been investigating the artist’s past?” Leland interrupted.

  “Yes, but we haven’t—”

  “Was he a jeweler?”

  “I haven’t uncovered a legitimate occupation. He seems to have been a bit of a schemer.”

  “I found a tiny trace of gold, just a few flecks. I thought perhaps from an accidental brush against his workbench or something, if he painted in proximity to a metal-working studio.”

  “The frame is gilded. It could have rubbed off.”

  “Unlikely. I’d call it gold dust, embedded in the paint, not on the surface. It’s not unheard of — to mix gold with paints — but not like this. It was a technique usually selected for the purpose of embellishment, not overall, and certainly not hidden in opaque acrylics.”

  “But it could have been accidental?”

  “That’s my best guess. Coincidental contact during the course of painting. By the way, what did you do to Maurice, my dear?”

  “Uh,” I frowned. “Nothing?”

  “We usually have quite a good chat when he visits, but he spent the entire evening muttering about a yellow Lamborghini and calling his friends. Then he dashed out to meet a dealer for drinks.” Leland sounded as though he was pouting.

  “Oh, that is my fault. I asked if he could, through his connections, location the owner of the car that caused a friend of mine to collide with a tree.”

  “Nasty business. I’m sorry to hear that. Give my regards to Rupert.” Leland hung up.

  “Another dead end?” Mom asked.

  I nodded. “The elusive Cosmo — or rather, the inexplicable Cosmo.” I pounded on the steering wheel. “Why? Why would someone steal it?”

  “At least now you can have a clear conscience about not having it x-rayed.”

  “But that means it was taken for sentimental or revenge reasons if not for the intrinsic value of the painting.”

  “You’re worried about Rupert.” Mom laid a hand on my knee.

  I nodded. “I think the key lies in the Hagg family history.”

  oOo

  I hate dead ends. And I can’t really blame it on Mom, but her fidgetiness had rubbed off on me. I’d exhausted the possibilities of finding out more about Cosmo in Rupert’s files. I could either pootle around with Bakelite and sabretaches or I could do something hard, something physically demanding to burn off my frustration. Or I could crash a party.

  Near lunchtime, I suggested the idea to Mom. “Want to go see how the documentary is progressing at Willow Oaks? We could grab a couple sandwiches in the bistro — innocuous cover for a little reconnaissance?”

  “Oooo.” Mom perked up. “I’ve never been on a film set.”

  “Me neither.” I grinned.

  For the first time since I’ve lived in Platts Landing, parking was scarce at Willow Oaks. Mostly because a couple of the California motorcoaches were angled awkwardly in the gravel lot, without regard for anyone else who might want to approach the tasting room. I pulled onto the grass under an apricot tree.

  The uniform for the film crew seemed to be monochromatic — black jeans, tight black t-shirts, black motorcycle boots for the men and black strappy sandals for the women which were not terribly practical on gravel. Black mascara, black eyeliner and stark black brows for the women too. Tiffany stood out like a gaudy Mardi Gras bauble in an emerald green sundress with a very full skirt, her blonde hair piled high on her head. The dress was a good choice for hiding the aggressive, blistering rash I knew must be all over her backside by now. I wondered what kind of painkillers she was on.

  I wasn’t too anxious to bump into Tiffany, though, so I directed Mom around the far side of the pole barn and through the open kitchen door. Dennis’s seasonal assistant, Saskia Worthington, had a sandwich assembly line going, her fingers flying across the crusty rolls, distributing a greens mix, halved cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices.

  “For the crew?” I asked.

  Saskia wiped sweat from her nose with her forearm. “Yeah. Hope they’re happy. Never met a pickier bunch. Vegans, gluten-intolerant, lactose-intolerant, onions-give-me-heartburn, and the ‘I’ll only eat it if it wasn’t breathed on by migrant workers’ subset.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Do you mind?” I pointed toward a cooler of bottled beverages.

  Saskia waved permission.

  I grabbed two sweet iced teas and handed one to Mom. “When you’re finished feeding the crew, we’ll take whatever’s left over. No special requests.”

  Saskia laughed. “You should check out the filming. Poor Dennis. He’s holding up okay, but that director—” She rolled her eyes again.

  “Bad, huh?”

  “We agreed to do the documentary because the publicity — any publicity — is good. Being so far from a metropolitan area, it’s hard to entice visitors. But now I’m not so sure.” She shook her head and slapped fresh mozzarella slices on half the sandwiches. “Poor Dennis.”

  I frowned and glanced at Mom. She shared a concerned look with me.

  We slipped out to the patio and found a table in the shade with a good view of the action. The crew had rolled a few wine barrels out of the cellar bunker and propped them in front of the open sliding doors. They formed a backdrop for Dennis who was perched on a stool. Two soft boxes on extension poles hung over him.

  Melvin was like a jack-in-the-box, popping out from behind the camera to flap his disproportionately large hands with instructions to the crew, swear, shout and prompt Dennis. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead and blinked sweat out of his eyes before hunching down to the viewfinder again.

  Dennis shifted on the stool, prompting an exasperated gesture from Melvin. He scooted back into position, shoulders hunched.

  Tiffany descended like a brightly colored vulture and poked at Dennis’s face with a makeup brush. Then she blotted his receding hairline.

  I opened my iced tea and took a swig. I kept cringing at Dennis’s unease and glancing away. He didn’t need more witnesses to his misery. Watching a film session wasn’t nearly as entertaining as I’d thought it would be. No one seemed to be having a good time.

  “What?” a voice behind me barked. “Look, he’s your liability.”

  Some of the tea went down the wrong way, and I sputtered. It was the voice — the goon. I didn’t dare turn around.

  Mom whacked me on the back.

  A large man — clothed entirely in black just like every other crew member — came into my side view and tossed a backpack onto a chair at the next table. “You gotta make up your mind,” he growled into the cell phone pressed to his ear. “You want me to shake—” He spun away and stalked out of sight around the back of the pole barn, presumably for privacy for his call.

  I held up a hand so Mom would stop hitting me and tried to catch my breath. “He’s the one,” I rasped.

  “Which one?” she whispered.

  “The enforcer.”

  Mom’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced over her shoulder. “He’s gone. We don’t have much time.” She shoved her chair back, the cast iron legs screeching on the flagstones, and darted toward the man’s backpack.

  “What’re you doing?” I hissed.

  She already had the bag unzipped and was pawing through the contents. “Watch.” She tipped her head in the direction the man h
ad taken.

  I half stood, still gripping the chair arms and craned my neck, heart pounding, my eyes glued on the bushes at the corner of the pole barn. “Hurry. He’s not someone to mess with,” I said out of the side of my mouth.

  “Oh yeah?” Mom’s voice was hard.

  The man’s conversation didn’t last long, but we were lucky he had big feet. He kicked a flower pot on his way back around the corner.

  “Now,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Mom re-zipped the bag and scurried back to our table. She dropped into a chair, slipped a white envelope into her pocketbook, crossed her legs and hiked her skirt a bit all in one smooth motion. She sighed audibly and glanced up at the man as he rejoined us on the patio. She swung her top leg, her espadrille — yeah, that amazing espadrille — dangling from her polished toes, and flashed him a dazzling smile.

  The man stopped mid-stride and stared at Mom. At least he didn’t look at me — because I was still gulping air, guppy-cheeked. He nodded curtly. “Hello.”

  “You with the film crew?” Mom asked.

  “Sorta.” He ran a hand over his short hair, effectively revealing his ripped abs through his stretched t-shirt.

  “Hmmm.” Mom took a sip from her tea bottle and returned her attention to the film set. She rested her left hand on the tabletop, and the diamond in her ring flashed in the dappled sunlight.

  The man scowled, gave Mom one more thorough look-over, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed for the parking lot.

  “Good grief. Mom. Didn’t I just give you a cautionary lecture about this — this—” I ran out of words for the magnitude of our problems. “What are you doing?” My voice pitched up in irritation.

  “Don’t overreact.” Mom removed the envelope from her pocketbook. “This looked like it might be interesting.”

  The envelope, crinkled and dirt-creased, was folded to size around the contents. Mom coaxed the envelope open and slid several photos out. She spread them on the table.

  I jabbed a finger at the picture closest to me — a snapshot of Cosmo’s painting, set on an easel.

  Mom tipped up the photo. “This isn’t the same image you have for museum documentation.”

  I shook my head. “Looks like it was taken before it was donated.”

  The other photos were eerily familiar — duplicates from the backyard barbecue featuring, again, Cosmo, Gnocchi and Juice. How many people had had access to the negatives back in the day — or still? These guys seemed to have a regular paparazzi following.

  Why was the goon walking around with a picture of Cosmo’s painting? Was he looking for it too? Join the club.

  I bit my lip as the thought sank in. If he was looking for it, and he was still hanging around, that meant he wasn’t the thief. The same hypothesis ruled out Melvin and Tiffany as well — their unexpected interest in the painting during their visit to the museum yesterday indicated they didn’t yet know it was missing. Or were they playacting?

  Maybe I should be glad the painting had been stolen, if for no other reason than to keep it out of the hands of these three characters. But why would they want it?

  “I don’t know why I didn’t notice before,” Mom muttered. She was squinting at a photo she was holding at arm’s length in front of her.

  “What?”

  She slid the photo sideways, then back again. “See the resemblance?”

  “To what? You’re going to have to help me out here.”

  “Melvin and this tall, dark man — Juice, was it?”

  I darted a glance toward Melvin, in full director, arm-waving mode, then drew back to look at the skinny, stooped man standing next to Cosmo in the photo and holding a beer bottle in his overly-large hand. Probably similar heights, certainly similar body builds, the same disproportionate limbs, but there are many tall, gangly men in this world.

  Then Melvin turned, and I caught his pointy profile. “Oh!”

  “See? Unmistakable.”

  “Thanks for waiting,” Saskia called from the kitchen doorway.

  Mom gathered the photos and dropped them face-down in her lap just as Saskia arrived with our sandwiches.

  “He’s kind of handsome, isn’t he?” Saskia grinned.

  “Who?” Mom asked.

  “Vince. The big guy — muscles, military-cut black hair?” Saskia pulled a couple napkins from her apron pocket and tucked them under our plates. “I saw him out here on the patio a few minutes ago. Doesn’t say much, but he’s been hanging around, kinda separate from the rest of the crew.” She leaned over and whispered. “I think he’s a bodyguard or something. He’s carrying, concealed.”

  I almost dropped my dill pickle spear. “How do you know?”

  “Saw a bulge at his waistband, in his center back, when he bent over once. I guess his t-shirt is too tight to hide a shoulder holster. But wouldn’t an ankle holster be more comfortable?” Saskia shrugged. “Whatever floats his boat. Me — I prefer my bra holster. I have three girls.” She winked and returned to the kitchen.

  I scowled at my sandwich. I didn’t know which was more disturbing — finding out that the goon was armed or that my food server knew so much about gun accessories.

  CHAPTER 15

  The afternoon seemed to drag forever. Mom and I retreated to the coolness of the basement and exhibited remarkable diligence in documenting the Bakelite jewelry. But the task wasn’t demanding, and left too many of my gray cells free to mull over my compounding problems.

  I tried to separate, compartmentalize. I really only had one major issue — Cosmo’s painting — where it was and what it was, or wasn’t. So many question marks.

  But other people’s potential disasters swirled around, creeping closer and closer — Mom’s secrets; Melvin’s and Tiffany’s financial woes; and the hired gun, Vince. The only thing I felt comfortable ruling out as cause for concern was Pete and Tiffany’s past relationship. Tiffany was sticking with her man — Melvin. And that worried me even more.

  A call from Maurice was the only highlight in the interminable hours.

  “He’s a sketchy fellow, but I found him,” he said. “Yellow Lamborghini purchased through Freewald Luxury Motors in San Diego. He picked it up, straight off the freighter from Italy, at the Long Beach docks and drove it home. A whole string of sightings and chases by police in small coastal towns along Highway 101 about a month ago. The guy has a lead foot. On his own personal Cannonball Run or something.”

  “And you know his name?” I almost squealed.

  “Better than that, sweetheart. I know his address too. What did I tell ya about my contacts?”

  “You’re sure he’s the one?”

  “Only three yellow Lamborghinis have been purchased and delivered to the West Coast in the past eighteen months. The other two were properly registered by their owners in a timely manner, both in California. Nope, he’s the only new yellow owner in the Pacific Northwest in recent memory.”

  “I owe you dinner.”

  “Dinner and a drive,” Maurice countered.

  “Deal.”

  Maurice rattled off the Lamborghini owner’s information. I had him repeat it, with spellings, to make sure I didn’t misinterpret his accented words.

  After hanging up with Maurice, I checked the address online. The owner did actually live in Sockeye County, barely — out on barren rangeland in the northeast corner of the county where he probably had room for his own private racetrack. Locally, the Lamborghini sightings had only been late at night or in the early morning hours. Sometimes wealth exacerbates reclusive, anti-social tendencies.

  I didn’t want Sheriff Marge to know I’d been nosing about in her business, so I called Dale. “I have a bead on that unregistered Lamborghini.”

  I grinned at Dale’s excited exclamation as he scrabbled for his notebook.

  “How did you—? You know what — I don’t want to know. What you got?”

  “Friend of a friend of a friend. All legit and confirmed. I bet the closest neighb
ors could verify.” I gave him the name and address.

  “Shoot.” Dale sounded immensely pleased. “I’ll see if Judge Lumpkin would like to sign a search warrant.”

  “Gives you something to do, anyway,” I said, still grinning. “You going to tell Sheriff Marge?”

  “No way. She’d insist on going. Can you imagine? With that cast, hobbling around a ranch. I can’t be responsible for her if she decided to accidentally smash the thing’s headlights or add a few dents with her crutch. She’s definitely carrying a grudge. Did you know this is the first time she’s ever been laid up, since she’s been sheriff?”

  “She’s a trooper.” I knew Dale was joking about Sheriff Marge seeking personal retribution. She’s a stickler for the intent of the law. Sometimes she skirts around the letter of the law a little if needed — the same way a mother would let a punishment slide if she thinks her child’s repentant and has learned his lesson already. No point in heaping up consequences and damaging a person’s reputation unnecessarily. “Just to check — no word on the painting?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Have fun.”

  “You bet.” Dale hung up.

  oOo

  Mom and I were following our evening ritual — the one we’d developed to have some alone time even though we were spending every day, all day, in each other’s company. She was washing up the dinner dishes while I puttered around outside on the pretense of tending to Tuppence.

  A white Ford Crown Vic with the county logo on the side pulled up in front of my trailer, and Dale climbed out of the driver’s side. “Hey, Meredith.” He hurried over. “I brought you a visitor.” He glanced back at the car and said out of the side of his mouth, “She’s determined to get out and about.”

  The passenger door slowly opened, and the rubber tip of a crutch hit the ground.

  “Can I help?” I asked, starting forward.

  “Naw.” Dale grabbed my elbow. “She wants to do it herself. Besides, I need to tell you—” He turned away from the car to gaze at the river, still speaking. “Got the warrant. I figured you could keep her busy tonight while we—”