Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Read online

  Click. Click — click. He also wasn’t faithful about cleaning his weapon.

  Vince swore and bent in half, hiking up the hem of his jeans. Rats. Rats. Rats. Saskia had underestimated him. He had a backup, fully loaded, ankle holster.

  “Move!” I shouted. “Keep moving!”

  Mom army crawled toward Barbara. I scootched toward the stainless steel double sink.

  Sheriff Marge rocked like crazy. With her back toward the shooter and her bum leg, the best she could hope for was that he’d hit her Kevlar vest instead of her unprotected head. She was wrestling with her gun belt. It has all kinds of attachments — a walkie-talkie, flashlight, baton, Taser, other things I never want to meet the business end of — and several protuberances had wedged between the thin spindles under the chair’s arms, effectively strapping her in the seat.

  I reached the tin washtub stashed under the sink and started hurling its contents. Bristle brushes, tennis balls, spray bottles holding the dried remnants of green and blue liquids — anything to throw Vince off balance and give us time.

  Vince dodged a darning egg and fired. His new gun aimed better, splintering off the corner of the table Mom and Barbara were huddled under. My hand hit the bottom of the washtub — I was out of ammunition.

  I didn’t see where the next bullet embedded, but Barbara screamed my name and held up a bloody hand. Mom was sprawled beside her, hair tangled over her face, not moving. I couldn’t tell if her chest — was she breathing?

  Vince stomped on the back of one of Sheriff Marge’s rockers, lurching her to a stop. “I’ll take the painting now.” He held out his free arm, indicating with an index finger that he wanted Barbara to bring it to him.

  I glanced at Mom. She still hadn’t moved. What had I gotten her into? I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t bear — I couldn’t think about—

  Blood rushed in my ears, louder than any gunshots. I may not like her much, probably because we’re so alike, but she’s still my mother. Nobody messes with my mother.

  “I’ll do it,” I croaked.

  Vince swung the gun my direction as I rose to my feet. He glared at me for a moment, then gave a nod.

  I squatted next to the table and reached for the painting.

  “You can’t. No. You can’t,” Barbara grunted as I tugged it from her grasp.

  “I have to. Mom?” I whispered.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Barbara blinked back tears. “I’m so sorry.”

  I walked slowly toward Vince. He must have seen me glancing at Sheriff Marge because he stepped several feet to the side.

  “Over here,” he growled, panning his gun over both of us.

  “Why do you want it?” I asked.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the end of Sheriff Marge’s crutch slowly sliding my direction. She eased her weight forward, bringing the chair to the forward tips of its rockers.

  “None of your business. Hurry up.” Vince motioned impatiently with the gun.

  I sprang into a fast, extra-long stride. The crutch shot up, flipped against my shin, and I pitched forward spread eagle. I got a faceful of black t-shirt and rigid abs, and a gun went off.

  Tumbling, I cracked against several rigid surfaces in sequence, elbows and knees smacking into cold, hard edges. More gunshots, too many to count — a pistol being unloaded in a nonstop barrage. I ended up plastered against the base of a washing machine at eye level with a floor drain and on top of something rough and lumpy.

  Everything was sideways and spinning and blurry and cold and bruised. I felt as though I’d been rolled through a wringer. A black-clad body wriggled toward me, arm outstretched.

  Then two more pops, timed and calculated, and Vince stopped.

  My breaths echoed in my head. But I concentrated on them — breathing is good, right?

  Cold and hard. I drifted on a ice shard fog into a clammy abyss of concrete and stainless steel. I tried to swallow, but my tongue was too thick. Black and cold. I couldn’t stop shivering.

  I opened my eyes to a khaki form sliding across the floor on her bottom, pushing herself with one leg and dragging the other, talking into her radio at the same time, requesting an ambulance. She laid a hand on my forehead and pinned an eyelid back. “Meredith?”

  The spreading pain in my thigh ignited. “Yeah,” I groaned.

  “Don’t move,” Sheriff Marge said. “You got hit. Straight through on the outside edge. You’ll be fine.”

  “Mom?” I rasped.

  “Right here.” Mom’s voice sounded far away, but she leaned into view, her auburn hair puddling on the floor. “It’s all over.” She laid down beside me, our faces even.

  “I thought — you were—” I struggled to push up on my elbow.

  Sheriff Marge shot out an arm and pinned me down. My legs were dead weights. I glanced down to find Barbara leaning on them with a towel twisted around my left thigh.

  “Shhhh,” Mom murmured. “Stunned. That’s all. A flesh wound, same as you. See?” She pulled a wad of bloody fabric from her arm, revealing a nasty gash about three quarters of the way from elbow to shoulder. “We match.”

  Her wobbly smile didn’t convince me.

  oOo

  Mom made it to the ambulance under her own power and squeezed into a corner. I suffered the indignity of being strapped to the gurney and wheeled up the basement ramp. Sheriff Marge wedged in beside me, her cast taking up room for three. The paramedic sucked in his breath and latched the door. He couldn’t even sit, just spent the jolting ride bent at the waist propping himself with a stiff arm against bins of medical supplies. He kept a wary eye on us.

  Barbara followed in her little white car, the painting belted into her passenger seat. Considering recent events, we weren’t letting Cosmo’s masterpiece out of our sight until we figured out why it was so coveted.

  I craned my neck to a really uncomfortable angle to see Sheriff Marge. “What happened?”

  “I tripped you.”

  “I know. I was hoping you would. But then?”

  “I used the crutch to force that dumb rocking chair over, knocking me free.” Sheriff Marge arched and pressed her fists into her lower back. Her gun belt was in a heap on her lap. She stretched her neck from side to side.

  “You’re going to be sore,” Mom said.

  “Already am,” Sheriff Marge grunted. “What I get for not cinching up my belt. Think it worked loose while we were getting situated in your truck.”

  Mom stifled a giggle. “We must have looked like the Three Stooges bouncing off each other in our hurry to pile into the pickup.” She giggled again, this time unsuppressed and too long, too high pitched.

  Sheriff Marge snorted and started bouncing on the seat. She lifted her glasses and wiped the corners of her eyes. “Blast this leg,” she wheezed, giving her cast a slap, but she was chortling uncontrollably.

  It hurt. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, the gurney straps cutting into my flesh — oh, it hurt. But I laughed until tears ran into my ears.

  The paramedic shifted his supporting arm, his eyes narrowed. He appeared to be contemplating how to stab all of us with hypodermic sedatives at the same time. Or maybe he was wishing the ambulance came supplied with straightjackets. “You all need to settle down,” he said in a gruff voice.

  That just set us off again. Mom tittered, rocking forward and back in the corner. Sheriff Marge howled. I might have been cackling. A regular zoo.

  But he needn’t have worried. We exhausted ourselves to a limp lethargy by the time the ambulance arrived at the hospital.

  The ER staff pulled me out, and Sheriff Marge hobbled beside me into the waiting area.

  “There were two shots — at the end. Did you—?”

  Sheriff Marge gave a brief nod. “He was crawling for you. His jammed gun was just behind your head. I couldn’t let him—” She heaved a sigh. “He’s dead.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I raised my hand, and Sheriff Marge squeezed it.

  A person in aqua sc
rubs and a shower cap pinched and poked me a few times, and I slipped into a warm, happy floatiness. No doubt I slurred and drooled and uttered mushy secrets, spilling my guts to whoever would listen — or not. Everyone seemed to be in an inexplicable rush while I took a magic carpet ride.

  I knew Mom was in the next bed over, and I could see her whenever I wanted to — to make sure she was really okay. Then I think I slept for a long time.

  oOo

  Or maybe not. When I came to, the same bright fluorescent lights flickered overhead and the same medical staff bustled around, their shoes squeaking and voices hushed.

  I sat up and squeezed my eyes shut against the wave of dizziness that hit me. I inhaled and gripped the edges of the mattress with both hands. When I could look, I was glad to see I still had my own clothes on — on my top half, at least.

  I pushed the heavy, heated blanket back. My left thigh was wrapped in puckered taupe stretchy tape.

  “How’re you doing?” Gemma materialized at my side. She stuffed a thermometer in my mouth so I couldn’t answer.

  “I think you’re done with this.” She ripped adhesive tape off the back of my wrist and removed the IV shunt.

  When the thermometer beeped, I pulled it out of my mouth and handed it to her. “I thought you did OB and inpatient care.”

  Gemma blinked at me with those magnified green eyes behind her cat’s eye glasses. “Cross-training, hon. The staff here’s so small, we all rotate. This is my week in ER. Lucky you.” Gemma jerked her perfectly sculpted ‘60s flip hair toward the opening in the hanging curtains. “At least she’s not my patient this time.”

  Sheriff Marge sat in a vinyl visitor’s chair in the hall with her leg outstretched, grousing into a cell phone. I caught enough of her conversation to realize she was complaining about a couple of her deputies’ response time to our incident at the Imogene.

  I ducked my head so she wouldn’t catch me watching. She’d be able to read the guilty look on my face because I knew why her deputies were taking so long. I hoped our emergency hadn’t prevented them from completing the job.

  “You have a pressure bandage.” Gemma brought me back to the issue at hand. “We’ll get you an instruction sheet on how and when to change the dressings. And a prescription for painkillers.”

  “So I can go home?”

  “You bet, hon. We don’t admit for ticky-tacky injuries.”

  “Bullet wounds are ticky-tacky?” I glanced back down at my sausaged leg and frowned, wondering what it was going to feel like after the drugs wore off. For now, my thigh ached, tight and hot as though the muscles were burning after a challenging hike.

  “It’s all about location. Yours we could call liposuction.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Gemma’s broad, starched white bosom jiggled at her own joke. “The bullet did actually slice through muscle, and you are bleeding — hence the pressure bandage. But you’ll be fine.”

  “How’s Mom?” I glanced at the next bed. Mom’s head was deep in the pillow.

  “We gave you both generous hits of morphine. She’s still sawing logs. We’ll let her wake up on her own.”

  Sheriff Marge huffed into the room followed by Barbara who was pushing a chair with the canvas roll slumped in it.

  “We need to talk,” Sheriff Marge announced.

  Barbara parked the chair, lifted the painting out and laid it carefully across the end of my bed. It looked battered, with ratty edges and a large reddish brown stain in the middle plus a few deep indentations.

  My stomach sank as my brain wrapped around the image. My blood. And the painting had been shot — those indentations were bullet holes all the way through the multiple layers of the roll.

  Sheriff Marge sank into the chair, a frustrated scowl pushing her glasses low on her nose.

  “I can take a hint,” Gemma said. “But I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on my other patient.” She gave Sheriff Marge a pointed, no-nonsense look.

  I grinned. Gemma doesn’t take guff from anyone. A rare trait.

  “Are you — do you have to be — what’s the word? Sidelined?” I asked.

  “Administrative leave,” Sheriff Marge grumbled. “WSP will handle the investigation because my department’s too small. No way my deputies could be unbiased with me hovering over them. But I can work on this.” She jabbed a finger at the painting.

  “I’m sorry,” Barbara whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Don’t be.” I stretched out a hand, and she latched onto it as though it was her last hope. “You saved the painting, and whatever it represents.” I pulled her against the side of the bed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She was warm and squashy, like a teddy bear. If it had been appropriate, I might have snuggled her. I was in need of some snuggling.

  Actually, what I really needed was Pete. My heart hovered over that idea for a second before Barbara’s words brought me back to reality.

  “But you — and your mom.” Barbara’s tears were falling freely now. “I thought if I hid the painting, I would prevent people from getting hurt. He must have followed me. I lost my head when I found my shop ransacked. I led him straight to you.”

  “Are you sure? He could have followed us from the campground. Our departure wasn’t exactly subtle,” I said.

  “No matter now,” Sheriff Marge interrupted. “What matters is why. Why on earth is that disgusting painting worth killing for?”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “It’s going to take a lot of acetone.”

  “Oh.” Barbara’s head jerked up in surprise. “Nail polish remover. I have gallons.”

  “Are you willing to donate them to a good cause?”

  Barbara nodded, her eyes wide. She dabbed her cheeks with her sleeve.

  I inhaled, making a check list in my mind. “How long until the state patrol is finished processing the Imogene’s laundry room?”

  “Few hours, probably,” Sheriff Marge said.

  I glanced over at Mom’s prone form. She was snoring softly — for real this time. “We’ll be here for a while too. As soon as we can, let’s meet at the museum. We have some scrubbing to do.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I must have dozed off again. I awoke to low laughter and found Gemma helping Mom slip her bandaged arm through the armhole in her blouse. The paramedics must have torn off the sleeve to treat her at the museum, so she looked like a proper little redneck in her cutoff muscle shirt.

  “How are you?” Frankie leaned over the bed and squeezed my shoulder.

  “Ready to get out of here.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Sheriff Marge called. I’m your ride home.” Frankie pursed her lips. “I’ve also been instructed to tell you to call Pete ASAP. Apparently he’s been trying to reach you, and when you didn’t answer for hours, he got worried and called Sheriff Marge. She gave me a lecture on your behalf about not being an answering service — or a matchmaking service.” Frankie’s brown eyes sparkled with amusement.

  I patted the sheets around me. My phone’s usually near by. And then I remembered and groaned. “It’s in my truck — at the museum.”

  “Use mine.” Frankie dropped her phone in my lap and hurried around the bed to help Gemma situate Mom in a wheelchair.

  I dialed Pete’s number and closed my eyes, listening to the distant ringing.

  “Frankie?” Pete’s voice was scratchy, urgent. “Have you seen Meredith?”

  “It’s me,” I whispered.

  He was silent for a long time, just breathing. Finally he said, “How bad?”

  “Not. Not at all. Just a scratch,” I said, staring at my swollen leg.

  “That’s not what Sheriff Marge said.”

  “She exaggerates.”

  An involuntary chuckle ripped from Pete’s throat — because we both know that’s the opposite of Sheriff Marge’s personality. But he didn’t say anything.

  “I’m here,” I murmured. “And I’ll still be here when you get back.�
�

  “I’m counting on it.” He sounded as though he was choking up. “I love you.”

  I leaned into the phone as if it was Pete himself. “I love you too.”

  When I clicked off, Gemma was standing at my beside, fists on hips with one eyebrow arched over the thick rim of her glasses. “’Bout time the two of you got that settled,” she said crisply then nodded toward the wheelchair. “Your turn.”

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Mom and I squeezed awkwardly into a pickup — this time Frankie’s little new-to-her S-10. Mom perched sideways on the fold-down backseat and nested the painting at her feet so I could enjoy the leg room the passenger seat afforded.

  Frankie delivered us to the fifth-wheel and stayed to tuck Mom and me in our respective beds, with water, pills, tissues and whatever else we might need piled within arm’s reach. She promised to return in a few hours, when it was daylight and I could somewhat politely roust a forensic art analyst from his slumber and beg his assistance.

  oOo

  The next morning, Frankie brought us maple bars and bottled orange juice from Junction General. My entire leg sensed every bump and jostle magnified into shooting pain. The pressure bandage itched like crazy, and it was all I could do to keep from tearing it off. I popped the allowed dosage of Vicodin along with a swig of juice and hoped the resulting mental fuzziness would wear off by the time I needed to concentrate.

  I hobbled gingerly down the trailer’s steps, Frankie offering her shoulder as a hand grip and bearing much of my weight. On level ground, I maneuvered pretty adroitly, considering. Not gracefully, but I got where I wanted to go with only a few grimaces. Thank God for painkillers.

  Mom’s color had returned, and she’d applied her usual makeup. She’d pulled on a bulky sweater that masked the bandage on her arm and hitched her purse over the opposite shoulder. If I hadn’t been at the hospital myself, I’d never have guessed she’d spent the better part of the night in the ER.

  Her face fell, though, when she caught sight of the empty spot next to my trailer — the place where her Mercedes had been parked. A crinkle appeared between her brows. She lowered her lashes, purposefully avoiding eye contact with me and hurried to Frankie’s pickup. Maybe she was hoping I hadn’t noticed.