Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Read online

  Besides, what was Pete going to think of the hole in my tailgate? That’s the problem with significant others — they’re offended if you don’t tell them you’re embroiled in a stupid mess of your own making, and they become irritated and worried if you do tell them. Maybe I’d take to hanging out with Amos — he understood. I chuckled and pushed off the wall as the third floor bell chimed.

  I settled into my chair, gulped a slug of caffeine and pulled out a pile of Spence’s correspondence. I skimmed for the obvious terms — silver, mine, British Columbia, shares, Capilano.

  I was two-thirds of the way through the stack before I found what might have been a brief reference. Hiked C’s Foxtrot claim. Nothing worthwhile underground, but they should charge admission to what’s on top — spectacular, breathtaking. I could live here, build a lean-to and become a mountain hermit.

  Two letters later, I found another mention. Wish Theo was here. If he knew how beautiful this place is, he never would have put the shares in the pot when he ran out of cash. We were young and foolish. He thought they were probably worthless and was right, but he would have liked to see this place. I hope his Heaven is as good as this.

  It sounded as though Spence had won the shares in a poker game from a friend, a friend who had later died. Given Spence’s era, I imagined a lot of his friends had died. Young and foolish — didn’t know what they were gambling away. But Spence clearly thought at the time that the mine company was a bust.

  Just about all initial mining is speculation. Mining companies, or people hoping to form mining companies, stake claims before they do the necessary testing because it’s not worth investing all that time and money to have the land then claimed by someone else if it’s proved productive. So there are all kinds of claims for all kinds of metals and minerals that were never more than pipe dreams. Hence the term ‘prospecting’ — just ask Mark Twain.

  I opened my laptop. Maybe I could track the history of the Capilano Silver Mine Company.

  There is a Capilano Suspension Bridge Park — a tourist attraction that capitalizes on amazing forested canyon scenery. While the pictures looked similar to what Spence described, I didn’t think it was the right area. Capilano is fairly common as a street name and neighborhood designation in British Columbia.

  I turned my attention to mine company buyouts. After sifting through pages and pages of search results, I hit paydirt — a timeline of acquisitions by Rakker Mining & Mineral Exploration Company. They absorbed the considerable debt and negligible assets of Capilano Silver Mine Company in 1962, over a century after the shares were issued.

  Spence must have known about the merger and found a way to identify the location of the original Capilano claims. Despite his dream to become a hermit, he seemed driven by a sense of wanderlust, a romantic notion about pioneering and prospecting, exploring backwoods country for himself. I wished I’d known him. He must have had great stories.

  On a lark, I dialed the phone number from Rakker’s website. After punching a series of voice mail selections, I finally got a live operator. “Can I talk to someone in your shareholder relations department?”

  “One moment.”

  A young male voice answered. “Jace Conroy. PR and media. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Meredith Morehouse, curator of the Imogene Museum. I’ve come across a few old shareholder certificates from the Capilano Silver Mine Company. I just wanted to check on their history and find out if they’re of any interest to you.”

  “Capilano? Never heard of it.”

  “Rakker acquired Capilano in 1962.”

  “Dude. That is old.”

  I smothered a chuckle. “How old are you?”

  “Right. That probably wasn’t very professional. This is my second day interning and first day on the phones, and I can’t find—” His voice trailed off and shuffling thumps sounded over the line. “Aren’t they supposed to provide paper or something to take messages on?”

  “How about a computer? Do you have one of those on your desk?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  I took a chance. “Can you give me the email address for the person who deals with your largest shareholders?”

  “That’s Mr. Jacobsen. He’s never in the office.”

  “Which is why I need his email address.”

  “Right.” I heard Jace’s mouse clicking furiously. “Right. Okay. You ready?”

  “Yep.” I copied down the address. “Thanks so much, Jace. Hang in there.” I hung up and giggled. Poor kid. You gotta love interns. I’d probably just obtained the fiercely protected contact information for Rakker’s executive shareholder liaison, the one who didn’t want to — and because of seniority, didn’t have to — deal with lightweights like me. But history’s important, right?

  I scanned the shareholder certificates into my computer and attached the images to my note to Mr. Jacobsen. I hit send and crossed my fingers. Wait and see.

  CHAPTER 20

  Downstairs, Frankie was opening the museum for the day. She still had on her long overcoat and stood in front of the banks of light switches by the fire extinguisher case, flipping on whole rows at a time.

  “Let there be light,” I said as I strolled toward her. I didn’t want to startle her as I emerged from the gloom. The ballroom switches are in the bottom row.

  Frankie giggled. “It does feel like that.” She finished with the switches, and we blinked at each other as our eyes adjusted to the bright illumination — bright enough to read the small font display placards next to each exhibit.

  “What happened?” Frankie peered at my forehead.

  “Oh.” I self-consciously fingered the neat trio of butterfly bandages Ramona had applied. “Silly. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  “Looks painful.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Does the museum offer annual memberships?” Frankie asked as she slipped out of her coat.

  “Yep. But since Sockeye County residents can always get in for free, we don’t sell many. Most people who are just passing through don’t expect to return within a year.”

  “I’ve been thinking. What if we entice them to sign up for an email newsletter by offering a chance to win a free family membership? We could then advertise our events, like the fundraiser, to a larger audience through the newsletter and maybe get people to come back more often.”

  “How frequently would the newsletter need to be published?” I wrinkled my nose.

  “Quarterly ought to be sufficient. And don’t worry — I could write it and run it by you for approval.”

  “I like your style.”

  Frankie beamed and spun a chunky bracelet on her wrist. “It’s been quiet in here—” she tipped her head toward the gift shop “—but now I can write between visitors.”

  “I’ll be in the basement if you need anything.”

  Frankie nodded and bustled behind the counter.

  I walked away mentally chiding myself. I’d been a marketing director at a huge sportswear company. I should have thought of Frankie’s suggestion ages ago. I think I am so in love with the slow pace and peace of the museum that I secretly don’t want to do anything to disrupt that. The museum is my therapy, my recovery from that old life. I’d been on the verge of craving a hermit life like Spence, but the Imogene’s curatorship had saved me from complete isolation. I owed more to Rupert than he’d ever know.

  Four times per year, and Frankie would do the bulk of the work? I was flooded with gratitude. She was taking up my slack, and it would be a good thing for the museum. I promised myself that I could get used to Frankie’s idiosyncrasies.

  In the basement, Greg leaned over a computer, the blue light of the monitor reflecting off his pale face and glasses. When we’re taking documentation photos, we turn all the lights in the basement off and use spotlights and light boxes to control the exposure for the artifacts. It’s not about mood lighting, but about taking the most precise and accurate photos possible, usually from
several angles to record an item’s special features, marks, signatures, and any damage. If we were ever to get robbed, we would provide the pictures to law enforcement and our insurance company.

  I walked around and studied the screen with Greg. He was clicking through thumbnail images of the Astruc paintings. “How’s it going?”

  Greg shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Good. I’ll be finished with the documentation photos in another hour.”

  “You’re fast.”

  “I’m motivated. I want to take Lindsay out for lunch since this is our last chance to be together for a while.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Go whenever you want. I can pick up where you leave off.”

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” Greg pushed back in his wheeled chair and crossed his arms, his brows drawn together in serious contemplation. Then he squinted at me and pointed to his own forehead. “Ow.”

  I sat on the edge of the table and sighed. “Yeah.”

  Greg exhaled. “Well, I know Lindsay’s really impressed with Frankie and glad she’s here, and I am too—”

  “But?”

  “Yesterday after you left, she came down and — well, she basically looked through all the Astruc paintings while trying to appear as though she wasn’t. It’s not a big deal. I know you want all the Imogene’s art to be accessible, and I love that about this place and working with you, but—”

  I waited, not wanting to put words in Greg’s mouth. Was he feeling the same hesitations about Frankie that I was?

  “I guess if she’d just been open about what she wanted to find or know, it wouldn’t have bothered me. It was sort of like she was spying.” Greg rubbed his leg above the walking cast. “Ugh — this thing. Itchy.” He sighed. “I tried to engage her in conversation about the paintings, but she got flustered and went back upstairs.”

  I could tell there was more on Greg’s mind, so I bit my lip to keep from interrupting.

  He stood, hobbled to the spotlights and clicked them off. The cramped space was stuffy from their heat signature.

  “I overheard her earlier yesterday, badgering Rupert about his Paris trip. You know how absent-minded he is, and she was really pressing him for details, especially if there’d been any Astruc paintings he hadn’t purchased and how much the paintings cost.”

  I was steaming. We — Rupert, Greg, Lindsay and I — had had such a comfortable, companionable working relationship. Now that Lindsay’s cheerfulness was replaced with Frankie’s nosy, busybody bossiness, our happy equilibrium had turned into suspicions. I’d have to talk to Frankie about minding her own business, and I hated that. I had a sinking feeling that I’d hired a second dud.

  “I mean, she’s nice — motherly,” Greg continued. “But I’m worried what effect she’ll have on Rupert and if we’ll all be dodging her in the halls.”

  “This is my fault. I’ll fix it, one way or another,” I said. “The result of desperation.”

  The freight elevator doors slid open, and Rupert ambled over, hands in his pockets. He gave my bandaged forehead a double take but politely refrained from mentioning it. “Any new revelations about our Mr. Astruc?”

  “He loves cadmium yellow and this terracotta color,” Greg said, pointing at his monitor. “You can really see it when the images are lined up. They’re in every painting.”

  Rupert leaned over Greg’s shoulder and pursed his lips. “Had to be self-taught. Rudimentary color mixing. But the expression—” He stabbed a finger at an image. “Can you make this one bigger?”

  Greg clicked, and the café scene filled the screen.

  “I keep coming back to this one,” Rupert said. “I think that’s his wife. He loved her, anyway.”

  I tipped my head, trying to see what Rupert saw. “How do you know?”

  “Hmmm. I think it’s because he captured her while she’s looking away. It’s a casual pose, which means they’re comfortable with each other — not a formal sitting. The curl below her ear, the way her fingers curve off the table’s edge — those are details someone who cares, or a professional portraitist, would notice. But nothing else about his work indicates either professional or portraitist. He has a rustic quality.”

  “Folk art?” I asked.

  Rupert nodded. “Almost. If he’d painted on anything other than canvas, then yes, he’d be in a whole different market.” He chuckled. “Nutty — the categories used to assign value in the art world. Why can’t we just enjoy it?” He exhaled loudly. “Which reminds me. I’m going to an archeology conference in Baltimore. Did I tell you?”

  I grinned. “No. When?”

  “I fly out of Portland tomorrow, so I’ll drive down this afternoon, meet a couple board members for dinner tonight.”

  “When will you return?”

  Rupert tugged on his ear. “I have a few friends I could visit on the East Coast. Thought maybe I’d take a week or two. You mind?”

  “Nope. Enjoy.”

  Rupert waggled his finger between Greg and me. “Don’t work too hard. Wish Lindsay all the best for me. Maybe I’ll find her a little something on my trip.” He winked and shuffled toward the elevator, whistling aimlessly.

  I poked Greg’s shoulder. “I’m kicking you out. Go see Lindsay.”

  “You sure?”

  I put my hands on my hips and scowled.

  Greg held up both hands, grinning. “Aye, Aye, Frankenstein.” He ducked around the other side of the table and booked it for the stairs. With his cast, his gait was more like Frankenstein’s than my face will ever be.

  “Speak for yourself,” I hollered after him.

  I settled into the chair Greg’d abandoned. In the dim basement, underneath the pile of settling beams and studs, lath and plaster, the Imogene creaked loudest. Her noises are a comforting symphony to me, reminders of my peaceful, academic life — and a shield against the memories of yesterday afternoon.

  I’d forgotten to call Pete. And my cell phone was upstairs in my office. But finishing the painting documentation wouldn’t take long.

  I rolled up tight to the table. I found where Greg had left off in the sequence and assigned museum identification numbers to the remaining paintings. We have a protocol for naming the images so they can be brought up quickly in the database. I sorted them into folders.

  It was routine work, but soothing. I liked how the images of the Astruc paintings looked when they were crammed together on the computer monitor. Perhaps they should be displayed in the same way, with a biography of the painter as an introduction to the exhibit, maybe a few black and white photographs of the Auschwitz concentration camp to contrast with the exuberant colors in his works. A life cut short.

  Would Astruc have become a dedicated portraitist if he’d lived? I imagined a series of small pieces, intimate paintings of his children captured in their everyday pursuits — reading, playing with a kitten, smiling mischievously with jam and baguette crumbs on their faces. If he loved color this much, he would have loved kids, and they would have loved him.

  I scanned the landscapes. What if he had taken his family to these places? What if they were just outside the scenes he painted, seated on a blanket in the shade of some large tree, dozing on a warm summer afternoon while he practiced?

  The phone on the wall by the basement door buzzed. It’s an internal-only phone, probably originally to notify the kitchen staff of deliveries. I sat staring at it. I don’t think I’d ever heard it ring before.

  Then I remembered that one is generally expected to answer a ringing phone. I unfolded my right leg, which was asleep because I’d been sitting on it, and staggered over, catching the phone on the third buzz.

  “Yes?” I shook my leg, grimacing against the prickles.

  “You have a visitor.” Frankie’s voice cracked.

  Maybe it was a bad connection. I wiggled the cord in the base of the handset. “A visitor? I’m not expecting anyone.”

  “A friend — upSTAIRS.”

  I winced at Frankie’s abrupt increase in v
olume and wiggled the cord again. “I’m coming.” I hung up.

  Frankie had sounded different, uncomfortable, almost panicked — a new emotional swing? I sighed and walked toward the elevator. The sooner I sorted out her problems, the better. I wished there was a place I could take her out for coffee, make the confrontation less threatening and more caring. But with Finney’s Burger Basket and Bait Shop closed for the season, my office would have to do. I pushed the up button, and the elevator cables jolted into action.

  Wait a minute. Frankie’d practically shouted the ‘stairs’ part of ‘upstairs.’ Did that mean something? The elevator would deposit me near the kitchen, and I’d have to wind through a few hallways before reaching the gift shop, but the main stairs would take me straight to the ballroom from which I could see the entrance to the shop.

  I bounced lightly on my feet. My ankle was sore, but I’m not fragile. I headed for the stairs.

  The main stairs from the first floor to the basement are broad and covered with shredded glue-on carpet in a color stained past recognition. It doesn’t matter because they’re in a private part of the museum, blocked by a padded rope at the landing — paying patrons never use them. They’re part of the grand staircase system, but much simpler — plain posts and railings coated with several layers of chipped paint instead of the impressive carved wood posts and flowing, curved railings that grace the first to third floor stairs.

  But they do the job, which is all that matters. Utilitarian. I trudged up the steps. Twenty-one. I don’t know why the first to basement set has four more steps than the other flights, but it does.

  On step eleven, I heard a voice — a highly agitated man’s voice. “Did you call her? I told you—”

  “Yes, yes,” Frankie squeaked.

  “How do I know you weren’t just talking to air?”

  There was a thud, and Frankie whimpered. “She’s coming. I heard the elevator ding.”

  So she was trying to divert someone’s attention. I could only think of one person who might be particularly displeased with me just now.

  I dropped to a crouch and crawled up a few steps until my eyes cleared the landing. Breath caught in my throat.