Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Page 6

  My stomach growled audibly. I slapped a hand over my belly and glanced at the blanketed lump on the couch illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the window. The evenness and regularity of the nasal vibrations from that quarter sounded forced to me.

  I grinned, wondering how long Mom could keep it up. I grabbed a packet of saltines and peanut butter jar out of the cupboard, then rattled the silverware drawer as I rummaged for a knife.

  Still the feigned, evenly paced snoring.

  I went up the steps to my bedroom, and just before I slid the pocket door closed behind me, I said in a low voice, “You were right.”

  I pressed my ear to the door. The snoring had stopped.

  Tuppence roused herself from a catnap long enough to share in my midnight snack. Then she licked her chops, yawned her doggy peanut butter breath on me and went back to bed. Her snoring was not fake.

  CHAPTER 8

  How can two people live in such tight proximity and manage not to talk about anything personally important? I have no idea how this pattern developed, but my mother and I have perfected the dysfunction. The whole Tiffany-Pete-hiding-snoring episode went unmentioned in the morning. Mom didn’t even ask if Pete and I had reconciled, but that might have been because my happiness was plastered all over my face.

  Mom must have slept better, though, because she looked well rested and refreshed. The overhanging worry nagged itself back into my consciousness — the missing painting. I needed to pin Rupert down and get the complete history of Cosmo Hagg’s artistic endeavors.

  We had just climbed into my pickup, loaded with insulated mugs of coffee and lasagna leftovers for a long day when my phone rang.

  I pawed through my purse. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Morehouse? Leland Smiley here.”

  “Oh — Mr. Smiley.” I scrabbled for a spare slip of paper and a writing instrument. Mom must have sensed my urgency and whipped a tiny notebook with a floral cover and a Cross pen from her purse. I smiled my thanks. “Since it’s Labor Day, I didn’t expect—”

  “As an expatriate Brit, I keep to my home country’s traditional holidays. Besides, how could I not delight in my work on such a glorious day? You appear to have an emergency.”

  “I do. I’d appreciate your help, but know you must have a backlog.”

  “Paintings that have already been stolen always take priority over those that are resting comfortably with their rightful owners — or in my workshop.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’ll perform optical microscopy on the paint chips?”

  “Certainly, and whatever else may be needed. Send me as much as you can — the intact canvas strips would be best. And, my dear, use a courier service since your postal service is shut down today.”

  “Um — we’re not exactly in a city that offers immediate service. The best I can do is UPS Next Day tomorrow for Wednesday delivery. What’s your shipping address?”

  “But where are you?” Mr. Smiley sounded shocked.

  I explained our remote location.

  “Ah, that is unfortunate. I do, however, have a trusted associate in Portland. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a drive in the country. I’ll ask him to fly down to Los Angeles with your parcel this evening.”

  My jaw dropped. “Are you sure? It’s a three- or four-hour drive, roundtrip — and a plane flight.” My brain was rapidly cha-chinging up the cost of such a venture.

  “He’d like nothing better — you’ll see when you meet him. And I actually prefer this method. I’m sure you can understand that the security of my workshop, with all these beautiful paintings in various stages of undress and stacked against the walls awaiting evaluation, is my utmost priority. The fewer delivery drivers coming and going, the better.”

  I exhaled. “I’ll have everything ready when he arrives.”

  “Excellent. Now, my dear, I’ve studied the image you sent of the painting, and I’m terribly sorry, but I must ask—”

  I cringed at the hesitation in his voice. “Yes?”

  “The artist in this case—”

  “Yes?”

  “Was he of ill-repute?”

  I bit back a snort of laughter. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Shenanigans?”

  “He’s been dead for forty years, so I really couldn’t say, but I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.” I wrinkled my nose. “Um, but I’ll pursue that line of inquiry today.”

  “I would, if I were you. Let me know what you unearth. It may help speed my analysis.”

  “Can I ask why you suspect—”

  “Not yet. Just a hunch. But I will also keep you informed of the test results.”

  “But — uh — do you mean criminal?” I blurted.

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask, my dear. Now I really must go.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.” I hung up and scowled at the phone in my hand.

  “Problem?” Mom asked.

  “Maybe. Everyone who sees the painting seems to think Cosmo was either off his rocker or up to something.”

  A smile — wide and playful — spread across Mom’s face, and her eyes sparkled. “Let’s find out. This is so much fun.”

  I grinned back. “Now you know why I love my job.”

  oOo

  The first task was prying Cosmo’s painting’s stretchers out of the frame. Mom and I dumped our stuff in my office, and I led her down the hall to the empty, looming frame that still hung next to its descriptive plaque.

  Mom stood, arms akimbo, and peered at the blank wall through the frame for a minute. She arched her brows and turned to me. “It has to be heavy. Do you have a stepstool?”

  “In the basement.”

  “Never mind.” She stepped over to a marble-topped side table — one of the original pieces from when the mansion functioned as the Hagg family’s vacation home. “This looks sturdy enough.” She threw her weight against the far side and succeeded in budging the table a few inches.

  “Wait a minute.” I ducked to eye level with the table top and squinted. We don’t keep the Imogene sparkly clean. It’s impossible, for one, with all the cracks and gaps inherent in a century-plus old building and the ever-present gorge winds, but it’s also impracticable on our budget. Our exhibits are already old — a little dust isn’t going to hurt them. Well, except the most fragile items which I’d had encased in hermetically sealed display cabinets during the first year of my tenure as curator.

  The protective layer of dust on the table top had been disturbed, and not by the cleaning crew. Mom joined me in a squatting position. One corner of the table had been wiped free of dust but smudges — scuff marks? — were left in the dust’s place. And in the center of the table a neat set of footprints were recorded, almost as perfect as those in the Chinese Theatre’s forecourt. Semicircular sweeps in the dust ringed the footprints.

  “Our thief had the same idea,” I said.

  Mom was scratching at a scuff mark with her fingernail. She lifted some black gummy residue. “Rubber soled.”

  “Half the shoes in Sockeye County.”

  Mom pursed her lips. “But not black-tie. That would be leather-heeled for the men, and I don’t see the small imprints of a woman’s high heels.”

  “Actually,” I sighed, “it’s entirely possible someone wore sneakers with their tux or hidden by their long skirt. I didn’t notice, but—” I shrugged, “around here, we wear what we have, and improper footwear isn’t going to keep someone from enjoying a special event. We don’t perform dress inspections at the door.”

  “But not necessarily from the night of the fundraiser then?” Mom said it like a question, but she was right.

  I hated that I hadn’t noticed when the painting went missing. Why wasn’t I paying more attention? I stood. “I don’t know if this will be useful—” I waved at the tabletop, “since there aren’t clear tread marks, and the dust may have shifted—” Enormously long odds. I sighed again. “I’ll get the stepstool.”

  Mom supported
the frame from the bottom while I released the top from the wire hanging hooks. We eased it to the floor, face down.

  The back side of the painting, or what was left of it, was like a skeleton stripped of skin and flesh and all the elements that gave it vitality. Brittle canvas scraps clung to the edges of the stretchers like mummy wrappings, ready to disintegrate at my touch.

  I levered a small crowbar around the edges and pried the stretchers — loose-jointed, but intact — from the frame. Half an hour sitting cross-legged on the floor with a heavy-duty staple remover completed the task. Mom collected the canvas scraps and the all-important paint tracings embedded in them into a manila envelope.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Frankie’s immovable brown helmet of hair appeared around the corner.

  Her smile faded when she saw what we were doing. “Oh dear. It’s not been found? I’d hoped, over the weekend, that—” Her brown eyes drifted over my mother who was sealing the envelope.

  I shook my head. “Not yet. I’m expecting a courier this afternoon, to pick up these fragments. This is my mother, Pamela Stephenson. Mom, this is Frankie Cortland, gift shop manager and event planner extraordinaire.” I smiled at Frankie. I wasn’t going to let Mom negate how wonderful Frankie had been for the museum — for me — with her pouting about not being asked to help. Mom could insert herself into the museum’s activities if she wanted to, but only with Frankie’s permission.

  Mom rose and shook Frankie’s hand. “So pleased to meet you.” At least her smile looked genuine.

  But my attention was diverted to Frankie’s feet. From my spot on the floor, I had a good view of her sensible loafers.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” I asked.

  “Oh, um—” Frankie peered down self-consciously. “Five, five-and-a-half sometimes. I’m short.” There was a nervous tinge to her giggle.

  And I realized what I’d done, drawing attention to Frankie’s body while she was standing next to my slender, elegant, just-swooped-in-from-out-of-town sophisticated mother. I jumped up.

  “I was wondering because—” I pointed to the marks on the tabletop, “these appear to be of similar size. If that’s the case, it would narrow the field considerably. Would you mind? Could I borrow one of your loafers for a minute?”

  “Of course.” Frankie slipped a shoe off and handed it to me, a worry crease between her eyebrows.

  I held her shoe over the right footprint on the tabletop.

  Mom leaned over, her head near mine. We were both eyeballing the difference in size.

  “A quarter inch. Maybe half an inch longer,” Mom breathed.

  “What does it mean?” Frankie squeaked, trying to peek between us.

  “Whoever stole the painting isn’t much taller than you,” I said. “He pushed this table over and stood on it to cut out the painting. Well, that’s the current hypothesis.”

  Frankie’s eyes widened. “I could go through the list of guests and mark the short people. Most of them I know, but if I don’t I’ll ask around about their heights.”

  “Perfect. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I darted to my office and returned with a digital camera. I bent for the best angle to show off the dust and quickly snapped a few shots of Frankie’s loafer on top of the footprint with the gap in sizes fairly evident. “I don’t know if Dale can use this, but it’s worth documenting.”

  “Halloo,” Rupert called up the stairs. He was glistening by the time he arrived, and pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “It’s a pity you can’t take the day off. We’re a dull set, laboring on Labor Day.”

  “Nonsense,” Frankie chirped. “We get the best visitor counts on national holidays.” She slipped her loafer back on and gave me a slight nod which meant she’d ferret out the short people on the fundraiser guest list with the same single-mindedness Tuppence exhibits when she’s flushing rabbits. I grinned as Frankie scurried down the stairs.

  Rupert stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and captured Mom’s hand. “And you are?”

  “Pamela Stephenson, Meredith’s mother.”

  “Ahh, yes.” Rupert cast a glance at me. “I see it, in the — in the — well, in the demeanor, and the bone structure, and the — well, about the face.” He squinted at me. “Hmmm. Your father must have been a remarkable, handsome man, Meredith.”

  I gaped. I think my mother might have a few grainy photos of my father, but he’s a faint, faceless memory for me. I don’t know where the photos are, but I would love to have them — if she doesn’t want them anymore. But that was another thing I could never discuss with her. Since when did Rupert become an expert on human breeding that he could tell by looking at me? Or was he commenting on Mom’s taste in men?

  I caught sight of Mom’s face out of the corner of my eye. She was gaping too, and the fingers of her free hand were trembling.

  “Rupert,” I blurted, “I really need to speak with you about Cosmo, his history, anything you remember. Leland Smiley was asking.”

  “Leland?” Rupert released Mom’s hand. “I haven’t seen the old bloke in ages. He’s doing the microscopy? He is the best—” Rupert’s words trailed into a mumble as he pivoted toward the stairs. “Come with me,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll dig through the files.”

  Mom clutched my arm and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll wait in your office.”

  “Then call Alex,” I muttered. “He’s worried about you.” Might as well toss all the cards on the table now. “I quit running last night. It’s your turn.”

  CHAPTER 9

  One of my ongoing — and it will probably take forever — projects is digitizing the Imogene’s records. Whenever I have a few spare minutes, I scan in a handful of the miscellaneous documents that tend to accompany and provide provenance for works of art. As I sort through what’s in the basement, I’ve been adding as much as I can.

  But the only database Rupert uses is his own brain and a wall full of four-drawer filing cabinets in his office. When Rupert said we’d dig through the files, what he really meant is first we’d spelunk through his clutter, then we’d try to figure out his filing system, then maybe we’d start sorting through files. Mentally, I rearranged my calendar for the rest of the week to allow for the time this process would take.

  Technically, Rupert would qualify as a hoarder. The problem is the haphazard mounds that have swallowed his office furniture include everything from letters to Meriwether Lewis signed by Thomas Jefferson to the crust of yesterday’s tuna sandwich. I can’t just order a dumpster parked beneath his second-floor windows and start tossing his junk overboard because too much of it is of historical or artistic value. Most of what’s in his office is his personal collection, but he’s also the inheritor and — until I came along — keeper of the Imogene’s records.

  The best thing I could do was try to prod Rupert’s memory while we were bushwhacking a trail toward the filing cabinets.

  “Was Cosmo your uncle?” I called as I stacked a couple boxes.

  “No.” Rupert’s voice was muffled by the object he was wrestling — was it a cowhide? His upper half was hidden by something hairy and floppy. He was struggling to tuck its irregular edges into a neat roll.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Commemorative calfskin from the 1911 Pendleton Roundup. Cosmo was my dad’s cousin, somewhat removed, not sure how far.”

  “Literally or figuratively removed?”

  “Both. He was from the California branch, but the family moved here soon after he was born. Raised here, but lit out for the big city — New York first then Los Angeles, if I remember correctly — as soon as he could. This is not first-hand knowledge, mind you, but Cosmo was the source of many back-of-the-hand stories in my family. Adults regularly rolled their eyes and commented on his troubles in terms us kids weren’t supposed to understand.”

  “He ever come back to visit?” I shifted a pile of yellowed newspapers onto a packing crate.

  “Wheneve
r he needed money. Hence the eye-rolling.”

  “Did he get what he wanted?” I quickly flipped through the newspapers. The Paris Peace Accords dominated the headlines.

  “Probably. He was a smooth talker. Always up to some scheme or other.”

  “But he had plenty of funds if he could donate so much along with the painting. $85,000 was a lot forty years ago — it’s a lot now.”

  “Maybe one of his rackets paid out.” Rupert grunted as he rolled a smooth, oblong piece of driftwood the shape of a giant pickle out of the way. He balanced a bulging expandable file folder on top of the chunk of wood and brushed his hands together as if it was a great accomplishment.

  I wrinkled my nose but refrained from asking what Rupert’s plans for the log had been. Instead, I ducked back to my task — a shoebox that had split and spilled its postcard collection. “Cosmo doesn’t seem like the philanthropic type.”

  “Nope,” Rupert huffed. “I do remember Dad’s astonishment at the donation. But Cosmo had borrowed enough money from the family over the years, maybe he considered it a form of repayment.”

  “Did you — or your father — get the impression Cosmo was wrapping up loose ends with the donation?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I was away at college then. I knew the museum would be my responsibility one day, but you know—” Rupert stopped to grin around the unlit Swisher Sweets cherry cigar he’d clamped between his teeth as fortitude against our monumental task. “I might have had other things on my mind at the time. If I remember correctly, her name was Ruby.” He frowned and scratched his ear. “Or was that Celeste?”

  I bent quickly and rummaged in a crate of paper mache dragon masks to hide my surprise — Chinese New Year, probably early-’60s. I’d thought Rupert was contentedly, if absentmindedly, single. Apparently not in his youth. I smiled to myself. That slice of his life certainly bore more investigating. I’d been worrying about him anyway — he wasn’t in the best health, and at his age — 59 — and with his travel schedule, he could stand some company. Maybe I could do a little matchmaking on the side.