Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Read online

  Pete chuckled. “Patience, persistence, and a fair bit of cuddling.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s worked with you so far. You might try it on your mom, except maybe not the cuddling part.”

  I plunked the washed pepper on the counter, flinging droplets everywhere. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take that. You mean you had this — me — planned out?”

  “Of course. Ever since the football game you gave me a ride to last fall. Take it the right way, Babe.”

  I scowled and slit the pepper, parsing it into tiny pieces — minced, actually.

  Mom appeared at my elbow swathed in a robe, her hair damp. She nudged me out of the way and took over knife duties.

  “Um, okay,” I said into the phone. I wasn’t sure what I thought about being the object of a strategic campaign on his part. But he was right about the effectiveness of his patience and persistence technique. And therefore, he might also be right about my mother. After all, where had I learned my reluctance to fully trust, seen it demonstrated my entire life? “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Call me tomorrow — a lot.”

  “I’m not the clingy type.”

  “No kidding. I just like hearing your voice, and knowing you aren’t stuck in a cave or being shot at. All right?”

  “I’m not—” I started, and then remembered that I had been involved in things of that nature in the past. “Okay,” I whispered and hung up.

  “You’re looking a little ragged around the edges, just like your museum.” Mom scraped the pepper pieces onto the eggs and lifted the edges of the omelet with a spatula. “Is there a salon around here? My treat.”

  I stared at her back, clenching my teeth together. Patience and persistence — yeah, right.

  “I was letting my hair grow for the fundraiser, so I could have an up-do. But, yes, I need a trim now,” I gritted out.

  “Your nails? How about a facial?” Mom sprinkled blue cheese on the omelet, portioned it neatly in half and slid it onto two plates.

  “Today was like every other day at the museum for me. I’m not in the public eye most of the time. No need to impress anyone.” I dropped into a chair at the dining table.

  Mom slid a plate in front of me. “Well, I could use some pampering. A mother-daughter day out. What do you say?” Her hazel eyes were worried, hesitant as she sat across from me.

  Is that what she really wanted? We’d just had a mother-daughter day. Granted, we’d been slaving away in a dank, old museum. I sighed. “I’ll call Barbara at the Golden Shears tomorrow. See what she has open.”

  oOo

  After dinner, Mom insisted on cleaning up. I could tell she was exhausted, but she wasn’t going to kick me out of my own living room so that she could go to bed. And I was restless. If I stuck around in that confined space with her much longer, I was going to say something I’d regret later.

  Tuppence poked my shin with her cold nose, giving me just the excuse I needed. If I could get her really tuckered, maybe she’d snore less tonight.

  “I’m taking the dog out,” I said. “It’s been a few days since she’s had a good run. You don’t need to wait up.”

  Mom wiped her hands on a dishtowel and nodded, the same worry lines still creasing her forehead.

  I wanted to re-suggest that she call Alex, but figured nagging had lost its effectiveness a while ago. Even Alex had told me she needed time. But how much? I let the door slam behind me.

  Tuppence shook, jingling her tags, and set off directly for the path that circled the campground, her nose running zigzag patterns an inch above the grass. I swung into my long-strided hiking gait in order to keep pace with her, feeling the good stretch in my calves and thighs.

  I inhaled deeply, savoring all the scents that come with this time of year — tangy sweet fruit rotting under the trees, harvest dust drifting down the gorge from the big wheat farms upriver, lazy water — the lingering, brackish hint the river takes on in late summer when it’s not moving as fast and the lower levels expose more mud on the banks.

  Tuppence looked back to make sure I was following, snorted, then resumed her exploration, white tail tip serving as my guide. Two juvenile ospreys circled overhead, calling to each other with piercing cries. I chuckled. The young ones always sound a bit panicked, as though once aloft, they start nervously contemplating how to get back down.

  My most effective antidote to stress is a ramble — preferably a ramble with a view. There’s something about being in a place untouched, or at least unhindered, by humans that helps put irritations and frustrations into proper perspective.

  At the end of the campground, Tuppence and I forged our own path along the riverbank, climbing over boulders and downed trees that had come to rest in the mud. We investigated gravel bars and backwater eddies, startled frogs and killdeer, were chattered at from the brush by chipmunks and a baby raccoon who was out early and apparently without parental guidance.

  Tuppence wanted to bring the baby home with us, but after much cajoling on my part, she reluctantly left it. As soon as she turned her back on the raccoon, it let out a rattly practice hiss of false bravado. I laughed. But give it another couple months, and it would be a full-grown creature to be reckoned with.

  Darting black forms caught my eye — swallows? No — bats skittering over the water, starting their nightly feeding. I glanced around. It was later than I’d realized. The tips of the small chop on the river twinkled in the last of the sunlight.

  I snapped my fingers for Tuppence and turned. Within a few minutes, we were moving more by feel than by sight. I grumbled under my breath as I clawed my way over a hip-high rock, scraping my knee on its rough surface. This was a great way to get a twisted ankle. Why hadn’t I been paying attention?

  Tuppence, with her four legs, is much more sure-footed than I am. She scrabbled ahead, returned to check on me, then darted out to the lead again, thus covering three times the distance I did — good for sleeping later on, but a little annoying at the moment.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered the fourth time Tuppence panted on me, “I’m coming.” I bent, hands on knees, to catch my breath. Surely I was taking the longest, hardest route, but I couldn’t see well enough to find the easy way.

  The campground’s lampposts came into view, blinking between tree trunks and silhouetting the row of California motorcoaches.

  “You’re dead,” a male voice growled.

  I froze, my heart pounding into overdrive.

  A furry body brushed my legs — Tuppence back on a welfare check. I grabbed her collar, feeling for her tags and clenching them in my fist to keep them silent. I crouched beside her.

  Was he talking to me? How could he even see me? I fought to keep my rapid breathing quiet, even though the sound of it was rushing through my head.

  I glanced down at what I could see of my clothes in the dark, trying to remember — yes, a blue chambray blouse and khaki skirt. And white legs. I had a summer tan, but on me that doesn’t mean much. My legs glowed like bleached sticks. I yanked my skirt hem down over my knees and tried to get lower.

  Then I realized there was another voice — whiny but too low-pitched to be feminine — another man.

  “Quit mumbling, or I’ll rip your tongue out,” the first voice said. His consonant stops slid slightly, as though he had a speech impediment or his dentures weren’t quite lined up. He had the vigorous voice of a healthy man, though.

  I had to agree with him. I also wanted to hear what the second guy was saying. I strained forward.

  “I need time — time to e-s-s-stablish a connection one cannot go barging in without credentials and s-s-some expertise—”

  My eyes widened. Melvin Sharpe. Melvin of the run-on sentences. Even though anxiety — or fear? — had raised his voice an octave, I recognized it.

  “If that broad distracts you, I’ll take her out first.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Did he mean Tiffany? Who else around here would qualify as a broad? Of cours
e, to some men all women are broads.

  “S-s-s-source she knows where to find it we’ll start tomorrow rest as-s-s-ured you’ll—” Melvin whimpered.

  “Shut up. You get on my nerves. You’re also on borrowed time.” Brush crackled and heavy footsteps thumped first on dirt, then on the paved path.

  I ducked, then immediately popped up, craning my neck when I realized the man was walking away from me.

  But nothing — all darkness, not even a flicker of movement to indicate his size or height.

  Then Melvin sniffed — loud and very close.

  I dropped to my knees. I didn’t want him to know I’d witnessed yet another impingement on his manhood — first Tiffany, now this unknown goon.

  Melvin slunk by, clearing his sinuses with wheezes and hacks. Allergies or was he crying? Good grief.

  A minute later, a door on Melvin’s coach clicked open and closed just as softly. I scooted up to the paved path and tiptoed past the film crew’s campsites, then raced for my trailer, Tuppence on my heels.

  Was the other man a member of the crew? Melvin hadn’t seemed surprised, just defensive. I would be too, given what the goon had said. Death threats? But I was irritated that Melvin hadn’t fought back. He was making himself an easy target.

  As I locked the door and crept through the dark kitchen to my bedroom, I listed my own problems — a recalcitrant, sofa-surfing mother who was sleeping soundlessly tonight, a stolen painting and a good friend in the hospital with a broken leg. I wasn’t sure I had the mental space to worry on Melvin’s behalf too.

  CHAPTER 11

  I showered quickly. I bent in half in the skinny stall to examine my bruised, scraped and bug-bit legs. I’d need to wear pants tomorrow or people would wonder what I’d been up to.

  I considered calling Sheriff Marge or one of her deputies about the overheard threats. But Melvin was as capable of dialing 911 as the rest of us if he wanted to, and I didn’t think law enforcement could do much about hearsay on my part without him initiating a request for help or protection.

  Still damp and appreciating the sensation of cool cleanness after a day of sweaty scavenging, I flopped on the mattress and pulled the shade off the bedside lamp. I popped open the small box I’d brought home from the museum and removed the slides of Cosmo and his friends.

  I held them in front of the bare bulb one at a time, squinting to see if I could pick out any telling details. I was willing to bet the stubby blond guy with the prominent belly was the one nicknamed Gnocchi.

  That left the tall, gangly one as Juice. He didn’t look like much of a drinker — not much flab on him, nor redness about the nose. The tips of his face — nose, chin, ears — stuck out, giving him a unique silhouette, and his arms, legs and fingers seemed disproportionately long. I wondered if he had the same disorder people used to think Abe Lincoln had — Marfan syndrome.

  Juice was dressed in a snug leisure suit with an abundance of pleated patch pockets and flared pant legs — the cutting edge of fashion at the time and probably custom-made to fit his narrow height. Beside him, Cosmo and Gnocchi looked downright frumpy in baggy suits with neckties loosened and collars unbuttoned.

  Three overdressed guys at a barbecue — they stuck out as loners among what were probably family activities going on around them. It just seemed weird. Weird in general — what were they doing at the party? And weird specifically — why were these images part of the Imogene’s photo archives? What had Cosmo been up to, besides eating baked beans?

  oOo

  When we arrived at the museum the next morning, I set up Mom with a sorting task — a box of impossibly jumbled Bakelite earrings I’d found in the basement. At the rate I was unearthing costume jewelry down there, we’d soon have a display of zany things women have adorned themselves with over the centuries. This particular box held earrings replicating foods and flowers.

  I felt guilty about it, but I also felt as though I needed to stash Mom somewhere for awhile — for her own safety, and mine. I’m so accustomed to doing my own work, going about my own business, and having the freedom to adjust my schedule accordingly, that having a dependent in the form of my mother was wearing my patience thin, and I was frustrated by my lack of productivity.

  I snuck up to the library/taxidermy exhibit and called Dale. I wished I’d been able to pop in and visit Sheriff Marge since her discharge from the hospital, and I was anxious for word on her health as well as her frame of mind.

  “She’s in the office for the first time today,” Dale said in a hoarse whisper. “Hang on.”

  I heard a door slam and heavy, thudding footsteps and knew Dale had just exited the modular building that served as the sheriff’s department command center and was now out in the weed-infested parking lot, probably leaning on his cruiser.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to manage this,” he groaned. “She’s just not accustomed to being confined to a chair, or to a cast, for that matter.”

  “How about a casserole?” I asked.

  “Noooo,” Dale almost shouted. “We’re up to our eyeballs in casseroles and Jell-O salads and rolls and cobblers and pies and — shoot. Why do people assume you need to eat more if you’re injured?”

  I chuckled. “We’re sorry we can’t make her feel better, so we’re hoping to distract her, and all of you, with full stomachs.”

  “What she really needs is a problem to solve — one that doesn’t involve interrogating witnesses on scene, wrestling bad guys to the ground or high-speed chases. And I think Hallie could use a break at home too.”

  I bit my lip. I should have thought of relieving Hallie sooner. “No word on the painting, then?”

  “Nope. That’s just it. The doldrums. Usually summer’s busy — lost hikers, drunk boaters, farm accidents, grass fires — one thing after another. We’re having a real lull. We don’t even have anybody in jail right now, so all us deputies are sitting around, and Sheriff Marge is stewing up a storm.”

  “There’s a film crew staying at the Riverside RV Ranch—” I started.

  “They being disorderly?” Hopefulness tinged Dale’s voice.

  “Threatening, maybe. I overheard something last night. Along the lines of do-it-or-you’re-dead.”

  “We haven’t had any reports or complaints. Who were the parties?”

  “That’s what I thought.” I sighed. “Melvin Sharpe was on the receiving end. I didn’t recognize the other guy.”

  “Sharpe? He’s the director, right? I think I met him at the Imogene fundraiser. Tall, scrawny, glasses. Couldn’t tell a calf from a colt?”

  I snorted. “That’s him.”

  “He jumped a mile when Zach fired his shotgun during the demonstration. I was standing next to him and practically had to catch him on the way back down. Bundle of nerves, that guy.”

  “Or just a city dude.”

  “Huh.” Dale’s grunt indicated exactly what he thought of a man so out of his element. “The fellas and I’ll take turns driving through the campground the next few days while they’re here. Make sure they realize we’re paying attention, maybe that’ll put a lid on any hanky-panky.”

  “And if it helps, the Imogene can offer a small reward — say up to $5,000 — for info leading to the recovery of the painting. Maybe that’ll speed things up for you.” I cringed at the number, but anything less wouldn’t be motivating.

  “Gotcha. We’ve had zilch, but if something comes up, we’ll let you know.”

  I hung up and heaved a sigh.

  “You okay?” Frankie called from the doorway. “I heard talking and was pretty sure it wasn’t the animals, but you never know.”

  I patted the snarling cougar’s head and strode toward Frankie. “Dale was just complaining about not having enough to do, and I was thinking I have too many things to worry about — too many unknowns.”

  Frankie chewed on the end of the pencil she held between two fingers, making me wonder if she was a former smoker. “No word on the painting, then?”

&nbs
p; I shook my head. We were starting to sound like anxious twins.

  “Oh dear. Well, I do have some good news.” Frankie bounced on the balls of her feet and pursed her lips.

  I tried to peer at the notebook in her other hand, but she pulled it away.

  “Wait—” She beamed. “We spent $7,237 on food, catering staff, decorations, signage, invitations and demonstration supplies.”

  “Whoa.” My mind jumped to the red numbers that probably just appeared at the bottom of our annual operating budget.

  “After expenses, we netted $38,231 from the fundraiser.”

  I clamped a hand over my mouth, my eyes bulging.

  “I know,” Frankie squealed. “Can you believe it?”

  “You’re amazing.” I grabbed her in a big bear hug, and we did a jig in the doorway.

  “Did I miss something?”

  I tried not to groan and turned to face Mom. Frankie shrank like a scolded child.

  “I had a question about categorizing these.” Mom held up a couple pairs of earrings — purple grape clusters and lemon drops.

  Frankie stuffed a paper into my hand, whispering, “Here you go, honey.” She darted a nervous glance at Mom then said, louder, “I’d better get back to the gift shop.” She scurried down the hall in the opposite direction.

  I checked my watch and clenched my jaw. The museum, including the gift shop, didn’t open for another half hour. My mother emits an aura that makes people — my friends — give her a wide berth. This was nothing new — I’d grown up with it. But I hadn’t asked her to come here, to create social discomfort in my carefully orchestrated realm.

  I had no idea why Mom had taken a liking to Pete — enough of a liking, anyway — to insist I reconcile with him. I was glad she had, but still—

  I closed my eyes. I was going crazy.

  “Meredith? These are part of necklace and bracelet sets. Do you want the sets kept together or separated by piece?”