Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Read online

  “Dale, you wouldn’t do a search like this if it was nothing. Can you tell us?” I asked.

  Dale slowly nodded. “The fake eye you found? Not too many of those around, right? Only one person in these parts had one that I know of — Spence Snead — and his eyes were that same blue-gray color.” He swirled the remaining contents of his mug, gazed at the sloshing liquid for a second then set the mug down with a bang.

  “Thing is — Spence died, killed himself, ten years ago. So he either lost his eye before he died or it’s someone else’s eye. The marsh abuts the Snead property, but it’s not like he’d carry his eye around loose and drop it. Seems like the sort of thing you’d keep in the bathroom or on your bedside table when you weren’t wearing it. Unless—” Dale’s face was tight. “Unless something made his eye come out. Like a blow to the head or—”

  “Or a rifle shot,” Pete murmured.

  “Sheriff Marge did say Spence shot himself,” I said.

  Pete put an arm around my waist, pulled me close as though he was trying to protect me. “Not like that,” he whispered.

  “In his cabin, with a sawed-off shotgun,” Dale answered.

  “Are you sure?” I grimaced. What a stupid, insensitive question.

  “I was there — afterward. The mail carrier called it in. Mail’d been building up for a few days. Everybody knows everybody’s plans around here, and Spence would have told the mail carrier if he was going on one of his trips to British Columbia, so the mail carrier called Big John. People called directly into the sheriff’s office back then, same way they call Sheriff Marge now.” Dale shook his head.

  “I was out on patrol, so when I heard Big John on the radio, I offered to do a welfare check. But Big John was good friends with Spence, said he’d come too. I had just walked the perimeter of the cabin, checked all the doors and windows and the few outbuildings, yelling for Spence with no response, when Big John arrived. We broke open the back door.”

  “It was my second year on the job. I’d never seen anything like it — still haven’t seen anything worse than the condition Spence was in. I’ll never forget it. Big John walked into the bedroom first, and he just stopped, blocking the doorway. He sagged, and I pulled him back, held him up against the hall wall. He was gasping for air. The stench — but it was more than that — to see your friend—”

  Dale exhaled and blinked hard. “From the shoulders up, he was gone — little pieces all over the headboard. Gaping holes in the drywall behind where he’d been.”

  Dale took a deep breath and glugged the rest of his coffee. “There was no note, but we all knew Spence had bouts of deep depression. Probably PTSD from Vietnam, but he was too proud to go in for a mental health assessment. No forced entry. We collected fingerprints from everything in the room and all the points of entry to the cabin just to be sure. A few prints were Wade’s, but the majority were Spence’s, no one else’s identifiable besides ours from checking the doors. Wade had been living there off and on, so we expected to find some of his. All the prints on the shotgun were Spence’s. Body position and splatter pattern were consistent. Clear case of suicide.”

  “Wade wasn’t there at the time?” I asked.

  “Nope. Had been, the week before. Was fishing in Montana with a buddy during the time window for Spence’s death, and the friend verified.”

  “But the eye Meredith found is bothering you,” Pete said.

  “Yeah. It just doesn’t fit. I don’t remember seeing a fake eye in the bedroom. We didn’t comb the rest of the cabin because the cause of death was so obvious. If he’d been wearing the eye when he shot himself, then it would have been blown to bits, embedded in the wall, probably, and I didn’t think to check for that. What’re the odds he had more than one fake eye? How quickly could he have gotten a replacement if he lost one in the marsh?”

  I placed a hand on Dale’s arm. “Why are you keeping your concerns from Sheriff Marge?”

  “It’s just a hunch, and I don’t want to worry her. Lots of bad memories associated with this case. Big John’s heart attack happened about six months after Spence died. I think in a way they were related. Big John was never himself after seeing — well, after Spence’s death.”

  “There has to be a way to trace the fake eye — to find out who made it. Maybe there’s a registry of prosthetic eyes. I don’t remember any marks on it, but it was dusk and I’d just pulled it out of the mud. Have you looked at it, cleaned it up, to see if there’s an ID number or something?”

  Dale shook his head. “No, but I’ll check.”

  “I know you’re busy, and you want to keep this quiet. If you find a mark, I’d be happy to do the research for you.”

  “Yeah?” Dale’s expression lightened, a glimpse of hopefulness.

  “Yeah. I’m researching other Snead family artifacts for Wade. Why not add a fake eye to the mix?” I squeezed his arm. “It’s important, Dale. I want to do it.”

  CHAPTER 12

  When I arrived at the museum the next morning, Frankie’s purple PT Cruiser sat in a spot toward the middle of the large parking lot. I pulled up beside her and stretched across the bench seat to roll down the passenger window.

  Frankie rolled her window down too. “Wasn’t sure how early you wanted me here,” she gushed, her breath coming in visible spurts on the cold air. “Should I do administrative things before the museum opens to the public?” She patted her hair helmet and tucked a piece behind her ear with a gloved finger.

  “Sorry I’ve been so short on details,” I answered. “Normally, you’ll be able to do the whole job during visiting hours, but these first few days it would be nice to have a little extra time so I can show you around and answer questions. Also, you can park much closer to the building. We don’t have so many visitors that you need to give them this much room.”

  Frankie let out a dainty peal of laughter and nodded. Her window slid upward. I cranked mine up by hand, the knob squeaking with each revolution. Gotta love old, completely manual vehicles. My truck’s built like a tank, though.

  I caught up with Frankie on the sidewalk outside the Imogene’s entrance. She was dressed in a smart chocolate brown pantsuit and sturdy heeled pumps under her thick wool coat.

  “You look lovely, but to be comfortable in our drafty, old museum, it’s fine if you want to dress more casually,” I said.

  Frankie looked at her feet and laughed nervously. “I’m accustomed to a business office environment. So pantyhose is not required?”

  “Absolutely not.” I chuckled. “I’ll get you a set of keys. I’m usually here early, but I lock the doors behind me. You’ll need to make sure the doors are unlocked again by 10 a.m.”

  Frankie pursed her lips, a concentration wrinkle appearing between her brows.

  “You’ll do fine.” I smiled and pulled the door open. I showed her our alarm keypad next to the fire extinguisher case and explained how to turn it off and on.

  Frankie grasped the concept of tallying visitors immediately. Her look of absolute horror when I told her of Wally and Ginny’s uncomfortable night in the museum reassured me that she would pay attention to all visitors’ comings and goings.

  “Oh, I can’t imagine — how awful.” She shuddered.

  My phone chimed, and I checked the text.

  “Want to do something fun?” I grinned.

  Frankie’s light brown eyes widened.

  “That was Derek, our DHL delivery driver. He texts me if he wants to make a delivery before the museum’s open, and I meet him at the basement door.”

  I led Frankie to the servants’ stairwell, and we clomped down the stairs. Lindsay and I hadn’t shown Frankie the bowels of the mansion when she interviewed. No sense in overwhelming her unnecessarily. But now I flipped on the switches, and the basement — a long, cavernous room — appeared in the dim light.

  Frankie gasped.

  “This is where Greg and I do the initial cataloging and documentation of the museum’s collections.” I gestured toward th
e piles of boxes and crates flanking the walls ten or twelve feet deep. “And this is what we have left to do.”

  “Oh my.”

  Pounding rattled the heavy metal basement door. I swung it open to reveal Derek’s backside. He nodded at me over his shoulder and eased a hand truck into the area we use for unpacking new arrivals.

  “Paris. Eleven boxes.” He handed me a clipboard with the bill of lading and delivery receipt pinched together. “I’ll get the other stack.”

  I thumbed through the pages. Rupert’s first Paris shipment, right on time. I only hoped the other two shipments would clear customs soon.

  “If I’m not here and you need to accept a delivery, just make sure the box count matches.” I pointed to the spot on the bill of lading where the number 11 was marked. “Also, eyeball the total shipment weight and see if it makes sense. Derek’ll tell you — he’s great — if he thinks the shipment’s light or missing something. Sometimes boxes will get separated and arrive a day or two later. I’ve also learned from experience to double check the label on every box to make sure they’re all addressed to us. It’s a hassle to try to have mis-shipments picked up again.”

  Derek returned with the second load, and I introduced him to Frankie. We walked step-by-step through the receiving process, and I signed Derek’s digital confirmation document.

  When the door clanked closed behind him, I folded the paperwork and stuffed it in my pocket. I grabbed a box knife from a transit cart and slit open the closest box.

  “Oooo.” Frankie sounded as excited as I felt.

  “Yep. This is the best part of my job.”

  We knelt beside the box and pulled open the flaps. Slim, book-sized boxes stood on end, packed tightly in place with crumpled heavy brown paper interspersed with silica gel packets.

  I pulled one of the smaller boxes out and handed it to Frankie. “Go ahead.”

  Her fingers trembled as she picked at the tape. “No knife?” she whispered.

  “Right. Can’t risk damaging the contents.”

  I pulled out another smaller box and quickly slit the tape with just the right amount of pressure and the edge of my fingernail. “Lots of practice,” I replied to Frankie’s surprised look.

  More heavy brown paper. I tore it off to reveal a framed oil painting — small, maybe 9 inches by 6 inches — a pastoral landscape. Ethereal fog wisped across a dirt road between two clumps of trees. A pony harnessed to a hay cart grazed beside a meandering brook. Pretty, but not extraordinary. The whole scene had a fractal, paint-by-number feel to it.

  Frankie, however, gasped and touched the frame reverentially. “May I?”

  “Sure — just, you know — handle on the edges only.” I passed the painting to her and picked up the box she’d been working on.

  “Luberon,” Frankie murmured.

  “What?”

  “Oh—” Her eyes darted to the remaining pile of boxes, and she plucked at the pendant on her necklace. “It reminds me of the farms in the Luberon area of Provence.”

  I popped the second box open. A narrow city street scene, early morning, the same misty light. No people, but a bicycle leaned against a stone shop wall. I wondered how pastel colors could be so jarring, but the picture made me uneasy. Something was off.

  Frankie gazed over my shoulder. “Rue Juiverie.”

  “You know this place?”

  “I’ve heard of it. A quiet neighborhood.”

  I wrinkled my nose and checked for a signature. I couldn’t quite make it out, but the same scribble appeared in the lower right corner of both paintings. The last name started with an A. What could have attracted Rupert to these paintings? I’d never had an instinctual dislike of any of his acquisitions before. Maybe my art appreciation sensibilities weren’t developed enough. I reached for another box.

  Frankie became useless for unpacking. She laid each painting I unwrapped on a transit cart, then stooped over it, tenderly examining each one and caressing the frames.

  “Does Rupert ever sell collections or individual pieces?” she asked.

  “Not since I’ve been here. And from the state of the backlog you saw, I’d guess not ever.”

  Frankie flashed me a watery smile. “Must be nice to be so wealthy.”

  I scowled. “I’m not sure money has anything to do with it. He enjoys art for art’s sake.” I shrugged. “And has pack rat tendencies. The board’s mission is to—”

  “I know, I know,” Frankie murmured. “Expand the cultural heritage of the county.” She carefully aligned four paintings on the padded top shelf of a transit cart, tapping the corners of the frames into place. “You have to admit — money makes dreams possible.”

  I turned back to unpacking, disturbed by Frankie’s outlook. Didn’t she have any dreams that had nothing to do with money? If not, I felt very sorry for her. Maybe getting laid off, having her income abruptly halted, had altered her priorities. Suddenly what you don’t have is what you want most. I’d been through that perspective shift a time or two.

  In all, I unwrapped 19 small oil paintings, an amazing assortment of hand-carved wood percussion instruments, and three large armies of metal toy soldiers including horses, cannons, caissons, and supply wagons. The cannons reminded me of Wally, and I snapped a quick photo with my phone and sent it to him, sure he’d get a kick out of our new collection.

  The percussion instruments were the epitome of functional, custom-designed folk art — beautiful wood grain, polished to a patina through loving use, scratched and dented where they’d been struck for the desired sound. I took a few experimental taps with my fingers, listening to the hollow echoes. Either the sticks and mallets were missing or I’d overlooked them. I sifted through the packing material again.

  Nope. I picked up the basement extension and dialed Rupert’s office. “Guess what just came.”

  “Ah-ha. Be right there.”

  A few minutes later, the freight elevator doors whooshed open and Rupert appeared in his trademark tweed English driving cap, chomping on an unlit cherry Swisher Sweet cigar.

  “The Les Puces shipment. Hmmm.” He scanned the contents of the transit carts.

  I glanced around for Frankie. She had backed into a corner and was consolidating boxes and packing paper.

  I tugged on Rupert’s elbow. “I’d like you to meet Frances Cortland, our new gift shop manager.”

  “Oh.” Rupert hurried over to Frankie and touched the brim of his hat in a semi-tip. “Welcome.”

  Frankie giggled and extended her hand, which Rupert shook. “Please call me Frankie.” She pinched her collar together with her free hand, then played with her necklace again.

  “So you’ve joined our little enclave.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s just delightful. I’m so honored to be here, to be part of this. What beautiful, beautiful collections you have.”

  “Uh, well—” Rupert backed up a step and scratched beside his nose. “Really just a humble assortment of oddities. My specialty—” He tugged at his cap. “Oddities.”

  Frankie fairly tittered and batted her eyelashes.

  A giant clanging alarm went off in my head. Money — Rupert. Rupert — money. Ooooo. I glared at Frankie.

  “Um,” I said, “were there any sticks or mallets for the percussion instruments?”

  “A few sticks — I forgot. I was afraid they would break if I shipped them, so I brought them back in my carry-on luggage. I’ll bring them in tomorrow. But you’re right, some of these need mallets.” Rupert had moved back to the carts and picked up a barrel-shaped piece with a vellum drumhead. “That’s the problem with time. It separates items and people from their mates.”

  “I’ll do some research and ask Mac to make reproductions.”

  “Good idea.” Rupert moved down the row and examined an oil painting. He rolled over a spotlight we use for lighting documentation photos and clicked it on. He held the painting under the light beam.

  I joined him. “What’s their history?”

  Franki
e sidled up, intent upon the painting.

  Rupert sighed and shook his head. “The more I look at these, the more I’m sure the artist was at least partially colorblind.”

  Frankie gasped loudly. I jumped, and both Rupert and I stared at her.

  “Whoo.” Frankie laughed nervously and flushed. She fanned her face with her hand. “Just a little warm.”

  I wrinkled my nose. Hot flashes don’t make women gasp. Frankie had something fishy going on.

  Rupert cleared his throat. “Artist’s name is Baruch or Benoit Astruc.”

  “You’re not sure about his first name, or he had two first names?” I asked.

  “He used both. That I’m sure about. These paintings are from the late ‘20s through the early ‘40s. The later paintings are where the name Benoit appears. The names are related, but Baruch is historically a Jewish name, while Benoit sounds French. I’m guessing Mr. Astruc was Jewish but felt the need to mask his ethnicity as the Nazis advanced across Europe.”

  Frankie scurried to a metal folding chair and sat down hard, still fanning herself.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She nodded with a faint smile.

  Rupert set the painting down and scanned the rest, picking out the only painting with a human figure — a café scene. “I haven’t been able to find any paintings from 1942 or later. I’m guessing he was arrested and sent to an internment camp by the French as part of their efforts to appease their German occupation administrators. Look at this.” He indicated the face of the woman seated at a small table under the café’s awning. “See the detail? Her expression? I don’t know why he wasted time on landscapes when he was this good at portraiture.”

  “But,” Rupert grinned at me, “I know how much you like a mystery.”