Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (3 page)

“
What can you do now?”

“
I can have the paint on the canvas bits still pinched in the frame analyzed. Maybe the pigments are different ages or different types which might indicate multiple layers.”

oOo

It took a couple more hours for the museum to empty out. The guests seemed reluctant to return to real life. Frankie offered to stay and lock up after the catering crew, so I kissed Pete goodnight, drove to my fifth-wheel trailer, fed my hound Tuppence, stripped off my gown and flopped in bed without bothering to wash my face or brush my teeth.

But lying there in the dark, my brain went into overdrive. Why was such a personal item taken? A Hagg family piece. Was it revenge or a vendetta of some kind? I couldn
’t shake the idea that whoever stole the painting knew the family’s history.

Tomorrow, I would need to take an accounting of the collections in the basement. I was slowly working through the backlog down there, and most of it hadn
’t been documented yet. There’d be no way other than a visual inspection to know if anything had been stolen from among the boxes and crates piled in the cavernous room that ran almost the entire length of the old mansion.

I also kept coming back to the hunch that the painting must have been stolen during normal visiting hours if not tonight. The only reason I could see for cutting the canvas from the frame was to be able to roll up the painting in order to sneak it out of the building. Still, a tube 54
” long would be noticeable. I flipped through my mental images of the evening, trying to remember if I’d seen anyone with such a bulky package. It’s hard to hide something that long when you’re wearing black tie. Since it was August no trench coats had been in attendance.

The catering crew might have had opportunity
— and large equipment that could be used to conceal the painting. But they were all ladies I knew — or at least I recognized their husbands. Finney had recruited the wives of some of his regular customers at the Burger Basket and Bait Shop — retired men who fished from the marina boardwalks and shot the breeze daily with their cronies. The ladies were a sweet bunch and had been so excited about the opportunity when I checked on them a few minutes before we opened the doors. They'd done a great job of applying motherly pressure to make sure the guests sampled Finney's approximation of cowboy fare — five-bean chili, blue cheese corncakes, sweet potato fries, grilled veggie kabobs, and best of all, apple fritters and peach turnovers. Finney is indeed a master of the deep fat fryer.

An hour later, I was still wide awake and stewing. My phone rang, loud against the white noise of the campground
’s sprinkler system cycling through its nightly rotation. I rolled over, checked the red clock numbers — 2:12 a.m. — and grabbed the phone.

“
Yeah?” I grunted.

“
Meredith?” A timid female voice. “It’s Hallie Stettler. Mom’s been in an accident. She’s at the hospital in Lupine. I just thought — maybe — would you come? I got your number from her phone.”

“
Sheriff Marge?” I leaped out of bed, my heart pounding. “Is she okay? How bad is it?”

“
I don’t know yet. We just got here.” Hallie sounded close to tears, and I heard Jesamie wailing in the background.

“
Twenty minutes, tops.” I hopped around, trying to pull on a pair of shorts one-handed. “I’m coming.”

CHAPTER 3

I raced along a deserted Highway 14 and careened into the hospital
’s parking lot. I sprinted to the double sliding glass doors of the emergency room entrance.

Hallie waited just inside, bouncing a screaming Jesamie on her hip.
“Could you take her, please? The doctor wants to speak with us, but—”

“
Sure.” I scooped the baby against my chest and cuddled her.

Hallie shot me a distracted half-smile and hurried toward a curtained-off side room. My stomach knotted tight around my worry, but I turned to the teary and distraught matter at hand.

Drawing on my wealth of experience from the fundraiser, I paced with Jesamie in the empty waiting room, humming to her. Poor kid. Maybe she had colic. Her sleep schedule must have gone haywire with the plane trip out here, staying in a new place, being jostled through a crowded event, then dashing to the hospital in the middle of the night, not to mention meeting her grandmother for the first time.

I
’ve always loved kids, as long as they’re somebody else’s. The biological clock — the burning desire for motherhood — that other women talk about is notably absent in my case. I’d rather plan a fun craft or science project, play with the kids and then send them home when they’re tired, which is why the museum has several hands-on exhibits designed especially for children and the young at heart.

A soft hand squeezed my arm, and I turned. Gemma. I sighed with relief.

Gemma’s the nurse who took such good care of my friend, George, a few weeks ago — saved his life, really. She’s one of those take-charge people who bosses you around, and you come away grateful for the instruction.

“
Let me.” She gestured for me to hand over the sobbing Jesamie. “You watch football?”

I nodded.

“Hold her like this.” Gemma demonstrated a tight football tuck with her right arm, the way coaches wish wide receivers and running backs would cradle the ball and quit showboating.

Jesamie gurgled and calmed into jerky sighs. Just like that, her little body relaxed.

Gemma blinked at me with giant pale green eyes behind burgundy-framed cat’s eye glasses. “Snug. So she knows you’re there, but has room to wriggle. Helps the gas pass. Think you can do it?”

“
You’re amazing.” I stretched my arms to assume the correct hold on Jesamie.

“
I’m old. I’ve done this too many times to count.”

“
What do you know about Sheriff Marge? Can you tell me?”

Gemma pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded.
“You’re close enough to family. It’ll be all over the county later this morning anyway. Wrapped her Explorer around a tree.”

I groaned. Sheriff Marge always drives fast, as though every moment of her life is an emergency. Given her job and how thinly stretched she and her deputies are, most of the time, that
’s true.

“
Whole left side’s banged up. Broken femur for sure, maybe broken arm bones. Back pain. Doc just got the x-rays, and he’s discussing treatment with her son and daughter-in-law while the OR nurses are prepping Sheriff Marge for surgery.”

“
This won’t be—” I gulped a breath, “career-ending, will it?”

Gemma snorted.
“Sheriff Marge? Not likely. But the recuperation time — kick in the pants, that’ll be. She’ll need someone at home, to help care for her.”

Jesamie was drooling on my arm. I massaged her back with my free hand, frowning.
“Maybe we can do it in shifts.”

The scooped ends of Gemma
’s shellacked bouffant bobbed. “She’s gonna get cranky, being cooped up.”

I frowned.
“No kidding.”

“
Meredith. Gemma.” Deputy Dale Larson hurried up. “How is she?”

“
She’ll live,” Gemma said.

“
Well, I figured that, given the way she was ranting about the Lamborghini driver.” Dale shook his head with a wry grin. “Whooo.”

“
What happened?” I asked.

“
She finally got a bead on the phantom Lamborghini. He’s been on WSP’s radar the past few weeks, hitting speeds near 200mph, always after dark, but no one’s caught him yet. She missed a curve on Highway 14 near the Benton County line. Her SUV’s in chunks. Verle had to bring his flatbed tow truck out to pick up the pieces.”

Dale ran a hand through his short hair and exhaled.
“She’s really okay?”

“
I’m pretty sure all her broken parts are fixable.” Gemma patted his arm. “But she’ll need time to mend.”

Dale sank into a mustard yellow vinyl-coated waiting room chair and stretched his legs out, nodding. He scrubbed a hand over his 3:00 a.m. beard shadow and exhaled again.
“Okay. Ben and Hallie know?”

I rocked Jesamie his direction.

“Right. Man, I’m exhausted. You just don’t expect to have to respond to the scene of your boss’s wreck, you know?” Dale shook his head.

I perched on the edge of the chair beside him and eased Jesamie onto my lap. Her tiny, wet eyelashes rested on pink cheeks. She gave a shuddery sigh, but didn
’t wake.

“
Peaceful,” Dale said. “At least someone around here gets to sleep.”

“
It’ll be hours,” Gemma said. “You all could go home.”

Dale and I glanced at each other. His brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but unwavering.

“We’re staying,” I said.

“
Thought so. I’ll see about coffee.” Gemma’s stiff uniform swished as she strode away.

“
Since you’re here, and I’m here, how ‘bout some fingerprints?” Dale asked. “I need to take yours so I can eliminate them from the prints I lifted in your office today—” his brows drew together and he frowned “—yesterday.”

I nodded.

Dale retrieved the kit from his cruiser. Ben and Hallie joined us, silent and worried.

Once Dale had captured my fingerprints with the digital scanner, I slouched in the chair and tucked Jesamie
’s fuzzy head under my chin, her soft little body snuggled against mine. Hallie was too preoccupied to ask for her back, and I didn’t want to relinquish the infant anyway. She was solid and warm and comforting to hold onto while I waited.

oOo

I ended up getting home after daybreak. Sheriff Marge’s surgery went better than the doctor expected, with both breaks in her femur clean but still needing pins. Her elbow turned out to be sprained, not broken as originally feared. She was going to be sore for a very long time.

I
’d been allowed to slip into her room for a moment, to confirm to my satisfaction that she really was alive. She’d grunted and opened one gray eye for a second when I’d squeezed her hand. It would have to do, for now.

I unlocked the fifth-wheel, trudged up the steps and dumped my purse on the kitchen table. I stared, blurry-eyed and groggy, at the coffee maker. There was no point in going to bed. Not considering what I needed to accomplish today.

Tuppence whined and stretched on her big pillow bed, then tucked her nose back under her haunch and resumed snoring.

I poked the coffee maker start button and stumbled into the bathroom. Maybe a cold shower would jolt me to full consciousness.

It did — for about ten minutes. As I pulled on a work-appropriate blouse and skirt, my numbness returned. It was going to be a multi-espresso day.

The Imogene felt like a ghost mansion when I unlocked the front doors and stepped through them, insulated coffee mug in hand. Crumpled paper napkins had been swirled into the ballroom
’s corners by the whoosh of long-skirted evening gowns. Corncake crumbs and dropped sweet potato fries lay squashed on the floor. The stale air still smelled of chili.

The Imogene
’s seen her share of parties. I wondered if the next day always carried this sense of abandonment even when the mansion served as the Hagg family’s vacation home.

“
Don’t worry about the mess.” Frankie breezed in behind me. “I arranged for a double cleaning crew today.”

I sighed and turned to her.

Frankie stopped in her tracks, her dimple disappearing. “What happened to you?”

Where to start? I explained about Sheriff Marge
’s collision.

Frankie
’s hand fluttered to her mouth.

“
She’ll be okay, eventually.” I rubbed my forehead. “But there’s something else. You know Cosmo Hagg’s still life of a salmon and fishing gear on the third floor?”

Frankie
’s face puckered in distaste. “Yes?”

“
When was the last time you saw it?”

“
Oh. Gosh, I don’t know. It’s just there.”

“
Not anymore.”

Frankie clutched the pendant on her necklace, frowning.
“What do you mean?”

“
It was stolen sometime in the past few days, cut from the frame.”

Frankie yanked on the hem of her emerald green jacket and bit her lips. Her face flushed. A giggle escaped. Then peals of laughter. Her brown helmet hair vibrated.

I scowled. Were Sheriff Marge and I the only ones taking the theft seriously? Then I remembered that Sheriff Marge hadn’t seen the painting. Everyone who knew the painting was exhibiting extreme glee at its disappearance — except me.

“
Oh dear,” Frankie wheezed. “I suppose that’s bad?”

“
I need to inventory the rest of our exhibits and undocumented items today to see if anything else was stolen.”

“
Oh.” Frankie’s brows arched, and her smile went slack. “What can I do to help?”

“
For one, let’s keep this confidential. I don’t want our lack of security advertised. And I’ll finish sooner if I’m not interrupted.”

Frankie nodded.
“I’ll hold your calls, sign for any deliveries and keep visitors out of your way.”

I expelled a big breath.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be grouchy. I suppose there’s a chance the painting’s been stashed somewhere in the building. It’s probably been rolled into a tube, 54” long. Did you see any of our guests with something that size last night?”

“
No. But I’ll check every inch of the main floor today.” Frankie patted my arm, worry wrinkles creasing her forehead. “Maybe it’s just a prank.”

oOo

I started in the basement and chided myself for not having taken pictures of the piles of boxes and crates — to have at least some kind of record of what’s down there. Better late than never, I flipped on every light switch and snapped a series of frames with our digital camera for a panorama view of the Imogene’s storage area.

Then I grabbed our heavy-duty emergency flashlight and walked slowly down the center aisle using the extra illumination to scan the front edges and between each stack of boxes checking for disturbance in the dust on the concrete floor.