Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (18 page)

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 caf
é 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.