Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5)

by Jones, Jerusha

  Frankie and I loaded a plastic kiddie pool I keep on hand to help Tuppence survive hot days into the pickup’s bed.

  When we got to the museum, I gave Mom the keys to unlock the basement door.

  Frankie lingered at the passenger door, watching Mom walk away. “Meredith, I need to give you something,” she said in a low voice. She leaned into the cab, clicked open the glove compartment and pulled out a yellow sheet from a triplicate form. “This was stuck on your door last night. I pulled it off without thinking and shoved it in my purse. This morning, when I found the paper again, I skimmed over it. I shouldn’t have, I suppose. I’m sorry for intruding.”

  I took the page from her outstretched hand. A notice of repossession. Details about Mom’s Mercedes were typed in the blanks — VIN number, year, model, color, as well as Mom’s home address. The recovery agent had handwritten the address where the vehicle was seized and scrawled his name and date.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Frankie laid a protective hand over the huge agate pendant dangling from her necklace, a pinched look on her face.

  I shook my head. “She won’t even let me help — not yet anyway.” I folded the paper and stuffed it in my bag. “Did you have this much difficulty with your mother?” I meant it as a rhetorical question, but Frankie sighed.

  “Oh yes.” Her helmet hair bobbed emphatically. “Even up to the day she died, I was terrified of disappointing her. She was the icon of perfection, and I never measured up. In a way, I’m glad I don’t have children, especially not a daughter. At least no one has to deal with that kind of treatment from me. It seems inevitable that those expectations get passed along from generation to generation, although I don’t think my mother meant to inflict emotional pressure.”

  Barbara drove up and parked between my truck and Frankie’s. Shades of last night, but we were more orderly today. Sheriff Marge sat longways on Barbara’s backseat, being chauffeured in style.

  “Here, let me.” Frankie took over management of the kiddie pool.

  Barbara opened her trunk, revealing several cardboard boxes.

  “Frankie will show you where the hand truck is,” I said.

  Barbara nodded and bustled toward the museum in Frankie’s wake.

  “Now you know what it feels like,” Sheriff Marge grunted, “not being able to do things for yourself. Being coddled.”

  “Yuck.” I extended my hand and helped Sheriff Marge scoot off the seat and stand upright.

  She wedge the crutches under her armpits and fixed a stern gray gaze on me. “Ready?”

  So she had noticed that I was reluctant to enter the Imogene’s basement. I shrugged.

  “The sooner you deal with it, the better.”

  “You’ve done this before.” I limped beside her, our pace blessedly slow.

  “Unfortunately, yeah.” She stopped and shoved her glasses up with a forefinger before peering up at me, still over the top of the lenses. “I’ve never fired in anger — at least not yet. So my conscience is clear in that regard. The three men I’ve killed I did so in order to prevent them from harming or killing someone else. It’s hard to read a person’s intent — so sometimes you wonder. But Vince wasn’t trying to wing people, Meredith. He’d established a pattern of violence in a very short time, and there was no way I could let him get ahold of that gun, not so near to you.”

  I bit my lip and nodded, glancing away to blink tears out of my eyes.

  Sheriff Marge nudged me with her elbow. “I like having you around. I suspect there are quite a few people who share my opinion. Speaking of which—” Her voice lowered from contemplative to the no-nonsense timbre, her eyes narrowed. I couldn’t tell if she was irritated or secretly amused. “You did call Pete back, didn’t you? That man was driving me crazy with pestering.” She snorted and resumed her swinging, stumping gait.

  The laundry room was in disarray. Apparently the state patrol does not include housecleaning in their forensic evidence collection service. Frankie hauled the pieces of the broken rocking chair out to the dumpster while Barbara cleared off the table and picked up all the items I’d flung at Vince last night. We all tried to pretend there weren’t puddles of dried blood on the floor even as we took creative side steps and shuffles to avoid them, like some kind of awkward dance.

  Some of that blood wasn’t mine. But it looked the same — the same thick, dark rust brown drips and smears. I shuddered and reminded myself that Vince had been willing — and able — to kill me. I replayed Sheriff Marge’s words and took a deep breath. Busy — I needed to stay busy.

  I splurged on the luxury of riding the elevator instead of climbing three flights of stairs to retrieve my laptop from my office. I didn’t wake up Leland Smiley as I had feared I would. He graciously claimed he was already on his second cup of tea, although his voice still held hints of early morning frogginess.

  When I’d explained our recent developments, Leland jumped into action, directing me to his Skype account and giving me a list of tools and supplies to assemble. Back in the laundry room, I set the laptop up on the corner of a washing machine so Leland could have a good view through the webcam.

  Frankie stood on a chair and opened the two small windows that were above ground level. Barbara helped her prop oscillating fans on the ledges, and Mom plugged in a big box fan and set it in the doorway, aimed out into the basement. We’d be working in a windstorm, but it was a better option than passing out or risking a flash fire from the fumes.

  We lifted the kiddie pool onto the table and unfurled the painting face up in the big plastic tub. It was too big to lie flat, and it rippled in the bottom like wave-washed sand. Really ugly sand.

  I turned on the laptop and connected with Leland. He must have been leaning into his video camera because his face loomed on the monitor, all nose and chin and independently-minded bushy white eyebrows.

  “Good morning,” I shouted over the fans. “This is Frankie, Barbara, and my mother, Pamela.” I pointed in turn to each of the women standing around the table wearing bright yellow rubber gloves that reached their elbows and stiff waterproof aprons. “Also, our sheriff, Marge Stettler.” I turned the laptop so he could see Sheriff Marge resting on a low ottoman upholstered in psychedelic fabric featuring puce pineapples and fleurs de lis. Over the years, the mansion has experienced its share of truly awful home decorating concepts, the remnants of which have accumulated in the basement.

  “Ladies,” Leland said, “you have a big job ahead of you. Ready?” He rubbed his hands together in front of the camera. I’m sure he would have preferred to join us in person.

  We followed his instructions, emptying gallon after gallon of Barbara’s nail polish remover into the kiddie pool until the canvas was submerged. Leland provided a running educational commentary while we went to work with stiff brushes. In a more sensitive case, where the painting was of value, we would have needed to use pure acetone and spot treated the canvas. But since our goal was to remove all the paint and dissolve it into a liquid slurry, the extra ingredients in the nail polish remover didn’t matter.

  The paint was forty years dry and stubborn. The motion Leland had us use was like currying a horse, and my arm muscles let me know they didn’t appreciate the unusual exertion. Sweat dripped off my forehead, and my thigh throbbed under the pressure bandage. I leaned hard against the table, trying to transfer most of my weight to my good leg.

  I glanced at Mom who was scrubbing one-armed. She held her injured arm snug across her body. I leaned near her ear. “Want to take a break?”

  “No way,” she shot back. “This is too exciting.”

  The clump of tangled fishing line Cosmo had glued to the painting floated by. I scooped it out, gently shook it free of droplets and set it on a pad of paper towels we’d laid under the table.

  The acetone bath was turning murky. I ran my gloved fingers over the surface of the painting, applying a putty knife to the biggest paint clumps.

  Leland’s monologue dwindled. It had
to be boring watching the backsides of four women huddled over a kiddie pool.

  “Should I call you back when we’re finished?” I hollered, looking up to catch his eye on the camera.

  “No, no, no. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. But I am going to nip out for more tea.” He stood and sidestepped off the screen, leaving his empty chair spinning.

  “Barbara,” Sheriff Marge shouted, “I’m still trying to figure it out — how’d you smuggle the painting down here?”

  Barbara extended her lower lip and blew at a few wisps of hair that had come loose from her beehive and were floating about her face. “Laundry chute. I couldn’t drag that huge roll through the crowd of guests at the fundraiser. Then I hurried down the servants’ stairwell and pulled it out of the cart.” She nodded toward the big spring-loaded canvas cart that we had shoved aside.

  The cart’s normally positioned under the laundry chute as a safety measure. If someone fell down the chute, it would act as a sort of stiff trampoline, absorbing much of the impact. The freefalling daredevil would be banged and bruised up but would likely survive the fall, as I knew firsthand.

  “Meredith almost caught me coming back up. Do you remember?” Barbara added.

  I frowned. “That evening’s a bit of a blur for me. I was frantic after I saw the empty frame.”

  “I’m sorry. But now you know—” Barbara’s eyes drifted to the biggest blood stain on the floor. “I thought for sure you’d notice I was panting and sweating from dashing up the basement stairs. I did the first thing I could think of — ask about your hair.”

  I chuckled. “It worked. But how did you know about the laundry chute? We don’t advertise its presence because it’s such a hazard.”

  An impish grin spread across Barbara’s face. “I grew up here — remember? Rupert and I used to spend hours playing hide-and-seek in this old place. I know all its nooks and crannies. I just don’t fit in most of them anymore.”

  “Wow. I guess I just didn’t think—” I shook my head.

  “That Rupert and I were kids once? I was a year behind him in school.” Barbara’s face turned wistful, and the way she said Rupert’s name triggered a little bell in my head. Hmmm.

  “Oh!” Mom said. She started patting the bottom of the kiddie pool. “I just felt — there it is.” She pulled a clenched gloved fist out of the mucky liquid and opened her hand, palm up.

  A dull brass key.

  “What?” Sheriff Marge heaved herself up on her crutches and crowded in beside me.

  I glanced around our group. We were all holding our breath. I hated to disappoint them. “Not quite what I was expecting.”

  Mom dropped the key into my hand, and I rubbed it hard with my thumb.

  “There’s engraving on the bow — hand done, though, and faint.” I squinted at the key then up at the circle of anxious ladies. “I have a magnifying glass in my office.”

  “Go ahead,” Sheriff Marge said. “I’ll take your place here.” She propped herself against the table and gestured for me to hand over my rubber gloves.

  “What were you expecting?” Frankie asked.

  “Gold dust.” Leland answered for me from the laptop. “It’s there. I’m sure of it. Sprinkled onto the wet layers of paint, then painted over and over again.”

  “So that’s why it was so thick.” Mom’s eyes were wide.

  “And to hide this.” I held up the key. “Probably under that wad of fishing line.”

  “Gold?” Barbara stared at her hands submerged in the dirty bath, glanced up at me with an excited smile, then resumed scrubbing with vigor.

  CHAPTER 19

  I set up the clamp-on magnifying glass and sank into my office chair. I pulled over the trash can and propped my leg up, releasing a hefty sigh. The sight of my monstrously swollen ankle made me wince. Actually, I didn’t have an ankle — my entire leg was puffed to the point of having no contours — just a log in a hideous shade of yellowish lavender with a shoe at the end.

  A skirt was the only thing I’d been able to wear on my lower half today, but that meant everyone was treated to a view of my sickening misshapenness. Ugh. Vanity — all is vanity.

  I clicked on the lamp and held the key under the magnifying glass. If I tilted it just right, scratchy letters appeared — and a number. I grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and wrote.

  Astoria Vault & Trust #109.

  Astoria. There are a lot of Astorias in the United States, but I had a sinking feeling I knew which Astoria this was — Astoria, Oregon, where Cosmo had been swept overboard off a chartered fishing boat and drowned.

  I fired up the cranky old PC and did an Internet search. The only bank in Astoria that wasn’t part of a regional or national chain was Astoria Trust and Loan. Not exactly the same name, but worth a phone call. Maybe Cosmo had abbreviated when etching the key, or maybe the bank’s name had changed sometime in the past forty years.

  When a pleasant-voiced woman answered, I explained my problem.

  “Astoria Vault & Trust? You need to talk to Selwyn,” she said. “One moment.”

  There followed ten minutes of inane elevator music which gave me plenty of time to contemplate Cosmo’s vagaries. He certainly upheld the Hagg family tradition of eccentricity. What was he up to — posthumously?

  Finally, a click and a “Hello?”

  “Yes.” I straightened quickly. “Selwyn?

  He chuckled. “That’s me. Selwyn Ferguson at your service.”

  “I’ve just found a key, hand-etched. It says Astoria Vault & Trust #109. Do you know what it might be for?”

  “109, you say? At last.” His mellow tenor voice trembled.

  “At last?”

  “We only have three occupied boxes left. 109 is one of them. It’s been five years since the contents of any boxes were retrieved. That year we found two key-bearers. We’re making progress.” He sounded genuinely excited.

  What kind of business was he in that having a customer every five years was good news? “What do I do with the key?”

  “Bring it in, of course. As soon as possible.”

  “It’s Thursday,” I murmured, thinking through my schedule.

  “We’re open until 5:00 p.m.” Selwyn panted into the phone. “I could arrange to stay late if I know you’re coming.”

  “Today?” Why was he so eager?

  My phone emitted the soft buzz that I had another call. “Can you hold?” I punched a button.

  “Meredith?”

  I smiled at the accent. “Maurice. Thanks so much for your information. I haven’t heard yet about the results, but I know the sheriff’s department executed a search warrant on the Lamborghini owner’s property last night.”

  “Awesome.” I could hear the grin in his voice. “I’m outside.”

  “What?”

  “The sign says the museum should be open by now, but the doors are locked.”

  “Oh.” I checked my watch to verify — 11:14 a.m. Late because my staff of one was up to her elbows in acetone in the basement. “You’re here — in your fast car?”

  “That’s the only way I roll, sweetheart. You going to let me in?”

  “I’ll be right down.” I switched over to Selwyn. “I have an idea. I may be able to make it today. Are you at the same location as Astoria Trust and Loan?”

  “Yes, yes, the embarrassing stepchild in the basement.”

  “If it works out, I’ll call you from the road to let you know my estimated time of arrival.” I clicked off and hobbled to the elevator.

  oOo

  “What happened to you?” Gentleman that he was, Maurice was trying not to stare, but frankly, my leg was an eye-magnet. There’s nothing quite like grossing out a nice man with a fast car.

  “Bullet wound. Nothing serious.”

  “Bullet — serious?” Maurice spluttered. “You should be lying down — sitting at the least.” He grasped my elbow and ushered me into the gift shop.

  “Ooof.” I braced a hand against the counter a
s he boosted me up on the stool behind the cash register. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “This will not do.” Maurice snatched an embroidered cushion that said ‘Old fishermen don’t die, they just smell that way’ from a display rack, knelt on one knee and scooped up my leg, resting my ankle on top of the pillow on his other knee. He frowned up at me, his mustache angled down.

  Talk about awkward. If I kept looking at him, I was going to burst out laughing. I quickly picked up the manila envelope he’d tossed on the counter. “You brought back the canvas strips.”

  “Leland said you’d want them. Something about metal traces.”

  “Right.” I’d add them to the acetone soup downstairs. “Remember that ride you offered me?”

  “I was hoping you’d bring that up.” Maurice grinned, revealing a row of neat even teeth below the mustache and a rosy lower lip.

  “How do you feel about Astoria? Now?” I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to show him how anxious I was. It’s at least a three-hour drive, one-way. With rush hour on the edge of Portland, it could be much more. “I need to get to a bank before they close.”

  “Giving me a challenge, sweetheart? Say no more.”

  I filled in the ladies and Leland. We made the executive decision to keep the museum closed for the day since we had more pressing matters to attend to. Frankie, Barbara, Mom and even Sheriff Marge trooped outside to help me slide into Maurice’s passenger seat underneath the wing door and see us off.

  Maurice wore driving gloves and the machine rose rapidly through her gears. I felt sucked backwards into the low recumbent seat. Maurice had such a determined look of fierce concentration on his face that I didn’t think conversation was a good idea. And the scenery, which I normally enjoy, flew past so fast I was getting sick to my stomach. Between my next dose of Vicodin, my lack of sleep the night before and the engine’s droning, guttural vibrations, the moment I closed my eyes, I dropped off.