Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (15 page)

“
You with the film crew?” Mom asked.

“
Sorta.” He ran a hand over his short hair, effectively revealing his ripped abs through his stretched t-shirt.

“
Hmmm.” Mom took a sip from her tea bottle and returned her attention to the film set. She rested her left hand on the tabletop, and the diamond in her ring flashed in the dappled sunlight.

The man scowled, gave Mom one more thorough look-over, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed for the parking lot.

“Good grief. Mom. Didn’t I just give you a cautionary lecture about this — this—” I ran out of words for the magnitude of our problems. “What are you doing?” My voice pitched up in irritation.

“
Don’t overreact.” Mom removed the envelope from her pocketbook. “This looked like it might be interesting.”

The envelope, crinkled and dirt-creased, was folded to size around the contents. Mom coaxed the envelope open and slid several photos out. She spread them on the table.

I jabbed a finger at the picture closest to me — a snapshot of Cosmo’s painting, set on an easel.

Mom tipped up the photo.
“This isn’t the same image you have for museum documentation.”

I shook my head.
“Looks like it was taken before it was donated.”

The other photos were eerily familiar
— duplicates from the backyard barbecue featuring, again, Cosmo, Gnocchi and Juice. How many people had had access to the negatives back in the day — or still? These guys seemed to have a regular paparazzi following.

Why was the goon walking around with a picture of Cosmo
’s painting? Was he looking for it too? Join the club.

I bit my lip as the thought sank in. If he
was
looking for it, and he was still hanging around, that meant he wasn’t the thief. The same hypothesis ruled out Melvin and Tiffany as well — their unexpected interest in the painting during their visit to the museum yesterday indicated they didn’t yet know it was missing. Or were they playacting?

Maybe I should be glad the painting had been stolen, if for no other reason than to keep it out of the hands of these three characters. But why would they want it?

“I don’t know why I didn’t notice before,” Mom muttered. She was squinting at a photo she was holding at arm’s length in front of her.

“
What?”

She slid the photo sideways, then back again.
“See the resemblance?”

“
To what? You’re going to have to help me out here.”

“
Melvin and this tall, dark man — Juice, was it?”

I darted a glance toward Melvin, in full director, arm-waving mode, then drew back to look at the skinny, stooped man standing next to Cosmo in the photo and holding a beer bottle in his overly-large hand. Probably similar heights, certainly similar body builds, the same disproportionate limbs, but there are many tall, gangly men in this world.

Then Melvin turned, and I caught his pointy profile. “Oh!”

“
See? Unmistakable.”

“
Thanks for waiting,” Saskia called from the kitchen doorway. 

Mom gathered the photos and dropped them face-down in her lap just as Saskia arrived with our sandwiches.

“He’s kind of handsome, isn’t he?” Saskia grinned.

“
Who?” Mom asked.

“
Vince. The big guy — muscles, military-cut black hair?” Saskia pulled a couple napkins from her apron pocket and tucked them under our plates. “I saw him out here on the patio a few minutes ago. Doesn’t say much, but he’s been hanging around, kinda separate from the rest of the crew.” She leaned over and whispered. “I think he’s a bodyguard or something. He’s carrying, concealed.”

I almost dropped my dill pickle spear.
“How do you know?”

“
Saw a bulge at his waistband, in his center back, when he bent over once. I guess his t-shirt is too tight to hide a shoulder holster. But wouldn’t an ankle holster be more comfortable?” Saskia shrugged. “Whatever floats his boat. Me — I prefer my bra holster. I have
three
girls.” She winked and returned to the kitchen.

I scowled at my sandwich. I didn
’t know which was more disturbing — finding out that the goon was armed or that my food server knew so much about gun accessories.

CHAPTER 15

The afternoon seemed to drag forever. Mom and I retreated to the coolness of the basement and exhibited remarkable diligence in documenting the Bakelite jewelry. But the task wasn
’t demanding, and left too many of my gray cells free to mull over my compounding problems.

I tried to separate, compartmentalize. I really only had one major issue
— Cosmo’s painting — where it was and what it was, or wasn’t. So many question marks.

But other people
’s potential disasters swirled around, creeping closer and closer — Mom’s secrets; Melvin’s and Tiffany’s financial woes; and the hired gun, Vince. The only thing I felt comfortable ruling out as cause for concern was Pete and Tiffany’s past relationship. Tiffany was sticking with her man — Melvin. And that worried me even more.

A call from Maurice was the only highlight in the interminable hours.

“He’s a sketchy fellow, but I found him,” he said. “Yellow Lamborghini purchased through Freewald Luxury Motors in San Diego. He picked it up, straight off the freighter from Italy, at the Long Beach docks and drove it home. A whole string of sightings and chases by police in small coastal towns along Highway 101 about a month ago. The guy has a lead foot. On his own personal Cannonball Run or something.”

“
And you know his name?” I almost squealed.

“
Better than that, sweetheart. I know his address too. What did I tell ya about my contacts?”

“
You’re sure he’s the one?”

“
Only three yellow Lamborghinis have been purchased and delivered to the West Coast in the past eighteen months. The other two were properly registered by their owners in a timely manner, both in California. Nope, he’s the only new yellow owner in the Pacific Northwest in recent memory.”

“
I owe you dinner.”

“
Dinner and a drive,” Maurice countered.

“
Deal.”

Maurice rattled off the Lamborghini owner
’s information. I had him repeat it, with spellings, to make sure I didn’t misinterpret his accented words.

After hanging up with Maurice, I checked the address online. The owner did actually live in
Sockeye County, barely — out on barren rangeland in the northeast corner of the county where he probably had room for his own private racetrack. Locally, the Lamborghini sightings had only been late at night or in the early morning hours. Sometimes wealth exacerbates reclusive, anti-social tendencies.

I didn
’t want Sheriff Marge to know I’d been nosing about in her business, so I called Dale. “I have a bead on that unregistered Lamborghini.”

I grinned at Dale
’s excited exclamation as he scrabbled for his notebook.

“
How did you—? You know what — I don’t want to know. What you got?”

“
Friend of a friend of a friend. All legit and confirmed. I bet the closest neighbors could verify.” I gave him the name and address.

“
Shoot.” Dale sounded immensely pleased. “I’ll see if Judge Lumpkin would like to sign a search warrant.”

“
Gives you something to do, anyway,” I said, still grinning. “You going to tell Sheriff Marge?”

“
No way. She’d insist on going. Can you imagine? With that cast, hobbling around a ranch. I can’t be responsible for her if she decided to accidentally smash the thing’s headlights or add a few dents with her crutch. She’s definitely carrying a grudge. Did you know this is the first time she’s ever been laid up, since she’s been sheriff?”

“
She’s a trooper.” I knew Dale was joking about Sheriff Marge seeking personal retribution. She’s a stickler for the intent of the law. Sometimes she skirts around the letter of the law a little if needed — the same way a mother would let a punishment slide if she thinks her child’s repentant and has learned his lesson already. No point in heaping up consequences and damaging a person’s reputation unnecessarily. “Just to check — no word on the painting?”

“
Nope. Sorry.”

“
Okay.” I sighed. “Have fun.”

“
You bet.” Dale hung up.

oOo

Mom and I were following our evening ritual — the one we’d developed to have some alone time even though we were spending every day, all day, in each other’s company. She was washing up the dinner dishes while I puttered around outside on the pretense of tending to Tuppence.

A white Ford Crown Vic with the county logo on the side pulled up in front of my trailer, and Dale climbed out of the driver
’s side. “Hey, Meredith.” He hurried over. “I brought you a visitor.” He glanced back at the car and said out of the side of his mouth, “She’s determined to get out and about.”

The passenger door slowly opened, and the rubber tip of a crutch hit the ground.

“Can I help?” I asked, starting forward.

“
Naw.” Dale grabbed my elbow. “She wants to do it herself. Besides, I need to tell you—” He turned away from the car to gaze at the river, still speaking. “Got the warrant. I figured you could keep her busy tonight while we—”

“
What’re you mumbling about?” Sheriff Marge’s brusque voice sounded behind us.

“
Just explaining the situation to Meredith, about taking you home later,” Dale replied quickly.

“
Sorry about that,” Sheriff Marge huffed. “Until I get this thing off—” she smacked the side of her full-leg cast, “I can’t—” she clenched her jaw, “—drive.” She peered at me over her reading glasses, and I realized how much she hated saying the word ‘can’t.’

Mom pushed open the trailer door.
“I thought I heard voices. Hello.”

“
Pam.” Dale touched the brim of his Stratton hat to Mom, then he ducked his head close to my ear. “Okay?”

“
Yes.” I nodded emphatically so he’d know I meant yes to everything. I’d do my best to distract Sheriff Marge from wondering what her deputies were doing on such a fine evening.

We weren
’t off to a good start, though, because Sheriff Marge was glaring at us, back and forth between Dale and me.

“
Right then.” Dale gave Mom one more nod and escaped to his car.

“
How are you?” I started with a falsely upbeat smile.

“
Gotta minute?” Sheriff Marge said in a low voice.

“
Uh, yes?” I was planning on most of the night, but she didn’t know that — I hoped she didn’t, anyway.

“
Privately.” Sheriff Marge muttered and tipped her head toward the fifth-wheel.

I glanced up at Mom still in the doorway, and then it dawned on me.

“Mom,” I called, “there’s peppermint ice cream in the freezer. Could you load that between the chocolate cookies I made the other day? Sheriff Marge is staying for dessert.”

Mom frowned, but her good breeding forced out a cheerful,
“Of course.” She disappeared into the trailer.

Sheriff Marge clumped over to the picnic table, managing her crutches surprisingly efficiently for not having much of a swinging radius, and eased onto a bench.
“Got a visit at the office today from a repo man. I was alone when he came, so nobody else knows yet. That’s why I had Dale bring me over, besides the fact I know I’m driving my deputies crazy. Thought it best to get out of their hair for a while.”

I sank down beside her.
“What don’t they know? I don’t understand.”

Tuppence ambled over and laid her muzzle on Sheriff Marge
’s thigh.

Sheriff Marge absently stroked the hound
’s head. “Your mom. He was tracing her Mercedes. I didn’t give him any help, but he’s a smart guy. He’ll find it tonight or tomorrow.”

I inhaled. It was a lot to take in.
“So her car’s going to be repossessed? Why did he stop by the sheriff’s office?”

“
It’s a courtesy the more reputable firms extend to local law enforcement — to let us know they’ll be taking action in our jurisdiction.”

“
How much trouble is she in?” I whispered.

Sheriff Marge shrugged.
“Nothing you imagined — no police reports, no arrests. I got whiffs of financial problems in my searches, though — a few accounts sent to collections.” She turned to face me. “I’ve done all I can. Anything else you’ll have to learn from her.”

I nodded.
“Thanks.”

Mom brought out the ice cream sandwiches. I made mine last as long as possible, nibbling and licking down to the last smooshy morsel. I just wasn
’t up to faking pleasant conversation at the moment.

Then the
California motorcoaches pulled into their spots, and the crew emerged, giving us something to watch and postponing conversation even further. Doors slammed. People hollered at each other. Barbecues were ignited. From the savory smoke drifting our way, I’d say a few of the crew members knew about good food. Too bad Melvin hadn’t asked for their help on the script.

I was debating whether or not to tell Sheriff Marge about the photos Mom had swiped from Vince
’s backpack when I caught the sound of my phone ringing from the trailer. I scooted off the bench and trotted to the RV.

Breathless, I picked up.

“Meredith? Meredith?” The woman’s voice was frantic. “It’s Barbara. Barbara Segreti.”

“
Are you okay?”

“
I-I don’t know. Yes, I think so. Yes. Yes, I am.” Her voice got stronger the more she talked, but her repetitions didn’t sound right to me.

“
Barbara, what’s happened?” I hopped off the fifth-wheel’s steps and hurried toward the picnic table.

“
They know,” she whispered. “They know.”

“
Who knows?” I laid a hand on Sheriff Marge’s shoulder and mouthed Barbara’s name.

Sheriff Marge scooped a hand, indicating I should let her listen in. I bent my head near Sheriff Marge
’s and held the phone so we could both hear.

“
The family. They know. They sent a message.”

Sheriff Marge prompted me with a nod.
“What kind of message?” I asked.

“
They trashed my shop. It’s all — it’s all—” Barbara was breathing hard. I heard crunching, clinking noises in the background, as if she was stepping on broken glass, shoving things out of her way.

“
Vandals?”

“
No. The family.”

She wasn
’t making sense. “Barbara, Sheriff Marge is here with me. We’re coming over.”

“
No — no. We have to go to the museum — before it’s too late.”

“
The Imogene?”