Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (19 page)

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 as 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.

I awoke in a haze to Maurice patting my shoulder.
“I’m just filling up, sweetheart. You comfortable?”

“
Apparently,” I mumbled.

His door whooshed open, and he climbed out. The blast of fresh air woke me the rest of the way, and I gasped, remembering. I checked my watch and peered out the window trying to peg our location.

An Alaska narrow-bodied commuter plane with a smiling Eskimo face painted on the tail roared overhead, wheels down — probably packed with the several times per day busload of passengers from Seattle, or Victoria, BC or Twin Falls. Which meant we were near Portland International Airport. 

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for Astoria Trust and Loan. This time, Selwyn came on the line almost immediately.

“We should arrive between 3:30 and 4:00,” I said.

“
109. 109,” he chanted, sounding gleeful. “I shall be ready. Do you have a case to transport the contents of the box?”

“
Oh,” I said, startled. “I’d been thinking along the lines of a will or maybe a handful of papers.”

“
109 is one of our largest boxes. I’ve never seen the contents, of course, but for John Smith to rent a box that size usually means—”

“
John Smith?”

Selwyn chuckled.
“No one ever used their real names, not for this sort of thing. At one time I had fourteen John Smiths on record. You’d think they could be a little more creative. If you have the key that fits the lock, then the contents of the box are yours. We don’t ask questions.”

“
How big?”

Selwyn considered for a moment.
“Don’t you worry, dear. I’ll make arrangements here so you won’t have a delay. See you in a couple hours.”

Now I was certain Cosmo was
— had been — certifiably crazy. Why couldn’t he have left a nice will and stash of bond certificates with his lawyer? It was as though he’d set up a scavenger hunt for his descendants — and by proxy, me. I glanced over my shoulder. The LaFerrari didn’t appear to have a trunk.