Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (2 page)

“
Doesn’t her diaper need changing or something?” I hissed at Sheriff Marge.

She snuck a thumb behind her ever-present reading glasses and wiped away a tear.
“Right.” She nodded to the group. “Folks.” She spun on her heel and forged a wide path toward the restrooms.

“
Awfully nice to meet you.” I lunged toward Melvin, grabbed his hand and shook it again. “Let me know if the museum can be of assistance and please eat more chili.” I waved toward the buffet tables and ducked to follow Sheriff Marge before the wake she’d left closed in.

CHAPTER 2

My trajectory was snarled by politely chatting guests
— it seemed the entire county had turned out plus a huge number of people I didn’t recognize. Frankie Cortland, the Imogene’s gift shop manager and conscripted event planner, had outdone herself. The evening was already a social success. I was waiting to see if it was a financial success, but the theft turned any celebration I might have been thinking of into a catastrophe.

I finally located Sheriff Marge in the staff kitchen.

“Her diaper’s fine.” Sheriff Marge frowned. “I thought you’d want to talk to that filmmaker.”

“
You dumped him on me. He’s surprised food grows on plants? Good grief. But this is worse.” I grabbed her arm and checked the doorway to make sure no one was lurking. “A painting’s been stolen.”

Sheriff Marge
’s brows shot up. She shifted Jesamie to the opposite hip and whipped a little notebook out of her chest pocket. “Tonight? Or did you just notice tonight?”

I bit my lip.
“I can’t be sure. I walk past it all the time, but there’s no appreciating it, so I don’t stop and gaze. I’m sure it was there last Monday, but since then I couldn’t confirm.” I mentally chewed myself out. This is my museum — why hadn’t I been paying attention?

I dropped the box knife on the lunch table. My palm was sweaty from gripping it during my recent social interactions. Good thing I
’d picked it up in my left hand and kept it wrapped in silk, and that my skirt was full enough for me not to look like a major fashion faux pas while doing it.

“
I found this in the servants’ stairwell. Since the painting was cut out, I thought it might be helpful. I don’t leave open box knives lying around — it’s not mine.”

“
You got Ziploc bags?” Sheriff Marge started rummaging through drawers. “I’ll tag it.”

“
I thought I saw you dodge in here.” Strong arms encircled my waist from behind and pulled me close. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured against my cheek.

I inhaled. Pete smells so good
— licorice and faintly spicy aftershave tonight, a combination that reminded me of Christmas fruitcake. I should mention that I’m probably one of the few people on the planet who actually looks forward to holiday fruitcake deliveries. He must have just shaved. If we’d been alone, I’d have gone in for a nuzzle, but my mind snapped back to the matter at hand.

“
Third drawer down,” I told Sheriff Marge.

Pete turned me by my shoulders.
“What’s wrong?”

Wow, he looked good too. I have no idea where he got the tuxedo, but wow, wow, wow. I grinned into his crinkle-cornered sapphire blue eyes, then quickly sobered.

“A painting’s been stolen,” I whispered.

“
What is this — a private party in the kitchen?” Rupert Hagg’s deep, gravely voice boomed from the doorway.

“
Shhhh.” I pulled him into the room and closed the door. It doesn’t have a lock, so I leaned against it.

Putting it mildly, Rupert
’s portly. I think his tuxedo fit him properly about forty pounds ago. His waistcoat strained across his midsection with gaps stretched between buttons. At least his jacket hem hung below his bum because I didn’t want to see what was happening to the seat of his pants. His everyday outfit is comfortable tweeds. Tonight he looked like an overstuffed sushi roll.

Rupert glanced at each of us in turn, his flushed face falling by degrees. His patent shoes squeaked as he crossed the black and white checked linoleum and dropped into a metal folding chair.
“Tell me.”

Sheriff Marge nodded at me. I would get to do the honors.

I took a deep breath. “A painting’s been stolen.” I wondered how many more times I’d have to say those words.

Rupert gripped his knees, propping himself up.
“Which one? Only one?”

“
Only one that I know of. I’ll have to do a complete inventory—” I gestured over my shoulder toward the kitchen door and beyond, toward the swarms of festive guests. “Tomorrow. And the next day. And the next—”

Rupert watched me steadily, waiting for the bad news.

“The Cosmo Hagg still life, from the third floor.”

Rupert
’s eyes bulged. “That? Whatever for?” he spluttered. “The frame it’s in is worth more than the painting.”

“
Which they left,” I said. “They cut the canvas out.”

Rupert went beet red, hacking out a sound between grunting and choking. I stretched toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder, but he waved me away. Then I realized he was laughing
— hard — and tears streamed down his face.

“
Who knew it would come to this?” he wheezed. “I’ve hated that thing for years.”

“
Insurance value?” Sheriff Marge asked.

“
No need,” Rupert gasped. “Perhaps we should offer a reward to the person brave enough to steal it.”

Jesamie whimpered, clearly bored with the goings on, then tested a few screeches in the echo-y room.

I could tell from Sheriff Marge’s narrowed eyes that she was confounded by Rupert’s reaction. “I’ll get you a picture of the missing painting and a complete description,” I hollered over Jesamie. Sheriff Marge must have never seen the painting in person; otherwise, she’d remember it.

The kitchen door swung open and Hallie Stettler, Sheriff Marge
’s daughter-in-law, stuck her head in, an apologetic half-smile on her face. “I heard the ruckus. Need a break?”

Sheriff Marge handed Jesamie over, and Hallie backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her, dampening Jesamie
’s complaints. After five years of marriage to Sheriff Marge’s middle son, Hallie must know how to read the Stettler body language for official business. I’d noticed Ben Stettler adopting the same stiff stance, legs spread wide and arms crossed, earlier in the evening. It was the default pose for both mother and son — they were always in work mode.

“
Can you e-mail the image?” Sheriff Marge asked. “I’ll send it to neighboring law enforcement agencies and the FBI. They track stolen art.”

Rupert snorted.
“It’s a piece of crap, not art.”

“
But whoever singled it out must have a reason for doing so,” I said. “Or maybe there are others—” I didn’t want to finish. “I also think someone broke into my office. They must have picked the lock, because there’s no damage to the handle or doorframe. As far as I can tell, they didn’t disturb anything inside.”

Sheriff Marge gave a curt nod.
“I know it’s crowded, but take a walk-through. See if anything else is missing, any of your more valuable pieces. I’ll send Dale up to dust your office for prints.” Sheriff Marge removed her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He might as well check yours too, Rupert. I take it you haven’t been up there this evening?”

Rupert shook his head wearily.
“Much as I would have liked to hibernate, my duties were as a host tonight.”

I
’d seen Deputy Dale Larson and his wife, Sandy, in the dessert line earlier. It was a special occasion for them, one of their rare chances to get out as a couple without their kids. I hated to interrupt their date.

Pete slid his hand under my elbow and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I’ll go with you.”

I
’d already walked the majority of the museum’s rooms with Jesamie, but now that the demonstrations were over, the guests were inside, meandering through the building and creating a human obstacle course. Some of our rarest, and most valuable, items are small and tucked away in secure display cases scattered throughout the exhibits. It’s not like we lump them all together and label them with a big sign that says, “Look here — the most expensive stuff.” A thief would have to scope the joint first and know exactly what he was looking for to make the burglary profitable.

Pete ran interference for me, stopping to chat here and there with friends, some of whom had come great distances to lend their support. I waved, tried to appear cheerful, accepted congratulations on the success of the event and condition of the museum, all the while darting nervous glances at the display cases, ticking items off the checklist in my head.

In spite of Pete’s efforts, Barbara Segreti, proprietress of the Golden Shears Salon, cornered me near the velvet rope that blocked access to the basement stairs.

“
How is everything?” She stretched out a plump hand encased in a lace glove and patted my brown curls which were miraculously still in the elaborate pinned-up style she’d orchestrated.  “Holding up?”

I
’m not too comfortable being primped in public and tried to dodge her touch without offending her. “Perfect. Thanks. Lots of compliments.”

“
Good.” Barbara sighed and clasped her hands in front of her. She was dressed in a flowing empire waist gown which flattered her short, round form, giving her some definition. She looked worried.

She
’d probably cut, dyed, highlighted, lowlighted, straightened, curled or arranged the hair of half the ladies in attendance sometime in the past few days. Maybe the thought of so much of her handiwork on display made her nervous.

“
Are you having a good time?” I asked.

“
Of course, hon.” But Barbara’s eyes drifted across the ballroom. “Is Rupert here? I haven’t seen him.”

“
I know — it’s so crowded. Try the buffet lines. He’s bound to show up there sooner or later.”

“
Right.” Barbara nodded, her lips pressed in a thin, bright fuchsia lipsticked line. She bustled off.

I completed the tour in the photograph archive room on the second floor. Pete and I were alone because dusty cabinets stuffed with curling sepia prints and brittle negatives aren
’t particularly appealing to visitors unless they’re doing specific research. I checked the last drawer of glass slides for railroad publicity photos of the Columbia River Gorge. They’re not valuable even though there are very few left. But they’re some of my favorites, so I scanned them anyway.

“
Well?” Pete asked.

I turned to him and sighed.
“Looks good. I might have missed something, with all the people—” I bit my lip.

Pete wrapped me a tight hug, then backed off a little.
“Babe, you’re crusty.”

“
Oh.” I brushed at the snail trails on my shoulders and dress bodice. “Jesamie residue. But it all came out her top end, so it’s okay.”

Pete chuckled and pulled me close again.
“You’re worried about something more. What?”

“
I never had the painting x-rayed. Maybe I should have,” I murmured into his chest.

Pete tipped my chin up.
“Why?” His brows drew together. “It was repulsive — and I like fishing.”

I couldn
’t help smirking. I’d forgotten he’d seen the painting. “Exactly. There’s no reason for anyone to steal it unless—” I picked at one of the pearl studs in his shirt.

“
Unless?”

I took a deep breath.
“I have a horrible feeling good ol’ Cosmo might have painted over something that really is valuable — either as a joke, or as a way to protect what’s underneath.” I gritted my teeth. “It didn’t occur to me until someone else decided the painting was worth stealing.”