Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (14 page)

“
Well, that’s your call.” I rose and stared down at her. She really was scared. And the way the goon had referred to her as a complication, a distraction didn’t bode well for her future. “Even if Melvin won’t take action, you need to — for your own safety. It’s not too late.”

“
He needs me,” Tiffany whimpered. “I can’t leave him. He can’t function without me.”

I didn
’t doubt it. “Is it worth risking your life over? Melvin’s life too?”

“
He’s going to win an award.” Tiffany blinked red-rimmed eyes. “I know it.”

“
Don’t pretend with me. We both know that’s not going to happen.”

“
Get out,” Tiffany hissed. She flung an arm out, pointing toward the door, as if I didn’t know the way.

I stepped back.
“The sheriff’s a friend of mine. I can help connect you with her if you want. But it’ll only work if you’re willing to face reality.”

“
Get out!” Tiffany dug her nails into the edge of the mattress, the muscles in her forearms bulging as though she was about to spring off the bed.

“
You know where to find me.”

I fled to the freedom of the outdoors and fresh air and the absence of hysteria. You know where to find me? Why on earth had I said that? Now I
’d be jumping at every branch crackle and pinecone dropping on the lawn. I fought back the irrational fear that Tiffany would sic the goon on me. I wasn’t sure she even knew about him.

Anyway, everyone knows where I live. Not exactly a secret. I trudged back to my campsite and scratched Tuppence between the shoulders.

“How good of a guard dog are you?”

Tuppence shook, slapping her floppy ears over her head and under her chin.

“That’s what I thought.”

CHAPTER 14

The next morning, after sleeping
— not well — on it, I decided to inform Mom of the troubles next door. I figured she had a right to know since I’d sort of gotten mixed up in the mess as well, thanks to Tiffany. And in staying with me, Mom might be in harm’s way.

She took the news remarkably well
— silently, in fact, but with the little divot between her brows that indicated she was worried.

“
So,” I said breezily, “it would probably be best if we stuck together. No midnight ramblings—” I grinned sheepishly since I’m the one most likely to wander off, “—or staying home alone. Besides, I appreciate all your help at the museum.”

Mom stared down at her hands clenched in her lap on the drive to the Imogene. When I pulled to a stop in my usual parking spot, she was spinning her wedding ring on her finger.

“Who did Melvin borrow from?” she asked.

“
Tiffany didn’t say, exactly. Someone who thought it necessary to send an enforcer along.”

“
Shylocking,” Mom muttered.

I bit back a smile. Leave it to my mother to phrase Melvin
’s problem in Shakespearean terms. “A loan shark, yeah.”

Mom sighed.
“I’ve seen that — seen what it does to people — good people.”

“
Who asked the wrong person for help.”

“
Who didn’t have anyone else to ask,” Mom said sharply, with some heat.

I stared at her, but she refused to meet my eye, still fidgeting with her ring. My phone rang. I heaved a sigh and dug it out of my purse.

“Meredith, my dear, it’s not too early, is it?”

“
Not at all, Mr. Smiley. I’m glad to hear from you.”

“
Well, I have bad news — or rather, bad news from my point of view since I find even the hint of scandal rather exciting. I suppose it will be good news for you.”

“
No older underlayers then?”

“
Acrylic paints through and through, consistent with an early 1970s estimated date.”

“
Thanks for checking, and for the expedited treatment. I can’t tell you how much I apprecia—”

“
You have been investigating the artist’s past?” Leland interrupted.

“
Yes, but we haven’t—”

“
Was he a jeweler?”

“
I haven’t uncovered a legitimate occupation. He seems to have been a bit of a schemer.”

“
I found a tiny trace of gold, just a few flecks. I thought perhaps from an accidental brush against his workbench or something, if he painted in proximity to a metal-working studio.”

“
The frame is gilded. It could have rubbed off.”

“
Unlikely. I’d call it gold dust, embedded in the paint, not on the surface. It’s not unheard of — to mix gold with paints — but not like this. It was a technique usually selected for the purpose of embellishment, not overall, and certainly not hidden in opaque acrylics.”

“
But it could have been accidental?”

“
That’s my best guess. Coincidental contact during the course of painting. By the way, what did you do to Maurice, my dear?”

“
Uh,” I frowned. “Nothing?”

“
We usually have quite a good chat when he visits, but he spent the entire evening muttering about a yellow Lamborghini and calling his friends. Then he dashed out to meet a dealer for drinks.” Leland sounded as though he was pouting.

“
Oh, that is my fault. I asked if he could, through his connections, location the owner of the car that caused a friend of mine to collide with a tree.”

“
Nasty business. I’m sorry to hear that. Give my regards to Rupert.” Leland hung up.

“
Another dead end?” Mom asked.

I nodded.
“The elusive Cosmo — or rather, the inexplicable Cosmo.” I pounded on the steering wheel. “Why? Why would someone steal it?”

“
At least now you can have a clear conscience about not having it x-rayed.”

“
But that means it was taken for sentimental or revenge reasons if not for the intrinsic value of the painting.”

“
You’re worried about Rupert.” Mom laid a hand on my knee.

I nodded.
“I think the key lies in the Hagg family history.”

oOo

I hate dead ends. And I can’t really blame it on Mom, but her fidgetiness had rubbed off on me. I’d exhausted the possibilities of finding out more about Cosmo in Rupert’s files. I could either pootle around with Bakelite and sabretaches or I could do something hard, something physically demanding to burn off my frustration. Or I could crash a party.

Near lunchtime, I suggested the idea to Mom.
“Want to go see how the documentary is progressing at Willow Oaks? We could grab a couple sandwiches in the bistro — innocuous cover for a little reconnaissance?”

“
Oooo.” Mom perked up. “I’ve never been on a film set.”

“
Me neither.” I grinned.

For the first time since I
’ve lived in Platts Landing, parking was scarce at Willow Oaks. Mostly because a couple of the California motorcoaches were angled awkwardly in the gravel lot, without regard for anyone else who might want to approach the tasting room. I pulled onto the grass under an apricot tree.

The uniform for the film crew seemed to be monochromatic
— black jeans, tight black t-shirts, black motorcycle boots for the men and black strappy sandals for the women which were not terribly practical on gravel. Black mascara, black eyeliner and stark black brows for the women too. Tiffany stood out like a gaudy Mardi Gras bauble in an emerald green sundress with a very full skirt, her blonde hair piled high on her head. The dress was a good choice for hiding the aggressive, blistering rash I knew must be all over her backside by now. I wondered what kind of painkillers she was on.

I wasn
’t too anxious to bump into Tiffany, though, so I directed Mom around the far side of the pole barn and through the open kitchen door. Dennis’s seasonal assistant, Saskia Worthington, had a sandwich assembly line going, her fingers flying across the crusty rolls, distributing a greens mix, halved cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices.

“
For the crew?” I asked.

Saskia wiped sweat from her nose with her forearm.
“Yeah. Hope they’re happy. Never met a pickier bunch. Vegans, gluten-intolerant, lactose-intolerant, onions-give-me-heartburn, and the ‘I’ll only eat it if it wasn’t breathed on by migrant workers’ subset.” She rolled her eyes.

“
Do you mind?” I pointed toward a cooler of bottled beverages.

Saskia waved permission.

I grabbed two sweet iced teas and handed one to Mom. “When you’re finished feeding the crew, we’ll take whatever’s left over. No special requests.”

Saskia laughed.
“You should check out the filming. Poor Dennis. He’s holding up okay, but that director—” She rolled her eyes again.

“
Bad, huh?”

“
We agreed to do the documentary because the publicity — any publicity — is good. Being so far from a metropolitan area, it’s hard to entice visitors. But now I’m not so sure.” She shook her head and slapped fresh mozzarella slices on half the sandwiches. “Poor Dennis.”

I frowned and glanced at Mom. She shared a concerned look with me.

We slipped out to the patio and found a table in the shade with a good view of the action. The crew had rolled a few wine barrels out of the cellar bunker and propped them in front of the open sliding doors. They formed a backdrop for Dennis who was perched on a stool. Two soft boxes on extension poles hung over him.

Melvin was like a jack-in-the-box, popping out from behind the camera to flap his disproportionately large hands with instructions to the crew, swear, shout and prompt Dennis. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead and blinked sweat out of his eyes before hunching down to the viewfinder again.

Dennis shifted on the stool, prompting an exasperated gesture from Melvin. He scooted back into position, shoulders hunched.

Tiffany descended like a brightly colored vulture and poked at Dennis
’s face with a makeup brush. Then she blotted his receding hairline.

I opened my iced tea and took a swig. I kept cringing at Dennis
’s unease and glancing away. He didn’t need more witnesses to his misery. Watching a film session wasn’t nearly as entertaining as I’d thought it would be. No one seemed to be having a good time.

“
What?” a voice behind me barked. “Look, he’s your liability.”

Some of the tea went down the wrong way, and I sputtered. It was the voice
— the goon. I didn’t dare turn around.

Mom whacked me on the back.

A large man — clothed entirely in black just like every other crew member — came into my side view and tossed a backpack onto a chair at the next table. “You gotta make up your mind,” he growled into the cell phone pressed to his ear. “You want me to shake—” He spun away and stalked out of sight around the back of the pole barn, presumably for privacy for his call.

I held up a hand so Mom would stop hitting me and tried to catch my breath.
“He’s the one,” I rasped.

“
Which one?” she whispered.

“
The enforcer.”

Mom
’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced over her shoulder. “He’s gone. We don’t have much time.” She shoved her chair back, the cast iron legs screeching on the flagstones, and darted toward the man’s backpack.

“
What’re you doing?” I hissed.

She already had the bag unzipped and was pawing through the contents.
“Watch.” She tipped her head in the direction the man had taken.

I half stood, still gripping the chair arms and craned my neck, heart pounding, my eyes glued on the bushes at the corner of the pole barn.
“Hurry. He’s not someone to mess with,” I said out of the side of my mouth.

“
Oh yeah?” Mom’s voice was hard.

The man
’s conversation didn’t last long, but we were lucky he had big feet. He kicked a flower pot on his way back around the corner.

“
Now,” I said through clenched teeth.

Mom re-zipped the bag and scurried back to our table. She dropped into a chair, slipped a white envelope into her pocketbook, crossed her legs and hiked her skirt a bit all in one smooth motion. She sighed audibly and glanced up at the man as he rejoined us on the patio. She swung her top leg, her espadrille
— yeah, that amazing espadrille — dangling from her polished toes, and flashed him a dazzling smile.

The man stopped mid-stride and stared at Mom. At least he didn
’t look at me — because I was still gulping air, guppy-cheeked. He nodded curtly. “Hello.”