Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (22 page)

Sheriff Marge sniffed.
“A new command vehicle, huh?”

“
All the latest bells and whistles,” Dale said, nodding.

Sheriff Marge frowned for a few more seconds, then thrust the papers back at Dale.
“Good job. And you—” She jabbed a finger my direction. “Tell Maurice I owe him a ride in the new SUV. He seems the type who’d enjoy that.” She stumped around the car and sidled into the passenger seat, pulling her crutches in after her.

“
Whew. She hates being out of the loop,” Dale muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“
She’ll get over it.” I grinned. “Just as soon as she gets that vehicle — with shock absorbers and springs in the seat and a back hatch that closes by itself without needing to be strapped down.”

CHAPTER 22

Alex hustled Mom and me back to my trailer. He seemed worried we
’d disintegrate if we didn’t lie down pronto. I caught a glimpse of myself in the BMW’s shiny exterior and realized my appearance might have had something to do with his concern.

I refused more Vicodin, though. I didn
’t want to be hazy for the family conversation, no matter how much I dreaded it.

I had no idea Alex was so handy in the kitchen, but he insisted on making us tea and toast and fussed about preparing ice packs and makeshift footstools and armrests. I could have gone for a big, juicy burger and fries, maybe a marshmallow milkshake, but I didn
’t think it was a good time to bring that up.

Mom slouched on the sofa and laid her head back, eyes closed. She massaged her shoulder through her bulky sweater.

“Hurt?” I asked, smoothing my skirt as far down over my purple monstrosity as I could.

“
My arm aches from holding it against my body all day. I should have been moving it normally, stretching the muscles.” She opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “I’m all right. Perhaps I needed this.”

Alex hovered over her, a mug at the ready. Mom took the tea with her good hand and inhaled the steam for a few seconds before sipping.

Alex brought my tea next, then sank down beside Mom. She leaned forward, rested her mug on the side table and took his hand. They sat still for a long time, Alex holding Mom’s hand with both of his. I’d never seen so much overt affection from either of them. A good sign — awfully late, but a good sign.

Then I noticed tears sliding down Mom
’s cheeks, and my heart stopped. “Do you have cancer?” I blurted. “Terminal?”

Alex had a sudden coughing fit.

Mom straightened fast. “Cancer? N-no. Is that what you thought? Oh—” She let out a little laugh. “No, I guess it’s not so bad, put in that perspective.”

“
Will you just tell me,” I said through gritted teeth.

“
Gambling. I have a gambling addiction. I’ve squandered—” Mom glanced at Alex and squeezed his hand until her knuckles were white, “—almost everything.”

“
We’ll manage,” Alex murmured.

“
How long?” I asked.

“
After you went away to college. It started as something to do — a little thrill, a treat for myself to while away a few hours. It grew.”

“
I never knew.”

“
I made sure you didn’t.” Mom turned sad eyes to me. “I am very good at hiding things, as you well know. But the consequences have become too big to hide.”

“
We’re taking measures,” Alex said, returning to his normal business tone. “Austerity measures.” He couldn’t pull his eyes away from Mom’s face. “It’ll be like when we first married, and me fresh out of law school with loads of debt. Pork and beans for dinner, tuna casserole, date night meant a board game on the floor. Remember?”

“
Are you ashamed of me, Meredith?” Mom could barely force the words out.

“
Never,” I whispered.

“
Whenever you talk about this place — Platts Landing, the Columbia — you light up. I can hear it in your voice. It’s a refuge for you, and I needed a refuge so badly, needed to be with you so badly for a while before facing—” Mom heaved a huge sigh, “—the truth.”

Alex wrapped an arm around Mom and let her cry on his shoulder.

Loud, obnoxious pounding made me flinch. Alex glanced up, but I waved him off — he had far more important things to do. I pushed myself out of the recliner and hobbled to the door.

Tiffany. In a pink foofy number that exposed just about everything on top but with a skirt she could have hidden a six-string quartet under. It was hard to tell if she was playing Tinker Bell today, or a hooker. Or still covering an oozing rash.

“We’re leaving,” she announced.

“
What a good idea.”

“
Not because we want to — well, we are almost finished with the documentary. But that cranky sheriff lectured us. And she strongly hinted we aren’t welcome here.” She sniffed.

“
Ahhh.” I wondered when Sheriff Marge had had time to fit that little bit of serve and protect into her schedule.

“
Can you come down here?” Tiffany scowled. “I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

If she hadn
’t noticed my leg by now, she wasn’t going to. I did the sideways lurch-shuffle down the steps to my welcome mat, wincing. Now Tiffany could look down at me from the height of her stilettos.

“
We had to wait until the state patrol finished asking questions, but they just told us we are free to go.” Tiffany scraped at the mascara at the corner of her eye with a long fingernail. “So I guess I owe you an apology — or a thank you.”

I frowned.
“What for?”

“
For getting rid of our problem — Melvin’s and mine. Melvin told me Vince was the one holding him to the grind. With him gone, we have a little more cushion to pay back the loan, and we don’t have to find some crackpot piece of art.”

There were so many things I wanted to say that I stood there with my mouth open while my thoughts shouldered each other out of the way at the tip of my tongue. Not the least of which was shock that Tiffany considered the death of a man the solution to her problem. I remembered Pete
’s assessment of her — the theatricalness of her life. In Tiffany’s world, all blood was ketchup. And that’s when I truly felt sorry for her.

I finally came out with,
“Why did you want the painting?”

Tiffany shrugged.
“Melvin has this connected uncle who knew about some money stashed somewhere. He thought the key was in this crazy painting his buddy Cosmo Hagg made. Nuts, huh? But I remembered the painting from school tours — like I told you. We figured it was worth a shot. If it was a lot of money and nobody else knew about it, then we could pay off Melvin’s debts.”

“
Uncle Juice.”

“
You know him? He’s confined to a wheelchair now, but I guess he has quite a history.”

“
And he sent Vince?”

“
No.” Tiffany flicked her wrist impatiently. “Vince worked for the guys Melvin owes money to. I think he wanted to find the painting first, keep the money for himself.”

“
You know the painting’s been destroyed, right? Completely ruined. It never was of any artistic value.”

“
The state patrol detective said something about water damage — or gouges? Anyway, I always thought it was a goose chase, the idea that horrible painting held the clue to a fortune.”

So a few of the facts had been lost in Tiffany
’s translation, but I didn’t feel the need to set her straight. “What’s next for you?”

“
Editing. Melvin will hole up in a studio in Burbank. He already has a line on the next film — an exposé of female Harley Davidson owners. Pete gave me the idea.”

I sincerely doubted Pete had anything to do with Tiffany
’s inspiration, unless she’d happened to see his motorcycle. “Good luck.”

oOo

Alex and Mom decided not to stay the night. Fair enough, considering the cramped dimensions of my sleeper sofa.

I gave them both the tightest hugs I could manage and extracted promises to call regularly. I even gave them a timeline
— once a week at the very least — both of them. I didn’t care if they called together or separately, but I needed to hear Alex’s more objective take on the matter and his assessment of Mom’s mental and emotional state. She had a hard road ahead of her.

But my mother is one tough lady. And brave. She
’s pulled through worse than this before.

And, apparently, she knows a good man when she sees one. I was viewing Alex through a new lens too.

I slept through everything that usually wakes me in the late summer — crows tussling with squirrels over the walnuts just starting to drop from the tree in the next campsite; excited children already zipping around the campground, the fat tires on their bikes whirring on the pavement; Tuppence clicking across the kitchen’s hardwood floor to check if her food bowl has been magically filled during the night.

Her plaintive whine at the bedroom door was just filtering into my consciousness when there was a knock on the side of the trailer and a male voice shouted,
“Flowers.” A car door slammed, and a vehicle drove off.

Flowers? That will get me out of bed any day.

I stumbled out of the bedroom, almost tripped over Tuppence, and opened the door to find a lovely bouquet balanced on the top step. The card said, “Rest. That’s an order. No more gallivanting about the countryside. I’m closing the Imogene for the remainder of the week, until we get things sorted. What would I ever do without you? Rupert.”

Rupert
’s a great big teddy bear. I adore him.

Smiling, I dialed Frankie
’s number. “Did Rupert tell you the museum’s closed?”

“
Yes. He’s called an emergency meeting with the entire board, Deuce Hollis — did you know the board has him on retainer as the non-profit’s counsel? — and a CPA Deuce recommended. He wants to resolve the legal issues surrounding Cosmo’s legacy. They’ll probably be locked away all day figuring out what the fine print says.”

“
Legacy,” I murmured. What an excellent term for Cosmo’s long-range planning. “I’ve been thinking about Barbara. Since we’re not needed at the Imogene today, how about helping her clean up the salon?”

“
Your truck’s still at the museum, isn’t it? I’ll be over in half an hour to pick you up. I just need to put on my grubbies.” Frankie hung up.

The idea of Frankie in any outfit less than perfectly pressed and accessorized set me to giggling. Tuppence
’s tail thumped against my leg — my good leg. She looked up at me with those melty brown eyes, whiskers twitching.

“
Time for your morning constitutional?”

She snorted, and I let her out.

Coffee, oatmeal with toasted pecans and dried cranberries — life was returning to normal. It’s amazing how great normal feels when life hasn’t been normal for a while.

I sat on a kitchen chair and followed the hospital
’s checklist for cleaning my wound and redressing it. Much less purple. My leg was turning Technicolor with a little yellow and green. The entry and exit spots were starting to look like standard scabs instead of holes, with only traces of dried blood on the old bandage pads. Ticky-tacky. I chuckled to myself. Nothing like having Gemma tell you to suck it up — she’s seen worse.

I rewrapped my leg with the pressure bandage and stood, testing my weight on it. Less hobbling today.

Then I called Mom and left her a good morning message. No questions. Just an I love you.

oOo

The glass front door to Barbara’s salon was propped open with a brass dachshund doorstop, and Hazel of the chili recipe request stood on the stoop wringing out a mass of dingy cotton dreads in a bright yellow mop bucket. She looked far too frail for such back-breaking work, but she whipped the mop around with her ropy arms, splashing water on my sandals.