Read Online Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it. He exhaled. “I’m not sure — nothing overt. But there was definitely an undercurrent. Maybe it was just her tone. Tiffany backed off immediately and treated me as though I had a communicable disease the whole time I was helping Melvin set up their coach. By the end it was like they were best friends — Tiffany was showing your mom her makeup kit for ‘on-scene touch-ups’ she called it.” Pete shook his head. “I don’t know, but it was effective. I’m grateful.”
“ My mother, the fixer.” I nestled back against Pete.
How does the moon move so fast? It was brilliant now, above the thickest lateral slice of atmosphere, and casting bluish-white light over the sparkling river. Our lonely cricket continued strumming, just in case a girl out there somewhere could hear him.
“I have to leave early tomorrow,” Pete murmured.
I didn ’t move, kept my ear pressed to the regular thump-thump of his heart, hoping he could dally just a bit longer.
“ Will you be here when I get back?”
“ Always,” I whispered.
Pete shifted me around so he could see my face. “Yeah?” His voice was hopeful.
I slid my arms around his neck and kissed him softly. “Yeah.”
After Pete left, I climbed the steps to the trailer and opened the door. My mother and Tuppence had made themselves scarce. I stuck my head inside and listened in the dark.
“Mom?” I whispered.
The couch creaked, and Mom made gakky sounds, then started snoring.
I frowned and pulled the door closed behind me. My mother might admit to breathing heavily when she has a head cold, but she never, ever snores. Besides, she couldn’t possibly have slept through Pete’s firing up the motorcycle and leaving. No matter how quiet he was trying to be, Harleys just make a whole lot of racket.
My stomach growled audibly. I slapped a hand over my belly and glanced at the blanketed lump on the couch illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the window. The evenness and regularity of the nasal vibrations from that quarter sounded forced to me.
I grinned, wondering how long Mom could keep it up. I grabbed a packet of saltines and peanut butter jar out of the cupboard, then rattled the silverware drawer as I rummaged for a knife.
Still the feigned, evenly paced snoring.
I went up the steps to my bedroom, and just before I slid the pocket door closed behind me, I said in a low voice, “You were right.”
I pressed my ear to the door. The snoring had stopped.
Tuppence roused herself from a catnap long enough to share in my midnight snack. Then she licked her chops, yawned her doggy peanut butter breath on me and went back to bed. Her snoring was not fake.
CHAPTER 8
How can two people live in such tight proximity and manage not to talk about anything personally important? I have no idea how this pattern developed, but my mother and I have perfected the dysfunction. Th e whole Tiffany-Pete-hiding-snoring episode went unmentioned in the morning. Mom didn’t even ask if Pete and I had reconciled, but that might have been because my happiness was plastered all over my face.
Mom must have slept better, though, because she looked well rested and refreshed. The overhanging worry nagged itself back into my consciousness — the missing painting. I needed to pin Rupert down and get the complete history of Cosmo Hagg’s artistic endeavors.
We had just climbed into my pickup, loaded with insulated mugs of coffee and lasagna leftovers for a long day when my phone rang.
I pawed through my purse. “Hello?”
“ Ms. Morehouse? Leland Smiley here.”
“ Oh — Mr. Smiley.” I scrabbled for a spare slip of paper and a writing instrument. Mom must have sensed my urgency and whipped a tiny notebook with a floral cover and a Cross pen from her purse. I smiled my thanks. “Since it’s Labor Day, I didn’t expect—”
“ As an expatriate Brit, I keep to
“ My mother, the fixer.” I nestled back against Pete.
How does the moon move so fast? It was brilliant now, above the thickest lateral slice of atmosphere, and casting bluish-white light over the sparkling river. Our lonely cricket continued strumming, just in case a girl out there somewhere could hear him.
“I have to leave early tomorrow,” Pete murmured.
I didn ’t move, kept my ear pressed to the regular thump-thump of his heart, hoping he could dally just a bit longer.
“ Will you be here when I get back?”
“ Always,” I whispered.
Pete shifted me around so he could see my face. “Yeah?” His voice was hopeful.
I slid my arms around his neck and kissed him softly. “Yeah.”
After Pete left, I climbed the steps to the trailer and opened the door. My mother and Tuppence had made themselves scarce. I stuck my head inside and listened in the dark.
“Mom?” I whispered.
The couch creaked, and Mom made gakky sounds, then started snoring.
I frowned and pulled the door closed behind me. My mother might admit to breathing heavily when she has a head cold, but she never, ever snores. Besides, she couldn’t possibly have slept through Pete’s firing up the motorcycle and leaving. No matter how quiet he was trying to be, Harleys just make a whole lot of racket.
My stomach growled audibly. I slapped a hand over my belly and glanced at the blanketed lump on the couch illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the window. The evenness and regularity of the nasal vibrations from that quarter sounded forced to me.
I grinned, wondering how long Mom could keep it up. I grabbed a packet of saltines and peanut butter jar out of the cupboard, then rattled the silverware drawer as I rummaged for a knife.
Still the feigned, evenly paced snoring.
I went up the steps to my bedroom, and just before I slid the pocket door closed behind me, I said in a low voice, “You were right.”
I pressed my ear to the door. The snoring had stopped.
Tuppence roused herself from a catnap long enough to share in my midnight snack. Then she licked her chops, yawned her doggy peanut butter breath on me and went back to bed. Her snoring was not fake.
CHAPTER 8
How can two people live in such tight proximity and manage not to talk about anything personally important? I have no idea how this pattern developed, but my mother and I have perfected the dysfunction. Th e whole Tiffany-Pete-hiding-snoring episode went unmentioned in the morning. Mom didn’t even ask if Pete and I had reconciled, but that might have been because my happiness was plastered all over my face.
Mom must have slept better, though, because she looked well rested and refreshed. The overhanging worry nagged itself back into my consciousness — the missing painting. I needed to pin Rupert down and get the complete history of Cosmo Hagg’s artistic endeavors.
We had just climbed into my pickup, loaded with insulated mugs of coffee and lasagna leftovers for a long day when my phone rang.
I pawed through my purse. “Hello?”
“ Ms. Morehouse? Leland Smiley here.”
“ Oh — Mr. Smiley.” I scrabbled for a spare slip of paper and a writing instrument. Mom must have sensed my urgency and whipped a tiny notebook with a floral cover and a Cross pen from her purse. I smiled my thanks. “Since it’s Labor Day, I didn’t expect—”
“ As an expatriate Brit, I keep to
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