Read Online Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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my home country’s traditional holidays. Besides, how could I not delight in my work on such a glorious day? You appear to have an emergency.”
“ I do. I’d appreciate your help, but know you must have a backlog.”
“ Paintings that have already been stolen always take priority over those that are resting comfortably with their rightful owners — or in my workshop.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’ll perform optical microscopy on the paint chips?”
“ Certainly, and whatever else may be needed. Send me as much as you can — the intact canvas strips would be best. And, my dear, use a courier service since your postal service is shut down today.”
“ Um — we’re not exactly in a city that offers immediate service. The best I can do is UPS Next Day tomorrow for Wednesday delivery. What’s your shipping address?”
“ But where are you?” Mr. Smiley sounded shocked.
I explained our remote location.
“Ah, that is unfortunate. I do, however, have a trusted associate in Portland. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a drive in the country. I’ll ask him to fly down to Los Angeles with your parcel this evening.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you sure? It’s a three- or four-hour drive, roundtrip — and a plane flight.” My brain was rapidly cha-chinging up the cost of such a venture.
“ He’d like nothing better — you’ll see when you meet him. And I actually prefer this method. I’m sure you can understand that the security of my workshop, with all these beautiful paintings in various stages of undress and stacked against the walls awaiting evaluation, is my utmost priority. The fewer delivery drivers coming and going, the better.”
I exhaled. “I’ll have everything ready when he arrives.”
“ Excellent. Now, my dear, I’ve studied the image you sent of the painting, and I’m terribly sorry, but I must ask—”
I cringed at the hesitation in his voice. “Yes?”
“ The artist in this case—”
“ Yes?”
“ Was he of ill-repute?”
I bit back a snort of laughter. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“ Shenanigans?”
“ He’s been dead for forty years, so I really couldn’t say, but I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.” I wrinkled my nose. “Um, but I’ll pursue that line of inquiry today.”
“ I would, if I were you. Let me know what you unearth. It may help speed my analysis.”
“ Can I ask why you suspect—”
“ Not yet. Just a hunch. But I will also keep you informed of the test results.”
“ But — uh — do you mean criminal?” I blurted.
“ It doesn’t hurt to ask, my dear. Now I really must go.”
“ Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.” I hung up and scowled at the phone in my hand.
“ Problem?” Mom asked.
“ Maybe. Everyone who sees the painting seems to think Cosmo was either off his rocker or up to something.”
A smile — wide and playful — spread across Mom’s face, and her eyes sparkled. “Let’s find out. This is so much fun.”
I grinned back. “Now you know why I love my job.”
oOo
The first task was prying Cosmo’s painting’s stretchers out of the frame. Mom and I dumped our stuff in my office, and I led her down the hall to the empty, looming frame that still hung next to its descriptive plaque.
Mom stood, arms akimbo, and peered at the blank wall through the frame for a minute. She arched her brows and turned to me. “It has to be heavy. Do you have a stepstool?”
“ In the basement.”
“ Never mind.” She stepped over to a marble-topped side table — one of the original pieces from when the mansion functioned as the Hagg family’s vacation home. “This looks sturdy enough.” She threw her weight against the far side and succeeded in budging the table a few inches.
“ Wait a minute.” I ducked to eye level with the table top and squinted. We don’t keep the Imogene sparkly clean. It’s impossible, for one, with all the cracks and gaps inherent in a century-plus old building and
“ I do. I’d appreciate your help, but know you must have a backlog.”
“ Paintings that have already been stolen always take priority over those that are resting comfortably with their rightful owners — or in my workshop.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’ll perform optical microscopy on the paint chips?”
“ Certainly, and whatever else may be needed. Send me as much as you can — the intact canvas strips would be best. And, my dear, use a courier service since your postal service is shut down today.”
“ Um — we’re not exactly in a city that offers immediate service. The best I can do is UPS Next Day tomorrow for Wednesday delivery. What’s your shipping address?”
“ But where are you?” Mr. Smiley sounded shocked.
I explained our remote location.
“Ah, that is unfortunate. I do, however, have a trusted associate in Portland. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a drive in the country. I’ll ask him to fly down to Los Angeles with your parcel this evening.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you sure? It’s a three- or four-hour drive, roundtrip — and a plane flight.” My brain was rapidly cha-chinging up the cost of such a venture.
“ He’d like nothing better — you’ll see when you meet him. And I actually prefer this method. I’m sure you can understand that the security of my workshop, with all these beautiful paintings in various stages of undress and stacked against the walls awaiting evaluation, is my utmost priority. The fewer delivery drivers coming and going, the better.”
I exhaled. “I’ll have everything ready when he arrives.”
“ Excellent. Now, my dear, I’ve studied the image you sent of the painting, and I’m terribly sorry, but I must ask—”
I cringed at the hesitation in his voice. “Yes?”
“ The artist in this case—”
“ Yes?”
“ Was he of ill-repute?”
I bit back a snort of laughter. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“ Shenanigans?”
“ He’s been dead for forty years, so I really couldn’t say, but I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.” I wrinkled my nose. “Um, but I’ll pursue that line of inquiry today.”
“ I would, if I were you. Let me know what you unearth. It may help speed my analysis.”
“ Can I ask why you suspect—”
“ Not yet. Just a hunch. But I will also keep you informed of the test results.”
“ But — uh — do you mean criminal?” I blurted.
“ It doesn’t hurt to ask, my dear. Now I really must go.”
“ Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.” I hung up and scowled at the phone in my hand.
“ Problem?” Mom asked.
“ Maybe. Everyone who sees the painting seems to think Cosmo was either off his rocker or up to something.”
A smile — wide and playful — spread across Mom’s face, and her eyes sparkled. “Let’s find out. This is so much fun.”
I grinned back. “Now you know why I love my job.”
oOo
The first task was prying Cosmo’s painting’s stretchers out of the frame. Mom and I dumped our stuff in my office, and I led her down the hall to the empty, looming frame that still hung next to its descriptive plaque.
Mom stood, arms akimbo, and peered at the blank wall through the frame for a minute. She arched her brows and turned to me. “It has to be heavy. Do you have a stepstool?”
“ In the basement.”
“ Never mind.” She stepped over to a marble-topped side table — one of the original pieces from when the mansion functioned as the Hagg family’s vacation home. “This looks sturdy enough.” She threw her weight against the far side and succeeded in budging the table a few inches.
“ Wait a minute.” I ducked to eye level with the table top and squinted. We don’t keep the Imogene sparkly clean. It’s impossible, for one, with all the cracks and gaps inherent in a century-plus old building and
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