Read Online Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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the ever-present gorge winds, but it’s also impracticable on our budget. Our exhibits are already old — a little dust isn’t going to hurt them. Well, except the most fragile items which I’d had encased in hermetically sealed display cabinets during the first year of my tenure as curator.
The protective layer of dust on the table top had been disturbed, and not by the cleaning crew. Mom joined me in a squatting position. One corner of the table had been wiped free of dust but smudges — scuff marks? — were left in the dust’s place. And in the center of the table a neat set of footprints were recorded, almost as perfect as those in the Chinese Theatre’s forecourt. Semicircular sweeps in the dust ringed the footprints.
“ Our thief had the same idea,” I said.
Mom was scratching at a scuff mark with her fingernail. She lifted some black gummy residue. “Rubber soled.”
“ Half the shoes in Sockeye County.”
Mom pursed her lips. “But not black-tie. That would be leather-heeled for the men, and I don’t see the small imprints of a woman’s high heels.”
“ Actually,” I sighed, “it’s entirely possible someone wore sneakers with their tux or hidden by their long skirt. I didn’t notice, but—” I shrugged, “around here, we wear what we have, and improper footwear isn’t going to keep someone from enjoying a special event. We don’t perform dress inspections at the door.”
“ But not necessarily from the night of the fundraiser then?” Mom said it like a question, but she was right.
I hated that I hadn ’t noticed when the painting went missing. Why wasn’t I paying more attention? I stood. “I don’t know if this will be useful—” I waved at the tabletop, “since there aren’t clear tread marks, and the dust may have shifted—” Enormously long odds. I sighed again. “I’ll get the stepstool.”
Mom supported the frame from the bottom while I released the top from the wire hanging hooks. We eased it to the floor, face down.
The back side of the painting, or what was left of it, was like a skeleton stripped of skin and flesh and all the elements that gave it vitality. Brittle canvas scraps clung to the edges of the stretchers like mummy wrappings, ready to disintegrate at my touch.
I levered a small crowbar around the edges and pried the stretchers — loose-jointed, but intact — from the frame. Half an hour sitting cross-legged on the floor with a heavy-duty staple remover completed the task. Mom collected the canvas scraps and the all-important paint tracings embedded in them into a manila envelope.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Frankie ’s immovable brown helmet of hair appeared around the corner.
Her smile faded when she saw what we were doing. “Oh dear. It’s not been found? I’d hoped, over the weekend, that—” Her brown eyes drifted over my mother who was sealing the envelope.
I shook my head. “Not yet. I’m expecting a courier this afternoon, to pick up these fragments. This is my mother, Pamela Stephenson. Mom, this is Frankie Cortland, gift shop manager and event planner extraordinaire.” I smiled at Frankie. I wasn’t going to let Mom negate how wonderful Frankie had been for the museum — for me — with her pouting about not being asked to help. Mom could insert herself into the museum’s activities if she wanted to, but only with Frankie’s permission.
Mom rose and shook Frankie ’s hand. “So pleased to meet you.” At least her smile looked genuine.
But my attention was diverted to Frankie ’s feet. From my spot on the floor, I had a good view of her sensible loafers.
“ What size shoe do you wear?” I asked.
“ Oh, um—” Frankie peered down self-consciously. “Five, five-and-a-half sometimes. I’m short.” There was a nervous tinge to her giggle.
And I realized what I ’d done, drawing attention to Frankie’s body while she was standing next to my slender, elegant, just-swooped-in-from-out-of-town
The protective layer of dust on the table top had been disturbed, and not by the cleaning crew. Mom joined me in a squatting position. One corner of the table had been wiped free of dust but smudges — scuff marks? — were left in the dust’s place. And in the center of the table a neat set of footprints were recorded, almost as perfect as those in the Chinese Theatre’s forecourt. Semicircular sweeps in the dust ringed the footprints.
“ Our thief had the same idea,” I said.
Mom was scratching at a scuff mark with her fingernail. She lifted some black gummy residue. “Rubber soled.”
“ Half the shoes in Sockeye County.”
Mom pursed her lips. “But not black-tie. That would be leather-heeled for the men, and I don’t see the small imprints of a woman’s high heels.”
“ Actually,” I sighed, “it’s entirely possible someone wore sneakers with their tux or hidden by their long skirt. I didn’t notice, but—” I shrugged, “around here, we wear what we have, and improper footwear isn’t going to keep someone from enjoying a special event. We don’t perform dress inspections at the door.”
“ But not necessarily from the night of the fundraiser then?” Mom said it like a question, but she was right.
I hated that I hadn ’t noticed when the painting went missing. Why wasn’t I paying more attention? I stood. “I don’t know if this will be useful—” I waved at the tabletop, “since there aren’t clear tread marks, and the dust may have shifted—” Enormously long odds. I sighed again. “I’ll get the stepstool.”
Mom supported the frame from the bottom while I released the top from the wire hanging hooks. We eased it to the floor, face down.
The back side of the painting, or what was left of it, was like a skeleton stripped of skin and flesh and all the elements that gave it vitality. Brittle canvas scraps clung to the edges of the stretchers like mummy wrappings, ready to disintegrate at my touch.
I levered a small crowbar around the edges and pried the stretchers — loose-jointed, but intact — from the frame. Half an hour sitting cross-legged on the floor with a heavy-duty staple remover completed the task. Mom collected the canvas scraps and the all-important paint tracings embedded in them into a manila envelope.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Frankie ’s immovable brown helmet of hair appeared around the corner.
Her smile faded when she saw what we were doing. “Oh dear. It’s not been found? I’d hoped, over the weekend, that—” Her brown eyes drifted over my mother who was sealing the envelope.
I shook my head. “Not yet. I’m expecting a courier this afternoon, to pick up these fragments. This is my mother, Pamela Stephenson. Mom, this is Frankie Cortland, gift shop manager and event planner extraordinaire.” I smiled at Frankie. I wasn’t going to let Mom negate how wonderful Frankie had been for the museum — for me — with her pouting about not being asked to help. Mom could insert herself into the museum’s activities if she wanted to, but only with Frankie’s permission.
Mom rose and shook Frankie ’s hand. “So pleased to meet you.” At least her smile looked genuine.
But my attention was diverted to Frankie ’s feet. From my spot on the floor, I had a good view of her sensible loafers.
“ What size shoe do you wear?” I asked.
“ Oh, um—” Frankie peered down self-consciously. “Five, five-and-a-half sometimes. I’m short.” There was a nervous tinge to her giggle.
And I realized what I ’d done, drawing attention to Frankie’s body while she was standing next to my slender, elegant, just-swooped-in-from-out-of-town
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