Read Online Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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intentional — so I opened a new topic. “This donor, Silas Guardado, tell us about him. What motivates a man to pick up and leave — and donate a world-class collection to a museum like the Imogene?”
“Esquire,” Rupert chuckled. “Don’t forget the esquire. And don’t sell us short, my dear. The Imogene is a fine museum, thanks in large part to you. But why he insists upon the title, I don’t know. He’s not a lawyer, and I wouldn’t consider him snobby at all. Brilliant, shifty — yes. Snobby — no. Quite genial.”
“Shifty?” I asked and ducked my head to check on Tuppence who had curled up under my chair. She hadn’t exhibited even a whiff of interest in scouting for breakfast morsels that might have been dropped on the floor. Good girl.
“The weight of worldly possessions. I see it often among the dedicated — or perhaps I should say obsessed — collectors. They become distracted, suspicious, extremely competitive. It gives them a shifty, calculating sort of nervousness. Silas Guardado has succumbed in spades, in spite of how much he tries to conceal it. I’m guessing it will do his health, if not his mind, good to be free of it all for a while.”
“Is he ill?” Frankie asked.
“No, no. I didn’t mean to give that impression. Said he was going to start his extended European vacation at the Viva Mayr Spa in Austria.”
“Sounds fancy.” Frankie’s eyes widened.
“It is if you like eating shredded cardboard and drinking Epsom salt solutions.” Rupert grimaced. “It’s the sort of treatment to be taken in small doses.”
“The pressures of the job,” I murmured.
“I might be starting to feel it myself.” Rupert scratched his neck beneath his neatly trimmed, mostly gray beard, leaving red welts behind. “The idea of being responsible for artifacts four or five thousand years old is —”
I shushed him and glanced over at the nearest group of fishermen. However, they didn’t register even a blip of interest in our conversation. One was stabbing the tabletop with a blunt forefinger, vociferously arguing the efficacy of twitching jigs for catching Coho salmon while the others pshawed as only old men can.
“Right,” Rupert muttered. “See what I mean? I’m slipping.”
“It’ll be over soon.” I squeezed his hand. “We’ll get the delivery, finish the foundation, and lock everything up, visible but untouchable. Just a few more weeks.”
He’d been so excited when he first told me about this acquisition — a free and clear donation, no less — but now that he mentioned the weight of concern he was carrying, I could see the deepening circles under his eyes and a haggardness that came from not sleeping well.
“How’s the insurance?” I asked.
Rupert nodded soberly. “There’s one thing that’s moving ahead of schedule. I should receive the paperwork for a provisional policy by courier this afternoon. After we — I mean you—” he tipped his mug my direction, “confirm the items on the list are actually in the shipment, we’ll get a more robust rider. They won’t cover replacement since that’s impossible, but they will insure for recovery, restoration and repair should anything happen. Lloyd’s wants to send out an expert at a later date to verify authenticity of the artifacts. They like knowing that what they’re insuring is the real deal.”
I expelled a deep breath. That was actually good news — great news — in fact, the best news I’d had with regard to this collection. An independent audit. Because I probably wouldn’t be able to tell a Babylonian bowl from a Tijuana tourist trap flower pot.
“I have an idea.” I waited for Rupert to arch his brows and peer at me over the rim of his mug. “Since the board of trustees is springing for this provisional insurance policy before we’ve even seen the shipment, how about we speed up the process of verifying the contents with an extra pair of hands?”
“I assume you have someone in
“Esquire,” Rupert chuckled. “Don’t forget the esquire. And don’t sell us short, my dear. The Imogene is a fine museum, thanks in large part to you. But why he insists upon the title, I don’t know. He’s not a lawyer, and I wouldn’t consider him snobby at all. Brilliant, shifty — yes. Snobby — no. Quite genial.”
“Shifty?” I asked and ducked my head to check on Tuppence who had curled up under my chair. She hadn’t exhibited even a whiff of interest in scouting for breakfast morsels that might have been dropped on the floor. Good girl.
“The weight of worldly possessions. I see it often among the dedicated — or perhaps I should say obsessed — collectors. They become distracted, suspicious, extremely competitive. It gives them a shifty, calculating sort of nervousness. Silas Guardado has succumbed in spades, in spite of how much he tries to conceal it. I’m guessing it will do his health, if not his mind, good to be free of it all for a while.”
“Is he ill?” Frankie asked.
“No, no. I didn’t mean to give that impression. Said he was going to start his extended European vacation at the Viva Mayr Spa in Austria.”
“Sounds fancy.” Frankie’s eyes widened.
“It is if you like eating shredded cardboard and drinking Epsom salt solutions.” Rupert grimaced. “It’s the sort of treatment to be taken in small doses.”
“The pressures of the job,” I murmured.
“I might be starting to feel it myself.” Rupert scratched his neck beneath his neatly trimmed, mostly gray beard, leaving red welts behind. “The idea of being responsible for artifacts four or five thousand years old is —”
I shushed him and glanced over at the nearest group of fishermen. However, they didn’t register even a blip of interest in our conversation. One was stabbing the tabletop with a blunt forefinger, vociferously arguing the efficacy of twitching jigs for catching Coho salmon while the others pshawed as only old men can.
“Right,” Rupert muttered. “See what I mean? I’m slipping.”
“It’ll be over soon.” I squeezed his hand. “We’ll get the delivery, finish the foundation, and lock everything up, visible but untouchable. Just a few more weeks.”
He’d been so excited when he first told me about this acquisition — a free and clear donation, no less — but now that he mentioned the weight of concern he was carrying, I could see the deepening circles under his eyes and a haggardness that came from not sleeping well.
“How’s the insurance?” I asked.
Rupert nodded soberly. “There’s one thing that’s moving ahead of schedule. I should receive the paperwork for a provisional policy by courier this afternoon. After we — I mean you—” he tipped his mug my direction, “confirm the items on the list are actually in the shipment, we’ll get a more robust rider. They won’t cover replacement since that’s impossible, but they will insure for recovery, restoration and repair should anything happen. Lloyd’s wants to send out an expert at a later date to verify authenticity of the artifacts. They like knowing that what they’re insuring is the real deal.”
I expelled a deep breath. That was actually good news — great news — in fact, the best news I’d had with regard to this collection. An independent audit. Because I probably wouldn’t be able to tell a Babylonian bowl from a Tijuana tourist trap flower pot.
“I have an idea.” I waited for Rupert to arch his brows and peer at me over the rim of his mug. “Since the board of trustees is springing for this provisional insurance policy before we’ve even seen the shipment, how about we speed up the process of verifying the contents with an extra pair of hands?”
“I assume you have someone in
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