Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Read Free Page A

gentle squeeze. “I’ll go with you.”
    I ’d already walked the majority of the museum’s rooms with Jesamie, but now that the demonstrations were over, the guests were inside, meandering through the building and creating a human obstacle course. Some of our rarest, and most valuable, items are small and tucked away in secure display cases scattered throughout the exhibits. It’s not like we lump them all together and label them with a big sign that says, “Look here — the most expensive stuff.” A thief would have to scope the joint first and know exactly what he was looking for to make the burglary profitable.
    Pete ran interference for me, stopping to chat here and there with friends, some of whom had come great distances to lend their support. I waved, tried to appear cheerful, accepted congratulations on the success of the event and condition of the museum, all the while darting nervous glances at the display cases, ticking items off the checklist in my head.
    In spite of Pete’s efforts, Barbara Segreti, proprietress of the Golden Shears Salon, cornered me near the velvet rope that blocked access to the basement stairs.
    “ How is everything?” She stretched out a plump hand encased in a lace glove and patted my brown curls which were miraculously still in the elaborate pinned-up style she’d orchestrated.  “Holding up?”
    I ’m not too comfortable being primped in public and tried to dodge her touch without offending her. “Perfect. Thanks. Lots of compliments.”
    “ Good.” Barbara sighed and clasped her hands in front of her. She was dressed in a flowing empire waist gown which flattered her short, round form, giving her some definition. She looked worried.
    She ’d probably cut, dyed, highlighted, lowlighted, straightened, curled or arranged the hair of half the ladies in attendance sometime in the past few days. Maybe the thought of so much of her handiwork on display made her nervous.
    “ Are you having a good time?” I asked.
    “ Of course, hon.” But Barbara’s eyes drifted across the ballroom. “Is Rupert here? I haven’t seen him.”
    “ I know — it’s so crowded. Try the buffet lines. He’s bound to show up there sooner or later.”
    “ Right.” Barbara nodded, her lips pressed in a thin, bright fuchsia lipsticked line. She bustled off.
    I completed the tour in the photograph archive room on the second floor. Pete and I were alone because dusty cabinets stuffed with curling sepia prints and brittle negatives aren ’t particularly appealing to visitors unless they’re doing specific research. I checked the last drawer of glass slides for railroad publicity photos of the Columbia River Gorge. They’re not valuable even though there are very few left. But they’re some of my favorites, so I scanned them anyway.
    “ Well?” Pete asked.
    I turned to him and sighed. “Looks good. I might have missed something, with all the people—” I bit my lip.
    Pete wrapped me a tight hug, then backed off a little. “Babe, you’re crusty.”
    “ Oh.” I brushed at the snail trails on my shoulders and dress bodice. “Jesamie residue. But it all came out her top end, so it’s okay.”
    Pete chuckled and pulled me close again. “You’re worried about something more. What?”
    “ I never had the painting x-rayed. Maybe I should have,” I murmured into his chest.
    Pete tipped my chin up. “Why?” His brows drew together. “It was repulsive — and I like fishing.”
    I couldn ’t help smirking. I’d forgotten he’d seen the painting. “Exactly. There’s no reason for anyone to steal it unless—” I picked at one of the pearl studs in his shirt.
    “ Unless?”
    I took a deep breath. “I have a horrible feeling good ol’ Cosmo might have painted over something that really is valuable — either as a joke, or as a way to protect what’s underneath.” I gritted my teeth. “It didn’t occur to me until someone else decided the painting was worth stealing.”
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