Free Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) by Jerusha Jones

sophisticated mother. I jumped up.
    “ I was wondering because—” I pointed to the marks on the tabletop, “these appear to be of similar size. If that’s the case, it would narrow the field considerably. Would you mind? Could I borrow one of your loafers for a minute?”
    “ Of course.” Frankie slipped a shoe off and handed it to me, a worry crease between her eyebrows.
    I held her shoe over the right footprint on the tabletop.
    Mom leaned over, her head near mine. We were both eyeballing the difference in size.
    “ A quarter inch. Maybe half an inch longer,” Mom breathed.
    “ What does it mean?” Frankie squeaked, trying to peek between us.
    “ Whoever stole the painting isn’t much taller than you,” I said. “He pushed this table over and stood on it to cut out the painting. Well, that’s the current hypothesis.”
    Frankie ’s eyes widened. “I could go through the list of guests and mark the short people. Most of them I know, but if I don’t I’ll ask around about their heights.”
    “ Perfect. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I darted to my office and returned with a digital camera. I bent for the best angle to show off the dust and quickly snapped a few shots of Frankie’s loafer on top of the footprint with the gap in sizes fairly evident. “I don’t know if Dale can use this, but it’s worth documenting.”
    “ Halloo,” Rupert called up the stairs. He was glistening by the time he arrived, and pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “It’s a pity you can’t take the day off. We’re a dull set, laboring on Labor Day.”
    “ Nonsense,” Frankie chirped. “We get the best visitor counts on national holidays.” She slipped her loafer back on and gave me a slight nod which meant she’d ferret out the short people on the fundraiser guest list with the same single-mindedness Tuppence exhibits when she’s flushing rabbits. I grinned as Frankie scurried down the stairs.
    Rupert stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and captured Mom ’s hand. “And you are?”
    “ Pamela Stephenson, Meredith’s mother.”
    “ Ahh, yes.” Rupert cast a glance at me. “I see it, in the — in the — well, in the demeanor, and the bone structure, and the — well, about the face.” He squinted at me. “Hmmm. Your father must have been a remarkable, handsome man, Meredith.”
    I gaped. I think my mother might have a few grainy photos of my father, but he ’s a faint, faceless memory for me. I don’t know where the photos are, but I would love to have them — if she doesn’t want them anymore. But that was another thing I could never discuss with her. Since when did Rupert become an expert on human breeding that he could tell by looking at me? Or was he commenting on Mom’s taste in men?
    I caught sight of Mom ’s face out of the corner of my eye. She was gaping too, and the fingers of her free hand were trembling.
    “ Rupert,” I blurted, “I really need to speak with you about Cosmo, his history, anything you remember. Leland Smiley was asking.”
    “ Leland?” Rupert released Mom’s hand. “I haven’t seen the old bloke in ages. He’s doing the microscopy? He is the best—” Rupert’s words trailed into a mumble as he pivoted toward the stairs. “Come with me,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll dig through the files.”
    Mom clutched my arm and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll wait in your office.”
    “ Then call Alex,” I muttered. “He’s worried about you.” Might as well toss all the cards on the table now. “I quit running last night. It’s your turn.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 9
     
    One of my ongoing — and it will probably take forever — projects is digitizing the Imogene’s records. Whenever I have a few spare minutes, I scan in a handful of the miscellaneous documents that tend to accompany and provide provenance for works of art. As I sort through what’s in the