And was she ever going to get to attend an art show whose only chills and thrills came from paintings?
“When will I be allowed to get back to my display? Tonight? Tomorrow?” Meyers demanded, interrupting her thoughts.
“As soon as possible. Miss Henry?” a bored voice called. “You’re next.”
Esteban smiled at her as she put down her coffee cup and left the room.
Herrick’s office was spare of comfort. The money had been spent on the public places and not the private ones. The muted feel of the rest of the museum was absent in the office. It had florescent lights which were a blunt-force trauma on the eyes after the dim stairwell and its recessed lights whose beams somehow disintegrated before they hit the red runner that carpeted the stairs.
Thanks to computers and the building’s wi-fi system Detective Browne had some background on Juliet by the time she was summoned to be interviewed. She had a pretty good idea what the bio said and wondered how he would react to it.
The desk where Browne was seated was crowded with papers including a selection of pamphlets describing the museum’s attractions. They were spread out in a fan like a deck of cards. The topics were fairly sensational and she wondered what he made of them. Perhaps working in L.A. he wasn’t shocked by anything.
Detective Browne was polite and he even took a stab at a smile. It was an exploratory effort to appear less threatening but to Juliet, it lacked sincerity. He was obviously a long way from enthusiastic about having her for a witness. Perhaps he expected her to be a diva and refuse to cooperate.
Or maybe he feared that she would try to take over the investigation and mess up his reports. She wondered if she should explain upfront that she wasn’t dancing on tippy-toes in excitement like some old firehorse, thrilling to the sound of an alarm. He was welcome to the whole mess and the best of luck to him.
“Miss Henry.” Browne gestured at a chair.
“Detective.” She seated herself and smiled politely if equally insincerely.
“What can you tell me about this afternoon, the other people in the building, or the deceased that might have bearing on this case? I don’t want to tread on any toes, but let me remind you that obstruction of a murder investigation is a crime in and of itself.” If the detective thought to subdue her with the disinterest in his voice he was mistaken in his witness. She could not be browbeaten. As Eleanor Roosevelt had said, no one can make you feel inferior without your permission. That applied equally to other things.
Juliet tilted her head and looked quizzical. “Toes?”
After a long moment, Browne sat back in his borrowed chair and exhaled. Neither blinked for a good fifteen seconds.
“How much detail do you want?” she finally asked, taking pity on him. “And how much supposition to leaven the dry facts?”
The detective began to look interested. Possibly his other witnesses had been less forthcoming. Or a lot more upset. Or maybe crazy enough to mention mummy movies.
“I want anything and everything that is likely to help. Start at the beginning and I’ll weed out the extraneous stuff.”
Like a mummy’s curse. Stupid Celeste. No wonder the detective was being cagey. He was worried that this would get the animals of the press stirred up.
So Juliet began, answering his words and not his dry tone. Mapping out her movements was easy. She had been with someone all morning, helping on various exhibits and finally ending up with Esteban until they took a late lunch and then went back to work on his display. When they had left the building around three, the parking lot was almost empty and was that way when they returned from the taco truck. Either most of the others had also chosen to have a long lunch break, or their work was finished and they had opted to get down off the mountain and away from the wind for a while.
She knew it was a bit of show-off, but she was able to tell Browne who belonged to which car, even down to who drove which of the museum vans on different days since they would need to be searched for some sign that the mummy had been hidden there while transported.
Her character sketches were masterful, but not especially helpful since she didn’t have a suspect in mind. Still Browne was intrigued and amused enough to unbend a little after she stopped speaking. He asked if anyone was left-handed since there was a chance that the garrote had been used by a left-handed person. Juliet told him that Bowman, Vickie, and Herrick definitely were. She did not mention that Esteban was ambidextrous.
When they reached a pause in the interview, Juliet asked if he had seen the security camera in the Egyptian room that had been tampered with.
“Yes. We looked at the recordings right away. I’ve uploaded the files onto my computer.”
For a wonder, Browne even showed her what they had on file from the security log. He explained that with Bowman out to lunch and Teague, the other guard, having called in sick, that had left only Geary to man the desk and that if he had gotten up to use the restroom then anyone could have walked into the museum from outside.
Juliet nodded, impressed with his rapid reconstruction, and leaned over the detective’s shoulder to watch.
They watched the images on Herrick’s laptop. As Juliet had suspected, the camera in the Egyptian area had been blinded with spray paint by someone in a black cape and hood and rubber gloves which disguised gender and body height. This wasn’t amazing since low-tech often worked best outside of movies. Behind the cloaked figure Juliet could see the now missing mummy and its stone sarcophagus which was displayed with the lid already removed so that people could view the interior. Since it was hewn of plain stone and had no embellishments, it strongly resembled a watering trough. The mummy itself looked very dead and quite harmless. There was no sign of it regaining life and coming awake with homicidal intention.
Unfortunately, like so many other murderers, this one was camera shy and gave them almost nothing to work with in the brief glimpse they had captured. The displays were lighted, but the rest of the room was in shadow since it was supposed to be inside of a tomb. All they could gather was that the killer was probably fairly tall since he or she was able to reach the camera without a chair.
“Recognize him or her?”
“No. And nearly everyone here is tall enough to manage the trick.”
Browne didn’t say so, but Juliet knew that in spite of his caveat about the unwatched desk and strangers possibly being able to come and go without observation, the killer had most probably been an insider, or in the pay of an insider, with knowledge of where the security cameras were. They had avoided the other monitored displays and the building’s various exits where the devices were trained once dressed in their executioner garb.
That was why Geary had died in the bathroom on the first floor. It was near the basement stairs—which were not under surveillance and there was an exit into the rear parking lot. The basement had no oubliette or dungeon, but it did have a freight elevator, outside access, and a ramp down which a car or van could be driven, though that required a remote and only the museum vans had them. It was also not yet monitored. The exterior door wasn’t found unlocked but that meant nothing since it locked automatically when it closed.
Could the killer have hoped to conceal the body in the bathroom until dark and then planned to try and smuggle it out in a van? With or without the mummy?
The police were obviously checking for prints and DNA, but the killer had worn gloves and had his—or her—head covered. And as for fingerprints, everyone in the building—even the caterers who brought in breakfast supplies—had been coming and going through the basement door while getting ready for the show since it was closest to the small freight elevator. There would be too many prints from people with legitimate need to be using the doors to help at all. The same went for the bathrooms which were unisex. Juliet explained this and received a nod.
“There is one other thing. We found a Smith and Wesson Sigma with forty-caliber rounds inside Geary’s desk.”
“Dear God.” She sat back do
wn. That gun with that ammo would lift a body into the air. There was no way that Herrick would have approved that kind of weapon.
“Yes. What I want to know is if he was just an asshole who didn’t obey regulations, or if he was expecting trouble.” That was awfully frank talk.
“Yeah. That would be good to find out. We know that it couldn’t be Herrick or Vickie?” she asked, hoping to eliminate someone.
Browne didn’t say anything about her use of the word “we.”
“Actually, it could have been Herrick, though he would have to have broken the speed limit to have gotten here and then managed to sneak away unseen. He is also still pretty spaced out from having a tooth extracted.”
Browne really was on top of things if he had already sent someone to interview the museum director.
“But Vickie?”
“We’ll check her alibi but the burger place is busy after the school lets out and I doubt that anyone noticed her in the crowd.”
Vickie was pretty tall. Juliet hoped that someone had been observant enough to notice something more than her garlic French fries. It would be nice to start ruling people out.
The official assumption, Browne concluded, was that Geary had walked in on a robbery and been killed by the thief. They would not announce what had been taken.
Juliet raised a brow but didn’t argue the point. The press would have to be told something and robbery with an accidental death was a motive they would understand and even relish. The less sensational the story, the fewer crazies who would come out of the woodwork and complicate things.
“People love a good museum robbery,” Juliet agreed, and Browne smiled wryly.
“Let’s hope they don’t love it too much. Publicity makes everything harder. Will you ask Mr. Rodriguez to come up?” Browne asked as she got to her feet.
“Sure. After that, do you mind if we leave? We traveled in together this morning.”
“You and Mr. Rodriguez are friends?” The question sounded casual but wasn’t.
“And neighbors at the art colony where we live.”
“And you have worked together before. But you aren’t part of this.…” He waved a hand at the brochures, indicating he meant her career as an artist and not her unwanted hobby as amateur detective.
“No, my work is more….” Juliet searched for a word.
“Normal?” the detective suggested again, sounding dry.
“More tourist-friendly. More commercial,” she corrected with a small smile. “It’s why I’ll never be famous.”
“There are worse fates,” the detective said, glancing down at the brochures and grimacing.
“And amen to that.”
Juliet hesitated. She had abandoned her career, but not her instincts.
“Detective, did Geary have any history of violence?”
“No record at all—not so much as a parking ticket,” Browne answered, his gaze sharp as he thought about this rather suspicious coincidence. “Why?”
“Just a feeling,” she said, unwilling to explain about her flashes of intuition.
“I’ll keep looking,” Browne promised.
That night Juliet watched a small man in a Hawaiian shirt batter a vending machine when it refused to give him a diet Dr. Pepper. Oddly enough, the machine eventually saw reason and spat out the can.
Of course, it had a moment of revenge when he popped the top and ended up wearing half of his drink.
Juliet watched the weather channel, hoping for good news, but there was none to be had. The wind was in the east and would remain there for at least another day. After listening to the weather news repeat for two discouraging cycles, Juliet called Raphael, who heard her out in silence as she complained and then asked what he could do.
“Nothing. I just needed to unwind. Don’t be surprised if you hear from Esteban later. He doesn’t show it, but he must be worried that with all this lost time that even if the police clear it, there won’t be a working puppet theater in place. And if they reschedule the opening he probably won’t be able to attend because of previous commitments.”
“Is that likely to happen?” Raphael asked. His voice was controlled but she knew he was aghast as only another artist could be.
“Someone stole a mummy and wrapped a murder victim in gauze. Anything is possible. Especially if word of this gets leaked to the press.”
Raphael sighed, expressing his doubts about this detail going unmentioned in the tabloids.
“Yeah, me too,” Juliet agreed, hoping that the pressure of events didn’t force their involvement in this affair. She had had a bellyful of murder and wanted nothing to do with this case. Life ambled along in Bartholomew’s Wood with the outside world rarely intruding on the peace and quiet. The difference between her pressured present and the easy quiet of a week ago was enough to give her the bends.
“This was not a random killing?”
Juliet shook her head. There were random killings, senseless tragedies every night on the evening news. Random death was a favorite of Mother Nature when she sent out her hurricanes, earthquakes, and tornados. Random was a stray bullet in a gang shootout striking a four-year-old in an ice cream parlor. This wasn’t random. No way.
“No. Not random. He was the intended victim.”
“Any chance this is a crime of passion?” Raphael asked.
“You mean romantic passion?”
Juliet considered this. She knew that passion—real passion—could be a ruthless taskmaster. It could make people stupid, make them heroic. But above all, it could make someone blind—with love. Or with hate. Or rage. And there were plenty of women who had mistaken lust for love. But with Geary, the mistake wouldn’t have been for a long duration. Cupid’s dart might not feel bad going in but sure left a big hole on the way back out of a bruised heart when anger was what drove it. And with someone like Geary, no matter what the official record said, there would be anger.
“I don’t think so. Geary probably inspired all kinds of strong emotions, but I don’t think romantic love was among them.”
“I suppose that it would be too easy if there were a wronged woman just waiting in the wings.”
Bitches.
“Oh, I’m betting there are lots of wronged women in his wake. Plenty of women with bruises and maybe broken bones. I just don’t think any of them are working at the museum.”
But wronged women had fathers and brothers and husbands. Could one of them have recognized Geary? And how the heck was she going to find something like that out?
Supposing she were interested, which she was not.
“So how is Marley?” Juliet asked, feeling intensely homesick for her cottage in Bartholomew’s Wood and sick of thinking of Geary. She loved her home because it was her home, the place where she was safe. Though many others had lived in the tiny bungalow through the years, it was now hers. And Marley’s. It smelled like turpentine and oil paint, the cat’s crunchies, and her favorite lavender soap. It was filled with paintings, plants struggling for life on her windowsill, and pillows covered in cat hair and muddy paw prints.
The hotel wasn’t terrible and even L.A. probably had its charms—when the wind wasn’t blowing and one stayed somewhere other than a motor lodge with an aging heart that was ready to give out—but it just wasn’t home.
“That cat! He’s eating me out of house and home. Exactly how much tuna should a feline have in one day?”
Juliet chuckled, beginning to feel better.
“I don’t know. As much as he can con out of you, I guess. So is Rose going to the textile show in San Francisco? She hadn’t decided the last time I spoke to her.”
“Yes, she is going, but reluctantly. I have never met anyone so full of nerves. She asks after you every day.”
But she would never actually phone Juliet since she was working. Rose was very respectful of boundaries. Juliet would have to call her.
“Poor thing. But I am kind of glad that I am not there. I know she would talk me into going with her and her f
riends are all so....”
“Boring?”
“Devoted to the point of tediousness for anyone not really into fabric. I went with her to a one-day seminar and it was purgatory.”
“And yet you would still go.” Raphael sounded amused.
“Yes.” This fact still surprised Juliet. She wasn’t used to having protective feelings of her neighbors, especially one who was her emotional polar opposite. And she wouldn’t want to string out a lie for her, though heaven knew she had knitted whole sweaters out of them to spare her feelings a few times in the past.
“You are a good woman, Juliet Henry.”
“Huh. That and four bucks will get you a cup of coffee.”
“It used to only be two bits.”
“That was before Starbucks.”
It wasn’t until she had hung up the phone that she realized that she had been sketching as they chatted about the cat and her neighbors. Her subconscious had burped up some useless data while her active mind was engaged with Raphael.
“Aren’t you a beauty?” she said to the drawing, her expression not matching her words.
She wondered if Browne would be interested in a drawing of the missing mummy’s face.
Chapter 4
“A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”
—Oscar Wilde
Thursday, 9:00 a.m.
Juliet watched the news that night. Browne was good at looking passive and slow, a man meditating on a cold beer at the end of a hot day. She would also put money on her belief that he would work a case until it was solved or the higher-ups pulled him off it.
This thought should have been reassuring, but wasn’t.
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