Shards of Murder

by Cheryl Hollon

  As a bonding exercise with Rooney, Savannah had joined the local agility club and had signed up for his first competition in a rash act of confidence in his intelligence. The structure of attending the classes was good for both of them, but she had completely underestimated the amount of training it required. Her spirit was willing, and it was keeping her fit but mighty sore. They practiced as often as possible. As a team, they wouldn’t fail for lack of trying.

  Savannah stood in front of her small closet and deliberated carefully before dressing for the final day of the Spinnaker Art Festival. If she chose something too casual, it might call attention to her youth and inexperience. If she chose something too dressy, it might look pretentious and aloof. Splitting the difference, she wore a tailored black jacket over a plain white cotton blouse, khaki slacks, along with her straw hat and jute shoes. She thought her kiln-fired earrings in black, white, tan, and red with their matching pendant felt exactly right.

  The format for presenting the awards hadn’t changed a bit since the start of the festival in 1976 as part of the city’s bicentennial celebration. The artists were crammed cheek to jowl beneath the dining tent, with extra tables spilling out onto the grass. The food was a feast of pastries sponsored by the downtown hot spot, Cassis Bakery. Egg and vegetable scrambles were supplied by the pub, Moon Under Water, and Mazzarro’s Italian Market—Savannah’s favorite local roaster—had brought coffee.

  The buzz, clatter, and chatter had risen to the decibel level of a high school cafeteria. The hottest topic of conversation was trying to guess who had won the Best of Show award.

  Savannah snagged a chocolate croissant and a caffé latte and sat at the judges’ table on a raised platform in front of the information tent. The exhibitors were milling around the food court trying not to stare openly at the facedown stack of award certificates—some with checks attached.

  Displayed like a rare creature on exhibit, she felt like a fraud. That she could possibly decide their artistic merit was ludicrous. But that was the way of festivals—only the undeserving were rewarded. She determined that she could change that.

  Another of the festival judges seated at her table leaned over. “Have you judged before?”

  “No. This is my first time. Is it always so nerve-wracking?”

  He smiled gently. “Yes, but only if you care.”

  “Of course I care.” She gulped her coffee. “I wouldn’t have volunteered otherwise.”

  Again he smiled. “Good.”

  The awards ritual involved a period of nervous breakfast nibbling followed by anxious waiting. The waiting stretched the bonds of time until there was almost no time left to finish handing out awards. Then everyone had to run in a panic to set up before the festival opened to the public. The clients who arrived at the artists’ booths after the awards ceremony were the customers with money. They bought from the winners. It was crucial to be open for business.

  Ugh, frustrating for the artists to be stuck here waiting for the announcements to end.

  Although she had a double height advantage with the raised platform and being six feet tall, Savannah couldn’t see either Megan or Leon in the waiting crowd. She searched the edge of the food court clearing and saw Leon rounding the corner, coming out from one of the exhibit aisles. He walked-ran and quickly scooted into the group of glass artists who had collected together near the podium to hear the results.

  A good bit later than most thought right, the head judge, Elaine Cash, arrived breathless but impeccably dressed in beige summer linen and spectator heels. Savannah had never met her, but now felt justified in taking care with her clothes. Elaine finally stood behind the podium and tapped the mic with her finger. The screeching reverb caused everyone to groan and cover their ears.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Can you hear me?” She carefully pulled the microphone closer to her. “Welcome to the thirty-ninth annual Spinnaker Art Festival. I wish to acknowledge and thank our sponsors for supporting this festival with their time, money, and enthusiasm for this St. Petersburg institution.” Looking down at her clipboard, she said, “Please stand up when I call out your organization.” Peering over the clipboard with a look that would freeze lava, she added, “Hold all applause until I have finished the list.”

  The head judge read off about fifteen names of local business organizations, and one by one a representative stood. The crowd remained silent and then she prompted, “Let’s give them a rousing round of applause for their unstinting support.”

  As the enthusiastic applause died, she went on, “Next, I would like to introduce the judges for each entry category in the festival. Judges, please stand and continue standing until I have completed all the introductions. Artists, please hold your applause until I have finished.”

  Savannah stood when the glass art category judge was announced, and then at the end of the introductions the artists gave the judges a warm and enthusiastic round of applause, mixed with fist pumps, whistles, and woot-woots.

  “Now, the part you have been waiting for—the awards.” She peeked over the clipboard with a mischievous grin. “We’ll start with the individual category awards, followed by the Best of Show award.”

  The head judge proceeded to announce and hand certificates out to each category winner and then pause as a photographer took a picture of each winner. The categories were arranged alphabetically, so it didn’t take long for the glass award to be announced.

  Savannah heard the head judge announce to the crowd, “Category prize for glass goes to Leon Price.” Leon turned beet red and threw his egg croissant to the ground with a loud, shocking curse. He struggled through the crowd muttering not so much under his breath, “She’s done it again. This is not fair. After everything I’ve suffered, she’s done it to me again.”

  He was a little more under control when he reached the stage and realized that everyone was unusually quiet. He smiled, but not with his eyes.

  The head judge handed Leon his certificate along with a nice check for $500. Taking the check, he started to leave, but Elaine was having none of that. She needed to provide fodder for their photographer. Elaine firmly latched onto his elbow so that he posed for the publicity photograph, resulting in Leon looking completely ungrateful for his prize.

  As soon as Elaine released his elbow, he scurried off the stage in an ungainly trot.

  Savannah sympathized with Leon because clearly he knew that winning the category prize meant that he wouldn’t be selected for Best in Show. It was bad form to let the disappointment show. But for Savannah, it meant that her first choice, Megan, was the honored artist who snagged the big prize of $25,000. It truly was a big deal. Savannah grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  The head judge continued to award the remaining category certificates and pose for photographs with the same smile and the same stance for each artist. Savannah predicted that the photos were going to look silly and be ridiculed on the social media sites after the event.

  Savannah was delighted that the watercolor paintings of Buddha won a prize. She thought they were animated and inspirational beyond their simple form. In any case, in artist time, the handing out of prizes took forever. The crowd was getting restless and checked their watches, concerned about the fast approaching time for opening the festival to paying collectors.

  At last, the head judge reached for the final certificate, the check, and the elegant trophy that listed the names of all thirty-eight previous winners on a large brass square. Tapping the mic once more and, of course, acting shocked with the reverb squeal, the head judge cleared her throat. “Now, for the announcement we’ve all been waiting for. The award certificate, trophy, and twenty-five-thousand-dollar check for Best of Show go to Megan Loyola.”

  There was a yelp near the edge of the crowd. Savannah turned to see a small woman duck her head and clamp a hand over her mouth.

  Then the crowd responded with enthusiastic applause and shouts of congratulations for Megan. Everyone looked around while they were clapping, but no one
appeared to be moving aside to clear Megan’s way toward the podium.

  The head judge pursed her lips into a thin red line, then leaned over the microphone. “Again, Best of Show goes to Megan Loyola. Congratulations, Megan. Come up and get your prize, please.”

  Savannah scanned the restless crowd as everyone began muttering and looking around. It was clear that no one was claiming the award.

  The head judged frowned over her trusty clipboard. “Has anyone seen Megan Loyola this morning? Anyone?”

  There was a wave of looking around followed by a rambling grumbling of answers ranging from “No” to “Not me” to “Nope.”

  The head judge put her hand over the mic and scowled furiously as she mouthed Where is she? to Savannah and the rest of the judging panel. The crowd reaction was not only more and more rebellious, but some exhibitors were leaving to ready their booths for the last day of the festival.

  Savannah hopped off the platform, then headed over into the maze of festival booths. Some of the artists had sent assistants or partners into the aisles to begin prepping for the opening crowd. With the economy only now recovering from the artist-killing recession, no chances to entice a buyer were being overlooked. This was the last day and the last chance to get rid of those hard-to-maneuver pieces so they wouldn’t have to be packed and dragged to the next stop in the art festival circuit.

  Savannah asked each vendor if they had seen Megan. No one had seen her since late last night.

  She rounded the corner of the hideaway aisle and hurried down to the end booth. Not only was Megan nowhere to be seen, but in the assigned spot where her entire booth and its magnificent masterpiece had been was nothing but a lonely patch of trampled grass.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday Morning

  Savannah’s stomach sank, and she was unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong—very wrong. Savannah asked the exhibitors next to Megan’s booth if they had seen her tear down and pack up her booth. No one had seen Megan since last night. She continued to ask more artists in the last row, but nothing. It didn’t make sense.

  Leon’s booth was still buttoned up from last night, but there was a great bustling at the booth next to Megan’s. A husband and wife pair were unclipping the tarps and cloths that protected their larger pieces of pottery.

  She tapped the woman on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Have you seen Megan? Do you know when she packed up?”

  The woman turned to Savannah. “That little minx? Good riddance, I say.” She bent down to get a box of pottery to unpack for display on their shelves. “Sorry, but I didn’t get near her. Excuse me, but we need to get our booth ready.”

  Savannah smiled and talked to a few of the other bustling artists. None of them could explain why or where Megan had gone.

  Ready to give up, she turned to find Leon opening his booth. “Hey, Leon. Do you know what happened to Megan?”

  He finished placing one of his vessels on its tree trunk pedestal, precisely centering the artwork. “I haven’t a clue.” He cleared his throat. “She should be here. This is normally the best sales day.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then shrugged his shoulders. “She is a bit crazy.”

  “So I hear.” She pulled out her phone and dialed Keith. “Have you seen Megan? She hasn’t shown up to pick up her award.”

  Sounding like he had been asleep, Keith replied, “What? Who’s this?”

  “It’s Savannah. I’m at the festival. Do you know where Megan is?”

  “No, what’s the problem?”

  “I told you. She didn’t pick up her award money. Plus, her booth has been taken down.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “If she gets in touch with you, have her give me a call.”

  Savannah ended the call and looked at her watch.

  Unfortunately, she was out of time. Each judge traditionally worked at least one volunteer shift at a festival booth. Savannah had chosen the information booth. Not only could she get off her feet, it would also give her a chance to practice talking to strangers about promoting Webb’s Glass Shop.

  Her volunteer shift started at 10 A.M. and ended at 1 P.M., which left plenty of time after that to meet Amanda at Webb’s to help set up for Monday’s fused glass workshop. Amanda was planning to help her prepare the kits. She had been taking glass classes at Webb’s for years and it had been a good choice to hire her to help manage the enormous backlog of workshops and classes. They were both excited about teaching fused glass as it’s a fairly easy skill to learn and the effort would produce artworks that students could hold in their hands quite quickly.

  The simple nature of the process was a good return on the investment for business, especially since most students returned to buy glass and rent kiln time for their projects. Webb’s Glass Shop had a healthy cash flow, but no small business could afford to be complacent. Savannah had high hopes that this would be a very popular class.

  She smiled at the thought because she could hear her dad reminding her that hope was not a plan—a plan was a plan.

  She walked over and stood between the two volunteers at the information booth. One was wearing a name tag that declared her to be Wanda Quitman, a long-term organizer who Savannah remembered from her prior years. The other was a tallish black man, who quickly turned to her with a warm smile and a faintly familiar voice. “Hi, I’m Sam Falco, bartender and aspiring artist.”

  Savannah scrunched her brows.

  Wanda was wearing a white long-sleeve tee under this year’s festival shirt. She was perpetually in charge of ensuring that the information booth had a sufficient stock of T-shirts, cups, caps, and tote bags with this year’s imprinted design. She was gaunt and heavily tanned, with an animated torrent of chatter. Constantly fussing, folding, and arranging the festival wares, her most useful personality quirk was that she kept a running commentary on all the gossip within the small group of volunteers that kept the festival running smoothly.

  “Have you heard about the fiasco at the awards ceremony this morning?”

  “I’m one of the judges,” admitted Savannah. “I was there on the podium.”

  “It was shocking to everyone that Megan didn’t come up to receive her check.”

  “Yes, I was—”

  “Shocking to the head judge, of course. I don’t think anything like this has ever happened.” She leaned over to Savannah as if to whisper, but apparently she didn’t know the meaning of the word because the volume of her voice didn’t change. “They say she has disappeared altogether. What do you think of that?”

  Startled, Savannah leaned away and put a protective hand to her ear. Wanda straightened up and shook her head tsk-tsking like a schoolteacher.

  “Well, I—” Savannah grabbed her chair and moved it a few inches out of whisper range. She sat and sighed, relishing the delicious comfort of finally sitting.

  “It’s disgraceful, that’s what it is. Simply disgraceful.” The organizer bunny pulled out one of the T-shirts from the XXXL-size stack, refolded it, and placed it on top of the perfect stack, then moved over to the XXL stack.

  Leaping into the chatter gap with her hand held out, Savannah said, “Hi, I’m Savannah Webb. I was one of the judges who nominated Megan for Best of Show.”

  Wanda stopped her folding and straightened up. “Oh, you’re John Webb’s daughter, aren’t you?” She sidled up to Savannah and reached very high to hug or, more accurately, hang from Savannah’s neck. “My name is Wanda, Wanda Quitman. I heard that you would be a judge. I was so sad to hear that your dad had been murdered. You were involved with that, weren’t you?”

  Savannah stepped back a pace. “Not in his murder. I wasn’t even here. To be clear, I was lucky to be a help to the police.”

  “Well, I heard that it was a little more than just luck. Anyway, how did you like being a judge? I heard it was your first time.”

  “I found it exciting but challenging as well. The works were either excellent or extraordinary. Nothing in my experience was helpful
in choosing between the top two artworks. It was agonizing—especially when so much is at stake.”

  “How did you finally choose?”

  Savannah rubbed the back of her neck and recalled her thoughts in that final selection moment. “It was the strong emotion I experienced when I looked at Megan’s exhibit. Her pieces haunted me in a profound metaphysical way—both individually and as a collection. The longer I viewed the installation, the more I felt the fire. Not only fire as an instrument of destruction, but fire as an instrument of rebirth as well. She was the one.”

  “She certainly sprang out of nowhere.”

  “Right. But she’s a student of one of the finest instructors I’ve ever known. You’re right, though, her rise seems justified for such a unique creative process and for her level of talent. The buzz has come up crazy fast within the industry.”

  Wanda continued to sort and straighten more shirts and finally worked herself down to the XS stack. “It appears that this spring is her first outing as an exhibition artist.”

  A harried mother of twin boys in a double stroller that looked larger than Savannah’s first car rushed up to the table. Savannah looked up at her blue Hawaiian shirt. “Have you seen my husband? He’s wearing the same shirt that we are.” She pointed to the little boys, who were wearing miniature Hawaiian shirts.

  “No, I haven’t,” Savannah talked over Wanda’s chatter.

  “He was getting us some hand-squeezed all-natural lemonade.” She spun around and looked to the right and left of the information booth.

  “It’s right over there behind that clump of palm trees.” Savannah leaned over to point toward the far left. “You can barely see the lemon color of the cart.”

  “Thanks, thanks.” She spun the monstrous stroller around while the twins babbled to each other, not the least bothered by the confusion around them.