Shards of Murder

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Thanks, boss. I thought you might want to do that.” She handed Savannah a small slip of paper. “I copied his address from McCloud’s contact list. He didn’t have any information on Vincent.”

  Savannah looked at the slip. It was an address in a neighborhood of small studio motels north of downtown. “Great. I’ll talk to him when we finish class.” She tucked the address into her pocket. “Are you ready to check the kiln?”

  “Nope. I want you with me when I open the kiln.” Amanda looked at a puzzled Edward. “If one of their pieces is broken, major student disaster.” She waved her hands like a muppet. “First, I’ll double-check today’s materials.” Amanda left toward the classroom.

  Edward watched her leave and gave Savannah a quick hug. “Let’s get together after I talk to Leon and compare notes,” said Savannah. “Maybe Jacob will have news by then.”

  Edward gathered up the cups and tray and left the shop with a bright, “Cheers, then.”

  Looking at the whiteboard, Savannah erased the words in Amanda’s row and wrote in “Vincent O’Neil, Megan’s team member, and Savannah” into the empty spaces. She stood there for a long moment, then walked into the classroom and smiled wide at Amanda. “The setup is perfect, absolutely perfect. You’ll soon be teaching this class.” She moved among the worktables and each station had another small stack of glass squares placed on top of today’s fused glass pattern. “Okay, time to face the music. Let’s see how yesterday’s pieces fared in the kiln.”

  They went into the custom workshop and opened the large kiln lid to reveal six finished works.

  “Oh,” Amanda cooed, “they’re lovely. Not one of them broken.” She clapped her hands together like a small child being told she could have cake.

  “It just gets better and better.” Savannah patted Amanda on the back. “This is definitely your medium.”

  Savannah lifted her chin. She’s going to be a wonderful teacher.

  “Should I take them out and clean them up?”

  “No, that’s part of the learning process for this first fusing lesson.” Savannah and Amanda lifted each piece from the kiln and placed them on each student’s workbench.

  Savannah said, “Today we’ll teach them about kiln paper and cleaning their pieces after they’ve been fired. If you’re careless with either of those steps”—she clapped her hands sharply—“shards.”

  The front-door bell jangled. “The students are here. That’s the start of the day.”

  The second day of class started with a rush to see how the students’ first fused glass pieces turned out.

  “This looks awful,” Miss Carter cried. “What’s all this powdery stuff all over it?”

  “Bleh, you can’t even tell what color it is.” Faith leaned over to Rachel and said, “At least yours looks as bad as mine.”

  “Patience, patience,” said Savannah. “Let me explain what has happened.” Lifting up Miss Carter’s fused piece, she went on, “This is part of the process when using a kiln. As Amanda loaded the kiln, she used support blocks, dam strips, and lots of kiln paper to prevent each piece from sticking to the bottom of the kiln or fusing into each other. Right, Amanda?”

  From the back of the room, Amanda replied, “Yep, it’s a bit like loading the dishwasher, except that you have to remember that everything melts. You have to leave room for that.”

  “Thanks. Now, let’s learn how to clean this.” Savannah led the way into the industrial sink in the back office and held Miss Carter’s chalky piece under the running water and scrubbed it with a plastic scouring pad. “Now, it’s ready to dry with one of the T-shirt rags in this basket.” She chose one and quickly buffed away the water. “Look how lovely.”

  “It is lovely.” Miss Carter took possession of her artwork. “Thank you,” she said with a nod.

  Savannah backed away from the sink. “It’s all yours now. Please remember that it’s glass and can break. There are a few rubber bumpers in the sink, but if you drop it, well, it’s gone.”

  After a critique session that covered the cleaned pieces, Savannah and Amanda led the class through the proper use of kiln paper, tips for loading the kiln, and preparing to fuse a second piece. The time evaporated, and before she knew it they all had their work in the kiln and were busying themselves packing up their tools and waving good-bye.

  “If you’re okay with buttoning things up and preparing for tomorrow, I’m going to see if I can track down Leon for a little chat,” said Savannah.

  “No worries, I can do everything but start the kiln.” Amanda put her hands on her hips. “I’ll leave that for you.”

  It took less than ten minutes to find Leon’s studio, but she spent another ten minutes finding a place to park. The place hadn’t been painted in quite a few years and the landscaping suffered from neglect. There was a rickety black and yellow bicycle chained to a metal support column right beside the studio door.

  She knocked on the door and waited for about ten seconds, then knocked again. After another ten seconds, she rapped sharply on the door. “Leon. This is Savannah Webb. Please answer—I’m not going away. I want to talk to you about Megan.”

  The door cracked a couple of inches and she could see Leon beyond the latch chain. “Why are you here? I don’t want to talk about Megan.”

  Savannah slipped her foot into the door crack. “I found her body, Leon. The police are investigating me. I need to know more about her. Please let me in. It will only take a few minutes. I know you have to go to work soon. I’ll stay out here until you do. You know she’s been killed, don’t you?”

  The eyes beyond the chain squinted and blinked for a second. “Yes. I know. Keith called to tell me.” There was a long pause. “Move your foot and I’ll come out.”

  Savannah moved her foot and backed up. Leon came outside to stand beside his bicycle. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you see anything suspicious going on with Megan at the festival on Saturday?”

  “Nope.”

  “Keith Irving says that you were involved in a relationship with Megan before the festival. Is that true?”

  A rosy flush spread over Leon’s face and then turned dark. “She was using me. Apparently it’s what she does to charge up her creative juices. We broke up.”

  “When?”

  “Before the festival—right after she finished the centerpiece.”

  “Do you know if she was in a relationship with someone else?”

  “I think she was, but I don’t know who. I don’t want to know. Is that all?”

  “Have the police asked you about Megan yet?”

  “No, why?”

  “They’ll want to know where you were on Saturday night. You know, for an alibi. Do you have one?”

  “Sure, I was working with the hot glass team at Duncan McCloud Gallery. I was there practically all night.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie! Duncan McCloud said that you didn’t show up at all that night.”

  Her response was met with Leon slamming the door in her face. Even after knocking and calling his name, Leon refused to respond or open the door again.

  * * *

  No sooner had Savannah gone back to the office to check e-mail when the front-door bell jangled and she could hear Edward telling Amanda, “Time for tea and talk.”

  He placed a tray on the side table in the office. “Where’s Jacob?”

  Amanda silently pointed a “one moment” and fetched Jacob from the custom workshop.

  As soon as Jacob found a stool to sit on, Edward handed him a mug. “It’s your favorite. Hot chocolate made with almond milk with a vegan gingersnap to accompany it. I’ve got sweet peppermint tea for us. It’s a good match with the regular gingerbread muffins.”

  “Mmmmmm, this is fabulous.” Amanda smacked her lips. “You must keep that baker of yours happy. You must. He’s the real secret behind the success of Queen’s Head.”

  “Yes, that and an enormous amount of work.” Edward perched on a stool, and Aman
da settled into the side chair next to Savannah’s antique rolltop desk.

  Ignoring the squeak from her matching antique oak chair, Savannah asked, “Let’s figure out where we are in the investigation. Edward, you’ve got your meeting with Wanda?”

  “Right, originally I was going to meet her tonight, but she called and now we’re meeting for coffee at the Museum of Fine Arts Tea Shop. She’s very busy, or so she said. But it seemed to me that she was very busy telling me how busy she was, but still found time to meet me for coffee on literally no notice.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Nothing new for me.”

  “Of course, we just finished class. Jacob, have you found anything in the records?”

  “I’m finding many things. There are 2,053 applications for the Spinnaker Art Festival. The farthest applicant is from Sydney, Australia, and the nearest applicant is only blocks away from us. She is a student at the Diazzo Warehouse in the next block. Eight hundred twenty-nine applicants are from Florida and a further 317 are from Georgia. Of the remaining 907 applications, 723 are spread across the United States, and the remaining 184 applicants are from the Caribbean, South America, Mexico, and Canada.”

  “Thanks,” Savannah said slowly, “but I’m not exactly sure how that helps us.”

  “Almost half of the applications are from Florida, but when I compare it to the number of applications approved, there were only ten percent actually able to enter the Spinnaker Art Festival. That’s not right.”

  “That does seems low”—Amanda frowned—“but I still don’t see how that gets us anywhere.”

  “Wait, wait,” Savannah said. “One of the volunteers at the information booth was telling me about an issue with the applications this year.” She frowned in concentration.

  “Well?” Edward reached into the tray for another scone.

  “He said that there was a change in the entry rules for returning exhibitors. They eliminated the guaranteed entry for artists who had been granted booths year after year as long as they didn’t skip a year. Instead, they needed to reapply, just like any other applicant. He said that there were a lot of longtime exhibitors who didn’t make the selection and there were quite a few very angry artists. Some of them depended on the sales of this show to get them through the long, slow Florida summer. It gets too hot for outdoor festivals.”

  Amanda sat straight up. “So one of them took it out on the new kid on the block?”

  Jacob nodded, “I created a list of the artists most likely to be angry about their loss of sales. They’re weighted by priority and probability of alternate income sources.” He handed her a page of notebook paper with seven names listed.

  Shaking her head slowly, Savannah looked at the names. “That seems pretty far-fetched. Regardless, it’s an anomaly and that’s what we have asked Jacob to find. Good job!” Savannah smiled. “Right. What else?”

  “I’ve compared Megan Loyola’s application to other successful applications and hers is quite different. It is very short. The average length of the applications is six pages, with an average of five photographs of art. The specified maximum was ten photographs, not including the three photographs required of the entrant’s exhibition booth. Megan attached one photograph of her art and one photograph of her booth. She left most of the application blank.”

  “That is unusual,” said Savannah. “I was obsessed with maximizing any opportunity to convince the selection committee that I was a worthy exhibitor. I always submitted the maximum number of photographs permitted.”

  “But she was selected anyway. Can we see her application?” Amanda asked.

  Jacob nodded. “I have it here. It is the shortest one of the 2,053 entries.”

  “Let me take a look.” Savannah reached for it. She flipped through the slim document. “There’s hardly any information here at all. No address, no artist’s vision paragraph, no gallery references—it’s bare bones. The picture isn’t even of the red torso, this is a variation in blue. The only means of contacting her is a local cell phone.” She flipped another page. “Here’s something interesting. Her only personal reference is my former professor, Keith Irving.” She looked up at the others. “What could this mean?”

  “Who was on the selection committee?” asked Amanda.

  “I don’t know, but I can find out,” Savannah said. “I’ve been invited to a party-type meeting to discuss any issues that came up from the festival. It’s called a lessons learned meeting. All the organizers, judges, sponsors, donors, and some of the award winners will be there. It’s being held at the St. Petersburg Yacht Club tonight.”

  “That’s a partying bunch, these Spinnaker folk,” said Edward. “Good idea.”

  “Edward, I talked to Leon Price after lunch. He had the booth across from Megan and he was the runner-up contestant. I asked if he saw anything at the Spinnaker Art Festival that would be helpful. He said, ‘Nope,’ and he also said he was working at McCloud’s on Saturday night with a hot glass team. When I told him that Duncan McCloud said he wasn’t there, he slammed the door shut in my face and refused to talk to me.” She chewed at the corner of her mouth. “I also still need to talk to the vile Frank Lattimer and find out what he and Megan were shouting about.” She stared at the list and the assignments, absently twirling the marker.

  “What about the shards of glass we found?” Edward took the marker from Savannah and pointed to her name. “Maybe your mentor would be able to help.”

  “Possibly, I’ve looked at them with my magnifying glasses but maybe Keith can suggest something after he’s studied them.” She took the marker back from Edward, wiped out her name and assigned the shards task to Keith.

  “We’re making progress, but nothing solid enough to report to Detective Parker.”

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday Evening

  The site of the Spinnaker Art Festival “lessons learned” party seemed odd to Savannah. Most festivals carried a bohemian spirit more aligned with an artist’s colony; the city’s fanciest private club was a new experience.

  She parked her Mini at a meter across the street from the St. Petersburg Yacht Club and walked into the street-side entrance. A smiling man dressed in a full tuxedo with white gloves directed her to a reception room filled with elegantly dressed members of the Spinnaker Art Festival. The room shouldered a nautical theme with great dignity bolstered by a navy carpet so thick her kitten heels sank into the pile.

  At least I changed into my little black dress and dug out Mom’s pearls. I hope this is appropriate.

  She hadn’t stepped two feet into the room when Wanda swooped over to grasp both hands and give air kisses near each ear. “Welcome, welcome, Savannah. I’m so pleased that you made it. I know your appointment as a judge was so late that you didn’t get to participate much in the social side of the Spinnaker Art Festival. I did remind the committee that it was supremely late for a new person to join our little society, but they were adamant that we needed new blood. I personally prefer the old blood.”

  As Savannah eyed the beautifully dressed group, it was obvious that all the movers and shakers felt the need to be there. “I didn’t realize there was a social side.”

  “Oh my, my, my, yes, there is.” Wanda looked her up and down. “Goodness me, I haven’t seen plain pearls in quite some time. You’re going to need to go shopping if you want to be a mover in this circle.” She hooked her arm into Savannah’s and led her into the beautiful reception room.

  Savannah looked over at her with undisguised irritation.

  “You must meet everyone. Oh”—Wanda cupped a hand around her mouth into Savannah’s ear without lowering her voice—“here’s the most eligible bachelor in the city. He’s an orthopedic specialist, well, really, he does knees and hips. It’s a huge practice.”

  Savannah shook her head in confusion. Does this woman not understand the mechanics of a whisper?

  Looking at it from a different perspective, Savannah wondered if maybe she had a hearing loss or an aural
-processing condition of some sort.

  Wanda tapped a tall man on the shoulder. He turned to reveal an expensive navy blazer with gleaming gold buttons, a white open-collar oxford shirt, and a glass of champagne in his bronzed grip. “Dr. Ross Wilkinson, may I introduce Miss Savannah Webb.” Savannah cringed at the exaggerated emphasis on “Miss.” “Miss Webb stepped in at the last minute to judge the glass category after the tragic death of her father. You remember John Webb, the owner of Webb’s Glass Shop down in the Grand Central District?”

  Dr. Wilkinson smiled a dentist’s dream of perfect porcelain and shook Savannah’s hand. “Wanda, where have you been hiding this beauty?” He lifted Savannah’s hand up and kissed it like a royal-bred prince. “I am delighted to meet you.”

  Yikes, what planet are these people from?

  “I haven’t been hiding her, dear. This is her first social with us. Be nice.”

  “Of course, of course.” He tucked Savannah’s hand through his arm and led her to the bar. “I assume you love champagne. I’ve never met a beauty who didn’t.”

  “Goodness, Dr. Wilkinson, I’m—”

  “Please, all my friends call me Dr. Ross.”

  Savannah clenched her teeth to hold back a cutting remark. But oddly, he was right—she did love champagne and the price was right. She smiled her southern-girl best. “You are perfectly right, Dr. Ross. I would love a glass.”

  “Good choice.” He patted the hand he’d slipped through his arm. “Let me introduce you to our little group.”

  “Thank you, I would like to meet the members of the selection committee. They were brilliant in choosing the entrants for this year’s Spinnaker Art Festival. I would like to congratulate them personally.”

  “Very good. I can see that you have some experience working an event. Good choice for making connections that will pay off quickly.”

  He led her to the full-length-window side of the room that overlooked the shimmering waters of Tampa Bay. A circled group of three men were holding iced amber drinks. They were quietly discussing an issue and completely oblivious of their surroundings. Dr. Ross walked up and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I am very pleased to introduce Miss Savannah Webb, our newest Spinnaker Art Festival recruit. She judged the glass art category.”