Shards of Murder

by Cheryl Hollon

  The three men turned and the largest raised his glass in salute. “Savannah, what a pleasure to find you here.”

  Of course Frank would be here.

  “Hi, Frank, it’s good to see you.” She raised her champagne flute.

  Frank held his salute a little longer and looked at the other two committee members. “Guys, this is one smart little lady. So, you need to watch out for her. She’s the single most dangerous competitor to Lattimer’s Glass Shop.”

  Dr. Ross cleared his throat again. “Yes, yes, Miss Webb, may I present the members of the selection committee. Obviously, you know Frank. This is Lesley Thackson.” Dr. Ross indicated a short, white-haired man who was a round, jolly but tanned Santa lookalike. “He is the exhibit director at the Museum of Fine Arts. Lastly, this is Wilson Barnes.” This gentleman was of average height, but skinny as flint. “He is the curator of the collection at the Dali Museum.”

  They each nodded a welcome.

  “Gentlemen”—he patted the hand tucked in his arm again—“we need to make John’s daughter feel at home.”

  Lesley extended his hand. “Miss Webb, may I offer my condolences on the tragic loss of your father.”

  Savannah used this opportunity to extract her tucked hand from the surgeon’s clutches. “Yes, thank you.” She shook his hand and moved two steps away from Dr. Ross, neatly avoiding a reclaiming.

  Lesley kindly looked into her eyes. “He was an enormous influence in our organization. We miss his wisdom and especially his unique skill in keeping such a diverse and often fractious group focused on the goal.”

  “Such kind words. Did you know him well?”

  “We were partner combatants in a shared vision for the Spinnaker Art Festival.”

  Wilson edged in. “Let me also tell you how glad I am to meet John’s daughter. He spoke of your progress in Seattle often. I had a great respect for his experience, but, unfortunately, I usually ended up on the opposite side of any of his Spinnaker Art Festival issues.”

  Stepping closer into the threesome’s circle, Savannah tentatively offered, “I heard that this year’s selection committee had changed one of their long-established policies.”

  “Oh, you mean about the grandfathered exhibitors?” Lesley looked down into his drink. “That was certainly the controversial issue of the year.” He gave his whiskey a gentle swirl followed by a long sip. “It split the organization right down the middle.”

  “Why?”

  Wilson looked at the other two and exhaled a double-cheeked puff. “Many of the long-term organizers were convinced that we needed to protect the artists who had been exhibiting for years. They feared that the Spinnaker Art Festival would lose its unique Florida character.”

  “Was that true?”

  Frank laughed an unmanly cackle. “That’s where the joke is on us old-timers. It turned out that the local artisans were very well represented and the whole Spinnaker Art Festival stepped up in quality, originality, and even diversity among the artists. Attendance increased by about twenty-five percent. It was a resounding success.”

  Savannah swirled the remaining bit of champagne in her glass. “How did you select the final artists?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” said Lesley, looking at Wilson and Frank, who each nodded to confirm his assessment. “We each selected the maximum number of exhibitors from the applications.”

  Frank nodded. “Even that was difficult given the high quality of pictured works.”

  “It was brutal,” Wilson continued. “Then we met and the first thing we did was determine which artists had been selected by all three of us.”

  “Those were undisputed and were automatically accepted as exhibitors.” Lesley looked down into the bottom of his empty glass. “Oddly, that represented about eighty percent of the 270 spaces. So, we felt pretty good about that much of it going so easily.”

  “But what we didn’t know at that time”—Frank lowered his brows—“was how difficult choosing the remaining twenty percent was going to be.”

  “How true,” Lesley continued. “The next category was for entrants who were selected by two of us. We asked the one who didn’t choose the artist to defend his rejection, and if we agreed with his evaluation, we removed the artist from the list.”

  “But if we changed his mind, then that was a new exhibitor. We got up to ninety percent of the booths filled that way.” Wilson signaled the bartender for fresh drinks.

  Frank smiled. “But, honestly, the last twenty-five applications nearly killed us.”

  “Well, actually we nearly killed each other.” Wilson noisily slurped on the ice of his drink.

  Savannah mentally shook her head. Every group has factions. The trick is to avoid being “captured” by one faction as well as to avoid seeming aloof. Politics are everywhere and my business now depends on how well I manage getting along with groups like this.

  Frank chuckled. “It was a matter of getting a consensus among us for each artist by trying to convince the other two that the artist deserved admission.”

  “The real tragedy is that they all deserved admission,” said Wilson, “but there was only booth space for another twenty-five.”

  Savannah quaffed the last of her champagne. “How did you choose?”

  They all three looked at each other in turn and Frank shrugged his shoulders in a “who cares” gesture.

  “You can’t tell anyone.” Frank lowered his voice and said, “We drew lots.”

  “You did what?” Savannah nearly dropped her champagne.

  “Shush. Now you listen a second,” Frank said as he held his hand out in a stop position. “The quality of the entrants was so very high, and we couldn’t get even two of us to agree on the remaining choices. It worked out in the end.”

  Wilson continued, “Basically, we gave each of them a number, wrote the numbers on slips of paper, put them in ajar, then drew numbers in turn until we reached 270 exhibitors.”

  “It was really that simple,” Lesley said. “Luck is one of the most important factors in succeeding in the fine arts.”

  Savannah laughed out loud and then shook her head. “I certainly have to hand it to you for finding a creative solution when you became deadlocked.”

  Wilson added, “One of the necessary elements of a successful career in art is a generous and timely amount of pure luck. You’re right: luck is vital.”

  “Just one question.” She fingered her empty glass. “For my peace of mind, anyway. What group was Megan Loyola in?”

  “Oh, she was one of the exhibitors in the first group,” Frank said. “We all loved her work. The pieces in her booth were beyond exceptional—genius even. Her death is an enormous loss to the advancement of modern glassworks.” The other two nodded solemnly. “Good call in selecting her for your top award.”

  “But her application was practically blank. There was only a picture of her central figure.”

  “Indeed,” said Lesley. “It was unforgettable, wasn’t it?”

  Savannah tilted her head. “Yes, it was. One more question, and I promise this is my last. What group was Leon Price in?”

  All three looked at one another and eye-signaled Frank to answer. “He is one lucky artist.”

  Savannah scrunched her brow. “What do you mean?”

  Frank glanced at the others to see if they would say anything, then replied, “He’s a little erratic. Some of his work is spectacular and then some of it is terrible. We didn’t really know what kind of work he would display. As it turns out, he is in a spectacular phase. His number was the last one we drew as an accepted applicant.”

  “Oh, wow. He was incredibly lucky. You know he was my second choice for the best glass exhibit.”

  “Well, that’s going to make him financially happier than he was before.”

  “Why? What do you mean?” Savannah knotted her brow. “He got five hundred for second place in glass.”

  Frank leaned closer to Savannah and lowered his voice. “There are whisperings of a r
eallocation of the prize monies since Megan didn’t claim her award.”

  Savannah leaned back. “What! Why would they do that? Megan won the prize! It should go to her family or estate or something.”

  “Well, it appears that there’s some small print in the application form that states if a prize winner does not claim the award—for any reason—the next highest scoring exhibitor is given the award.”

  Savannah narrowed her eyes. “That would certainly keep the money where it could be useful, but who wins the Best of Show prize money? That’s a lot of money you’re talking about.”

  “The leadership committee has determined the new winners, but they’re not revealing it to anyone here.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “They want to wait a few days until the flurry of bad publicity on Megan’s death has blown over— maybe even until after the killer is identified—and then hold a press conference to announce the new winner.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Shhhh, let’s get some privacy.” Frank turned to Lesley and Wilson. “Sorry, guys. We need to talk a little glass business. See you later.”

  “Oh, thanks, you’re taking away the prettiest judge in the room!” Wilson protested.

  “Not for long.”

  Frank took Savannah by the elbow.

  “Hey.” She pulled out of his grasp.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He nodded over to the opposite corner of the room. His head swiveled around like an owl trying to make sure no one would overhear them.

  “I know Wanda Quitman pretty well. She’s an absolutely fantastic organizer and publicist. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know how to rein in her opinions of how things should be run. I knew about the change in plans less than an hour after the prize committee had decided what to do.”

  “So much for secrecy. So, Leon was already the top winner in the glass category, but who will get the grand prize?”

  “That’s where Leon’s luck has turned viral,” said Frank. “He is the committee’s next choice.”

  “This will knock his socks off,” Savannah said. “He stormed off when he received first prize in the glass category. It appears he was down to his last fifty dollars and was going to have to give up his art.”

  “You mean that he—” Frank shuffled back a step.

  “Yes, Frank, he got the highest rating behind Megan.” Another strike against Leon. Since he really needs the money, that would be a powerful motive—and he has no alibi.

  “So the overall second-place prize goes to the Moon Under Water bartender.” Savannah was happy that Sam would get a prize. That small encouragement would make a big difference.

  “You were spoiled for choice in the glass category. I hate to admit this, but even I couldn’t have done better in selecting the winners. Although one of these years I’d like to try my hand as a judge.”

  Not while I have anything to say about it.

  “Frank, one of the things I heard from another artist is that you and Megan had a big public argument on Saturday. What was that about?”

  “No, that wasn’t an argument. We were having a business discussion.”

  “That’s not how I heard it. It appeared to get very heated and loud. That would be something the police would need to know.”

  He huffed up his chest. “I’m not in the business of doing police work. You’re not still in touch with that detective, are you?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Wait a minute. Why is he in touch with you?”

  “It’s merely a matter of time and place,” Savannah lied. “I found Megan’s body. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah, I heard that.” He signaled to a waiter with a tray of drinks. He placed his tumbler on the tray and grabbed another scotch. Savannah placed her empty glass on the tray and waved the waiter away.

  “What’s wrong with you? Have another. It’s free!”

  “You know very well that I prefer beer, specifically craft beer. Anyway, I’m trying to be a good business owner and keep my head. I love champagne, but it gives me a buzz faster than anything else. I am a bit hungry, though.”

  She waved to one of the waiters carrying canapés and put several on one of the napkins stacked on his tray.

  I’m getting nowhere. Now, what was I trying to find out from these high-society whizbangs?

  “If you’re not going to tell me about the argument, you can at least help me find out more about Megan. Her application has very little information on it. Did you guys read the background information on the applicants?”

  “Nope, we weren’t looking at anything but the pictures of the artworks. Her single photo was absolutely fantastic. Nothing else matters. Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m merely curious. No reason.”

  “Are you going to continue working with the Spinnaker Art Festival?”

  “Of course I am. If they’ll have me. As the new owner of Webb’s Glass Shop, it’s about time I get more involved with community events. Dad was a longtime dedicated supporter.”

  Frank grumbled into his glass of scotch. “I’m sure they’ll have you. You’re the new darling of this year’s Spinnaker Art Festival.”

  “Not true, Frank.” She looked back into the room and spotted Keith entering the room. “Oh goodness, please excuse me, I’ve got to catch up with my former instructor, Keith, but I’m still curious about your argument with Megan. Just saying it looks suspicious. You might want to talk to Detective Parker about it—even better if you do it before I talk to him next.”

  She walked away from a very pale Frank, who took another scotch from the passing waiter’s tray.

  “Keith.” She tapped him on the shoulder. “It’s nice to see you here. How did you wrangle an invitation to this?”

  He smiled wide. “Oh, it’s my connection to the Pilchuck Glass School that gets me into these things.”

  “Of course, duh!” She lightly tapped a palm to her forehead. “How are you doing? I know you were close to Megan.”

  “When you work in a hot glass shop together, you reveal almost everything in the art. Megan, however, was a bit of a mystery. I mean, we were student and mentor, but she didn’t get close to anyone that she didn’t bed.”

  “Do you have any idea if she has family or anything about her background?”

  “Odd, isn’t it?” His voice softened. “I was her mentor for the past few months and basically she seemed to spring forth fully formed from the forehead of Zeus.”

  “There was literally no information on her application form. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

  “Well, the art world is not particularly interested in anyone’s background. The art speaks for the artist, and Megan’s art has a lot to say. The originality and quality of her work acted as a blank-check admittance to any place she wanted to either sell or exhibit.” He shook his head slowly. “Such a loss.”

  “I found some shards from her display in the area behind her booth. It looks like they came from the central display piece. If I showed them to you, do you think you could identify the glass shop that she used to create it?”

  He nodded. “Most likely. There are subtle differences among the major hot shops in the recipe that they use for their hot glass material.”

  “Would you need a microscope?”

  “Not really. A good magnifying lamp with a light table would do quite well.”

  “I’ve got both at Webb’s. Could you stop by tomorrow and see if you can identify the origin of her central masterpiece?”

  “I’d be happy to, although it makes my gut twist to think of that piece being destroyed. Why on earth do you want to know?”

  “Actually, I’m helping with the investigation. It’s especially important to me since at this point I’m the principal person of interest.” She made air quotation marks with her fingers.

  “That’s crazy.” He shook his head. “Who would think that?”

  “I don’t think Detective Parker is seriously convinced that I would have murd
ered Megan, but the fact remains that I was seen with her late on Saturday. Then, even worse, I was the one who found her. That’s two trips to the top of the suspect list.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m certainly not going to sit on my hands and wait for the police to investigate their way to the wrong suspect, namely, me. So, I’ve started my own investigation. Can you help?”

  He folded Savannah into a side hug. “Of course, you don’t have to ask.”

  Leaning into the hug, Savannah remembered how special she’d felt as his student. This is how a good teacher influences their students.

  “Listen, now that I’ve said these things out loud, I’m getting concerned. Would you mind taking a look at the shards tonight?”

  Keith squeezed her a little tighter and looked into her eyes. “Of course, it would be my pleasure. Let’s get out of this social honey trap and get into some glass.”

  “I’ve got to stop by the house to get the shards and let my dog out. I’ll meet you at Webb’s in about an hour.” She looked down at her watch. “That would be at about ten o’clock. Good?”

  “More than good.” He smiled.

  Chapter 12

  Tuesday Evening

  The shop was dark except for the light in the display and retail room that burned continuously as a cursory deterrent to break-ins. Savannah unlocked the custom workshop door and turned on the large eight-by-ten-foot light box. She had a work in progress lying on top, but it didn’t cover the entire surface. She rearranged the work to one side so that there was a clear area at the foot of the table.

  Next, she went to her dad’s worktable and grabbed his large magnifying glass and also the set of magnifiers that you wear over your head like a baseball cap. As soon as she placed them on the light table, she heard a series of taps at the front door.