Shards of Murder

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Perfect timing,” she said as she unlocked the door for Keith and pulled it wide. “I’ve got everything set up.”

  Keith stepped into the display and retail room. “Wow, you’ve got a fantastic shop. How long has it been here?”

  “It’s been in the family since the twenties, when Grandfather Roy started designing and restoring pieces for the local churches. It was already well established when my dad took it over in nineteen fifty-seven. I’ve been running it for only a couple of months, and, believe me, I didn’t give my dad enough credit for how effortlessly he appeared to keep everything going.”

  Savannah walked him into the custom workshop. He walked over to the light box worktable and stared down at the work in progress. “Is this typical?”

  “Yes, it’s a restoration project. My client found the panel in a large wooden box at an auction in Tampa. It was part of a lot of three matched works. The smaller panels were still intact and only needed a little cleanup and repair. This one was severely damaged, and a lot of the individual pieces are incredibly dirty and broken.”

  Keith walked down to the other end of the worktable. “How are you cleaning it up?”

  “Carefully.” Savannah adjusted a few of the newly cleaned parts. “Amanda is my main volunteer and we first started by washing the glass. That didn’t make a dent because this window was obviously installed on the bad weather side of a building.”

  “Of course”—he picked up one of the pieces—“but it looks like this might have been victim to a roof runoff as well. This is encrusted with layers of dirt.”

  “I tried soaking the pieces in a strong cleaner in longer and longer periods of time all the way up to twenty-four hours. That made the cleaning process a little better, but we were still spending hours and hours scrubbing, rinsing, and cleaning.”

  “Tedious.”

  “Very, so we started using a cloth buffing wheel on a tiny handheld drill.”

  “What on earth made you think of that?”

  “One of our long-term students saw us struggling and suggested that we try the cloth buffer method. He does a lot of woodworking as well and uses the buffer drill for final polishing of the wooden pens that he makes. It’s cut the work down by ninety percent, and we’ll be done with the cleaning in about three weeks, instead of three months. My clients are fabulous about waiting as long as it takes to restore a panel to perfection.”

  Savannah reached into her backpack and pulled out the baggie that she had used for collecting the shards. “Here are the shards that Edward and I found behind the area where Megan’s exhibit booth was installed,” she said as she spilled them onto the surface of the light table.

  Keith drew up a work stool and bent over the shards. “These are pretty small.” He picked up the magnifying glass and examined them as they lay on the light table.

  “Do you have a pair of tweezers?”

  “Sure.” She got a pair from her workbench and placed them in his right hand.

  He grunted. Then he picked up the largest shard with the tweezers and held it closer to the lens. He placed it back on the light table and pulled the eyeglass magnifiers over his head and adjusted the fit using the screw in the back.

  Leaning over to examine the tiny slivers, he said, “Hmm, interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?” Savannah leaned over, too.

  He picked up the magnifying glass again. “Very interesting.”

  “Stop with the Sherlock Holmes shtick. What’s interesting?”

  He straightened up and his face turned a pale shade of yellow. “This is not good at all.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Here, let me show you what’s bothering me. Put on the magnifying glasses.”

  Savannah pulled the magnifiers over her head and adjusted them tight around her head. She leaned over the light table. “I see the shards, but what am I looking for?”

  “Do you see the red running through the clear glass?”

  “No, just red glass.”

  Keith handed her the magnifying glass. “Now, can you see?”

  Savannah looked through the double magnifiers and exhaled a long, low whistle. “This is a type of glass that I have never seen before.” She stood up straight and removed the glasses. “Where did this come from? Not the Seattle studio.”

  “Nope, we don’t have this kind of glass. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t a new process that I haven’t seen.” Keith crossed his arms and began to pace the small workroom.

  “This is why her pieces are so vibrant,” Savannah said. “She was using a process that intensified the red throughout the molten glass. It looks like she didn’t start with clear glass, like in every other hot shop I’ve ever been to.”

  “So where did she create the pieces in the exhibit?”

  Savannah sat on the stool that Keith had abandoned. “I was told that she and her team had been using McCloud’s hot shop after hours.”

  “So, no one was around when she created these pieces.”

  “Apparently not.”

  They fell silent for a moment, and then Keith sighed. “I’m stumped. I can’t figure out how she made this glass. Red is really tricky to work with and a consistent process would be worth a fortune to the big glass manufacturers.” He stopped pacing. “This could be the motive you’re looking for. This could be what is worth killing Megan.”

  “Her team would know. Her pieces would demand a team of two or three to execute.” Savannah placed the magnifying glass back on her dad’s workbench.

  “We’ll have to ask her studio partner. He’s one of the interns that I sent from Seattle.”

  “Which one, Leon or Vincent?”

  “Leon Price, the one who had a booth across from Megan’s.”

  “Yes, I loved his booth—his work was really powerful. How well do you know him?” Savannah pulled up another work stool and rested one foot on the bottom rung.

  “Not that well. He has a wild temper and works on his art by himself.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good candidate for teamwork.”

  “It’s complicated. His temper is usually directed at his own failures or mistakes. When he’s part of a team, he becomes invisible. The best type of work partner when making a hot glass project is the one who basically becomes an extension of you during the creation process. He could do that, so he was in high demand and could afford to be selective with who he worked with.”

  “Why did he want to come to St. Petersburg?”

  “I don’t know.” Keith rubbed the back of his neck. “Motivation for artists is not a reliable tool for selecting intern candidates. Most are looking for inspiration or a change in scenery. Either is usually effective to start a new thread of productivity.”

  Savannah remembered what Keith had said about Megan only opening up to those she took to bed. If she and Leon had been close, maybe he had more information on her.

  “When did they part?”

  “I think they were lovers quite recently, but since Leon is cranky, I figured Megan had moved on.”

  “Do you know her current boyfriend—if she had one?”

  Keith shook his head. “It could be anybody in her circle. She was a serial destroyer of hearts. It had been the cause of quite a few team shuffles.” He sighed deeply, then looked down. “It was the driving inspiration behind her works. She called it the flame of new love and the ashes of broken love.”

  “I wish I could have known her.” Savannah turned off the light table. “She sounds like one of those amazing bigger-than-life personalities.”

  “A pretty dangerous way to find a muse, if you ask me.”

  “Who might know about her current love?” Savannah asked.

  “No clue. It could be anyone.”

  “Do you know where she was staying? Maybe her neighbors will know more about her personal life.”

  “Good idea.” He patted his pockets and delved into the right-hand one. “Here’s her address. I wrote it on the back of my card. She wanted m
e to stop by tomorrow before I headed back to Seattle.”

  “Thanks, I’ll add that to our list. I know you talked to Leon, but what about Vincent?” Savannah asked.

  “I haven’t been able to find him anywhere. I’ve called his cell, but he’s not answering, which is very unusual. My students are typically very responsive to my calls.”

  “What about her family?”

  “Just like everything else I’ve known about Megan, her family life was complicated and volatile.”

  “How?” Savannah took a small envelope from the bottom drawer of one of the workbenches.

  “Megan was from Seattle and had an older sister who was the darling of her parents. You know the story—honor student, valedictorian, full scholarship to Harvard Law School, and now she’s a famous legal thriller author with a television show that she produces. Megan was the unruly, wild-child dropout with emotional issues.”

  “Are her parents still living?” Savannah used a pair of tweezers to pick up the glass shards and put them in the small envelope.

  “Yes, but from what I gather, they hadn’t spoken in years. Her sister had recently married the director of her television series and then followed that up with a baby boy. The first grandchild and a boy to boot. Tough act to follow.”

  “But Megan was beginning to enjoy some success. Her recent streak of Best of Show wins and prize money awards must have impressed.” Savannah tucked in the flap to the envelope and placed it on the light table.

  “I’m not sure, but I got the feeling that Megan thought she was about to be validated for choosing to be a glass artist.”

  “She was well on her way to becoming an important emerging artist. She would have been the newest young thing at the galleries next year. She could have made it. That’s what is so sad. All that talent and drive gone.”

  “I’m not looking forward to talking to her parents.” Keith lowered his eyes and shook his head slowly. “They’re arriving late tonight. I’m going to help them with making funeral arrangements.”

  “Oh, then you’re not leaving tomorrow?”

  “No, I’m staying until this is resolved. I can’t leave with a former student dead. I’m ready to help you in any way I can.”

  “I would be grateful if you could join my investigation team. You can be a huge help at the Duncan McCloud Gallery. Amanda’s already been there, but she’s merely a student. Since you’re a visiting professor from the famous Pilchuck Glass School, they would be delighted to have you tour their facilities.”

  “That shouldn’t make a difference. This is murder we’re talking about.”

  “Right, but I’m not the police. You actually know her family. I think that is going to be an important point. If you don’t mind, we’ll go over together after class tomorrow. Is that good?”

  “It’s good for me. I was originally scheduled to fly back to Seattle tomorrow afternoon, but I canceled my return ticket, so my schedule is open. Sadly, not the best way to get some extra time in St. Petersburg.”

  Chapter 13

  Wednesday Morning

  Savannah arrived at Webb’s early and was surprised to find Jacob deeply involved in sorting the Spinnaker Art Festival artist applications into yet another configuration of stacks. His service beagle, Suzy, followed each step that Jacob took along the length of the worktable looking up to read his face. Suzy’s rubber booties padded softly on the tile floor in her quest to stay close beside him. She was alert and ready to warn him or Savannah if an anxiety attack was imminent and he would need the medication that was stored in her service vest.

  “Any luck?”

  Jacob looked up at Savannah and gave a noncommittal shrug of his thin shoulders. “I have sorted them by various parameters. Once alphabetically, then chronologically by date received, and now I’m organizing them by location.” He returned his full focus to his concentrated task.

  “But did you find anything?”

  Jacob looked up as if he couldn’t believe she had asked the question. “Not yet. I would have said.” He returned to the task with the same intensity that he had applied to the first sorting of the papers.

  I’d better call his mother to make sure she knows he’s doing this. I know he promised to tell her, but a teenager doesn’t always share everything with their parents. He’s definitely good at this and he’s certainly enjoying it.

  She looked at the envelope containing the red shards on the light table and spilled them out onto the surface. Images returned of Megan’s haunting exhibit and the firestorms that had been created in the wake of her adventurous life. Savannah carefully placed the shards back in the envelope and went to the back of her shop to put them in her backpack.

  Jacob’s mother worked as a judge in the juvenile court over in Tampa. Dialing Frances Underwood’s cell, she expected that it would roll over to voice mail.

  “Hi, Savannah. Are you calling about the booties? Are they working out or is there something wrong? They were the devil to find. We had to get her used to wearing them a little bit longer every day but Jacob was definitely motivated.”

  “The booties are terrific and it makes her so happy to be with Jacob instead of isolated from him by staying in my office. I wish my students were so enthusiastic about our rule for wearing standard closed-toe shoes.”

  “Okay,” Frances paused, “is everything good with Jacob?”

  “Jacob’s doing fine. He’s growing into a skilled, dependable apprentice. I wanted to talk with you about his latest investigation project.”

  “Investigation? Not like the last time.”

  “No, no, Frances. Nothing like that.”

  “It was such a strain.”

  “I do understand. Officially, I’m a suspect in the Spinnaker Art Festival murder, but in reality Detective Parker isn’t taking that seriously. I feel a strong connection to Megan: she was my age, studying at my studio, shared my instructors. I plan to do everything I can to solve this case.”

  There was complete silence on the line.

  Savannah held her breath.

  Frances chuckled loudly. “So this is different how?”

  Savannah could hear the irony. “You’re right. I’ve gotten myself into another mess.”

  “Okay, okay. How can I help?”

  “Has Jacob talked to you about this?”

  There was a long silence. “Obviously, no.” Frances’s voice was low and crisp.

  “I was afraid of that.” Savannah had guessed right that Jacob had failed to get permission to analyze the artist applications.

  “I need to take advantage of Jacob’s skills in pattern matching and data analysis.”

  “I’m sorry, he hasn’t said anything about it.”

  “I should have called you earlier. I keep forgetting that he’s a teenager because he acts so mature here in the shop.” Savannah toyed with the idea of having him stop, but actually she was in a tight spot and needed his help. “He was supposed to tell you about analyzing some data for me. I’m investigating the death of a glass artist at the Spinnaker Art Festival.”

  “So you need his pattern-matching skills?”

  “Yes, he leapt right into an analysis of a huge database. I thought he could spot something within a few hours, but this is taking more time than I expected, so I thought I’d better check with you so that you know what he’s doing to help me.”

  “You have our full support, Savannah. If you hadn’t solved your dad’s murder so quickly, we might still be mired in the myriad channels of the justice system. It was made worse by the logical and believable fact that Jacob appeared to be the only credible candidate for murdering not only your dad, but his associate as well. We will be grateful to you for as long as we live.”

  “I was lucky to have made a difference.”

  “Whatever you need Jacob to do is fine by me. My one request is that you keep me up to date with what’s happening. If you can think of any way that I can help, simply let me know.”

  “Thanks a lot, Frances. It’s
a deal,” Savannah said and quickly ended the call.

  The front-door bell jangled on its hook. “Hey, luv. How are you this morning?” Edward carried a tray of coffee and croissants into the small office at the back and placed it on the pull-out shelf of the rolltop desk. “You look a bit blue. Are you okay?”

  “Nope”—she reached for one of the warm croissants—“but this will help enormously.”

  “Good.” He poured a steaming cup of coffee and handed it over. “Um, I have some news from over the pond.”

  “From what?”

  Edward sighed deeply. “From England. You know, where I’m from—England.”

  “I know that.” She took an enormous bite of the fresh croissant. “This is heaven.”

  Edward shifted from foot to foot. “It’s like this—my parents are coming over for their spring visit. They visit over here for several weeks in the spring, then again in the summer, and also over the Christmas holiday. So it doesn’t really mean anything, anything at all that they are coming over.”

  Savannah choked on her croissant and Edward patted her on the back.

  “Are you all right? Do you need a drink? Anyway, I’m having some concerns.”

  “About . . .”

  “About meeting my parents. They’re very old-fashioned.”

  “You have no—” Savannah stood straight up, slopping the coffee down her leg. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” She grabbed one of the cloth napkins on the tray and dabbed the worst of the liquid from her jeans.

  Where did that come from? Why am I upset? His folks are probably adorable.

  She pinched a bit of the denim in her fingers and held it away from her skin.

  “I’m sorry, that was clumsy. In any case, we still haven’t found a credible suspect and it’s already Wednesday.”

  “Don’t get nervous. I think we need more help.”

  Savannah flopped back into her office chair, which shrieked a squeak that threatened to split the seat. “I’ve got more help.”

  “Who?”

  “Keith has offered to help.”

  “Oh.” Edward began gathering up the cups and napkins.