Shards of Murder

by Cheryl Hollon

  Rats, I forgot about the screening. Do I have anything bad with me?

  She placed her backpack on the short conveyor belt. She looked at the attendant’s face as she quickly patted her pockets and pulled out a small pair of needle-nose pliers, a two-foot length of copper necklace chain, and a half dozen glass pendants.

  “I make jewelry.” She displayed her best “innocent as the day is long” smile.

  The attendant didn’t look even mildly surprised. He picked up the pliers, gave them a trial, put them back in the bin, and then waved her on through the scanning machine.

  No beeps—yay!

  She sat on an overengineered industrial chair that was so old it had become fashionable again. The leather and metal look, which had been popular in the late sixties, had worn well. In fact, the entire building had worn well and there was talk about the police station being added to the National Register of Historic Buildings. The sad truth was that although the original construction had been costly, there had never been budget for additions or remodeling. As a result, the building was frozen in a time warp and deserving of the designation. It was unique in the South.

  Just as she was considering pulling out her pliers and working on the new necklace, the elevators opened and Officer Boulli looked around at the seats and then walked toward her.

  He’s gained even more weight.

  Smiling broadly to hide her distaste, Savannah stood and held out her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Officer Boulli.”

  He wiped his right hand down the seam of his uniform trousers, then shook hands. “Hi there, Miss Webb, I’m glad you remember me.”

  “I’m hardly going to forget the case that caused me so much grief.”

  He pointed a chubby finger right at her nose. “You nearly got me fired.”

  “Me? How did I do that?”

  Officer Boulli drew his finger back and rocked back and forth on his heels glaring down at Savannah. “I don’t know ’xactly, but I think you had something to do with my suspension.”

  Of course I did, but I’m not going to admit it. Ever. Ever. Ever.

  “Is Detective Parker ready to see me?”

  “Yep. Follow me, Miss Webb.” His words were clipped and crisp.

  He turned and pressed the button to the elevator, then led her down to Detective Parker’s office. “Here’s Miss Webb, sir.”

  “Thanks, Officer Boulli.” Detective Parker stood. “Don’t leave. I’d like for you to stay and help me with Miss Webb’s statement. Miss Webb, please have a seat.”

  Savannah thought the new office suited Detective Parker perfectly. There was precisely enough room for his desk, chair, and even a tiny round conference table. The two file cabinets meant that he could keep all the flat surfaces clear. He must be pleased because she knew him to be almost obsessed with order and calm in his workspace.

  “It’s Savannah, please call me Savannah. I feel as though we’ve shared too many once in a lifetime events to be so formal.”

  “I agree. Well, in that case, I’d be pleased to call you Savannah. We have indeed been through an uncommon number of unusual experiences. Please sit.” He waved Officer Boulli to the remaining visitor’s chair, then sat himself.

  Officer Boulli sucked in his gut and sat tentatively to ensure that his shirt buttons took the strain. He looked enormously uncomfortable.

  Savannah smiled.

  Detective Parker pointed a finger directly at her chest. “You didn’t tell me that you were present when they found Megan’s masterpiece at the Duncan McCloud Gallery. Did you think they wouldn’t mention that when we investigated?”

  “I—” Savannah choked on her protest. She turned a bright red. After clearing her throat, she said, “I knew that they would call you and that I was going to meet with you this afternoon.” She lifted her chin. “I’m here now. What would you like to know?”

  Parker rolled his eyes. “Savannah, you would try the patience of Job. Seriously, why do you think Megan’s artwork was there?”

  “Honestly? I think it was one of the safest places in the city to store it. Any one of the glass artists who found it would recognize it and take proper care of it. It’s heavy and fragile, a risky combination.”

  “Who do you think put it there?”

  “Someone who is familiar with McCloud’s facilities.”

  Parker frowned. “Well that narrows it down to every glassworker in the city.”

  “That’s right. And because the hot shop is open and booked around the clock, all of them have access to the studio. I don’t think it’s a helpful lead, but I’m very happy that her masterpiece wasn’t destroyed. It’s her legacy.”

  Detective Parker nodded his head slightly, then handed Savannah a manila folder. “This is a transcript of your statement from the scene on Monday morning. I would like for you to read it over again, make any changes you feel are necessary to describe your actions clearly, initial each change, and then finally I need your signature at the bottom.” He handed her a pen.

  “Before I forget”—she put the folder and pen on the edge of his desk then reached into her backpack and pulled out the envelope of glass shards—“Edward and I found these in the grass near Megan’s festival booth.”

  Parker stood up. “What? You’ve been—”

  “Snooping around? Yes, I have. They were hidden in a patch of grass to the rear of her booth. Edward found them by using his fingers. He has stitches. We had to get them out of the grass. A child or dog could have been seriously hurt. Anyway, I’ve examined them and they look like the shards that were embedded in her wound.”

  “Hand them over.” He took them and sat back down. He handed the manila folder to her.

  Savannah opened the folder, and began to read her statement. The printed sentences were facts expressed on the page in dry, emotionless words. Still, they summoned the shock of raw violence back into her mind with a rush of sorrow and dismay.

  Her signature looked a little wonky, but Savannah handed the folder and the pen back to Detective Parker. “It’s quite accurate.” She was conscious of the warmth rising from her throat into her cheeks and dancing across her forehead. She used the palm of her hand to swipe her brow and summoned calm thoughts.

  Puppies. Playfully romping puppies . . .

  Rooney stopping short, pointing at the seawall.

  Damn it, not that. Roses. Wonderfully fragrant roses bursting into bloom.

  The raw, red wound on Megan’s scalp.

  “Are you okay?” Detective Parker stood. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “That sounds good.” She leaned back in the chair and waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m feeling a little woozy.”

  “Quick! Put your head down. Yep, down. That’s it.” Parker opened a tiny fridge under the table behind his desk and pulled out a fresh bottle of spring water.

  When she started to lift up again, Detective Parker stretched his hands out and said, “Nope, not yet. You still don’t have much color.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. She inhaled deeply and long several times. Then finally felt the darkness begin to recede.

  “That’s better.” Parker had walked around the desk and pressed three fingers on her wrist feeling her pulse. “Okay, raise up slowly, very slowly and lean back in the chair.” He twisted the water bottle open and handed it to Savannah. “Here, take a few swigs of this.”

  She took a long swig of the lovely cold water and then inhaled a deep, ragged breath.

  Parker watched her carefully. “That was close. You have some color back. How do you feel?”

  “Embarrassed.” She gulped another swig of water. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s rare to have a strong reaction to the description of a violent event. It does happen, but not very often. I should have warned you. I apologize.”

  “Apparently, I’ve been concentrating on the actions of the living Megan and had pushed the violence of her death completely out of my mind. I�
��m sorry.”

  “What do you mean by concentrating on the actions of the living Megan?”

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  Savannah squirmed in the chair. “Well, it seems to me that the only way for me to get off your suspect list would be to find out more about Megan from the perspective of a glass artist.”

  Detective Parker leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He looked pointedly at Officer Boulli and then back to Savannah. “You know it’s against the law to interfere in the investigation of a crime. I’m sure you know that because we’ve had this conversation before.”

  What does he mean by that? Is he angry?

  “Typically, Savannah, someone clears their name from the suspect list by discrediting their means to the murder—by providing an alibi, for example.”

  Leaning forward a fraction, she stared at him. “I don’t have an alibi. I was home with Rooney. That’s not an alibi, but this is happening in my world. It’s happening to me. It’s happening in my complicated and confusing world of artists, galleries, festivals, and studios. I know these people. I know how they think and I know how they work. You need me.”

  As he leaned back in his chair, a small smile skittered quickly around the corners of his mouth and then vanished. He leaned forward again. “You are absolutely right. But because you are a suspect, I can’t do that.”

  “But . . .”

  Parker raised his hand for her to be quiet. “Hear me out. I don’t know for a fact that you had anything to do with Megan’s death. I have no concrete evidence.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “But that does nothing for the law or for our internal investigation policies and procedures. So for now, I’m planning to hire Frank Lattimer as my expert consultant to give us insight into the behind-the-scenes rarified world of glass artists.”

  Savannah felt her teeth clench. “But he’s such an idiot. You can’t possibly take what he says seriously.”

  “I have no choice,” said Detective Parker. “It’s not up for discussion.”

  Office Boulli started in his chair as if he had been asleep. “But that’s not what you said earlier today.”

  “Officer, be—”

  “You said you wanted Miss Webb to help with the investigation. That she would be a great help.”

  Detective Parker lowered his head in an obvious attempt to control his temper. “You may have been mistaken in what you heard, Officer Boulli.” He took a breath and spoke with exaggerated pronunciation. “What I said was that I was disappointed that we could not take advantage of Miss Webb’s particular knowledge base until she was cleared.”

  “I don’t remember it that way.”

  “Then, obviously, you need to work on your listening skills. Paying attention to small details is a critical element for your continued development as an effective officer.”

  Boulli puffed up and Savannah feared for the health of his shirt buttons. Death by projectile button popped into her head.

  The silence lengthened to that uncomfortable state where no one wanted to break it.

  Parker’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Officer, please check with Coroner Grey about the autopsy report. I’ll escort Savannah out of the building.”

  Officer Boulli’s brow furrowed in thought. “But, you just spoke with her on the phone.”

  “Yes, I did. She said her final report would be ready to pick up right about now. I’d like to have it on my desk by the time I get back.”

  “Oh, I see.” He stood and glared at Savannah, then left the office, propelling his bulk down the hallway at a fast clip.

  Savannah pulled her backpack on her shoulder. “He thinks I got him suspended.”

  “Well, you helped a little. I’m the one who officially submitted the tedious paperwork. He’s the reason I am playing by the book. I can’t give your innocence the benefit of the doubt. I have to follow the investigative policies and procedures precisely or Officer Boulli will report me to Internal Affairs in a heartbeat.”

  “So, I’m unofficially innocent but officially a suspect.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday Evening

  Savannah drove straight down Central Avenue to 3 Daughters Brewing to meet up with the posse. She couldn’t remember if she had invited Keith, so she texted him to meet her there. Her dizzy spell had had no lasting effects other than a residual flush of embarrassment.

  Edward stood and waved his whole arm to signal Savannah that the posse had assembled near the foosball game at the back of the brewery. She made her way over to one of the upended wooden cable spools that served for high tops in the large, open warehouse space next to the brightly shining, massive brewing equipment.

  “What did you find out?” Amanda panted while desperately spinning the foosball handles forward and backward in wild disorder to defend against Jacob’s cool and measured attack. “I lost again?” Her voice registered disbelief as the ball pinged into her goal.

  Jacob meticulously adjusted up each paddle bar to straighten each player rod to a perfect vertical, then picked up bootie-less Suzy. “We’re awesome at foosball,” he whispered into one of her floppy brown ears.

  “Hi, guys.” Edward motioned to the two pints of beer on the table. “I took the liberty of ordering the Summer Storm Stout for Keith, and, of course, a Beach Blonde Ale for Savannah.”

  “Thanks”—Keith held up the dark brew—“but I’m strictly an India pale ale man.”

  Edward quickly swapped his beer with Keith’s. “No problem, this is their Bimini Twist IPA. That should work.”

  Edward looked at Savannah. “What did you discover?”

  “Not what we were expecting at all.” Savannah took a long sip of her ale. “There’s more mystery in this investigation than you can shake a stick at.”

  “I’ll say. At McCloud’s”—Keith hopped onto one of the stools—“we were lucky to be there when they found Megan’s Best of Show piece stowed in one of the cooling kilns.”

  Edward scrunched his brow. “Why is that lucky?”

  “No one else would have thought to call the police and report it as evidence.” Savannah took a long, deep breath. “The resident artists there are so focused on getting as much work done as possible, they’re completely single-minded.”

  Keith sipped his beer. “Good choice, Edward.” He nodded to the pub owner. “I’m so happy that Megan’s masterpiece has been found, but it doesn’t make sense for it to turn up at McCloud’s. I’m completely confused.”

  “What did Detective Parker think?” asked Edward.

  Savannah ducked her head and stared into her drink. “We took the cowards’ way out and skulked out of there as soon as they called. I didn’t have anything that could help so far, and I really didn’t want to discuss my acute lack of ideas with him. Besides, I was scheduled to meet with Detective Parker only a little while after it was discovered. According to procedures, he said he couldn’t use me as a consultant as long as I was a suspect.”

  “That’s rubbish,” said Edward. “How will we get information to him?”

  “Ugh, this is the part that will be awful—he’s hired Frank Lattimer as his consultant.”

  “What? That’s crazy. Frank knows nothing about people.” Amanda frowned. “Worse, he thinks he has fabulous people skills. He’s got nothing. Nothing.”

  Savannah took a generous swig. “It gets worse. Showing up at the site to discover the missing masterpiece does not look good for my unofficial position on the suspect list either.”

  Amanda flushed to her spiked hairline. “That’s rubbish.”

  “Speaking of rubbish for ideas”—Edward smiled—“but certainly not lacking in quantity of course, I met with Wanda and had great difficulty getting a word in with dynamite.”

  Jacob tilted his head. “Why would you use dynamite?”

  “Sorry, Jacob, not literally. I meant that she talked so much, it was difficult for me t
o interrupt her. I did get some answers.”

  “Well, give, give, give,” said Amanda. “We’re dying on the vine here.”

  Still puzzled, Jacob looked at Savannah. She waved a “hold your questions” hand at him. “Spill it, Edward. I need some serious cheering up.”

  “Maybe this will help. Wanda and Megan did indeed have a loud argument at the reception held the night before the festival. It was over the placement of her booth at the very end of that hidden row. Megan called it ‘the row of lost orphans.’”

  Amanda giggled. “That’s accurate. It was certainly difficult to find—even when you were looking for her booth from the map.”

  Edward’s impatient look silenced Amanda. “Anyway, Megan accused Wanda of being prejudiced against women artists and then Wanda accused Megan of being an entitled spoiled brat.”

  “Yikes,” said Savannah with a frown.

  “Megan pointed out that her booth was the last one in the aisle and she also complained to Wanda that most first booths in a row belonged to male artists.”

  “Jacob, is this true?”

  Jacob didn’t look up. His gaze moved from staring at the top of Suzy’s head to looking at the foosball paddles and back to Suzy, not touching, just looking. “Yes, Miss Savannah. Of the eighteen aisles, the artists on the end booths are 94.4 percent male.”

  “After that, it got worse. Megan called Wanda some pretty filthy names. Then, rightly so, Megan was asked to leave the reception.”

  Savannah held her chin in both hands and propped her elbows on the table. “This is beginning to be useful. Powerful socialite Wanda doesn’t want a nobody from out of town to cast doubt on her reputation. That could be a motive.”

  Edward shook his head negatively. “That’s a very weak motive for murder. Irritating as she is, we’re talking real violence here. I don’t see that.”

  Finished with staring at the foosball machine, Jacob stood at the spindle table and sipped his root beer. He waited until there was a pause. “I found something, Miss Savannah.”