Death at the Museum

by London Lovett

  "Well, Sunni, it seems you were in the thick of things . . . again." She was almost accusatory, but at the same time, she seemed thrilled that she'd had a reporter front row at the unveiling. I was sure she'd take all the credit for that. She was the one to give me the assignment, so credit was probably due. Although, I doubted she could have predicted how the evening would turn out. It certainly broadsided me like a moving freight train.

  "Yes, Prue, I think you could say that I had a special backstage pass to both calamities. I was one of the first at the murder scene too." I flicked a slight chin lift in the direction of the lead reporter and discovered that he was too involved with something on his computer to pay attention to the conversation. Prudence noticed his inattention as well, and while the rest of us would get called out on it, like a kid in class not paying attention, she merely cleared her throat to regain his focus.

  Dave pulled his gaze up from his monitor. "Yes, terrible circumstances. I've heard the museum is closed today." I wondered if that was as far as his research had gotten him.

  "Naturally, Dave," Prudence began, "I expect you to cover the murder at the museum."

  She turned to me. "Sunni, you stay on the missing chalice story. It seems we've been blessed with two headliners for the next edition." The woman started out insisting we would never write about bad news, scandals or shocking headlines to grab readers, but she'd quickly learned that those were the very things that caused readers to pick up a paper. I was not the least bit disappointed that I was to stay on the stolen chalice story. I knew the two were connected, even if Prudence had not figured that out yet.

  "Uh, Prue," Dave said from over his monitor, "as you might recall, I'm already working on a story. Not sure if I'll have time to dive into this murder investigation."

  Parker was sitting in his usual meeting position, arms crossed and resting gently on his round belly and mouth virtually sewn shut. He rarely had input and had turned the morning staff meeting into more of an entertainment hour. He was wearing the slightest smirk as he waited to see how Prudence handled her lead reporter.

  Myrna, on the other hand, was busy trying to clean the jelly off her silk blouse. She had her chin tucked to her chest as she vigorously rubbed the bright red spot with a napkin. Her ministrations only served to spread the stain.

  Prudence had given her response a good deal of consideration, allowing herself some time by biting into her jelly donut. I would have preferred a glazed buttermilk, but Prudence had decided jelly donuts for everyone. I was hardly one to say no to a donut, no matter the flavor. (Something told me this might have been Myrna's last jelly donut, however. She looked irritated that one bite of a donut had just cost her a silk blouse.)

  "Dave, I know you mentioned some big mystery story, a front pager and all that," Prudence said rather flippantly considering who she was speaking to, "but I think the death at the museum will have to take precedence over your current story."

  Parker's smirk grew more pronounced, and Dave's chin nearly hit the desk. "But, Prue—" he started.

  "I think that brings this meeting to an end." Prudence stood up. "Let's get out there and write those stories."

  Myrna and I exchanged winks as Prudence started toward her office.

  "I can do both," Dave blurted before she could disappear inside.

  Her round shoulders tightened as she stopped in her doorway. Those same taut shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. I was giddy with anticipation. Had Prudence finally decided Dave was taking too much advantage of her? Were we finally going to see the takedown we'd all been waiting for? Parker was literally sitting on the edge of his seat waiting to see the fireworks fly. (Fireworks not literal.)

  Prudence spun around on her sensible shoes. Her chin looked as rigid as her shoulders, then her face relaxed to a warm smile. "All right, Dave. Just make sure you do a stupendous job on that murder story."

  Parker's chair groaned as he slumped back in disappointment. Myrna and I both did a little slumping of our own, only her slump might have been due to the jelly donut stain, now more prominent than ever on her top.

  Dave clapped once, a victorious smile on his face. "Thanks, Prue, you won't be disappointed in either story. I promise."

  And there it was, Dave was still Prudence's golden child. The second Prue had disappeared into her office, Dave walked toward my desk. I knew the exact reason for his journey across the newsroom, even before he said one word. Yes, the man was dating my sister and there was the little thing about him saving my life, but did I really have to provide him with all the details for his story? I would be glad to, only this time I had some leverage to make sure I got something out of the exchange.

  Dave dragged one of the spare chairs over to my desk and sat down close enough for me to smell his aftershave. "Knowing you as I do," he started rather smarmily, "I assume you have all the details about the murder at the museum."

  "I probably have a few, but there's going to be a little quid pro quo this time."

  Dave's brows arched up to his hairline. He was shocked. Normally, because of the whole lifesaving debt, I handed him information without asking for anything in return.

  He nodded once. "Sure thing. What do you need from me?"

  "I need you to stop trying to drum up rumors that the inn is haunted." It was more than apparent that he didn't see my request coming.

  It took him a few seconds to respond. A wry smile broke out on his face. "I'm not drumming up anything. I'm merely trying to get to the truth. I saw those oranges—"

  "What you saw was me dropping oranges. I'll bet it's an occurrence that is repeated numerous times a day in the produce aisle at the grocery store."

  "Ah ha." He pointed but not rudely. "Me thinks the woman doth protest too much."

  "I'm doing nothing of the sort," I said brusquely, probably adding weight to his last comment. I had to shake off my flustered state. I wriggled on my chair and straightened my posture. Somehow sitting straighter always made me think straighter too. "Look, you and Lana should come to dinner tonight at the inn. I'll let you check out the whole place from corner to corner. You'll see there is nothing in that old house except a journalist, her two dogs and the occasional spider." Was this really thinking straighter? It meant I'd have to cook dinner, and a real dinner, not just macaroni and cheese from a box. And what if something happened to add evidence to his ghost hunting mission?

  "You know what?" Dave's voice popped me out of my thoughts. "Lana and I will be there. Thanks for the invite. So . . . how about some information on last night's murder?"

  I nodded weakly. "Fine, go get your tablet, and I'll tell you what I know." He walked away and I replayed the conversation in my head. I hadn't really gotten anything except now I had to cook dinner and then nervously sit through a meal hoping that nothing out of the ordinary happened in my entirely out of the ordinary house.

  Chapter 17

  I knew the museum was closed, but I made the trip with the hope that a press pass would get me inside. I wasn't entirely sure what I would uncover there, but I'd always found some of the best information came from peripheral characters, as I liked to call them, people in the know who had nothing to do with the actual crime.

  I climbed the steps, empty this morning because of the murder. I imagined plenty of school children got to school this morning excited about a field trip to the museum, only to learn it was cancelled. Lots of sad little faces this morning, no doubt. Not to mention teachers having to dash around to pull together new activities for the day.

  I reached the entrance door and knocked. One of the women I'd seen the day before rushing around to get ready for throngs of school children, hurried over to the door. I squinted through the glass. Her name tag said Celeste, and she was a floor manager. She was much younger up close. I pressed my pass against the glass on the door.

  She shook her full head of brown curls and opened the door a crack. "I'm sorry. We're closed today."

  "Yes, I know. I was here last night a
t the chalice unveiling. I'm with the Junction Times." She didn't look convinced. I resorted to the next tool I had in my journalist's toolbox, namedropping. "I was Professor Fisher and John Hartman's guest."

  Her sternly 'no' brow softened. "You're a friend of Dr. Fisher's?" It seemed I'd just discovered who was higher up on the museum's VIP list.

  "Yes, I've been interviewing Samuel"—I laughed as if the informal name slip had been an accident—"I mean, Professor Fisher, for the paper."

  "I don't think Dr. Fisher is here this morning." She sighed. "I guess we can't hold this conversation through a crack in the door." She opened up and allowed me inside. Three cheers for the namedropping tool.

  I was in the door, and Celeste seemed amiable and open enough for a chat. "You mentioned that Dr. Fisher wasn't here this morning."

  "Not that I know of but then I've been busy. I'm heading into the gift shop to restock shelves."

  "Do you mind if I walk with you? I'd like to hear how the museum employees are feeling this morning. I'm sure it was shocking to hear about Sarah Essex." As I said it, I hoped that she had heard about Sarah. I didn't want to be the one to break the news.

  Her face dropped. The solemn frown put my worries to rest. The museum employees had heard about the tragedy. "Sarah was a nice person," Celeste started. She hadn't said no to my notion of tagging along, so I just kept walking with her. "She was mostly in the lab and with the more important people, but she always had time for us little folk."

  "Little folk?" I asked for clarification. Although, after this morning's staff meeting, I knew, too well, the meaning of 'us little folk'.

  "You know, the people who keep the place spotless and organize field trips and—" she waved toward the gift shop. "Restock the shelves in the gift shop." We stepped inside the shop. One wall was filled with reproductions of artwork and sculptures. In the center of the store, on a prominent two-tiered stand, tiny reproductions of the Lotus Chalice had been carefully lined up on both tiers. A large banner hung over the display telling customers they should 'take a piece of Ancient Egypt home with them'.

  Celeste stopped at the display and sighed loudly. "We were all looking forward to seeing the chalice this morning. So much terrible news when we arrived. You clock out one evening and return the next morning to find everything has gone haywire. None of us are thinking straight today."

  "I can only imagine. It was a double shock to those of us in attendance last night."

  She smiled weakly. "That's right, you were here. Was it just awful?"

  "Dreadful," I said. "Have the police been here this morning?" Jackson had mentioned that he'd be getting an early start on the case.

  Celeste lifted her thin shoulders and moved closer. "I hear there was a detective here earlier, a real hottie, according to Susan and Becky at the front desk. Anyhow, he came to pick up digital copies of the security tapes. From what I heard, Roscoe, our head of security, was freaking out because part of the tapes had been erased. He has no idea how it happened, but I guess it was an important section in the tape. Is it true Sarah was found in the lab?"

  I was still absorbing the incredible news about the erased tapes, so her question caught me off guard. "Huh? Uh yes, at least that is what I've been told." I decided to remain a little more neutral in my knowledge about the incident. I didn't want to divulge any police secrets as I liked to call them.

  "Just terrible. She spent so much time in that lab, then to die there—" Her voice trailed off. I gave her a moment to collect herself. It also gave me time to plan my next move. One name floated to the surface of the names and details swirling in my brain. It was time for some more namedropping, only this was someone I'd never actually met.

  "It's a shame I won't be able to talk to Dr. Fisher. I suppose I'll have to visit him at his university office."

  "I'm sure that's where you'll find him," Celeste agreed. "I imagine he's beside himself about the stolen chalice."

  "Yes, he was devastated. Since I've made the trip here, I wonder if you can tell me whether or not Flora Myers is in the building this morning."

  Celeste rolled in her pink glossed lips. It seemed she had something to say on that front, only she wasn't sure if she should say it.

  "Since you know Flora, you probably know why her showing up here this morning might be scorned, or, at the very least, considered in bad taste."

  I was in a pickle. How could I pull off pretending to know Flora while at the same time having no idea what she was alluding to. "Oh yes, I suppose it might be in bad taste." I went along with it hoping wonderful, friendly Celeste would add a little more detail to the reason for it being bad taste. "Although, would it really be that terrible?" I prodded.

  "I suppose it was Sarah who actually stole John from Flora, so, technically, Sarah was at fault. But Flora always made it super clear she didn't like Sarah. If there was no one else in antiquities to talk to except Sarah, Flora would just spin around on her expensive heels and leave. She would make a big scene about it too, letting everyone know she had no respect for Sarah. Flora was what you might call a sore loser. She didn't even make an attempt at civility. Not terribly professional, if you ask me."

  "No, I suppose that is one of Flora's faults." My short excursion to the museum had paid off. It seemed I'd found someone on the lab key list who had good reason to dislike Sarah Essex. Now the question was—was Flora's jealousy strong enough for her to commit the ultimate crime of passion? I hoped to find out soon. Here I was again, doing Dave's job for him. I decided to keep this new piece of information to myself. After all, lifesaving debt or not, there was no reason for me to spoon feed the man. Which reminded me—what on earth was I going to cook for dinner?

  Chapter 18

  The remainder of the morning wasn't nearly as fruitful as my short visit to the museum. But I was counting on lunch to be a success. Jackson was waiting for me out front of Layers. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head. His amber eyes landed on me, giving me that all over warmth only his gaze could conjure. I wondered if it was like that for Lana when Dave looked at her. Sometimes I got the feeling that Lana had told herself she needed to have a boyfriend to complete her life and so she had settled on Dave. I was probably being unfair to Dave, but I so rarely caught Lana gazing dreamily at the man or touching his arm or hand as she spoke, something Emi was apt to do with Nick. Of course, my sister Lana was very different than Emily and me. I was probably looking for something that was never going to be. Lana was all business. She was far too pragmatic to be lost in mindless romantic gestures. I, on the other hand, was stuck firmly on the mindless romantic gestures side, particularly when it came to Detective Jackson.

  I hurried to Jackson, hopped on my toes and kissed him before he could say a word. His brilliant smile appeared as he gazed down at me. "Well, hello to you too." This time he initiated the kiss.

  "That was a lovely appetizer," I said. "Shall we go inside for the main course?"

  "My empty stomach says yes." He opened the door and we went inside.

  Ballard Winter, the owner of the restaurant was working behind the counter. She looked harried, signaling that she was shorthanded. "Hey, you two. Long time no see," she said sarcastically considering we ate there at least three times a week. "I had two people call in sick. I'm a little behind on orders, so I'm giving out free drinks. The usual, a tea and a coke?" she asked.

  "That would be great," Jackson said. We got our drinks, placed our order and sat down at a table near the window.

  "Don't hold back, Detective Jackson. I want all the dirty details."

  Jackson sipped his cola, then relaxed back. I could tell it had been a long morning just by the way he groaned lightly as he sat back. "What dirty details, Miss Taylor?"

  I grinned smugly. "A little birdie told me that someone had tampered with the security tapes."

  His head shook side to side, but it seemed more out of respect than annoyance. "You never disappoint, Bluebird. And speaking of birds—"

  I pressed a fin
ger to my lips. "Remember, a good journalist never reveals her source. However, that source did tell me some interesting tidbits about a certain Flora Myers."

  His brows scrunched in confusion. "Flora Myers? Oh, right, the consultant who has a key card to the lab. What did you find out?"

  "I'll tell you after you tell me what happened with the tapes." I picked up my tea to let him know I was all ears, but my lips were busy.

  He squinted one eye at me. "Why does it seem that there's a touch of blackmail somewhere in that statement." He shrugged. "Not much to tell. The camera footage from the lab was erased or deleted or possibly never taped. I'm sure you can guess what time the glitch occurred."

  "Hmm, between five and seven, the time frame of Sarah's murder?"

  "Yep, in fact, I can confidently say Sarah was murdered between six and twenty past six because that is precisely the time span where the footage goes black. Whoever did this had a plan."

  "It had to be someone who knew everything about the museum, the lab and even the security cameras."

  Jackson patted his stomach and leaned to glance past me toward the kitchen area. "Man, my stomach is about to start gnawing on itself. I didn't have much time for breakfast this morning."

  I laughed. "Which I interpret to mean that instead of eating two breakfast sandwiches, your usual morning meal, you only had time for one."

  "You know me too well. To add insult to injury, the guy making the sandwiches forgot to put in bacon." He sipped his coke, seemingly trying to give his stomach a little something.

  "You poor baby. I'm getting visions of little Oliver Twist—please, sir, may I have some more."

  "Fine, make fun of my hunger while I waste away to nothing right in front of your eyes." Right then our order number was called.