Death at the Museum

by London Lovett

  Kai Rogers, easy to recognize with his long, wavy hair and scraggly beard, came out to the front of the shop. He looked pleased to see customers admiring his work. "If anyone has a question, please ask. Also, any of the birds on that shelf"—he pointed to a shelf that contained an eagle, hawk and an owl—"are half off until next Thursday."

  "Guess I've got to do my job," Jackson muttered to me. "Even though I'd rather shop for a sculpture with the pretty journalist."

  "Considering the pretty journalist will probably solve this case soon anyhow, maybe you could just take the day off."

  He winked at me. "You're even cuter when you're cocky, and before you scurry after me to the counter, I need to talk to him without you peering over my shoulder. I'm trying to look official."

  "Right, I'll just busy myself with the horse sculptures close to the counter." I headed across to where some elegant horses, carved out of white marble, pranced and flew and reared up off their stone pedestals.

  I kept my ear turned toward the conversation at the counter.

  "Mr. Rogers." I heard Jackson pause. I knew without looking he was showing him his badge. "I'm Detective Jackson. I have some questions about an alabaster chalice you carved recently."

  "The chalice?" Kai sputtered. "Yes, of course. I saw the paper. I want you to know I had nothing to do with that chalice going missing." He sounded agitated, not a good sign. Guilty people were easily agitated by the sight of a police badge. I was sure that my shiny laminated press pass was far less intimidating, which was why I frequently got people to talk freely. A detective's badge had the opposite effect.

  "I'm just here to find out who ordered the piece. If you could provide me with a name, address and phone number. Also, the receipt with any payment information please. I can wait for it." Jackson was letting Kai know he wasn't leaving without the pertinent information, but the artist didn't look too ready to comply with his request.

  Kai's earlier agitation had turned into what looked like a full panic attack. A red sheen surfaced on his neck and soon covered his face. He nervously fussed with the rolled sleeves of his shirt.

  "Mr. Rogers, is there a problem?" Jackson asked calmly.

  Kai finally took a steadying breath. "I probably shouldn't have taken on the project, but sales have been slow and the request came with cash."

  Jackson's gaze flitted my direction for a second. I caught it as I peered past a rearing horse. "Let's start at the beginning of that story," Jackson said. "You received cash from someone who asked you to carve a chalice? What was their name?"

  Kai's face was less red, but he was still having a hard time standing still. "That's just it. There was no name with the cash, only a typed note asking for an exact replica of the Lotus Chalice. They sent photos and dimensions of the piece. That's what I used to sculpt it."

  "Who picked it up? Somehow you must have had contact with the person who sent you cash?" Jackson was getting a little agitated himself. So far, his questioning had not provided any real answers.

  "The letter came with a P.O. box number and address for the box." Kai had an answer for everything. Just not the ones Jackson was looking for.

  "Do you still have the letter?" Jackson asked.

  "Yes, yes I have it." Kai was seemingly pleased that he could finally provide the detective with something worthwhile. He disappeared into the back. Jackson looked over at me, his broad shoulders lifted and fell as he took a steadying breath. He added an eye roll before turning front again. The three women snuck a few more peeks at the handsome detective before walking out of the shop. Kai returned from the back room with a folded piece of paper just as they walked out.

  "Thanks for stopping by," Kai called. "I do custom requests," he added quickly before the door shut. He looked across the room at the woman glued to the counter of marble horses. "Let me know if you're interested in any of those. We can work something out on the price."

  I nodded. "Thanks, I will." I felt slightly guilty for making the man think he might have a sale, but I didn't know how else to overhear the conversation. And I didn't want to miss one word.

  Kai handed Jackson the paper. He unfolded it. I could see that the message was typed, but I couldn't read it from my vantage point. Fortunately, my wonderful boyfriend knew too well that I was stretching my neck and squinting my eyes in an attempt to see the contents of the letter (he knew this without looking my direction because he knew me that well) so he read the letter aloud. "Dear Mr. Rogers, I would like to commission you to make an exact replica of the Lotus Chalice. Photos contained within this letter. Here is a $3000 advance. You'll receive $2000 more when the piece is delivered to the following location: Box Number 185 at the Parcels R Us store 547 Rocklin Rd, Smithville. Thank you and I look forward to seeing it."

  Jackson turned the paper over but it was blank on the back. He looked up at Kai. "Do you have the envelope?"

  Kai's face dropped and he shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I threw it out. It was typed—just my address. No return label or postage. Someone stuck it in my mailbox. I knew I shouldn't have done the piece, but I had no idea it was going to be used as a decoy for the real thing. I put my artist's mark on the base. Otherwise, it looked pretty much like the real thing." He smiled. "I'm pretty good with alabaster."

  "Yes, I've seen it. You did a great job. Didn't you think it odd that the person sent you money and never tried to contact you? Surely, the request and cash must have set off some alarms," Jackson chided.

  Kai looked properly chastised. Again, he fussed with his rolled-up sleeves. "Like I said, business has been kind of slow. People just don't have extra money to spend on frivolous things like art. I needed the money. I questioned it at first, then I remembered I needed to pay my rent." His tone had grown a little harsher. "If there's nothing else, Detective Jackson, I have a wolf waiting to be freed from a block of marble."

  Jackson lifted the letter. "I'll be keeping this."

  "Yes, of course. I won't need it anymore."

  Jackson just about turned to leave. "One more question—did you get the rest of the money? The two thousand?"

  "Uh, yeah, it came in an unmarked envelope. Someone slipped it in my mailbox."

  Jackson nodded. "Thank you for your time." I didn't want to let on that I was with Jackson, so I wandered over to the forest creatures on the opposite wall. A sweet little fox was curled up and staring at me over its skillfully carved tail when Mr. Rogers walked up behind me.

  "That fox is one of my favorite pieces. Two hundred bucks?" he asked.

  "Uh, hmm, it is cute, but two hundred is too steep for my budget this month. I'll work on saving up for it."

  "I do layaway," he said enthusiastically. "It'll just take a second to make up an account, then pay what you can, when you want for six months."

  "Yes, well then"—I forced a smile—"looks like I'm buying a fox."

  Ten minutes later, I walked out the door with my layaway plan clutched in hand and a silent scolding for getting so easily talked into the purchase.

  Jackson called the second I got into the jeep. "What happened? I thought you were going to follow me out?" he asked.

  "That was my plan. Instead, I'm now locked into a layaway contract for a piece of art that I had no business buying. It's a cute little fox, and Mr. Rogers is quite talented."

  "Seems like he's a good salesman too," Jackson pointed out correctly.

  "He had me in a vulnerable spot. I spent so long looking at his art, and he was complaining to you about sales being slow. I felt bad for him. He's very talented and to have all his work just sitting there in the shop, only getting the occasional glance from a customer, it just seemed sad."

  "Pushover," Jackson teased. "I was sure hoping this trip was going to be the golden ticket to at least solving the case of the stolen chalice, but it looks like we're chasing someone who cleverly covered all his or her bases. Hopefully, the box at Parcels R Us will give me solid information. One thing that crossed my mind though, the person who stole the chali
ce might not have been in it for the money."

  I was surprised. "Really? Why do you say that?"

  "How desperate could they have been if they had five grand in cash ready to go. The person even took the chance of sending a large cash advance to a man they hadn't even commissioned for the job yet."

  "See, that's why you're the detective, I hadn't thought about the whole cash ready at hand thing. You're right, most of us don't have that kind of money lying around."

  "Good thing," he chuckled, "otherwise, you might have walked out of that place with a two-foot-high marble horse."

  "Yeah, yeah, I got taken, but as I recall, you recently purchased an amazing electric razor, off a television infomercial, which left you with a red rash on your face."

  "All right, you got me. No more teasing about your purchase. See you later tonight?" he asked.

  "Actually, can I tag along when you go to the Parcels R Us store? I find myself lacking a next step in my plan."

  "I suppose that would be all right, but I've got to head back to the station for awhile. I'll meet you at the little coffee shop next to the Parcels R Us store in two hours."

  I sat back disappointed. "All right. Guess I can find something to keep myself busy for two hours. See you soon and if you get to the coffee shop first—"

  "I know, I know, don't forget the whipped cream. See ya soon, Bluebird."

  Chapter 24

  After getting the all clear from Myrna that the office was empty of bosses, editors and lead journalists, I went in to do some research. In the end, Myrna and I spent the entire time we had, with no other ears around, complaining about Prudence, Parker and Dave. It was mostly time for Myrna to vent. She was the one who had to spend her entire day in the office. I was lucky that I managed to escape the newsroom for most of the work day. I was glad I'd taken the time out of my day to listen to Myrna. She seemed far happier at the end of our little therapy session. Not that I had good solutions to any of it, but she felt better just talking it out.

  I reached the coffee shop next to the Parcels R Us store. There was no sign of Jackson's car, so I walked inside and ordered my coffee mocha with whipped cream and Jackson's usual large coffee with cream and sugar. I sat at a table in the back, away from the small college study group that had books and empty coffee cups strewn across the table and even on the shop floor. They must have gotten bored of their class notes because most of the conversation I heard on my way past their table was about the new electric cars that were coming on the market and which one was the best value for the money.

  Jackson took off his sunglasses as he stepped into the coffee shop. As usual, a short hush fell over the place, as his long legs carried him to the back of the shop. And, as usual, he was oblivious to the synchronized heads turning as he passed by the various tables.

  He pulled out a chair. "Found us a quiet, romantic booth at the back," he teased.

  "Nope, just a quiet table away from the study group." Right then, loud laughter erupted at the table showing the brilliance of my strategy. I handed him his coffee. "See, I've been part of those study groups, and there is far less studying than the name would imply. At least with the people I hung out with in college. Usually, the main topic was how to make everyone, meat-eaters, vegetarians, vegans happy with the pizza order."

  Jackson pulled the lid off his coffee and added one more packet of sugar. "Which group did you fall into?"

  "At that period of my life, I was vegetarian. Admittedly, I wasn't terribly militant about it. I do believe I convinced myself it was all right to make pepperoni an exception."

  He laughed as he stirred his coffee. "That's quite an exception. I'm pretty sure pepperoni is a type of meat."

  I raised a skeptical brow. "Is it though?"

  He gave the question some thought. "No, you're right. Pepperoni falls into a category all its own." Jackson took what could only be termed as a swig of the coffee.

  "Whoa there, someone is in need of caffeine, eh?" I sipped my latte.

  "It's that late morning slump, brought on," he added after another swig, "by a one hour lecture from the chief about how all of us are being too rough on the patrol cars." He took another swig and leaned back with his cup. "Found out something about Kai Rogers while I pretended to listen to the lecture but was actually going through the police database on my phone."

  "Shameful behavior by an officer of the law," I teased. "What did you find out? Wait, if he's in the database, then he's got a record."

  "Not a long one. A few years back he was involved in a forgery scheme. Some nephew of a rich, old widow had Rogers forge two sculptures that were worth a lot of money. Rogers was arrested for making the fakes but then he ratted on the nephew. The rich nephew took most of the hit. Rogers got off with three months and a fine."

  "So, he's a forger and a turncoat. That does sort of make his whole claim of utter ignorance on the chalice forgery far less believable." Three of the study group women got up noisily, still laughing about something that must have been quite funny. They stumbled over their own books and notebooks as they made a thunderous charge toward the restrooms. I smiled. "Not surprising, considering the twenty plus empty coffee cups on the table. Now, where were we? Are you going to bring him in for questioning?"

  "Most likely but first, I need to go next door. With any luck, the person who hired Rogers to make the forgery left more of a trail at the mailbox."

  Chapter 25

  A young man behind the counter was weighing a package for a customer when we walked into Parcels R Us. He glanced up through his heavy rimmed glasses for a second. "I'll be right with you," he called.

  Jackson nodded. "Take your time." We headed past the display of envelopes and packing materials to the wall of mailboxes at the back of the store. Each small gray box was labeled with a number.

  "That's interesting," Jackson muttered as he scanned the boxes from one end to the other.

  "What's interesting?" I asked.

  "The last box number is 180." He pulled out his phone and scrolled through some photos. "Yep, the box we're looking for is 185."

  "That is interesting." I pointed to the last row of boxes. "There aren't any labels on this last row. Maybe they just didn't get around to numbering them."

  "I'm sorry I took so long. I'm the only staff member in this morning," a voice said from behind. The sales clerk, early twenties and attempting to grow a beard, came around the card display. "How can I help you? Did you forget your box key?"

  Jackson read the clerk's name tag. "Hello, Everett." Jackson pulled out his badge, a shiny little emblem that was never, ever an ice breaker. This time was no different. The man's mouth pulled into a straight line, and some of the color drained from his face.

  "I'm Detective Jackson, and I'm looking for Box 185."

  Everett recouped from the shock of seeing the badge. "Uh, yes, it should be right over here." He walked to the last labeled row of boxes and dragged his finger down the column. "You must have the number wrong. Our boxes end at 180."

  Jackson pointed out the last column, the boxes without labels. "These aren't being used? We thought maybe you just hadn't gotten around to labeling them."

  Everett shook his head emphatically enough to dislodge his glasses. He pushed them back up to fit securely on his nose. "Those are extras in case we need them, but usually, we have one of these boxes free up. Someone cancels the contract, then we assign it to a new customer. I've been here two years," he said with a prideful grin, "and I've never seen those being used. There's just no way 185 is the right number."

  Jackson pulled out his phone and showed Everett the photo of the letter. The address and box number could not have been clearer. "That's the address of this store, right?"

  Everett adjusted his glasses again. The heavy frames were working against him. He leaned closer to get a look at the photo and rubbed the stubble on his newly sprouted beard. "Yes, that's it, but again, I don't think we have a Box 185."

  "You don't think?" Jackson asked.
"Is it possible one of the other employees, a manager perhaps, knows about a Box 185?"

  "I doubt it. Like I said, I'm alone today. The manager is home with the flu." He motioned for us to follow him. "I have the files for each box under the counter. I can look through them to make sure there aren't some hidden boxes somewhere in the store." His facetious tone caused Jackson to shoot me a wink. Everett had apparently recuperated nicely from the earlier badge flashing. He was feeling quite at ease as he took the file box out from under the shelf. His cocky grin indicated that he was confident he'd be able, with certainty, to prove to us that no Box 185 existed, not even in some secret hidden place.

  Everett adjusted his weighty glasses and thumbed through the index cards, naming off numbers as he reached the last few. "Let's see 178, 179, 180 . . ." There was still a card left. His brows scrunched together, once again causing a downward shift of his glasses. "That's odd," he mumbled as he pulled the last card free. "It says there was a Box 185 in the store a month ago." Everett looked up, his eyes were round behind the lenses. "It was opened and closed in the same week." He handed the card to Jackson, a look of utter confusion on his face.

  I peered past Jackson's arm to read the card. The customer's name was Stan Jones. An address was printed on the card too.

  "Huh." Jackson pulled out his phone. "I know this address." He typed it into his phone. "Yep, it's a gas station just off Butternut Crest. I used to fill my car up at that station, only it shut down a year ago. The owner died suddenly and the family has been fighting over the rights."

  I looked up at Jackson. "Was the owner's name Stan Jones?"

  He shook his head. "Nope, it was Pete Tucker. I'll bet the name Stan Jones is as fake as the address."

  Everett looked even more confused. "Was someone using our mailboxes for a crime?"