Shards of Murder

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Don’t ‘Oh’ me. I’ve known him for a long time. He’ll be able to research into Megan’s background much easier than any of us can. He says he knows her family.”

  Edward took a deep breath. “Yes, I get that.” He finished loading up the tray. “But I don’t have to like it.”

  Why is he upset? Why am I upset?

  The unlocking of the back door broke her thoughts.

  “Good morning.” Amanda bustled through the door, hampered by a gigantic designer bag hanging across her body and multiple plastic grocery bags straining deep ribbons into her plump arms. “I’m a little early,” she panted, “but I wanted to bring in some samples of finished pieces for the class.”

  Savannah looked at her with her head tilted. “We have samples already in the display and retail room.”

  “Yes, but Dale wanted to see mine.” She grinned from ear to ear. “He asked especially to see my finished pieces.”

  Savannah pressed her lips into a bemused smile. “That’s very sweet. He’s a nice boy.”

  “I’ll put these in the custom workshop for Dale to see.”

  “Sorry, that won’t work. Jacob has every available surface taken up with his analysis of the Spinnaker Art Festival artist applications.”

  “Oh.” Amanda’s face fell in on itself.

  “Why don’t you arrange them on the light table in the display and retail room? They’ll look fantastic there.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Yes! That’s a great idea.” She made her way into the display and retail room and Savannah could hear the glass clinks announcing the unloading and arranging of Amanda’s collection of fused dishes on the light table.

  Smiling, Savannah looked at their whiteboard and picked up the dry-erase pen and wrote “Relatives” under the Suspect column. Then she added “Research Megan’s family” to the Investigation column and assigned Keith to the task.

  “When I look at this, I realize some of them are leads, not suspects. I need another column.” She started to draw a vertical line on the whiteboard.

  “No, no. Don’t get complicated.” Edward took the marker out of her hand and added a “/Leads” to the Suspect column title. “Simple. Simple is good.” He then added an “S” or an “L” to each element in the column.

  They looked at the updated whiteboard:

  The Case of Megan Loyola’s Murder

  Suspect/Leads Investigation Assigned To

  Frank Lattimer (S) Subject of argument at festival Savannah

  Vincent O’Neil (S) Megan’s team member Savannah

  Wanda Quitman (S) Upset Megan at reception Edward

  Glass shards (L) Identify origin Savannah

  Registration forms (L) Find connection patterns in application database Jacob

  Leon Price (S) Megan’s ex-boyfriends Savannah

  Relatives (L) Research Megan’s family Keith eith

  Savannah smiled. “I think this is enough to report to Detective Parker. I’ll call for an appointment this afternoon.” She smiled even bigger. “This might be enough to convince him to take me off the suspect list.”

  Edward frowned. “You still don’t have an alibi.”

  “Details, details.”

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday Morning

  Savannah looked at her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes.

  Will this class ever end? Crap, some teacher I am.

  “That looks terrible.” Rachel pointed to the small tower of glass that Faith had stacked on a piece of white kiln paper. “It’s going to turn out to be a pile of mud.”

  “You don’t know that.” Faith circled her arms over the pile of pink, white, red, and clear glass that Rachel was threatening to tumble. “Savannah, tell Rachel to stop pestering me. She thinks my puddle will turn into a pile of mud.”

  Savannah walked back to the last row of student desks to yet again mediate an argument between the twins. Standing by Faith’s stack of silver dollar–sized glass pieces, she said, “I think this is going to fuse into a beautiful puddle of glass.”

  Faith stuck her tongue out at Rachel. “I told you I was doing it right.”

  “Class, this is a good example of what I was demonstrating earlier this morning.”

  She pointed to Faith’s work surface. “Faith has used several of the suggestions that I explained. The glass pieces are small but not uniform in size. The colors are compatible and complementary. Lastly, she has included a generous amount of clear glass to give the fused puddle texture and a see-through quality that will be interesting.”

  Up shot Miss Carter’s hand. “Miss Webb, I’m confused. How is this stack of glass going to puddle? I don’t get it.”

  “Okay, let me try explaining it another way.” Savannah walked back to the front of the classroom. “Essentially, we’re manufacturing our own sheet of glass so we can use it in creating new bowls, platters, or anything that uses fused glass as a component.”

  Dale spoke up, “How do you like to use it?”

  Amanda piped in, “She uses it for her jewelry. Show them.”

  Savannah removed her right earring. “Here, you can see on the back the stripes formed by the four colors that I used. But on the front”—she turned the earring—“it’s a swirl of the colors plus clear. That’s interesting and unique.” She passed the earring around the class.

  Janice squinted. “But this stack won’t be the right size for an earring.”

  “You are absolutely right, it won’t. Tomorrow we’ll look at our puddles and figure out what we want to do with them. More often than not, it can take up to three kiln firings to get the shape and size I want for jewelry, but only one or two firings when using molds.”

  “Are we going to have time?” asked Gary.

  “Yes, there’s time for two firings before class ends. If more firings are needed to complete your piece, you can come into the shop next week and pick them up. That’s why it’s not a mainstream production technique. It takes quite a bit of planning and multiple firings to get the effect.”

  At the ringing of the front-door bell, she nodded over to Amanda, signaling her to take care of whoever had arrived.

  Savannah lifted her chin and smiled. That’s how a good teacher works.

  “It’s nearly time to quit for the day, so leave your glass stack on your workbench and we’ll get them in the kiln tonight.”

  “Just a second.” Gary took out his cell phone and took a picture of his stack of red, white, and clear glass. “I’m going to post this to my Facebook page.”

  “Good idea,” said Savannah. “That’s something I need to start working on pretty soon—a social media presence is expected these days.”

  Amanda poked her head around the classroom door. “Savannah, it’s Keith. He said you were both going over to the Duncan McCloud Gallery?”

  “Right, tell him I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”

  Savannah walked around among the student worktables and suggested a few adjustments to the students’ stacks. She walked the students out the door, then waited until they had all gone before she turned to Keith. “Whew! How do you manage to be so calm when you teach? I’m still a mess of nerves and get flustered, tongue-tied, and always manage to drop something—not good when you’re teaching fused glass.”

  Keith chuckled. “Who says I’m calm? You only have to look calm and unworried. If you look calm, students think you are calm. Only the best teachers worry about how they are instructing. The bad teachers don’t. Try not to worry; you’re a good teacher.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” She turned to go back to the classroom. “All I have to do is load up the kiln and then we’ll go over to McCloud’s.”

  Amanda shook her head. “Don’t be silly. You get yourself on your way. I can load up the kiln and then you can check my work when you get back. Then I want you to teach me how to program the digital beast. Good?”

  “That’s a great idea. Thanks bunches.” Savannah gave her a quick hug and rushed into the office to
grab her backpack, then looked at Keith and said, “Let’s go do our sleuthing. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Sure, this will be a hoot. Why not?”

  “There is the distinct likelihood that we may be reported to the police. There is also a chance of some danger. We are trying to find a killer, you know—this is not to be taken lightly.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Right.”

  * * *

  It was a very quick drive to the Duncan McCloud Gallery. Keith parked his rental car in front of the studio. “It doesn’t look very busy.” He looked around the nearly empty parking lot.

  “It hasn’t been open very long. I think only about eight months. I hear it gets busy on the weekends, especially when there’s a Friday Night Art Walk. Sometimes he has a gallery opening, which is usually accompanied by an artist lecture at the Museum of Fine Arts downtown. The combination attracts crowds for both venues. He’s a good promoter.”

  The building was obviously a repurposed warehouse that had been painted an upscale burnt umber and had a new entrance that opened directly into the gallery. Keith and Savannah stood inside the threshold in silence. The exhibits were museum quality and displayed with a professional perfection of staging and mood. There were exhibit areas on each side of the building with another aisle down the middle. Each artist had a placard with a photograph of the artist along with a biographical sketch.

  “Wow, this is New York City fancy,” Savannah whispered. “My little shop looks like a kindergarten playroom compared to this. Are we still in St. Petersburg? I feel a little like Dorothy in Oz.”

  He looked around at the displayed pieces. “The variety of work is tremendous.” He took Savannah by the elbow and pointed up to the tall ceiling. “Look at—”

  “Welcome to the Duncan McCloud Gallery.” Keith was interrupted as an athletic man with salt–and-pepper hair in a well-used industrial apron over pressed chino trousers and tailored white shirt walked gracefully from an office on the right side of the gallery. “I’m Duncan, the managing director. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Keith Irving from the Pilchuck Glass School.” He leaned forward to shake hands.

  “I’m Savannah Webb, owner of Webb’s Glass Shop in the Grand Central District up the street.” Savannah noted the strong handshake, which she returned in kind.

  “Oh, you’re John Webb’s daughter, right?”

  Pleased that he knew her, Savannah replied, “Yes, I’ve taken over Webb’s and I’ve been meaning to come down and see your place. The artworks are stunning and the display room is beyond fantastic.”

  “Thanks, it’s a privilege to work with so many talented artists. St. Petersburg is on the cusp of becoming a world-class art destination.”

  Keith folded his arms. “It seems that the installation of the new Dali Museum not only attracted the Chihuly Museum permanent exhibit, but has encouraged other international artists to find workspaces in the city.”

  “It’s true. That and the beautiful waterfront condos and gorgeous weather have attracted enthusiastic art patrons to the area. Very important,” said Duncan.”

  Savannah tilted her head back. “So you’re the owner?”

  “Oh, I’m a minority partner. My wife is the majority partner for business reasons—she’s extraordinarily talented with the paperwork, taxes, accounting, and most of the promotion responsibilities. I oversee the fun part—making art and teaching students.” A playful grin made a quick appearance. “Anyway, since this is your first visit, let me show you around.”

  Savannah waved her hand at the large gallery. “This is a huge space. How many artists are exhibiting here?”

  Duncan led them down the left-hand aisle. “At last count, it was over fifty. We have a mix of traveling artists and the work that my senior students produce. Would you like to see the studio?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Savannah. “It’s been a few months since I’ve stepped into a working hot glass studio. I miss it.”

  Opening a set of industrial double doors, he said, “Let me know how this compares to Pilchuck’s workspace. I keep meaning to visit there. I’ve only studied the layout through pictures.”

  The hot shop area was a tall, open-sided shed with two walls missing to allow massive venting and permit visitors to watch from a portable aluminum grandstand located on the right-hand side of the massive furnaces.

  “The team at the far left are intermediate students. They’re planning a large vessel and are laying out the glass pick-ups they’re going to need on the table. The team in the center are also intermediate students who have picked up their first glass gather out of the furnace. On the right are beginning students. They’re creating small vases using only the most basic glass-blowing techniques. After one student makes a piece, they switch roles and the other one makes the same piece.”

  “How many students in a class?”

  “I keep the classes small, limited to six. It works out nicely with the three furnaces. I find I can produce better students at a higher rate by keeping the numbers down. I can handle three classes a day.”

  “That’s very similar to the approach my dad used.” Savannah shifted her focus from Duncan to trying to watch the three teams. The team using the furnace nearest her had completed their vase and were preparing to detach it from the blowing tube. “Why are you mixing beginners with intermediate students?”

  “It’s one of my operational rules to have only one pair of beginning students in the hot shop at a time—working on the left only. They’re still learning the protocols and safety issues involved in glass blowing. It keeps the work area safer and definitely calmer.”

  “Speaking of students”—Savannah smiled—“Keith and I are trying to verify where Megan Loyola created her flame torso works. Was it here?”

  McCloud stood a bit taller. “Of course. I have the only studio capable of such large works. She was here all last week working her team into exhaustion to get her centerpiece for the Spinnaker Art Festival.”

  Keith nodded. “We thought it had to be here. What about her assistants?”

  “Nope, didn’t meet them. I looked in at one point. Megan was incredibly skilled and had two fellows helping her, but I didn’t want to interrupt them.” He paused and watched his students. “This is the hold-your-breath moment,” Duncan spoke quietly. “A piece isn’t done until it’s safely detached from the blowing tube and resting in the cooling kilns.”

  The seated student of the pair deftly cracked off the vase into the second student’s waiting pair of heavy gloves and then the second student carefully cradled the little vase while waiting for the other student to open the kiln doors. “Hey! This kiln is cold and there’s already a piece in here.”

  “Go to the next kiln before it cracks!” the second student yelled.

  The first student opened the next kiln, which was thankfully empty, and the second student placed the vase upright on the shelf inside and the first student closed the doors.

  “Mr. McCloud, someone’s left a large work in one of the curing kilns,” said the first student.

  “That’s not permitted.” He automatically grabbed a heavy pair of gloves and pulled them on while he strode over to the first curing kiln and pulled open the doors. “I don’t understand. This shouldn’t be here.”

  Savannah looked into the kiln. “No, it shouldn’t be here, but I’m glad it’s turned up.”

  “What is it?” Keith looked over their shoulders.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat she replied, “That’s Megan’s Best of Show piece from the Spinnaker Art Festival. You’d better call the police—it’s evidence.”

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Savannah wasted precious minutes trying to find a parking space along the crowded Central Avenue. The main drag in St. Petersburg wasn’t named Main Street like in most small towns in the South. Perhaps because a Russian founded it and named it after his beloved hometown.

  Focus, Savannah, don’t
get lost in trivia.

  She drove slowly past all the full spots and even checked the parking lot of the midcentury antique store. It was full, with an attendant collecting fees for the Rays game. Disgusted, she turned around and searched again.

  Please, please, please, somebody pull out!

  She resorted to stalking pedestrians who might be heading toward their car and spotted one pulling out of a prime spot in front of Ferg’s Grill. A lumbering double-cab full-bed truck was approaching the spot at the same time. She quickly whipped across traffic and drove her agile Mini into the space during the few seconds when there was enough room to slip into the spot. The driver of the monster truck was not happy and rolled down the window shouting, “Hey! That spot was mine.”

  She agreed with him completely, but shrugged her shoulders and smiled an apology. She waited until he had moved on before climbing out, then locking the Mini.

  Dammit! I’m late. Late. Late. Late.

  Stepping through the main entrance to the St. Petersburg Police Department at five minutes past three, she could feel her heart beating a staccato.

  Calm down. Relax.

  She inhaled deeply and mentally practiced the opening moves of her Tai Chi meditation practice. It was her surefire fix. Her heart rate dropped almost immediately.

  You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re helping, remember. You’re helping as well as clearing yourself.

  The reception desk was staffed with a smiling, slick-haired hipster version of Mayberry’s Deputy Fife from The Andy Griffith Show. He was gawky, cadaver skinny, and had a habit of repeatedly pushing his oversized black glasses back up his nose. Savannah walked up to the desk. “I have an appointment with Detective Parker, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I see your identification, ma’am?”

  A quick dip down into her backpack produced her billfold. Savannah pulled out her driver’s license and the Barney look-alike examined it with meticulous care. “I’ll notify Detective Parker that you’re here.” He handed her a plastic visitor’s badge attached to a metal clip. “Wear this at all times. Please proceed through the screening booth and wait in the reception room to the left. Detective Parker will send an escort.”