Etched in Tears

by Cheryl Hollon

  “I’m sorry, sir. I have not been able to reach Director Wilkins. Would you like to wait inside?” Lucas looked at his watch. “It won’t be long now. Probably less than fifteen minutes.”

  After Detective Parker nodded, Lucas unlocked the back doors of the Dali Museum and led him through the garden access entry that opened into a small-bites café and coffee shop. It was adjacent to the gift shop that was almost a museum itself. There were large artwork installations tucked throughout the cups, T-shirts, and posters of the museum’s famous paintings.

  Lucas waved a hand to a table. “You’ll be comfortable here, I’m sure. Can I get you a coffee?”

  Detective Parker nodded yes. “Black, please.”

  Lucas left as quickly as his bulk would permit and headed to place the order with the newly arrived café staff.

  Detective Parker sat in one of the white metal chairs in the café of the Dali Museum. He noted that it had been named Cafe Gala after Dali’s wife. He angled his chair so he had sight of the front door. He had finished interviewing the custodian, only to learn that no one had been in the building after the cleaning crew left at 11:30 p.m. He still needed to interview the museum’s director, Ms. Gina Wilkins, and she was expected to arrive any minute. That would be the last interview at the museum and he could return to the station.

  A thin dark-haired twenty-something woman walked up to him. “Hello. I’m Peggy, Director Wilkins’s assistant.” She wore a black pencil skirt and classic white shirt with a large Dali mustache-printed scarf looped around her neck. “I know you’re trying to reach her, but I haven’t been able to contact Director Wilkins by home phone or cell phone. I’m so sorry, but I’ll direct her your way as soon as she arrives.” She spoke in a rapid-fire burst, then left him before he could speak and paced in front of the entrance to the museum in anticipation of a highly irritated director. Although young and probably inexperienced, she obviously knew that annoyed directors tend to take out their irritation on their assistants. She intended to divert the director to Detective Parker right away and would probably make a quick escape after the director arrived.

  Detective Parker heard the automatic doors open and the proactive assistant pounced upon Director Wilkins with the alarming news that a body had been found on the green bench sculpture and a police detective was waiting to speak to her. The director’s reaction was visible; she stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The assistant took advantage of the director’s distraction and literally ran through the entry and up the spiral staircase to the offices on the second floor.

  Gina opened her eyes, rolled her shoulders, then tucked an artfully curled lock of her strawberry blond hair behind her ear. Frowning at the stairway where her assistant escaped, she then looked toward the café. She nodded an acknowledgment to Detective Parker, walked to the counter, then rattled about fifteen orders to the café server in rapid-fire succession. The server handed her a waiting cappuccino, then scribbled madly on an order pad. Director Wilkins took a long drink of her coffee, then approached Detective Parker.

  Gina displayed a practiced and photogenic smile as she extended her hand. “Good morning, Detective Parker. I’m so very, very distressed to learn that Dennis was the unfortunate young man found on our green bench sculpture this morning. He was such a talented artist and a lovely, warm young man. The museum’s opening reception was an astonishing success. It’s sad beyond words that we have lost him so early in his career. I’m simply devastated. Was it a drug overdose?”

  Detective Parker stood to shake her hand and motioned for her to sit at the café table. He noticed that her eyes were red and swollen under what seemed to be heavy makeup for daytime. “We’re still investigating the cause of death. My most pressing issue is that I need the address where Lansing and his wife were staying. We need to contact his wife and apparently they weren’t staying at any of the nearby hotels we checked. I also would like to ask you a few questions about access to the museum and the outdoor spaces.”

  “Of course. Security Manager Brown should have given you the address right away.” She reached into her large designer purse and pulled out a business card and a pen. She scribbled on the back of the card. “Here’s where Dennis and his wife Harriet are staying. They’re guests of Mrs. Granger. She’s a dear widowed friend of mine who happened to have a few spare rooms. Artists need to be supported by their adoring patrons whenever possible. I managed to secure complimentary lodging and they were grateful. Their income stream is erratic at best.” Glancing at his empty cup, she said, “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks, that would be great. Black, please.”

  “Good. I’m a caffeine addict.” She waved a hand to the server behind the café counter who scurried over to their table. Gina continued to look at Detective Parker and not to the server. “Another of my usual and add a few biscotti.”

  Detective Parker brought out his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. He placed it on the surface of the table. “Ms. Wilkins, where were you in the early hours of this morning?”

  Gina’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “You’re asking me a very provocative question. I’m an ordinary person, Detective Parker. I was at home.”

  “Can anyone substantiate that?”

  “I was home alone.” Gina folded her hands in front of her and straightened up to look directly into Detective Parker’s eyes.

  He scribbled in his notebook. “Did you know Dennis Lansing well?”

  “Of course. I got to know him through our negotiations for bringing his exhibit to the museum. There were many phone calls, video chats, and I even flew out to one of his exhibits to ensure the quality of the works.” She pressed a finger to the corner of her left eye. “This is such a shock.” She reached into her handbag for a tissue which she pressed to the outside corner of each eye.

  Detective Parker nodded. “Were there any problems with the exhibition?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. There were the usual issues of lighting the space, shipping the art works, accommodations, and negotiating the fees. We had those all worked out before the installation began.”

  Detective Parker looked up from his notebook. “The outdoor space is only accessible through a locked barrier gate and this rear café door. The victim died at another location and was transported here. How do you suppose he was placed on the green bench?”

  “Obviously, it was either someone strong who has access to the museum or there is a way to get into the garden that hasn’t yet been discovered by the security officer.” She looked vaguely in the direction of the green bench. “Also it could have been more than one person.”

  The server returned with a cup of black coffee, a cappuccino, and a plate of biscotti.

  Gina nodded curtly to the server, grabbed her cup, and drank deeply. “I can get you a copy of the alarm system code times, if that will help.”

  “Yes, that will be helpful, but you do have video cameras that might have recorded any entries, correct?”

  “Yes, I’ll put you in touch with our security manager. I’m sure he’s here already. I have a ton of text and voice messages from him. We don’t open until ten.” She waved the hand with the pen in it to the server and made a pantomime of writing a note. The server provided a small pad of paper. “What’s wrong with me? I have notepaper.” Gina pressed her lips together and waved the server away. She dived back into her purse, then scribbled a number on a pink sticky note shaped like lips and handed it to Detective Parker. “Here’s his Dali extension and his cell phone number.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Lucas.” Detective Parker emphasized his use of the security officer’s first name. “In fact, he was most cooperative except for the areas where he said he needed permission from you. He wouldn’t budge on providing me access to your video files until you gave the word. Do I have that permission?”

  Gina tilted her head and squinted as though trying to read a tiny menu in the dark. “I don’t know why on eart
h he would need to ask me for permission. You may, of course, have anything from our records you need. I’ll let him know that he can send them to you. This unfortunate event needs to be cleared up as soon as possible.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “Well, this will change everything for the exhibit.” Her eyes began to widen and she flushed from her collarbone to her chin. “His work will be the newest buzz of excitement from New York to Paris.” Her eyes darted up to the second-floor offices. “Social media is going to go viral with this. That could enhance our efforts to put sleepy little St. Petersburg on the map.” She rose from the chair, gathered up her purse and the coffee.

  Detective Parker stood up quickly and spoke sharply. “I hope you don’t mean that you’re glad a young man has been found dead in suspicious circumstances just to add spice to your publicity campaign?”

  Gina gasped and pressed her hand to her throat. “My goodness, of course not. Nothing could be further from my mind. What a dreadful accusation, Mr. Parker.” She looked up and blinked her false eyelashes rapidly. They glistened with moisture. “You don’t seriously mean that?” She folded the tissue to a clean surface and carefully dabbed the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s Detective Parker, ma’am. I do mean that. Those tapes had better not end up in the hands of the media. I will be taking legal action if there’s even a minute’s delay in sending the video tapes to my forensic department.”

  “Oh wait. There’s more than one camera. Which tape do you need?”

  “Your head of security knows. If there’s any question, send them all.” He tipped his head. “I’ll be in touch.” He left, walking as briskly as he could toward the continuing activity outside.

  Chapter 6

  Monday afternoon

  Savannah completed her remaining administrative tasks and then walked the few blocks from Webb’s Studio to Webb’s Glass Shop. Her recent expansion from her family’s small retail stained glass business to include the secondary studio space was turning out to be a great decision. Webb’s Glass Shop on Central Avenue had been in the family from the time the building was constructed in the 1920s. Her grandfather had operated a motorcycle business before her dad opened the glass shop.

  She pulled open the front door and the bell over the door jingled her entrance. “Hi, Amanda. Are you ready for your class this afternoon?”

  Amanda Blake poked her head through the door of the classroom located directly off the back wall of the display room. “Hi, yourself. I’m getting set up now.” She motioned for Savannah to step into a classroom that was outfitted with six work benches laid out in three rows with an instructor podium and whiteboard in the front of the room. A narrow aisle ran from the entry to the shop’s office in the far rear of the old building.

  Amanda was wearing one of her more original looks, which meant that her hair was dyed in a patchy calico cat palette, perfectly coordinated with a tan linen shirt over cheetah print leggings and tall Converse shoes in a chocolate brown. As a woman of size, she rocked her looks and that confidence always made Savannah smile.

  “How’s your mother? Has her breathing gotten better?”

  “She’s a bit better now and only needs oxygen at night. It’s a relief to the caregivers at the nursing home. She keeps pulling it away from her face during the day, anyway. The fact is she’s so much calmer without it. I’ve been saying that for ages and they finally agree with me.”

  Savannah patted Amanda on the shoulder. “That does sound better for her. I’m going to do some searching around in Dad’s old file cabinets in the office. Don’t mind me.”

  She sat down in the creaky oak spindle office chair in front of the antique desk. It sat in the same spot that it had when her grandfather used it and then her father, and now she sat there to pay bills and place orders. At first, she thought that the vintage furniture might have felt uncomfortable. It was familiar yet heavy with so many comforting memories attached to them. Now that she had fully taken charge, she felt secure in the belief that they were looking over her and guiding her decisions.

  She pulled open one of the tiny drawers and sorted through the keys she kept there. The old file cabinet was kept locked. Now that she thought about it, it was likely that her dad would have been mindful of security protocols when it came to the personal records. She found the keys and opened the top drawer of the first file cabinet.

  Although she knew the files were at least ten years old, they were neatly organized with each green hanging folder containing a manila file. The labels were precisely written out in her father’s handwriting with a nonsense string of numbers and letters and symbols. “Of course,” she sighed. “You would have created a code for the records.”

  Savannah’s dad had been a cryptographer for the US government during the cold war. He had helped her solve the mystery of his death by leaving her encoded messages. This was completely in character for a paranoid code enthusiast—frustrating, but completely expected.

  Savannah pulled the manila file from the first folder in the drawer and took it over to the desk. She spread the contents out. There was a record of that student’s history. In addition to the file tab, every instance in the record where you would ordinarily find a name, address, or date, her father had used a coded identifier. She had no clue who this file might belong to. That would make finding Dennis Lansing’s records a bit more difficult. First, the code needed to be broken.

  Maybe these files are for another project. I also need to check on the ones in the attic.

  She opened the remaining three drawers and they all contained a similar type of file—encoded names both on the filing label and within the records.

  “What are you searching for?”

  Savannah jumped. “Goodness, Amanda! You startled me. Somehow skulking through Dad’s records make me feel like I’m spying. I forgot you were here. No, in fact, I forgot everything. I’m looking for the records that he would have kept for his apprentices.”

  “Why?” Amanda leaned against the door of the office. “Jacob is doing fine, isn’t he?”

  “He is. I’m looking at these older records for a consulting job for Detective Parker.”

  “You have a consulting job and didn’t tell me?” Amanda stretched tall and folded her arms across her ample chest. “I thought we were best friends.”

  Savannah bent her head into her chest. “Of course, we are. I’m sorry. I guess I’m more upset than I thought.” She waved for Amanda to come over to the desk, stood, and gave her a giant hug. “We are forever friends and you can call me out on that anytime.” Savannah showed her the contents of the records. “I’m not sure I’m going to be much help to Detective Parker and Officer Williams this time. All the records have encoded entries for the names and personnel information. Dad was playing tricks to hide the data.”

  “Well, of course he would.” Amanda said. “He was obsessive about hiding information.”

  “I think this is a bit too obsessive—even for Dad. I wonder why he felt it was necessary to encode the personal information. The locked cabinet should have been more than enough.”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  Savannah propped her chin in her hand. “It’s sad, really. The police found a body on the green bench sculpture at the Dali Museum this morning.”

  “What?” asked Amanda.

  The front door bell jangled. “That’s probably your students. Go ahead and get the class going. I’ll tell you afterwards. In fact, let’s have a meeting at the studio at about three. I want to tell you, Edward, and Jacob all at the same time. I’m going to need some help with this. The victim was my first ever boyfriend, Dennis Lansing.”

  Amanda put a hand to her throat. “Really? This is major. Your first boyfriend is like, well, that’s something special. I’m so sorry.” She enveloped Savannah into a long giant hug and looked up into her eyes. “If you think I can wander away quietly with a million questions in my head, think again.” She raised her eyebrows and folded he
r arms across her ample chest. “I’m waiting. Don’t make me tap my foot.”

  “Honestly, Amanda, my thoughts are swirling around in such a mess right now, I don’t think I could string two sensible thoughts together. I promise I’ll be a good deal more coherent this afternoon.” Savannah shooed her away like a pesky child. “I need a little time to come to grips with how I feel. You know that’s hard for me. I’ll tell all later at Webb’s Studio. Go on. Go teach your students.”

  Savannah settled back into her task and opened the top drawer. She took out the first coded folder again and placed it on the desk. She took out a fresh pad of ruled paper from the lowest desk drawer and then grabbed a pencil to begin working on solving the encryption code.

  She first tried the simplest substitution code: 1=A, 2=B, 3=C, etc., without success. Then she tried several more complicated substitution codes with no luck. Then she made a few more attempts based on the limited set of complex codes that her dad had taught her. She threw the pencil down in frustration, leaned back in the squeaky chair, and folded her arms across her chest.

  I’ve only got one more code to try and then I’m lost.

  She started with a fresh sheet of paper and started decoding with the transposition cipher, which was the most complicated one that her Dad had taught her, but that one yielded no clarity either. She sighed. I give up.

  She glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was approaching three o’clock.

  Savannah walked the few short blocks over to Webb’s Studio.

  The conference room at the studio was large and contained a long table with a colorful assortment of second-hand office chairs. Since antique and collectible shops surrounded both Webb’s Glass Shop and Webb’s Studio, Savannah supported both the Reuse and Buy Local campaigns. It also supported her goal of staying in business by not spending money where she didn’t need to.