Cracked to Death

by Cheryl Hollon

“I agree, but most artists are strange—which includes you and me.” Savannah winked, and they walked into the classroom, which was empty and silent now. The two deep blue bottles were standing in the center of the first worktable.

  Savannah picked one up and looked at the bottom of it. There was a small image pressed into the bottom near the edge, but it was indistinct. She rubbed her finger over the center of the bottom of the bottle. “This looks like it was mouth blown using a mold.”

  She held the bottle up to the light and saw the wavy shimmers typical of blown glass. “What did you find out in your online searches?”

  “Mostly, I found out how difficult it is to identify vintage glass bottles.” Amanda picked up the other bottle. “According to one Web site, these are typical of British bottles that were exported beginning in seventeen twenty. Then I found another site that claimed they were made after eighteen eighty.”

  Amanda put the bottle down and folded her arms. “Here’s the rub. The bottles could be real artifacts, or they’re counterfeit and not worth anything but the value of the glass itself. I thought you were going to find an expert.”

  “Hold your horses, Miss Blake. I’m not exactly flush with free time right now. I have a couple of ideas. I’m going to ask an old friend of mine. She’s an antique dealer,” said Savannah.

  “Does she specialize in glass bottles?”

  “No, but she will know someone who does. I’ll take one of them along and see what she recommends.” She put down the bottle she was holding. “Could you please wrap one of them up while I give her a call?”

  Amanda grabbled one of the bottles, and they both returned to the display room. While Amanda rolled the bottle in brown paper and put it in a brown paper gift bag, Savannah picked up the phone on the counter and dialed her friend.

  Her friend’s phone rang only once before the call was answered. “Good afternoon. This is Robin Jefferson Rackley at Main House Antique Center. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Robin. This is Savannah. Do you have time to look at an old bottle that one of my students brought in for flattening into a cheese tray? I think it’s rare and possibly too valuable.”

  “Sure. I’m here all afternoon.”

  “Great. I’ll be over later this afternoon. Thanks, Robin.”

  * * *

  Savannah found Robin sitting on a tall chrome-and-red-leather bar stool at the Main House Antique Center’s checkout counter. Located in the heart of St. Petersburg, the building housing the Antique Center, a multi-dealer antique mall, was formerly a three-bedroom home. Each participating vendor had an individual space to display antique furniture, Depression glassware, art glass, vintage pottery, retro jewelry, and more. Family owned by Robin’s parents and operated for more than twenty-eight years, the little mall supported over twenty antique and collectible dealers.

  Robin ran from behind the counter and wrapped Savannah in a monster hug. “What a great surprise. I haven’t seen you since . . . Well, I guess the last time was about six months ago, a few weeks after your dad’s funeral. That was certainly a difficult time. How are you holding up?”

  Savannah took a moment to think about her answer. “I’m doing pretty well. It was a bitter shock in the beginning, but I’m really starting to rebuild my life here.”

  “You’re the only person I know who has been involved with murder investigations. I get the deal with your father, but what about the young woman who was killed at the Spinnaker Festival? How did you get drawn into it?”

  Savannah cleared her suddenly raspy throat. “Well, I didn’t really have a choice. I was the only one who believed it was murder in my father’s case, and I found the body of the young woman in the second case. I think it concentrates your mind wonderfully when you are the prime suspect in a murder. I had no choice but to get involved if I didn’t want to be convicted.”

  “Good point.” Robin’s perfectly applied makeup and expertly groomed hair completely belied the fact she was in her midfifties. She had been friends with Savannah’s mother, Dorothy, and after she died of cancer at only thirty-nine, Robin became Savannah’s friend and confidante. Those flashing eyes held a spirited joy of life and a love that had sustained Savannah when in need of nurturing, non-judgmental advice.

  Savannah placed the bag containing Martin’s bottle on the counter. “Anyway, tell me what you think of this.”

  “Sure, little Vanna.” Robin took the bottle out of the bag, removed the brown paper it was wrapped in, and stood it on the counter. Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head to one side. “Yep, this is old. Ancient perhaps. There are a few reference books over in my dealer space I want to use for research. Wander around if you like. This may take some time.”

  Feeling a bit like she was playing hooky, Savannah enjoyed her stroll among the little nooks and crannies stuffed with each of the dealers’ individual taste in wares. While browsing, she managed to appraise casually most of the furniture in her family Craftsman home and was stunned at the prices marked on some of the older pieces. She knew they were beautiful and skillfully made, but she hadn’t kept up with their increasing value.

  I need to review the assessment values for the furniture covered by my homeowner’s insurance, she thought.

  “Vanna!”

  “I’m over at the front door.” Savannah scurried back over to the counter.

  Robin was beaming with a pink flush. “Wow. You’ve got a great find here.” She cradled the cobalt blue bottle in her arms like a tiny infant. “I’m not an expert at all, but from what I can find in my books on collectible bottles, this is worth five hundred to twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “That is very good news. I’ll tell my student.”

  Robin placed the bottle gently on the counter and noticed the laptop on the table behind the counter. “Let me scan the online auctions now that I know that we’re searching the auction sites for cobalt blue bottles. There should be a ton of pricing information.”

  Savannah looked over Robin’s shoulder as she brought up the most popular sites and searched for vintage cobalt blue bottles. Robin’s estimate was confirmed. They found bids up to twenty-five hundred dollars.

  “Where did your student get the bottle?”

  Savannah shook her head. “He said he found it near the Intracoastal Waterway while he was diving for salvage. It will be interesting to see his reaction when I tell him tomorrow.”

  Robin raised a calculating eye to the ceiling. “You know, if we can confirm that they date to the time of Gaspar the Pirate, then they could be worth many, many times that value. There are lots of rumors, but no solid confirmation, that Gaspar buried treasure in the area, but if this is even remotely possible, the value will go through the roof.”

  The earliest parade in Savannah’s memory was the annual Gasparilla night parade through the streets of downtown St. Petersburg. It was a raucous affair, with brightly lit floats in the shape of pirate ships, populated with men and women dressed as Spanish royalty, who threw candy and beads to the crowds lining Central Avenue. The floats were each accompanied by dozens of costumed pirates firing flame-shooting pistols to celebrate Gaspar the Pirate.

  “I know only about the celebrations we have. You know, the Gasparilla Day pirate invasion in Tampa, the Gasparilla race along Bayshore Boulevard, and I always went to the Gasparilla Festival of the Arts to look at the glass exhibits. I know nothing about the pirate himself.”

  Robin patted Savannah on the shoulder. “You poor little thing. I can’t believe you’ve escaped all the hype over the past few years about finding one of his treasure troves. There’s been a lot of hearsay that he used the Intracoastal Waterway along the Gulf of Mexico for stashing booty for years and years. That’s how Treasure Island got its name.”

  “I knew that, but why the new interest?”

  Robin’s eyes brightened. “Coins dating to that era have been showing up in very quiet collector circles. That can only mean that treasure has been found. Where there is treasure, there may also
be more ordinary artifacts, like bottles.”

  * * *

  On the drive back to Webb’s, she wondered where Martin could have come across such a bottle. He had said it was on the sea floor where he was diving. It could be a cover-up story. Family heirloom? Flea market? Maybe even in a Dumpster. Martin didn’t wear the look of the comfortably well off. He didn’t look like he could afford the price of the upcycling class he was taking. Maybe someone had paid the fee as a gift.

  Maybe you’re looking too closely at this. Just because you’ve been involved with two homicide investigations doesn’t mean that everything out of the ordinary leads to murder.

  When she got to Webb’s, Amanda was making the final rounds, turning off the lights and closing up the shop. When she saw Savannah enter from the back door, she flipped the light back on in the classroom and walked over to Martin’s worktable.

  “What did you find out?” she called out.

  Savannah entered the classroom and placed the brown bag next to the unwrapped bottle on Martin’s classroom worktable. “Your instincts were right. The bottle could be worth as much as twenty-five hundred.”

  Amanda squealed and clapped her hands. “Oh, wonderful! That would be five thousand dollars for the set. What a difference it will make to him.”

  “Do you know where he got them?”

  “I think . . .” She hesitated for a moment and then started again. “I remember he said he found them on the sea bottom where he was diving, but he didn’t say exactly where. He seemed a bit reluctant to talk about the exact site.”

  “Well, when he gets here tomorrow morning, we’ll tell him the good news and find out how he came into possession of such valuable artifacts.”

  Amanda turned pale under her pearled makeup. “Okay. Well, I’ve got to hurry to see my mother. She’s not doing so well at the nursing home, and I promised to go over right after work.” She grabbed her purse and keys, then almost flew out the front door. “See you tomorrow,” she called out over her shoulder.

  Savannah stood in the large silence left in Amanda’s wake, feeling a little confused. It wasn’t like Amanda to rush away without asking tons of questions and thoroughly discussing in detail all the interesting facts she had discovered about the bottles.

  Walking into each of the rooms of the glass shop, she checked that the lights were turned off. In the supply room, she walked over to the large kiln. The lid was down, but it was still attached to the rigged pulley system. Peeking inside the kiln viewing hole, she saw the bottles that the students were expecting to have slumped and fused for tomorrow’s class. She bent over to look at the control panel. It was apparent that the programming was complete and that all that was left to do was to press the START button.

  Savannah pressed the START button, and when she was sure the kiln’s automatic programming had safely started, she keyed the shop’s alarm and locked the door behind her. It was not like Amanda to forget such an obvious part of the fusing cycle. Maybe teaching the first day of class had been more stressful than Amanda expected.

  Chapter 4

  Monday Evening

  After Savannah closed up Webb’s, she hopped back in her car and noticed the box of old books on the passenger seat.

  Rats! I’ve got an appointment with Haslam’s Book Store. She checked her watch. The watch showed five minutes past her scheduled meeting time with the bookstore’s owner. She took the quickest route there and sped down the alleyway behind all the businesses along Central Avenue. Savannah pulled up to the largest bookstore for new and used books in Florida. Last week she had called to arrange this meeting to determine if her grandfather’s collection of motorcycle repair manuals would be of interest to the owner for the store’s used book collection.

  The seriously old manuals had been collecting dust in the living-room bookcases at home, and they could be rare and valuable. A little cash windfall to offset the many expected expenses of opening the studio would be welcome. She parked by the outbuilding at the back of the bookstore, climbed out of her car, and knocked on the wooden door.

  It opened, and a wiry gray-haired man with a charming smile walked out into the graveled parking lot. “You must be John’s girl, Savannah.” He extended his hand.” I’m Ray Hirst. Where are those old motorcycle manuals we talked about over the phone?”

  Savannah shook his hand with a firm grip. “Hi. I’m sorry to be late.” He waved a hand to indicate that it was no problem. She pointed to her Mini. “The books are right here. Should I carry them into the—”

  “No, no, no!” Ray waved both hands in a stop motion. “No offense, Savannah. I’m sure you’re a tidy housekeeper, but I need to examine them outside, in the air, first.”

  Savannah wrinkled her brow in confusion.

  “Wait,” Ray said as he opened the passenger door. “Just a second.” He bent down to the box of books and sniffed deep and loud. He straightened up and smiled. “I needed to make sure they weren’t steeped in smoke and pet odors or, even worse, moldy.”

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t even consider that.”

  “These are in great shape. Where have they been?”

  “In the living room, for as long as I can remember. Before that they would have been in Grandpa Roy’s store. It’s the same building that Webb’s Glass Shop occupies now.”

  Ray picked out one of the manuals and opened it to the middle. “Are all the volumes in as good condition as this one?”

  “Yes. Grandpa Roy was very fussy with them. Dad said he would wash his hands before picking them up to use as a reference. They were very expensive and were critical to the success of Grandpa Roy’s motorcycle repair business.”

  “They don’t make them like this anymore. In fact, they don’t print these at all. The manufacturers today publish all their information digitally and post it on the Internet. It’s sad.” Ray shook his head slowly. “How many more do you have?” He closed the old manual and tucked it under his arm.

  “There are about thirty more in the same or better condition. Are they worth anything?”

  “Difficult to say.” He rubbed his chin. “If you could leave these with me, I have some contacts who specialize in repair manuals. I’ll have them give me an appraisal, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Savannah smiled and propped a hand on her hip. “But do you think they’re worth something?”

  He returned her smile with an added twinkle. “In this condition, I think you could be looking at either no value at all versus up to several hundred each. Maybe more for the rare ones.”

  Savannah smiled wider. “That’s exciting. It’s a shame to keep them out of circulation if someone can use them to restore vintage motorcycles. That would make me happy.”

  Ray started to walk back to the outbuilding, which was used for storage. “I’ll let you carry them, if you don’t mind. I should know something in about a week.”

  After she carried the box of manuals for Ray, she looked across the alley at the main building.

  Haslam’s Book Store opened in 1933, during the Depression. It had been on the corner of Central Avenue and Twentieth Street since the early seventies. Today the third and fourth generations of the Haslam family were in charge of the new and used books stuffed on the overburdened shelves of the sprawling corner store. Savannah and her dad had spent many Saturday afternoons foraging among the crowded stacks, searching for the political thrillers he enjoyed and the science fiction series she preferred.

  Savannah entered the main building. The owner’s son-in-law Raymond stood at the reference desk, situated more than halfway down the main aisle of the store. As she made her way over to him, the smell of the old books stacked on the desk’s surface made her feel welcome.

  “Hi, Raymond. How are you?”

  Raymond looked up, and his youthful face brightened into a thousand-kilowatt smile. “Savannah, I’ve haven’t seen you in here for quite a long time, not since you left for that fancy glassblowing studio in Seattle. How are you doing with your dad’s sh
op?”

  “Reasonably well, thank you. We are still teaching lots of students, and the commission work is steady. How’s the bookstore?”

  “It looks like we’re going to weather this latest tempest in a teapot—the ebook threat. It seems, in the long run, people still like to read and hold actual books.”

  “What do you mean?” Savannah asked.

  “Having a staff of booksellers who can recommend what you want to read next is preferable to an artificial algorithm based on who knows what kind of voodoo. It looks like people are ready to support a bookstore that helps customers choose their next book. A book that the clerk has actually read.”

  “Speaking of actual books . . .” Savannah folded her arms across her chest and leaned back a bit. “I seem to remember a section on antiques and collectibles.”

  “Definitely. What are you looking for?”

  “A student brought in a couple of curiously old cobalt-blue bottles. My friend Robin was able to get a preliminary value for them by comparing them to similar bottles, but I would like to date them accurately. Do you have anything that might be useful?”

  Raymond scratched the back of his head and looked up at the ceiling. “I recall a large red volume down the second aisle, toward the back, that provides information on vintage bottles. It includes a small section, an illustrated history about glass bottles and their origins. I remember when a young lady brought it in. It was part of an estate sale over on Snell Isle. The last living relative of the owner—a niece, I think it was. It might be helpful.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give it a look.”

  Savannah browsed as she made her way toward the back of the store. She was followed discreetly by one of the two cats that lived in Haslam’s. Beowulf was a ghostly brown and tan tabby with a pleasant habit of rubbing against your calves when you were looking at books. He would be deterred only if you continued to move through the store. If you stopped to browse, the toll was to pet Beowulf. Savannah reached down to give him a thorough scratching, and he rose up on his two hind feet and nipped her hand!