Cracked to Death

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Good morning, Savannah. Is this a bad time?”

  “Nope. Amanda is teaching now. That leaves me time to work on more custom commissions at the new location I’ve opened in the Warehouse Arts District.”

  “A bit risky, isn’t it? You’ve been running Webb’s for only about six months.”

  “It’s a risk, but the volume of commissions and restorations in our glass business has outgrown this location, and there’s no room to expand here. So buying the studio was my best solution.”

  Detective Parker nodded his head. “Well, I’ve got a curious object I hope you can help me identify.” He opened the evidence bag and pulled out the neck and shoulder portion of a broken cobalt blue bottle. He placed the fragment on the sales counter, then stepped back.

  “A bottle? I’ve been hip deep in bottles lately. We’re in the middle of a recycling workshop right now.” She picked up the fragment and held it up to the light. “In fact, this looks like it could be a match to a set of bottles one of our students brought in yesterday. He wanted to know if it was valuable.”

  “Where did he get them?”

  “I don’t know exactly. He said it was at a beach where he was diving, but he didn’t say which one.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No, but he texted Amanda that he should be coming in any minute. I have his contact information, if you need it. He could be a useful resource for you. Should I get it now?”

  “No. E-mail it sometime today.”

  Savannah scrunched her brow and looked at the splotchy coating of black material that covered most of the fragment. “What’s this black stuff?”

  “Fingerprint powder. We didn’t find any prints, so you can wash it off if you need to.”

  “Hmmm. That might help.” She held the fragment up to the light again. “This appears to be part of the neck.” She felt along the shoulder of the bottle, where the neck joined the body of the bottle. “I can’t tell much. It’s been underwater for a long time. I need to clean it off to get an opinion about it. Is the rest of the bottle in here?” She leaned over to look inside the evidence bag.

  “We think all the pieces are there, but I haven’t a clue.” He tipped the bag, and the remaining fragments spilled out on the counter, along with some dried sea debris. “Would you be able to clean the pieces up and reconstruct the bottle so it could be identified?”

  Fingering the pile of glass fragments, she replied, “It doesn’t look like there are many small pieces.” She looked up quickly. “Are you hiring me as a consultant for this?” She held her breath. A consulting fee right now would help her financial situation. “How much does it pay?”

  “If you think you can get to it quickly, I can request express services. That should work out to about seventy-five dollars per hour.” He glanced at the pile of glass fragments. “In order to qualify for express status, I’ll need an answer within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Absolutely. Why? What’s happened? Is this about the body I heard about on the news this morning?”

  “It is. We’re trying everything to identify the victim. He had this bottle in a small mesh bag tied to his weight belt. Can you help?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll ask Martin to get in touch when he shows up. They must know each other. I’ll start on it right away.”

  “Keep track of your hours. Let me know the moment you have any information.”

  “No problem. See you later.”

  “Bye.”

  The bell rang as he left Webb’s. Savannah placed the bottle fragments back in the bag and took it with her back to the classroom. Amanda was leading the students through today’s craft project. Savannah eyed her carefully. Her color was back, and her voice was calm and confident. As an afterthought, she grabbed the brown gift bag containing the wrapped bottle, and she also tucked into the bag the other bottle Martin had brought in, so that she now had both of Martin’s bottles to use as comparisons to the evidence bottle. Moving quickly through the classroom, she waved so long to Amanda and went out the back door.

  An unpleasant thought played havoc in her mind. Could Martin be the diver on the news? No, it couldn’t be. He’d texted Amanda. Where did that idea come from? She pushed the thought away.

  * * *

  In her workshop at the new studio, Savannah laid out the bottle fragments and then spread them out. The volume of fragments looked about right for a small bottle. She aligned a few of the larger fragments to see if they fit together. After several dozen attempts, two fragments finally mated perfectly. She smiled. Yes!

  This consulting fee was going to be a slam dunk and a complete plus in her financial plan. Maybe her accountant would even smile at this month’s meeting.

  She placed the fragments in a plastic bin and took them over to the washing-up station. The sea growth and debris was stubborn to remove, but a stiff brush driven by elbow grease was free and readily available. She began to hum while cleaning.

  A knock on the front door interrupted her song.

  “It’s open,” she yelled, then regretted it immediately. That was rude, and she could hear her mother saying, “Were you raised in a barn?” when she was a little girl and made mistakes with her manners.

  She perched the plastic bin on one hip, walked to the door, and opened it with her free hand. “Welcome to Webb’s Studio.”

  Standing in the bright sun, holding a two-by-two-foot stained glass mounting board, was Arthur Young, a student from the first class she had taught after her father’s death. Unchanged from that first class, he was deeply tanned and had brown hair and brown eyes. That he still dressed in a plain golf shirt with khaki trousers didn’t surprise her one bit.

  “Arthur, it’s so good to see you. Come in. I’ve got your space ready for you.”

  They walked over to the work space at the end of the row.

  “It is close to the facilities?”

  Savannah nodded. “It’s the closest one in the building. I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to rent this particular one because it is so close. Do you mind—”

  “Nope. In fact, I’m blatantly outspoken about it. I have Crohn’s. It is an inflammatory bowel disease that causes my intestines to become inflamed. Part of it is physical, and another part is phychological. My doctor prescribed some supereffective pills for the medical issues, and I’ve found that if I know where the facilities are, I’m a lot calmer mentally.”

  “So, this is a win-win for you, then?”

  “Yep.”

  He gingerly laid his mounting board on the surface of the worktable and turned a complete circle to look at the small desk, the shelves, and the wall of windows. “This is grand. I’m going to love this.”

  “How’s your wife? Her name is Nancy, right?”

  “She’s great, but not thrilled about my taking this studio space. She’s disappointed I can’t play in the orchestra anymore. At least not until I get the symptoms under control. She adored being a musician’s wife.”

  “Wow. What a big adjustment.”

  “She’s rallied. This disease has given her a crusade to champion, with me as the poster child. But honestly, I need somewhere to be alone and do something with my hands.”

  Savannah felt her grin grow into a wide smile. “I’m glad. Make yourself at home and have a good wander around the studio. I’ll be back in a second.”

  She walked to her workshop, put the bin down on her worktable, and fished a labeled key out of her desk drawer. She found Arthur and handed him his key to the front door.

  “Here’s your key, so you can come and go as you please. If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office or my workshop, right down there.” She pointed to her office.

  She left him so that he could settle in, picked up the plastic bin again, and finished cleaning each glass fragment. When they were clean, they shone that beautiful cobalt blue. She placed them in a row at the top of her work surface. The reconstruction took quite a bit of focus. She started at the bottle’s bottom and used ordina
ry white school glue so the bottle could be dismantled if needed.

  In less than an hour, the bottle stood on her worktable, next to the two bottles that belonged to Martin. She picked it up and felt all the seams. It was an exact match.

  Oh no. Martin is a diver. Is this his?

  A rock-sized chill formed in her chest. She looked at her watch. It was after two in the afternoon. Amanda’s class would be over by now. She called the shop.

  “Webb’s Glass Shop. How may I help you?”

  “Amanda, did Martin ever show up for your class today?”

  “No. I gave him another call to see if he was quitting the class. His cell went straight to voice mail.”

  “Okay. I wanted to talk to him about the bottles. Let me know if you hear from him.”

  Savannah didn’t like the path her sense of logic took as she connected the broken bottle with the discovery of the unidentified diver. She dialed Detective Parker. He picked up on the third ring and gave a terse hello.

  “Detective Parker, I’ve reassembled the broken bottle. It is a perfect match to the bottles my student brought to class. Have you identified the diver yet?”

  “No. His fingerprints were not in the system, and there are no missing person reports that match. We’re hoping we get credible information from the tip line. But so far, nothing is checking out.”

  “I have an uneasy suspicion your unidentified diver might be my absent glass student. Does the diver have a tattoo of a pirate’s treasure chest on his left shoulder?”

  “Let me look at the autopsy report. Hang on for a second.” She could hear a shuffling of papers. “Here it is. Pirate’s treasure chest tattoo on the left shoulder.”

  Savannah felt the bottom of her stomach sink. “Oh no. It’s got to be him. This is horrible. His name is Martin Lane.”

  “Excellent. That’s a tremendous help. When did you see him last?”

  “He attended the first class yesterday, so I saw him only at the start of the day, which was a little after ten. He had two bottles with him that look just like the broken one you gave me to restore. As I said, I’ve got it pieced together now, and it looks exactly like the two bottles Martin brought to Webb’s yesterday.”

  “Good. I’m going to need all the information you have on his registration form. E-mail it to me as soon as you can.”

  “Sure. I’ll send it right after this call. Do you want me to continue my research into the origins of the shattered bottle?”

  There was a short pause. “Yes, definitely. We need to know everything.”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday Afternoon

  The run-down trailer park looked like it was killing time until a developer bought the land for a multistory condominium. The location was too far away from the gulf beaches to tempt an investor for at least another decade.

  After pulling down the one-way crushed-shell road, Officer Boulli parked the unmarked cruiser beside Martin’s moss-stained travel trailer. Both he and Detective Parker stepped out of the cruiser. A small window air conditioner had been fit into a hole cut on the door side of the trailer. It looked like the only thing keeping it in the raggedy opening was the aging layers of duct tape circling the crusty aluminum supports on the wheezing unit.

  Beside the tiny concrete patio that supported the metal trailer steps, a stack of pale gray driftwood was piled about four feet high. Next to the driftwood were separate mounds of large shells and bottles. The last collection was composed of a rusty boat engine, a lawn mower, and tractor and marine specialty parts, all jumbled together.

  Officer Boulli put on gloves, then unlocked the trailer door, using a key on the key ring found in Martin’s dive bag. He and Detective Parker slowly entered the eight-foot-wide trailer. It smelled faintly of bacon combined with sea life and art glue.

  The layout was a central kitchen with booth seating in the front and a small bedroom in the back. Opposite the kitchen was a tiny bathroom. The cast-iron frying pan with a congealed layer of bacon grease on the stove explained the predominant odor. The sink was clean, and there was a plate, a cup, a fork, and a spatula drying in a small dish drainer. Half of the dining table served as a work area and was piled high with small driftwood twigs, polished seashells, copper wire, encrusted marine parts, and bits of sea glass, which were being assembled into wind-driven sculptures.

  “It looks like he dived for salvage parts to use in his mechanical wind machines.” Detective Parker looked at a completed piece that was hanging from a hook in the ceiling. “This is quite good. I wouldn’t be surprised if this fetched a few hundred dollars at a gallery. Have we determined if his work is with any of the local shops?”

  “Not yet.” Officer Boulli took out his notebook and scribbled a line. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Check to see if he had a Web site or if he was selling online,” said Parker.

  On the other side of the table was an open laptop connected to a charger and a pad of paper, along with some library books arranged in a stack. Parker bent over and peered at the titles on the spines.

  “It looks like he was researching the early history of Tampa Bay,” he said. Several sheets had been roughly torn from the pad of paper, exposing a blank page. “If we can find the torn-out sheets, that might help us. They could be in his vehicle.”

  “A BOLO was ordered right after he was identified.”

  “Make sure that the computer forensics technician gets the laptop.” Boulli opened the tiny refridgerator. “Not much here.”

  Detective Parker walked back to the tiny bedroom, where he found a made bed and a phone-charger cord on the nightstand. “His phone must be in his vehicle. There’s enough stuff here for forensics to process. You had better give them a call.”

  Boulli’s phone rang while he was dialing forensics. “Officer Boulli.”

  Detective Parker watched while Officer Boulli listened for a few seconds.

  “Thanks,” Boulli said. “That was headquarters. A traffic officer found Martin’s vehicle, with his cell phone inside, not far from here.”

  “Tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes.” Detective Parker looked inside the bedroom dresser, went into the bathroom and peeked in the cabinet, and shrugged. “Nothing more for us here. Let’s leave this for the forensics team.”

  It took them only a few minutes to find the address on the west edge of St. Petersburg. Martin Lane’s vehicle was a beat-up white Toyota two-passenger truck. It was the only vehicle in a boat launch parking lot less than a mile from where his body was found. There were signs of rust showing at the bottom of the cab doors and along the bottom of the truck-bed door. The vehicle also looked recently washed.

  The doors were locked. Detective Parker took out a flashlight and peered into the driver’s side window. The inside of the truck showed its age by way of the wear and tear in the upholstery, but everything was tidy. On the bench-style seat was a folded white T-shirt on top of a pair of worn cutoff jeans. On the floor of the passenger side was a beach towel with part of a Superman logo showing. It looked placed rather than tossed. A clamshell phone lay on top of the towel.

  “He’s probably got a ‘pay as you go’ phone plan. It’s the cheapest you can get.” Officer Boulli sniffed. “What a loser.”

  “Loser? I don’t see Martin as a loser. Strapped for money maybe, given how Spartanly the trailer was furnished and how little food he had. He might have been recovering from an addiction of some kind, but he had a talent for making things with his hands. His craft brought in cash and apparently made people happy. You would do well if that was your legacy at such a young age.” Parker switched off the flashlight. “Hand me the keys. Let’s look inside before the forensics van gets here.”

  Officer Boulli tightened his lips into a thin line. “The keys?”

  “Yes. You opened his trailer with them. Where are they?”

  Patting all his pockets, Officer Boulli came up with the cruiser’s keys, his personal keys, but no victim’s keys. “I’ll go back and get the
m. I think I left them in the trailer.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sure. I’m sure I left them on the table.”

  Detective Parker released a small sigh. “Perfect. That means the trailer is unlocked. Yet another mistake, Officer.” Parker shook his head slowly. “I’ll look around here. Did you call forensics yet?”

  “Ugh. I forgot to call them after headquarters called us with the information on the car.” Officer Boulli pulled out his phone. “Calling right now,” he yelled over his shoulder, moving as quickly as he could to the cruiser.

  The bed of the small white truck looked worn, and there were shadows of rust encroaching from around the wheel wells. The sand, pebbles, and shell debris embedded in the tire grooves looked recent, as opposed to being a long buildup. There were three large pieces of driftwood tangled together, along with a remnant of netting and two horseshoe crab carcasses, inside the truck bed.

  If he had been hauling his beach and snorkeling finds in the truck, Martin had been pretty regular about washing out the mess.

  Interrupting Parker’s thoughts, Office Boulli came trotting over, with a drenched shirt and rivers of sweat dripping off his hair and face. “Here are the keys,” he panted, then grabbed his side. “Ugh! I’ve got cramps.”

  Detective Parker took the keys and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe them dry. “You passed the annual physical?”

  Face red, Officer Boulli kept taking in deep breaths but nodded all the same.

  “Really?” Parker made a mental note to research the results.

  On the passenger side, Parker unlocked the door and pushed the button to the glove compartment. There was a white business-sized envelope with “REG” written in green ink, two hotel pens, and a red spiral notebook inside the glove compartment.

  He straightened up and beckoned for Officer Boulli, who was several yards away, standing in the shade of a palm tree. “You know, sometimes it’s not about what is here, but about what is missing, that tells us the most about the crime and the victim. What do you think is missing?”