Death & the Viking's Daughter

by Loretta Ross

  He was meeting Cecily Myers, the art history grad student whose thesis on Volkmer had led to the discovery that the Ring Portrait in the Warner Museum was forged. Meeting in public had been her idea, and it was she who’d suggested they rendezvous in the cast gallery of the art history museum, in front of a statue called Laocoön and His Sons.

  The former hospital looked like a hospital. Death, who’d had his share of unpleasant experiences in hospitals around the world, entered with a sense of dread settled into the pit of his stomach. Inside, it was obvious that someone had spent money and considerable effort on trying to make it not look like a hospital.

  They hadn’t met with a great deal of success.

  He followed the signs in the lobby and rode up on the elevator, convinced in the back of his mind that when the door opened he would find himself in a functioning ward, with doctors and nurses and the soft hospital sounds of heart monitors and ventilators. It occurred to him, for one wildly irrational moment, to be afraid that none of this was real. That he was still in an induced coma back in Germany and that when he woke up he’d find that Wren and all the rest of his life was only a fever dream.

  The doors slid open. It still felt like a hospital up here, but it was empty of life. He again followed the signs, down a hall and past empty rooms and a deserted nurses’ station, and finally went through a door and into a museum. At last there were people, moving quietly among the exhibits.

  The museum space had been completely remodeled and did feel like a museum, though even here there was an odd dynamic. Death walked slowly through the exhibits, taking them in as he made his way to the cast gallery.

  Wren had told him about the cast gallery. When she was a student, she and a friend had made a habit of sitting on the floor in a corner to study. Her friend had always been sorely tempted to push Apollo over but had resisted the urge. Death knew that the museum’s collection of plaster casts dated back to the early 1900s, and that they were an important and valuable collection in their own right.

  Copies, Death thought. Someone had wanted something they couldn’t have so they made a copy instead. Basically, it was the same thing his mystery thief had done, only his thief took it one step further and traded out his copy for the real thing.

  He found Laocoön without any difficulties. He and his sons were busy being devoured by serpents in front of an enormous window. The sculpting was impressive, even if the subject matter was more than a little bit gruesome and creepy. Death looked around, and a young woman with fluorescent pink hair abandoned a headless statue of winged Nike and approached him.

  “Mr. Bogart?”

  “Yes. You must be Ms. Myers.”

  “Call me Cecily, please.”

  “Hi, Cecily. I’m Death.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I hope you don’t mind meeting me here. It’s just that I don’t know you.”

  Death smiled at her reassuringly. “Not at all. I approve, in fact. I handle a lot of missing persons cases. I can’t tell you how many of them could have been avoided if only someone had exercised a healthy dose of paranoia.” He nodded at the museum around them. “What do you think of the new location?”

  She lifted thin shoulders in a shrug. “Well, it’s not radioactive, so that’s a good thing. It’s not nearly ideal. I mean, some people like that it’s more accessible to the city and to people going through on I-70. And there’s more parking. But it’s a lot harder for students to get out here. And students are the ones who need it.”

  “It feels weird,” Death confided. “I think it’s because the exhibits are all so old but everything else seems so new.”

  “Yeah. They had to get all-new display cases and things. They didn’t know how badly the old ones were contaminated.”

  “But at least there’s more room here, right?” Death said, thinking of all the empty floors above and below them. “If the museum acquires more stuff it will be able to display it.”

  Cecily laughed. “Yeah, you’d think so. Would you believe that only about three percent of the museum’s holdings are currently on display?”

  “Seriously? Three percent?”

  “Yup. And the Anthropology Museum only has room for one percent of their collections.”

  “What is done with the rest of it?”

  “It’s kept in storage, studied, used for classes.”

  “Wow.” Death looked around, found a bench, and led the way to it. Standing was beginning to take its toll on him. “So tell me about Volkmer.”

  Cecily bypassed the bench and took a seat on the floor to his left with her back against the wall.

  “Hans Volkmer was a first-generation American—his parents came from Germany in the 1840s. He was a portrait artist who traveled the western half of the US from 1878 until his death in a steamship explosion in 1912. He worked like a traveling photographer. He’d set up a studio in a corner of a saloon or general store and paint portraits on commission. He’d let people watch him paint. Back then, on the frontier, that counted as a form of entertainment. He’d pay the store or saloon owner a small commission and the novelty of him being there painting attracted a crowd, so it drove business for the store and helped him get more commissions.”

  “Sounds like a pretty shrewd businessman.”

  “Oh, he was. He didn’t get much credit for it, though. Other artists and critics considered him a hack and he was pretty widely looked down on. Only now are we realizing that not only was he a good businessman, he was actually a pretty good artist too.”

  Death nodded. “And what’s your angle with your thesis? I’m wondering what led to the decision to have the Ring Portrait x-rayed and so forth.”

  Cecily smiled. “Oh, that wasn’t really me, so much. I was just invited to join the project, since Volkmer is my specialty and I probably know more about him than anyone else alive.” It wasn’t a boast, the way she said it, but simply a statement of fact. “That was for a part of a documentary that’s being made for public broadcasting.”

  “About Volkmer?”

  “About transportation routes and how art supplies like pigments and metals and such were shipped across country. About how the availability or lack of materials affected art on the frontier.”

  “I see. And whose project is that?”

  “There’s a film class over at Central Missouri, in Warrensburg, that’s making the documentary. The whole thing is underwritten by a grant from the Nordstern Foundation.”

  “Okay,” Death said, “one more question. Can you tell me what happened when they took the paintings down and transported them to the lab? You were there, right?”

  “Yes, I was there. Nothing happened, really. Nothing out of the ordinary. The museum had to move a bunch of other stuff that was in a cabinet below the portrait. They were still packing up the last of it when we got there and we had to wait for about half an hour. Then they took the two portraits down and the lab technicians that were there helped pack them in special shipping crates. They loaded them into the back of the van they were driving and we took them to the lab.”

  “Did you ride with the paintings?”

  “No, I had my own car. I drove behind them.”

  “And they went directly to the lab?”

  “Yes, and we took the portraits in and they x-rayed them right then and there.” Cecily pulled her phone out and glanced at it. “Was there anything else? I’m sorry, but I have a class I need to get to. I’m the teacher so if I’m late they’ll all think they’re getting a day off.”

  Death thanked her for her time and watched her walk away. When she was gone, he rose and returned to Laocoön, snapped a picture, and sent it to Wren. Then he called her.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice sounded a little bit off, but not terribly so. He didn’t even think about it before he started talking.

  “Sweetheart, I have bad news.”

&nbs
p; “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I just tried to visit the museum in Pickard Hall, and the University has the building closed because of, are you ready for this? Radiation contamination. And it’s been contaminated since the early 1900s. I figure that explains why you’re so bright. But don’t worry, honey. As soon as I get home, I’ll strip-search you for radioactive isotopes.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Wren?”

  “I’m sorry. Wren’s outside showing her dad the last of the garden.”

  A frisson of horror ran through Death. “Who—?” His voice failed him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who—?”

  “This is Wren’s mom. I saw her phone ringing and thought I should answer it. You must be Death.”

  Death took a deep breath. His hands shook and his heart was in his boots.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Yes, I am. Just at this minute I kinda wish I wasn’t, though. You and Wren really sound a lot alike.”

  “Well, she is my daughter. What are you doing in Columbia?”

  “I was meeting a girl. Not a girl! A woman. But not a woman! I mean, not because she’s a woman. A client. Wait. Not a client. A witness. Sort of a witness.” He made himself stop and take a deep breath. His chest felt tight and he didn’t know if it was because of his damaged lungs or if he was having a future mother-in-law induced panic attack.

  “Well,” Wren’s mom said, “I think Wren is expecting you for dinner. Are you going to be here or do you have further plans with this woman who’s not a woman?”

  “I’ll be there, ma’am! I’m just ready to head back right now.”

  “Okay then. Now, you drive carefully. Wren’s father is really looking forward to meeting you.”

  “And I’m looking forward to meeting both of you,” he said. “Um, will you tell Wren I called?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll tell her everything.”

  Death said goodbye and ended the call, then stood there for a long minute looking down at his phone.

  “I am so dead,” he said to himself.

  nine

  Wren’s driveway was full, with a pickup/camper and a sheriff’s car. Death pulled his Jeep in behind the sheriff, along the front fence, and steeled himself and went in search of his bride-to-be and future in-laws.

  He’d stopped on the way to pick up two bouquets of flowers, one for Wren and one for her mother, though he was a bit put out at the woman for answering Wren’s phone and not identifying herself. Since being annoyed wouldn’t make his future life any smoother, he resolved to at least try to make a good second impression.

  He knocked, even though he was accustomed to coming and going as if he lived there, but when no one answered he went on in. The living room was dotted with stacks of dishware, which told him what Wren had been doing all day. The house, however, was empty. He went through the kitchen (surreal with the cupboards standing open and bare) and followed the sound of voices and a sporadic clanging to the back yard.

  Wren and her mother were nowhere in sight, but Sheriff Salvadore and a man Death recognized from pictures as Wren’s father were playing horseshoes. The sheriff was pitching while Edgar Morgan lounged in an Adirondack chair with a beer at his elbow and Wren’s dog, Lucy, at his feet. Death watched while Salvy threw a ringer and a near ringer. “Five points. That brings me to nineteen.” He turned to the house. “Are you going to lurk in the door all day or you want to come out and say hi?”

  Death lay the flowers he was carrying on the counter, pushed the screen door open, and trotted down the steps. Wren’s father rose up to meet him.

  Wren had never mentioned that her dad was a giant. Death was a big man himself, but his future father-in-law had two or three inches even on him. And it wasn’t just height. He was built like an oak, with broad shoulders, and his hands, when he offered Death a handshake, were huge.

  “So you’re Death,” he said. His voice was a deep rumble, soft and surprisingly mild. “Come sit down and tell me a little bit about yourself.”

  Death took a seat near the other two men. Before Edgar could join him, Salvy reminded him that it was his turn. Edgar took up the two blue horseshoes, stepped to the line, and casually sailed them at the stake, one after the other. He threw them like Frisbees, with a flick of his wrist, and they both caught the stake and spun around it before coming to rest.

  “Six points. Twenty-one and I win.”

  Salvy gave Edgar a baleful glare and Wren’s dad chuckled—a deep, rich sound.

  “Don’t feel sorry for him,” he told Death. “He can run circles around me on a ball diamond.” He fished in a cooler by his chair and offered Death a beer. “So you’re a Marine? What made you decide to join the Corps?” he asked as he reclaimed his seat. Wren’s big tomcat, Thomas, jumped into Edgar’s lap and made himself comfortable.

  Death sank a little into his chair and ducked his head. He wasn’t comfortable talking about himself but he understood the questions. If someone was planning to marry his daughter, he’d want to know all about the guy too.

  “My dad was a cop,” he said. “Grandad was a firefighter, and my little brother was already set to be a paramedic. My mom taught English lit and ran a volunteer literacy program and my grandmother was one of the country’s first female DAs. Our family was always strong in our belief in public service. I wanted to do that too, but I also wanted to go my own way. Try something new. I liked the Marines because of the traditions of honor and loyalty, and I thought it’d give me a chance to see the world.”

  “What happened?”

  Death laughed a short, unhappy laugh and took a drink of beer. “I got blown up in Afghanistan.” He didn’t like telling this. It felt too much like admitting to weakness, too much like a flaw. But Edgar was bound to hear it somewhere and he figured it was better coming from him than from someone else. “I’m okay now, mostly. But my lung capacity was compromised. I was given a medical discharge. And now law enforcement and the fire service are out of the question too because I can’t pass the physical.”

  “So now he’s a bad-ass bounty hunter,” Salvy offered. He was out of uniform but drinking tea. He saluted them with the glass.

  Death laughed again, a little more real this time. “Part-time bounty hunter,” he said, correcting him. “Mostly I’m a private detective.”

  “How do you make a living at that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I do a lot of industrial espionage type of work. Figuring out what employees are stealing from their companies, who’s trying to smuggle trade secrets to whom, finding holes in a corporation’s internal security protocols. I also get a lot of missing persons cases and I have a decent success rate with those, though it’s still nowhere near high enough given the stakes involved. And once in a while I get something that pays really well.”

  “Like finding a cache of missing jewels or two,” Salvy offered.

  Death had the feeling the sheriff was helping him out. “That does not hurt,” he admitted with a grin. He looked around. “So where are the ladies?”

  “Grocery shopping,” Edgar said. “Mom wants to bake a Depression cake and Wren was out of raisins.” He tipped his head. “Maybe that’s them now.”

  Death hadn’t heard a car drive up but now he listened to a single car door slam. The three men watched the kitchen door expectantly and (on Death’s part) with some trepidation, but it was neither Wren nor her mother who appeared.

  Randy Bogart was still in his medevac uniform. He was moving quickly and his eyes lit up when he saw Death.

  “Hey! What’s going on? Where’s Wren? Why are there dishes all over the house? Where’s Wren? I got something to tell you guys!”

  “Wren’s out shopping with her mom,” Death said. “Mr. Morgan, this is my kid brother, Randy. Randy, this is Wren’s father, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Oh, hey!” Randy bounced down the steps and leaned down
to shake Edgar’s hand. “Wow, you’re huge.” He smacked the back of his hand against Death’s shoulder. “Better not step out of line, dude. He’s bigger than you are.”

  Death buried his face in his hands. “I apologize for my brother. I don’t know why he’s acting like a hyperactive kangaroo. Randy, have you been in the sugar again?”

  “I found out something,” Randy repeated. “You’re not gonna believe this! When’s Wren coming back? I wanted to tell both of you.”

  “In a little bit. We don’t know. Tell us now and you can tell her when she gets back.”

  “Okay, but you have to let me tell her. No telling her yourself and hogging the glory.”

  “I promise. Now what is it?”

  “Sit down.”

  “We are sitting down.”

  “Oh, right. Okay, then, hold on to your chairs. That house that you and she are planning to buy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a body buried in the rosebushes!”

  There was a long, awkward silence. Death made his voice as gentle as he could. “We already know that.”

  Randy’s face fell. “What? No you don’t! How would you know that?”

  “The lady that lives there told Wren the first time she looked at it. Wren told me.”

  “How come no one told me?”

  “We’ve hardly seen you, with all the crazy hours you’ve been working.”

  “Randy’s an air medic with the helicopter service,” Salvy explained to Edgar. “They’re shorthanded right now and he’s been pulling a lot of overtime.”

  Randy pulled over another chair and dropped into it, dejected. “Did you know?” he asked the two older men.

  “’Fraid so,” Edgar said.

  “How’d you find out?”

  “We remember when it happened.” Edgar turned to Salvy. “You ever figure out anything about that guy?”

  “Nothing yet. My deputies still work it as a cold case any chance they get, though with funding cuts and staffing shortages there’s not a lot of time for things that aren’t currently urgent. But we have his profile up everywhere we can get it and once every couple of years or so someone will think they recognize him. So far none of those leads have panned out, but I suppose it’s progress of a sort. Maybe now, if his grave is going to be owned by a private detective, some progress can really be made.”