Death at the Museum

by London Lovett

  John Hartman had pulled himself over to a quiet corner at the opposite side of the room. He was covering one ear so he could hear the conversation on his phone. I could only assume he was talking to the police. This seemed far too big of an event for museum security guards to deal with. Unless he was talking to his girlfriend, Sarah. Maybe there was more to their relationship than the romantic gestures I'd witnessed. Maybe they were accomplices.

  As I stood on the small observation post I'd carved out for myself, I noticed the display case, now open, still held the fake chalice. Everyone was too caught up in the drama of the evening to notice the woman in the blue summer dress strolling casually toward the forged chalice. I didn't dare touch it for the sake of keeping any fingerprints fresh and clear, but that didn't stop me from giving it a good once-over. Again, since I was no expert, the alabaster chalice looked just as I'd imagined. Lotus petals carved delicately into the sides of the bowl and two Egyptian figures sitting atop the lotus buds.

  I walked around the case, nearly pressing my face against the unbreakable glass, to get a better look. That was when I noticed one tiny detail that I'd never seen in any photos of the chalice. Carved at the base were a tiny moon and star. It was entirely possible I'd never noticed the mark when doing my research, but something told me, the moon and star alerted Professor Fisher that he was looking at a fake. If someone had gone to the trouble to create a forgery, it was puzzling to think they would have added in such a noticeable detail. I pulled out my phone and took a quick photo of the tiny mark. I circled around to take another photo but was stopped cold by the sudden low murmur in the room. All eyes had turned to the main hall entrance. The security guard, Mr. Banner, was taking shuddering breaths and bracing a hand against the doorway to steady himself.

  "Mr. Hartman, I need Mr. Hartman," he said between gulps of air.

  John hurried across the room. "Good heavens, Roscoe, what is it? Have you discovered the real chalice?"

  Roscoe had finally caught his breath. His mouth moved, but at first, the words didn't come out. It seemed he had something truly awful to relay to John. "I've found Sarah. She's in the lab". He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. "I think she's dead."

  Gasps and quiet shrieks filled the room.

  I pulled out my phone. Still no reply from Jackson. I wrote a quick second text. "You might want to get here soon. It seems your little Bluebird has stumbled onto another murder."

  Chapter 12

  John Hartman needed a moment to collect himself before following the museum security guard to the antiquities lab. I walked swiftly behind them. My footsteps echoed in the hallway, causing the two men to stop and look back.

  "You shouldn't be—" John started.

  I interrupted before he could order me to return to the main hall. "I am no stranger to a crime scene and murder in particular—" I should have chosen my words more carefully.

  "Murder," John blurted as he looked toward Roscoe for confirmation. "Surely not—"

  Roscoe pulled his gaze away as he slowly nodded.

  John covered his face with his hand. "Someone wake me from this nightmare." He lowered his hand. "Let's continue, Roscoe. I'm hoping you're wrong about all of this." I was not told to turn back, so I continued right along with the two men.

  Roscoe used his card key to open the lab door. Sarah was still wearing the oversized lab coat as she lay lifeless on her side on the tile floor. Her lips were bluish-pink and her skin looked cold and white like marble.

  "No, Sarah, no," John muttered as he raced to her side. He knelt down next to her and placed the back of his hand against her cheek. He pulled it away quickly. "She's ice cold." He dropped back onto his bottom and covered his face again.

  Roscoe pulled out his phone to call the police. I took the moment of the two men being occupied and walked over to the body and crouched down. I took hold of her wrist. Her arm was cold and like rubber, the muscles just beginning to stiffen. By my guess, she had been dead for several hours.

  John lowered his hands but remained sitting on the floor. "I don't understand. She told me she was going to finish up with the catalogues, then she was going home to change for the unveiling. She was very excited about the event. We all were. And now . . ." He moved to cover his face again. I tossed out a question before he could hide behind his hands.

  "Sarah was working on the catalogues?" I pointed to the desk right in front of us. It faced toward the side wall and partially away from the door. It was the same desk I'd seen Sarah working at earlier in the day. "Would she have been sitting right there?" One of the catalogues and a pile of bagged up pottery shards were still on the desk.

  John looked up shocked and a little baffled about why I'd be asking such a question. Still, he nodded. "Yes, that was her work space." He looked down at Sarah. "She must have still been sitting there when someone attacked her. But who?" He shrank back down and covered his face. His shoulders shook. I could only assume he was crying or at least trying to make it look as if he was sobbing behind his hands.

  I pushed to my feet. One thing was clear, if Sarah had been sitting at her desk, she would have heard her assailant walk into the lab. She would have had to turn to see the person, but she knew only a few people had access. She probably never looked up. Or maybe she did and she knew the person so she went right back to work. It made sense, since she was killed, strangled, it seemed, by the red marks on her neck, right by her chair. It seemed the person entered, and Sarah remained at her desk. My guess was that the attacker then walked behind her and wrapped something around her neck. There was no sign of a struggle. The attack was sudden, unexpected.

  I glanced up at the ceiling. There was a security camera set in the corner of the lab. There was a good chance the entire murder was caught on tape.

  "Sir, Mr. Hartman—" Roscoe was still shaken. "I'm going to the entrance to wait for the police to arrive."

  John lowered his hands. His face was red. It seemed as if he'd actually been crying. "Yes, of course."

  "You'll want to make sure no one else comes to the lab. Just the police," I added. "We need to secure the scene." Both men looked at me somewhat perplexed by my presence.

  "I'm sorry," Roscoe finally asked. "Who are you again?"

  Before I could pull out my press pass, John answered for me. "This is Sunni Taylor from the Junction Times." As he said it, the entire notion of a journalist standing at the site of a terrible museum scandal seemed to dawn on him. His expression hardened. "How dare you? You're here trying to get a story. If you print anything about this, I will call the museum lawyers, and you do not want to mess with them."

  "I assure you I am only here to help. As it happens, I have some experience with murder scenes and not just as a journalist." Right then, my phone rang. I pulled it out. "Also"—I held up the phone—"I have a very close connection to Detective Brady Jackson." I walked away with the phone, leaving the two men to silently accept my reasons for being there. "Hello," I said.

  "How do you manage it?" Jackson asked. "I mean it's a museum. How many bad things can happen at a museum?"

  "As it turns out, two in one night. I'm not entirely sure they're related, but it would be awfully coincidental. Like you said, how many bad things can happen at a museum."

  "I'm on my way. Please try to avoid a third bad thing before I get there."

  "Yes, sir, Detective Jackson."

  Roscoe was staring at me in disbelief. "You have a direct line to Detective Jackson?"

  "As a matter of fact I do, and he's on his way."

  Chapter 13

  Jackson instructed the team of assisting officers to interview guests before releasing them. John had no right to keep them locked in the museum all night, and, after a thorough search, it was evident that the real chalice was long gone from the museum grounds.

  Poor Sarah was still crumpled on the floor of the lab, her once rosy cheeks growing more waxy and white with each passing minute. The coroner had been called and was due to arrive withi
n the hour.

  The three people Jackson had asked to stay, John Hartman, Roscoe Banner and Samuel Fisher, were huddled at the far end of the lab. Each one wore a look of despair. I wondered—was one of them just putting on a good show?

  "What's churning in that inquisitive mind, Bluebird?" Jackson was gently shuffling through the items on Sarah's desk. Like me, he'd quickly concluded that if Sarah had been working at her desk she would have heard her attacker walk into the lab. It seemed she kept working, knowing it could only have been one of her coworkers. More importantly, it also meant Sarah didn't let the person in. They had a key.

  I moved closer to him and lowered my voice so the three men couldn't overhear. "This morning, John Hartman, the museum curator, gave me a tour. He told me very few people have access to this lab. All three of the men at the end of this room have a key card to enter the lab."

  Jackson nodded. "Yep, I've already got that on my list. Find out who has a key card for the lab. Between that and the security footage, this should be an easy case." I hadn't realized my expression changed, but Jackson noticed it instantly. "You're disappointed. See, since this is my job, I'm happy when the case is easy."

  I shrugged and tried to wipe away the frown. "I know. For your sake, I hope you solve this right away. But for me, I kind of hope there are some twists and turns. No one likes a crossword puzzle that gives all the answers." I snapped my fingers. "Wait a minute. This won't be open and shut. The missing chalice, there's the big twist."

  Jackson rolled his eyes. "Thank goodness there's a twist. I was afraid you were going to wear that ducky pout for the rest of the night."

  "It was hardly a pout, and I certainly don't do ducky. So, Detective Jackson, what have you concluded from your examination of the crime scene? Correction. This crime scene"—I smirked at him—"Since there are two."

  "I'm focused on the murder. A dead body takes priority over a missing cup."

  "It's a chalice," I corrected. "And it's one of a kind and irreplaceable, but that's not important right now. Continue. I'd like to hear your thoughts on the murder."

  Jackson glanced around. Other than the body curled up in the middle of the floor, nothing seemed out of place. It looked just like it had earlier. "Whoever did this, they were pretty clean and efficient. Other than the marks on the victim's neck, there is little evidence. Nothing looks disturbed, so the killer came up from behind and strangled her before she could struggle or make a run for it." A dry cough from the other side of the lab pulled his focus toward the three men. "I think we need a better timeline of tonight's events. Think we'll start with the curator." Jackson pulled out his phone. "Jackson here. Officer Turner, I need you to wait at the entrance for the coroner and lead the team down to the lab once they arrive."

  "Does that mean I get to sit in on the interviews?" I asked, hopefully.

  "Not directly but if you choose your position wisely, you'll be able to overhear the interviews."

  I couldn't hold back a smile. Slowly but surely, Jackson was starting to admit that I was a darn good investigator. "If it weren't completely inappropriate right now, I would totally kiss you, Detective Jackson."

  "Yeah? I'll collect on that promise later." He turned toward the three men standing across the room. "Mr. Hartman, may I speak to you?"

  Before stepping away, something important occurred to me, something I'd forgotten to tell Jackson. I hopped up on tiptoes and whispered near his ear. "I think Mr. Hartman and the victim were a couple." With that, I dropped to my heels and circled around some shelving. I found a small niche to stand in where I wouldn't be obtrusive, yet I'd still be able to hear the conversation.

  John was rubbing his hands together. It was hard to tell if the hand wringing was due to anxiety about the police interview or distress over Sarah's murder. Probably a mixture of both.

  "Mr. Hartman, I'm trying to create a timeline for this evening. Since you are the curator and had a big part in tonight's special event, could you tell me everything you know, preferably with times and places."

  John seemed to finally realize he was wringing his hands. He awkwardly lowered his arms to his sides. "I can give you exact times because, as you noted, this was a special event." He shook his head, and I half expected him to cover his face again. "I don't know how we'll ever get that chalice back. The museum's reputation will be ruined."

  Jackson jotted down a few notes. Since John hadn't said anything important yet I could only assume he was making note about the fact that even though a young woman had died, John was more concerned about the museum's reputation.

  "Yes, I'm sorry about that. We know how the evening ended, but can you tell me how it started?" Jackson prodded.

  "Yes, of course." John pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his forehead before tucking it back into his coat. "The museum closed at 4:30 this evening. Once the doors were locked and the security team had given me the all clear—"

  "The all clear?" Jackson asked.

  "Yes, they make the rounds through all the halls and visitor areas to make sure no one has been left behind. Occasionally, a stray visitor is found in one of the display rooms or restrooms. All clear means that only museum personnel remain in the building. At five o'clock, Roscoe Banner"—he motioned toward Roscoe who was waiting at the opposite side of the room for his interview—"he's head of security," he added. "At five o'clock, I radioed Roscoe to join me here in the lab. He was assigned to escort me to the Antiquities Hall while I carried the chalice to the display case."

  Jackson jotted down the details and looked up for John to continue.

  "I walked over to the safe where we'd been keeping the chalice. I opened the lock."

  Jackson nodded. "How many people know the code to the safe?"

  "Uh, well, just myself and Sarah." His face dropped. "Poor Sarah. When will they come—you know—"

  "The coroner should be here any minute."

  John had the same reaction I'd witnessed many times at the word coroner. It was that final confirmation that someone was dead. I could see him swallow hard even from my slightly obstructed view behind the shelves.

  John's shoulders and posture slumped.

  "Would you like to sit down?" Jackson asked.

  "No, no, I'm fine. The shock is wearing off, and the horrible reality is setting in. Anyhow, I took the chalice from the safe. Roscoe walked right along next to me as I carried it to the display case. The case takes two different keys, both inserted at the same time. Roscoe holds one and I have the other. Once the piece was secure in the display case, I covered it up for the unveiling. The whole process took about fifteen minutes."

  "Where was Miss Essex during the transfer of the chalice to the display?" Jackson asked.

  "Well, she was right here." He pointed toward her desk. "When Roscoe and I left the lab, she was still working on the catalogues. Earlier, she'd told me she was going to finish up her work and then run home to change for the unveiling. I got so busy with setting up for the event, I never made it back down here. I just assumed she'd gone home. She never showed up for the unveiling. I left several voice messages, but she never returned my call. I had no idea she was down here—" He pressed a fist to his mouth to stop a sob. If it was a performance, it was a darn good one. But if the missing chalice and the murder were connected, sobs or not, that put John Hartman right back at the top of the suspect list. He was the only person who had both the code to the safe and the key to the display case. Although, the display case required an accomplice, and wouldn't the head of security make the most convenient partner in a museum heist? Just as I formulated the theory, Jackson excused John and called Roscoe over for an interview.

  Roscoe was holding back a grin as he marched confidently toward Jackson. "Well, well, if it isn't Brady Jackson all grown up, beard stubble and detective's badge," he said cheerily.

  Jackson responded with a hearty handshake. "Roscoe, good to see you. I heard you moved to security after retirement."

  "And you, Jackson,
always figured you'd move quickly through the ranks. Never had a better rookie on my team."

  It didn't take long to understand the jovial, familiar greeting. Obviously, Roscoe Banner had once worked for the department. I was still going to tuck the new theory away for safekeeping. Even good cops can turn bad if a big enough carrot is dangled in front of them. And the Lotus Chalice, with its incalculable price tag, was a big carrot indeed.

  By the time I'd left my own spinning mind and tuned back into the conversation, Roscoe was explaining that he and his team performed the usual sweep at closing to make sure no guests were left behind. His story matched John's. Roscoe had accompanied John as he carried the chalice to the case. He helped lock the case with the special key and then returned to his security station to wait for further instructions.

  Roscoe combed his fingers through what little hair he had. "I couldn't believe it when I got the call that the chalice had been replaced by a fake."

  Jackson nodded. "What did you do next?"

  "Well, I locked down the building, put my people at all the exits so that no one could walk out with the thing. Then a few of us started a search." He sighed deeply and looked over at Sarah's body. "When I got to the lab, I found Miss Essex on the floor. I'd seen enough dead bodies in my work on the force to know that she was—" He shook his head. "She was a real nice lady. Can't imagine who would want to hurt her."

  "What's your sense about all this?" Jackson asked. "Are the two crimes related?"

  Roscoe rubbed his chin. "To tell you the truth, Jackson, I hadn't considered that they weren't related. We just don't get that much trouble in the museum. Lots of valuable stuff but we've got everything so secure." His eyes swept over the cameras in the lab. "Surveillance in every room. Guess you'll want to see these cameras first."

  Jackson grinned. "Probably the best place to start."

  Voices and activity in the hallway, outside the heavy security door, let us know that the coroner had arrived. John hurried over to open the door.