Death at the Museum

by London Lovett

  "Should I go get it since you're hardly able to stand or sit upright?" I reached for the number, but he snatched it away.

  "I'll get it. You'll probably linger at the counter for a long conversation with Ballard." Jackson left the table and returned in record time.

  "Before you get too deep into that sandwich," I started, "was that it on the security footage? Nothing else of note other than the obvious sabotage by the killer?"

  Jackson did not pause his quest to make his sandwich perfect with the right amount of salt and pepper. He kept shaking while he spoke. "Interestingly enough, Roscoe Banner appears on the camera footage for a few minutes before the camera goes dark. Sarah is there, working on her catalogue, and Roscoe is just meandering around the lab looking at things."

  "That sounds incriminating. Was he the last person to see Sarah alive? Why would the security guard be in the lab?"

  Jackson took a large bite. I'd lost him to a pastrami on rye. He chewed and swallowed. "Since I am a detective, I did ask him why he was in the lab." He was about to take another bite. I kicked his shin to stop him.

  "Ouch."

  "Just finish what you were saying, then you can feel free to stuff your face at will."

  "Fine. Pushy. Roscoe said that sometimes, when he has a spare few minutes, he walks into the lab to admire the relics. Apparently, the inventory in that lab is very fluid, and there are new objects all the time. He claims he has an interest in antiquities. Since he can rarely take the time to admire items on display on the museum floor, he takes advantage of seeing the pieces up close in the lab."

  I stirred my dressing into my salad. "Did his explanation seem plausible?"

  "He came up with the excuse pretty fast but then if he had this whole thing planned, it would have given him time to make up the story. There isn't a lot of motive there. Roscoe has been a guard at the museum for ten years, since he retired from the force. I knew him back when I was a rookie. He's a good guy. I'm trying to keep my bias out of this, but I just can't imagine he would murder anyone. Saved more than a few lives in his time on the force. Like I said, he's a good guy."

  "But—" I said. "Seems like there's a but coming."

  It was obvious he was reluctant to continue, but he also knew I'd keep pestering him.

  "But," he said with a flourish, "John Hartman mentioned to me that Roscoe had lately found himself in a financial bind. Apparently, he'd invested a large portion of his retirement in something that turned out to be a scam. He's hurting for money."

  "And the stolen chalice might be worth a pretty penny in the underground museum relic market. What if Sarah found out that Roscoe stole the chalice and threatened to tell John?"

  Jackson's mouth pulled down at the corners. "That theory has been floating around in my head, but I just don't think it was Roscoe. Not even entirely sure the two crimes were connected. It's likely but I don't know that for certain."

  "But he's on the list?"

  "Yes, he is. For now." Jackson seemed pained to have to admit that Roscoe, someone he obviously liked and looked up to, was on his suspect list. I decided a new suspect might help alleviate some of the angst.

  "It turns out the antiquities consultant, Flora Myers, used to date John Hartman, the curator. All was bliss and happiness until a certain lab assistant, namely Sarah Essex, entered the picture. According to my source—"

  He arched a brow in irritation.

  "Fine, my source was a floor manager named Celeste. I dropped a couple names and managed to get invited into the museum. Celeste was more than happy to share a few rich morsels of gossip. It seems Sarah stole John from Flora. Flora never forgave her."

  Jackson sat back and tilted his head at me. "We both spent time at the museum this morning, only you managed to get good information by namedropping and flashing that press pass. I flashed my shiny badge and got twenty minutes of blank tape. Maybe I'm in the wrong profession."

  "Maybe you should become a journalist. We're nosy and manage to worm our way into every situation."

  "Nah, I'm thinking rodeo cowboy or maybe astronaut. Not qualified to do either but you're not qualified to be a detective yet you manage to keep ahead of me on every darn case."

  I sat up straighter. "You might be exaggerating a bit, but that's all right. I'm good with a little hyperbole. Do you think what I found out about Flora Myers is significant?"

  "I was planning to talk to her since she is on the short list of people with lab access. Guess now I'll have a few more questions to ask. We're also trying to find out who made the forgery of the chalice. I'm hoping that leads to another suspect and one that connects the crimes."

  "That's right. After the murder, the missing chalice sort of got pushed to the back of the line. I think I'll head back over to the university after lunch. Dr. Fisher has office hours this afternoon. I'll check on him to see how he's doing after the double disaster."

  "That's fine. Just don't step into any sticky situations. Leave that to the detective."

  Chapter 19

  Class had just gotten out on the floor near Professor Fisher's office. I was walking upstream as a school of college students swam past me. The professor's door was closed. I knocked just as the door handle turned. A young woman, late teens, possibly, was on the other side of the door. We both laughed at our synchronized timing.

  Dr. Fisher was standing behind the girl. "Miss Taylor, allow me to introduce you to my niece, Anna. Anna, this is the journalist from the Junction Times."

  Anna had green eyes and a spray of freckles across her nose. "Hello, nice to meet you." She fingered a thick gold chain around her neck as she looked back at her uncle. Whatever was on the end of the necklace, it was hidden beneath her t-shirt. "Thanks again, Uncle Sammy. I'll see you at Sunday dinner."

  I smiled and nodded at her as she sidled past.

  "Come on in, Miss Taylor. I'm afraid I don't have any more information about the chalice." I followed him into his office with its artifacts and mummified critters. It seemed he was still in the process of rearranging things. Piles of books and towers of papers took up every seating space. I wondered if the piles on chairs were a ploy to keep students . . . and journalists . . . from lingering too long in his office.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. I was hoping you'd heard word about the return of the chalice."

  He shook his head solemnly. "No, I'm afraid not, and Cairo is extremely angry. They'll never trust us with a treasure again."

  "I'm so sorry to hear that. I think the whole town was looking forward to seeing the Lotus Chalice. It's terrible to think it might be in the hands of someone who doesn't know how to handle it properly. Dr. Fisher, is there anyone else you can think of who might have had access to a lab key? A student perhaps?"

  Professor Fisher's face leaned back. "Surely you don't think I handed my key card off to a student? It is considered a privilege to have unfettered access to that lab, and I take the responsibility very seriously."

  "No, no, I'm sorry if I offended you. Of course, I'm sure it's a privilege. It's just that the list had some student names, so I thought someone, a grad student, perhaps, might have had temporary access to the lab."

  He was shaking his head before I finished. "I always accompany my students in the lab. Yes, occasionally one has been granted access, but at the moment, none of my students have a key card. I can't speak for the rest of the people on that list," he said, accusatorilly. "Others are much more lax with the rules than me."

  My ears perked up like that of the mummified cat looming over us from the shelf above. "Do you think one of the other key holders might have lent out their access card?"

  He immediately wiped away the accusation. "I didn't mean to imply that anyone else was doing anything inappropriate." He pulled out his shiny pocket watch and flipped it open. "I'm sorry, Miss Taylor, I have a staff meeting. I'm going to need to cut our chat short."

  "Yes, of course. Thank you for your time."

  He ushered me out quickly. It seemed he regretted sugg
esting one of the other people on the list had lent out their highly coveted key card. But who?

  My phone rang as I stepped outside into the sticky, warm day. A few clouds had pushed in to make the air feel thick and heavy. "Hey, Lana, what's up?"

  "That's what I want to ask you. Why the sudden invite to dinner? You're not exactly famous for cooking meals for a crowd, especially if Emi isn't part of the chef crew."

  "I'll have you know that I can cook just fine, and if you'd stop insulting me for a second, I could reveal the motive behind my dinner invite."

  "Ah ha, there's a motive. Then I won't flatter myself into thinking you just missed seeing your big sister."

  "Do you mean the big sister who convinced me there was a large, hairy spider in my bedroom closet resulting in me not sleeping for three nights straight? That sister?" I headed toward my jeep. Standing on the college campus was starting to make me feel old. "My motive has to do with your boyfriend."

  "Uh oh, the way you say it, something tells me this is not so you can thank him for being a wonderful boyfriend to your big sister."

  Three young coeds, giggling and looking amazingly adorable in shorts and tank tops skittered past me. "Ugh, when did I get too old to look amazing in shorts and a tank top?"

  "What?"

  "Oh nothing. But hey, if you want to feel old and unattractive, visit your local college campus. Anyhow, Dave is still obsessing over ghosts at the inn."

  "You're kidding? How do you know?"

  I reached the parking lot and walked through a group of pigeons busily tearing apart a potato chip bag. They were not happy about the intrusion. "Well, let's see—he has been asking everyone within my social orbit whether or not they've noticed strange occurrences at the inn."

  "What a stinker. I'll talk to him. You don't have to make us dinner."

  "No, that's all right. I've already got plans to pick up some ingredients for chili and cornbread. I told Dave he could search every corner of the inn for ghosts. I'm hoping when his search comes up empty, he'll put all this behind him."

  "I'm sorry about this, sis. I'll talk to him about it too. Why are you on a college campus?"

  "Long story so I'll give you a compact version." I sat down in the jeep. The thick, sticky air had climbed inside with me. "I was doing a story on the arrival of a priceless item from the King Tut treasures."

  "Yes, the Lotus Chalice," Lana added.

  "You've heard about it?"

  "I'm not always folding linen napkins and hanging paper stars, you know? I do occasionally hear the local news. I heard it was stolen or something."

  "Yep, I was there for the terribly disappointing unveiling. Dr. Fisher, the man doing the honors, is an expert, and he instantly recognized it as a forgery. Of course, the tiny moon and star carved into the base of the fake was a dead giveaway. Jackson is trying to track down the maker of the counterfeit chalice, but it's not easy."

  Lana was silent for a second. "Wait, did you say a tiny moon and star?"

  "Yes, I can only assume it's the maker's mark. Not sure if the artist has anything to do with the crime or not."

  "Hold on." I could hear her footsteps as she walked through her house. "Yep, there it is. A tiny moon and star."

  "Where? What are you looking at?"

  "A few months ago, one of my clients thanked me for doing such a great job with her party. She gave me a neat little owl carved out of stone. There's a tiny star and moon etched into the base. It's a local artist. She told me the name, but I can't remember it. I can text her, but she probably won't get back right away. She's a big executive at some investment firm in the city."

  "That's fine. Just let me know as soon as you hear something or if that old woman brain of yours kicks in and you remember the name."

  "Thanks but I think the text back from the executive will be a quicker route. I'll see you later, and hopefully, between the two of us, we can talk Dave out of this ridiculous ghost hunting expedition."

  "I'm counting on it. See you later."

  Chapter 20

  I stared at the pile of onions, peppers and tomatoes and immediately regretted my decision to make chili. "Why did I pick something that required hours of chopping?" I spoke to an empty kitchen. However, in my life, the empty kitchen almost always spoke back.

  "You're cooking?" Edward asked, not even trying to hide his amusement.

  "For your information, I do cook. I don't even mind cooking . . . much." I picked up a large yellow onion. "I just don't like chopping. Mostly because I'm not that good at it." I started the frustrating process of trying to peel those annoyingly thin outer layers off the onion. I'd only just begun the task of undressing the onion, and my eyes were already watering.

  "I've watched you in the kitchen." Edward appeared next to me.

  "Yes?" I fought the last piece of onion peel that didn't want to leave my fingers. "I'm waiting for the sarcastic zinger."

  "I don't know what a zinger is, but I'm just letting you know that I've watched you in the kitchen, which gives me the authority to ask the question you're cooking? I do believe the onion has won this round."

  I shook my hand hard enough to dislodge the onion peel. "It's like the thing is covered in static electricity. And do not ask me to explain static electricity because I don't have time. I've got to make a pot of chili."

  "I know about static electricity." He moved close enough that I could feel the cool electrical charge that surrounded him. He waved his hand over my hair and thick strands floated up. He removed his hand, and the hair fell back into place.

  I blinked up at him. "If you had been teaching science in my middle school, I probably would have paid far more attention to the lessons." I returned to my task, one of my most despised kitchen chores, onion cutting.

  The pungent aroma of onions filled the air the second the knife sliced through. "While I have your ear or ears, I should say, because you'll no doubt point out that you have two, I need you to be extra careful tonight. And by extra careful, I mean not juggling or playing with the dogs or shenanigans in general."

  "Ah, she's using her top form gibberish, so this must be important."

  I stopped for a second to look at him and to give my eyes a break from the onion. "If shenanigans is gibberish, then is gibberish also gibberish?" I laughed at my little pun and returned to the onion. "Lana and her friend, Dave, are coming over for dinner. It seems Dave is still searching for proof that a ghost is haunting the inn."

  "He is," Edward reminded me dryly. "However, haunting is such an ignoble term for my existence."

  "Yes, well, we can debate that another time. And, yes, I know there's a ghost haunting the inn, only I don't want Dave to know that." There was always that fine line with cutting an onion where the pungent aroma crossed over into a deadly, fiery poison that filled the air and made you want to take out your eyeballs. My onion had crossed that line. I put down the knife and pressed the backs of my hands against my eyes to stop the burning. "Ouch, ouch, ouch." I stepped away from the counter, took a breath and lowered my hands.

  Edward's image sharpened along with his wavy posture. "Good lord, you don't need to cry about it. I'll behave." There was so much empathy in his worried expression, I sort of hated to admit it was the onion.

  I reached for a towel. "No, I'm not crying. It's the onion." I blotted my face dry. "Haven't you ever cut an onion? Never mind. Stupid question."

  "We had people for that."

  "That was the stupid answer I expected." The redeeming thing about the nightmare of cutting onions was that once the initial, torturous burn had passed, it was possible to pick up where one left off and cut the rest without further incident. "Most of us don't have people to do pedestrian chores like cutting onions. None of this is relevant." I pushed together the impressive pile of diced onion. "There. Not too bad and I only had to stop once."

  I wiped my hands on a dish towel and turned to Edward. He had relocated to the kitchen table, where he sat holding two apples. "Since we're alone, I'll g
et a little practice in now. Then I'll retreat to a dark corner and sit mute and meaningless as a dust ball pretending not to exist so that you can persuade your sister and that nuisance courting her that I do not exist. I suppose I'll have to get used to this state of non-existence once guests arrive at the inn."

  We had somehow managed to wade back into the sticky subject of my bed and breakfast. "I told you, Edward—" I shook off the earlier light tone for a far more serious one. "I need you to know that I have no intention of making you live a miserable existence in some dark corner. You'll have free rein of the house. You'll just have to make sure that nothing out of the ordinary happens. In fact, how's this? You can entertain yourself by observing my guests as they come and go. There should be a wide cast of characters coming through this house. Far more than now when you're limited to just my family, friends and Ursula and Henry."

  "Is that supposed to encourage me? I already suffer those two dimwits all day long. Will I really have to linger amongst a wider cast of characters?"

  "Ugh, there's no pleasing you. We'll discuss the inn at another time. I need to get this chili cooking, or we'll be eating raw onions and peppers for dinner. In the meantime, I didn't have time to throw the ball for Newman." I waved toward my dog, sitting patiently with a ball jammed between his teeth, his tail swishing side to side in anticipation. "Just hold back on some of that ghostly energy please. Holes in the walls mean that Ursula and Henry will be here even longer. Just a gentle roll." As I turned back to my cutting board, I realized I was squinting into the final rays of sunlight. "Better yet, it's still light out. Go throw the ball off the front stoop a few times. It'll be good for you to get some fresh air," I said confidently, then looked apologetically at him. "Sorry, sometimes I forget you're . . . well, you know."

  "Yes, I know," he said sullenly. "Unfortunately, I never forget. Come, Newman. We've been ordered outside for fresh air. At least one of us can enjoy the taste of a summer afternoon." With that he vanished. Newman raced out the dog door. Redford trotted lazily behind.