Naturally, Jackson couldn't go into details. "Something like that. Can you tell me who filled out this card?"
"Sure thing." Everett was smiling again, happy that he could help. He took hold of the card and stared at it. Another round of rubbing beard stubble. "I don't get it, but boy, someone is going to be in trouble."
"How's that?" Jackson asked.
"Well, we type out the information, print the label and then attach it to the index card. Makes them easier to find, handle and all that, but the last thing we're supposed to do after we put together the new file card is sign our initials." He turned the card so Jackson could see the face of it. "See this little corner, the blank one? That's where we sign our initials. That way, if there are any questions or problems, we know who filled it out."
"I guess we can assume that you didn't fill this card out," Jackson said.
"No, sir. I never forget to put my signature." He shrugged sheepishly. "I wouldn't want to pass up the five dollar bonus. We get a bonus whenever we open up a new mailbox account."
"I'll need a list of names of the people who were working here last month when this card was created."
"That's easy. There are only five employees." He turned to walk into a back room, then spun around again. "I'll have to double check with the manager before I hand out the information. I don't want to get into trouble."
Jackson nodded. "Of course. Just pass the phone to me once you get your manager on the call, and I'll explain everything."
"Right." He laughed nervously. "Won't Cindy be surprised when a detective comes on the line." He muttered something else to himself as he headed to the back.
"What do you think?" I asked. "Do you think one of the Parcels R Us employees is involved in the crime?"
Jackson turned the box of index cards around and thumbed casually through the names. "No, I think a customer just offered better than a five dollar bill to have the salesclerk fill out a card and not initial it."
"I suppose it would be easy enough to sweeten the pot if the ante was only five dollars."
Everett returned with the phone. He was already mid-conversation as he reached the counter. "Right, I know. Don't worry about a thing. Everything is fine, Cindy. Just take care of yourself. Here is Detective Jackson." He handed off the phone, and Jackson explained the situation. Moments later, we were leaving with a short list of names.
Jackson walked me to my jeep. "Where are you off to now?" He asked as he gently turned me to face him for a quick kiss.
"I'm thinking I might head back to the museum and do some snooping around."
Jackson kissed my forehead. "Then I might see you there. I'm going to talk to John Hartman again. Catch you later, Bluebird."
Chapter 26
The museum had a fair amount of visitors considering there was no much anticipated chalice to be viewed. I wandered through the main hall of Egyptian antiquities. The sad, empty display case still sat in the center of the room. It had been roped off to keep people from disturbing it.
I stared at the thick glass cube, the tall marble pedestal, the empty swath of black velvet where the Lotus Chalice should have been standing. "The real one never saw the inside of that box," I said quietly to myself. It was stolen and replaced with the forgery sometime between its arrival at the museum and the evening of the unveiling. Was Sarah part of the theft? Had her partner turned on her? Or maybe she got cold feet, and her accomplice worried she'd tell the police.
"It looks so empty," a voice said from behind.
I turned to find John Hartman looking slightly less put together than the last time I'd seen him. His normally neatly combed hair stuck out in places, making it look as if he'd just climbed out of bed. Even his mustache had spurts of hair here and there, and I was certain I spotted a tiny piece of his lunch in his beard.
"Mr. Hartman, how are you doing?" I asked, genuinely concerned. Was this shabbily groomed man in front of me in despair at the loss of the chalice and his girlfriend, or was he wracked with guilt after strangling Sarah in a fit of anger? It was hard to decide which scenario was the likely cause of his slovenly appearance.
"I'm not well, Miss Taylor. Thank you for asking. I'm afraid I'm not myself, and I don't know when I'll be able to pull myself together. This has just all been too much. They still haven't found the chalice or the monster who murdered my dear Sarah."
I patted his arm. "Come, let's find you a chair. You look as if you need to sit down."
He shook his head and nearly lost his balance from the movement. "No, I'm fine. I've got to go to Sarah's office and look for some paperwork. She always took care of the purchase orders. I'm afraid I've been avoiding walking into the office. It will remind me too much of her." A soft sob followed.
A twinge of guilt grabbed me when I considered using his state of distress to my advantage. Of course, it didn't stop me from my quest. (I was, after all, a journalist.) "Perhaps if you can describe to me what you're looking for, I can go into Sarah's office and bring the papers to you." The offer was a little unorthodox, and I waited thoughtfully for him to decline. To my surprise, he took me up on it.
John's face cleared of the sorrowful lines. "Would you? That would be so kind of you. I just can't bring myself to step inside that room. Her shampoo—" he said so quietly I was sure I misheard. Shampoo didn't exactly fit into the conversation. Color stained his cheeks, and his eyes were glossy, possibly with tears. "It's silly but she used this shampoo that smelled like tropical fruit. I grew very fond of the scent. I'm certain it's still lingering in her small office, and I just can't—" His words trailed off, and he pressed his balled fist against his mouth to stifle what I could only assume was another sob.
The whole scene, his disheveled appearance, the muted sobs, the way his face looked as he spoke of the familiar scent of her shampoo was putting me firmly on the side of a man who was in true distress over the loss of his lover. It didn't totally wipe out the notion that he killed her in a fit of anger and was now living with both the overwhelming guilt and grief of what he'd done, but John seemed far less like a suspect.
"I'd be happy to help. Just show me the way and tell me what you need." Another twinge of guilt. My little act of kindness would allow me to give Sarah's office a quick once-over. How could I pass up the opportunity? I needed to push my misgivings about the whole thing to the back of my mind. It wasn't as if I was going to do a thorough search and pull out drawers or toss things around. Just a quick perusal, then I could grab the purchase orders John needed. I'd be doing him a favor and satisfying my curiosity at the same time.
John led me down a pale gray hallway that was lined with old photos of the museum being built, from groundbreaking to opening day. "Sarah was very organized. She labeled everything. I need the binder labeled purchase orders." We stopped in front of a door. Sarah Essex, Lab Technician, was etched into the brass plate on the door. "I'll be in my office just two doors down. Please try not to disturb anything. The police did a quick survey, but Detective Jackson let me know they'd be back today to do a more thorough search. Can't imagine what they'd find in there, but I hope it's something that will lead to an arrest. Everyone is on edge right now after the two catastrophic events."
"Understandable, of course."
"Well." John took a steadying breath. I put a hand on his shoulder for support. He reached into his pocket. His hand shook slightly as he took the key out.
I put out my palm. "I can unlock it and then I'll lock it back up. I'll bring the purchase orders straight to your office."
He smiled briefly. "Thanks. I hate to be such a coward about this, but I just can't face that office yet."
"No problem at all." I folded the key in my palm and waited for him to enter his own office.
While I didn't smell the tropical scented shampoo, something that probably only John would be able to pick up, I could see why John was avoiding the office. Sarah had decorated one wall with photos of herself on various archaeological digs. She was smiling and laughing in every
photo. I didn't know the woman, yet the photos formed a hard knot in my stomach. To be so alive one moment and dead the next. It was unfathomable.
On the cabinet behind Sarah's desk sat a prominently displayed photo of John and Sarah. They were standing in front of a pyramid, the desert sun beating down on them. Large brimmed hats shaded their faces, but it was hard to miss their bright white smiles. The same cabinet had at least a dozen potted plants, each one looking a little thirsty. I would remind John that her plants needed a new home. Maybe it would help him to have the plants near. That thought made me realize that I was almost assuredly thinking of John as a victim and not the culprit. His grief seemed entirely too genuine to even consider that he could choke the life out of a woman whose shampoo, alone, made him miss her.
As John had mentioned, Sarah was highly organized and everything was labeled. Three ring binders sat upright in a plastic file holder, each with their labels displayed and easy to read. The purchase orders were in a blue binder. I hoped Jackson wouldn't be too mad that I'd disturbed this one thing in the office.
I glanced around and scanned the photos once more. None of the other faces were familiar. If the killer was amongst them, then Jackson had his work cut out.
The office was so clean and organized, I was sure the police wouldn't spend much time in it. It just didn't scream crime scene. Even her polished mahogany desk was organized with pens in one holder and pencils in another. The only thing slightly out of place was a notepad. The cover was flipped back, but the top page was blank. A torn ridge under the seam of the cover showed the remnants of the last note Sarah wrote. Whatever it was, she had torn it off in haste. Or anger?
I circled around to the notepad. The deep imprint of whatever she had written on the torn off paper was still visible on the blank page. Whatever the note had read, she had pushed hard on the pen, again as if in a hurry or in anger.
I took a nicely sharpened pencil from the holder and rubbed the side of the pencil lead over the blank paper. Sure enough, Sarah's handwriting showed through like a negative of a photo. I lifted the notepad higher under the office lights. "You must stop this or I'll report you. I will give you until the night of the unveiling. I'm sure you'll come to your senses by then."
I contemplated whether or not to pull the important sheet of paper off the pad. Jackson wouldn't be too pleased, but what it said was important, too important to leave behind. I gently tore the paper free but left the notebook in the same place I found it. I folded the paper with the pencil marking and revealed message and placed it in my pocket. My entire guilt-ridden escapade had turned into a success. I was sure, tucked into my pocket, was proof that Sarah had caught someone she knew making plans to steal the chalice. When she threatened to reveal the plot, the thief concluded that he or she had no choice except to kill Sarah. It looked as if I'd beat Detective Jackson to a significant piece of evidence. There could be no doubt now that the two crimes were connected, and the motive for murder was as clear as the note in my pocket.
Chapter 27
I'd completed my errand of delivering the purchase order folder to John Hartman. The poor man even looked hesitant to the touch the notebook since it contained Sarah's handwriting.
I started back down the corridor and into the hallway that led to the lab. I wouldn't be able to step inside without the proper escort. I peered through the front window. Sarah's lab desk had been left just as it was the night she died, only the police had draped caution tape to block access to the desk. My eyes surveyed the somewhat cluttered room. No lab assistants, students or professors lurking about. The room was deserted.
"If only you had a key card to get in there." The deep, familiar voice drifted over my shoulder. Even when he was teasing me, the smooth sound of his voice always made my heart skip a beat.
I turned to face him. Jackson was wearing his spectacular smile and holding one of the highly coveted lab key cards in his hand. "Oh look, I've got one. Now, if only I would decide to let you inside. But I'm not sure because this is official police business."
He was being cocky, but I tossed the attitude right back at him. "Yes, and if only I had a key piece of evidence linking the two crimes right here in my pocket." I patted my pocket gently.
His smooth brow arched.
I pointed up at him. "Ah ha, I have your attention."
The arched browed slipped down to a suspicious squint. "You're bluffing. You just want access to the lab."
"That would be a no and a yes."
"You really have something?" he asked.
"I do. I was looking through Sarah's office—" I put up a hand to stop any forthcoming lecture. "I was doing John Hartman a favor."
"A favor?" he asked skeptically.
"Yes, the poor guy couldn't bring himself to enter her office. There was a whole thing about Sarah's tropical smelling shampoo. It was very touching. Anyhow, I don't think he's our suspect. While I was there retrieving the folder of purchase orders he needed, I happened to notice an open notepad on her otherwise spotless desk. She had written a note recently." I reached into my pocket but stopped short of pulling it out. "Wait. Do I get to walk into the lab with you?"
"Fine, you can come in."
"Perfect, I'll show you what I have once we get inside."
Jackson passed the key card over the sensor and the door clicked open. He waved me through and followed behind. I had the note free from my pocket by the time he shut the door.
"Here you go. I saw this trick used on television once. I rubbed pencil on the top sheet of Sarah's notepad. It was blank but light in the office glinted off an imprint in the paper. I figured the last thing she wrote had been etched below on the next sheet." I unfolded the paper and handed it to him.
"Impressive work." He read the note twice and peered up at me. "Sounds as if Sarah uncovered someone's plan and ended up dead because of it. She doesn't mention the chalice and there are no names on the paper, but it sure seems to connect the two crimes." Jackson pulled a baggie out of his pocket. "I'll be keeping this, of course."
"You may, I suppose. I don't mind sharing my expertise with you. What are we looking for in here?"
Jackson walked over to the caution tape surrounding Sarah's desk area. "I'm just trying to get an idea where everything is in this lab." From where we stood, he looked across the room. "See that gray wall safe? John said that was where he put the authentic chalice after it arrived from Cairo. He said he opened it once, a few days later when Professor Fisher sent a small group of students to see it before the unveiling. He said he opened the safe, pulled it out, placed it on the lab table. None of the students were allowed to touch it or take pictures. They only had ten minutes to admire it before he returned it to the safe. The safe was not opened again until the night of the unveiling when he and Roscoe carried it to the main hall for display."
"It seems impossible to think someone managed to trade the real one for a fake. I wonder how it was done."
"The thief was definitely crafty. If John Hartman is telling the truth—"
"If?" I asked.
"He's still a suspect. I agree that he seems entirely grief stricken, but some people are great actors. I'd say he is almost too grief stricken, if you know what I mean?"
"I do. I hadn't thought of that. I considered the possibility that he was so wracked with guilt about murdering Sarah that his guilt had turned to profound grief. But your idea is good too."
"Gee, thanks. I do occasionally come up with a few of them. The second bigger reason Hartman is still a main suspect is because only two people knew the combination to the safe, John Hartman and Sarah Essex."
"And since Sarah is dead, that sort of points a big finger at John," I noted.
"Pretty big, yeah."
"Is there a chance he shared the combination with someone else, or maybe it was written down somewhere? I'm just tossing out ideas here." I was still leaning hard on the side of John being innocent. His grief seemed too real even for a good actor.
"I asked
him if there was any way someone else could have discovered the combination. He said no, not unless Sarah had shared it with someone, which he said was extremely unlikely."
Jackson walked over to the wall safe. "Hartman said he placed the chalice in the safe, locked it and only opened for the students. The night of the unveiling, he opened the safe, removed the chalice and carried it with Roscoe's assistance to the display pedestal."
"Obviously, he was carrying the fake chalice to the unveiling. Was it possible that the chalice was fake the whole time?"
"Good question, Bluebird. I asked Hartman that and he said since the piece came with a great deal of official paperwork, contracts and agreements there was no reason to believe that the chalice was a forgery. He said it was examined by all the experts, Professor Fisher, included upon its arrival, and they would have noticed it was a fake."
I nodded. "It's true, Dr. Fisher barely glanced at the chalice in the display case and knew instantly it was a forgery. The moon and star were a dead giveaway. Apparently, the anonymous person who ordered the fake forgot to remind the artist not to put his mark on it."
"Small detail, considering the perpetrator covered his tracks in every other way." Jackson gazed around the room. His focus landed on one of the camera in the upper corner of the ceiling. He glanced back at the safe and then back to the camera.
"Detective Jackson, you're onto something," I prodded. "Don't keep me in the dark."
Jackson waved me over. "I need you to do something, Sunni."
"Uh oh, he's calling me by my actual name. This must be big." I reached him where he stood next to the gray wall safe. "Just give me the orders," I chirped enthusiastically.
Jackson glanced back to the camera in the corner of the ceiling, then his finger traced the invisible sightline between the camera lens and the safe. He took me by both arms and gently moved me into position in front of the safe. "Now, when I give you the cue, reach up and pretend to open the safe."
Death at the Museum Page 12
