"I think I can handle that."
Jackson picked up a chair and set it beneath the camera.
I spun around. "I just figured out what you're doing. You're going to see if someone looking through that lens could have learned the combination as John turned the dial."
"Yup." He lifted his hand and spun his finger around indicating that I needed to get back into place.
I faced the safe and heard his large feet stepping onto the chair. It creaked mildly as he stood up on it. "All right, action," he called.
I lifted my hand and dialed.
"Fifteen, twenty-three, nineteen," Jackson read.
"Bingo. I can't believe I still remember my high school locker combination." I pulled on the safe handle just in case. "Not a match, unfortunately."
Jackson jumped down from the chair. "I had to squint and I have exceptional eyesight, or so I've been told. But it would be easy enough to zoom in on the footage to read the numbers. Seems as if the museum was betrayed by its own security system."
"Uh oh." I looked at him to see if I could read his thoughts. It seemed we were on different wavelengths. "Your expression is unreadable. I expected you to look more upset."
Jackson was genuinely puzzled. "Why is that?"
"Well, you're friends with Roscoe. Doesn't this implicate him?"
"It doesn't look good but, then again, I've been inside that security camera room. When I went to find Roscoe, the door was unlocked. Roscoe was somewhere out on the museum floor."
"I guess it's not a terribly secure room."
Jackson placed the chair back in its original place. "The room is also on this ground floor with the lab and other offices. The door is not marked."
"So it had to be someone with the lay of the land. It had to be someone who knew where all the camera feeds were monitored. Which makes sense since the same person knew not only where the security monitors were but how to get into the system and erase footage." I paused, not entirely sure I should go forward with my next thought. I went for it. "And you're still not considering Roscoe as a suspect?"
His mouth pulled down at the sides. "He's a suspect, unfortunately. I just wish he wasn't."
"I'm sorry, Jax. I know you think highly of him. Let's focus on all the other suspects. Is Kai Rogers off the table?"
"Not entirely." He pulled out his phone. "It's funny you mention him. I've got to get back to the precinct for a conversation with Mr. Rogers."
My posture straightened. "Oh, something new I don't know about?"
"Not really. Since he has some connections to the world of fakes and forgeries, we're hoping he can give us some contacts to call about the missing chalice. While we're focusing more on the murder, the real Lotus Chalice is out in the underworld of stolen art. We need to find it."
"I agree. It would be a shame to think that irreplaceable piece of human civilization and history could get damaged or be lost forever." I snapped my fingers. "I wonder if that was part of the motive."
"What do you mean?" Jackson opened the door, and the two of us stepped into the empty hallway. Our conversation carried along the marble floors and plaster walls, so I lowered my voice.
"What if the thief killed Sarah not just because she knew about the heist but also because he or she knew that the police would concentrate on the murder giving the thief time to get the chalice deep into that notorious underworld of stolen art?"
"You might be onto something, Bluebird. Where are you off to now?"
"Not sure. I think I'll stick around the museum for awhile. You'd be surprised what you can find out just by chatting with museum employees. My press pass works way better than that shiny detective's badge," I teased.
"You're definitely right there." He kissed my forehead. "Just stay out of trouble."
"Where's the fun in that?" I called to him as he headed down the hallway.
His head shook slowly as he stepped into the elevator. "You're givin' me gray hairs, Bluebird," were his last words as the door shut.
Chapter 28
I took the elevator to the main floor and was surprised to run into Roscoe Banner. As I stepped off the elevator, Roscoe leaned slightly to look past me. "Is Jackson with you? I thought he was here, searching the lab."
"You're right, he was, but he left. He had to get back to the precinct. What's wrong?" I asked when I realized he was slightly winded as if he'd been racing around looking for Jackson.
"Nothing is wrong." He pulled out an inhaler, put up a finger to pause our conversation, took a deep breath of the inhaler and released it with a sigh. "Sorry, I've been running around looking for Jackson these past few minutes." He took another deep breath, this time of fresh air. "Guess I need to get back to the gym."
"Can I get you something?" I asked. "A drink of water?"
"No, no, I'm fine now. Thank you." He grinned kindly. "I always wondered what kind of girl would finally snag Brady's heart. Now I know and I'm not surprised."
I could feel my cheeks warm. "Thank you. That's kind." I was on the same boat as Jackson. I didn't want to even consider wonderful Roscoe as a suspect. Nothing about him said thief, let alone murderer. "What did you need Jackson for? Maybe it's something I can help you with."
The logical response would have been—what could a journalist help me with, but Roscoe seemed eager to get something off his chest. He started and stopped a few times, then rubbed his short hair so that it stood up on the top of his head.
"There was something I forgot to mention to Jackson. Not sure if it's important or not, but I wanted to at least let him know."
"He was heading in to question someone, so I'm not sure he's available right now. I'll probably see Jackson later. Is there something you want me to relay to him?"
Roscoe turned toward the elevator I'd just stepped out of. "I need to get to my office to do some paperwork. One of the guards cut his finger in the break room. Silly man couldn't find a can opener for his soup so he used a knife. He might even need a stitch or two."
"Ouch, that is a lot of trauma for a can of soup," I mused.
"Tell me about it." The elevator pinged and I followed Roscoe inside. Roscoe tapped the button for the ground floor. "Now I've got to spend an hour filling out an accident report."
"That's terrible." We stood for a second listening to the big pulleys grind as they lowered us to the ground floor. Another ping and I was right back where I'd started. It was all worth it if I could get Roscoe to tell me what'd had him running around looking for Jackson. "What had you in such a rush to find Jackson?" It was a gentle prod and it worked.
"Like I said, it's probably not important. Several days before the chalice was stolen, the Friday before, I think, I was heading to the security hub. That's what we call the room that has all the monitors and the video feed from the thirty plus security cameras. The door opened and I expected to find one of my team members coming out of the room. Instead, Flora Myers, one of the museum's consultants walked out. Naturally, I asked her what she was doing inside the room. She said she didn't know it was the security room. There isn't a sign on the door. We did that on purpose so it wouldn't attract attention."
My ears were perked up so high I could have played a Vulcan on Star Trek. Flora Myers, a named I'd heard more than once, not only had a key card for the lab, but she also had motive for killing Sarah Essex. Sarah had reportedly stolen John Hartman from Flora. As Celeste, the floor manager, put it, Flora had never gotten over the sting. She was also, according to what I'd heard, a heavy hitter in the world of antiquities.
"What excuse did she give for being in that room? I mean she had to know it wasn't the lab."
He chuckled. "No, it's definitely not the lab. She told me she'd put down her sunglasses somewhere, but she couldn't remember where. She thought the hub was one of the offices."
I was trying to assess whether or not he thought that was a plausible answer, but it seemed he hadn't decided one way or another. I determined a straightforward question was the best approach.
/> "Did you believe her?"
He stopped our stroll through the hall and rubbed his short hair again. "I suppose it was possible she got lost and thought she was at an office door. And since the door is unmarked . . . It just seems a little odd that she would have gotten so lost. She seemed upset about something, so maybe she just wasn't herself. Anyhow, if you could mention it to Jackson or better yet, I'll call him later. Then I can give him the details of the interaction. Again, it seemed pretty unimportant at the time, which was why I'd erased it from my memory. But when I saw Ms. Myers earlier, on the main floor, it stirred back to the surface."
My ears were going to be exhausted from the constant perkiness. "Flora Myers is here today?" I had to tamp down my eagerness.
"Yes, she was giving a lecture in the education hall this morning." His two-way radio beeped. A voice asked for his assistance in the reception area. "Be right there, over."
"You're busy," I said. I was now anxious to get to the main floor. With any luck I'd locate the notorious Flora Myers. I wasn't sure what she looked like, but hopefully, with a little help from my friend, Celeste, I'd be able to find Ms. Myers. She had suddenly become even more interesting.
Chapter 29
Celeste, the floor manager, was busy leading a large group of school kids to the area where the docents were waiting to start tours. I waited a moment and caught her once she managed to pull away from the buzzing, wiggling children. She looked more than eager to leave the students in the hands of the docents.
"Celeste, I don't know if you remember me—"
"Yes, of course, the reporter from the Junction Times." Her pace was harried, so I skittered along to keep up with her.
"I can see you're busy." We were heading toward yet another large group of children. They waited with school age impatience for their field trip to begin. "I'm wondering if you could point me in the direction of Flora Myers. I'm interviewing her this morning." (It was only a partial lie. I didn't have an appointment for an interview, but I planned to interview her nonetheless.)
She paused. "Ms. Myers?" she asked somewhat surprised. Two children jumped up on the pedestal of a stone eagle sculpture. "Children, please get down from there," she called. "Uh yes, Ms. Myers, I think she might be in the employee lounge eating lunch. She has another lecture in an hour."
"Perfect." Before I let her race off to remove the children from the sculpture pedestal, I fired off one more question. "Could you tell me what she's wearing, so I can recognize her."
That question confused her and I instantly discovered my mistake. "I thought you knew her."
Rookie mistake. I'd forgotten our previous conversation when I was busy namedropping names I had no right to be dropping. I laughed airily. "I do. I just thought there might be a crowd—"
She laughed, thankfully cutting off my nonsensical defense. "Not many people eat in the lounge. We've got an awesome food court. But Ms. Myers brings her own lunches. She's always watching what she eats." She rolled her eyes. "Besides, like always she's wearing one of her bright floral prints. Today is no exception. Her blouse is neon pink with yellow roses." The embarrassed blush in my cheeks cooled and I relaxed. It seemed she'd already gotten past my silly mistake. "I've got to get those rascals off the base of the statue." She dashed off to help the teachers round up the rogue students.
I'd forgotten one more question—the one asking for directions to the employee lounge, but since I'd stepped in glue with the first half of the conversation I decided to hunt down the lounge on my own. A bit of searching and sign reading led me to the right door and hallway. On my journey, I came up with a few plans for approaching Flora Myers. I didn't know much about her except that she had what seemed an important job, she had been hurt badly by John Hartman, she could hold a grudge, she ate healthy meals and she liked bright floral prints. It wasn't a lot to go on, but if she was a consultant, it meant her opinion was valued. It was easy to conclude that she was quite confident. I just couldn't see someone in her position (and someone bold enough to make a habit of bright floral prints) having anything but oodles of self-assurance. From there, I extrapolated which approach might work best on someone like Flora Myers.
I was in luck. A forty something woman wearing a bright pink and yellow blouse was sitting alone at one of the lunch tables eating exactly what I would have expected her to be eating—one hardboiled egg, three carrot sticks and a small container of low-fat cottage cheese.
"Hello, Ms. Myers," I spoke in a cheery, familiar tone as if we were well acquainted.
She was in mid bite of a carrot stick. She stopped the veggie an inch from her lips. "Yes?"
One thing I'd learned as a journalist was to always out-confidence the confident people. Without a second of hesitation, especially with the unfriendly look she'd tossed my way, I marched over to her table. I swept my hand over an empty chair. "Do you mind?" I asked, then pulled out the chair and sat down without a response. "I just knew you had to be the much talked about and highly revered Flora Myers. The girls downstairs told me to look for the fabulous pink and yellow blouse."
Flora worked hard to hold a serious, taken aback expression, but a glimmer of a smile appeared as she glanced down at her blouse. "I'm sorry," she said as she looked up, "do I know you?"
"How rude of me not to introduce myself. I'm Sunni Taylor with the Junction Times." I pulled out my press pass. Every person reacted differently to the pass, depending mostly on their own situation and how it might be affected by a reporter. Flora was one of the confused, yet somewhat intrigued types. She took the pass in her fingers to examine its authenticity, then smoothed her blouse and hair as if I'd just approached her with a television camera crew. "I was told you are the premier expert on all things ancient and museum worthy. John Hartman said you were a consultant and buyer for the museum. I was originally assigned to write an article about the Lotus Chalice. I was here the night of the unveiling, a guest of Dr. Fisher's. Poor man was beside himself when he realized the chalice had been stolen and replaced with a fake. Since you are so highly spoken of by the museum curator and Professor Fisher, I thought you'd be able to lend some of your knowledge and insight to my article."
I sensed my flattery had softened her like butter on a warm day. She put down the carrot stick and blotted her mouth with a napkin.
"I'm not entirely sure what I can add to it. I was not here for the unveiling. What would you like to know?" She demurely sipped her cup of water.
"Did you at least have a chance to see the authentic chalice before it was stolen?"
She smiled condescendingly as if it was a silly question. "Naturally, I saw and even held the chalice when it went on display in Cairo. I've seen it several times since when it traveled to other museums." Her lips, painted in coral pink to match her blouse, pulled down at the corners. "It's shameful to think it came here to our humble, little museum and is now lost for good."
Her statement caused me to sit forward. Why was she so confident the piece was lost forever? "Do you think it's gone for good?"
Another patronizing grin. It seemed Flora was having quite a good time at the expense of the journalist, who was uninformed and ignorant on the ways of the antiquities world. I let her continue thinking so. She had no idea what I was really after. I was sure she would be far less talkative if she did.
"Unfortunately, once a relic has been lost to the black market world of stolen, priceless items, they rarely ever resurface. I'm sure the chalice is long gone, that is, if it even survived this long. Stone or not, the piece was delicate."
"What a shame to think it might have been destroyed. Who would want such an item? It's not as if it could be sold at auction somewhere. Surely, it would raise a red flag if someone tried to sell it." I had some sense of how things worked in the black market, but I was going to continue to play the naive reporter in hopes that she would say something to implicate herself in the theft.
"No, it won't be sold at an auction or out on the open market. Some rich person will pay cash
to keep it in their collection," she explained as she returned to her carrot stick.
"I see, so it's not about the value as much as it's about having something that no one else has."
Flora nodded as she crunched on her carrot stick. She washed it down with a sip of water. "It's a shame because no one else will ever be able to enjoy it. The new owner will have to keep it hidden, just to be enjoyed personally."
"How greedy. The person could just as easily marvel at its beauty behind museum glass."
Flora shrugged. "Way of the world, I'm afraid."
"Do you mind if I write what you've just said in my article? My readers will want to know why someone would steal such an important piece of history, and I think your words will help explain it."
Flora tried to hold back a grin as she picked up the egg and tapped it lightly on the edge of the table to crack it. "Certainly. I'm glad I could provide you with some useful information."
That she had, only it wasn't the information I was hoping for. Nothing about her explanation made it seem that she was guilty of theft . . . or murder. I had one more zinger up my sleeve.
"I'll leave you to your lunch. By the way, did you find your sunglasses?" I asked before standing from the table.
She peeled her egg with an utter look of confusion. "Excuse me? My sunglasses are in my purse in a protective case, where I always keep them when I'm not wearing them."
"Oh, right. I must have misheard the nice security guard. I was hoping to find your location in the museum so I asked him. He mentioned that he hadn't seen you since last week when you were looking for your sunglasses. He said you accidentally wandered into the security hub to search for them."
Her composed demeanor cracked, much like the egg shell, for the first time since I sat down. She put the peeled egg down and wiped her hands slowly, methodically on the napkin. "It seems strange that he would mention any of that." She looked back at me and seemed to be rethinking our whole discussion. I was sure I was about to get chewed out and asked to leave. Instead, she picked up the salt and poured it on her egg.
Death at the Museum Page 13
