"I assume you're trying to find out what happened to Sarah Essex. After all, that is the more sensational story, isn't it?"
I smiled coyly. "It's all rather wrapped up together. So, you were in the security hub?"
She took a confident bite, chewed and swallowed. "I was in there keeping an eye on Sarah. I didn't trust her. I suppose John"—she pursed her lips as if the name left a sour taste in her mouth—"Mr. Hartman failed to mention that the chalice was not the first item to go missing this month. A rare Egyptian amulet was stolen just days after it arrived from a museum in New York. He kept it under wraps because he didn't want the museum to get a bad reputation." She laughed harshly. "I suppose his efforts were in vain. I've spoken to my contacts in the museum industry. No one will ever lend this museum another valuable artifact. The missing chalice will be the end of funding, donations, visits, you'll see." For someone whose whole career revolved around museums and their treasures, she was certainly gleeful about the downfall of our local museum. I, for one, was brokenhearted about the prospect. I deduced that her callous, almost celebratory tone had more to do with her anger over being jilted by John Hartman.
"What happened with the amulet?" I asked. I was slightly breathless about how open Flora was being with a reporter. I assumed she saw it as an opportunity to hurt the man who'd hurt her. One thing was sure, as vengeful as she seemed, I wasn't getting any murderous vibes from Flora Myers. It was hard to think vicious killer of a woman wearing a bright pink and yellow blouse.
"No one has any idea where the amulet went. One moment it was sitting in its crate, nestled in the packing material and the next it was gone." Flora set down the last half of her egg and scooted closer. "That's why I was in the security hub. On that particular day, just after the chalice had arrived, Sarah was working alone in the lab." She spoke in a hushed tone, even though we were quite alone with only the hum of the lounge refrigerator as background noise.
"So you were spying on her?" I didn't say it in an accusatory manner. It was more of an 'ooh that's juicy tell me more' tone and it worked.
"I was sure Sarah had something to do with the missing amulet. She was the one who spent most of her time in the lab, and she was usually on her own." Flora sat back and picked up her water. "She was always cataloguing." For such a mundane word, Flora managed to make the action of cataloguing sound highly nefarious.
"You mean cataloguing was code word for something else?" I asked.
She set her cup down primly. "Sure seemed like she spent an inordinate amount of time cataloguing pieces that weren't even worth the dirt they'd been excavated from."
"But even so, wouldn't it be part of protocol to keep track of every piece found?"
"I suppose so." She shifted some on the hard plastic chair and straightened the collar on her blouse. "I just think she was up to something while she was alone in the lab. The amulet never turned up again. John kept the whole disastrous thing hidden from the board and trust members. He can't hide this current disaster. The whole thing happened so publicly, and the Lotus Chalice is a well-known Tut artifact. Its loss is devastating to the antiquities community."
"Did you notice anything peculiar when you watched the monitors? Was Sarah up to something suspicious?"
Flora's cheeks darkened, and she seemed a little flustered by the question. "Well, no, but I wasn't in there for more than twenty minutes. I heard Roscoe's footsteps, so I rushed out the door with my lost sunglasses excuse ready to go."
"I see. Sarah was just working on catalogues?"
She wiped some tiny specks of salt off the table. "I suppose that's what she was up to." Obviously, her spying mission had been a big disappointment. Flora had been hoping to catch her nemesis in the act of stealing something from the lab. She apparently thought it would help remove Sarah from the picture, so she could have John back. It seemed like a lot of work and risk to win back the love of a man who'd tossed her aside for Sarah Essex.
"Did you see anyone else enter the lab while you were watching the security footage?" I'd taken off my journalist's hat and replaced it with my investigator's hat. Flora didn't seem to mind my prying questions. Her whole focus was on discrediting Sarah's reputation.
"No, she was alone for the twenty minutes I watched her." Her phone alarm went off. "I'm off to another lecture." She briskly cleaned up her lunch leftovers.
I stood to leave.
"Are you going to print the story of the missing amulet in the paper?" she asked, hopefully.
"I'll have to dig a little more into it, but yes, it'll be mentioned. I just feel bad that all of this is going to destroy the museum's reputation. I hate to see it lose funding. All week, I've seen flocks of excited students waiting for their tours of the museum. It's such an important learning tool."
"Yes, it would be a shame. After the murder and all, perhaps the governing board will just replace John Hartman with someone more capable of running a safer, tighter ship." That notion seemed to please her. "After all, he was the one in charge during all the catastrophes."
I nodded and moved slowly toward the exit while I contemplated whether or not to ask her about her past relationship with John Hartman. I nearly left it alone but then I knew it would gnaw at me for the rest of the day. When else was I going to have the opportunity to talk to Flora Myers alone? I just needed to find a subtle way to the center point.
"I understand that Sarah Essex was dating John Hartman," I said as I watched her gather her things.
Her face popped up, and her mouth pulled tight. "Yes, another reason Hartman should be replaced. It was inappropriate for him to be dating an assistant. But John does what he wants. We had a thing for awhile, but I'm just as glad to be rid of him." She dropped her lunch trash into the can. "And now, I really must go. Good day."
"Yes, good day."
Chapter 30
Raine had gotten heavily into sourdough. Not just the bread but sourdough everything. And she was quite good at the whole thing, which was rather scientific with feedings and proper temperature and talking to the sourdough starter in dulcet tones. The last part was her idea and not actually part of the standard sourdough care protocol. She insisted it made her sourdough starter happy and more productive, and me being completely ignorant in the ways of sourdough, I had no authority to question her theory. I was, however, always more than willing to sample and taste her sourdough creations. With Jackson working late and me with nothing to do on a Thursday night, I was more than pleased to head to her house for warm sourdough banana muffins slathered in butter. (I'd offered the slathered in butter part, which she immediately agreed to.)
Raine had planted dark purple pansies around the front of her house. Their yellow centers glowed in the early evening starlight as I walked up the steps to her front porch. She pulled the door open before I could knock, something she did a lot. She told me it was because she could sense my arrival, but I was fairly certain it had more to do with the creaky porch steps.
"Hmm, I smell banana muffins," I said as I entered her small front room. During the day, when she had clients in and out for tea leaf and tarot card readings, she kept the place stifled with heavy curtains and burning incense. She had already aired the house out for the night. The evening breeze floated through her open windows carrying off the pungent smell of sage and patchouli and allowing the delightful fragrance of freshly baked muffins to permeate the air.
"I've got the butter softened, and the muffins are warming in the oven. These are my best batch yet. I think I'll start a blog—The Sourdough Psychic."
I laughed. "I love that name. The idea is definitely original." I sat in one of her big antique wing chairs. Stale incense odor puffed out of the cushions as I landed. "I'm pooped. What a long day."
"Uh oh, another long day with our favorite reporter slash sister's boyfriend, Dave Crockett?" She walked into the kitchen. Her house was small enough that a person could be working in the kitchen and still have a conversation with guests in the living room. I sometimes envied th
e small coziness of her home. The inn was sprawling and inconveniently spread out.
"Actually, I didn't see Dave at all today," I called back to her. "Just realized that and good for me."
Raine returned with a plate for each of us and two clean dishtowels. "Here," she said handing me a towel that was printed with little paw prints. "I slathered the muffins with butter, as requested, so I suggest you tuck this into your collar. There might be buttery dribble and splatter."
I did as instructed and tucked it into my collar. The aromatic muffin was sitting in a pool of melted butter. "You, my friend, are a world class slatherer, if such a thing exists. This is a much needed treat after a long week."
"I heard that the King Tut chalice was stolen and that a woman was murdered at the museum." She picked a piece of muffin off but paused before eating it. "The mummy's curse strikes again."
"How did I know you would say that?" I took a bite of muffin. Raine had sprinkled in chopped walnuts, the perfect addition. "I will overlook your belief in mummy's curses because you make an extraordinary banana muffin."
"You're still not convinced?" she asked.
"Why would a mummy steal back his own chalice?"
"All those artifacts Carter so brazenly took from Tut's tomb were essentially stolen, right? So, now the chalice is in the hands of the rightful owner, namely Tut, or, afterlife Tut, to be more exact."
"I suppose if King Tut's afterlife persona was hanging around, he might want back some of his treasures. But why kill the innocent lab assistant?"
Raine shrugged. "How should I know? Murders are your thing. I'm only out here as a spokesperson for the people who cannot speak for themselves, namely spirits and pharaohs who've reached their destination in the afterlife only to discover that none of their things arrived with them. It's like landing at your destination and discovering that the airline has sent your suitcases to another country."
I gazed blithely at her as she spoke, enjoying the buttery delight in my hand and at the same time wondering if my dear friend had breathed in too much incense. She finished and sat back with satisfaction.
"You are kidding, right?" I asked. "You don't seriously think King Tut came back from his three-thousand-year sleep to reclaim his Lotus Chalice?"
She used the dishtowel to wipe a drip of butter from her chin. "Yeah, I'm kidding," she said, but didn't sound altogether convinced.
"My newest assignment was to cover the unveiling of the chalice to encourage people to visit the museum. There's no chalice and the murder is only going to add to the bad publicity. I worry the museum will be in trouble financially. They count on donations from the public."
Raine had finished her muffin. She was now dabbing up the buttery crumbs with her forefinger. "You know what they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity."
I nodded. "So they say, just not sure who came up with it. Murder isn't just bad publicity. It's damaging to the museum's reputation. Not to mention that no other museums are going to lend their valuable artifacts to our small town institution. It seems they can't be trusted with the stuff." I was reminded of the missing amulet. Jackson had been too busy for a conversation on the phone. I hadn't been able to relay everything I learned from my chat with Flora Myers. I was also in the cold about how his questioning of Kai Rogers went. We'd made plans for him to have breakfast at the inn in the morning to catch up on all the news.
"Another muffin?" Raine asked as she hopped up from the chair.
I handed off my plate. "Did you really need to ask?"
"Nope and I didn't even need my psychic skills to know your answer."
Chapter 31
Made you some scrambled eggs," Henry said as I entered the kitchen.
"Yeah and you made a mighty big mess in the process." Ursula pointed to the pile of broken egg shells, whisk, butter stick and greasy frying pan. "You'd think he just cooked a Thanksgiving feast for a dozen people rather than a few scrambled eggs."
"Yes, it's been as delightful as you might have imagined this morning," Edward drawled from the hearth.
I pushed up a smile. "Thank you, Henry, but you can eat my portion of eggs. I'm waiting for Jackson. He's bringing breakfast burritos."
"Ah man, wish I'd known." Henry poked dejectedly at his scrambled eggs. "I would have had him pick one up for me."
"I, for one, am glad you didn't know," Ursula snapped. "I'm the one that has to spend an entire day with you trapped in one room, and you know what those breakfast burritos do to you."
Henry's face darkened. "Jeez, Ursula, you just never know when to zip it."
"I'll zip it when you finally finish that massive plate of eggs. Hurry up now, we've got a lot to do today." Ursula's scowl was instantly replaced with a flowery grin when Jackson's footsteps sounded in the entryway.
"Now I can smell those burritos, and I'm going to be thinking about them all day," Henry groaned.
Ursula opened her mouth to give him another lecture, but Jackson stopped it short. She spun around and fussed a little with her short hair. "Jackson, how nice. We don't usually get to see you at breakfast," she chirruped.
"He's not here to see you," Henry muttered and smirked at her. His sister was always on her best behavior when Jackson was in the room. The stern, no-nonsense woman contractor morphed instantly into a giggling, carefree girl. "I made some coffee," she added as if she was standing in her own kitchen.
Edward laughed. "From fishwife to coquette in seconds." He looked pointedly at Jackson. "It seems some women have very low standards." He was always keen to take a dig at Jackson when he knew Jackson couldn't respond. It had taken some time and a lot of restraint but Jackson, like me, had trained himself to ignore Edward whenever other people were in the room.
Jackson set a grease stained paper bag on the counter. I went to the cupboard for plates. Henry moaned longingly as Jackson pulled the burritos out of the bag. Jackson chuckled as he turned around to the sounds behind him. "Henry, sorry, I should have brought you one," Jackson said.
"No, you shouldn't have." Ursula let some of her usual snappy self back out. "He's already eaten everything in Sunni's fridge. You guys don't have to feed him. Come on, Henry, let's let them have a peaceful breakfast without you moaning and groaning like a hungry bear."
Henry reluctantly picked up his plate, mostly empty, and carried it to the sink.
"You know what, Henry," I said before he walked out of the kitchen. "I can never eat more than half of one of these burritos. I'll leave the other half in the refrigerator, so you can eat it for lunch."
Henry's face lit up like a kid being told he was getting a new bicycle. "Only if you're sure," he said, hopefully.
Ursula rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath as she left the kitchen.
"I'm sure. It'll be waiting for you at lunch."
Henry practically skipped out of the room in his steel toed work boots.
"It's a wonder that man doesn't just explode from eating," Edward quipped as the two siblings disappeared from the room.
Jackson placed the burritos on two plates and set them on the table. "I got you the mild salsa." He set the tiny plastic container next to my plate. "I've seen you finish the whole burrito," he remarked as he sat down.
"I know. They're so good, I hate to stop, but when I eat the whole thing, I spend the rest of the morning in a food coma. I've got too much to do to be weighed down by my breakfast burrito. Besides, if Henry is sulking it shows in his work. Now he'll be so excited about his lunch, he'll probably finish way ahead of schedule and everything will be perfect."
"Makes sense. I know I work better on a full stomach." Jackson unwrapped his burrito, poured on the salsa and took a large bite.
"Good lord, the table manners. Definitely not from the Beckett side of the family." Edward repositioned himself closer to the action. "Have you not heard of a fork and knife?" he asked.
Jackson peered up at him while he continued to chew. He swallowed. "This is a burrito. It's a hands only type of
food." As he spoke a piece of avocado slipped out from the bottom half of the burrito taking some of the other contents with it.
"Yes, clearly, hands only. I've seen pigs eat slop with more finesse."
"All right," I added in a sharp clap to snap them out of their reverie, otherwise they would try and out quip each other for the next hour. "Jax and I have information to exchange about a case so evaporate or something." I looked over at Jackson, who was still quite absorbed in his messy breakfast burrito. He sensed me watching him.
"Sorry, Bluebird, I don't have much info to exchange. The Rogers interview was somewhat of a bust. At least for this case. He did, however, give us a few contacts in the art forgery underworld. I handed it off to that department. Nothing on the murder case or the chalice. But Roscoe said he was going to drop by before his shift, said he had something to tell me about Flora Myers."
"Yes, I know what it is," I said with a boastful grin.
"Of course you do." He finished the last of his burrito. I'd barely eaten two bites.
"Roscoe remembered that Flora Myers was walking out of the security hub a week or so before the murder, but after the chalice had already arrived. She told him she was looking for lost sunglasses." I dabbed my burrito into the salsa. "Naturally, I asked Flora about the sunglasses when she and I spoke at length in the employee lounge at the museum. She was very forthright about everything. She was actually watching Sarah on the security cameras. Flora suspected that Sarah might have been stealing from the museum. By the way, the chalice was not the first missing artifact from the Egyptian collection. An amulet went missing a few weeks ago." I took an enthusiastic bite, satisfied that I'd left him stunned by everything I learned. Instead, I realized he was focused on the uneaten and already promised half of my burrito.
I wrapped it up to remind him it was spoken for. "I can't disappoint Henry," I said. "It would be like taking a cookie away from a toddler."
Death at the Museum Page 14
