by KJ Kalis
She left the police station and headed out in the red sedan. Kat drove a couple of miles, weaving through the summer tourist traffic that was in Savannah enjoying the sights. She pulled the car around the back of a small shopping area and went into a local gallery that she had found online. It was almost as white as the exhibition hall she had seen the day before when she tracked down Abibi Roux. “Excuse me,” she said to the woman at the desk. “I’m just curious if you have anyone working here who knows about old master’s art?”
The woman, wearing a pair of white capri pants and a yellow off-the-shoulder shirt, wrinkled her nose. “That’s not very popular here. We certainly don’t have anything like that.”
Kat glanced around. The majority of the art in the gallery looked to be beach scenes or images of the Savannah coastline, probably painted by people who were hobby artists. There were no serious pieces of art in the gallery anywhere. “Of course. Might you know if there is another gallery somewhere that would have that information on those pieces?”
The woman frowned and pulled on her top, exposing a bit more of her overly tanned skin. “You could try the antique shop down on Fourth Street. It’s a block down on the right-hand side. They might have something there. We don’t sell that kinda stuff. No one wants it.”
Kat nodded and left. She walked down the block, feeling frustrated. Whether there was a link to Hailey’s murder and her art, Kat didn’t know. It did seem strange that Dr. Roux quickly walked away when Kat had asked her who Hailey was working for. And, a child committed the murder? A chill ran down her spine as she passed a small restaurant and a shop where Savannah memorabilia was being sold. If it was true, Hailey had been killed by someone who was the same age as Jack.
Kat’s thoughts floated to Jack as she walked the last half a block to the art store the woman had recommended. She tried to imagine him taking a knife and plunging it into someone. She felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Jack was certainly strong enough, even at his young age, to stab someone, but why? What could make a child commit a murder like that? She shook her head as the sign for the antique store came into focus. Kat walked to the front door, the windows dim and dirty. The words Savannah Art and Antiques were painted in script on the front door in gold paint. There was a small sign, a clock with moving hands, that said that they would return in an hour. She put her hands up to the glass, covering the sides of her face so she could see in.
From her spot on the outside of the store, Kat couldn’t see much. Shelves with items rescued from someone’s home or estate sale crowded every surface of the store. A few pieces of art hung on the walls in gilded gold frames. It was impossible to tell from the street what they looked like. Kat stepped back, ready to leave when a voice stammered, “Are you looking for something in particular?”
Behind her, holding a large ring of keys stood a small man. He wore wrinkled khaki pants and a short-sleeved plaid shirt with a light blue vest over top. His hair was gray with streaks of black, wiry and wild, a pair of small glasses perched on his nose. The keys jingled as he unlocked the door, their song met by the chiming of clocks that were set to sound on the hour.
“I’m looking for someone who knows something about old master’s art.”
The man walked into the store without a word. Kat followed.
The scent of old things filled Kat’s nostrils, reminding her of how her grandparent’s basement had smelled when she was a child. What made that odor, she wasn’t sure. She glanced around at the stacked shelves. Lives had been lived in front of the things that were in the store — babies being born, families losing a loved one, the tragedy of war, and the comfort of peace. If only the items could talk, Kat thought.
The man walked behind a glass-topped case that served as the counter, thumbing through some papers that were stacked at the corner. “You said you are looking for someone who knows a bit about old master’s art. What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m doing some research on the art world, but I don’t have a background in it. The lady down the street at the other gallery said she thought you might be able to help.” A knot formed in Kat’s stomach. She braced herself. It seemed that at every turn someone said no to her, wanting to keep their information to themselves. Savannah was a town of secrets.
“Which gallery did you go to?”
“The one over on Sandstone. They had a lot of beach scenes on the walls.”
“Yes, I know this gallery.”
Kat hadn’t noticed before, but the man had an accent. It sounded like he was from somewhere in Europe, but Kat couldn’t figure out where. She tried to prod him on by adding, “The lady wasn’t too interested in old art, or too friendly for that matter. She seemed to only have more modern items.”
The man looked up from the stack of papers he’d been looking at. He blinked several times and pushed the glasses up on his nose. “Why do you have an interest in old art?”
Kat sighed. Where this was going, she didn’t know, but she wondered if she was wasting her time. “I’m investigating the murder of Hailey Park.”
“Yes, yes. The art student from SCAD.”
Kat nodded. “That’s right. It turns out she was incredibly talented in replicating old master’s art. I think part of the story is about her art, but I don’t know enough in order to understand that.”
The man nodded. “Come to my office. I’ll make tea and you can tell me what you know.”
Kat followed, leery about going with a man she didn’t know into the back of an empty store. A lump formed in her throat as she followed him behind a red velvet curtain that separated the showroom from the office.
The back offices of the antique shop were nearly as crowded as the display area. There was a row of shelves and several filing cabinets jammed up against the back wall, a small red sign that said exit glowing in the darkness above a metal door and a desk. The man turned on several lamps, the click of their knobs bringing the room into focus. Against the wall to the left was a small cabinet, a sink and a counter. There was a hot plate plugged in. The man ran water into an old tea kettle and set it on the hot plate that started glowing red. A folding table draped with a tattered tablecloth covered in yellow fruits was in front of her. “Here, sit,” the man said, clearing a pile of papers from the chair that was closest to the front of the store.
Kat sat down, unsure what else to do. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
The man turned from the tea kettle, his movement slow and deliberate. “I am Eli. Eli Langster.” He pulled two mugs out of a metal cabinet that had been attached to the wall, dropping tea bags in each of them. “And you are?”
“Kat Beckman.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Kat Beckman. Where are you from?”
“California.”
Eli raised bushy eyebrows above the rims of his glasses. “California? That’s a long way to come for a simple story of murder.”
Kat tilted her head. “I was in New York for a conference when Hailey was killed. My editor asked me to come and take a look.”
Eli nodded ever so slightly. The tea kettle started to whistle. Eli poured the water over the tea bag and moved the mugs to the table setting one in front of Kat. “Sugar? Honey?”
“No, thank you.”
Eli turned away, putting honey in his own tea, “Suit yourself.”
Kat’s nervousness had turned into curiosity. Who was this man that had offered her tea? “Can you tell me a bit about your store?”
“There’s not much to tell. My own father started it in the 1950s. Came here from Europe. Thought the people living here would like antiques for their homes. He was right. It’s not the same anymore, though.” He stirred his tea, the spoon making a tapping noise on the inside of the cup. He looked up at her. “How can I help, Ms. Beckman?”
“I think there is more to the story of Hailey’s death. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling right now except for one thing.”
“And what is that one thing?”
&nbs
p; “Hailey seemed to have some sort of side job that earned her a lot of money, or at least that’s what I think.”
Eli raised his eyebrows. “You think this is more than just a random killing?”
“I don’t know Mr. Langster…”
“Please, call me Eli.”
She nodded. “I’m not sure. I have a ten-year-old son. I can’t imagine him stabbing someone to death. There’s that, too. And the detective I talked to said they haven’t even had a chance to interview him. He got bailed out right away by some fancy attorney.”
Eli tsked. “People these days think that any attorney can get them out of trouble.” He looked at Kat, “What you are telling me is that things are not adding up.”
“That’s right.” Kat felt a sense of relief cover her. All of the frustration she’d been feeling had come out. “There are all of these pieces. They don’t fit together.”
Eli smiled. “And you are someone who likes to have them fit together…”
9
Dr. Oskar Kellum opened his office door to see yet another child sitting and waiting for him. The woman sitting next to the child gave him a curt nod, “Miles, come on in.”
The child stood up and walked into Oskar’s office, quickly finding a seat on the couch, his feet barely touching the floor. Oskar watched him for a minute from the padded chair behind his desk. The child seemed to be the same as he had been for the last two years he had been treating him. Quiet, sullen, introverted. Oskar picked up a notebook and a file from his desk.
Oskar’s office was like many other psychiatrist's offices. A desk, a few comfy chairs and a couch, a box of tissues. The light from outside streamed in through a privacy curtain so that no one could accuse him of violating his client’s rights. He sat in silence, waiting on Miles.
Miles had come to him having problems adapting to his foster parent’s home. His file from the Department of Child and Family Services of Georgia was fairly complete, thick with documentation. He’d been abandoned at the age of three after being abused by a sometimes-present boyfriend of his mother, who was mostly strung out on some combination of opioids and alcohol. The child protective workers found him hiding in a closet, holding a dirty blanket, humming to himself the night he’d been taken from his mother, who had overdosed once again. She barely said goodbye to him when she’d been taken to the hospital. He’d never seen her again.
After a few rocky placements, he’d found a home with a pair of foster parents who were concerned for his mental state. They’d come to Dr. Kellum at the recommendation of their pediatrician, who was concerned that there was some underlying mental illness that had been triggered by Miles’ start to life. The pediatrician was right.
Initial testing and conversations with Miles were difficult. Dr. Kellum had tried everything from art therapy to bringing in a service dog. Miles finally opened up when they read a book together. Words were still fewer than normal, but Miles had managed to make a few friends at school and was doing better at home. Dr. Kellum knew that he’d never be what anyone considered normal, though.
“Miles, tell me about the last few days. Your mom said things have been busy.”
“Foster mom.”
“Yes, of course. Foster mom. I heard you had a visit to the police station?”
Miles nodded, staring at his hands. They were clasped together, knuckles alternately white and blood-red as he gripped and ungripped his hands. “They were nice.”
“Why did you go there?”
Miles looked at Dr. Kellum and blinked, a wash of confusion over his face. “I’m not sure,” he stammered. “I don’t remember.”
Dr. Kellum crossed his legs, a feeling of relief relaxing his entire body. He didn’t remember. That was good. “That’s okay, Miles. No one remembers everything. Can you at least tell me about your trip to the park with your friends?”
Miles turned his head toward the window, “I went there with a couple of other boys from school. Foster mom said I could go to play basketball, but I had to be home on time.”
“What happened then?”
“We played. I got a basket.”
“That’s good. Did you have fun?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“We walked to Calhoun Square. We still had the basketball with us.”
“Is there a court there?”
“No, we were just bouncing it around.”
“Then what happened.”
Miles looked back at Dr. Kellum, his eyes vacant, his brows furrowed. “I’m not sure. The next thing I remember is that I was home.”
Oskar leaned back in his chair, pulling his notes closer to him. “What’s the first thing you remember after you got home?”
“Foster mom told me to go take a shower.” Miles shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry, Miles?”
“Because I don’t remember.”
“Are you worried I’ll be mad?”
Miles glanced up from under his bangs and nodded.
Oskar made a few notes on the pad of paper in front of him and looked at Miles. “I’m not mad. I’m not mad at all. In fact, I think you’ve made great progress.”
The rest of the session, Oskar spent time with Miles playing one of his favorite card games. Keeping his hands busy seemed to unlock the words in his head. Oskar glanced at him. There weren’t many to be found, that was for sure. Because of the way that Miles had been abused, it was almost as if a part of him had been locked away when he was in the closet. Even with all of his years of experience, Oskar wasn’t sure he could find a way to help Miles get out.
At the end of their time together, Oskar called Miles’ foster mom into the room. “We’ve had a good session today,” he announced, touching Miles on the shoulder. Miles winced.
Miles’ foster mom, a round woman named Barb, whispered, “Did you figure out what happened at Calhoun Square?”
“I don’t know how his fingerprints ended up on the knife, but he certainly didn’t do anything. Based on what I know of him, he’s not capable of violence. The police will have to dig a little deeper.”
Barb relaxed but didn’t say anymore. “Same time next week?”
Oskar nodded. “See you then.”
As soon as Miles and Barb had left the office, Oskar’s next patient walked in. Oskar told him to take a seat, “I’ll be with you in a moment. Just need to make a couple of notes before I forget.”
Oskar closed the door to his office, picking up the cards he and Miles had been playing. He put them back on his desk and grabbed his cell phone. It only took a moment for the call to connect. “Yes?” a voice on the other end answered.
“It worked.”
“Does he have any memories?”
“No.”
“How long is the gap?”
“From just before until he got home.” Oskar hoped the man at the other end of the line would understand what he was saying.
“I understand. Thank you.”
The call ended without any other conversation. Oskar let out a deep breath, as though he’d been holding it in for weeks. That was how he felt. He wiped his glasses with the hem of his shirt, took a sip of water, and tucked his shirt back into place. Scanning the office, he realized he’d left Miles’ file on his chair. He quickly picked it up and put it in a locked drawer in his desk, not in the filing cabinet that flanked the back of the office with the rest of the patient files. He’d have to remember to take it home, though he had another copy there, just in case.
“Come on in,” he said to the young girl waiting for him as he opened the door. “How are you today…?”
10
After two cups of tea, Eli agreed. He needed to see Hailey’s work in order to help Kat. Eli stood up, took the two cups and put them in the sink. “One moment, please.” From the front of the store, Kat could hear the front door locking again. “We will go out the back door,” Eli said, suddenly moving much faster than he looked like he was capable.
As they got in the car, Kat sent a quick text to Van telling her that she had met someone who might be able to help. She sent Eli’s name and the name of his shop along to Van just in case. Eli didn’t seem like a threat, but Kat had learned that even people that didn’t seem like a threat could be.
Over tea, Eli had shared with Kat that in addition to owning an art store, he was an art historian. In his early years, he’d gone to college and gotten his undergraduate degree in art and then gone on to get his master’s degree in art history from Columbia University. He smiled when he said it, his thin lips pulling back from the corners of his mouth, “Not that I’ve had the career my father wanted for me. He wanted me to work for a museum and use our gallery to procure pieces. Sadly, that didn’t happen.”
Kat interrupted, “I want to take you to Hailey’s apartment.” At a red light, Kat found the number Missy had given her and sent her a quick text. Before the light had changed, Missy had replied, saying she was home, and they were welcome. “She already replied. Gotta love those college kids and their phones.”
Eli smiled. “I’m quite old school myself, but in this case, I’m happy about it.”
They drove in silence over to Hailey’s apartment. Kat could tell Eli wasn’t much of a talker. He had settled into the passenger seat of her rented red sedan and simply sat with his hands folded in his lap staring straight ahead. That was fine with Kat. Fatigue crawled through her body. Leaving the conference and going straight to Savannah, running down leads as she found them had left her tired. Probably more mentally tired than physically, she realized.
Once they got to Hailey’s apartment complex, Kat buzzed the front door and told Eli to head up the steps. She walked behind him as he took each step carefully, setting one foot at a time on the treads. At the top of the steps, he fell in behind her. The door to the apartment was cracked open. “Missy?” Kat called, pushing the door lightly until it barely moved.
