by Tessa Kelly
“What’s odd?” I asked.
“That the curator of the gallery isn’t here on opening night. You’d think she’d get here ahead of time.”
“Maybe she’s stuck in traffic,” I said. “Or she could be having a wardrobe emergency.”
“A wardrobe emergency?” The man chuckled. “You’re clearly not acquainted with Alexa.”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“That woman is like clockwork, one of those extremely organized types. Like a military marching band.”
I laughed at the comparison. “I wouldn’t know what that’s like. But why is everyone waiting for this Alexa? Doesn't the gallery have a director?”
My companion nodded. “Clarence McNally, yes. Normally he is the “mover and shaker” in the New York art scene, but he’s in the hospital at the moment with a burst appendix. Poor Marcel. The gallery is malfunctioning all around tonight.”
“You seem to know a lot about the art scene,” I said. “Are you an artist yourself? Or are you a collector?”
He smiled. “Neither. Marcel and I travel in the same social circles. I simply came out to support him. And to give him a ride, as it turned out. Kenneth, his agent, was supposed to pick him up, but he was indisposed earlier.” He extended his hand out to me. “By the way, my name is John Edwards.”
I took his hand, icy prickles on the back of my neck.
I knew a John Edwards, a book collector in Boston. Two months ago, he happened to outbid my dad for the first edition of a Raymond Chandler novel, the affair that almost cost Dad his freedom.
That voice! John Edwards and I had spoken on the phone while I was jumping through hoops trying to clear Dad’s name. No wonder this man had sounded so familiar.
Before I could ask him about it, the workers stepped aside from the Yggdrasil. One of them pulled a switch at the base of the trunk.
“It better work, or I don’t know what’s wrong with this damn thing.”
To his obvious relief, the bottom sphere lit up with a soft purple glow. The stark landscape inside began its slow rotation, dark and bulky. Too bulky. It didn’t fit with the rest of the installation somehow.
As I moved in to take a closer look, my breath hitched. Several of the people around me gasped or screamed at the sight of a contorted arm.
Then the rest of the body came into view, frozen inside the globe in an unnatural position no human body could handle without breaking. Like a pretzel stuffed inside a giant snow globe.
In a hush that fell on the gallery, I became aware of John Edwards coming to stand close to me. His eyes, bluer than ever, fixed on the body and dark realization etched deep lines into his mouth.
“I guess, Alexa wasn’t late after all,” he said quietly.
Chapter 3
“Death occurred sometime between last night and this morning,” the young assistant coroner concluded. He arrived at the scene after the cops did and looked rather pleased with the attention. Like a high school nerd who is suddenly picked first in gym.
“The doc will know the time more precisely once he does the autopsy,” he hastened to add when the two detectives, one of whom happened to be my brother, frowned at him.
Felisha’s cold fingers dug into my upper arm as we hovered nearby. “Sandie! That means she was in there, dead, the whole time we were here.”
I wanted to point out that this much was obvious, but seeing her face so drained of color, I held my tongue.
No one was allowed to leave the gallery. We kept our distance from the Yggdrasil to prevent further contamination to the crime scene. The other patrons were scattered along the walls in small, sullen groups. Next to us, Josh stood pale and frowning, his arm around Caroline’s shoulder for support as she trembled from head to toe.
A little way off, Dan the associate curator bent over double, breathing into a brown paper bag. He straightened, unbuttoned his jacket, and began mopping his forehead with a tissue.
In the charged atmosphere, shock and disbelief bounced off the walls.
Felisha nearly fainted at the sight of the paramedics pulling Alexa’s broken body from the glass sphere. So did Marcel Bright. With rigor mortis already set in, there was no way to get the body out through the hatch at the bottom of the sphere. The police had to shatter the glass, to the artist’s consternation. Now he sat in the far corner with his back against the wall and a look of great suffering in his eyes.
His agent, Kenneth Sheppard, kept close to him. He watched the police with disapproving eyes, shaking his head as if it was their fault his client’s opening night was ruined.
John Edwards stood quietly over them with his chin propped on his fist. He didn’t say a word to anyone after he identified Alexa’s body.
I patted Felisha’s hand, trying to console her as the paramedics covered Alexa with a white sheet. “It shouldn’t be long now. They’ll let us go home soon.”
“What’s the cause of death?” Will asked the assistant coroner. “Can you tell me that at least?”
The assistant nodded eagerly. “That’s easy. There are several broken bones—I figure whoever killed her had to break them to stuff her into the sculpture, right? But the cause of death is most certainly a blunt force trauma to the head. You need to be looking for a heavy object as the murder weapon.”
“That’s more helpful.” Ryan, Will’s partner, rubbed his hands and clasped them behind his head. Like he was at the beach enjoying the sun and not at a crime scene. While he continued to question the assistant, Will walked over to us.
“Did you see anything suspicious before the body was discovered?” he asked.
Felisha stared at him like she’d never seen him before. She shook her head.
“We only got here about an hour ago,” I said. “But I was standing pretty close to that tree installation when the workers fixed it. The light came on in the bottom globe, and that's when we saw the body.”
The picture stood up before my eyes again. I blinked it away. Poor woman. “Do you know if she had any family?”
“I don’t know.” Will looked at Josh and Caroline, close enough to hear our conversation.
“She had no husband or children as far as I know,” Josh said.
Caroline nodded. “Her parents live in Chicago. She also had a brother and a sister, I think. But they weren’t close.”
“Right. Thanks.” Will rubbed the light stubble on his chin. “Would you guys give us a sec? I need to speak to my sister.”
As Josh and Caroline moved away, he stared at me pointedly. “So. Another big crime and you’re front and center again. Hope you’re not gearing up to solve this one, too.”
The corners of his mouth lifted as he said it, but there was no laughter in his eyes.
Good, God! My brother was actually warning me off. Did he think I wanted any part of this?
“Trust me, Will, I’m staying as far away as possible. This one is all yours.”
“Good.” A muscle twitched in his jaw as he reconsidered his brusqueness. “I don’t mean to be a jerk. You know that, right? It’s just, this isn't like the last time, with Dad. That was different. And I wasn’t on the case then, so...”
“Will.” I raised my hand to stop him. “Please, believe me. I’ve no intention of interfering with your investigation. Felisha and I just want to go home. Can we do that?”
“Yes. Please.” Felisha nodded vigorously and her eyes welled up with tears. “I want to get out of here.”
Will patted her on the shoulder with sympathy. “Sure. You’re free to go.” He nodded at me. “Go take care of her. I might swing by later if I get a chance.”
Felisha turned and stumbled toward the door. I started after her, but then lingered. My eyes fell on John Edwards standing next to his artist friend.
Was it pure coincidence that he happened to be here tonight and that he had a connection to both murders I’d been involved in? I had no intention of joining the investigation, but it was my duty to report any information that could be relevant.
“Will, maybe it’s nothing but it might be a good idea to check the alibi of the man who came with Marcel Bright tonight.”
Will frowned as he took a glance in the direction I indicated.
“Why? Who is he?”
I told him.
Will said nothing, but creases formed around his mouth. He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand over his stubble, a habit he acquired from Dad as a teenager.
“Fine. I’ll look into it. Thanks for the info, sis.”
It was obvious he was eager to send me on my way, but I wasn’t done yet.
“There’s one more thing,” I said, ignoring the look of impatience in his eyes. “I think the murder weapon might still be here, in this room.”
His left eyebrow twitched, but it was impatience, not interest. “Could be. If it is, our people will find it.” Then he sighed, reconsidering, and glanced around the large space. “Well, what makes you think so? There’s nothing here besides the artwork.”
“I think the artwork might be the murder weapon.” I pointed to one of the small abstract trees on a pedestal, the one I had wanted to straighten out when I came in. “That sculpture is positioned differently. Every other piece is perfectly centered on its pedestal, but that one is slightly off center, like whoever put it there was in a hurry and didn’t pay attention.”
Will walked over to the sculpture and bent to look at it closely. Straightening, he called over a forensics man and said something to him in a low voice. The other nodded and carefully picked up the iron tree with a gloved hand, then put it inside a plastic bag.
Will came back, rubbing his chin again. “Alright. We’ll have the sculpture analyzed for traces of blood. It may just turn out to be the murder weapon. Incidentally, there was a long dark hair trapped under the base that might belong to the victim. So, that was a good call, sis. But now you gotta go. Take Felisha home, before she starts hyperventilating like that guy over there.”
“That's the associate curator,” I told him. “The way I understand it, the victim was recently promoted ahead of him.”
As I went out, I took a last glance at Dan Cobbs. With Alexa gone, and the gallery director in the hospital, he was the next in charge. No one could possibly look less up to the challenge.
Chapter 4
We were quiet on the way home. Felisha stared out the window, worrying the little pearls that studded her clutch. After a few minutes, she turned to me.
“Sandie?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Why would the killer stuff that woman inside the art installation?”
The image of Alexa’s frozen face rose before my eyes and I had to swallow something bitter in my mouth. But the question was on my mind as well.
“The obvious answer is he needed to hide the body, and there aren’t many places in the gallery for that. Maybe he didn’t want it to be discovered right away. But there seems to be more to this, like whoever’s behind it acted with deliberate intent.”
Felisha shuddered. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Could be he did it out of hate. Like, if he wanted to literally break her.”
“That’s so horrible!” She covered her face with her hands. “No, I’m sorry I asked. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
Taking out her phone, she began texting, probably to her boyfriend Tyrone, letting him know about the events of the evening.
I tried thinking of other things, but my mind kept circling back to the dead woman. Who would want to kill an art curator?
No. I wasn’t getting involved in this. Not again.
I’d promised Will to stay away, and I intended to keep my word. Besides, between working at the bakery and writing my book, I had more than enough on my plate. Not to mention that, thanks to Mrs. O'Hara, an elderly widow who frequented my sister's bakery, I was already involved in solving a mystery.
Mrs. O’Hara asked me to help find the family of a man who had lost his memory and was living at the homeless shelter where she volunteered on the weekends. I agreed to meet him mostly out of deference to her, but after talking to the old man I wanted to help him as much as she did. Unfortunately, with no name and no memory of his past, the riddle was proving harder to crack than I had hoped.
The cab pulled up in front of our building in the middle of the quiet tree-lined street, a mere three blocks from my childhood home.
The elevator took us to the fifth floor where Felisha and I shared a cozy two-bedroom rental. I unlocked the door and let her in first. Her pallor hadn’t improved on the ride home. Her listlessness a stark contrast with our cheerful yellow walls, she undid the sparkly straps on her favorite high heels, then kicked them off to the side without even bothering to put them in the shoebox. She was really starting to worry me.
This wasn’t Felisha’s first brush with murder, of course. She’d been present throughout the entire ordeal of Sonny and Dora’s deaths two months before. But she hadn’t seen the bodies then, only heard about the murders from the police. Tonight must’ve been a big shock.
I put an upbeat note in my voice as I hung my purse on the hook near the door. “Tell you what. Last time, when Sonny was killed and the police took Dad away, you and Will were there for me. You even made me those awesome grilled cheese sandwiches to cheer me up. Remember? It’s my turn now. I’m not good at grilled cheese, but how about a snack and some herbal tea?”
“Sounds good.” She sounded as excited as a nine-to-fiver on a Monday morning.
Asimov and Hemingway, my dad’s cats, sauntered out of the living room and sat nearby watching us. Dad and his Springer Spaniel, Marlowe, were away on a fishing trip. While they were gone, the cats had to stay with us.
Asimov, the younger and friendlier of the two, padded over to Felisha and rubbed against her legs, purring. A little smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She picked him up and buried her face in his fir.
From a safe distance, Hemingway watched them disapprovingly through narrowed eyes.
“I’m glad Asimov is here,” Felisha said. “I’ve missed him. He’s got such soothing energy. It’s very healing, even if I have to take allergy medicine to have him around.”
Still holding the cat with one hand, she fluffed her hair with the other, the many beaded bracelets jangling from her wrist.
I smiled. Whether Asimov's energy was healing or not, color began to return to her face. “I couldn’t agree more. So take him to the kitchen and relax. I’ll be there in a minute to make the tea.”
Felisha trudged down the hallway, hugging Asimov close, then turned back to me with a worried gaze. “I forgot to light the aromatherapy candles.”
Lighting the candles was usually the first thing Felisha did in times of distress, believing they cleared out bad energy. I didn't count myself among the adherents of aromatherapy, but I knew the potency of placebo.
“I'll light them,” I insisted. “Just go and sit down.”
I unstrapped my suede heels and went around lighting the candles that crowded the surfaces of the apartment. As the scent of lavender spread through the place, I stepped out onto the closed balcony, lush with the greenery of my herb garden, and cut a generous handful of mint for the tea.
Coming into the kitchen, I found Felisha sitting at the table with Asimov curled up in her lap. She was texting again. I didn’t need to see her screen to guess at the recipient.
“How’s Tyrone? Is he coming over tonight?”
A dark frown passed over her face. “I don’t know. He hasn’t texted me back yet. I thought he’d be worried about me after what happened. It’s like he doesn’t even care.”
“Give him time to respond,” I said. “He might not have seen your text yet.”
She sighed, then put aside the phone, her expression suddenly cold and distant. “You’re right. I guess.”
“Of course I am. Trust me, he cares a lot about you.”
I put the water to boil and rinsed off the mint, then wondered what to make for a snack. The grilled cheese was Felis
ha’s department. I usually ended up burning the bread or leaving the cheese on to melt for too long so that it spilled all over the griddle. My best bet was to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Opening the cupboard, I got out the organic peanut butter and strawberry jelly Felisha bought at the health food store the day before. She placed them next to the can of XTRA Screamin’ Dill Pickle Pringles I got for Will a month ago, the only ‘non-healthy’ food she grudgingly allowed in the house. It was for my brother’s sake after he admitted he considered the chips a good luck charm and never went out on duty without first having them for breakfast.
I since learned that most policemen had a habit of keeping small talismans or performing little daily rituals as part of getting ready for duty. Things that to an outsider would appear to be superstitions but in reality were a coping mechanism. A strategy to deal with the stresses of a job that daily required them to put their lives on the line.
As we dug into the sandwiches, Hemingway sauntered into the kitchen and meowed loudly, demanding peanut butter, his favorite treat.
I tore off a corner piece of my PB&J that had no jelly on it and dropped it into his dish, then patted Hemingway on the head. Usually reserved, he let me scratch him behind the ears.
“I think I’m winning on the Hemingway front,” I said as I sat down at the table again. “Unless he’s just angling for more peanut butter, he’s definitely warming up to me.”
“Oh yeah?” Felisha’s gaze never left the phone lying next to her plate. “That’s nice.”
Her eyes were half-narrowed, as if willing the phone to ring. Fixating on Tyrone not calling her back so she wouldn't have to think about the murder.
Not the healthiest way to deal with shock.
I persevered in my attempts to snap her out of it. “I mean, sure, Hemingway is technically Dad’s cat, but I know Dad wouldn’t object to him making a permanent home with us if we asked. What do you think?”
That got her attention. While she would love nothing more than for Asimov to move in, Hemingway was a different story. She stared up from her phone at me.
