I turned to see two New York police officers in dark blue uniforms. Jessica stood between them. She pointed a finger at me and Alan. “There they are.”

  So much for loyalty.

  Chapter Twelve

  For the past hour, we'd been playing 'Hurry up and wait' with the authorities.

  Hurry up and tell us what happened.

  Hurry up and sit over there.

  Now wait until we get further orders.

  Sometimes art doesn’t imitate life. And thank the heavens it didn't. If this had been a movie, I'd likely be on my way to jail.

  Instead, I sat on a couch enjoying some roast beef and pasta.

  On television, police investigations look very orderly and end with the cops hauling off the 'perp' in metal cuffs. In reality, investigations are much more disorderly.

  Oscar plopped down and handed me a glass of seltzer water. “This is the only thing left. Anything new happen in the last five seconds?”

  “Nope and thanks.” I took a sip and frowned. Seltzer is so bitter.

  Jessica had fled from Elsa's office and promptly called the police. On their arrival, she dished everything she knew, showed them the body, and lead the cops to Alan and myself.

  From that point on, it had been hurry up and wait. The cops quickly sequestered everyone who'd still been in the exhibition hall in the rear atrium. Alan and I were 'encouraged' to take seats apart from one another.

  The EMTs came, confirmed there was nothing they could do for Elsa's former assistant. They stayed to administer oxygen to Mrs. Cheighton who'd suddenly started to hyperventilate.

  Now, we waited to be questioned further. Mrs. Cheighton, Jessica, Alan, Oscar, and I all were seated on settees well within the cop's view.

  But from what I was able to overhear from the two units of officers that had arrived already, the situation was to be handled 'discreetly'. Apparently there were some VIPs in attendance tonight, and it was vital their good time not be too disrupted.

  So we waited. Two police officers remained in the atrium with us. The other two had departed.

  After forty-five minutes Mrs. Cheighton complained about low blood sugar. The police arranged for a food and drink cart to be wheeled out from the kitchen. I couldn't believe it. The elite had ridiculous privileges.

  I wasn't part of the elite, but that didn't stop me from helping myself to a plate.

  Oscar asked, “How much longer, you think?”

  This pasta was delicious. I said, “I don't know. Homicide detectives have to be assigned and then they may want to talk to the guests, too. We'll be here for a while.”

  I didn't have to look at Oscar to know what he was doing. “You shouldn't be pouting because this is going to take all night. We both should be concerned there's a killer lurking.”

  He slapped a palm to his chest. “You think someone in here did it?”

  “No, not in here in this room, here.” I whirled my fork in a circle, “But, you know, around.” I finished my food and put the plate on the floor. “Let's say Nia took out Elsa. Who killed Nia?”

  “You said she was talking to some man. Maybe he did it?”

  In that conversation, there had been only one dominate personality. That person was now laid out in a centuries-old coffin in the next room. “The guy was the one taking the orders. I don't think he would've had the gumption to challenge Nia, much less hurt her.”

  “If it wasn't him, then who? Could they have had another partner? Someone else who works here?”

  “A partner? Maybe. But it doesn't have to be an employee. The only thing we know for sure is that the person was here tonight.”

  Oscar leaned over to whisper. “What about Alan?”

  I shot him a look and didn't reply. The evidence was stacking up against Alan. Though I was pretty sure he hadn't been the man I'd heard speaking to Nia, he could have easily put her in the sarcophagus. He also had the most to lose, the most access to all parts of the museum, and could navigate the halls at all hours without notice.

  But then again, the same could be said for his assistant. The assistant with the family history of mental illness. I looked over at Jessica. She was pacing in between the couches and casting looks at Alan.

  When we'd been outside waiting for the ambulance, she'd spoken about Alan with such reverence in her voice. I could've sworn she had a crush on him. Maybe she didn't want Alan to be fired but wanted to prevent him from being terminated.

  Killing Elsa would've taken care of that.

  Jessica wrapped her arms around herself and mumbled.

  Maybe there wasn't one killer, but two.

  I sighed and dropped my head into my hands. From between my fingers, I told Oscar my thoughts.

  He said, “But if you are right, and she was trying to protect Alan, who came and staged the office against him?”

  “Nia? Or maybe as soon as I left her, Jessica went back to clean the office, Nia found her, they fought and Jessica offed Nia. The lab is just down the hall from Elsa's office, and Nia was really petite. Jessica could've put her in a chair and rolled her a few doors down to hide the body.”

  I raised my head. One of the cops stood near the opened door of the gallery. The sarcophagus with its open lid was visible from where I sat. The cop's eyes narrowed, and I rolled mine at him.

  No. Nia may have been a victim, but she wasn't an innocent victim. Elsa's former assistant was firmly entangled in this mess. I just had to string together all the pieces. Or piece, like a single bead.

  “Hey, Alan.” My friend was on a settee a few feet away to my right. He sat alone with his eyes closed.

  The moment I called, Alan looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Ali?

  “Would Nia have any business use for a respirator?”

  Alan's brows furrowed. “Um, no. I don't think so. Why?”

  The cop, who'd been holding up the wall near the gallery's door, perked up. “Hey, let's keep things quiet between you two, for now.”

  I ignored Officer Friendly. “Not for cleaning or helping out in the lab?”

  “No, she was an executive assistant. She had no reason to be in the lab.” Alan rubbed his chin and turned his body toward me. I think if he could've communicated telepathically he would have.

  Huh. So what was that gear doing in her cabinet? I was starting to get an idea. My friend was practically beaming questions at me from across the atrium. Finally he said, “You've got something, don't you?”

  The cop barked, “Hey! You two have been accused of some serious charges. We're giving you a courtesy right now. Don't abuse it.”

  I nodded just enough for Alan to notice. He settled back into the couch folding his arms.

  Oscar however was champing at the bit. “What! What did you figure out?”

  I didn't get the chance to answer. Just then, two men in suits entered from the hallway. Badges hung at their waists. One was older, late fifties, with a head full of brown hair. The other was in his thirties and so lean his face had deep hollows under the chiseled cheekbones.

  They stopped long enough to chat with the other uniformed cop and EMTs who'd been loitering by the atrium's threshold.

  All of us, including Jessica and Mrs. Cheighton who'd been nibbling on bites of pasta in between taking gulps of oxygen, stopped and watched the cops.

  It was a long conversation. The entire time I could feel my pulse jumping about like a wild thing. The uniformed cop read from a notebook (that part from TV is true), pointed at the gallery, and finally jabbed a stubby finger in Alan’s direction and then at me.

  The older detective walked toward our loosely assembled group while the other spoke with the EMTs.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Detective Reginald Miller. I know you've been waiting here for quite some time. If you'll be patient a little longer, we're going to get this sorted out as best as possible.”

  As he'd been speaking, his eyes squinted in my direction. The second he finished the little intro, he headed right in my direction.

  Mrs. Cheighton, however, likely sensing she wasn't going to be first in line for personalized attention, popped up like a meerkat. “Young man, young man. I can tell you everything you want to know. I'm a member of the board of this establishment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I will speak to everyone in turn.” Detective Miller stopped in front of me. “Evenin'. You Ali Daniels?”

  There was something in the way he asked the question that made me pause. I could feel Oscar looking back and forth between us.

  I remained seated. “Yes.”

  “The baker?”

  “Yes.”

  To my surprise he offered his hand. “Thought I recognized your name. My kid is a cop over at the Seventh in Manhattan. He told me about how your shenanigans helped solve a case in some restaurant. A shooting with no gun?”

  He said a name I didn't recognize. There'd been a whole lot of police in Grover's that day. I didn't meet most of them. But looking more closely at Detective Miller, I made a guess. “Does your son have a really young face?”

  “Yeah, that's my boy! He gets ribbed about that all the time. Was impressed with you though. And here you are again in the middle—”

  “Detective!” Mrs. Cheighton slapped her hand against the couch. She took a final hit of oxygen, tossed the mask aside, and stomped over to us. Her black bag swung about like a lethal weapon. With a harrumph, she forced her body between me and the detective, forcing the man to step back.

  “I am the person to whom you need to be addressing. I know who is behind all of this and you're wasting time!”

  Detective Miller unbuttoned his jacket and rested hands on his hips. “And you are?”

  “Mrs. Jonathan Cheighton,” she answered with her nose nearly pointing at the ceiling. “Listen, I hate to point fingers, but I'm a very astute woman and I've seen plenty here tonight.”

  A squawk erupted from the hallway. I glanced past the folds of Mrs. Cheighton dress to see another uniformed cop leading her son Lance toward the atrium.

  All of a sudden, my eyes started to tear. I cleared my throat.

  Mrs. Cheighton said, “Young lady, you may clear your roughshod throat all you wish, I'm not moving until this detective hears me out.” She shifted and her bag swung out in an arc like a missile. Oscar and I ducked.

  Lance's voice drifted in from the hallway. “There she is. That's my mother.”

  “Oh, good. My son is here. He can corroborate what I have to say. Yes, officers let him by please.”

  Just then I heard the buzz of a cellphone. And then a song,

  I'll take you to the candy shop.

  I'll let you...

  Oscar laughed out loud. “Are you telling me, he of all people has Fifty Cent as his ring tone?”

  As Lance strode by the cops and EMTs, he pulled the phone out of his pant's pocket. The tune got louder for a millisecond before it cut off abruptly.

  Lance. Lance had been the man speaking with Nia. My mind shifted into third gear. It was Lance! It was Lance!

  He walked over, eyes surveying the room. “Mother, I thought you had taken the car home. Then I heard you were here in the atrium, and I actually had to make a call to the police chief's office before they'd let me in.”

  A tickle was building in the back of my throat. I let loose a sneeze that felt as if half of my face had come off.

  Mrs. Cheighton raised her arm motioning her son closer. We had to duck the purse again. Common sense dictated I should move but doing so would be admitting some type of defeat to this woman. My eyes were tearing something awful now.

  “Mother, what is going on?”

  I didn't recognize Lance's voice. In the office, the man had been speaking much more softly than Nia. Was he her killer?

  “I was just telling this detective how Mr. Wiggins had to have a hand in the death of the chief curator and that poor girl.”

  Alan jumped to his feet, but one of the cops waved him down.

  Lance tugged at his ear and frowned. He said absentmindedly, “What girl, mother?”

  I finally got my feet and pointed at the gallery. “Nia. Someone hurt Nia. Permanently.”

  The man's eyes went from me then to the gallery. Lance strode past us.

  His mother called, “Lance, dear, come back here. You don't need to witness that unpleasantness.”

  But Lance ignored her. His feet moved without hesitation to the threshold of the gallery where the cop put out a hand to stop him. He didn't resist the cop at all. Just merely stood there not speaking.

  I sneezed. Again.

  After several heartbeats, Lance spoke without turning around. “So you finally did it, huh, mother?”

  From his seat, I could hear Oscar say under his breath, “Did he say what I just thought he said?”

  Lance Cheighton spoke over his shoulder. “Did you, Mother?” He whirled around, teeth bared. “Did you?”

  His mother inhaled and puffed out her cheeks. “Dear, what ever is wrong with you?”

  “Mother, if you make me come over there, I won't be responsible for my actions. Tell me the truth.”

  Mrs. Cheighton took a half-step back and laughed nervously. “Lance, I knew the sight of such gruesome—”

  Lance charged and her words ended in a shriek. The cop by the door was quick and caught the man by the arms.

  “Oh, oh my,” Mrs. Cheighton said then fanned herself. “I don't know what's come over you, son. Perhaps I should go and the detective could call me later.”

  I sniffled and stepped into the woman's line of view. “Mrs. Cheighton, what's in your bag?”

  She took another step back but bumped into Detective Miller. “Nothing, just my personal things.”

  “I've been sneezing and hacking ever since you came close swinging that purse of yours. I'm allergic to something you're carrying.”

  “That's not my prob—” she started but in one swift motion I snatched the loops from around her arms, pulled the drawstrings open and dumped everything out.

  To my surprise, the first thing that tumbled out was like a small, golden bowling ball. It burst at our feet, sending up a plume of white powder. Everyone jumped back. When the dust cloud cleared, the rest of Mrs. Cheighton's things were scattered about on the marble floor. Quickly I picked out a lipstick, mirror, keys, and a wallet. But there, just near the tip of Detective's Miller wingtip—an inhaler.

  Lance saw it, too. He lunged but the cop held him fast.

  Alan raced over and stared at the floor with the rest of us. He said, “Wait, is that..? That looks like the head of the mace from the Durga's statue in the exhibit.”

  He was right. It was a perfect replica of the goddess's weapon I'd seen earlier. To the naked eye, the mace's head had the same intricate designs carved into the outer layer. The outside part had cracked open like an egg, revealing an ivory layer just under the burnished gold paint. Inside the ball, something dark gray peeked through.

  Mrs. Cheighton stared at the shattered thing on the floor with the rest of us. She jerked up suddenly and flinched. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” she started then paused.

  Mrs. Cheighton flinched again as if she’d been slapped. Her lips went slack then jerked taut and then loosened, as if she was experiencing a kaleidoscope of pathetic emotions—disgust, indignation, rage—in battle to be the dominant expression. Finally her eyes settled on me and her mouth settled in a half-cocked smirk.

  I said, “It's a forgery. Mrs. Cheighton here took it from Lance. Didn't she, Lance?”

  I turned around. Lance fought for a second more, then deflated as if the steam had been let out of his engine. “Yes, she took it from me before I was able to give it to Nia. Nia was going to make the switch out with the real thing later.”

  “You were stealing from my museum?” Alan barked.

  Lance simply nodded. “Yes, someone approached me months ago. I wasn't interested but Nia was. She liked the idea of building a nest egg. And I felt like I owed her so I went along with it. Nia had all the access she needed to tinker with manifests and get access when she wanted.”

  Mrs. Cheighton snapped, “You dolt! Quiet!”

  “No, Mother. No. You shouldn't have hurt her. She didn't do anything to us, but our family certainly ruined hers.”

  “Son, you need to think about what you're saying.” Mrs. Cheighton moved forward, but Detective Miller caught her by the elbow.

  “I overheard Nia earlier tonight. It sounded as if some things went off schedule.” I prompted Lance.

  “Yeah, yeah, you can say that.” Lance’s eyes met mine. “It took me time to find a new person who could do good enough forgeries, and that caused a delay. Then Elsa suspected I was working with someone else, and Nia had to make sure she didn't find out or report me too soon.”

  I was getting lost in his explanation. My gaze went to the forgery. I know nothing about art tools, but if I had to guess, it was molded plaster over a lead center. I bumped the thing with my toe.

  “Hey, hey,” Miller said. “Take it easy. That's evidence.”

  The thing had weight. But it was nothing but a complicated art project. My mind flashed to the intricate mini-sarcophagi in Elsa's office. And the statuettes on the cake dessert table. Those all had been small works of art.

  “You convinced Elsa to help you,” I said speaking as the pieces slid into place in my mind, “then she changed her mind, threatened to expose you.”

  Lance slowly nodded his head. To my surprise, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Yes, I started dating her so she'd trust me. But then she grew a conscience and got paranoid. She suspected someone else in the museum was in on it but didn't know it was Nia.

  “Nia eventually came up with the idea to scapegoat Alan. He and Elsa didn't get along. But when Alan was about to get fired...”

  I finished for him, “Nia had to act quickly. She had to come up with a quick plan to take out Elsa so Alan would be blamed. So she poisoned Elsa's inhaler, but some things went wrong. I'm guessing Elsa didn't go quietly and they fought.”

  “Son, I want you to be quiet now. We can still walk away.”

 

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