Cracked to Death (8 page)

Chapter 11

 

In the studio office, Savannah's concentration broke when her cell phone rang with the tune she reserved for friends. “Hey, Robin. What's up?”

“I've been researching a little wider afield for a glass bottle expert, and I've found one for you. Fortunately, she's downtown, at the St. Petersburg Museum of History. Her name is Dr. Ruth Smithfield.”

“That's absolutely fantastic!”

“What are friends for? You certainly don't want to destroy a valuable artifact in the name of upcycling. Anyway, I talked to her already this morning. She's at the museum all day today and would be happy to talk to you.”

“I appreciate this.”

“Fine. Let's meet for an early dinner. That's your payment. I want to know everything you discover about these bottles.”

Savannah laughed. “Cheap date you are. How about a late lunch at the Three Birds Tavern on Fourth Street? It's not too far away for either of us. Also, I'm hungry for their prizewinning Kenz Salad.”

* * *

Savannah walked through the front door of the museum, passing the bronze statue of a newsboy selling an edition of the
Evening Independent
newspaper. She walked up to the information/ticket sales counter to the left of the door. It was staffed by a young woman, who lifted her gaze from an open chemistry book.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Ruth Smithfield.” Savannah handed over one of her new business cards advertising Webb's Glass Shop on one side and Webb's Studio on the other.

The attendant examined the card. “Sure. I'll call and let her know you're here.” She picked up the handset of her complex-looking telephone console and punched a few buttons. She waited for a short time but got no answer. After placing the handset back on the console, she addressed Savannah. “Look, I know she's back there, but sometimes she gets so focused, she doesn't hear the phone ring. I'll go back and tell her you're here. I'll be right back.”

Before the clerk could move, Dr. Smithfield emerged from the plain door behind the counter and walked around to greet Savannah with an outstretched hand. “Sorry. I heard the phone, but I was putting away a delicate artifact and couldn't stop. It's nice to meet you, Miss Webb. Welcome to the St. Petersburg Museum of History.”

Savannah smiled and gave Dr. Smithfield's hand a shake with a firm grip. “Thank you for taking the time to help me find out more information about these bottles, Dr. Smithfield.” She lifted up a small brown bag holding all three securely wrapped bottles.

“Oh, we can spare the formalities since you're a friend of Robin's. Call me Ruth. Now let's take these bottles back to my office so I can get them under some magnification.”

Savannah followed Ruth to a small office that was stacked to the ceiling with plastic see-through bins crammed with objects apparently waiting for exhibit space. As she walked into Ruth's office, Savannah immediately felt a touch of claustrophobia, but as she looked closer, she appreciated the meticulous order. Each object within each bin was numbered, and the bins were labeled with coded identifiers.

On the back wall stood a tall lab table that was clear of any items. It was the only bare surface in the office. On the left side of the table sat a modern microscope, its display screen mounted on the wall.

“I gave up my lab chair this year. I was becoming too sedentary. I hope you don't mind standing,” Ruth said.

“Not at all. I stand most of the day, when I'm either working on glass or teaching.”

“Great. So, what do you have for me?”

“This.” Savannah handed over the brown bag. “I own Webb's Glass Shop on Central Avenue. Robin recommended you as an expert on vintage glass. I'm working as a consultant for the St. Petersburg Police, and I need to know more about these bottles. The young man who had them washed ashore yesterday morning. It appears certain that he was murdered. These bottles may be the only lead related to the circumstances surrounding his death. The police might be able to trace his killer based on their provenance.”

Ruth looked up from the brown bag, her eyes lit with interest. “This is a first for me. Mostly, I work with antique dealers or estate executors. Who was killed?”

“A young man who had signed up for my upcycling glass workshop. His name is Martin Lane. There was an article this morning in the
Tampa Bay Times
about his death.”

“Well, let's see what we have.” Ruth placed the bag on the table and removed one of the bottles. She shoved the bag to the back of the table and slowly unwrapped the bottle on the clear space in front of her. She looked at the cobalt blue bottle for several minutes, turning her head in one direction and then another. “Interesting,” she mumbled to herself. “This is interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

Ruth jumped and turned to Savannah. “Crap! I forgot you were here. I get lost so easily in some things.”

“So ...”

“There are conflicting indications in the features that would conclusively identify the age of this bottle. I think the next best step is to contact a colleague of mine in Bristol, England, to get his take on these details. Bristol is the original location for glass made with cobalt oxide. That's where this looks like it was made. Do you mind?”

“No, of course not. I hope he can answer quickly. Before you contact him, can you look at one of the other bottles I have? Perhaps he can help with that one, as well.”

Ruth rewrapped the first bottle exactly as it was, using the fold lines in the brown paper as a guide, set it along the back of her table, and then reached into the brown bag for the next bottle.

Savannah wondered if she would spot the indications that this bottle was a copy, like Jacob had.

Ruth unwrapped the second bottle. “Hmmm. This is a copy of the first bottle.” She looked over her shoulder. “It's an excellent replica, but a replica all the same. The color is pretty good, but not quite as clear or deep blue. It also appears that the mold used was flawed. Probably not cured properly, or there were contaminants in the molten glass. Those are the most common problems.” Ruth straightened up and started to rewrap the copy. “Not very interesting, since it was probably made within the past few years.”

“I need to know as much as you can tell me about both the original and the copy. It may be a factor in Martin's death.”

Ruth looked a little disappointed. “As you wish. I do have many things requiring my attention, but I understand your desire to know as much as possible. My other projects are not based upon current events, nor are they connected to modern crimes.”

She unwrapped the copy bottle again and ran her fingers slowly along its seams and joins. Then she placed the bottle underneath the microscope. “I don't think this was made quite so long ago.” She looked over at Savannah. “By that I mean less than five years. There's no real sign of age or wearing down of the seams with use. If it had been stored safely, it would have been protected.”

“Are there any clues about where it was made?”

“There are some possible indications of where it was manufactured. The making of this cobalt color is dependent on the purity of the cobalt oxide mixed with the lead crystal. It's possible that my friend in Bristol could identify the source. It's also possible that it's a common formula in wide use. No real help.”

“There's one last bottle. It was found with Martin, and it was broken. I managed to piece it back together temporarily. Can you help?”

“Let's see.” Ruth took the last bottle out of the bag, unwrapped it, and ran her fingers over the surfaces. She smiled. “Nice job.”

Savannah felt extraordinarily pleased. Though she had known Ruth for only a short time, she valued this woman's opinions.

Ruth placed the reconstructed bottle underneath her microscope, and its image appeared on the monitor.

“This is an old bottle. It appears to be an original Bristol blue, like the first bottle.”

“That's what I suspected. Can you estimate the age of the bottles?”

“Well, opinions vary, of course, but it is generally agreed that the manufacture of Bristol blue glass started in the late seventeen hundreds. There must have been some experimentation before then, but these appear to be early production bottles. May I keep them for consultation with my colleague?”

“Unfortunately, I don't have permission to let the evidence bottle out of my sight, but let me find out what might be possible. It will probably be some routine set of forms for the police. As a result, I need to keep that one with me. The other two bottles are a different matter. I can leave them with you.”

“I don't need the copy. Just the vintage bottle, please.”

After she gave Dr. Smithfield her contact details, Savannah stopped by the little craft beer joint next door. It was called Hops and Props, after the wide selection of craft beers on tap, as well as the giant wooden airplane propeller mounted on the back wall. She ordered a Beach Blonde Ale, along with a plate of hummus and pita chips. She took her snack outside, to a seat overlooking the bay, then checked her watch. Amanda's workshop was over for the day, and she had planned to check in on her. It was also time to think about how to proceed. Maybe the next step was to find out where Martin had discovered the bottles. That could be helpful to Detective Parker. She was definitely out of ideas, but her friends would be able to help. They were never short of suggestions.

She texted Amanda and invited her over to the studio for a brainstorming session focused on the blue bottles. Amanda texted back a smiley face.

Savannah sat back and admired the view, enjoyed her favorite brew, and recalled the delights of last night. She called Edward.

“Hi, Poppet,” Edward said as he answered.

“Poppet?”

“British term of endearment. You need to get used to that.”

“Yes, I do. Can you come over to the studio in about an hour? I'm struggling to come up with ideas for my consultancy efforts for Detective Parker. Can you help us with not only your ideas but some treats, too?”

“Now I know why I'm included in your adventures. It's really just for the scones. Right?”

“Yes. You've solved the case of the unexpected invitations. It's for your cooking.”

They both laughed until they were breathless.

She recovered first. “Anyway, please help me make sure this first consultation is more than perfect. I'm going to go the extra mile.”

“Sure, love. See you soon.”

She continued to smile and counted herself a very lucky woman.

Chapter 12

 

“This conference room is much nicer than the office at Webb's Glass Shop.” Jacob walked over to the far end of the conference table and stood behind one of the six worn dining-room chairs Savannah had salvaged for peanuts at the local thrift shop. He was holding Suzy.

“I think so, too.” Savannah looked around the large room. In addition to the long, well-used table, she had found a giant used whiteboard at an office furniture consignment shop, along with a good-sized corkboard for the large wall opposite the bank of windows. Savannah straightened the stack of pictures she had printed from her phone archive and placed them facedown at the head of the table. “We have more room here at the studio. This is going to work out well.”

“Can Suzy have a chair?”

“Absolutely. I didn't know she liked being on a chair.”

“She doesn't like it very much, but she's getting used to not being in my lap quite so much.”

Savannah nodded.
He is trying to grow up, but he also knows he needs Suzy's help.

Jacob placed Suzy in the chair next to him and sat down at the end of the table.

Amanda arrived with a plate of cranberry scones, and Edward followed with a pitcher of iced tea and some plastic cups.

“Iced tea?” Savannah grabbed the first cup Edward poured. “Are you getting acclimated?”

“Sad as it may be.” Edward poured cups for the others and himself. “I'm finding that day after day of ninety-degree heat and ninety-five percent humidity lends itself to a demand for cool beverages.” He smiled. “Yes, I'm slowly turning into a Southerner, but at least it is not the dreaded sweet tea. Not yet.”

He sat down to Savannah's right, and Amanda sat to her left, leaving Jacob at the end. He grinned and petted Suzy who sat in the chair next to Edward.

After everyone had settled, Savannah cleared her throat. “I've called you together to beg for your help with my first official police job. Detective Parker has asked for my help in providing information about the bottles Martin Lane brought into Amanda's workshop. It also includes the broken bottle that was discovered with his body. This time I'm working as a consultant.”

“That's new, isn't it?” Edward mumbled through a bite of scone.

“Yes, and it comes at a perfect time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jacob.

Savannah pressed her lips together. She shouldn't be bringing up financial uncertainty with Jacob. He didn't like change, and moving his work area from the glass shop to the studio had been more than enough. Bringing up the financial strain she felt would cause him even more stress on top of the move. She would avoid the topic with Jacob for now. She turned to look directly at him and lowered her voice. “It's helpful to have a few extra commissions so soon after opening the studio.”

Savannah addressed the group. “We're always such a great group when we brainstorm together. I wanted to get it going again. If you're willing to help me. Are you?”

“Yes, Miss Savannah.” Jacob nodded his head. “My mother says analysis puzzles are excellent therapy for me.”

Edward grabbed the pitcher and poured another glass of iced tea. “Brilliant, Jacob's spot on. We're a good team, and if it helps bring in a little cash, even better.” He looked at Jacob and Amanda, and then at Savannah. “So, we're willing. Now, how can we help?”

“Good. My friend Robin, the one who owns the antique mall and salvages discarded furniture, recommended that I take the bottles downtown, to Dr. Ruth Smithfield, for her expert opinion. I met with her today, and she thinks two of the bottles were manufactured in the late seventeen hundreds in Bristol, England. She's contacting a glass expert over there to see if he can verify her opinion.”

“Bristol?” Edward perked up. “I have some friends that live near there, in Redland. They might also be helpful if you need local confirmation.”

“I don't think so, but thanks.” Savannah looked over at Amanda, who was being quiet and very not like Amanda. “What's wrong, Amanda? Is this because Martin was one of your first students?”

Amanda looked down into her lap and shook her head. “No, I'm fine. I've been trying to do too much this week, and now I'm paying the price for it.” She rubbed her eyes and then suppressed a yawn. “Worse, I'm not sleeping terribly well.”

Standing, Savannah reached over and rubbed Amanda's arm. “Sorry. I hope your mom gets better soon. It is a great worry when someone is chronically ill.” Savannah walked over to the corkboard and plucked out a tack. “Amanda, you had better move to the other side of the table so you don't get a crick in your neck. That wouldn't help your sleeping problems at all.”

Amanda sat for a long moment and then sighed deeply. “Thanks.” She moved slowly around the large table and sat between Edward and Suzy. Suzy looked at her from across the table with her sympathetic big brown eyes. Amanda responded with a tiny smile.

Savannah continued. “I think another way to be helpful is to find out more about Martin.” She tacked an eight-by-ten color picture of Martin onto the corkboard. “Since we have this corkboard handy, I want to pin images as we go to help us make connections for more leads. I found this photo on the Internet, from one of his craft shows.” The picture showed Martin behind a table, along with a young woman, selling his artworks to passersby. “This looks like it was taken in stealth by one of his customers at the Saturday Morning Market downtown.”

She then pinned to the corkboard images of each of the three bottles involved. “This first bottle is one of the two that Martin brought to class. It is most likely an original Bristol blue artifact made in the late seventeen hundreds. As I said, I've got Dr. Ruth Smithfield tracking down a friend in Bristol. So let's get these labeled up here.” She stepped over to the whiteboard and grabbed a marker from the shelf. “Let's label this one Bottle number one.” She wrote that on the first picture, and then on the second picture she wrote “Bottle #2.” “This is the copy bottle that he brought to the class.” On the final picture, she wrote “Bottle #3.” “Last, we have a picture of the bottle that was found with his body. This is the one that Jacob noticed was also a copy.”

“What about trying to figure out where Martin found the bottles?” asked Edward.

Savannah pointed at him. “Great thinking. I think we should start with a few calls to the local salvage ship captains.” She stepped back, with the marker poised in her hand. “Also, I think we need to know a bit more about Martin.”

Jacob raised his hand. “Miss Savannah, I thought Detective Parker wanted you to investigate only the bottles.”

Savannah could feel the flush rising from her neck. “That's perfectly correct, but Martin brought those bottles in for some reason. I would like to know why, so I'm willing to go the extra mile—or even two.”

“But won't Detective Parker get annoyed?” Edward raised his eyebrows. “He's not likely to be tolerant of interference in an active case. You've been warned before.”

“I know, I know, but this is only a little stretch. Martin was a student in our workshop, so I have already e-mailed the information from his registration. I won't be stretching my authority by much.” She took another look at the picture of Martin. “Amanda, I think you can get us a good start on his background. You can look up his address from his application, right?”

Amanda looked up at Savannah with a weary expression. She pressed her lips together tightly. “Yes, of course.”

“I know you're busy with your mother, but would you mind doing the social media crawl to find out about his connections and how he was selling his creations? You won't need to go anywhere if you can do that on your smartphone. I think the more we know about his crafting business, the better we'll look in reporting our findings. Good?”

Amanda nodded.

Edward frowned and placed a hand on Amanda's shoulder. “If you're uncomfortable with taking time away from your mother, you'll have to say it out loud. You know Savannah gets manic when she's on the hunt.”

“No. It's not too much trouble.” Amanda's voice went soft. “I can do this in my sleep. And since I'm not sleeping, this is perfect.”

“What else can we do?” said Edward.

Savannah looked at the group around the table. “I'm going to meet my friend Robin for some catchup, and maybe she'll have some more ideas about the bottles. I haven't checked the library yet for books on old glass. When I went to Haslam's for their used books, their only volume was gone—either it had been sold or it was missing—but there are other used bookstores in town.”

Savannah put her hands on her hips. “I think that's plenty for now. I want to do a thorough job, but I don't want to featherbed the task. I'll let you know when we'll need to meet again, but for now I think this is fine. Thanks a bunch.”

* * *

Three Birds Tavern was nearly empty after its usual midweek lunch frenzy but before the happy hour crowd arrived. The hostess greeted Savannah by name and led her to a small black wrought-iron table overlooking the patio where the musicians played in the evenings. Savannah had barely managed to order her usual appetizer when Robin approached and flopped down into the opposite chair.

“Hey, girl. I've got some great news.” Robin plopped her enormous electric-blue purse on the edge of the table and looked at Savannah with barely suppressed excitement. “Those bottles could actually be part of Gaspar the pirate's long-lost treasure.”

“What? No way!”

“Absolutely possible. Shush!” Robin covered her mouth when the server brought them a large bowl of hot sweet potato fries, accompanied by a side serving of cinnamon-flavored honey butter.

Robin ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a Caesar salad, while Savannah ordered the house specialty, the Kenz Salad, and a Blue Point Brewing Company Toasted Lager draft.

As soon as the server left, Robin leaned over the table. “I'm dying to tell you about those lovely blue bottles. It's so exciting.” She leaned back, dipped a fry into the honey butter, and waved it at Savannah. “I'm convinced, absolutely convinced, that they are part of Gaspar's buried treasure. It's in the right location.” She gulped down the fry and grabbed a few more.

“But treasure hunters have been searching for it for decades—longer even.”

“I know. Honestly, why do you think that community is called Treasure Island?”

“Yes, yes. I've heard the stories since I was a small child. Hang on,” Savannah whispered while their server placed their drinks and salads on the table.

When she started to clear the bowl of fries, Robin waved her hand. “No, way. Leave those lovely beasties right there. They're delicious.”

“And addictive.” Savannah grabbed one of the last few.

After the server had gone, Robin continued. “I'm telling you, Savannah. This is the big one.”

“But—”

“No, I feel certain that the bottles are from one of his buried treasure sites.”

“Well, I agree that it's certainly a strong possibility.” Savannah sat back in her chair. “What are the odds that after all these years one of his treasure troves would be found by a starving artist?”

“Apparently, for Martin, the odds were one hundred percent. Luck is luck.”

“But, on the other hand”—Savannah lowered her voice—“it would be a very powerful motive for murder.”