Murder in Primary Colors
of a Peony PressTM publication
Copyright © 2011 by Jackie McElroy-Edwards
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Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Murder in Primary Colors
by Nora Barker
Chapter 1
Before Elizabeth Page hit the floor she caught a glimpse of blood spraying to her right. Her last thought? How dare— She was dead within seconds.
Dr. Christmas Connery, Chris to all who knew her, found herself sitting on the floor, feet splayed, ten feet from the body. She had no memory of how she got to that position. When she staggered back and landed on her bottom, surprise and shock stripped her of every perception but the corpse. Slowly, awareness of her surroundings began to return. She heard someone gasping for breath and was startled to realize it was herself. Get a grip! she told herself sternly. Her self-image as a person who coped with skill and aplomb was badly shaken.
She looked around. She was in the Midstate University Museum of Art. It was dark and deserted, except for the corpse in front of her. The emergency exit lights reflected here and there off the polished chrome of the little "Do-Nothing" sculptures filling the small sculpture gallery and the aluminum ladder lying on its side beyond what remained of Elizabeth Page.
The doorway through which she'd rushed when she'd first glimpsed someone's feet where they shouldn't have been gave her a view of the Sixteenth-century Italian Mannerist paintings filling the outer gallery. Without the usual lighting they were just dark rectangles against the lighter walls. She looked back at the body, half-expecting it to be gone. It wasn't.
From out in the larger gallery she heard toenails clicking on the polished porcelain tile and her basset hound, Walter Matthau, appeared in the doorway, hackles raised and nose working industriously. She'd told him to "stay" when she saw the feet but his sense of smell was way too good for that to matter. She struggled to her feet to intercept him.
Leash in hand and wobbling a little, she retraced her steps through the larger exhibition space to the atrium and the docent's desk and telephone. Walter was reluctant to leave such a tempting target unsniffed. He backed up most of the way.
She dialed 911 with a hand that shook so violently she had to do it twice.
"Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"
"She's dead." One part of her brain scolded the other part for being unable to manage this with her normal self-possession. "I mean, I just found someone who's dead."
"I have you at the Midstate Museum of Art on campus. Is that correct, Ma'am?"
Chris tried to take a deep breath and made little gasping sounds.
"Just relax, Ma'am. We'll have help on the way as soon as you confirm where you are." The operator's reassuring voice calmed her and she was able to confirm her location.
"I'm in the museum."
"Your name, Ma'am?"
"Chris Connery. I'm the director of the Division of Fine Arts at Midstate," she stammered.
"Do you know who's been injured?"
"She's not injured. She's dead. It's the director of the museum, Elizabeth Page."
"Is anyone else hurt?"
"No. She's the only one here. I think she fell off a ladder."
"Okay, the campus police should be there in less than five minutes. You just try to stay calm, Ma'am."
Chris hung up. She sat in the docent's chair and looked at her shaking hands. Get a grip! she told herself again. She tied Walter's leash securely to the arm of the chair and went back to survey the scene, this time without the shock-induced tunnel vision.
From the middle of the atrium she could hardly see into the largest gallery ahead and to the left. It was difficult to see anything clearly except in the atrium where Chris had flipped switches when she'd come in through the door behind the docent's desk. The second largest gallery opened ahead to the right. Page lay in the small, windowless exhibition space that opened in the middle of that gallery's far wall and just visible from the docent's desk.
She went to the back of the museum, through the doors leading to the freight elevator and flipped switches in the circuit box. When she returned to the entrance of the smallest gallery the lights glinted off the small kinetic sculptures. They were clanging and twanging once again, as they had all afternoon during the opening. Some waited for a button to be pushed or a lever pulled, but most operated on their own. They all gleamed in the intense light of the spots.
Elizabeth Page lay in partial shadow, but there was enough light to see the shimmery teal silk pantsuit. A broad pool of blood was congealing in the carpet. Chris didn't really want to look at the body but curiosity kept her coming back to it as if drawn by a magnet.
Until her death Elizabeth Page was the Director of the Midstate University Museum of Art. She had been the textbook example of the successful fundraiser and skillful manipulator: always in control, always one step ahead of her competition, always convinced the ends justified the means. Since her ends were usually laudable, people tended to overlook her means.
The closer Chris approached, the stronger the coppery smell of blood became. It was mixed with the other more familiar smell of feces and caused her to experience a transient wave of nausea. She fought it down. Red blood, blond hair, blue suit. Primary colors. It was an irrational and irrelevant thought, but it wouldn't go away.
Chris knew Page would have hated her present situation for more reasons than the obvious fact of her death. She always dressed with impeccable care. She was never seen in public less than well-turned-out. To be lying in disarray, her hair in a tangle, her legs awkwardly twisted, her blood seeping into her clothes and the taupe carpet would have been insupportable if she'd been alive to see it.
Page's temple, distorted by a deep and bloody depression, left no doubt about the cause of death. Chris looked closer in spite of a rising urge to vomit and peered at the mangled head. That she'd hit something with tremendous force was obvious.
The ladder was on its side. The crumpled body lay between it and the wall. Chris looked up at the track lighting. One of the small spots was dark. She fell while trying to change a light bulb?
Chris skirted the blood pool, having watched her share of televised mayhem. No tampering with evidence before the police cordon off the death zone. From out in the atrium Walter whined briefly and strained to keep Chris in sight, his ears pinned back and nose twitching as always. She called to reassure him.
When did the light blow? It hadn't happened during the opening this afternoon. At least, she hadn't noticed it if it had. Of course, there were a lot of people filling the galleries over the course of the afternoon. She might not have noticed Hannibal and his elephants.
Late this afternoon Page left a message on Chris's home answering machine saying she had information that could be damaging for the university and she needed to speak to her right away. Would she then have set about replacing a spot when she could have ordered someone else to do it first thing in the morning?
No matter the reason, Elizabeth Page apparently had gone to the lower level in her elegant teal outfit and dragged a twelve-foot stepladder out of a storeroom and into the cargo elevator. She then dragged it from the service area behind the main floor galleries, across forty or fifty feet of polished porcelain tile floor and into the gallery housing the "Do-Nothings," Richard Bjornson's solo show. There, Page mounted the ladder in four-inch stiletto heels to change a lamp and fell to her death. The impossibility of that scenario was at war with the circumstances before her.
Knowing she s
houldn't, but assuming she already contaminated the body when she tried to find a pulse, Chris crept closer. Page lay with the right side of her head up, her eyes slightly open and her mouth slack. The blond hair, parts still glossy, was a tangle. Blood wicked into the shiny teal silk, leaving red-brown stains almost an inch up from any point of contact with the pool of blood on the carpet. A challenge for the best dry cleaner, she thought and then shook a mental finger at herself for the irrelevance.
What did she hit on her way down? Chris surveyed the area from the ceiling all the way to the floor. Nothing projected or protruded. The pedestal usually illuminated by the burned out spot had square corners, but they were free of blood or any trace of violent contact. Chris looked at the ladder. Except for the rubber skid pads on its feet, it was all aluminum. Page probably hit that when she overbalanced, she thought. But no part she could see had any evidence of blood. Nothing immediately presented itself as the point of contact.
She was so lost in her ruminations that she jumped when she heard the door open behind the docent's desk. She stepped back into the larger gallery. A young campus policeman, Officer Anderson, appeared.
He came through the atrium and stopped at the entrance to the sculpture show, scanned the scene and then acknowledged Chris's presence with a nod. Finally he squatted beside the remains of Elizabeth Page.
"Do you know how this happened, Dr. Connery?"
"No, I found her that way. There doesn't seem to be anyone else here, but I haven't been through the entire building."
The officer just nodded.
"She must have hit her head," Chris added.
He rose and used his walky-talky as a siren grew loud and abruptly stopped behind the museum. Soon they could hear pounding on the loading dock doors.
"Go let them in," Anderson said. As Chris started toward the service area, he added, "Come right back."
She would soon be answering a lot of questions.
Chris reached the loading dock and pushed the panic bar to open the door. The emergency medical technician standing on the other side nodded and turned to his partner. They hefted their cases and rolled the gurney inside, asking about the victim. Chris led the way into the freight elevator and they rose to the main floor.
Officer Anderson was standing in the middle of the Mannerist gallery. "Just confirm that she's dead, then get out of there. The city cops are on their way. We're not equipped for this."
The two EMTs went to the body and retreated in less than a minute. One of them used her radio to call in a report. The other leaned against the gurney and affected a bored expression. Officer Anderson stood with arms folded beside the doorway. Chris thought he was trying to look like this wasn't the first time he'd been in this situation. He failed.
From his place away from the action Walter whined briefly.
Chris looked at Anderson. "I don't suppose I could take my dog home."
"Better stay put, Dr. Connery, until the city cops get here. Then maybe you can take off."
"Can I take him out for a walk? He probably needs to go."
"Sure. Just try to stay where I can see you."
When she stepped out through the all glass entrance with Walter eagerly leading the way, she heard the faint wail of more sirens. It seemed like every cruiser on duty in Camford was headed their way. More excitement for a Sunday night than there had been in many a year.
By the time Walter had completed his business, the Camford Police Department had arrived in two cruisers, lights flashing and sirens shrieking. The officers were crowded around the entrance to the sculpture gallery when she and Walter returned. Beyond them the kinetic sculptures continued to create a falsely cheerful clatter. She sat at the docent's desk.
Thirty minutes elapsed before the homicide detective arrived. It was at least another twenty minutes before he showed any interest in her. That Camford had a homicide detective was a bit of a surprise. Students more than doubled the population of the small town when the university was in session and she couldn't remember any crime more lethal than drunk driving.
He emerged from the gallery where he'd been kneeling and approached the docent's desk. He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Ryquist.
She stood to shake hands and pointed at the nametag clipped to his lapel by his badge. "Pronounce your first name for me. I've never met anyone with that name before."
"Hjelmer, like Elmer with an H," he responded after a pause during which he regarded her carefully.
"Thank you, Detective. I've lived up here for five years but the Scandinavian names sometimes defeat me."
Ryquist moved aside empty wineglasses left from the opening to lean across the tall reception desk. A thought occurred to Chris but his question derailed it.
"You find the body?" He ran a hand through short salt and pepper hair. He was over six feet with the build of an aging athlete. Not fat, but perhaps not as hard bodied as he once had been.
"I did." Chris nodded and sat back down. Walter watched, alert. He still had not relaxed.
Behind the detective a camera continued to flash, sending jolts of light ricocheting off the white walls and polished tile. After the initial gawking, everyone seemed to have a task and to be engrossed in performing it. Since Camford was normally such a peaceful little town, and violent death, even by accident, was rare, Chris wondered how they'd learned to be so professional.
Ryquist cleared his throat and brought her attention back to his broad face. "So let's get started. Full name?"
"Christmas Eve Connery."
He looked up. "Really?"
Chris grimaced. "Yes, really. I use Chris, however."
"Wonder why," Ryquist mumbled, jotting in a small notebook. He nodded toward the basset hound. "What's his name?"
"Walter Matthau."
"You always tour museums with your dog?"
"I was just going to be here for a second and then we were going for a walk on the quad before I went to the store." She pointed out the glass doors toward the grassy center of the campus.
"I see. Address and phone?"
Chris supplied them.
When the data had been carefully recorded in his notebook, the plainclothes policeman said, "Tell me about it from the beginning."
Chris wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but an open-ended question wasn't even on the list of possibilities. So much for watching all those cop shows. She started with finding a message from the museum director on her machine when she came in late that afternoon and deciding to ignore it because she'd had enough of Elizabeth Page for one day.
At that Detective Ryquist raised his eyebrows.
"You'll find out soon enough that Elizabeth could be challenging. She was frequently arrogant and could be very unpleasant to those who worked with her."
"So what made you come to the museum after all?" The big man gazed down at his notebook as if he were indifferent to her response.
Chris knew he wasn't. "I wanted to go to the store for ice cream and discovered I didn't have my purse. I left it in the docent's desk during the opening of the new shows this afternoon. When I had to get Richard Bjornson home I guess I forgot it."
"Why'd you have to get Richard—What's his name? Bjornson? We'll come back to why you had to get him home. What did you do when you got here tonight?"
"I used my master key to come in the side door."
"Where's that?"
Chris waved at the door behind where she sat. "The administrative offices and storage rooms are down there. The side door is at the far end of that hallway."
Ryquist circled the desk, opened the door and looked down the four steps leading to the hall. "Okay. Why'd you bring the dog?"
"Walter loves to walk on the Quad. I meant to get my purse and leave through those doors." She pointed.
"How'd you happen to see the body?"
"I turned on lights in the atrium so I could find my purse—the switches are at the top of the stairs by the door—but I saw her feet in the doorway o
f the small gallery. I rushed over right away."
"Taking the dog?"
"What? No. I told him to stay."
"Did he?"
"No, but I got him before he got near the body."
"You touch the body?"
"Yes. I tried to find a pulse. Then I guess I sort of fell backward or something because the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor."
"What did you do then?"
"Grabbed Walter and came here to call nine-one-one."
"So tell me about this guy you had to get home."
"Richard Bjornson. The sculptures in there are his. He's a professor in the Art Department and he got pretty drunk during the opening. I couldn't let him drive, so I sort of man-handled him over to the parking garage."
"You man-handled him? How tall are you?"
"Five one and three-quarters." Chris was sensitive about her size. Small, cursed with curly dark hair tamed only by keeping it very short, and given her mother's whimsy in naming her "Christmas" because she'd arrived on the twenty-fourth, she'd been condemned to being underestimated most of her life. She'd learned to turn that to her advantage a long time ago.
"He was still capable of walking, but then Colin McCarty said he'd help and offered to drive him home so I took him up on it."
"Colin McCarty?" Ryquist's ballpoint hovered over his notebook.
"Professor of Drama. He was here at the opening too."
"So you left when?"
"I think it was just five. After we got him to Colin's car I went home."
"So you run into this McCarty and he takes over?"
"He walked with us from the museum."
"Anything happen during the opening? Ms. Page have any kind of dust-up with anyone?"
Chris squirmed uncomfortably. "Not during the opening but earlier. She created a nasty situation with the Mannerist show catalog, but I made arrangements to get it fixed. So, yes, there was a dust-up, as you say, but it was resolved by last Friday."
"What kind of nasty situation?"
Chris sighed. All the Fine Arts Division's dirty linen would be on display before this was over. "Elizabeth cut a scholarly article from the catalog. The author is the professor of Art History who arranged to get these paintings here." Chris waved in the general direction of the largest galleries. "She wrote an article to explain Italian Mannerism and her theory that they distorted anatomy for religious reasons, but Page cut it out without saying a word before it went to the printer. Understandably, Antonia was upset when she found out."
"Antonia?"
"Dr. Antonia Westphall. It was an unprofessional thing for Elizabeth to do."
"So how'd you get it resolved?" He was still watching her closely. Chris felt like a worm surrounded by robins.
"The dean gave me the funds to print the article with the same cover as the catalog. Anyone who buys a catalog will get it when it's off the press later this week. It was expensive, but what else could we do?" She shrugged, then pointed to the end of the counter where an eight by eleven plastic sleeve held a sign. "I put that sign there to explain." The sign announced, Coming soon! "Mannerism in the age of the Reformation" by Dr. Antonia Westphall. Free with purchase of catalog.
"Okay. So Westphall will get her article in print. She still mad about it?"
"Probably, but it's been resolved and she seemed grateful. She's up for tenure next year and this was important for her vitae."
"Some day you can explain tenure to me. Meantime, let's go over this again."
Chris went through the whole event for the second time, winding up her narrative with calling 911. Detective Sergeant Ryquist then began to run through it with her from the beginning, checking what she said against what he had written down.
Twice he asked about the time stamp on the phone message. Was she sure the answering machine was properly set to record the time? She was fairly sure, not having given it a moment's attention since she'd set it up months ago. Elizabeth Page had been alive around 6:00 p.m. It was apparent he was checking his own accuracy rather than trying to trip her up. Chris relaxed a bit.
Behind Ryquist, the coroner supervised the EMTs loading Page's mortal remains onto the gurney. Chris watched in fascination as they rolled it out of sight toward the freight elevator.
"One more time, Dr. Connery," said Ryquist, bringing her attention back to his face.
When they'd revisited the dialing of 911 for the third time, Chris asked, "Could I take Walter home?"
Ryquist shook his head. "In a minute. Now tell me what you did after you called nine-one-one."
Chris tried to remember. She fumbled around mentally.
Ryquist prodded. "Did you touch anything?"
"Maybe. I can't be certain."
"Did you stay right by the phone?"
"No, I went back to the gallery."
"Why?"
"I couldn't believe it. I thought I might be wrong."
"Did you take the dog with you?"
"No, I tied him to this chair."
"Turn any lights on or off?"
"Yes!" Chris remembered at last. "I turned on the gallery lights because everything was off and I couldn't see very well. I suppose I shouldn't have done that."
"Well, we'll be able to eliminate your prints from any others on the light switches, but next time don't touch anything."
"Yessir." Chris felt even less capable than she had earlier. "May there never be a next time."
"Show me those switches."
Chris led the way to the back of the museum, through the door to the elevator bay and the circuit breaker panels. Ryquist used gloved hands and a ballpoint pen to open the panel. He stood looking at the array, then put his hands on his hips. "Which ones did you turn on?"
"I turned on all of the circuits marked for galleries two and four. I don't know which lights are which so I just turned them all on."
"And they were all off? Not just one or two?"
"All of them," she acknowledged. While Ryquist stared at the panel, a thought penetrated the fog in her brain. "Why were all the lights off if Page was going to change a lamp? She of all people would have known which circuit ran which lights. She'd have turned off just the one she needed."
"I agree. She wouldn't have turned them all off if that's what she was going to do."
Chris was startled. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud.
"Well, Dr. Connery, let's take your fingerprints and you can go home. We'll be here all night, but I'll be in touch with you tomorrow. And I'm sending a cruiser over to pick up your answering machine tonight if that's all right." He flipped his notebook closed. "Lab'll check it out and get it back to you in a couple of days. Oh, and we need a list of all the people who were here at the opening."
"All the people who were here? I couldn't possibly! We have a guest registry, but not everyone uses it. We don't insist. People came and went. I can try, but—"
She did the best she could, but the list didn't come close to the number of people who attended. When she handed it to Ryquist, the thought she'd had earlier resurfaced. "Detective, there's something else. No one has cleaned up in here."
"Janitors don't work on Sunday?"
"I'm sure they do, but this stuff…." She waved at the plates, napkins and glasses littering the docent's desk. "This is all the caterer's responsibility. For some reason they didn't stay to clean up."
"Interesting." He pulled his battered black notebook out of his jacket pocket again and made a note.
By the time Chris and Walter pulled into her driveway, she'd begun to accept the fact that Elizabeth Page hadn't just fallen off a ladder. She'd been murdered.