A Gift for Murder

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

I searched for Scott as I approached the G & B booth but didn't see him. One of the young reps I'd seen there before noticed me and waved me toward the back area.

I interrupted an argument. Raised voices, the sounds mostly indistinguishable, spilled from inside the enclosure, but it all stopped abruptly at my entrance. The last words, in Grantwood's voice, hung in the air. "Dammit, I don't need that!"

The space seemed crowded at first, until I realized there were only four people already there. The small area made it seem fuller.

Stan Grantwood stood in the middle of the room, glaring at Scott Brandon. Bits of Grantwood's hair stood on end as though he'd run a hand through it, making the gray strands shine more prominently. A flush colored his face and his stance was tense, too tightly controlled. His hands clenched into tight fists and his breath heaved in and out in harsh pants. He looked furious.

Ellen Spencer, on the other hand, appeared almost sick. The blood had fled her face, leaving it grayish beneath the tanning-bed color. She swayed. Without looking at the others, I moved a folding chair behind her and pushed her gently into it. "Put your head down," I told her. She nodded and complied. I grabbed a bottle of water from a case nearby, screwed off the cap, and handed it to her. She took a long gulp that seemed to steady her. Her color improved.

The other person in the room was a young man I didn't recognize, but who was probably one of G & B's salespeople.

I looked over at Scott.

"What happened?" I asked.

Everyone started to answer at once.

"Nothing," Grantwood growled. "An accident."

"I just found it," Spencer said.

"Another threat," Scott answered. He nodded toward the box but added, "Don't touch it. Just look."

The box was maybe four inches square and two inches deep, plain white, with no markings. The lid sat beside it, also unmarked. Beside that was a piece of white copy paper. It had been folded several times, leaving wrinkles in the paper, so that even open, it didn't lay quite flat on the table.

Written in pencil, in large, careful block letters, the message on it said: DO NOT GO THROUGH WITH THIS MERGER!

At first glance the block letters looked like the work of a first grader. But the precision of the curves, the symmetry, and the neat spacing of each character indicated a more adult control in the creation.

I looked into the box. Shards of porcelain, maybe two good handfuls of them, made a layer an inch thick on the bottom. Bright paint colored many of the pieces. They almost glowed amidst the snowy dust of broken china and all the raw edges. Whatever it had been wasn't just broken. Someone had thoroughly smashed it. None of the shards were larger than a quarter and some had been reduced to powder or grains the size of coarse sand. It took me several long moments to recognize what I was seeing, and it set off an odd twist in my stomach when I did.

"It was one of those little angel figurines," I said. I didn't particularly like them, most certainly wouldn't buy one for myself or anyone else, but it seemed almost a sacrilege to see the broken pieces delivered this way, like a tiny, smashed body in a square white coffin.

"The latest Vittorio Angaro," Spencer said, the words so devoid of expression they just hung there. No one quite knew how to react.

"You have an exclusive license?" I asked.

"For the last fifteen years." Grantwood stared at the box and color rose in his face again. "Someone has a sick sense of humor."

"Really?" A new voice intruded as a man pushed aside the curtain and entered. "Someone want to explain what's going on?" Detective Gilmont looked at each of us in turn. His eyes narrowed when his gaze landed on Scott Brandon and remained there for a second too long. Scott stared back with a look almost as aggressively cold, but he didn't say anything.