A Death at the Gallery

By Pat Jakobi

When Trudi Olson arrives to staff the art league's gallery in a small Texas gulf coast city, she finds a dead man on the gallery's mezzanine. Homicide detective Val Forster and her partner initially think that finding the killer will be relatively easy. After

• Language: English
• Publisher: PJP Books
• Release date: Aug 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988569312

Book preview

1

WEDNESDAY AROUND NOON

It was only April, just a week past Easter, and already the humidity was higher than the temperature. It was hot. Not so bad when a light wind came off the gulf, but it was close to noon. The morning breeze had already abated, and the afternoon’s offshore wind had not yet powered up. The town of Egret Bay was relatively quiet, enjoying a respite between spring break and summer tourists. A squabble of gulls flew overhead, their raucous cries echoing off the roofs of the century-old downtown buildings.

An older woman toting a purse and a large bag had just opened the front door of the Egret Bay Art League Gallery, letting the door close behind her as she rushed to turn off the alarm. Knowing she only had about fifteen seconds left before the alarm went off, she quickly entered the numbers on the touch pad and was rewarded with the buzz that told her that she had succeeded.

She glanced around the display on the gallery walls in the spacious room that had once been the site of a high-class women’s millinery boutique. At the back, you could still see the mezzanine where the milliners created custom hats for the wealthier women in town. Opening a small closet next to the reception desk, she set her purse and tote bag on a shelf and began rummaging around in her purse for her cellphone. After debating whether to remove her jacket, she decided against it, even though the gallery was rather warm. The tank top that went with her pantsuit was a little too revealing for her aging upper arms. One would think summer was already here. The winter along the Texas gulf had been unusually cold and foggy, and now it looked like summer was going to be just the opposite.

Pulling a copy of the checklist for opening the gallery from the volunteer instruction manual, she returned to the front door and switched the closed sign to open. Staring across the street, she noticed that the ice cream shop was not yet open. A collection of children and their parents were waiting impatiently outside the door.

Working her way on the checklist toward the back of the gallery, she switched on the overhead lights and looked around. The exhibit this month was particularly good, she thought. She paused before the three small watercolor paintings she had entered, thinking that she would switch the beach scene from a blue to a white frame the next time she showed it. Unless, of course, someone bought it. With a little spurt of pride, she recalled she had sold a similar painting the previous month.

She resumed her tour around the room, ticking off each of the mandatory opening tasks. Open sign up. Done that. Lights on in gallery. Check. The trashcan in the kitchenette next to the bathroom had been emptied the previous night when the janitorial crew had cleaned the gallery. Light on next to bathroom. Check. Supplies on the shelf next to the stairway for wrapping purchased artwork. Yes, but a little low. Before anyone came in, she thought she’d go upstairs to the mezzanine and bring down more bubble wrap and bags.

As she neared the top of the stairs, she became aware of a rather obnoxious odor emanating from the mezzanine. Oh Lord, she said to herself, there may be problems with the upstairs restroom again. She wondered why it always seemed to be on her volunteer day that the upstairs toilet plugged, or the trash wasn’t picked up, or–remembering one horrible ordeal–a rat got stuck in the heating vent. She grabbed onto the end of the railing and, with its help, pushed herself to the stop of the stairs and onto the mezzanine floor. She stared at what was before her, raising her hand to her mouth to stifle what might have been a scream. She then turned around and took the stairs down at an unwise haste, if only to get away from what she had seen.

She thought about that later. She could have fallen going down the stairs. The next person in the gallery would have found her at the foot of the stairs and there would be two people to cart out. Hopefully, however, she would have still been alive. She was sure the person on the mezzanine was not.

Fumbling through her pockets, she pulled out her cellphone. With trembling fingers, she dialed 911. Emergency 911, how can I help you? a man’s voice asked. All she could say was Help.

Thank heavens, the dispatcher at the other end was calm. How may I help you?

I think someone has been killed. Or died.

Your name and address, please.

Trudi. Trudi Olson. I’m at the Egret Bay Art League Gallery on Harbor. 1823 Harbor.

I’m sending response vehicles to the site, so please just calm yourself and tell me why you think someone has been killed.

Because someone is dead on the mezzanine and there is a body.

Do you know this person?

I didn’t look that closely, she said, and hung up.

She thought she might throw up. She opened the door to the bathroom near the bottom of the stairs and closed the door behind her. The face of that person upstairs kept coming back into her consciousness. If she hurried, she’d be out of the bathroom before the police arrived. She could hear the sirens in the distance, getting closer.

Two police officers were entering the front door as Trudi came out of the bathroom. Her nausea had passed without incidence, but she still felt queasy. Seeing Trudy, a rather imposing uniformed policewoman near the door yelled, Come out here, immediately. Trudi was only too happy to oblige. She was beginning to shake and for some odd reason thought she might cry.

Are you the person who called 911? the policewoman asked.

Trudi nodded.

Is anyone else in the building? the policewoman asked.

The man on the mezzanine, but he’s dead. I’m almost sure he’s dead.

And you are?

Trudi Olson. I’m the volunteer here today.

OK, Ms. Olson. How many entrances to this building?

Just two, this door and the back door.

Does the back door go into the alley?

No, into a garage and the door in the garage goes into the alley.

Are you sure no one else is on the premises?

I don’t think so. I didn’t look. I’m sorry.

People were beginning to gather in front of the gallery. The children in front of the ice cream shop were trying to cross the street, much to the consternation of the four adults holding them back. Two more police officers emerged from a second car and started forcing the crowd back, away from the gallery door. Tears started to roll down Trudi’s cheeks. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t figure out why she was crying. Nothing had happened to her except she had found a body.

Pulling a glove on her right hand, the policewoman opened the closet door next to the reception desk and peered in to make sure no one was there. She then moved with her partner toward the back of the gallery. They glanced behind the counter of a small kitchen at the end of the gallery floor and opened the door to an adjoining broom closet. The bathroom door was open, and the room was empty. Reaching the back door, the policewoman’s partner pulled out a flashlight. She covered him as he opened the door. There’s no lock on this side, he said as he pushed the door open and cautiously looked in, his arm extended, following the beam of his flashlight. He took two steps into the garage, circling his flashlight, as she held the door open for him. Glancing behind the door, he lowered his arm. Clear.

No lock?

Not on the inside of the business. There’s one on the garage side.

And no car in the garage.

Correct.

Their weapons held to their side, the two slowly climbed the short set of stairs to a landing and then disappeared behind the wall as they turned and continued up the staircase to the mezzanine. A couple of minutes later they descended the stairs, guns in holsters. The policewoman was on her cellphone talking rapidly to someone as she walked toward the front of the gallery.

Trudi stood on the sidewalk just outside the gallery door, watching them, her anxiety decreasing and being replaced with a cold sort of fear. But what was there to be afraid of?

Another car pulled up in the no-parking bus stop zone on the corner. A man and a woman, neither in uniform, got out and looked around. The woman, seeing Trudi standing next to the front door of the gallery, asked Are you the one who called 911? Trudi nodded. The woman showed Trudi her badge. Detective Val Forster, from Homicide. This is Detective Sammy Pierson, motioning toward the young man accompanying her. We need to get some information from you. Don’t leave.

I can’t leave. My purse and my car keys are in there. Downstairs in the closet. She realized she was still clutching her cellphone. Lifting it so the woman could see it, she asked, May I make a phone call? I need to call Oscar.

Oscar?

Our board president. He needs to know what’s happening. Besides, I can’t leave…. She almost said that she couldn’t leave without locking up but caught herself.

Yes, call him. You were here by yourself?

Yes, I am the volunteer for today.

The woman detective nodded, as though that explained everything. Or perhaps that it explained nothing. Trudi couldn’t tell.

The younger detective motioned to the policewoman. Perez, you’ve checked everything out?

Yes. No one else inside.

And the deceased?

Upstairs, on the mezzanine.

Would you take care of Ms… He looked at Trudi. Olson, Trudi said. Ms. Olson. See what she can tell you about her activities this morning.

More spectators were gathering on the sidewalk and flowing over the curb into the street. The two uniformed police from the second car continued to push people back, establishing a no-trespassing zone with their yellow tape, wrapping it around the palm tree near the curb to block off a space leading to the gallery’s front door. Perez approached Trudi, waving aside questions from the spectators.

The policewoman gave Trudi a smile. My name is Perez, she said, as she gently took Trudi’s elbow, raising the yellow tape so they could step under it. Why don’t you come over to my car where we can have some privacy.

I have to call Oscar, Trudi said.

You can call him from the car. It will be quieter.

Oscar Peters, president of the board for the Egret Bay Art League Gallery, was out walking his dog when the call came from a sniffling and upset Trudi. He listened to her rather confusing narrative and then hurried back toward home, frazzled by the news that there was a body stretched out on the gallery’s mezzanine. Are you sure, Trudi? he asked. A body? In our art gallery? But Trudi didn’t give him much information. Whatever she saw, she didn’t want to describe.

There was absolutely no place left to legally park in front of the gallery when Oscar arrived, so he pulled his battered pickup into a loading zone. Putting on his blinkers, he jumped out as spryly as his bulk and his knees would let him.

You can’t park there, yelled a policeman, abandoning a small group of people and headed in Oscar’s direction.

I just got a call telling me to get over here, Oscar yelled.

The policeman stopped and turned toward Officer Perez as she was helping an older woman into the passenger seat of her squad car. Did you call for this guy? he asked. Perez said something to Trudi, who nodded in return, and then the policewoman motioned Oscar to join them.

Whatever Perez was anticipating as the president of the art gallery, Oscar put that to a lie. Big, burly, bearded, in a short sleeve T-shirt and bib overalls, Oscar Peters looked more like a farmer called from his field than head of an art gallery. She stepped forward to meet him.

Officer Perez, she said, extending her hand.

Oscar Peters, he replied as he squashed her fingers. What on earth is going on?

Your gallery worker, Ms. Olson, she said, as she nodded in Trudi’s direction, found a deceased person upstairs in the mezzanine.

Deceased person, he thought. Dead would do just fine. Poor Trudi. He glanced in her direction and gave her a smile, which she weakly returned. He could see she had been crying, but she seemed to be together now.

Who? How? What happened? Are you sure?

We’re waiting for the M.E. to confirm. As to who the deceased is, I don’t know at this point. We will let you know as soon as possible.

M.E.?

Medical examiner.

And Trudi?

She is, understandably, upset, but seems fine. We need to talk to her to get more details.

Do you want me to go inside? Oscar asked. He really didn’t want to go inside.

We can’t allow anyone inside until the examiner and CSI personnel are finished.

CSI? Like in the TV program?

Crime scene investigators, yes.

How long will the gallery be closed? Oscar asked.

Hard to say. We need to finish here and then the area will need to be cleaned. Offhand, I would say a few days at least.

He sighed. It was April, the sun was finally out, the day was warm with an abundance of the humidity ahead over the summer. People would be getting out and about. It was slow right then, but soon would begin to be a good time for customers.

The homicide officers are inside, Perez said. They will need to know more about the gallery, who has keys, et cetera. I see by the sign on your door that the gallery is closed Monday and Tuesday and reopens today, Wednesday. They will need to know who has been in the building since you closed on Sunday, who lives or works in the adjoining buildings, et cetera. I need to talk to Ms. Olson before we can let her leave. I know that Detective Forster from Homicide will want to talk to both of you as well. Probably not this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow morning at the station. Right now, I need just the particulars of movement, ingress and egress, etc.

Ingress and egress, Oscar thought. Why can’t law enforcement people use standard English? A brief glance toward Trudi reminded him of the officer’s statement about her well-being. As for Trudi, he said to Perez, she has lots of friends. I can take her home when we’re finished here. I’m not sure she should drive.

Sounds good.

Oscar nodded. He leaned over and gave Trudi an awkward hug through the open car door. At that, she started to tear up again, but kept it in check.

I brought my art catalogs and was looking forward to a quiet afternoon to shop online for new brushes, she said. I didn’t even get a chance to finish the opening checklist.

We’ve got more important things to think about. I’ll take you home when we’re finished here. I don’t think you should drive in this state. This police officer says that the homicide people want to talk to you. Trudi looked at him and frowned at homicide. We need to answer any questions they have for us and then we can go home. Where’s your car?

It’s in the parking garage.

Good, it can stay there overnight. I’ll drive you home when they’re through with us here, he repeated, to make sure she registered what he was saying.

Trudi smiled. Dear Oscar. And then she shook her head as though in bewilderment. Oscar, I’m not sure what I saw. I want to forget what I saw. I don’t want to remember. But I’m not sure I can forget. Oh, Oscar, whoever that was up there, his eyes were open, and I think he was screaming, or had been screaming, and his face was all bloody…. She started crying again. He took her hand and patted it gently.

There, there, Trudi. It will all be OK.

2

THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS

Perez motioned to a bench anchored to the sidewalk at the front of the café next to the gallery and asked Oscar to wait there. I’m going to let Ms. Olson sit in my car until the detectives are ready to talk to her. She’ll be more comfortable there. Oscar looked at the gathering crowd and nodded. Perez then went around the car, settling herself in the driver’s seat and turning the engine on to activate the air conditioner. She reached into the back and pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to Trudi, who accepted it with gratitude. She hadn’t thought about being thirsty, but the sight of the water bottle reminded her that she hadn’t brought lunch. However, the idea of eating did not appeal to her much at the moment. She looked over at the front window of the Foghorn and could see that everyone in the café was staring outside at the activity on the sidewalk.

OK, Perez said, pulling out a notebook and pencil, let’s start at the beginning. When did you arrive at the gallery?

I got here about a quarter to twelve. I like being a little early.

Then what?"

I opened the door and turned off the alarm.

You have a burglar alarm?

Yes, we do.

And the alarm was definitely on when you entered?

Oh, yes. There is this little beep-beep when the door is opened and then it buzzes when you turn it off.

And then?

I went to the closet by the desk and put my things away and got my volunteer badge out–Oscar likes us to wear our badge–and then I pulled out the checklist…

Checklist?

Yes, we have this checklist of what we’re supposed to do when we open. Since we only volunteer one or two times a month, it’s easy to forget the process, so we have this instruction manual with a checklist. I looked at the checklist and the steps came back to me, and I started opening up. I put on the open sign, turned on the lights, looked around to see if I needed to do anything before potential customers arrived, that kind of thing.

And did you see anything strange or unfamiliar?

No, it was all nice and clean, the wastebaskets had been emptied and new bags put in them by the janitorial service last night. Everything was just fine.

The janitors came last night?

Yes, every Tuesday.

Perez made a note of that.

Did you look in the garage?

No, there was no reason to. We only use it for miscellaneous storage.

Is the garage used by anyone else?

The woman who lives upstairs, over the gallery. She parks her car there. We rent it to her.

OK, so everything looked good downstairs?

Yes, it was all fine except that we were a little low on wrapping supplies. You know, bubble wrap, kraft paper, that kind of thing. We keep additional supplies upstairs on the mezzanine, so I went up to bring some downstairs. I don’t like going upstairs to get things and leave the gallery unattended when there are customers, she confided.

Then you went upstairs?

Yes. Trudi hesitated, then continued. About halfway up, I began to get a bad smell. We have a small bathroom upstairs that has given us problems in the past and I thought that there might be plumbing problems. That upset me because I don’t deal well with plumbing problems and I have no idea who to call if the toilet is stopped up except Oscar, and I don’t like calling him all the time.

She paused again and Perez didn’t interrupt.

When I got to the top of the stairwell, I glanced around the corner toward the bathroom, and that’s when…that’s when…when…

That’s when you saw the body? Perez suggested.

Yes. He was lying–at least I think it was a ‘him’–next to the conference table. His face was turned toward me, and I remember I thought I would scream, but I didn’t, I think. It was so awful. He looked like he was screaming back, and there was blood…. She could go no further.

You’re doing very well, Trudi, Perez said. We’re almost done. What then?

I went downstairs and called 911. I remember I almost fell going downstairs because I was in such a hurry to get out of there.

Did you touch anything on the mezzanine?

Oh, heavens, no. Just the banister in the stairwell. I always hold on to the banister when I’m going up and down stairs.

Thank you, Trudi. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry you had such a horrible day. Why don’t you join your friend, Perez said, pointing toward Oscar sitting on the bench by the cafe, and as soon as we can, we’ll let you go home.

Inside the gallery, Detectives Val Forster and Sam Pierson donned gloves and booties and started their initial examination of the gallery as they waited for Doc Whittle, the medical examiner, to arrive for the official confirmation of death. Once that was done, the body could be removed, and the CSI team could start their work.

Are we looking for anything in particular, Val? Sam asked.

Never had a death in an art gallery before. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve been in an art gallery before, she answered. This is new territory for me. She looked around the large room. The unbroken wall space spanning most of its length was covered with works of art of various colors and sizes. About a third of the way back, there was a small alcove to her right with a reception desk and what looked like a door to a closet. There was another small alcove near the back on the left, just past the gallery space. Possibly a kitchen. Perez had mentioned a bathroom. That was probably back there as well. She could see a door at the rear under a red EXIT sign, and, to the right of that door, the start of a staircase going up to the mezzanine.

Val opened the closet door next to the reception table. Not much there–office supplies, name tags, a purse and tote bag. The two detectives then walked to the alcove near the back. Val was right about the kitchen. Refrigerator, sink, and cupboards. No stove or microwave. All the cupboards except the two under the sink were locked. She opened the two. Nothing there but dish soap, a few vases, and assorted boxes of plastic bags. A small closet next to the kitchen sink contained a wash sink and shelves of cleaning items. A narrow wall, about four feet wide, separated the kitchen and closet from the entry to a single use restroom.

There was a set of shelves across from the restroom and next to the staircase that led up to the mezzanine. The shelves held bubble wrap, packaging tape, printer paper, and other supplies. The stairway was broken by a landing six steps up, and then it angled ninety degrees, continuing to the top. Standing at the foot of the staircase, Val observed that anyone on the stairs below the landing could probably be seen from the gallery, but the wall of the staircase going up hid the rest of the steps from view. The door to the garage stood between the restroom and the beginning of the staircase. Perez said she had already checked the garage and they would leave that until later. They ascended the stairs to the mezzanine, careful not to touch the handrail.

It was warm enough in the building that the odor emanating from the mezzanine was beginning to seep down into the gallery. They stopped at the top of the stairs and looked toward the body lying on its back next to a large rectangular wooden table. There were facial injuries to his upper lip and a deep gash over his right eye. They could see where blood had congealed under his head. He was wearing dark trousers and a long-sleeved black T. His tennis shoes were black as well. His bowels had released, the source of the odor. Offhand there were no other obvious signs of injury. A pair of glasses with a broken lens lay not far from his head. No other items near the body. No phone visible. Val glanced around the room. There were a dozen or