To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Three: Agents and Graves

I assumed they were in Geraldine's office. There weren't a whole lot of places in the museum for investigative teams to effectively meet up. I couldn't see them congregating in our 'Art in the Gold Rush' exhibit, where art, photographs, and artifacts paid homage to the creation of California. I couldn't imagine them conversing before displays exploring effects on Native communities, nature, technology, and the economy. It wasn't exactly a place to conference. Neither was our Whitehill prize exhibit, where pieces that ranked in the annual competition and the Whitehill private collection were displayed, or Jon Leehaven's personal exhibit showing his works.

I briefly wondered how Jon felt about the theft. I expected he wasn't thrilled his name was attached to what'd happened, even if only as thinly stretched as having an open exhibit at the time of the theft.

I made my way through the halls of the museum, avoiding the strained faces of my coworkers who could only afford a tight nod as they hurried by. I walked slowly towards the crime scene, still sectioned off, and covered in broken glass. As hard as I tried to avoid looking in the room, my eye caught the evidence markers that littered the wooden floors, and I paused by the entrance still blocked off by tape. Several of the markers were scattered around the small emergency exit door blended into the wall.

The door should've caused the fire alarm to go off after fifteen seconds of continuous pushing; only then should the door have opened—but no fire alarm had gone off. Only the security system had blared the night before, yet the door had still served as an escape route for victorious thieves.

I continued my slow footsteps up the stairs to Geraldine's office. I heard August's voice before I saw him.

"Gramma, did you have anything to eat yet? Do you want some tea?"

August's voice was gentle and concerned, but I didn't hear Geraldine's response before another voice cut in.

"Ms. Vaycker is here? Where is she?" That voice was gruff and demanding as it continued a conversation I hadn't heard the beginning of. It was a tone I was sure August loved. I hurried as I made my way closer.

"She's in her office. I can escort you there after I get my grandmother some lunch," August replied. There was a sharp bite present then under his professional tone. It was cooly polished, but I knew August like I knew the museum. There was a bond, a familiarity, a habitual understanding that allowed me to walk, hear, and see blind.

Geraldine's voice joined the conversation, gentle as she tried to appease her grandson's concerns. "I'm fine, Gus. Please show them the way to her office."

I could almost feel August's masked unhappiness, one he most likely soothed with a hand through his hair.

"Lead the way," the harsh voice spoke again.

I turned the corner through the open door, coming face to face with a scene I could easily see captured on canvas. Geraldine sat regally behind her glass desk, her expression cool and unreadable as she faced forward. August stood next to her with angry creases around his eyes and a stiff stance. He grappled with professionalism and anger as he stared at the two others in the room, his hand sternly coming down to his side from his head. One of the strangers was half-turned, startled as I almost ran into him in my quick entry. The other had her back to me, but she turned at the jolted sound the man made as I came to a sudden stop and stepped back.

"Oh, good. They were just about to come find you, Eleanor," Geraldine calmly announced.

My breathing was slightly elevated from rushing in, but I sucked in a quick breath of air and responded.

"Good afternoon, Geraldine."

Geraldine smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good afternoon, Eleanor."