Malice in Miniature

So that I couldn’t be called a liar, I spent about ten minutes on the room box, adding a few small rocks to the sandpaper “gravel” in the debate scene, and gluing down the stage, as promised. I knew Maddie would enjoy making posters and littering the ground with miniature trash, so I resisted those touches. Maddie would be delighted to do the research to see just what kind of trash they had in 1858 (a better topic than looking up obituaries of murder victims). I told her I was fairly sure it was too early for cigarette butts or metal soda cans.

As I dressed for my trip downtown I felt alternately like a spy, an undercover cop, and a sneak. When did I become less than honest with my family? When they started making it difficult for me to help a friend, I answered myself. I had to see Mary Lou soon, to bolster my resolve.

I chose neutral colors, plentiful in my wardrobe, for my outing—casual brown slacks, a gold-toned shell, and a long brown coat sweater. I felt ready for visits to a television studio and a jail. I hoped I didn’t forget to stop at the library for the only errand I’d owned up to.

My first stop was Rutledge Center where I arrived around nine o’clock. Mary Lou was right; there was no sign of crime-scene tape, and in fact there was normal activity at all the doors, mostly older people going into classrooms. I had a longing to take a class myself and made a note to pick up a catalog.

It made sense that the debate stage sets were being built and painted in the warehouse part of the complex, where I’d been yesterday afternoon, then would be transported somehow to the civic center auditorium. In times gone by the debate reenactment had been held outdoors, as most of the originals were, but one February rain in Lincoln Point destroyed that tradition and it had been held indoors for the last several years.

I knew it was unlikely that the Channel 29 studio itself was being used as a workroom. If my only purpose was to see the set, therefore, I had no reason to go into the east side studio entrance, where the crime-scene tape had been. But the Rutledge Center was a complicated setup, with its various walkways and interconnected parking lots, so it wasn’t surprising that I got lost and ended up entering the building on the east side. (A big wink, wink here.)

I was surprised (no wink here) that the door from the parking lot led right into a small waiting room for the television studio. It was empty this morning, except for its furnishings—a few mismatched chairs, a television set that was old even by my standards, and a rickety metal wagon with a coffeepot and condiments.

I looked around for a clipboard or some way to sign in and saw nothing of the kind. A window on the side wall opened onto an area that looked to my untrained eye like a control room. There was one woman at a row of desks that ran parallel to a bank of monitors and control panels. She had her back to me and to the electronics. I tapped on the glass, but she didn’t hear me. I noticed she was plugged into something, with long white wires hanging from her ears, her head bobbing from side to side. The iPod generation.

There was one door off the waiting room, with a hand-lettered sign that said STUDIO—NO FOOD Or DRINK. It did not say “no entry.” I tried the knob, pushed on the door, and nearly fell into the studio itself, a room draped in black on three walls. I recognized the fourth wall as the set for the morning news program. Enormous lights, not on now, hung from the ceiling; three serious-looking cameras were stationed on the floor like one-eyed sentries.

I figured this was the general area where Brad Goodman’s body had been found. Why else would the crime-scene tape have been around only this entry into the complex? I saw no evidence of a crime, however. The shelves full of vases and dried flower arrangements that made up the set looked shabbier than they did on my television screen, but otherwise nothing looked disturbed in any way.

I picked up a book from one of several stools located against the back drapes. I recognized the author as one who was recently interviewed on Chapter One, the channel’s book-review program.

For a moment I was lost on page seventy-two, where the book fell open in my hands. I read that whatever my age, I had the power to change my life, to live my dreams, no matter what disappointments I’d already experienced. Good to know. My mind drifted to dreams of my youth.

I closed the book and walked toward the back wall of drapes. What did I hope to see? A drop of blood would be nice (when did I start thinking this way?) or, better yet, something left by the killer. But there was no sign of blood, nothing toppled or broken. Silly of me to expect that, I realized. Clearly, I had no training for useful investigation.

I parted the black curtains and entered a pitch-dark area. Is this how Skip went about his business? I doubted it. But I couldn’t very well go around interviewing suspects or checking phone records and rap sheets. I heard a thud and stopped short, my breath catching. A wave of fear came over me. I was in what was essentially a blacked-out room, alone, at a murder scene, when I should have been home painting miniature park benches for my Lincoln-Douglas room box.

I needed light. I ran my hands up and down the walls, which had an almost sticky texture, unpleasant to the touch. I finally found what felt like a switch plate on the third try. I flipped the switch. A set of klieg lights flashed on, blinding me momentarily. I heard scrambling and saw two shadows, one fleeing away from me, the other coming toward me. I held my breath.

“Excuse me? This is a restricted area.” A woman’s voice, decidedly unhappy. It looked for all the world as if I’d interrupted a tryst in the folds of the curtains.

A woman in a flowered skirt with a handkerchief hem-line stepped from the shadows. Fortyish Nan Browne, hostess of several Channel 29 programs. She looked very put together, all buttons in place. I looked for signs of messed-up lipstick, but saw none. Either she was very quick, or I was wrong about the compromising position I’d caught her in.

I felt my face flush with guilt—that I was in the studio, that I’d exposed her to the light, that I wasn’t dressed as nicely as she was.

“I . . . I’m Geraldine Porter.” I was sure my stutter sounded loud and boorish. My craft-show beaded necklace paled in comparison to the delicate brooch on Nan’s black blouse. “We’ve met. Not that you’d remember. You’ve interviewed me a couple of times, once on that feature about the library literacy program. It was taped in the Old Glory Hotel downtown.”

Ms. Browne hadn’t said anything during my pitiful rambling. Her arms were folded across her chest, her face extremely pale.

Because I want to investigate the murder of a young man I never met. Because I thought I might see something that trained policemen and policewomen missed. Because I promised a neighbor . . .

What I said was, “The door was open. No one stopped me.” This was worse than when Skip had occasion to cross-examine me in a similar way. At least I knew he’d eventually buckle under when he saw a plate of my ginger cookies.

“Nobody answered.” Enough of this. I stood straighter. I had every right to be here. “I’m doing a miniature scene for the civic center for next Tuesday and I wanted to take a look around at the stage sets. I need to see what the set designers and artists have come up with for the backdrop for the debate.”

Not a strand of Ms. Browne’s very blond hair moved. She never cracked a smile. Quite different from her “happy talk” news anchoring. “You’re in the wrong part of the building,” she said.

She put her hand on my elbow as if she were a bouncer and I’d crashed a party at an exclusive club, and led me through the curtains and through the door back to the waiting room. She refolded her arms.

I let out long yoga breaths as I walked to my car. I was annoyed that I’d let myself be intimidated and feel guilty when I hadn’t breached security or done anything wrong. Why hadn’t I taken the opportunity to make a snide remark about her daughter’s not being good enough to earn a commission? And to suggest that she may have copied the actions of that mother in Texas?

As it was, for all my fright and tension, I’d learned nothing about Brad’s unfortunate demise or Zoe’s alleged hand in it. It certainly didn’t pay to be good.

Unlike yesterday’s nasty weather, today’s was bright and sunny, and I enjoyed a walk around to the north side. I climbed the few steps to the building and entered the enormous work area. There were no black drapes here, but large, open, warehouse-type windows. The workbenches were sparsely populated, with only three or four artists at work, and there was no meeting at the watercooler. As kids we’d always referred to “bankers’ hours” to mean short workdays; I wondered what artists’ hours were.

My new flats clicked on the hard floor; the sound echoed through the hall. I started down the first row between work-tables looking for a project that might be associated with the debate reenactment. I fingered a tapestry-in-progress that seemed meant instead for a medieval scene, with unicorns and swords. I moved on to a wooden stringed musical instrument under construction. There would be music, I knew, at the celebration, and this might be a period piece. I reached out to pluck a string, imagining soft chamber music.

This sound was a woman’s voice, deep and resonant, which caused me to inadvertently pluck a second string with more force than I’d intended. Something a bit off from middle C rang through the hall.

But this time I turned to see a friendly face. The tall, slender Stephanie Cameron—who apparently noticed my hand clutching my chest.

“It’s not you,” I said, relaxing my shoulders. I turned the next short breath into a smile. “These projects are wonderful. Are you an artist, too, Stephanie?”

“No, I’m everything else. I produce the shows, manage the TV scheduling”—she swept her arm in a large arc—“and oversee this area. Among other things. It’s a small operation with no rigid job duties. It’s pretty loose around here.”

I felt the need to tell Stephanie about my encounter with Nan Browne in the studio wing, ending with, “I was surprised I could just walk in.”

“Yeah, half the time there’s no one at the window and the door into the TV studio from the waiting room doesn’t even have a lock, I don’t think. And all the artists have keys to this side. They work such odd hours.”

It occurred to me that I didn’t know who had discovered Brad Goodman’s body. I mentally chided Skip—wouldn’t you think my nephew could keep me informed even when I didn’t ask the right questions?

I asked Stephanie now, putting it as delicately as I could. “Oh, dear, was it one of the artists who found . . . ?”

“Nuh-uh. And it’s a good thing, because most of them are so young, they might’ve fainted or something. It was one of the Channel 29 cameramen. He was very upset because he had his five-year-old daughter with him. He came in around nine on Monday morning, thinking he could show her around before anyone came in to work.”

“It makes me a little nervous, I’ll tell you. I came to work around eight this morning and the building was already open. But everything was okay, so I figured probably Ryan did it.”

“The security force, actually. But he wasn’t exactly sitting on the door, so . . .” She pointed to me with both hands.

“So I could walk right in,” I said. “It sounds risky, but I suppose since there are no big stars walking around, the center is not a huge attraction for thieves or the paparazzi.”

“I understand Brad Goodman took some awards in Santa Fe.” Thanks to my granddaughter, I sounded more knowledgeable than I was.

“There’s that,” Stephanie said. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but a lot of people question his tactics. Anyway, we also have a local TV studio with an audience of seventy thousand households, with a total of a quarter of a million people.”

Stephanie gave a hearty laugh and poked my shoulder. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Why are you here, by the way?”

The painting that was slashed. “Oh, just anything that’s related to the Lincoln-Douglas debate next week.”

Stephanie led me around the work spaces, noting that not many of the artists came in much before ten. “Then they work into the night,” she said, making a sign that from Maddie would mean “they’re nuts.”

A thought flashed across my mind. “Then there were a lot of witnesses to the vandalism of the paintings the other night?”

Stephanie banged her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Wouldn’t you know it. No one was around that night. There was a meeting of all the muralists and all the artists doing one-of-a-kinds over at the civic center to look over the venue, check measurements, that kind of thing. Funny coincidence, huh?”

Either that or someone knew the schedule. For some reason, I didn’t want to share that thought with Stephanie.

We checked out the woodworking projects (including the instrument I’d already pluck-tested) and sections of the background mural, which was being done in pieces by different artists, Stephanie explained, including Ed Villard, the man I’d met. The artists had chosen to set the debate in a formal room with wood paneling and portraits on the wall. The look would be similar to that of a rotunda in a government building, an easier scene to paint than outdoors in a town square, I imagined.

I learned why Mary Lou’s painting would be displayed outside the auditorium where my room box would also be placed.

“Hers is an outdoor scene, so it wouldn’t look right to have an outdoor scene of the debate, which is where it originally was, hanging indoors, which is how we’re presenting the reenacted debate.”

I let it go at that. Except to recall that the fifth debate in 1858 was scheduled to be held in a park but moved to a shelter on the campus of nearby Knox College when it started to rain. According to one source, that is. You never could be sure about history, Ken always said. It wasn’t even clear how many had attended the debate. Reports ranged between fifteen and thirty thousand. It was hard to imagine the sight, with that many people descending on the small town by train, horseback, wagon, and on foot.

We passed a wall of paintings where one portrait stood out in front of several that were stacked against the wall. “Buchanan,” I said, admiring the rich colors of his chair, in contrast to the deep black of Buchanan’s tuxedo jacket.

Probably Lincoln Point residents were the only Californians who’d immediately recognize the man who was president during Lincoln’s time in Congress. This rendering in oil gave the fifteenth president a more formal look than I usually saw, and also a more pleasant countenance. His jacket was unrumpled, his white shirt neat, and his bow tie carefully arranged. He had a smile on his long, thick face and looked like he’d just combed back his unruly hair and slicked down his bushy eyebrows.

“It’s a shame Brad didn’t get to finish the painting,” Stephanie said. At first glance it looked finished to me, but Stephanie pointed out some areas where the paint was not evenly applied and the chair Buchanan was sitting on needed work on the bottom. She sighed. “But at least it didn’t get slashed.”

At last, an opportunity to talk about the crime scene. “This is Brad’s work?” I asked. “I thought all his paintings were destroyed.”

“Yeah, the irony is that only one of Brad’s paintings was out here; the rest were in the back. So most of the paintings that got slashed weren’t even his.”

From behind me—a voice much deeper than Stephanie’s. I was startled, but I didn’t jump this time, maybe because I wasn’t alone. The voice belonged to Ed Villard, who was accompanied by Ryan Colson, the security guard, out of uniform, his stubbled head shining under the workshop lights.

“Indeed. I didn’t want to carry on about it when I met you yesterday, Mrs. Porter, especially with your cute little granddaughter all ears and so smart.”

Nothing won me over more quickly than a compliment to my granddaughter. Now I was truly sorry about Ed’s loss.

Ed glared at her. Apparently that was a demeaning remark, though I had great appreciation for murals myself. “I had a number of other projects I’d been working on. For the spring festival, for example,” he said.

Ed shook his head. “None that I’d been working on in this place.” This time his glare was for Ryan Colson. “Maybe if we’d had a guard who didn’t wish he were destined for Broadway . . .”

Ryan looked like he wanted to swing at Ed, but Stephanie intervened. “We’re loaded with talent in this building, Gerry. Ryan here is an actor in his real life. The next time you see him, he might be Stephen Douglas. He’s made the cut at all the stages for the auditions.”

“Ed’s probably right,” Stephanie said. She pulled out from the middle of the stack a large clipboard with a sketch on it. “Brad had this pencil drawing safe in the back room, but the final painting of it was right here in front of the stack.” She spread her long arms out. “So Zoe just started slashing whatever was in this whole row.”

I turned to study Brad Goodman’s sketch more closely. A young woman in an elaborate, many-layered, white Victorian dress, a quizzical look on her face. No one I recognized.

Harriet Lane, the nominal First Lady. I was aware that Buchanan, a bachelor, had adopted his niece when she was a young girl after both her parents had died. She was in her twenties when she made her debut as White House hostess.

Harriet was reputed to have been an attractive young woman with soft features, tall, poised, generous, and cheerful. She wore her ashen hair as most women of those days, parted in the middle and pulled back in a style that was half bun and half braids. But Brad’s interpretation of Harriet made her look like a very modern woman, with sharp features and a sensual expression. Someone I might see at a power lunch on one of my infrequent trips to a San Francisco restaurant.

“So we’re left with just this sketch for Harriet Lane,” Stephanie said. “It was supposed to be part of the stage set with Buchanan on one side of the podium and Harriet on the other.” She sucked in her breath. “Poor Brad.”

“He was a newcomer,” Ed said, with a shake of his head. “No one had laid eyes on him until he arrived with both a Buchanan and a Harriet Lane commission in hand a couple of months ago.”

“Brad had only been coming here for a few weeks. But he’d lived in town awhile and he was, like, still a colleague, you know?” Stephanie said.

“We’re trying to decide whether to put up this sketch on the stage where the painting would have been,” Stephanie said. “Like, to honor Brad, or something.”

“She’s not as cold as she sounds,” Ryan said. He turned to her. “Or are you?” His tone was semi-serious.

“What are the alternatives to using the sketch?” I asked, to defuse the situation. I realized that the stressful atmosphere probably had as much to do with the idea of a murder being committed on their home ground as with the loss of the newcomer Brad Goodman in their lives.

“Ed thinks he can do a painting himself, in a week.” She punched him playfully, her trademark gesture apparently. “He thinks he’s as good as Brad Goodman. But I knew Brad Goodman, and he’s no Brad Goodman.” She laughed at her not-very-original jab.

Ed was not amused. “We’ll see,” he said, then turned and walked away. There was a lot of that going on in the young crowd these days, but Ed was older than June and her peers by about twenty years.

Stephanie looked embarrassed. “That wasn’t very cool of me, was it? It’s just that Ed thinks he’s a genius. He says he’s related to Edouard Vuillard and that he was destined to be an artist. I think he actually believes that.”

“Yeah, Vuillard was a Nabi, Ed says, and then proceeds to give us a lecture on what that is. We get a little tired of his pontificating. He also has a lot of money and lords it over everyone with his top-of-the-line art supplies. But still, I shouldn’t have been so crass. Ed’s been trying to get his work in a city-sponsored event for years and always gets rejected. I hope they let him put his painting up this time. I can’t believe I made fun of him that way. Sometimes I get a little too wise, you know?”

“It’s the television crew. They’re taping us again today,” Stephanie said. “I lost track of time. I’d better get everyone together.” She took a walkie-talkie from her belt and spoke into it. “Calling all hands. Channel 29 is here. If you want to be famous, come to the north wing.”

Sure enough, a group of people and equipment was approaching where we stood. What sounded like a crew big enough to cover a presidential inauguration was really only five people, with Nan Browne in the lead.

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “That tall, good-looking black guy right behind Nan—he’s the producer. I have to go schmooze. Last time he came close to asking me to go out for a drink.” Stephanie rushed to greet the man who would make everyone a celebrity and possibly improve her social life.

I tried to make myself invisible (if not knocked out) as the television staff set up two cameras and a bevy of lights around one section of the work area. The focus was on a panel that I guessed was part of the debate mural.

I watched from the sidelines, partially hidden by the stack of paintings I’d been looking at with Stephanie and Ed. Both the unnamed producer and Nan pointed and shouted orders and the crew scrambled to follow them. I stood almost motionless through microphone testing and last-minute makeup applications on Nan’s face and that of one of the young female artists.

Out of nowhere it seemed, three rows of folding chairs appeared in front of the worktable that held the mural panel. Young people with paint-decorated clothing sauntered in and took seats. I wondered why Mary Lou hadn’t gotten a notice about the taping until I realized these were probably the muralists only. One man with a gray beard stood out—Ed Villard sat on an end seat at the front.

When Stephanie was free of logistics duty, she motioned to me to come out of the shadows and join her in the back row. “This is supposed to feature a—quote—representative muralist,” she whispered, “who just happens to be Nan’s daughter, Diana.” She pointed to the young woman wearing a paper collar, her face and eyes receiving attention from a makeup person.

A special monitor had been set up and placed far above the floor so we could all see what the cameras were picking up. Now and then the audience was panned (not as far back as Stephanie and me, I was happy to see), but most of the airtime went to Nan Browne’s interview of Diana Browne.

Except for the shared name and identical blond hues, a viewer would have no clue of the nepotism at work at Channel 29.

After five minutes, on the third or fourth question, Ed Villard lumbered up out of his chair, making a great deal of noise as he pushed it back. He exited right, muttering. I expected he’d be edited out of the final version of the show.

The taping was over in twenty minutes, which included one or two close-ups of Diana’s mural panel and another of herself, her blond hair flipped out accordingly. The equipment was collected, folded, or wrapped up as appropriate and put into large carrying cases with great efficiency.

As soon as Stephanie left me to help with the chairs and to chat with the handsome young producer, I zipped to the back of the hall, near the door. I took a notepad and pen from my purse and positioned myself to intercept Nan.

“What an informative interview,” I said. (Was that schmoozing?) “But I’m surprised you didn’t mention how one of the artists was murdered right in your studio. Wouldn’t that be big news for your audience?”

Nan looked at me as if I were a piece of lint that had fallen on her immaculate brown twill jacket. It took her a minute to recognize me as the interloper of this morning.

“You again,” she said. Then her face brightened as she noticed my notepad. “Are you a reporter? You should have said so. I thought you were just curious.”

“Today’s taping is not for our news program, which is very limited, as you know. We stress features over current news since it’s so difficult to compete with the Internet or even a daily newspaper.”

“What you saw today is for a documentary feature on this year’s Lincoln-Douglas debate from the point of view of public art. Our purpose is to highlight the talented men and women who have come together to serve the community in a special way.”

“Was the murder victim, artist Brad Goodman, one of the people you highlighted earlier for the documentary?”

“Mr. Goodman was a very talented artist who wasn’t shy about sharing his skills.” I made a note: Nan thinks Brad pushy? “Of course our hearts go out to his family and loved ones.”

Nan frowned, but her desire for good press seemed to win out. “We’re doing everything we can to maintain and improve security at the facility. That’s all for now.” She pulled a card from a pocket on the outside of her briefcase. “Here’s my card. Please feel free to call me if you need anything else.”

I knew it wouldn’t be too long before Nan Browne found out I wasn’t a reporter. I wondered how quickly I could acquire press credentials.