Chapter 2 - The Empty Pedestal
The room died a second death.
Derek pointed his pen at the empty felt cushion where the championship ball had sat for thirty-four years. There was glass, there was wine, there was the silver helmet—but the primary piece, the signed leather football bearing twenty-eight signatures from the 1984 championship team, was completely gone.
"What do you mean it's not there?" Washington snapped, breaking free from Big John's grip and rushing over. "It was in the case five minutes ago!"
"It wasn't," Derek said firmly, holding up his clipboard. "I took photograph catalog entries at ten this morning. The ball was present. But when the glass broke just now, only the helmet and paper were inside. Look at the velvet lining—there's no dust outline where the ball was resting. It was moved before the glass was smashed."
Every eye in the room turned toward Rosalina, who was sitting on the floor, wiping blue and purple frosting out of her eyes with the sleeve of her ruined thousand-dollar dress.
"Don't look at me!" she spat, her voice shrill and cracked. "I didn't touch your stupid ball! I just... I bumped the glass!"
"You didn't bump it, girl, you threw a punch at it," Harriet called out from the second row, her hands still shaking.
I stood over Rosalina, my knuckles throbbing slightly under my purple gown. "Where is Samuel’s ball, Rosalina?"
"I don't know!" she screamed, attempting to stand, but her slick heels slipped on a deviled egg. She landed hard back on her hip. "Why would I want a smelly old leather ball?!"
Washington knelt beside her, his face flushed with embarrassment and confusion. "Rosalina, if you took it as some kind of joke, just tell Mom where it is. That ball is insured for forty thousand dollars, but to my family, it's—"
"I didn't take it!" she yelled, slapping his hand away. "Ask your precious mother! She probably sold it to pay for this cheap party!"
That was the moment Washington’s spine finally snapped. He looked at his wife—smeared in dip, green velvet ruined, venom spewing from her mouth—and then looked up at the empty walnut stand.
"Derek," Washington said, his voice dropping an octave, "call the police."
"No!" Rosalina barked, her eyes darting toward the front door. "No police! Washington, are you insane? My father is running for city council! If the press gets wind of police at a domestic dispute—"
"This isn't a domestic dispute," I said, stepping between her and the hallway exit. "This is grand larceny and desecration. Derek, call Chief Bradley. Tell him Samuel’s house has been broken into from the inside."
Derek was already dialing. Outside, the pregame music from the television flickered as the network cut to a commercial break. The halftime showcase was forty-five minutes away. The national museum broadcast crew was currently parked in a satellite truck three blocks down the street, waiting for my signal to bring the cameras inside.
Rosalina struggled to her feet, her updo destroyed, her face a mask of dried cream and foundation. She glared at me with an intensity that went far beyond spite. This wasn't just a bitter daughter-in-law acting out at a family gathering; there was desperation in her eyes. Panic.
"You think you're so pure, don't you, Evelyn?" she hissed, wiping her jaw. "You sit in this old house with your dead husband's memory like a martyr. You have no idea what Samuel was actually doing before he died, do you?"
The room went dead silent. Even the television seemed to quiet down.
"What did you say?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
"Rosalina, shut up!" Washington pleaded, reaching for her arm.
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"No!" she shouted, pointing a sticky finger at my face. "Ask her where Samuel went every Tuesday night for the last six months of his life! Ask her why there's a safety deposit key in the back of his workbench that doesn't belong to your family bank!"
My heart hit my ribs like a sledgehammer. But before I could answer, the front door rattled, and two local police cruisers pulled into my driveway, their red and blue lights flashing across the velvet curtains.
