Chapter 1: Murder at the Museum

Author's Note: This is the first chapter of an in-progress work on Wattpad. If you would like to read more of Glass Lane, you can find the first 4 parts here.

Gold light flooded the hall. Tall pillars, smooth and white, lined the space and basked in the glow of lamps placed carefully around their bases. A flood of voices swelled in the space, dotted with rounded tables, their surfaces drenched in white linens. Everywhere, the black and white clad dots of the museum's donors moved and mingled among one another. Many held sparkling glasses of champagne in their gloved or bejeweled hands.

The crackle of a microphone broke over the crowd, as a bright voice chirped through sharp and clear.

"Thank you so much, everyone. Myself and the team here at the museum want to thank you for being a part of this special night. That's why we wanted to take this moment to remind you all just how much we appreciate the work that you do to keep this museum alive."

The guests milled back and forth, settling into their seats. The auction was over, it was time to get to the main event of the evening. Each of the guests glittered with the wealth and opulence of the city's elite.

Mel Halloway watched the crowd with a mixture of envy and wonder.

"I think the woman at table twenty-three is wearing jewelry worth more than my student loans," she mumbled to Joe, the photographer standing beside her.

The paper had sent both of them to cover the event. It was one of the biggest nights in Manworth City's high society. Anyone important to the city was there on show. Scattered across the white-clad tables were the Manworth's titans of business, who had come down from their towers of steel and glass to grace mortals like Mel with their presence. Sitting beside them were the socialites, celebrities, and old-money names that kept the rest of the city ticking over behind its thinly veiled glamor.

Mel could tag most of them by name.

Marlow Hathorn. Peter Richards. The Dowager Duchess of Rothsmore, who had become somewhat of a social spectacle, while living in luxurious exile far away from her war-torn country.

Of course, the biggest of them all was the Cross family.

The founders of Manworth City, the Cross family lived in one of the biggest and most expensive penthouse spreads in the High Side - the most exclusive district in town. Their names were everywhere, on everything. Streets were named after them. They sat on the boards of banks, businesses, and charities like the National Institute of Art History, which was the biggest museum in town.

Mel could just make out the Cross family table at the front of the room, close to the stage.

Notoriously insular, they had the whole space to themselves. Mel took a note of each of them, scribbling notes in her notepad and wondering what secrets they whispered across the candle-laden centerpieces.

Hampton Cross, the head of the family and heir to the Cross fortune, sat with his back to the audience and his face to the stage. The patriarch of the family was an infamous businessman with an eye for flipping struggling properties. Carrying on the legacy of his forefathers, he had overseen the building of high-side and a thousand other properties in Manworth City's other districts.

Beside Hampton sat his sparkling beauty of a wife, the old-school heiress Barbara Crompton. A half dozen other Cross family members sat around them, including their eldest daughter Charlie.

Mel was surprised to see Charlie Cross there. The eldest of Hampton's brood, the disgraced socialite had been all over the headlines for a drunk driving incident in the weeks before the gala.

"Do you think I could get an interview with them?" Mel whispered to Joe. "Maybe Charlie would talk. She likes to give interviews, I hear, if you ask her about what designer she's wearing"

The photographer, an old hat at the Manworth Journal, rolled his eyes and chuffed under his breath.

"I wouldn't bother. A family like that? They're not giving words to a rag like The Journal. I'd stay focused on the little fish. You want an interview? Get talkin' to someone at the back of this room."

Mel was about to snap back with some sharp retort when the microphone crackled over the quiet once more.

"And now, for the real award of the night. The Manworth Patron, the most prestigious honor the museum awards to a citizen who has gone above and beyond in the name of the charity's goals."

There was a hushed whispering. A small band of string players, perched on a smaller stage nearby, began to play a quiet waltz.

"It takes a lot to claim this award," the woman on the stage went on. "To become the star of the Manworth Patrons, there's a lot of work that has to be done. The person who wins this award doesn't just give their money. They give their time, their heart, and their commitment to a better tomorrow."

The audience clapped, but there was a reserved quality to it. The presenter on the stage went on for a few more seconds before finally getting to the big moment.

"So, without further ado, I present this award to none other than Mr. Hampton Cross, the star of this city and the star of this museum. Come up, Mr. Cross!"

Hampton Cross stood to a roar of applause. He raised his hands in the air as he backed away from the table and made his way to the stage. He wants us to think he's humble. Mel noticed that his wife, Barbara, was beaming with pride. Her eyes were wide and welling with tears. Hampton covered the short distance in a few broad steps and leaped up the stage's stairs in a few more large strides.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the award from the beaming presenter. She backed away and surrendered the microphone to the tall, wide-shouldered patriarch.

"I'll tell you, this award is completely unexpected," Cross began. He held the glass and platinum prize tight to his body, balanced between two hands as he leaned into the microphone. "The work I do for the museum, and this city, it doesn't come with a hope of a reward. It comes down to having heart and a desire to see Manworth City thrive as the metropolis my great-grandfather envisioned."

Mel rolled her eyes. Joe laughed under his breath and kicked at the floor.

Manworth City was indeed the metropolis that Cross claimed, but it was far from thriving.

Plagued by crime, poverty, and corruption, Manworth was a haven for the faithless and the cruel. Organized crime families ran the streets, while the police took bribes from high-ranking officials and low-level scum alike. Honest jobs were getting harder and harder to come by, and more and more were finding themselves starving and broken.

For those who didn't live in the luxe comfort of the High Side, life in Manworth City was a daily struggle.

Mel wondered how much Hampton Cross knew about that struggle.

Who are you kidding? The silent thought oozed with resentment. He's a part of the machine that creates this city's suffering.

Cross went on for twenty or thirty more seconds, thanking some of the other social kingpins in the room and paying his respects to his wife and his daughter who beamed nearby.

After name-dropping a couple of his recent business ventures again, he thanked the audience and stepped back from the microphone. Hampton Cross dipped his head in gratitude and began to retreat from the stage as the presenter resumed her center-stage spotlight.

"What a twat," Mel grumbled under her breath.

"Hey," Joe jabbed, sharp as a knife. "Watch yourself. Remember, we're on a gig."

Mel rounded on him, determined to get as good as she got, but before she could jab back, there was a strange rattling sound. She looked up and saw the chandeliers swinging gently above them. At the same time, the gentle murmuring of the crowd was split by the screeching of the hall's fire alarms.

White lights flashed against the walls, breaking up the pristine golden light. The short, sharp bursts of the alarms roused the crowd into panic. The chaos followed quick as lightning.

One moment, the rosy-cheeked presenter was back at the microphone, begging everyone to stay calm. The next, everyone was running scared from their seats, heading for the doors and the safety of the open air beyond.

"What's happening?" Mel yelled over the alarms. She and Joe were safe from the onslaught of panicked patrons from their spot in the media booth. Faces filled with fear flooded past the base of the platform. Women heaved up their skirts and husbands grabbed their wives by the hands as everyone in the audience fled.

Joe was already packing up his gear.

"We get out of here," he told her without looking up. Joe Raskins hadn't just spent years photographing galas. His early years at the Manworth Jornal had been spent covering the street beat. So, he knew a thing or two about when it was time to run.

Packed up in seconds, he leaned forward and kicked open the little door that separated them from the last of the gala's fearful guests. The old man skipped the stairs and lept down. Safely on his feet, he looked up and held a hand out to Mel.

"You coming or what, kid?"

Mel took one last look at the stage.

The alarm blared louder than ever. A few of the guests remained, standing beside their tables, eyes wide with confusion. The Cross family was being scuttled away, surrounded by men in black suits with black glasses. Is that some kind of secret service? Mel had no time to answer the question. Her focus was ripped to the stage, where Hampton Cross was being swept away behind the curtains by the same obscure men in black garb.

The mad urge to follow him possessed Mel. The reporter in her wanted to see where they were going, see what was happening, but there was no time. Another sound, this time an undeniable explosion, rocked the museum's grand hall with a ferocity that almost knocked Mel to her feet.

"Let's go!" she heard Joe shout. She didn't need to be told again.

Taking his hand, Mel tucked her notepad into her pocket and lept from the press stand.

What the hell is going on?

Mel knew they would find their answers stalking the streets of Manworth City.

© E.B. Johnson 2024