The stately but aging Sinclair Edison Art Museum building rose majestically out of a park-like setting in the middle of the busy city. Constructed of durable Indiana Limestone, the museum's main building soared for five stories. A copper-sheathed turret from which viewers could see the meandering Rocky River topped it like a shining beacon. Previously, it had been the forty-five-room mansion built in 1891 by crus ty old Zachary Edison, an early immigrant from the West End of London. After arriving in this country during the early wave of immigrants from Europe, he plied his craft of carpentry and cabinet making, eventually becoming a successful major construction contractor and moreover, fabulously wealthy. That was the start of the vast Edison financial empire that extended over the years into railroading, oil, and other lucrative businesses. His estate comprised sixty acres of flowing meadows and serene forests near the city. Wild game also abounded there for regular hunting by the family and their friends.

Old Edison appreciated the finer things in life and spent much of his fortune on collecting fine art. His mansion had become a virtual museum before he died. Fortunately, he recognized the enormity of the collection and hired a trained European curator for the art while providing a sizeable endowment for upkeep and future acquisitions. He also designated in his will that the mansion and its contents be forever a charitable trust and open to the public for free viewing. His grown children were also beneficiaries of similar largesse, in their youthful years, and even more after his death. They each had received prime real estate and homes befitting the wealthy of the day. Their personal incomes emanated from Edison oil and railroad interests. The male members of the family frequently worked in the corporate offices of several highly profitable industries. Both male and female siblings sat on directing boards of such corporations. The entire family was in tune with the need to have a wide community involvement that included the promotion and preservation of fine art. While some local residents considered the Edisons too paternalistic in their gift sharing, the majority lauded them for their public efforts to improve social and cultural conditions throughout the region. It was soon expected that whenever a social or financial crisis appeared, the Edison Foundation stepped forward to help ease or erase the emergency.

Friends and visitors to Sinclair’s mansion in its heyday marveled at the vast number of extraordinary innovations in the building. Edison was interested in the newest science and innovations for gracious living that would eclipse other rich persons in the region. His home was built with many advanced and curious inventions. The major one chosen by the rich visionary was the presence of two electrically powered elevators, one for the family and one for the household staff. A small silent dumb waiter also lifted food from the efficient basement kitchen to the second floor dining room. All the butler had to do was to remove the freshly prepared food to a warming kitchen before placing it on the broad dining table. The systems worked well, saving time, energy and providing efficient service. In addition, the expansive library had glass front cabinets that lit up when the doors were opened. The cabinets held many books that were leather bound and carefully selected for family reading.

To please his wife, Catherine, who bore five of his children, Edison turned one large sunroom into an aviary to house the free-flying exotic birds she enjoyed. He further indulged her with an outdoor aquarium filled with tropical fishes and water lilies. During the winter, a temporary shed covered the ponds to prevent freezing. For these status symbols and consistent fine entertaining, Mrs. Edison was the envy of the town’s uppercrust women.

Now, as an art institution, the Edison was often acclaimed as one of the nation’s prestigious small museums. The superb collection of European Impressionist paintings and Chinese Porcelains distinguished the seventy-year old art center throughout America. Individual art connoisseurs, art lovers, and resourceful museum curators had painstakingly coordinated and collected the coveted artwork over a span of fifty years. There was sufficient depth in its collections that other museums scrambled to borrow pieces of the Edison’s art to include in their own special exhibitions.

In addition, the museum was well endowed by three generous generations of the wealthy Edison family. The Edisons and the socially elite Board of Governors prided themselves in that no public money was ever used for support. The yearly capital fund raising and art acquisition campaign appealed to rich donors both locally and nationwide. Each year the gift giving exceeded the increased goal set by the Board. Very few art museums in the world could boast of that fact.

One Spring morning, impeccably dressed museum director Lawson M. Graves adjusted his stylish round, wire-rimmed glasses and unlocked his own office door. From a fashion point of view he could have easily stepped out from a Joseph Abboude advertisement in The New York Times Sunday Magazine. His massive walnut paneled office was once years ago the spot from which the original owner masterminded several businesses and fortunes. Normally, Lawson’s punctual and super efficient secretary Jan would have been in the outer office for some thirty minutes before. This day, Jan was out sick with the flu. Her mother, with whom she lived, called Graves at his home the night before to say Jan would return in a few days so as not to infect others with her germs. While he thought that was wise from a health standpoint, the director needed her there to work on his new proposal for docent training. The present program was disjointed and took too much time to produce an efficient, interesting tour guide.

Usually sunny and bright, the office this day was dark and foreboding. Lawson never closed the draperies. He liked to look out the wide windows onto the luxuriant green space and the award winning elegant English Garden on the slope below. Each day, fresh flowers from the garden decorated the public spaces in the museum and also in the administrative offices. Somehow, the vista had an inspirational effect on him, almost therapeutic. Many of his best ideas for acquiring and showing art surfaced during his time there in the office.

Reaching in the semi-darkness, he felt on the wall for the light switch. The lamp in the far corner cast a soft glow over the room. He walked over to the window, drew open the draperies and found to his horror, a man's body on the floor.

Chester Ammons, the burley chief of security, arrived within two minutes of Lawson's urgent summons.

"Take a look behind the desk."

"Jesus! It's Mr. Cranston from Horticulture."

"You know Mr. Graves, I'll have to call the city police. They will need to investigate this." Not waiting for a response, Ammons immediately got on his cellular phone to the Metro Police District Office, asking for homicide.

A visibly shaken Lawson sat on the couch wiping his worried, sweating brow with his Cerulean Blue pocket-handkerchief. He didn't quite know what to say or do next.

"Chief, how did he die?"

"I would say that the knife blade planted in his back did it. Murder, Mr. Graves, murder!"

"Why? Why here in my office? The police will think I did it. I must call my wife and the Museum attorney right now."

"Sir, please use the phone out in the secretary's office. Nothing in here should be touched since the police will consider it a crime scene." Ammons went back to his portable phone to alert his security base office of the emergency. He put the institution's internal disaster plan into action. No one was to leave or enter the grounds without Ammons' permission.

Lawson left his office to make several calls. Ariel, his wife of ten years was stunned by the news and said she would drive over to be with him. Frank Ernst, the museum counsel instructed Lawson not give any kind of statement to the police or to the press without legal representation. He would also hasten to the scene.

In time, several police cars arrived on the grounds with sirens screaming. Lawson wondered why did they have to make so much noise, since the unfortunate man was already dead. He braced himself for what was to be an exhausting day.

It was not yet time for the museum to open, so the parking lot had only a scattering of employee cars. The homicide officer in charge was Captain Theodore Dorsey who ordered the building surrounded. No one was to enter or leave without a very good reason. Chief Ammons had already made that clear to his own security staff.

Dorsey and three other investigating detectives entered the office area, all a bit out of breath. Not waiting for the elevator, the quartet had hurried up the long Grand Staircase to the second floor. It was ironic that Dorsey received this assignment. After twenty years of meritorious service, he was up for retirement in a month. He had hoped for a quiet exit from the Metro Police Force to an equally quiet life down state in his cabin on Lake Bernard. Now, Dorsey supposed his retirement would be put on hold until this case was solved. He hoped that the case would be solved in a short amount of time. Lake Bernard’s succulent brown trout were daring him to lay an irresistible dry fly on the water as a temptation. He was anxious to land a few early in the morning when the sun was just coming up and the water still and waiting.

"Mr. Graves? I'm Captain Ted Dorsey of the Metro Police." The veteran officer immediately recognized Lawson from the media blitz last year when "A Mary Cassatt Retrospective" opened at the museum. The Director's picture was in the newspapers and was interviewed on one of the local public television station. Lawson was particularly proud of that exhibition since he was the curator. Hanging the show was a pleasure he had missed since assuming administrative leadership seven years ago.

"Yes, I'm Lawson Graves, Director of the Museum. I am stunned by this horrible tragedy."

"Where is the body, Mr. Graves?"

"Mr. Ammons, our Chief of Security will show you." He waved them on through the outer office. Chief Ammons solemnly nodded to the group and led them into Lawson's office.

By now, the puzzled museum staff had assembled at the bottom of the Grand Staircase wondering what had happened. The policemen on duty there would not let them mount the stairs. Lawson heard the commotion and came out to stand at the landing. He told them what he knew and urged them to return to their work places. The small group dispersed slowly, whispering to each other as they went.

Attorney Ernst reached the entrance simultaneously with Ariel, chic wife of the director. She was clad in an expensive Navy knit suit, and a floppy white straw hat. Ariel’s chestnut brown hair flowed from beneath her fashionable chapeau and barely touched her shoulders. The hatband was a delightful cherry red. Her elegant image begged to strut down a high fashion dress designer's runway to the applause of an adoring throng. Of course, all her other accessories matched in color, material, and price. A young police officer posted at the door at first refused her entrance. He relented when the portly and rumpled Frank Ernst, out of breath, patiently explained to the officer why they both should be admitted. Ariel was the first to reach Lawson.

"Lawson, darling, are you O.K.? You look awful." Silence. The burdened man looked away and shook his head.

"No, I'm not O.K. A dead man is in my office and I was the one who found him there. Give me a break, Ariel."

"Well, I came right away. I was on my way to the Zenith Club's charity brunch. They've promised a significant gift to the museum this year."

The couple continued to spar like that until Captain Dorsey returned to the outer office area.

"Of course, Mr. Graves, you know there must be a complete investigation and we need your full cooperation. Your Security Chief has been helpful, but he wants to talk to you and your lawyer before answering any more questions. You might want to do the same. The knife that apparently killed him is a strange design. Can you identify it?"

Lawson sighed and sadly said, "I believe it is the same African Baule knife I have used for years as a letter opener. It was always on my desk." Dorsey wrote in his notebook and grunted to himself while looking at Ariel, and marveling at how well dressed she was so early in the morning. Lawson felt the pressure of the silence and passively introduced them. His studied composure was approaching the breaking point. He wondered, "What will happen to the museum after this tragedy -- and what will happen to me? This looks very bad indeed."

Before he could conjure up logical answers to his own questions, Ernst whispered some legal advice in his ear. Lawson nodded his head in agreement and sat down on the reception couch waiting for Dorsey's investigation to continue. After a half-hour of questions about the deceased and his job at the museum, Dorsey dropped a bombshell statement.

"My immediate impression is that I think the deceased was stabbed elsewhere and he either walked, or the body was brought here to your office. It’s curious also that his clothing is quite dusty and full of cobwebs. Your office is spiffy clean."

Settling into a deep leather chair, Dorsey said, "I have several more questions, but you need not answer them all at once. Why would his assailant kill him like that? How did he get in here if your office was locked since last night? Of course, the Coroner will make the final judgment on violent crimes like this. Now, tell me who has a key to your office door?"

For a moment, all in the room were stunned by the detective's forthright declaration. After an eternity of silence, Lawson spoke to the last question with incredulity and a shaking voice. "Perhaps a half-dozen people." Lawson ticked them off, "The janitor, Jan my secretary, the security office, my assistant Betty Porter, and of course, myself."

"Don't forget darling," Ariel interrupted, "I have one too. You know how you misplace little objects, like keys." She then announced to no one in particular, "Because Lawson often forgets to take his house key, I've had to get out of bed to let him in on late work nights." Lawson winced at this bit of private information and dejectedly nodded his head in agreement. Dorsey wrote all this down in his notebook.

"When I examined the body I noticed he was clutching something in his right hand. Have you any idea what it is? Take a closer look." Lawson went to the body and knelt down to see clearer.

"I think it looks like a piece of white plastic -- the kind they use to identify plants in the garden and the greenhouse. I can't be sure. He's gripping it so tightly."

"Well, the Coroner will find out for us sooner or later. Right now, we need more information on the deceased. One of us should notify his family."

"So far as we know, he had no family. He spent all his waking hours in the greenhouse, or on the museum grounds. I guess you could call him a 'workaholic." Lawson explained how Desmonde lived in a tiny cottage on the museum grounds near the greenhouse. It used to be part of the servants’ quarters when this was a residence years ago. The owners had many servants who lived in the main house and also in other structures about the grounds.

"Perhaps I should tell you that ‘Desmonde’ is his first name. In addition to his excellent work on the grounds, he was always experimenting with seeds and flowers. A few years ago he developed some magnificent hybrid roses for our award winning English Garden. Betty, my assistant, can give you more details. She is in charge of human resources and would have any papers about Desmonde. Right now, I need a cup of coffee and a few minutes to gather my thoughts." As if on cue, Betty Porter the assistant, rushed into the office, out of breath and crying.

"I just heard the news. Poor Desmonde!" Ariel rushed to comfort the upset woman. Her distress dramatically increased when allowed to view the body. There was no consoling her.

Dorsey wondered about her loud distress and if she and the dead man had some personal relationship. Lawson was quick to pick upon Dorsey’s questioning stare and said, "You probably guessed that they were very good friends. I don’t know whether they were social outside of the work area. Other museum staff might know better." Dorsey shrugged his shoulders and wrote in his book.

"Later today, Mr. Graves, we would like you to come down to the District Metro Police Office and make a formal statement. Someone there will take it all down for you to sign. When the inquest is scheduled, the judge may call on you for more information."

"Thank you, Captain Dorsey. I'll get there soon after lunch. As you might imagine, I need to inform my staff and the Trustees about this tragedy. Perhaps we should close the museum to visitors for the day."

"That, Mr. Graves, is your call."

At this time, the Metro Police photographer and the Coroner's assistant arrived to perform their duties of recording the murder scene and removal of Desmonde's body. Before they could finish, Dorsey left the building to follow up on an urgent call from the police dispatcher who needed him to investigate a reported drive-by shooting on the East side of town. Gang warfare in the city had erupted again and the police force was terribly short of personnel.

Ariel remained in Jan's office consoling the distressed Betty. Lawson reluctantly left his own office to allow the building support staff enough time to clean the bloodstains from the carpet. Mr. Perkins, building supervisor, insisted on removing the entire carpet. He suggested later replacement. The cleanup process exposed an original hardwood floor, which was promptly cleaned and polished. The whole process took less than two hours to finish. The building people speedily did their work.

Lawson sat in Betty's office and made phone calls to trustees and other influential friends of the museum. He thought it proper that they should hear of the situation directly from him. A consensus of the Board of Trustees prompted an emergency meeting to be set for that very evening. Lawson was pleased with the overwhelming support he received.

"Ariel, thanks for taking care of Betty while I contacted the trustees. We will meet with them tonight." Betty came out of her despair long enough to say, "I 'll set up the conference room for the meeting, but could I have the afternoon off?"

"Why of course, Betty. I'll call Jan and see if she is well enough to come tonight and take notes at the trustees meeting."

Ariel spoke up, "Don't disturb Jan. Anyone with the flu doesn't need to come out among a group of people. I can take notes for you." Prior to their marriage, Ariel was a budding journalist and was accustomed to reporting on events and doing interviews.

"Then it's settled. Please go home Betty. Ariel and I will take care of everything this evening." Betty gathered her purse and jacket and left. Dorsey dialed a number on his cellular phone and spoke a few words to his second in command. He pressed the off button and made a note in his book.

Lawson crossed the room and put his arm around Ariel in an unusual show of affection. The couple melted into each other for mutual support. An apologetic voice broke the momentary idyll. Perkins said, "Sir, your office is ready to use again. Will there be anything else?"

"Thank you, Perkins. Please tell the others how much I appreciate their help." The supervisor nodded his head and left.

Later, the anxious couple had hardly settled in Lawson's office when the telephone jangled. It was Captain Dorsey.

"Dorsey here, Mr. Graves. Just checking on a couple of items, and I have a little information for you." Lawson punched a button that put the call on the speakerphone so Ariel could also hear the conversation.

"First the information -- there were no finger prints on the weapon, and we still have no motive. We sure could use some ideas. Perhaps another round of interviews with your staff might help." Lawson assured Dorsey that he would ask for staff cooperation with the investigators.

"Did you have other questions or concerns, Captain?"

"Oh, yes -- the Coroner removed that piece of plastic from the deceased's hand. You were correct. It is a plant marker. I'm a little confused about what's written on it. What does ‘Camellia X cranston/ violetta /22’ mean?" Lawson wrote the cryptic information on his desk memo pad.

"Good Lord!" Lawson exclaimed. "Cranston must have cracked the hybrid genetic code for color! Excuse me, Captain, but this is incredible news and needs some interpretation." Dorsey waited patiently.

"As I understand it, flowers and plants are usually limited to certain shapes and colors. Genetic manipulation by a horticultural expert can produce some other varieties that are not natural. Cranston was one of those geniuses who experimented with Camellias and other flowers for years."

"Go on, Mr. Graves."

"Look at the plant tag inscription again, Captain. The first word, 'Camellia', is the genus, or biological classification of the plant. Some people refer to it as the family. The 'X' shows that it is a cross of two or more original plants. A hybrid plant may put out exotic flowers and colors, but cannot reproduce itself from seed."

"So, to reproduce, a new graft is necessary?"

"Right. Now, the word, 'Cranston' suggests that as the developer, he named it for himself – perfectly legitimate in the scientific world."

"What about the word, 'violetta'?"

"I can only guess that it means a shade of purple. The '22' stands for the number of grafts, or generations it took to create the color."

"So Cranston must have been working on this for years?"

"Exactly. Camellia flowers are usually white, red, pink, or a combination of those colors. Never has there been a purple blossom. If my assumptions are correct, Cranston may have developed a scientific marvel!"

"Thanks for the botany lesson, Mr. Graves. You have just explained a possible motive for the crime! Someone must have suspected what Cranston was doing and wanted that special plant enough to kill for it. Would it be worth money to the owner?"

"All the seed and plant growers of the world would pay handsomely for the patent, or privilege of producing and merchandising a purple Camellia. It would be worth perhaps millions!"

"Mr. Graves, will you tell your security chief to seal off the greenhouse until I get there? I'm on my way, although I suspect the plant in question might be gone." Without waiting for an answer, he hung up.

Lawson and Ariel were stunned by the news and sat astonish. Recovering from the initial shock, Lawson phoned Chief Ammons, and asked him to close the greenhouse and potting shed until further notice. He did not elaborate.

The Museum Greenhouse was nestled in a grove of specimen trees some distance from the main building. Lawson and Ariel hurried along flower-edged brick paved paths and over a replica of the Japanese Bridge that impressionist painter Claude Monet had constructed in his garden about a hundred years ago in Giverny, France. Monet’s graceful bridge later became a focal point of many paintings of the elaborate gardens by Monet and other impressionist artists. In later years, in spring and summer, droves of photographers descended on Giverny to focus on this famous bridge. The gardens became the subject of many books and magazine articles making it the centerpiece. The quaint wooden trestle at the Edison crossed a small softly flowing stream that had been diverted from the Rocky River. A similar stream diversion was created in the Giverny gardens to create the lily pond for Monet. The stream’s rambling presence and burbling sounds as it cascaded over rocks added to the ambiance of the museum's perennial gardens and prized water lilies. Many museum visitors from all over the country would spend hours in all seasons luxuriating amongst the scented blossoms and lovely trees. Such was the horticultural amplitude as provided by Desmonde and his garden crew. No other public gardens of this magnitude existed anywhere in the region.

Captain Dorsey had not yet arrived, but Chief Ammons stood solidly at the main entrance to the Greenhouse. All the horticulture employees were milling about outside and pestered him with questions. Ammons looked relieved to see the Director arrive.

All attention turned to Lawson who patiently told the group that the Metro Police would investigate the circumstances surrounding Desmonde's death. He asked for their cooperation. Their insistence on more information did not end with his explanation.

Shortly, Captain Dorsey accompanied by two plainclothes detectives and one uniformed officer rounded the potting shed and confronted the group at the entrance. One of the detectives carried a large black briefcase marked "Police Lab." The other nervously fingered a professional looking camera strung around his neck.

Dorsey and Graves exchanged quick greetings before entering the greenhouse. The weary detective posted the uniformed officer outside with instructions to keep all others away while he investigated the premises. Both detectives waited for their boss to indicate what needed to be done inside the building.

The warm humid air of the greenhouse had the expected scent of soil, fertilizer, and growing plants. In the main room large ceiling fans slowly revolved. They caused a gentle breeze to stir in the space. Hundreds of young green plants and exotic flowers sat on waist-high tables, each in a clay pot with a white plastic identity tab stuck into the soil. The floor was damp with the constant humidity peculiar to a greenhouse. Numerous plant growing lights hovered over the tables and cast a greenish glow over everything.

At the far end of the greenhouse, two doors guarded additional spaces. One door was marked "Supplies," and the other "Private." All the horticulture workers knew that Desmonde did his special work behind the latter door. Few of them ever got to set foot in let alone spend any time in that area. Desmonde was very secretive about what he did there, until he would unexpectedly unveil a new bloom, or variant plant. He delighted in displaying his horticultural capability and flower magic. A few of the museum staff complained of Desmonde's "grandstanding," but that only increased his desire to confound his detractors. Needless to say, the plant genius had few real friends among the museum’s personnel.

Dorsey and his two assistants went straight to the door marked "Private." Looking at Graves and Ammons, he said, "I don’t suppose either of you has a key for this?" When neither answered in the positive, one of the officers took a medium sized crow bar out of the satchel he was carrying. He first tried turning the knob and when the door did not open he looked at Captain Dorsey who simply nodded. The door easily yielded to the pressure of the crow bar and slowly swung open. Stepping back, the officer made room for his boss to enter first.

"Thanks Officer McHenry."

"Piece of cake."

"Mr. Graves, and Chief Ammons might like to come in with me, but let me remind you, this is a crime scene and nothing should be touched or moved." Not waiting for an answer, Dorsey slipped on lightweight latex gloves and moved ahead into the dimly lit interior. Ultraviolet lights bore down over several individual plants on the tables in the room. A frosted glass ceiling provided soft illumination that some plants like.

Chief Ammons spoke up and said, "Captain, I assume that you have a proper search warrant?" Without a word, Dorsey fished a folded document from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over to the Chief of Security, who quickly scanned it. Lawson looked on.

"While I don’t expect to find it here, where would this special plant be Mr. Graves?"

"Perhaps we could look on the plant tags of the larger plants first. Then we should try the smaller seedlings next."

"Well, they all look the same to me, and nothing in here is blooming right now."

"If anyone discovered Desmonde’s secret, I would imagine the plant would be long gone and maybe we’ll never see it for a fact!"

After a tense half-hour search of the room, Dorsey was ready to stop looking. He sat down on a stool and started making notes on a pad. Lawson paced back and forth between the plant tables trying to put this tragic incident into some logical perspective. After a minute or so, he noticed that some portion of the floor sounded hollow as he stepped on it. Just as a slightly dejected Captain Dorsey was leaving, Lawson called him back to listen to the floor sounds.

"Sounds like a cavity underneath the floor boards."

"Should we look to make sure what it is?"

"McHenry! Come in here and bring that crow bar with you!" A few minutes later they were all peering at a three-foot opening in the floor! They saw an array of large pipes running through the cavity in the ground. Some of the pipes were old enough to have a crust of reddish rust. Lawson was first to speak; "Now I remember! This is the very old utilities tunnel from the original heating plant to the main house which is now the museum."

"You mean it runs underground about a thousand yards or so?"

"It’s a strange story Captain. From some historical documents and original architect drawings, Old Mrs. Edison was terrified of fire and to ease her mind, Mr. Edison had the builder to take out any planned fireplaces and devise a remote steam heating system. One set of these pipes carried the steam through the tunnel into the main house each winter. The other set returned the hot water back to the heating plant to start the process over."

"So what we have is a narrow underground passageway>"

"Yes. Desmonde must have discovered it and found out he could crawl through without anyone seeing him enter the museum after hours. He was always a very clever and secretive man."

"Then we must find where the exit is located in the other building. Let’s go!"

Lawson and Ariel led the way for the whole entourage of city police officers, museum security, and grounds workers as they rushed to the main building. Of course, when they arrived at the rear door, Captain Dorsey would not let all the gardeners enter. He tried to explain that this was a crime scene and should not be disturbed by so many people tramping over possible evidence. With some grumbling, most of the rejected persons went about their regular work amongst the trees and flowers.

"I recall from the architect’s plans that the steam tunnel exited in the basement and rose to the upper floors by way of a concrete shaft that equally distributed the steam pipes."

"Then, Mr. Cranston could visit the museum on any floor by climbing the shaft."

"That’s how he must have entered my office. I’ve never noticed any opening. In fact, I had forgotten about it until just now."

By now, the anxious group had reached the second floor, hoping to discover some opening or "secret panel" in the office wall. An earnest search began. Lawson, Dorsey, and the other officers tapped on wall paneling and the floor expecting to hear a different sound. In the meantime, Ariel had ducked into the private bathroom to repair some of the wind damage to her hair and hat. A shriek rang out! It was Ariel’s voice. Dorsey was there first with his service revolver drawn. That precaution was unnecessary as Ariel stepped through the door to calmly announce, "I’ve found the shaft exit."

There it was – a panel of wood was ajar on one wall of the bathroom. It became obvious that a bathroom was the ideal place for distribution of steam and hot water. The shaft was behind the loose panel.

"Alright. So Mr. Cranston could come and go as he pleased. But why?"

"Maybe he spied on Lawson," Ariel added. That way he knew what the museum’s business was all about. You know, reading any papers left out on the desk. Stuff like that."

"How about that, Mr. Graves?"

"That was impossible. Jan was meticulous about cleaning up the office every evening. Everything was locked in the files in her office, not mine."

"Did you check your desk this morning after finding Cranston’s body?"

"No. I was too upset to do it then. I’ll do it now." He looked, but found only one unopened envelope on the desktop. Lawson held it up to the light and said, "It’s in Desmonde’s handwriting!" Dorsey and Ariel rushed across the room to the desk, eager to see the contents of the envelope.

"Open it Lawson!"

With trembling hands, he instinctively reached for the Baule’ knife letter opener, but sadly remembered that it had been used to kill a man a few hours earlier and was in police custody as evidence. He quickly slit open the plain envelope with the paper scissors from his center desk drawer. A single sheet of folded paper was withdrawn and he read aloud,

The listeners momentarily maintained a stunned silence, and then everyone dashed over to the desk looking for the mentioned special plant. It was not there! They all spoke at once – excited and curious about both the letter and the missing plant.

It was Captain Dorsey who brought the group back to a calm state. He urged them to search carefully throughout the office area, but not to alert the other staff as to the problem. Dorsey suggested, "If the plant thief is the same person as the murderer, he, or she must be a museum employee."

"How can you be so sure?" Lawson asked in a trembling and weary voice.

"Let’s review what we do know and proceed from there. First, we have a dead body in your office, Mr. Graves. The deceased is your employee who secretly gets inside the main building through an old forgotten utility tunnel. Next, the dead man is not well liked around the museum, even seems a bit weird. He is killed with your own letter opener knife. The motive appears to be theft of an unusual plant developed by the deceased. One female museum employee shows total distress at his murder. Now, we need to find out who murdered him and where is the Purple Camellia." The Captain’s cellular phone beeped. "Dorsey here. Yes. I see. Thanks." He rang off.

"That’s all well and good Captain – I can’t believe that you are about to propose gathering everyone like Hercule Poirot does in an Agatha Christie novel to dramatically announce the remorseful culprit?"

"No, Mrs. Graves, that only happens in detective novels. Our scientific methods of crime solving involve a lot more sureness than depending on voluntary self-incrimination."

"Then, who is it?"

"Patience, Mr. Graves. If we rush to judgement, the guilty one may remain unknown forever and the prized plant perhaps destroyed either deliberately or inadvertently by an unsophisticated thief who doesn’t know its importance and potential financial value."

There was a knock on the door and Betty came into the room. Everyone’s attention was riveted on her and waited to hear some pertinent question or important announcement. She simply said, "If you didn’t guess it already, Desmonde and I were romantically attached to each other." A dramatic pause heightened the suspense. Betty continued, "We met secretly at night many times here in this office so that others might not know that Desmonde was onto a stunning discovery. He would not tell me what it was and I didn’t care. I just wanted him. Believe me, I loved Desmonde. I loved him too much to do anything to harm that shy soul."

This revelation caught most of the gathered by surprise. It was Captain Dorsey who spoke.

"I was expecting you to return. When you left earlier today, supposedly for home, one of my officers followed you. You never got there but turned around and drove back here. He informed me by cellular phone just a few minutes ago."

The flustered Betty tried to explain that she was too concerned about the death to leave her boss Lawson to manage the crisis alone. Watching her intently, Dorsey said, "Tell us why you really came back Miss Porter."

"It’s true. All that I said!"

"The missing plant was found just seconds ago in the trunk of your car." Looking at Lawson and Ernst, Dorsey hastened to add, "Before you protest, the law in this state allows the police to search where there is probable cause – including an auto trunk. We can show that Miss Porter by her own admission knew the deceased and had met with him in this very room many times. That makes her a likely suspect."

"I am saying no more until I get my lawyer!" Betty resolutely sat down on the couch.

"That is your right Miss Porter, but in the meantime, you are under arrest for suspicion of theft of the plant. Other charges may be filed later." Dorsey instructed one of the uniformed officers to read Betty her Miranda rights. A female police officer was called in to handcuff and take Betty out to a patrol car and later to the lockup.

The people in the office were stunned by the unexpected developments. Lawson shook his head in disbelief and said, "At least we have the missing plant. Perhaps we should safeguard it somewhere in the greenhouse. Our security people could guard it night and day until some disposition is made."

"Ah! A good plan but for one serious problem, Mr. Graves."

"What’s that? You said the plant was in Betty’s car."

"Unfortunately, she had the plant in the trunk without air for too long. The severe heat in that enclosure I am told killed it and the blooms have dropped off. It looks like the Purple Camellia is still a dream to horticulturists. Sorry, Mr. Graves." Lawson looked crushed.

"I would still like to see the barren plant and all the dead blooms." Then in a low solemn voice, "What a waste of human life and such creative genius too. I am so sorry that Desmonde’s career had to end in such a scandalous manner. He worked so hard and deserved better than this!"

"Well Mr. Graves, I believe our continued investigation will reveal conclusively that a lover’s quarrel, or heated anger over the deceased man’s decision to give away rather than sell his invention prompted the murder. And a trial will determine that Miss Porter is the culprit. I am even tempted to say "This case is closed!"

Indeed, a few months later, Becky Porter was convicted of first-degree murder and remanded to the State Prison for Women for the rest of her life, with no parole. Lawson and Ariel Graves are the talk of the town in high social circles. People became excited over their participation in solving of the crime, and more funds are pouring into the Edison as a result of the incident’s publicity. The Metro Police Department gave Captain Dorsey a large retirement party. Unfortunately, he did not attend (nor did he care) because the siren song of the brown trout in his lake down state was too strong. Horticulturists the world over will continue to search for the Purple Camellia even though it is as elusive as the Holy Grail!