Salem's Cipher Page 4

  When Salem arrived at right shift of eight, her heartbeat picked up. She felt the familiar buzz of a puzzle coming together.

  Bel shifted at the door. “Any luck?”

  Salem nodded. She was close. Letters were turning into words, words into messages.

  “Okay.” Bel leaned her ear back against the door. “But can you hurry? We’ve been gone too long.”

  “Yes.” Salem knew that word was the appropriate response, though she hadn’t processed what Bel said. She was almost inside the mystery. She could taste it. She scribbled furiously, decoding the substitution nearly as efficiently as a computer.

  “Ah!” The solution flooded through all at once. Bits had thrown her off. Vida hadn’t meant it as her name. It was part of the code, which a plus-eight Caesar cipher revealed to be:

  Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

  The cold tongue of fear licked her spine. This was a fresh note, and her mom had intended for them to find it at Gracie’s. That meant that whatever tragedy had befallen Grace had also happened to Vida.

  And she had known it was coming.

  For the first time, Salem wondered why the FBI had been called in.

  “Bel,” Salem whispered, “I don’t think our moms were randomly kidnapped.”

  A heavy knock landed on the bathroom door.

  Salem, wound tight, squealed. Bel snapped into a fighting stance, her expression steely.

  “Ms. Odegaard and Ms. Wiley? Agent Stone would like to meet with the two of you in the lobby, if you don’t mind.”

  6

  Linden Hills, Minneapolis

  Salem ran over the words like a mantra as they left the bathroom, kept murmuring them as they entered the elevator, didn’t stop when they laid eyes on Agent Lucan Stone in the lobby.

  Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

  Stone gestured toward the chocolate velvet couch near the door. “I have some more questions. Do you mind?”

  Bel moved toward the sofa.

  Salem didn’t.

  Are you and your mother close?

  Geographically, less than three miles separated Salem’s apartment from her childhood home. Emotionally, she might as well live in China for all the distance between her and her mother. They faked it well—phone calls twice a month and dinner once, erudite conversations on topics that Vida Wiley was passionate about, cards and gifts at all the appropriate holidays. Someone examining the relationship from the outside would have no idea how high the wall was between Salem and her mother, would compliment the two of them on what good friends they appeared to be. It had happened many times.

  You two are almost like sisters.

  The chasm between appearance and truth left a vacant spot inside Salem, a tunnel from her heart to her mouth where something solid should be.

  “Do we have to answer your questions?” Salem gasped, startled that she’d talked back to Agent Stone—she, who’d spent her adult life avoiding conflict, who struggled to look people in the eye, who valued routine and order. And if she slowed down, she’d have to think about that, and about the repercussions, and about that shiny body bag they’d walked by to take the elevator down. So she floated ten feet above her frame, a gray balloon tied tenuously to the wrist of the shivering woman below.

  “Are you asking if I can detain you?” If Salem’s question caught Stone off guard, he didn’t show it.

  “Yes.” She watched her own feet. She felt him studying her, the whole energy of him trying to get inside her head.

  “I can’t keep you here,” he finally said, “but the more information I have, the quicker I can locate your mothers.”

  “Salem?”

  Salem glanced at her friend. Bel had brushed her hair in the bathroom and wore her smooth police officer expression, but worry and exhaustion lurked just below the surface. Salem felt the same emotions, her brain and body groaning under the weight of Grace and Vida’s disappearance. As heavy as that was, though, it was outweighed by the memory of standing on shore doing nothing, not even yelling, as her dad deliberately drowned himself.

  Vida’s instructions in the balsa wood box had been clear:

  Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

  It was the most authentic communication she’d had with her mother in fourteen years. “I want to leave, Bel. Now.”

  Bel’s gaze sharpened. Salem knew she wanted more details on the case, wanted to stay and be the questioner rather than the questioned. In the end, though, she turned to Stone. “We’re going to leave, Agent Stone.”

  He drew up his shoulders. Salem thought he was going to argue, convince them to stay. He surprised her by instead reaching into his jacket and pulling out a card, which he handed to Salem. She reached for it.

  “It’s a bad idea that you leave,” he said. He didn’t release the card, held firm until she finally glanced up. His deep brown gaze pinned Salem in her spot. She felt it like an electric jolt.

  “Vida Wiley is not in her home, and until we hear otherwise, we’re assuming she and Grace Odegaard are together and being held involuntarily.”

  The world tipped for Salem. Still, she gripped the card.

  “There is a possibility that the person holding them may target you, as well.” He finally let go of the card and turned to Bel. “Both of you.”

  Bel nodded sharply. “Understood.”

  “Thank you.” Salem slurred the word because her mouth was so dry. She tucked the card in her jeans pocket and walked toward the door, Bel following.

  “My number is on there,” Agent Stone called after them. “Call if you need me.”

  And you’re going to need me, Salem thought she heard him say, but by then they were out the door, crunching over leaves as brittle as bones.

  7

  Minneapolis Institute of Art

  Salem wasn’t well acquainted with Dr. David Keller, Assistant Curator at the nonprofit Minneapolis Institute of Art. He had been an occasional guest at Vida and Daniel’s dinner parties, and then after Daniel’s death, Vida would bring Salem by his office when they visited the institute. She remembered him as a stern man who rarely spoke except to critique what someone else was saying.

  Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

  They’d been waiting in the car until the institute, recently nicknamed “Mia” in a marketing blitz, opened at ten. When the doors were finally unlocked, Salem and Bel breezed past the welcome desk, under the gigantic Chihuly Sunburst chandelier, and up the stairs until they reached the Target Galleries. Their impatience condensed around their feet, spurring their movements.

  “Excuse me?”

  Salem, agitated and out of breath, whipped her head toward the woman behind the special exhibitions desk. She’d been so intent on their destination that she hadn’t noticed her. “Yes?”

  The staff member pointed toward the “Woman in the Arts” sign perched on her desk, then toward the doorway of the Target Galleries. “You’re going into the special exhibition. It’s sixteen dollars for members, twenty for nonmembers. Do you have tickets?”

  Salem’s brow furrowed. “We’re actually looking for Dr. Keller. His office used to be down here.”

  “Ah.” The woman smiled. “All the offices moved a few years ago. Before my time. But I have good news: Dr. Keller curated this exhibit. He’s inside right now.”

  Salem touched her pocketbook without thinking. Teaching at-risk youth how to navigate Excel spreadsheets paid about as well as one would expect. “We have to buy tickets?”

  The museum worker put her finger to her coral-colored lips. They matched the beads at her neck. “I won’t tell. As long as you’re just here to speak with him.”

  Salem beamed with gratitude and continued through the g
lass doors. The Target Galleries were quieter than the rest of Mia and crowded for a Monday morning.

  “You think he’ll help us?” Bel asked, her voice pitched low.

  “I think he will if he can.”

  They hurried across the herringbone parquet floor, their footsteps muffled. Salem scoured the room for Dr. Keller, her attention drawn to the sculptures displayed in the center. According to the sign outside the gallery, every piece of art in the exhibit had been created by a female artist. A breathtaking Sarah Bernhardt marble sculpture of a grandmother holding the dying body of her grandson dominated the center of the room. Display blocks were arranged around the sculpture to

  create a movement path. The cubes held ornate silver urns crafted by Hester Bateman and an exquisite silver tea caddy designed by Elizabeth Godfrey in the 1700s, and under glass, an oval tobacco box silversmithed by Elisabeth Haselwood in the 1600s.

  Salem was drawn toward the paintings decorating the walls, most especially the Maria Sibylla Merian plates. Her dad was the one who’d introduced her to Merian’s botany-based sketches, first created after Merian traveled with her daughter to Suriname in 1699. They were grotesquely, grandly beautiful in their realism. The blending of periods and styles created a gorgeous visual cacophony inside the gallery.

  “Salem?” Across the room, a short, trim man in his fifties separated himself from a group of patrons and made his way to Bel and Salem. “How are you?”

  “Good, Dr. Keller.” The lie was automatic. She held out her hand, and he clasped it briefly. “This is my friend Bel.” They also shook hands.

  And then Salem was at a loss.

  She pushed her hair behind her ears and frowned, grasping for a way to explain what they needed. My mom and her best friend have disappeared, and Mom left instructions for me to talk with you about revenge, and I have no idea what it means so me and my friend bundled ourselves into a car and drove straight here, and can you tell me who my mother really is because I am beginning to wonder if I knew her at all. It sounded ridiculous any way she parsed it, even if Dr. Keller didn’t intimidate her.

  He tossed a sentence into the awkwardness. “You’re here to see the exhibit?”

  Salem shook her head vigorously. “Um, no. At least I don’t think so. I’m wondering if you know anything about this.” She shoved her hand into her coat pocket, yanked out the note, and held it toward Dr. Keller, realizing too late that her scribbles would be indecipherable to him.

  “Sorry.” She jerked the note back. Was Dr. Keller looking at her strangely? “It’s a note from my mom.” She held it up. “I’m afraid it’s a bit cryptic. I’m wondering if you can help us figure out what it means?”

  He barked out a short laugh and glanced incredulously from Salem to Bel. “You want me to translate a note from your mother? Is this a parlor game? Can’t you ask her yourself?”

  “I’m afraid not, Dr. Keller.” Bel used her official-police-interview voice. There was no broaching it. “We really need your help. Now.” She shot Salem an encouraging glance, cuing her to share the contents of the note.

  Salem nodded, grateful that Bel was taking charge. She’d memorized the translated message, but it was still a challenge to get it past the cotton of her tongue. “The note says ‘talk to Keller about revenge.’ Any idea what it means?”

  All around them, art patrons murmured respectfully, appreciating centuries-old art.

  Security guards discreetly patrolled the perimeters.

  Dr. Keller didn’t immediately answer. Salem couldn’t read his expression. He appeared to be annoyed, but maybe he was trying not to laugh? Or, more likely, he was considering the safest route to a phone so he could call the nearest mental institution to haul her and Bel away.

  Turns out it was none of these.

  Dr. Keller stepped aside so the women had a clear view of the wall immediately behind him. A proud smile bloomed on his face, and he held up his hands, Vanna White style. “I’d like to introduce you to the greatest representation of revenge ever painted.”

  8

  Minneapolis Institute of Art

  Salem knew from a junior-year art history class that Artemisia Gentileschi painted in the first half of the 1600s. She was prosperous during her lifetime, gaining acclaim and making a living in an era when only a handful of female painters were recognized. She became even more popular after her death. Today, the Baroque painter is considered one of the most gifted artists of the 1600s, and she is known for one depiction above all others: Judith Slaying Holofernes.

  Salem walked toward the painting as if pulled by a rope.

  Dr. Keller, the patrons, the whole museum fell away.

  “Breathtaking.” Salem stood inches away from the canvas, Bel nodding in silent agreement at her elbow. The seven-foot-tall, centuries-­old composition was so vibrant that Salem imagined she could smell the rich oil of the paint, the lead white, the sulfur-scented vermilion, the chalky clay of red and yellow ochre, the bone black.

  The painting featured a powerful Judith poised over General Holofernes, a glistening blade to his throat, her hands twisted in his hair as she sawed off his head. Judith’s maid was helping to pin him down. Both women were straining, their muscles and ferocity displayed as Holofernes’s blood spurted into the air and dripped down the white sheets of the bed. His face was a perfect shock of agony, his hands futilely pushing the women away as Judith hacked at his neck.

  Salem held her own throat, grimacing at the violence.

  “It’s on loan from the Uffizi in Florence. Stunning, isn’t it?”

  Salem jumped, Dr. Keller’s nearness startling her. He stood less than a yard away, watching them, his expression still peculiar.

  “We studied this painting in one of my college art electives,” Salem said, inhaling deeply to steady her heartbeat. “It always stuck with me.”

  Bel pointed at Holofernes’s agonized face. “Poor guy.”

  “No,” Dr. Keller said, “he’s not. The story is from the Old Testament. General Holofernes attacked Israel, raping and killing indiscriminately. He fancied Judith and had her brought to his tent. Judith and her maid waited until he was passed-out drunk and killed him, saving her people.”

  Bel’s facial response suggested that she wouldn’t have minded hanging out with Judith and her maid. “Gentileschi was religious?”

  Dr. Keller pointed toward the interpretative square next to the painting. “Not particularly. The portrayal is widely interpreted as Artemisia Gentileschi’s painted revenge on her own convicted rapist.”

  “Hunh.” Bel looked away from the painting and did a quick and automatic survey of the gallery. “I’m surprised rape was illegal in the 1600s.”

  Dr. Keller grimaced. “Rape may have been technically illegal, but justice was not swift. Gentileschi had to undergo a gynecological examination and was tortured with thumbscrews during the trial to prove she wasn’t lying. Her rapist, her tutor Agostino Tassi, was merely questioned.”

  “He was found guilty, wasn’t he?” Salem asked.

  “Yes, in 1611. He didn’t serve any time, though. In fact, he wasn’t punished at all.” Dr. Keller indicated the painting with his chin. “Artemisia Gentileschi completed Judith Slaying Holofernes immediately after the trial. We are led to assume that Gentileschi fancied herself Judith and Agostino Tassi became Holofernes.”

  Revenge.

  Talk to Keller about revenge.

  “Do you have any idea why my mom may have been interested in it?” Salem asked.

  A member of Mia’s staff walked toward Dr. Keller, smiled apologetically at the women, and whispered into his ear. He nodded and then returned his attention to the painting. “I don’t. But I can tell you that she requested a private viewing of it.”

  “She did?” Salem’s voice was too loud. She lowered it. “When?”

  “She stopped by last Monday, after hours. We�
�ve only had the exhibit open for seven days.”

  “And you showed this painting to her?”

  Dr. Keller glanced toward the door and then at his watch. “Not exactly. She wanted to be alone with it.” He raised and dropped a shoulder. “We’ve been friends for years. It was a small favor.”

  “Did she say anything afterward?” Bel was scanning the painting with renewed interest.

  Dr. Keller shook his head. “I had a dinner meeting and had to leave before she was done. She did email me a thank-you on Tuesday or Wednesday. That was the last time we communicated. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Salem said, too quickly. Of course nothing was all right, maybe never had been. Vida Wiley was an enigma to her own daughter.

  9

  Seven Years Old

  “Time to take the leap, honey.”

  Salem can tell Vida is losing patience because her mom only refers to her as “honey” when she’s trying not to yell. Anyhow, she could call her Wonder Woman and Salem still isn’t going into that lake.

  “No.”

  “Please? Momma’ll make sure the fish don’t bite you. We’ll only wade in up to our knees.”

  It isn’t the fish that Salem is worried about, or at least, those are a new addition to her concerns. It’s the water itself, the huge, black expanse of it, sun sluicing across the top to reveal a poisonous pool of mercury. Salem knows better than she knows her own name that if she steps into it, into any body of water where she can’t see the bottom, no one will ever lay eyes on her again.

  She’d been born knowing that.

  It wouldn’t be an easy death. There’d be a swirl of silt, and then something horribly cold and muscular would wrap around her ankle and tug her down, down, down into a chill so inescapable it’d freeze her heart. In the final, terrible moment of consciousness, she’d see her mom above the water, just out of reach, the sun haloing her head, safety, love, and home cruelly just beyond Salem’s grasp. She would struggle and fight to reach Vida, open her mouth to scream, and the evil water would rush in to fill her lungs, pop out her eyes from the inside, steal her voice and her life.