"James Barber. I'm your mom's lawyer, and a friend. I'm going to stay with your mom and make sure she gets home safe and sound."
"Okay."
Magdalena and Emma left, and there was another flurry of activity as the medical examiner arrived. After a short wait, Sergeant Clyde turned back to us. He looked alert and fresh-no doubt his team would be up very late-whereas I felt like well chewed bubblegum.
"Why don't you get that staff list now, while I interview your colleague-Stuart, is it? And one more thing..."
"Yes?"
"Don't discuss the crime scene with anyone else until we've had a chance to interview the entire staff."
That would be difficult, I thought, thinking of the phone calls. "Can I say Marion died in a fatal accident? I already called Ellen Perkins-she's our conservator. I called my boss, too. They both know someone's been hurt."
"That's okay. But no details about where and how she was found."
"I understand." I left James while I trudged to my office, reflecting that the details would remain secret only as long as Susie, our gossip-loving assistant director, was kept in ignorance.
My steps slowed and so did my breathing; clearly, my body already knew what my brain refused to grasp.
Marion's dead. The words became a drumbeat as horror surged through me and lurid headlines flashed in my mind. Murder in the museum...
CHAPTER 4
JUDGMENT
James Barber insisted on driving me home.
I was in no shape to argue, but I did have a question. "Lawyer, huh?"
"It's the literal truth. I got a law degree before I went into medicine."
"Oh. Another over-educated type."
When we finally arrived, it was after nine. As the outer door of the apartment building clanged shut behind us, I tried to revise my face from shell-shocked curator to everything's-under-control Mommy. Emma would need some special attention. Ignoring the clamor in my head and the mail in my box, I dragged myself to the second floor apartment and knocked.
Magda flung open the door. "Lisa! I've been so worried! Come in, both of you. What happened? You didn't tell me anything at the museum." Her eyes paused on James.
I introduced James and told her there had been a fatal accident, keeping my voice low so Emma, who was watching TV, couldn't hear me.
"How dreadful!" Magda wrapped her arms across her thin chest. Her fine-featured face was pinched with shock. "I suppose it will be in the paper tomorrow."
"You're right...and Victor doesn't know yet," I groaned. More telephoning ahead.
Magda pulled herself together. "You need a hot cup of tea. With a little of my special brandy."
James stopped her. "I'll fix her something in her apartment. She needs to rest." Oddly complacent at the way he was taking over, I went into the sitting room where my daughter was staring at a video of "The Little Mermaid."
Emma looked up, her little face pale. "Mommy, is the nice lady dead?"
I knelt down and hugged my daughter. "I'm afraid so, sweetie."
"Are you sad?"
"Yes, I am." I sighed. "We'll go home and I'll tell you about it."
? ? ? ?
The phone was shrilling as I opened our door.
"Hello," I gasped, grabbing the receiver as I dropped my briefcase and purse in a heap on the counter. Emma rushed past me in search of the cat.
"Just wanted to hear how the X-ray went. Did you get all the films?" Victor's smooth baritone sounded normal.
Oh, no-he hasn't gotten my message.
Behind me I could hear James opening cupboards and fixing cocoa as if he owned the place.
"You didn't get my message, did you?"
"I did, but I assumed you were calling about the X-ray."
I took a deep breath, and said what I had been unable to say into Victor's answering machine. "Marion's had an accident-she's dead. In the museum."
I could hear the hiss of breath drawn in sharply.
"What happened, exactly?"
I told him what I was allowed to say, remembering that the police hadn't reached him yet.
Victor's voice cracked. "I'd better call the Dean. And Susie. We'll have to have a staff meeting first thing tomorrow. And the police will probably close the museum..." He hung up abruptly.
No sorrowful words for poor Marion from my cold fish boss. I was not surprised; Victor Fitzgerald was the most unemotional man I had ever met. Naturally, he had to think and behave like a director, anticipating what needed to be done. But still...
James handed me a thick cup of cocoa. I took a huge gulp and inhaled chocolate and brandy.
"Medicinal," he said with a warm smile. Feeling both the alcohol and the smile all the way down to my toes, I helped Emma into her pink pajamas and then we sat on the couch together with her teddy bear. James sat quietly in the wing chair.
Emma listened to my censored version of what had happened without comment and then looked at Pooh.
"Do you think Marion needs a Pooh-Bear in heaven? I could give her my Bear."
Tears filled my eyes. "That's really nice of you, sweetie, but I think she'd want you to keep Pooh. I'm sure Heaven has lots of bears."
"Okay, Mommy. Can I have my story now?"
"Do you mind waiting a few minutes?" I said to James.
"Not at all."
Emma and I moved into the bedroom. It was soothing for both of us to read "Goodnight Moon" for the two hundredth time. We finished our goodnight ritual (tuck in the teddy bear, tuck in Emma, kiss both). My daughter clung a little tighter than usual, and no wonder-what a thing for a seven-year-old to witness. I left the door open so Emma could call me. I no longer had the monopoly on nightmares.
Returning to the living room, I found James leafing through U.S. News.
"She all settled?"
"Yes. Thank you for everything-you've really been a big help."
We walked to the door. James turned to face me and touched my shoulder gently.
"Call me anytime. The cocoa should help you sleep, but if you want to talk, just call." Then he kissed me.
The feeling of being warmed to my toes returned. I was speechless.
"Oh, and I'll drive you to work in the morning, since your car is still at the museum. What time?"
"Eight-thirty?"
"No problem. See you then."
I floated over to my favorite wing chair. Clutching a throw pillow, I sat trying to make sense out of the jumble of emotions I'd experienced in a matter of hours. Shock, fear, grief...and joy. Sleep was out of the question.
The phone rang.
It was Ellen Perkins, returning my call. We'd been close friends for years, ever since we'd worked together in a Philadelphia museum.
"Lisa! What happened?"
"A death at the museum." I gulped. "It's a...I hate to tell you this, but it's Marion She had a really bad head injury." I leaned back against the wing-backed chair and closed my eyes.
"Oh, my God! Oh, no...how?"
"I'm not allowed to tell you much. The police will probably be calling you. I had to give all the staff numbers to them."
"Thanks for the warning." Ellen sounded faint. "Are you okay?"
"I'm...shook up. Appalled. Unbelieving."
"That sounds like an understatement. So tell me what you can."
I gave her the censored version, feeling my muscles begin to loosen as the brandy trickled down into my system.
"Poor Emma! How's she taking it?"
"So far, not too badly. But I'm sure she picked up on my feelings."
Ellen knew me too well-she grasped what I wasn't saying. "A wound on the back of the head? It sounds like it wasn't an accident."
"Probably not, but we're not supposed to discuss it."
"Oh, right! As if anyone could avoid talking about it!" was Ellen's response.
"Victor said we'd have a staff meeting first thing tomorrow."
"I'll bet we will. This means major reassignments."
"Well, I'll sign off. I'm
exhausted."
"Of course you are. See you in the morning."
I hadn't said a word about meeting James.
? ? ? ?
Silence closed in on me. It was late. Better at least lie down if I was going to be worth anything in the morning. Reluctantly, I hauled myself out of the striped chair, a treasured relic from my parents' first apartment in Walpole.
I pulled on my nightgown, too tired to shower. Curled on my side in the queen-sized bed, I tried to every trick I knew to clear my mind of images. Think beach on Cape Cod, an empty beach with no sunbathers. Count the clouds in the sky, or the seaweed clumps...no good. How about potsherds? They were boring enough to put anyone to sleep, especially plain, unglazed Roman fineware...
The phone rang, jerking me out of near-slumber.
"Hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?" No one answered.
I hung up with a slam and buried myself under the down quilt.
CHAPTER 5
"RAISE YOURSELF, OSIRIS..."
(BOOK OF THE DEAD)
Brrring!
"Whatsa matter? Who is it? Oh, damn."
Totally confused, I flung out my arm and knocked the alarm clock off the night table. Oreo, my cat, gave an indignant meow and jumped off my pillow.
I sat up in bed. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, so I lay down again. Then the gears meshed and I remembered last night.
Marion attacked in the museum...murdered.
James. James, who wasn't my boyfriend, but Ellen's.
I groaned and pulled the quilt back over my head. If this was reality, then I preferred my worst nightmares.
After a few more minutes of pretending I wasn't awake, I shoved the covers aside and hauled myself out to the kitchen.
While the coffee was dripping, I called Susie Blake, our assistant director.
"Susie, it's Lisa." Unlike Ellen, Susie probably answered the phone wearing a pink satin kimono with matching mules.
"Lisa! Are you okay? That policeman who came to see me last night wouldn't tell me much." Amazing that she hadn't phoned me immediately after the visit.
"I'm okay. Didn't sleep much though." I gave her a brief account of what had happened.
"It's so awful, I can't imagine the place without Marion."
We were silent for a moment.
"Think you're up for the staff meeting?" Susie asked.
"No, but I'm coming in anyway. I don't want to stay home and brood all by myself."
As I hung up, I looked at the ceramic cat clock on the kitchen wall. The whiskers pointed to seven, so I had a little time before I had to wake Emma. I added more hot coffee to my mug and perched on my high stool, gazing out the window and ignoring Oreo's insistent ankle rubbing. I knew there was plenty of dry cat chow in his bowl-it was just part of his morning ritual to see if he could persuade me to dish out something better.
I sipped my coffee, wishing it would work some magic on my tired body. It would take more than ordinary caffeine to face this day.
? ? ? ?
When I arrived at work, the atmosphere was thick with speculation and fear. The police were due shortly to interview everyone, so there was no point in starting work. I followed the others into the staff lounge and wrapped my hands around a mug of fresh coffee.
Susie Blake took charge. Susie was Victor's Girl Friday, in charge of processing grant applications, hiring and firing student assistants, accounting, and general office management. The place would fall apart without her, and we all knew it. Tall and statuesque, she sometimes came across as a bubble-brained redhead. Actually, Susie had a very sharp mind and never missed anything going on around her, especially if it concerned Victor.
"Everyone, the police are going to want to use one of our offices for interviews. We'll probably have to go in one by one, and..."
"Been watching too many mysteries on TV, I see," interrupted a dark-haired man with a compact physique-Carl Jacobsen, our other curator.
"At least I have some idea of police procedure!" Susie snapped at him. "We have to be cooperative. Oh, and the other thing you all should know is that Victor's meeting with the Dean right now. Marion's death is a major PR problem. No one will feel safe in this building until we find out who did it."
I said, "I'd like to know who, but my real question is why? Who would want to bash Marion on the head?"
"Yeah, she's such a harmless type," said Carl, turning back towards the group.
Betsy piped up, "She was so nice to everyone! How could she have an enemy?" Betsy, a junior in Anthropology, had an attitude. She was a tough looking girl, with a heavy build and chin-length brown hair (this week with a magenta streak) that was usually scraped back into a short ponytail. Her standard garb was tattered black jeans with political T-shirts. Today's purple number sported the slogan "Campus Women for Choice: Our Bodies, Our Business."
"Maybe it's not a personal thing. Maybe she just got in someone's way," I said.
"Aha! Another amateur detective!" Carl commented acidly.
I glared at him.
"Cool it, guys," said Susie, trying to play peacemaker. "Hey, where's Ginny?"
"She'll be late today," said Betsy.
"Well, there's something we need to talk about now." Susie continued. "Victor told me that the museum would be closed for several days, or as long as the police need for their preliminary investigation. When we reopen, he wants us to have a modified security plan since so many of us work nights and weekends. He says we can't have anyone alone in the building."
I said, "He's right. Otherwise no one will feel safe, and we won't be able to get ready for Carl's exhibit-or mine."
Susie grabbed her notepad. "Okay. Let's draw up a new roster for weekend coverage up until Christmas." She whipped out her pocket calendar and jotted down the dates.
We all gathered around, and the slate was rapidly filled.
"But what about after regular work? Like, you know, some of us come in on weekdays after dinner?" Betsy inquired.
Ellen said, "That's tricky, since we're all keeping such weird hours."
"How about you call someone else if you have to come in? Or you make sure someone's going to be there if you're planning to come back after supper?" I suggested, thinking even as I did so that it probably wouldn't work. We were all so independent in our work habits.
"Oh, crap! I can't baby-sit other people when I've got an exhibit coming up," Carl groused.
"It's precisely because of your exhibit that everyone has extra work!" Susie was really cross now. "If you had planned better, no one would need to come in evenings!"
"You should talk! You're the one who makes up the schedule, and you never..."
Our boss slid in to the room, his elegant leather shoes making scarcely a whisper, and there was a sudden hush. Carl's cheeks were reddened, and Susie made a show of fluffing her curls while turning back towards her notepad.
Susie showed Victor the completed chart. "Victor, we've worked out the security coverage..."
Victor's presence calmed everyone down, and we were ready for the police when they arrived a few minutes later. The senior officer, a tall man with graying black hair, took over.
"My name is Sergeant Bruce McEwan. This is my partner, Detective Diana Gotti. As you undoubtedly know by now, this case has been officially declared a homicide. Marion Grainger was hit on the head with a heavy object-possibly one of your museum objects-and died almost instantly. I must caution each of you not to speak about the case outside the museum until we catch the perpetrator. You can tell your families and friends that a colleague has been murdered; that much will be in tonight's news. But as you become aware of details of the crime, don't discuss them, and don't talk to reporters. Your assistance in this matter is vital, and will make our job easier. Keeping the press starved for details will also help limit the news coverage and the harm to your museum's reputation."
I doubted that-how could we gloss over the fact of Marion's murder to visitors and donors
? The reporters would plague us until something juicier cropped up.
"Now, I'll need to speak with each staff member individually for a few minutes." McEwan turned to Victor. "Is there an office I could use for interviews?"
Susie, ever the Girl Scout, said, "Use mine. I can work at the front desk since we're closed."
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