Conspiracy to Murder

by Heather Graham

  “You say that as if you doubt the official line, too,” Micah said quietly.

  “Because I do. I believe it was a cover-up.”

  “Not by the government,” Micah said.

  “By?”

  Micah looked at him and said, “By Alchemy.”

  Craig didn’t get a chance to respond.

  Arlo Hampton took the microphone on a small portable dais set in the center of the foyer. He cleared his throat, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the museum, friends of science and exploration, and friends of the City of New York!”

  It took a moment for everyone to stop talking and start listening. Someone tapped a champagne flute with a fork or spoon. Then the room fell silent.

  “We welcome you to our amazing new exhibit, brought to us through the genius of the man—the brilliant, kind, ever-giving man—whose name will now grace our museum walls, Dr. Henry Tomlinson. Those who knew Henry loved him. He was a scholar, but he was also a very human man who loved his family and friends. No one knew Egyptology the way Henry did…”

  A sudden gasp from the crowd silenced him. Everyone turned.

  Someone had come up from the basement steps, and was now staggering through the crowd.

  Someone grotesquely dressed up in a mummy’s linen bindings, staggering out as if acting in a very bad mummy movie.

  A performance for the evening?

  No.

  Because Arlo grunted an angry “Excuse me!” and exited the dais, walking toward the “mummy” now careening toward him.

  “What the hell?” Micah and Craig were close enough to hear Arlo’s words. “Richter, is that you? You idiot! Is that you?”

  It wasn’t Richter; Micah knew that right away. Richter was far too big a man to be the slight, lean person now dressed up.

  Or at least Ned Richter was!

  Micah burst forward, phone out and in his hand. As he neared the mummy, he was already dialing 9-1-1.

  “Get those bindings off her! Get them off her fast!” he commanded.

  The mummy collapsed.

  Micah barely managed to catch the wrapped body sagging to the floor.

  As quickly as he could, he began to remove the wrappings.

  He heard the sound of a siren.

  Then Vivian Richter looked up at him, shuddered and closed her eyes.

  The wrappings, Micah knew, had been doused in some kind of poison.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chaos reigned.

  Harley was stunned and horrified that Vivian Richter was so badly hurt—so close to death.

  She was wrapped tightly. The outer wrappings were decayed and falling apart; they’d come from a historic mummy. The inner wrappings were contemporary linen, the kind the museum used in its demonstrations, made to look like the real deal.

  Vivian was gasping and crying, completely incoherent. One woman in the room was a doctor—a podiatrist, but hey, she’d been to medical school. She was kneeling by Vivian, calling the shots, talking on the phone to the med techs who were on their way.

  Special Agent Fox had already taken control of the room. No one was to leave; they were all in a lockdown.

  She was incredibly glad that Craig was there. And, of course, he was with his girlfriend or fiancée—Harley wasn’t sure what Craig and Kieran called each other, but she was sure they were together for life. Kieran was standing near Harley, ready to comfort her, as the slightly older and very protective almost cousin-in-law. Harley appreciated that, even though she didn’t really need it. She worked with criminals all the time, as well as people who weren’t so bad but still wound up in the criminal justice system. She was calm and stoic; Micah and Craig were questioning people, grouping them, speaking to them, both digging for answers and assuring them all that they were safe.

  “She’s going to die! She’s going to die!” Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece, cried out. Harley saw that Micah Fox hurried over to her, placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and led her to a chair.

  By then, of course, museum security had arrived. So had the police—New York City and state police.

  People were talking everywhere. Micah and Craig had herded everyone into groups, depending on their relationship to the museum. Some were employees of the museum; some were special guests. The people who’d been on the expedition were in a corner. Harley was with Belinda Gray, Joe Rosello, Roger Eastman and Jensen Morrow, as well as the Alchemy Egyptologist, Arlo Hampton.

  Ned Richter was crouched on the floor, at his wife’s side.

  All of this seemed to go on for a long time, yet it was a matter of minutes before more sirens screamed in the night and the EMTs were rushing in. Ned Richter was allowed to go with his wife; Arlo Hampton and others more closely associated with the exhibit were now gathered together in a new group. Guests who’d only recently made it through the doors were questioned and cleared.

  Anyone who had anything to do with prep for the evening was in another group; every single person would be questioned before being permitted to leave for the night.

  Officers and crime scene techs were crowding through the museum, heading to the Amenmose section—and to the staff office and prep chambers beyond.

  “Too bad we couldn’t continue the celebration,” Joe said, hands locked behind his back, a look of disappointment on his face. “What a waste of great food and wine.”

  “Joe! What’s the matter with you?” Belinda chastised.

  “Come on! Vivian Richter’s a drama queen,” Joe said.

  “She might die,” Roger said very softly.

  “You mark my words. She will not die,” Joe insisted.

  “They’re saying it’s poison,” Roger pointed out. “Some kind of poison on the wrappings.”

  “She’s going to be very, very sick,” Jensen said. “Those wrappings decaying and falling all around her… Who the hell knows where they came from—or what might be on them?”

  “Or if something was put on them,” Roger said. “That’s how she would have been poisoned.”

  They were all silent for a minute.

  “And then dead—like Henry Tomlinson,” Belinda said.

  Again, they were silent.

  “Great. But at least now, maybe someone besides me will start fighting to figure out what happened to Henry,” Harley said quietly.

  She’d actually discovered that night that someone was on her side. The agent with the great voice. Craig’s friend. Micah Fox.

  “Okay, okay,” Belinda said. “I didn’t push it a lot at the time. I mean, it didn’t make any difference, did it? The cause of death—two medical examiners said—was the fact that bacteria made him crazy and he killed himself.”

  The reaction to her comment was yet another bout of silence.

  “What were we going to do?” Belinda wailed. “We had no power. Insurgents were bearing down on the camp, and everyone wanted us out! So, what could we do? Henry was dead,” Belinda said.

  “And back then, none of us believed he killed himself,” Jensen said at last.

  “But we all let it go.” Roger sounded sorrowful as he spoke. “Except Harley, and we all kind of shut her down,” he added apologetically. “But, seriously, what were we going to do? There were some whacked-out insurrectionists coming our way. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to admit I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t care if anyone was collecting evidence properly—all I wanted was out of there! And in the end, I guess we bought into the official—” he made air quotes with his fingers “—version. It was just easier and—”

  “Ms. Frasier!”

  Harley was being summoned. She saw that it was the plainclothes detective who had apparently been assigned to the case. He was lean and hard-looking; his partner was broader and had almost a baby face and a great smil
e. They were McGrady and Rydell, Rydell being the guy with the smile.

  She wasn’t going anywhere alone. She was never sure how Craig could home in on her problems so quickly, and tonight he was with Micah Fox, the agent who had called her before—and approached her at the beginning of the evening. What if she had talked to him when he’d wanted to?

  Could tonight’s disaster have been avoided?

  Did it have anything to do with what had happened before?

  She was led into one of the museum offices that had been taken over by the police. She felt, rather than saw, her cousin Craig and the enigmatic Micah Fox come in.

  They didn’t sit; they took up stances behind her.

  McGrady took the seat behind the desk and asked her sternly, “Ms. Frasier, what exactly is your association with the museum, the expedition—and the injured woman?”

  “I was on the expedition. I don’t really have an association with Vivian. It’s not like we have coffee or hang around together and do girls’ night,” Harley said. “Vivian is married to Ned Richter, the CEO of Alchemy. Alchemy financed the expedition. Alchemy is the largest sponsor for this exhibition. We were all pretty close in the Sahara—not that we had much choice.”

  “So you did know her well!”

  “I didn’t say I knew her well. We were…colleagues.”

  “But you like mummies, right? All things ancient Egyptian?” McGrady asked.

  “Yes, of course. I find the culture fascinating.”

  “And it would be a great prank to attack someone and lace her up in poisoned linen. Like a mummy?”

  “What?” Harley exploded.

  McGrady leaned forward, wagging a pencil at her. “You were the one who discovered Henry Tomlinson—dead. Correct?”

  Harley had never thought of herself as particularly strong, but his words, coming out like an accusation, were too much.

  She heard a guttural exclamation from behind her. Craig or Micah Fox, she wasn’t sure which.

  But it didn’t matter. She could—and would—fend for herself. She leaned forward, too.

  “Yes. I found Henry. A beloved friend and mentor. I found him, and I raised an outcry you wouldn’t believe. And no one in a position of power or authority gave a damn. First, it was oh, the insurgents were coming! Saving our lives was more important—and yes, of course, that was true—than learning the truth about the death of a good man. I could buy that! It’s an obvious decision. But then, no decent autopsy, and his niece, bereft, had him cremated. And now you’re asking me about Henry—and about Vivian Richter. You have nerve. I was here tonight in honor of Henry. I didn’t see the exhibit before tonight. I haven’t been associated with Alchemy since we returned. I suggest you speak with the people who were involved there and worked on the exhibit.”

  McGrady actually sat back.

  Everyone in the room was silent.

  Then Harley thought she heard a softly spoken “Bravo.”

  McGrady cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Frasier, but you do realize that Vivian Richter is dangerously close to… Well, we might have a murder on our hands.”

  “You do have a murder on your hands. Dr. Henry Tomlinson was murdered. Now we have to pray that Vivian comes out of this, but still, you’ve got a killer here. Do you have anything more to ask me?” Harley demanded. They did need to hope and pray for Vivian, but by now, surely they had to recognize the truth of what had happened to Henry!

  “Did you see Vivian this evening?”

  “No.”

  “But you arrived early, didn’t you?”

  “Only by a few minutes. I walked out to the temple area.”

  “Which is off-limits until after the exhibit officially opens tomorrow.”

  “I was allowed to go back there because I’d been on the expedition.”

  “And you were close to the backstage area where exhibits are prepared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where Vivian would have been?”

  “Possibly.”

  “But you didn’t see her. Who did you see?”

  “Just Jensen. Jensen Morrow. He’s working here, with the exhibit. This is actually his field of work. I saw Jensen—oh, and Special Agent Fox.” She glanced back at him. He and Craig were flanked behind her like a pair of ancient Egyptian god-sentinels. They almost made her smile. Not quite. She couldn’t believe that this detective was quizzing her—when she couldn’t get any help before, no matter how she’d begged and pleaded!

  “Special Agent Fox?” McGrady said.

  “I arrived within minutes of Ms. Frasier. I was told she’d just headed for the temple. I wanted to speak to her about the death of Henry Tomlinson. I went straight there. We were speaking when her colleague Jensen Morrow appeared. Exactly as she indicated,” Micah Fox said.

  McGrady stood up. “Fine. Ms. Frasier, you’re free to go.”

  Harley stood up and glared at him. “I’m delighted to leave. But perhaps first you’d be kind enough to let me know how Vivian’s doing. We might not be close, but we were serious associates.”

  McGrady sighed. “She’s holding her own. The doctors are combatting the effects of the poisoning.”

  “What was the poison?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation. That’s information we can’t give out right now, even if we had it.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Craig opened the door; she marched out. He and Micah followed. She thought she heard McGrady mutter, “And take your Feds with you.”

  “Not the usual helpful attitude, at least not in my association with the NYPD,” Craig said. “Usually, we have an excellent working rapport.”

  “Maybe he’s resentful because he’s not sure what this is yet. It’s impossible at this time to say what happened,” Micah said.

  Harley spun around to stare at him. “What are you, a fool?” she snapped. “We both know—not suspect, but know—that Henry Tomlinson was murdered. Then Vivian Richter comes out wrapped in mummy linens, screaming and poisoned with some kind of skin toxin, and we don’t know what happened? Obviously, someone tried to kill her!”

  Craig grabbed her by the shoulders. “Harley! Stop. Micah’s on your side. What are you?” he asked. “A fool?”

  She flushed uneasily. They were just outside the door. The nicer cop, the quiet one with the baby face, Rydell, came out and approached Jensen Morrow. He was next on the block, Harley thought. And how stupid of the cops. Jensen had been with her, away from the camp, when Henry Tomlinson was killed. They just didn’t seem bright enough to realize that there was a far bigger picture here. They needed to see it—before someone else died.

  But Craig was right. She shouldn’t be taking it out on Micah Fox.

  Why was she being so hostile, so defensive?

  Pushing him away on purpose.

  He was trying to help her. He was…

  He was a promise she was afraid to accept. He claimed he wanted the truth, and he seemed to have all the assets needed to get at that truth. He was too damned good to be true, and she didn’t dare depend on someone like that when the very concept of an ally, someone to depend on, was still so…

  Foreign to her! He was law enforcement—and on her side. It was good. After all this time, it felt rather amazing.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  She’d barely spoken when Kieran Finnegan came hurrying up next to her. “I have a car outside. Come on, I’ll get you home.”

  “But—”

  “There’s nothing else you can do here tonight, Harley,” Micah said.

  “Remember, you came to me.”

  “Yes. And there’s nothing else you can do here tonight,” he repeated.

  Harley stiffened.

  “Let’s go,” Kieran said gently.

  So s
he nodded. “Thank you,” she said to Craig and Micah, and then she allowed Kieran to lead her out the door, to the front of the museum.

  A light-colored sedan was waiting, just as Kieran had promised. Kieran wasn’t driving; Harley assumed the driver was FBI and that Micah or Craig had made the arrangements.

  Once in the car beside Kieran, Harley regretted the fact that she’d already left. “I should still be there. I should be back with the exhibits. I should see the prep rooms. I was with them on that expedition and I know what we discovered. I saw the tomb when it was opened. And I… Lord, yes, I’m the one who found Henry.”

  “Logically, there isn’t a damned thing you could’ve done tonight. They won’t let anyone back by the exhibits, the prep rooms, the offices—anywhere!—until the crime scene people have gone through it all. Naturally, everyone’s hoping that Vivian Richter pulls through. If she does, maybe she’ll be able to remember something that will help. For now, well…”

  “McGrady is NYPD. He isn’t letting Craig and that Agent Fox in on anything.”

  “They’ll get in on it. Trust me. Craig will talk to his director. His director will call the chief of police or the mayor or someone, but they’ll get in on it,” Kieran said with assurance.

  Harley leaned back for a moment, suddenly very tired. She closed her eyes and then opened them again, looking over at Kieran. She liked her cousin’s girlfriend. Really liked her. She wasn’t sure why they weren’t engaged or married yet, but…

  Kieran, of course, knew all about what had gone on during and after the expedition out to the Sahara in the search for Amenmose’s tomb. Considering what she did for a living—a psychologist who worked with law enforcement—nothing much surprised her or rattled her. Besides, she’d met Craig during a period when the city was under siege with a spate of diamond heists.

  “So tell me—what’s your take on this?” Harley asked Kieran. “Who would kill Henry Tomlinson? Or rather, who’d dress up as a mummy to kill him, and then dress Vivian Richter like a mummy to try and kill her?”