One Grave Too Many

by Beverly Connor

She stood in the hallway and listened for any sound—creaking, breathing, anything. This is silly, get a grip, she told herself. It was a small apartment with very few places to hide. In fact, under her bed and in her closet were it. She quickly checked both places, feeling foolish when she finished. What if she’d found someone? She didn’t have a weapon. This was really stupid. She walked back into the living room and was about to turn on the television when she saw a form in the draperies behind her living room chair. Her heart jumped in her chest. She was almost paralyzed in place.

  As casually as she could, she moved to the hall and into the kitchen to look for a weapon. What kind of weapon? Her mind raced, trying to think. A knife. Maybe, but how would she fare in a knife fight with some intruder? She could run but would she make it before he caught her? The best course of action would be to call for help. But her cell phone was in the bedroom, and whoever it was would hear her talking. She could grab the cell phone and lock herself in the bathroom. And then what—hope help arrived before he broke down the door? She heard a rustle and creaking of the floor. No time.

  She spotted her cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove, picked it up and stepped out into the hallway. She edged forward until she was almost to the living room. Maybe she could catch the intruder by surprise and knock him out. She raised it over her head as she saw a shadow cast by her lamp. One more second. Now she swung the pan, but at the last moment swerved and hit the wall with a crash, accompanied by a piercing scream.

  “Mrs. Odell, what are you doing in my apartment? Do you know I could have knocked your skull in?”

  Mrs. Odell, dressed in a pink chenille robe, was holding her chest and breathing hard. Diane led her to the sofa.

  “Are you all right? What are you doing in here?”

  “Looking.” She wheezed. “Looking for the cat.”

  “Mrs. Odell.” She was interrupted by a pounding on the door.

  “That’d be Marvin.” She was still breathing hard.

  Diane went to the door. A man, possibly in his seventies, a little shorter than Diane, was standing at the door with a concerned look on his horselike face.

  “Veda, Veda, was that you? Are you OK? What did you do to Veda?”

  “I almost knocked her out with an iron skillet. Mr. Odell, I don’t have a cat, I’ve never had a cat here, the landlady doesn’t allow cats.”

  “Veda was sure you did.”

  “What? She knocked her out with a frying pan?” A voice from the hallway said. The other tenants along with the landlady were murmuring outside her door.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the landlady. “Oh, dear.”

  “Mrs. Odell was hiding behind the draperies in my apartment. I almost crowned her with a skillet until I saw who it was,” explained Diane. The last thing she wanted was the neighbors to believe she was beating up little old ladies.

  The landlady entered with a justifiably contrite look on her face. “Oh, dear,” she clucked at Veda Odell.

  “How did you get in?” asked Diane.

  Veda cast her husband a guilty glance. “We, uh, well, we just borrowed . . .”

  “My key?” said the landlady. “Did you take my key?”

  “We borrowed it. Marvin has been having fits with his allergies.”

  The landlady looked miserable.

  “Well, you can’t go stealing keys and poking around in people’s rooms. Dr. Fallon was attacked in the parking lot the other night. How do you think she felt seeing someone hiding behind her curtains?”

  “That was the only place I could hide. She was coming in the door and I was scared to move.”

  “Marvin, take Veda across the hall—and give me my key.” The landlady held out her hand, and Veda dropped the key in it.

  Marvin and Veda Odell left, and the other tenants went back to their apartments. There was only Diane and the landlady. Diane gave her the kind of look she did when Ariel got into something she shouldn’t have.

  “Oh, dear. You know, don’t you?”

  “I saw the tail the other night.”

  “She’s such a nice cat, and good company. I was hoping. . . . I guess I’ll have to get rid of her.”

  “Maybe you can find the Odells another apartment over a funeral home,” said Diane.

  “They are such a strange couple, aren’t they? They love planning their funerals. Can you imagine? That’s such an odd thing to have as a hobby. Two of them. How do you suppose they found each other in the first place?”

  “They probably met at a funeral,” said Diane.

  The landlady shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

  Diane sat on her sofa, suddenly very tired.

  “You know they had children,” the landlady said. “Seven of them. They all died. Veda showed me pictures of their funerals. Kind of makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?” With that, the landlady went back to her apartment.

  Yes, thought Diane, it does make my skin crawl. She locked her door, put a chair under the knob, and dragged herself into the bedroom. Before she got in bed she took a pain pill to ease her throbbing back. As she climbed in bed she noticed the light blinking on her answering machine. Frank, she thought, and reached for the playback button.

  Chapter 37

  The message was from Gregory, asking her to call, he had some news. She looked at the clock. Much too early in England to call now, but in a few hours . . . As she was setting her alarm to wake her up in five hours, the phone rang. She snatched it up.

  “Diane,” said Gregory. “I figured you’d wait until some decent hour to return my call, so I thought I’d call you back.”

  “Do you ever get any sleep?” she asked.

  “I don’t need much, really. Four hours a night and I’m fit for the day. I have some news, mostly good. If not good, at least informative.”

  “I could use some good news.”

  “The good news is that Ivan Santos and his people are still in Puerto Barquis. No evidence that any have sneaked out of the country or into the U.S. Bad news is they are mounting a successful coup.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The population’s been through a lot.”

  “I’m afraid they are in for more of the same.”

  “I hate saying I’m relieved he’s not here.”

  “I know. I have some more news too. I’ve been checking around, and found out that someone in your State Department was discussing the events of last year at a small private party a few weeks ago. I don’t think he meant harm, but I chastised him just the same. God knows they’ve been giving me a hard time. One of the people at the party was from Rosewood.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Gordon Atwell. Do you know him?”

  “I do indeed. He’s on my board of directors and one of the people siding with Mark Grayson. He also holds the mortgage on the museum—or, rather, his bank does.”

  “Then maybe this news will help.”

  “It will.”

  “How is everything else?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Something’s happened, I can hear it in your voice. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s a long story. Will you be able to get your four hours’ sleep?”

  “Fire away.”

  Diane told him the entire story, ending with Mrs. Odell behind her drapes. That part left him laughing.

  “I shouldn’t laugh. I’m sorry, but the image of this woman dressed in—what did you say, pink chenille?—hiding behind your draperies . . . not to mention you about to club her with a cast-iron skillet, of all things. Is it an antique?”

  “Not exactly. I bake cornbread in it.”

  “Cornbread? Just that one thing?”

  “Yes. It takes several years to season it just right for cornbread. You don’t wash it, so you can’t cook anything else in it.”

  “You’re joking. How do you clean the thing?”

  “You wipe it out after you take out the bread. The next time you use it, you rub it with shortening and put it in a fo
ur-hundred-and-twenty-five degree oven until it sizzles. That pretty much gets rid of any germs.”

  “Is that one of those Southern things?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have to allow you to bake me a—do you call it anything special? It can’t be a loaf, can it? I remember hearing something about a pone.”

  “Some call it that. I simply call it a pan of cornbread.”

  “You’ll have to make me a pan sometime.”

  “I’d be happy to. Let me know when you plan to come to the U.S. I’d love for you to see my museum.”

  “Marguerite and the boys would love that. I’m planning a trip in a couple of months. I’ll let you know. I’m sorry to hear about your friend Frank, and especially about you. I need to let you get some sleep. It sounds to me like you’re still injured.”

  “A little pain now and then.”

  “Go to bed and get some sleep. Let me know how things progress. I’m still concerned about you.”

  “I know. It’s good talking to you. It really is.” Diane hung up the phone and finally tucked herself into bed. She was glad he called. Gregory had a way of helping keep her feet on the ground.

  Morning came too soon. She slapped the alarm off and dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. The warm water felt soothing on her sore muscles. She thought she must be getting better. No sharp pains, and the soreness in her kidney wasn’t as acute.

  She pulled a pearl gray pantsuit from her closet, slipped it on and grabbed a nutrition bar for breakfast on the way out. The sun was shining. It looked like it was going to be a clear day. A surprise, because rain was in the forecast. She headed for the hospital, praying that Frank was improved.

  Diane slowed down as she approached the front desk. Fear was creeping inside her, fueled by the vision of asking to see Frank and being told he was gone—dead. This is just silly. She marched up to the desk and asked if she could visit Frank Duncan. As she asked, she saw Linc and Henry in the waiting room and walked over to them.

  “He’s stable,” Linc said before she asked.

  “That’s a relief.”

  “You look better too.”

  “Got a little adrenaline rush last night.” She grinned and told them about Mrs. Odell and the draperies. The two of them laughed with her, and it felt good.

  “Thanks for your help last night,” said Diane.

  “I may be mistaken,” said Linc, “but I’d be willing to bet he’s an avid hockey player.”

  “I’m going to call Frank’s partner today and ask him to put out a missing persons query. Maybe we’ll come up with something.”

  “Would you like to see Frank?” asked Linc.

  “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  Linc led her to the ICU and stayed outside the door as she went in. Frank was awake. He looked so pale. She took his hand.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “Thinking about you.”

  “Good, I hope.”

  “Always.”

  “Linc’s been a big help. Did he tell you?”

  Frank nodded. “Interesting.”

  “I met your partner. I thought I’d ask him to put out an inquiry about our guy.”

  “He’ll do that.”

  “I won’t stay long. I just needed to see how you are. Getting an infection wasn’t a good idea.”

  “No. Seemed like it at the time, though.” He gave her a wan smile.

  Diane squeezed his hand. “I saw Star yesterday. She’s OK. Her lawyer’s trying to get her bail. I said she could stay with me.”

  Frank held tightly onto her hand. “Thanks.”

  “Get better.” She kissed his cheek. “There’s something I need you to do for me when you get well.”

  He attempted a grin. “And what would that be?”

  Diane leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Teach me how to box.”

  “How’s he doing, really?” she asked Linc on the way out of the ICU.

  “Holding his own. Frank was never one to overuse antibiotics, so that’s in his favor. He usually responds well to them. That’s always a concern—finding an antibiotic that will work.”

  “Has there been any . . . other trouble?”

  “No. Henry and I are always here. Most of his visitors don’t go into ICU. They’re content to get information from us or the desk.”

  “Perhaps I’m just being paranoid.”

  He smiled. “Maybe, but if you’re not, it’s good to be prepared. Henry and I don’t mind.”

  When Diane left the hospital, she went to the jail. She didn’t expect to be able to see Star, but thought perhaps the person on duty would tell Star she had been there checking on her. She was surprised when they put her in the same room as before and brought Star in to see her. Her bandages were off her arms, and Diane could see the four-inch red scars running up each arm. She also noticed that there were no telltale needle marks on either arm. Whatever drugs Star had been taking were not intravenous. That was something.

  “How’s Uncle Frank?”

  Diane told her about the infection. She feared if Star heard it from another source and she hadn’t told her, it would damage the shaky trust Star was building with her.

  “He’s doing well. His brothers are there. One is a doctor himself and he gives me the real poop on how Frank’s doing.”

  “All this is my fault, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Mom and Dad hadn’t given Uncle Frank that bone to get the police to look for me . . . that’s what started everything.”

  “First of all, we don’t know if the bone is related to what happened to them. Second, and most important, it’s the person’s fault who murdered them. Don’t lose sight of that.”

  “Still.”

  “Star, don’t borrow trouble. You have enough to deal with. How are the guards treating you?”

  “The one on duty now’s nice. Her name’s Mrs. Torres. She’s good to me.”

  “That’s good. Are you good to her?”

  “You bet. In fact, she wanted me to ask you if there are any openings at the museum for a gardener. Her son’s looking for a job.”

  Diane laughed. “What’s his name?”

  “Hector Torres.”

  “Tell her to have him come to the museum. I’ll give the head groundskeeper his name.”

  Star grinned. Diane could tell she liked the idea of being a broker from her jail cell. If it kept her happy and made her life easier, a job for her guard’s son was a small price to pay. Diane just hoped the guy had something to recommend him.

  She said good-bye to Star and got in her car. As she started it up, she realized she was counting on Star’s being innocent. What if she wasn’t? She didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  The first order of business when she got back to her office was to call the head groundskeeper and ask him to look positively on Hector Torres when he made an application.

  “If he turns out to be a problem, send him to me to work it out.”

  “Sure thing,” he’d told her. “No problem.”

  Whoever was trying to make Diane look irresponsible should have simply waited a while and she’d have done it herself; they need not have tried so hard forging order forms. Hiring someone just to make Star’s life easier, putting both Jonas and Sylvia on the excavation—none of this had anything to do with the museum. She hoped Torres turned out to be a good worker. She shoved her feelings of guilt aside and went up to the second floor to finish with the skeleton.

  As she opened the door to the vault, she half expected the bones to be gone, that someone had come in during the night and taken them away.

  But the skeleton was there, brown bones laid out in basically the order they appeared in the body, on the table waiting for her to discover something else that would help identify them.

  Chapter 38

  Before she started Diane gave Jonas Briggs a call at the site to see how they were doing.

  “Just fine. Sylvia just identified a Cebus capucinus.�
��

  “A monkey?”

  “We also found a Sus scrofa.”

  “Someone had a pig stuffed?”

  “It was hard for me to imagine too.”

  “Interesting finds. How about a Homo sapiens skull?”

  “No, not so much as an H. sapiens tooth.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “We’re still looking. Have you made another move?”

  She hadn’t. She thought for a moment. “King-side castle.”

  “That’s really the most logical.”

  “Are you going to play both sides now?”

  “You’re not one of those people sensitive to critique, are you?”

  “You’re not one of those cocky winners, are you?”

  Jonas chuckled. “I E-mailed you my report. Testing this new computer, which the entire crew wants now. It’s really nice.”

  “I’ll tell Kenneth. He’ll be pleased.”

  Diane thanked him for the work and started back on those bones of the skeleton that she did have, which was about 86 percent of them. She examined each bone again, looking for any mark that might give a clue as to what had happened to him.

  She had found all the healed breaks and lesions already. She didn’t find any new cut marks or chipped bones that might indicate if he were stabbed or shot. His hyoid bone was intact, which indicated that he was probably not strangled, but she couldn’t rule it out either. There was nothing but the severe injury to the shoulder and underlying bones. Although not a fatal blow in itself, he could have bled out from such an injury, or gone into shock and died. But there was no way to know.

  She looked at the gentle curve in the femora. Blacks tend to have straight femora; other races have a slight curve to them. She punched up the measurements in her computer and ran ratios through her program. She knew what they would reveal, but she always liked to check her conclusions against her math. As she thought, the race was probably white.

  Comparing the length of his long bones with the chart for white males, she estimated his height to be six feet, two inches. Before she left the vault, her gaze lingered on the skeleton—tall, avid sports player, young, five years dead. She turned and went out, thinking about the parents he had somewhere.