Diane knew the answer to that question. Madge liked to feel important and in the know. She also liked to blame others for her own lapses in judgment. How she must have enjoyed it when Ms. Boville called for her opinion. No one on the board ever did.
It probably was not simple chance that led the reporter to the one board member who was most likely to speak unguardedly to her. Someone had primed the reporter and pointed her toward the weakest link. Diane looked again at the byline—Janet Boville. She didn’t know her. She wondered if David could wheedle out of the reporter the name of the person who started this whole mess. Perhaps not without extreme trickery.
Madge Stewart was on the board of directors because her parents were friends of the Van Rosses and had donated a substantial sum to the museum. Madge had studied art and she worked as an illustrator for a publishing company in Atlanta. Added to her trust fund, her work should have provided her with a good living. But Madge had reached her
Diane sensed she was feeling that
her by.
mid-fifties, and life was passing
Diane didn’t hesitate at the door when she reached the meeting room. She opened it and walked in. They were all there—Vanessa; Laura Hillard, a psychiatrist and Diane’s friend; Harvey Phelps, retired CEO; Madge Stewart; Kenneth Meyerson, CEO of a computer company; and the newest members—Martin Thormond, American history professor at Bartram; Thomas Barclay, a bank president; and Anne Pascal, schoolteacher and Georgia Teacher of the Year.
They were divided up—old Rosewood families on one side of the table and more recent residents on the other. Recent meant having great-grandparents who weren’t from Rosewood. It was odd how social boundaries were subconsciously maintained.
They all looked up as she entered. Laura smiled slightly. Vanessa didn’t smile, but she rarely did in board meetings. All their faces reflected the seriousness of the situation. Their frowns deepened when they saw Diane. She must look as pissed off as she felt.
Thomas Barclay looked
eyes over glasses pushed
at her with dark, serious forward on his nose. His bushy eyebrows met in the center as he frowned. She wondered how many loans he’d turned down with that weighty expression. Laura told her that he had been shocked to discover how much power Diane had and how little the board had. She said he had been lobbying Vanessa to make changes. Were it not that the governance was Milo’s plan—and as far as Vanessa was concerned, Milo was a saint—she might have considered it.
Diane reminded herself that most of the people in the room were her friends. Not because she was nervous about what they were going to say to her, but because she was angry—angry with the reporter, with Madge, and with all of them for insisting on a board meeting. Before the meeting was over, she intended to wipe that what-do-you-have-to-say-for-yourself look off Barclay’s face.
Diane went to her place at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, unrolled the newspaper, smoothed it down on the shiny surface, and sat down. She looked at Madge, then at the others.
‘‘This article has created a problem for the museum,’’ she said in an even tone.
‘‘It looks to me like Miss Williams has created the problem,’’ interrupted Barclay. ‘‘Has she been suspended?’’
Diane looked over at him. ‘‘Mr. Barclay, you are trying to apply solutions when you don’t know what the problem is.’’
She turned her attention back to the rest of the board. They looked startled. Were they surprised she hadn’t come hat in hand? They were all frowning except Kenneth Meyerson, who winked at her. Don’t make me smile, she thought.
‘‘The museum’s reputation is seriously threatened,’’ continued Barclay.
He said that for Vanessa’s sake, thought Diane. He knew what phrases would get to her. Diane also knew that Vanessa would listen to what she had to say . . . and Vanessa was no fool. She came from a family of centenarians and supercentenarians and had more than sixty years’ learning from their experiences.
‘‘Mr. Barclay, a museum’s
danger. That’s the reality of
reputation is always in an enterprise that depends on acquiring objects in a field fraught with looters, smugglers, forgers, grave robbers, and sharks. That’s why we have procedures and a code of ethics for dealing with acquisitions.’’
‘‘Well, it looks like your procedures and ethics don’t work.’’ He tapped the table with his middle finger, reaching toward the newspaper in front of her.
‘‘How do you know?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘What?’’ he said, clearly surprised by her question.
‘‘How do you know the procedures didn’t work?’’ repeated Diane.
‘‘Look at the news.’’ This time his tapping was more of a hammering. ‘‘The newspapers . . . then television...now that damn radio talk show...’’
‘‘You accept that as authoritative? And where did the newspaper get its information?’’ she interrupted.
He hesitated, glanced at Madge beside him and then at the others.
‘‘Where there’s smoke there’s usually fire,’’ he said, still giving her his you-don’t-get-the-loan look.
Diane saw Laura wince. She knew how Diane hated bad analogies.
‘‘No, Mr. Barclay. Often there’s just someone lobbing smoke bombs.’’
His eyebrows parted as he looked at her for a moment.
Diane didn’t wait for a response. ‘‘When Dr. Williams finds an object for the museum, she researches the provenance before authorizing a purchase. If she needs to, she hires independent appraisers. Once the item is here, its provenance is audited by our staff. If Dr. Williams’ research is in error, the second check will find it. When the Egyptian artifacts came to us they were stored in the conservation lab, where they remain, unopened, awaiting the audit of their provenance. No one yet knows if there is a problem with them.’’ Diane cast her gaze around the table at all of them.
‘‘Let me explain to you what this article did.’’ She laid her hand flat on the newspaper. ‘‘It reports that a board member, Madge Stewart, admits that Dr. Williams knowingly purchased looted artifacts and that RiverTrail Museum possesses stolen antiquities.’’ Diane stopped to let that sink in. ‘‘And the story has been picked up by other news outlets.
‘‘The consequences to Dr. Williams have been severe. She’s getting hate mail calling her a thief and worse. The University of Pennsylvania canceled her lecture series. Out of the blue, her reputation is in tatters with no proof whatsoever of wrongdoing. As for the museum—at best we look incompetent, at worst we look disreputable.’’ Diane paused. The board members exchanged glances.
‘‘Why did you think it was true?’’ Laura asked Madge.
‘‘The reporter told me it was,’’ she said.
‘‘Oh, Madge,’’ muttered Vanessa.
‘‘Christ,’’ said Barclay, snatching off his glasses.
‘‘Why would she say it was true if it wasn’t?’’ Madge looked around to each board member, challenging them to offer an answer.
‘‘If our goal is to protect the reputation of the museum,’’ said Martin Thormond, ‘‘perhaps we should just give the items in question back.’’
Diane was shaking her head even before he finished. ‘‘Protecting the reputation of the museum is more than making sure we don’t display stolen antiquities. We must also protect our ability to acquire them. If it’s known that all it takes for us to back off an acquisition is an anonymous accusation, then we have seriously crippled our ability to compete in a very competitive world. And I also want to add that an important part of our reputation is how we treat the people we employ. The people here look to me to protect them—and I will.’’
Diane stood, walked to a bookshelf, and came back with two magazines she laid on top the newspaper. ‘‘Best Aging magazine lists Rosewood in the top ten places to retire to. In citing the reasons for the selection they named the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History.’’ She pointed to
the other magazine. ‘‘Good Working named RiverTrail in its list of top one hundred best places to work in the Southeast—citing treatment of employees.’’
Her gaze took them all in before she spoke again. ‘‘This is a good museum and a good place to work. Because of the efforts of Dr. Williams and Dr. Seeger, our geology department has one of the best reference collections in the country. Students from several large universities in the region come here to study our specimens. That kind of scholarly caliber was one of Milo Lorenzo’s goals for the museum. I will not let all we have accomplished be sabotaged by rumors.’’ Diane wondered if her face looked as hot as it felt.
‘‘Where did the newspaper get the information in the first place?’’ asked Harvey Phelps. He had been fingering a copy of the newspaper tucked away on his lap. Diane noticed that he had looked sheepish the entire meeting. Another friend who felt guilty confronting her.
Most of the members had remained quiet, perhaps letting Barclay be the bad guy, a role he seemed to relish. Diane supposed they hadn’t said anything because all the words they had for her were of reproof and they hadn’t wanted to scold her. But they had wanted answers.
‘‘I don’t know who the original source was,’’ said Diane. ‘‘But I will find out. Someone set out to do us harm. And I will find out who they are.’’
Harvey smiled at Diane. He tried making it the avuncular smile he usually had for her, but it came up a little short. ‘‘What are we doing about the problem?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’ve told the registrar’s office . . . ’’ Diane noticed a puzzled look from the newer members. ‘‘That’s where we review provenances,’’ she explained. ‘‘I told them to start reviewing the provenance for the Egyptian artifacts immediately. My best detective has agreed to cut short his vacation and find the source of this attack on us.’’
‘‘Our bank uses a good detective agency I can recommend,’’ offered Barclay.
Diane supposed he wanted to purchase back some of the ground he had lost by now being helpful. She really wanted to ask him what a bank needed with a detective agency.
‘‘David will do an excellent job,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Professionals in the field will do a better job than museum people,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m sure your people are good at researching artifacts, but this investigation needs to be out in the real world.’’
Diane didn’t believe that he meant to be insulting. He was just one of those people who was out of touch with anything that wasn’t in his world. She folded her arms and looked at him for a moment.
‘‘I think you’re forgetting that Diane’s also director of the crime lab over in the west wing,’’ said Kenneth Meyerson. ‘‘Her people are pretty professional in the real world.’’
‘‘Yes. Well, I suppose I must have forgotten. One doesn’t think of that in a museum,’’ he said.
‘‘How is Kendel?’’ interrupted Vanessa.
Vanessa liked Kendel—well enough to let the assistant director talk her out of a ten-thousand-dollar diamond to put in the gemstone reference collection.
‘‘Not well at the moment. As you can imagine, this has been devastating,’’ said Diane.
Madge looked up suddenly from somewhere deep in her thoughts. ‘‘You don’t think she will sue me, do you?’’ she asked.
‘‘I would,’’ said Diane.
Madge sucked in her breath and her eyes grew large and round. She looked frightened. Diane hoped she would think before she spoke from now on.
‘‘But what should I have said?’’ asked Madge. ‘‘The woman said Kendel was guilty.’’
‘‘You say you have no comment, and then refer them to me,’’ said Diane. ‘‘That would be good for all of you. The charter specifies the director as the official spokesperson for the museum. I’m the one with the most up-to-date information. And we do have policies in place to handle these matters.’’
They nodded, muttering among themselves in agreement. Barclay sat looking at his glasses. Diane noticed he no longer looked as if he were going to make her explain herself.
The room was tense and Diane wanted to leave it that way. The mission of the board was advisory, and they had offered only recriminations. However, her friend Laura sat smiling brightly. Laura liked to end things upbeat. Diane supposed it was the psychiatrist in her. Diane started to adjourn when she heard the phone ringing in the adjacent office.
‘‘I have to take this call,’’ said Diane. Ignoring the frown Barclay gave her, she left the table and entered the small, bare, little-used office off the boardroom. It had a large window that allowed her to watch the boardroom.
She picked up the phone. ‘‘This is Diane Fallon. Is this Grace Noel Tully?’’
Chapter 9
‘‘Yes, I’m Mrs. Grace Tully,’’ said the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘‘The girl said something about your being the director of the museum?’’ She emphasized the word Mrs. and ended with a slight giggle. Grace had a childlike voice that probably made her mistaken for a kid on the phone.
Okay, Diane thought, she’s not dead. Now what? Tell the woman that I’m happy to find her alive?
‘‘I’m working with FBI agent Kingsley, the profiler . . .’’ Diane began.
‘‘Oh, I know him . . . but the girl who called said you worked at the museum . . .’’ she repeated.
‘‘I’m also director of the crime lab,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Oh, I think I knew something about that. What can I do for you?’’
‘‘I was wondering if we could meet and talk about one of the prisoners.’’
‘‘Well, I’m kind of in the middle of my honeymoon...’’ She giggled again. It was a girlish sound that made Diane sense her happiness even over the phone.
‘‘I did hear that you had just gotten married. Congratulations,’’ said Diane, testing the waters. ‘‘How do you like married life so far?’’ Diane hoped she sounded sufficiently friendly and congratulatory.
Diane watched the board members as she spoke. Madge looked like she would like to curl into fetal position. Laura was smiling, trying to keep the conversation light, Diane guessed—Laura the peacemaker. Barclay cleaned his glasses again. Probably wondering how to recover his alpha status.
‘‘I love it, just love it. Eric, my husband, has a daughter, Julie—just a living doll. I became a wife and a mother. I’m so lucky. I just have to pinch myself every day.’’
‘‘So you’re on your honeymoon?’’ said Diane.
Grace told her that she and Eric had just returned from Gatlinburg, where they had a shortened honeymoon because they didn’t want to be away from Eric’s daughter, Julie, for long. ‘‘We are leaving in a few days on a sort of family vacation,’’ she said.
‘‘Where are you planning on going?’’ asked Diane.
Grace laughed again. ‘‘Can you believe we haven’t decided yet? Eric wants to take a trip across the country and visit the national parks—he’s always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. I think that might be a little tiring for Julie. I’d love to take her to Disney World. We’ve also talked about a cruise.’’
Grace Noel Tully sounded happy and Diane didn’t want to ruin it. Truthfully, she only partly believed Clymene; on the other hand, the thought of the Grand Canyon and an ocean cruise gave her pause. She glanced at her board again and made up her mind.
‘‘Agent Kingsley would like to speak with you before you leave again,’’ said Diane. It was Kingsley, after all, who had sent her to see Clymene. He could take care of the consequences. Besides, she didn’t feel competent to assess whether or not Grace Tully had married a serial killer. That was Kingsley’s expertise.
‘‘I’m not sure....Eric’s been after me to quit and be a stay-at-home mom and I’ll admit, it appeals to me. . . .’’
‘‘Are you familiar with Clymene O’Riley?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘Oh, Lord, yes. She’s one of the more interesting inmates. Is this about her?’’ asked Grace
.
‘‘Yes,’’ said Diane—only half lying, she told herself. ‘‘Kingsley is profiling her and it would help the FBI a great deal if you would speak with him. Briefly,’’ she added.
‘‘Well . . .’’
‘‘And I would be happy to throw in free tickets to the museum for you and your family,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Oh, that would be nice. Julie would love that. . . . Well, you could give me your number and I’ll see if I can fit it in,’’ said Grace. ‘‘I would prefer not to tell Eric. He’s very insistent on wanting to take care of me.’’
Diane gave Grace her cell phone number and told her to call her anytime. She wanted to give her a word of caution but was afraid she would scare her into not seeing Kingsley.
Diane placed the phone on the hook and looked out at the board members before she made a move toward the door. Barclay was smiling. Even Madge was sitting straighter. She walked out the door and took her place at the head of the table. Maybe there was a way to undo some of the cheer that Laura was spreading around.
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