Dead Hunt dffi-5

by Beverly Connor

  say about it. Madge told her that Kendel would be

  fired,’’ said David.

  Diane rolled her eyes. ‘‘Is that it? Did the reporter

  have any other questions for her?’’ asked Diane. ‘‘She asked Madge information about herself. You

  want my opinion, I think the reporter played up to

  her ego—or lack of it. Then she asked her about your

  running of the museum,’’ said David.

  Diane frowned. In her meeting with the board she

  had purposefully ignored the parts of the article that

  raised questions about her management of the museum. She wanted to keep the board members focused

  on the real harm of the article to the museum and not

  think that her anger was in response to things Madge

  had said about her personally.

  Truth was, she didn’t care that Madge thought she

  ran a loose ship or that the crime lab was taking too

  much of Diane’s time and that too much responsibility

  had been shifted to Kendel. She did care that Madge

  verified the reporter’s accusation about stolen antiquities without having any real knowledge and without

  thinking about the consequences to the museum or

  to Kendel.

  ‘‘What about the reporter?’’ said Diane. ‘‘I suppose

  you haven’t had time to speak with her.’’

  David shook his head. ‘‘I haven’t tried. I called a

  buddy at another paper and asked about Janet

  Boville—that’s the Rosewood reporter’s name. He

  said she’s an ambush reporter, very aggressive, and he

  had little respect for her ethics. I was concerned that

  if I approached her the wrong way, the next article

  would be ‘Museum Director

  This Reporter,’ or something

  said David.

  Panicking—Harassing equally tabloidlike,’’

  Diane nodded. ‘‘I wouldn’t have liked that. Did you find out anything else from Madge?’’

  ‘‘Not directly, but Boville had been tipped off by some informant; I think the informant scripted the questions,’’ said David.

  Diane sat up straight and leaned forward with her forearms on her knees. ‘‘Why do you say that?’’

  ‘‘Because of the questions she asked Madge—about the UNESCO convention and where the museum stands on its provisions. About whether the provenance matched the artifacts. I thought that one was interesting.’’

  ‘‘That is interesting. The informant obviously knew they didn’t match,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said David. ‘‘Madge was clueless as to what the questions even meant, much less how to answer them.’’

  ‘‘How about Kendel?’’ asked Diane. ‘‘Did she have any helpful information?’’

  ‘‘Yes. She provided a model to work from. Now that I know the lay of the land, so to speak, I’ll know where to go to investigate.’’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘‘The Pearle Museum in Virginia had a nice collection of twelfth-dynasty Egyptian artifacts that Kendel wanted to get her hands on. She had seen them several years ago, and when you guys inherited the twelfthdynasty mummy, Kendel went back to Pearle and asked if they would like to sell the artifacts. The answer was no.’’ David stopped, sat up, and took another big swig of his drink.

  Diane was familiar with the Pearle. It was a good museum, a little smaller than RiverTrail. They belonged to the same associations for small museums. RiverTrail, however, was unique in that even though it had a small number of holdings, it had a very large building.

  ‘‘But they changed their minds?’’ said Diane. ‘‘Kendel had asked them to notify her if they decided to sell the items. The director said he would. In the meantime, he took a job with the United Nations.’’

  ‘‘I remember,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Noah landed a very good position.’’

  ‘‘The new director, Brenda McCaffrey, didn’t know about the agreement to contact Kendel and she sold the items to Golden Antiquities to make room, and money, for an exhibit she had worked out with the Greek government,’’ said David. He stopped a moment. ‘‘You don’t need the history of the pieces, do you, like where they were before the Pearle?’’

  ‘‘I’ve seen the provenance. Go on,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Good, because you know when Kendel gets started telling you about something . . . Anyway, Kendel found out about the sale to Golden Antiquities and she started negotiations with them. Golden Antiquities has been in business for about thirty years. Started by a man named Randal Cunningham, Sr. He’s been gradually turning the business over to his son, Randal Cunningham, Jr. for some time,’’ said David.

  ‘‘Which one died in the fire?’’ asked Diane.

  ‘‘I don’t know yet. I’ll find out more tomorrow. Kendel dealt with both the Cunninghams, Senior and Junior. She said she examined the artifacts and watched them being packed. She said she didn’t notice anything hinky during the transactions. Everything was very routine and normal.’’

  ‘‘Nothing unusual whatsoever?’’ asked Diane.

  ‘‘I had her close her eyes and revisit each encounter to see if she could remember anything that would be helpful. The only thing she said that I found interesting was that each time she was there she had smelled Jean Patou’s Joy. It’s a very expensive perfume,’’ said David. ‘‘But she never saw the wearer.’’

  ‘‘Like hundred-dollars-an-ounce expensive?’’ asked Diane.

  ‘‘No. Like five-hundred-an-ounce expensive,’’ said David.

  ‘‘Wow,’’ said Diane. ‘‘So, it’s rare?’’

  ‘‘No. It’s the second-best-selling scent in the world,’’ said David.

  ‘‘You’re kidding. I’ve never heard of it. Can that many people afford five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume?’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Well, I think it’s the second-best-selling overall since it was created sometime in the thirties. I’m not sure where it stands today. But Kendel says it’s very popular still—and you don’t have to buy it by the ounce. You can get a fraction of an ounce—like a hundred dollars’ worth,’’ said David. ‘‘You want me to give Frank a hint?’’

  ‘‘No. I’ll look it up when I visit Paris this summer,’’ said Diane.

  In a bid to talk Frank’s adopted daughter Star into going to college, Diane had offered to take her to Paris and buy her a new wardrobe if Star would go to the university for a year and make at least a 2.7 grade point average. She was beginning to look forward to the trip and was feeling very proud that Star, a troubled girl whose parents had been murdered, was turning her life around.

  ‘‘So Star’s made the grade?’’ said David. ‘‘Good for her.’’

  ‘‘So far. She still has the rest of spring semester to go. You know, spring break and all. Frank is planning a trip for the two of them during spring break. He’s really nervous she is going to want to go to the beach with her friends instead of with him.’’

  ‘‘Spring break is a tradition,’’ said David.

  ‘‘Sure it is, but I think he’s right. Next year she’ll have more experience being on her own. All this is new to her,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘New? She was on her own when she was on the lam with that guy she called her boyfriend,’’ said David.

  ‘‘I mean being on her own in a responsible manner, then,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Anything else Kendel remembered?’’

  ‘‘The whole transaction was smooth. Not even much haggling,’’ said David. ‘‘Last meeting they said they would deliver the items within the week. Which they did, except as I understand it now, they weren’t the items.’’

  ‘‘Maybe she’ll remember more now that her memory has been jogged,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Can you keep in touch with the arson investigation at Golden Antiquities?’’

  ‘‘I think so,’’ said David.

&n
bsp; ‘‘Good. Let’s go home. I know it’s early for me, but I’m tired. A lot happened today. Things will look fresher in the morning.’’

  Diane closed up her office and lab, and she and David walked through the building to the lobby. She waved at the guard on duty and they walked out the door to the parking lot. It was dusk, the moon was full, and everything had the faintly bluish tint of darkness coming. People were arriving at the restaurant for a late dinner, and many cars belonging to the staff were still parked in the lot. Diane looked up at the colossal building just in time to see the day lighting go off and the night lighting come on. She loved the museum and silently promised she would protect it from scandal. Diane waved to David, got in her car, and drove home.

  * * *

  Diane opened her eyes at the sound of someone knocking on her door. Was she dreaming? She got out of bed. What time is it? She looked at her clock: 4:14 a.m. No wonder she felt so sleepy. Not enough sleep. There was that knock again.

  She slipped on a robe and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Great, another power outage. What this time, another squirrel on the wire?

  She walked down the short hallway in the dark toward the living room. As she passed the kitchen she stepped in something wet and slick. She lost her footing, slipped, and fell hard on the floor, hitting her head against the wall on her way down.

  She lay stunned by the fall. After a moment she became aware that she was lying in a wet pool. The coppery-iron aroma was unmistakable.

  Chapter 16

  Diane was trying to rise to her feet just as the door burst open.

  ‘‘This is the police,’’ shouted a loud male voice she thought she recognized. She felt a surge of relief.

  ‘‘Dr. Fallon?’’ he called out.

  ‘‘Here,’’ said Diane. He switched on the living room light.

  The light worked. What about the electricity? The illumination revealed what Diane knew, what she had smelled—blood. The pool in the hallway ran into the dining area and the kitchen. Diane was covered in it.

  ‘‘Sweet Jesus,’’ said the policeman, lowering his gun. ‘‘What happened, Dr. Fallon? Where are you hurt? Don’t try to move.’’

  ‘‘I’m all right. It’s not my blood,’’ she said. Then whose is it?

  ‘‘Is there someone else here?’’ he asked. ‘‘We got an anonymous call about someone being killed. Is there a body?’’ He looked around the room, squatting on his haunches as if there might be a body hidden under the couch.

  ‘‘No—I don’t know. . . .’’ said Diane.

  Before she finished, the patrolman began searching her apartment, trying carefully to avoid the blood— which was impossible. He tracked it into her bedroom.

  Diane struggled carefully to her feet. A policeman who had been standing at the door came in to help her.

  ‘‘Are you hurt? You say this isn’t your blood? Do you know whose it is?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Diane. ‘‘No, I don’t.’’

  He pulled out a chair from her dining room table as she carefully made her way, trying not to step in the blood. As she started to sit down, she looked at the seat cushion and stopped. She was soaked in blood. It dripped from her night shirt and robe. The policeman noticed her hesitation.

  ‘‘You need to sit down,’’ he said. ‘‘You have a bruise on your head. Did someone attack you?’’

  Diane reached a hand up to touch her head but saw that her hands were covered in blood. She sat down on the floor.

  ‘‘Is there a body somewhere?’’ the patrolman asked.

  ‘‘What? No, not that I’ve seen.’’ That sounded stupid. ‘‘I mean, I just woke up.’’ Think, dammit.

  ‘‘All clear,’’ said the first policeman. He walked back to them. He was leaving bloody footprints all over the floor. ‘‘You got a bulb out in the bedroom.’’

  ‘‘You just woke up and found all this blood in your apartment?’’ The policeman sounded skeptical. Diane didn’t blame him.

  ‘‘Better call Chief Garnett,’’ said the first policeman. ‘‘You know he wants to be called about anything involving Fallon, the museum, or the crime lab.’’

  ‘‘We need to call the paramedics. She has a serious lump on her head,’’ said the other patrolman.

  ‘‘Call the crime lab. . . . ’’ She thought for a moment, remembered Jin’s home phone number, and gave it to them.

  As they made their calls, Diane looked at the blood pattern—pooled in the hallway, running into the kitchen and dining area, pooling up under the table. There was so much of it. A smear of blood led from the main pool out the door. Something—someone was dragged. She looked up at the ceiling. There were three lines of cast-off blood spatter—that would be four thrusts of a knife. First one picked up the blood, the subsequent ones spattered it across the ceiling. On the wall across from the table where she sat there was a smear of blood as if someone had put their hands on it, then slid down the wall. She looked on the floor for footprints. There should have been a lot of them made by whoever was here, but she couldn’t make out the originals from the ones made by the policemen and by herself. It struck her that it all looked so ridiculous—and so horrible.

  ‘‘Are you hurt?’’ asked one of the patrolmen.

  Diane touched her head. ‘‘Just a small bump.’’

  ‘‘How did you get it? Were you hit?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Hit? No. I fell—slipped in the blood,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You didn’t hear anything?’’ he asked. She looked at his brass name tag. Officer Ellison. She looked at the other one. Officer Lange. It was Lange she knew.

  ‘‘No, I didn’t hear anything,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Are you a heavy sleeper?’’ Lange asked.

  Diane shook her head. ‘‘No. I’m a light sleeper.’’ She was a light sleeper. Why didn’t she hear anything? And why did she feel so fuzzy now. Drugged? When?

  She looked down at her arms, her clothes. She was soaked in blood. The smell was making her sick, the sight about to cause her to gag. She had to get away from the blood.

  ‘‘You don’t need to be getting up until the paramedics get here,’’ said Officer Ellison.

  Diane hadn’t realized that she had tried to rise. ‘‘Sorry. I feel sick. It’s the smell.’’

  ‘‘The paramedics will be here soon. Put your head down,’’ he said, nodding at her and putting his own head on his raised folded arms as if she might not understand the language.

  She put her forearms on her knees, bent her head down, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe evenly.

  The noise level rose and Diane realized that other people had arrived. She thought of her neighbors. Given the number of times violent events had happened in or near her apartment, they had been longsuffering. She was sure that the people across the hall already had their door open a crack. Hopefully they had heard something that might shed some light on what happened.

  Two paramedics entered and began taking her blood pressure and asking her questions designed to detect whether or not she was in her right mind.

  ‘‘Your pulse is low,’’ commented the female paramedic.

  ‘‘I run,’’ said Diane. ‘‘My pulse normally runs about fifty, often lower.’’

  ‘‘We’re okay, then. Does your head hurt?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ answered Diane.

  They continued to ask questions and Diane answered. She heard Garnett arrive, followed by her crime scene team.

  ‘‘Oh, my God,’’ said Neva. She, Jin, and David stood looking at Diane and the pool of blood. ‘‘What happened?’’

  ‘‘That’s why you’re here,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’ said David.

  ‘‘I mean, I don’t know,’’ said Diane evenly. ‘‘David, you aren’t on call to respond to a crime scene. You’re supposed to be on vacation.’’

  ‘‘I am on vacation. This is one of the sights,’’ he said. ‘‘Like I was going to stay home whe
n the crime scene Jin and Neva were called to was your place?’’

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’ asked Neva.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘You have a big bruise on your head,’’ Chief Garnett said. ‘‘It looks like you were attacked.’’ Garnett, as usual, looked like he had just come from the theater or a concert. Well dressed, tall, in his mid-forties, he always appeared elegant, especially with his full head of black and silver hair.

  Diane started to explain to Garnett that she slipped and fell in the blood, but her voice was drowned out by the policeman telling someone they couldn’t come in.