Dead Hunt dffi-5

by Beverly Connor

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’ he interrupted. ‘‘Your face is red.’’ He walked over to her, set down the suitcase, and took her by the shoulders.

  ‘‘Did something happen here?’’ Lynn was looking at her more closely now too.

  Diane explained about the attacker, fighting him off and trying to chase him. She kept it short, but the nurse’s aide stood openmouthed as she listened.

  ‘‘I need to see if you’re hurt,’’ said Lynn.

  ‘‘I’m fine,’’ said Diane. Truthfully she ached all over and her face hurt, but she was not going to be examined one more time.

  ‘‘Did you call security?’’ asked Frank.

  ‘‘He’s probably long gone,’’ said Diane without looking at the aide. ‘‘I’ll have Neva or Jin come down and have a look at the scene. They may find something.’’

  She turned to the aide. ‘‘I need a container to put my gowns in. I have to take them with me so they can be processed.’’ Diane looked over at an examining table inside one of the curtained cubicles. ‘‘Do you have some clean white paper that I can wrap them in?’’

  ‘‘Yes. On the table. I’ll get you a piece.’’ The aide went to the examination room and came back with a long piece of white paper and handed it to Diane.

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ She turned to Lynn. ‘‘I assume my X-rays were fine.’’

  ‘‘Yes, fine...’’she began.

  Diane picked up the suitcase and took it with her into the examination room and drew the curtain. She laid the small suitcase on the bed and opened it. She found panties and a bra and put them on, slipped on a pair of jeans and grabbed a neatly folded blue oxford shirt. Her fingers shook as she tried to button it. She squeezed her eyes tight to hold back a flood of tears, flexed her fingers, and finished the buttons.

  When she was dressed, Diane stood a minute behind the curtain before she went out, suitcase in one hand and the carefully wrapped hospital gowns under her arm. She tried not to shake.

  ‘‘Let me take the gowns to your guys,’’ said Lynn when Diane emerged. ‘‘Why don’t you take a couple of hours off before you go to the museum? I know I can’t talk you into staying away the whole day.’’

  ‘‘Good idea,’’ said Frank, eying her closely as he put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. ‘‘Stay at my house for a while.’’

  ‘‘Maybe for a couple of hours,’’ said Diane. She noticed they didn’t ask her to stay and talk to the police about the most recent attack. She must look like the wreck she felt.

  ‘‘Why aren’t you at work?’’ Diane asked from the passenger seat of Frank’s new Chevy Camaro.

  ‘‘I was fifteen minutes out when Neva called,’’ said Frank. ‘‘Why didn’t you call me?’’

  ‘‘I thought you’d be at work. And Garnett and Lynn were insisting that I go to the hospital. That was just for show. Making sure the news media saw me as the victim. I wish I’d refused.’’

  He stopped at a traffic light and looked over at her and took her hand.

  Diane’s lip quivered. ‘‘I thought the guy at the hospital was going to rape me,’’ she said. Saying it out loud brought her close to tears again.

  Frank squeezed her hand. Diane saw his jaw muscle clench. The light changed and he accelerated.

  ‘‘I wasn’t going to let that happen,’’ she said, knowing that most of the time the victim can’t stop a determined rapist. She shook her head as if there might be something out of place inside her skull. ‘‘I don’t know what came over me—I didn’t care what threat he made—I just wasn’t going to let it happen. And there I was in that stupid gown. Thank heavens I’d found a second one just a minute before and put it on backwards—not that I was much more protected.’’ She took a breath. ‘‘And there was that idiot nurse. She wouldn’t believe me and just stood there grinning when I told her to go get security. They need to make those gowns in power colors.’’

  ‘‘You asked for security? Why didn’t you say something back there?’’ asked Frank.

  ‘‘Because nurse’s aide is a low-paying job and she’s probably the sole support of five kids, a no-account husband, and five brothers-in-law and their families,’’ said Diane.

  She saw Frank’s jaw twitch into a tiny smile. They were silent until he pulled into his driveway. Diane looked at her watch.

  ‘‘You’re going to be late for work,’’ she said.

  ‘‘It’s okay. I want to stay with you for a while. Come in and tell me what happened at your home and at the hospital. You said you thought he was going to rape you. That wasn’t his goal?’’

  Diane shook her head. ‘‘No, he wanted to kill me.’’

  Chapter 19

  Frank’s Queen Anne–style house was set off the road amid several huge oak trees. It was an old house that had been well maintained. Its hardwood floors had a high polish. The interior walls were a light yellow-tan color that made the rooms look bright and clean. He had a preference for stuffed chairs and sofas, and oak and walnut furniture that suited the age of the house. It was a house that always reminded her of Frank himself—a sound and comfortable port in a storm.

  They sat on one of the stuffed sofas facing a rock fireplace. There was no fire and it looked like a yawning dark entrance to a cave. It looked inviting. Diane hadn’t been caving in several months, and a dark cool cavern was appealing right now. Nothing like crawling into the earth to escape your troubles. She leaned against Frank and he held her tight as if his arms might stop her trembling. After several minutes Diane gently pulled away and sat up.

  ‘‘I’m okay, really,’’ she said, rubbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers, making an effort not to lose control. She couldn’t go to the museum looking so vulnerable—not now, not when the entire museum was looking to her for strength.

  Frank studied her for a moment and smiled in the way that made his eyes twinkle—which made everything seem all right.

  ‘‘Good. I’ll get us some coffee and you can tell me all about your day so far.’’

  Frank rose from the sofa, leaned over, and gave Diane a quick kiss on the lips. While he was gone, Diane went to the mantel to look at the photographs. She had seen them all many times but she liked looking at them. Frank had a nice family—parents who were still alive and still married, two brothers and one sister, nieces, nephews. He had a photograph of his son, Kevin, from a previous marriage and one of Star, the young girl he adopted after her parents were murdered. Diane took down the photograph and smiled at it. Star, now going to Bartram University, had been working hard, overcoming a lot.

  Frank came back with two cups of cappuccino— which was always way too strong. But right now she needed a good jolt. She put the photo of Star back on the mantle.

  ‘‘Do I need to sip this sitting down?’’ she said.

  ‘‘It probably would help.’’ He sat down next to her with his own drink.

  Diane blew across the top of the beverage to cool it, then took a small drink. It was hot, strong, and good.

  After a moment she began her recounting of the day by telling him about waking up to the knock at the door and then slipping in the blood. She told him about the attack in the hospital in more detail than she had related in the presence of Lynn Webber and the nurse’s aide.

  ‘‘Did you recognize the voice?’’ asked Frank. As they spoke he sipped his coffee and rubbed the back of her neck with his hand.

  ‘‘No, I didn’t. But calling me a dirty dealer... it had to be about the artifacts. Someone thinks I’m dealing in stolen antiquities. That’s the only thing that makes sense.’’

  From Frank’s blank stare and raised eyebrows, Diane realized he didn’t know about the disputed artifacts or the newspaper articles. He usually didn’t read the local newspapers until the weekend. Frank worked in Atlanta and the story hadn’t yet made it there, at least not on the front page. That would be today most likely—something else to look forward to.

  ‘‘We have a scandal of sorts at the museum,’�
� she said. Diane told him about the wretched newspaper articles and the hastily called board meeting.

  ‘‘Are you sure Kendel isn’t involved?’’ asked Frank. ‘‘Just to play the devil’s advocate, could she be using RiverTrail to launder looted antiquities or at least to get a good deal on some Egyptian artifacts for the museum?’’

  Diane shook her head. ‘‘The only Egyptian artifacts we’re looking for right now are twelfth dynasty. The same as our mummy. The artifacts delivered to us are from several other dynasties.’’

  ‘‘Could she have intended to replace the photo

  artifacts graphs in the documents and launder the

  that way?’’

  ‘‘The photographs wouldn’t match the

  tions,’’ said Diane. ‘‘She couldn’t hope to launder the

  artifacts at our museum.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ said Frank. When he decided to play the

  devil’s advocate he was like a dog with a bone. ‘‘I

  would think a museum would be the perfect place to

  launder looted artifacts.’’

  ‘‘Not ours,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We’re a small museum

  and we’ve had one director—me.’’

  descrip‘‘So?’’ said Frank.

  ‘‘Large museums show only a fraction of their holdings at any one time. The Bickford shows only about a third of theirs. The rest is in storage. Periodically they create new exhibits from their inventory, rearrange items into perhaps a comparative study—like stone tools from around the world or medicinal plants

  from various cultures.’’

  ‘‘The Bickford? Where have I heard about them?’’

  said Frank.

  ‘‘That’s where we purchased our casts of the Jurassic dinosaurs,’’ said Diane. ‘‘They sent staff from their

  museum to help us put them together.’’

  ‘‘Ah, yes. I remember now,’’ he said. ‘‘Go on. You

  were telling me why artifacts can’t be laundered in

  your museum.’’

  ‘‘In large museums like the Bickford it might be

  easier to integrate looted artifacts into the stored

  ones—especially with turnovers in directorship. In

  fact, their current director is leaving. Here at RiverTrail what you see is basically what we have. I know

  all of our holdings, and everything comes through me.

  For Kendel to be laundering artifacts, she’d have to

  enlist the staff who work at the loading dock, the

  provenance researchers . . . or me. It doesn’t make

  sense that she is involved in this.’’

  ‘‘Could the loading dock staff or the researchers be

  in it with her?’’

  ‘‘Obviously not. They are the ones who discovered

  the discrepancies.’’

  ‘‘But someone thinks you are involved?’’ said

  Frank.

  ‘‘It looks that way. And whatever is going on is

  worth killing me for,’’ said Diane.

  Frank set down his cup, leaned over, and kissed Diane. Diane liked the taste of his lips and the smell of his aftershave. ‘‘He didn’t kill you,’’ he whispered close to her lips, ‘‘and he won’t.’’ He kissed her again

  before he sat back and reclaimed his coffee. ‘‘Whoever tipped off the press knew what was in

  the crates before they were opened,’’ said Frank. ‘‘So

  the items were switched at... what’s the name of the

  seller?’’

  ‘‘Golden Antiquities,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Either they were switched at Golden Antiquities before they left, or the crates were intercepted somewhere

  between Golden Antiquities and your museum.’’ ‘‘I’m sure it was no coincidence that Golden Antiquities burned,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘I agree,’’ said Frank. ‘‘They are implicated in some

  way.’’ He appeared to mull over Diane’s answers for

  a moment; then he changed the subject. ‘‘RiverTrail

  doesn’t seem like a small museum,’’ he said. ‘‘One thing, the building is large. Another is we try

  to make the best use of what we have. Like with our

  Egyptian exhibit. All we really have is the mummy,

  its case, and a collection of amulets that were probably

  wrapped with him. It looks like a bigger exhibit because of the things we added to it, like the life-size

  reconstruction Neva did of the mummy sitting crosslegged in the middle of the room, the dioramas with

  models of Egyptian houses and pyramids, the computer three-D graphics of tombs and temples, the cubicles with computer tutorials on ancient Egypt. There’s

  a lot to look at, but not a huge collection of antiquities.’’

  ‘‘Curious,’’ said Frank. ‘‘Neither problem makes

  sense—the antiquities or your apartment.’’

  ‘‘No, and that’s why I need to get back to the museum and the crime lab. I need to know what my crew

  found,’’ she said.

  Frank stood and pulled Diane up with him. ‘‘It

  won’t hurt you to wait a couple of hours. Take a nap.

  You’ll think better after you’ve rested—and eaten

  something. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything all

  day.’’

  She hadn’t, and until he mentioned it she didn’t

  realize she was hungry. They went into the kitchen

  and Frank made bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. No one made BLTs like Frank—the bacon

  was always crisp, the lettuce always fresh, and the tomatoes always vine ripened.

  ‘‘Don’t you have to go to work?’’ asked Diane after

  her last bite.

  ‘‘I’m looking through computer files on a fraud case.

  I can do it here. Neva brought some of your clothes

  and girl stuff and put them in the guest room. Not

  that you have to stay in the guest room,’’ he said,

  smiling. ‘‘But that’s where I had closet space. Go take

  a nap. Who knows, this thing may have resolved itself

  by the time you wake up.’’

  Diane took a shower, the second within just a few hours. The guest bathroom had a large showerhead that made the water feel like rain. She stood under the warm water for a long time. When she was clean and dry she slipped on a nightshirt and lay on the down-filled mattress. Frank was right—what she needed was food and sleep. Things would be better when she awoke.

  As Diane stirred awake, she heard the muffled sound of Frank’s telephone ringing in another part of the house. She got out of bed, dressed, and put on a minimal amount of makeup. Neva definitely deserved a bonus, she thought, looking in the mirror.

  Frank was in the living room standing by the fireplace when she emerged. He kissed her cheek and took her hand—but didn’t smile.

  ‘‘Neva called,’’ he said. ‘‘The marshals want to talk with you again. It was Clymene O’Riley’s blood in your apartment.’’

  Chapter 20

  Diane stood staring at Frank in disbelief, barely aware of how tightly he was holding her hands.

  ‘‘It was Clymene’s blood in my apartment?...

  How?’’ she said.

  ‘‘I don’t know. But Garnett arranged for the mar

  shals to speak with you at the crime lab and not downtown,’’ said Frank. ‘‘They’re waiting for you.’’ ‘‘Why the marshals? If Clymene died in Rosewood,

  jurisdiction now falls to Garnett,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Garnett will be there. So will the district attorney.

  I imagine the marshals are just tying up loose ends

  before they leave,’’ said Frank. He rubbed the back

  of her hand with his thumb.

  Tying up loose ends—like finding the body, she

  thought. She
could just see the headline now: CRIME

  LAB DIRECTOR BROUGHT IN FOR QUESTIONING IN MYSTE

  RIOUS BLOODY DEATH. She shuddered at the thought and silently thanked Garnett for scheduling the meeting at the crime lab.

  ‘‘Why is the DA going to be there, I wonder.’’ said Diane.

  Frank shook his head. ‘‘I have no idea. I wouldn’t worry about it. However anyone wants to spin this, it still gets down to the fact that Clymene O’Riley was an escaped murderer who somehow got into your apartment in the middle of the night.’’