“We’ll be finishing up the fire scene, too,” said McNair. “We’ll box any bones we find and send them to you.”
He turned, got in his truck with his friends, and sped away, throwing up slush on all of them, even on the commissioner’s nice black topcoat.
“This is for the best,” said the commissioner, brushing off his coat with a gloved hand. “He’s rough around the edges and not very tactful, but the job will get done.”
“That is our hope,” said Garnett. “This is a high-profile event, and it will come back to bite all of us in the ass if McNair screws it up.”
“He won’t. I assure you, he won’t.” The commissioner sounded more hopeful than certain.
The commissioner got in his car with one quick look over his shoulder and drove away. At least he didn’t splatter us, thought Diane.
“What just happened?” she asked.
“McNair’s uncle got to the commissioner,” said Garnett.
“Did you explain that it was McNair who was mishandling the evidence?”
“Yes, and the commissioner believed me. This is really not about logic or who’s right; it’s about politics,” said Garnett. “We are just going to have to make the best of it. Do you have pictures?”
“Yes,” said Diane.
“If McNair screws up and it becomes a public issue, we’ll use them. If any perp gets off because of McNair, we’ll certainly use them.”
Diane was thoroughly pissed when she arrived at her apartment. She had made the short walk through the woods, trudging through snow over a foot deep in hopes that the walk would cool her down. It didn’t. She took a shower, dressed in something decidedly nonforensic, and drove to the museum.
It was closed, but in times like these when she’d been ankle-deep in bodies and politicians, or just generally having a bad day, she drew peace from visiting and contemplating the exhibits in the museum. Sometimes it was the Egyptian room and the amulets that had been folded inside the mummy’s wrappings; sometimes it was the rocks and gemstones; sometimes she walked among the giant dinosaur skeletons or sat and looked at the wall murals of dinosaurs with tiny fanciful unicorns the artist hid in all the paintings.
Her former boss, Gregory Lincoln, liked to look at Vermeer paintings when he was out in the field. Gregory carried postcard-sized representations of his favorites. He would look at the everyday scenes painted by Vermeer for hours-the love letter, woman with a water pitcher, the guitar player, the geographer. They seemed to put him in a meditative trance. Diane once asked what he was thinking when he looked at his pictures.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s going on in them. What’s the woman thinking about as she’s handed the letter? What map is the geographer drawing, how many places has he been?”
Diane had adopted Gregory’s habit of looking at beautiful art when she needed a break from a particularly grim assignment and had kept it up even after she gave up human rights investigations. Tonight the soothing shapes of the seashells held a particular appeal.
It would be a couple of hours before the low-level night lighting came on. Museum lighting is a science all its own. Because light is both destructive and necessary, she had staff whose only job was to tend to the peculiar needs of museum lighting. At night there’s the bare minimum of lights, and most of them are low to the floor so no one trips over anything. It’s good for the exhibits, but not good for viewing. She could of course override the day-to-night lighting change, but she would not do that simply for her own personal viewing.
The RiverTrail Museum of Natural History resided in a nineteenth-century three-story granite building. The interior decor contained ornate moldings, polished granite floors, wood paneling, brass fixtures, wall-sized murals of dinosaurs, and very large rooms.
Using her master key, she entered through the west-wing entrance where the Aquatic Animal section was located. The guard on duty at the information desk nodded a hello. Diane smiled at him. She cast a glance at a brachiosaurus in the dinosaur room in front of her before she turned left and walked straight to the seashell section.
Seashells are the houses and bones of mollusks-soft-bodied creatures that mostly inhabit aquatic environments. The museum had a fairly decent collection from among the more than fifty thousand possible varieties.
As in bones, if you know the code contained in seashells, you can read the history of the animal. The distinctive pattern of pigments laid down on a shell is governed mostly by DNA but is shaped by the experiences of the animal. Even among the members of the same variety, no two individuals have exactly the same pattern. A mollusk enlarges its shell along the edge, just like human bone growth at the epiphysis. On these growth edges the pigmentation pattern is laid down. Whatever happens to the mollusk-feast, famine, injury, temperature changes-has an effect and is recorded in the pattern. The mollusk wears its history on its back. A computer monitor in the shell room graphically illustrated the process, but Diane skipped that tonight. She’d seen it many times when it was being created.
She lingered a moment by the Humans and Shells exhibit to wonder at the cowrie shell necklaces from Africa, the mother-of-pearl jewelry, the carved conch shells loaned from the Archaeology Department depicting religious and ceremonial engravings of the southeastern Indians of the United States. There were display examples of kitschy souvenir shells from Florida. One of the prize specimens in this particular exhibit, acquired by Diane’s assistant director, Kendel Williams, was a gilded saltshaker in the form of a rooster made from the shell of a chambered nautilus.
Just beyond the Humans and Shells exhibit was the Math of Seashells. Not a favorite with most visitors, but Diane liked it, as did all the math teachers in the area. They often brought classes on field trips to watch the video explanation of the mathematics of the spiraled chambered nautilus based on the Fibonacci sequence of numbers. The video went on to show that pinecones, sunflowers, spiral galaxies, movement of bees, and even the Parthenon contain the same mathematics. Teachers loved that. For those really into the math of seashells, there was a video of the algorithmic process involved in the laying down of the pattern. Not very popular, but Diane left it on the computer, anyway. The instructors of higher mathematics loved her for that.
The fossil shells were a favorite of visitors mainly because they loved looking at the spiral shells whose component minerals had been replaced by pyrite so that they looked like pure gold. But these weren’t Diane’s favorites.
What she liked best were simply the shells themselves, the spiky, shiny, swirling, spiraling, multicolored unaltered seashells. There was something very calming about just looking at them-much like the joy of looking at the Vermeers.
She was looking in wonder at the details of a particularly lovely pelican shell when she heard raised voices coming from the aquatic lab.
Chapter 15
The door to the aquatic lab was ajar and Diane moved toward the opening. Only one of the voices was doing the shouting. Diane recognized it as belonging to the new aquatic collections manager, Whitney Lester.
“I know you stole the shells. It will be easier on both of us if you just admit it now.”
Diane didn’t hear the answer, only a soft murmur.
“I’m tired of wasting my time with you. You are going to lose your job. That’s certain. Whether or not it goes to the police is up to you. Where are the damn shells? I’m not going to have valuable articles go missing on my watch, do you hear?”
Diane walked into the lab and found Lester glowering over Juliet Price. Lester had backed her up against a table. Juliet looked terrified.
“I’m sick of your mousy ways. Tell me, damn it!” yelled Lester.
“What’s going on?” said Diane, in a voice she hoped was calm.
Whitney looked in Diane’s direction with the same angry look she was giving Juliet, ready to light into whoever was interrupting her. Her expression turned to surprise, then an attempt at a smile.
“Dr. Fallon, I didn’t hear you come in.”
/>
How could you with all your yelling, thought Diane. “What’s going on?” she repeated.
“Miss Price stole several valuable shells from the collection. I’m trying to persuade her to give them back.”
Diane looked at Juliet Price. Her arms were folded over her stomach and she was bent over. Her blond hair swung forward and hid her face.
“Dr. Price, are you all right?” asked Diane.
“She’s fine. She’s a malingerer.”
Diane ignored Whitney. “Juliet, are you all right?” Diane walked toward her and guided her to a chair.
“I didn’t steal the shells,” she whispered. “I need this job.”
Diane heard a snort from Whitney. “You should have thought of that… ”
“Enough,” said Diane. “Juliet, you aren’t going to lose your job. Sit right here and try to stay calm. I’ll be right back.”
“Mrs. Lester, in the office, now,” said Diane.
Whitney Lester looked as if she’d been hit between the eyes. “You’re not going to leave her out here?”
“Now, Mrs. Lester.” Diane preceded her into the collection manager’s office and sat down behind her desk.
Whitney Lester followed and stood for several seconds as if waiting for Diane to get up from her desk. After a moment she sat in a chair in front of the desk, smoothing her brown suede skirt under her. She sat up straight and arranged her face to show her serious disapproval-or at least that’s what it seemed to Diane as she watched the movements of Lester’s expression go from surprise, to puzzlement, to a stern demeanor. She reached up once to smooth her salt-and-pepper hair.
“What’s this about?” asked Diane.
“Juliet stole some valuable shells. I’m trying to get them back.” She puffed up her chest, looking very righteous.
“What’s missing?” asked Diane.
Whitney straightened up again, looking more confident. “A Conus gloriamaris, seven inches long and worth four thousand dollars. Eight Cypraea aurantium, three hundred dollars apiece.” She ticked off each item on her fingers, hitting each finger firmly and bending it back as if that lent greater emphasis to the loss. “A giant whelk worth two hundred fifty dollars. That’s over six thousand dollars worth of shells.”
“Have you informed Security?”
“No, I like to handle things in my own department,” she said.
“Did you see Dr. Price take them?” asked Diane.
“No, but she is the only one who could have. They were here last week in the vault. I saw them. Now they’re gone. She’s here practically all the time and the only one who has access to the vault.”
“So you were browbeating her. Couldn’t you see she is terrified?”
“Yes, I could see that. I was trying to get a confession. You, of all people, should appreciate that.”
“This isn’t a police interrogation room, nor is Dr. Price some perp you pulled in off the street. She’s an employee of this museum, and no employee here will be bullied. I hope that’s clear.”
“My management style…,” began Whitney.
“Is not acceptable,” interrupted Diane.
Whitney looked back through the open door as if to see if Juliet Price was listening. Diane could see Juliet sitting there where they left her, still holding her folded arms to her midsection. Diane was sure she was listening to every word. But it apparently was not giving her comfort. Juliet was one of the few employees that she had not had either lunch or dinner with-mainly because Juliet kept putting it off for one reason or another.
Diane remembered interviewing her for the job. She was dressed in a conservative dark tweed suit and had her light blond hair pulled back into a French twist. It was one of the few times that she had seen her face. Her pale hair and skin and sky blue eyes gave her an ethereal appearance-almost like an angel. Had she chosen to flaunt it, she could have men hanging around her all the time. As it was, she was almost invisible. Juliet spent a lot of time hiding.
Diane and Kendel almost hadn’t hired her, her shyness was so extreme. But in the end, her expert knowledge of marine life, and of mollusks in particular, proved to be the deciding factor. In reality, she was overqualified for her position. With her Ph.D. in marine biology she could be on a curator’s track. But she wanted to work cataloging shells and putting together learning kits for the schools-which was mainly solitary work. Hiring her had been a good deal for the museum.
Until now there had been only one other puzzling event. When Juliet came to work, Andie put together a gift basket as she did for all the new employees. Andie liked to create the baskets with the theme of the new employee’s expertise. In Juliet’s case it was oceans and shells. The basket was filled with tropical fruit, shell-shaped chocolates, canned oysters, colorful seashells, and as a centerpiece, the mermaid Ariel from the Disney animation, all amid blue green celluloid grass and artificial plants that looked like seaweed. It was a beautiful basket. Andie had it sitting on Juliet’s desk when she arrived. The gift didn’t have the desired effect. Juliet saw it, screamed, and almost fainted.
Juliet had been mortified by her reaction. Kendel reassured her, telling her that on her first day she herself had screamed loud enough to wake the dead and scare the employees up to the third floor. Of course, Kendel screamed because she found a rather large adult snake coiled up in her desk drawer. The thing that sparked Juliet’s fear had been a gift basket.
Andie felt guilty, everyone else was simply puzzled, and Diane was left wondering if perhaps Juliet had a stalker who had been leaving her unwanted gifts. She asked Juliet if that was why she wanted a very low-profile job. Juliet assured Diane that was not the case, but her only explanation was that she was afraid of new dolls. Not a particularly satisfactory explanation. Which was probably why, thought Diane, she avoided having lunch with her.
Whitney Lester sat stiffly in the chair. It was a plain un-upholstered wooden chair and looked very uncomfortable. Diane wondered if she chose it because normally she wouldn’t be sitting in it, but her staff would. Then maybe, I’m reading too much into a chair, thought Diane.
“My management was always effective in my previous positions,” said Lester, her chin raised, ready to defend herself.
“Bullying is not the culture we promote in this museum.”
Whitney Lester stood her ground. “The shells are gone. Everyone else in this department is off on that ship.” She said it as if marine biologists are foolish to go off on a research ship. “Who else could have stolen them?”
“You,” said Diane.
That stopped her cold. She sucked in her breath. Her eyes widened until Diane could see the whites all the way around her iris.
“Me? Me?” she sputtered.
“By your own admission, you were the last person to see them in the vault. You know the exact value of each item. You haven’t gone to Security; instead you wanted to keep it quiet. And you weren’t exactly telling the truth when you told me that Juliet is the only one who has access to the vault. You do.”
“But I didn’t,” she said, her knuckles were white, gripping the arms of the chair.
“I don’t know that,” said Diane. “Accusing Juliet Price could be an elaborate ruse to deflect suspicion from yourself.”
“You can’t accuse me,” she said, emphasizing the word me as if she should be, like Caesar’s wife, above reproach.
“Yet you accuse Dr. Price on fewer grounds than I just presented to you.”
“I’m the collection manager. It’s my job to know all the collection. That’s why I know their value.”
“And it’s Dr. Price’s job to be here working and have access to the vault as she needs it.”
“But I know I didn’t take the shells,” Lester insisted.
“Dr. Price says she knows she didn’t,” countered Diane.
“This isn’t right,” Lester said finally.
“No, it isn’t right, and neither is it right to accuse and browbeat Juliet Price. Here’s what is going to
happen. I am going to report the theft to Security and let them handle it. You are going to get me photographs of the missing items to give to them. They will question everyone. It doesn’t mean any specific person is under suspicion. And I’m telling Andie to sign you up for a management class. They will teach you the style that we use here in the museum.”
“Management class?”
“Yes. You may not buy into our philosophy here, but you will abide by it. Now, I need those photographs.”
Whitney Lester stood up, looking like she wasn’t sure what to do, as if obedience was defeat. Diane felt a twinge of guilt for being so hard on her, but she had been looking forward to a peaceful time amid the shell collection, and Whitney Lester had ruined it.
Diane stood and went back out to Juliet Price who wasn’t bent over holding her stomach anymore. She was standing, smoothing out her gray corduroy jumper, trying not to look in either Diane’s or Whitney Lester’s direction. Diane walked over to her.
“Your job is safe. The security people will talk to you, so try and remember what you can about the missing items,” Diane told her.
She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
Juliet shook her head.
“Then we’ll go to the restaurant and have our oft postponed dinner.”
Chapter 16
The museum restaurant had the look of a medieval monastery or ancient library with its maze of tall old-brick arches and vaulted ceilings. Four archways at right angles to each other made small chamberlike spaces throughout the restaurant. The spaces were furnished with dark rough-hewn wood tables and large padded wood chairs. The walls of the restaurant were lined with booths inside arched brick alcoves. Diane preferred the privacy of the booths. Apparently, so did Juliet.
Diane could tell by Juliet Price’s demeanor that their presence in the restaurant was pushing Juliet out of her comfort zone. She said nothing, and her gaze darted around the room as if looking for some unknown thing. She scooted into the booth, looking dwarfed by the high-backed wooden bench. The dark interior and candlelight gave her an even more ethereal look. Diane would not have been surprised if she just suddenly faded away.
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