“I think so. Thanks for helping out. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were engaged in. Oh, how is David?”
Gregory liked to keep track of his former employees. Especially the ones who worked for him at the time of the massacre that killed Diane’s daughter and many of their friends at the mission in South America.
“He’s doing fine. You know he’s doing crime scene work for me.”
“He’s okay with that?”
“Yes. We’ve put several criminals in jail, and David has found that satisfying.”
“That’s good. I think about all of you a lot. And you and your fellow, Frank, are fine?”
“Yes. We’re going on a vacation tomorrow for two whole weeks.” Diane put a hand over Frank’s as she talked about him.
“Good for you! He must be something special to be able to pull you away from work.”
“He is indeed.” Diane squeezed his hand. “Good to hear from you, Gregory. Take care.”
Diane hung up the phone and turned toward Frank. “That was Gregory.”
“I gathered. Your side of the conversation was interesting. Sounds like you have another body from a cave to look at? A witch?” Frank grinned at her.
“That’s what he said-a witch with a story.” Diane related Gregory’s side of the conversation to Frank’s chuckles.
“Pillar of salt. It sounds rather biblical. You know,” he said without losing his smile, “it seems to me that a lot of people die in caves.”
Diane kissed him rather than go where that conversation was leading.
The next two weeks passed by in a relaxing blur of fishing, hiking and cuddling up with Frank. Diane was surprised at how easy it had been to let go and just enjoy being on vacation. Frank seemed to have just as easily been able to let go of his job. That was a good sign, she’d thought several times. They enjoyed each other’s company. Only occasionally did she find her mind wandering to Caver Doe and the witch bones-she couldn’t deny she was intrigued. Unfortunately Diane had to cut her vacation short by one day. Andie, Diane’s office manager at the museum, had called and told her that Helen Egan, the grandmother of Diane’s friend and mentor, had died and that the funeral was scheduled for Sunday.
Diane arrived back at her office on Sunday morning rested and happy that the museum was still standing and the crime lab was not overflowing with unprocessed evidence. In fact, it looked as if they didn’t need her. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. She smiled and sifted through the stack of clippings Andie had cut from the papers while she was gone. She found a two-week-old front-page story about the mummified caver they had found, along with everything Diane had told the deputy. She noted with satisfaction that they didn’t have any pictures.
Yesterday’s paper lay on top of her cluttered walnut desk. The headline across the front page read: Helen Elizabeth Price Egan, 1891–2005. Most of the front page was taken up with the story of Vanessa Van Ross’s grandmother, who had died at age 114. Diane and some of the museum staff were going to her funeral later in the morning.
Vanessa Van Ross was the most prominent member of the museum board, RiverTrail’s most generous contributor, and Diane’s mentor. Diane stared at the photograph of the young Helen Elizabeth, wondering if she had any idea she would go on to live a hundred years after it was taken.
Andie Layne, Diane’s administrative assistant, came bop-ping in with two cups of steaming hot tea, put one in front of Diane and sat down in the chair opposite her desk.
“Good to have you back. You and Frank get a lot of fishing in?”
“Sure did. He taught me how to fish for trout. A lot more active than sitting in a boat with a pole. We had a great time.”
“So you think you guys will ever get married?”
Diane took another drink of tea, hoping Andie didn’t see the grimace on her face. Life with Frank would be great, and he had certainly hinted that they should marry, but Diane was convinced that they got along so well because they saw each other so little. They were never in each other’s pockets, tripping over each other’s feet, or irritated by each other’s idiosyncracies.
“Things are going well the way they are,” muttered Diane.
Fortunately, Andie didn’t linger on the subject, but went dancing on to the next thing on her mind.
“Neva told me about the caving trip you guys had. Wow. Exciting.” She pointed to the newspaper clipping peeking out of the folder, sipped her tea and swung her legs back and forth. “That mummy you found-you think it was an accident or murder?” Her thick auburn curls shook as she talked in her animated way, and she looked delighted at the thought of murder.
“Accident is the most likely scenario.” Diane sipped her green tea. It tasted like Andie had squeezed an orange into it.
Andie looked over at the photograph on the wall of Diane descending on a rope into the vertical entrance of a cave. “I just don’t see how you all can go down into a cave like that. I would be terrified.”
“It’s fun. You kind of have to like dark, closed-in places.”
Diane glanced at her e-mail as she listened to Andie. Nothing urgent. Andie had answered and filed away most of her messages while she was gone. She could also see that Kendel had handled the rest. Life had gotten easier in the museum since she’d hired Kendel Williams, her assistant director.
Between Kendel and Andie, her absence was hardly noticeable. That is, if she didn’t look at the stack of queries from her curators-requests for larger budgets, more room, and all the assorted concerns they invariably had.
“I understand it’s really beautiful inside a cave. I’ve seen pictures. . ”
“Sometimes caves are beautiful; sometimes they’re pretty ugly. Depends on the cave. But every cave has its own magic. This one we’ve been mapping’s pretty nice. Very large, with a variety of formations.”
“Neva said you almost had a bad fall. That sounds scary.”
“Sort of. Mike threw me a rope, so it ended well. We did find the lost caver because of it.” That was how Diane handled the question about her fall when it came up-made light of it, praised Mike, and diverted attention elsewhere. So far, with everyone except Frank, it had worked.
“The lost caver. That sounds forlorn, doesn’t it?” Andie stared for a long moment at the photograph of Diane hanging on the rope, then laid a folder on Diane’s desk. “These are the letters that need your signature. But you can wait till after the funeral. Wow, a hundred and fourteen. Imagine that. After she became a teenager, she lived another hundred years.”
“It is amazing to think about. Vanessa has had her grandmother a long time. This must be hard on her.”
“If I’m gonna live that long, I’d hate to live most of my life as an old woman,” Andie said.
“Spoken like a youngster,” a soft voice behind her said.
They looked up to see Vanessa Van Ross standing in the doorway wearing a dark blue silk suit. Her silver hair was swept up in her usual French twist.
Andie turned bright red. “Mrs. Van Ross, I am so sorry. . I didn’t mean. . I. . I’m so sorry.”
The older woman put an arm around Andie’s shoulder. “That’s all right, dear. I tell my doctor the same thing every time I see him. They’ve been able to put a man on the moon for over thirty years, but they still can’t make me look twenty.”
Andie was a little consoled. “May I get you some tea?”
“No, thank you, dear. I just came to ask Diane if she would ride with me to church. The children are taking Mother. I love them all dearly, but right now the three of them are too much.”
“Certainly. Would you like to go now?”
She looked at her watch. “It’s a little early. I thought I’d just enjoy the museum until it’s time to leave. You go about your business. Maybe I will take a cup of tea.”
Andie hurried off to make a cup. Diane led Vanessa into the private sitting room adjacent to her office.
“Feel free to stay in here if you like. I just need to check in
with the crime lab.”
As she spoke, raised voices-between Andie and someone whose voice Diane didn’t recognize-filtered in from Andie’s office.
“I demand you allow me to see her now,” the disembodied voice said. Diane and Vanessa raised their brows at each other.
“I suppose I’d better go see about this. Andie will be in with your tea shortly.”
Chapter 8
Diane walked through her office and into Andie’s, where she stood with her arms folded, literally barring the door. Two women were facing Andie, one about her age, the other maybe twenty years older. It was the younger who threatened to go through Andie to get to Diane’s office; at least it had been a young voice.
What struck Diane first about her was that she was purple. She had hair dyed black with burgundy highlights, wore low-rise dark-purple jeans with glitter in the fabric, and a light purple cami covered by a darker purple cotton blazer. On a silver chain around her neck hung an amethyst crystal about the size of the woman’s little finger. She also wore purple eyeshadow and lipstick. Odd as it might seem, she actually looked good.
The other woman had no particular matching color scheme. She wore a plain navy cotton-blend pantsuit with a stark white shirt. Her red hair was streaked with gray and, Diane noticed when she turned her head, stuffed into a sloppy bun on back of her head. Several strands had escaped and now hung down on each side of her face. She wore no makeup to camouflage her drooping eyelids and slight jowls.
“Can I help you?” asked Diane.
The young purple woman looked surprised, as if she never really expected to see the person she was asking for.
“I’m Caitlin Shanahan. This is Charlotte Hawkins. We’ve come to speak with the head of the museum.”
“I’ve come a very long way to see Diane Fallon,” said Charlotte Hawkins.
Caitlin Shanahan had a Midwestern American accent. Charlotte Hawkins’s was British. Diane thought she knew who they were.
“I’m sorry,” said Andie. “They somehow slipped through security. I told them the museum was closed today.”
“It’s all right, Andie. I’m Diane Fallon.” She led them into her office. “I only have a little time this morning, but please sit down and tell me what you’ve come about.”
The two of them sat in the stuffed chairs that faced Diane’s desk. The younger woman, Caitlin, spoke first.
“Charlotte just came from England. She has asked my coven to help her reclaim the bones of her ancestor.”
“Coven?” This ought to be good, thought Diane.
“I’m a Wiccan. Charlotte is a Druid. Though not the same, we share a kindred spirit. . if for nothing else than that we are both misunderstood minority religions.”
“What do you want with me?” asked Diane, although she suspected she already knew.
“Annwn is my ancestor,” said Charlotte. “We know that her bones were sent here from the Rose Museum in Dorset.”
Diane raised her eyebrows slightly, surprised that the witch had a name. It intrigued her. She wondered if it was her real name, or just families filling out the legend over the years. “Exactly what are you asking of me?”
“That you give the bones back so that I can take them home and bury them properly.”
“Surely you must know that I can’t do that.”
Charlotte tucked her stray locks of hair behind her ears, leaned forward, and looked earnestly at Diane. “People of goodwill can do anything,” she said.
“Wouldn’t you agree that my goodwill should extend to those who entrust items to me?”
“So you do have them?”
“Actually, I don’t know whether I do or not. I just got back from a two-week vacation. I really don’t know what may have arrived during my absence. So our conversation may be moot.”
“Can you check to see if you have them?” asked Charlotte.
Diane looked at her watch. “Not right now. I’m leaving soon.”
Caitlin stood and leaned on Diane’s desk. “Look, I told Charlotte that in this country we place value on ancestral remains. I explained to her about the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.”
“NAGPRA does not apply here. We know they are not the bones of a Native American,” said Diane.
“I’m making an analogy. Work with me. We have the act because many of us over here place value on returning remains to their descendants.”
“Nevertheless, I could not give them to you if I were to have them. And Miss Shanahan, please sit down.” To Diane’s surprise, Caitlin did as she was told.
“Why can’t you give them to me?” asked Charlotte.
“You know there is another claimant. What if he walked in and asked for them and I gave them to him?”
“He’s not related.”
Diane was actually glad they came to see her. It was a good opportunity to learn about some of the lore surrounding the bones. “Why do you think they are the bones of your ancestor?” she asked.
“The story of Annwn has been in my family for generations,” said Charlotte, holding her arms wide, as if that would encompass all her ancestry. “She was a Druid, she was accused of being a witch, and she was murdered in a cave.”
“Why do you think these specific bones are hers?” asked Diane.
“How many bones of witches in caves can there be?” Caitlin was getting exasperated.
Diane had the impression that if Caitlin knew where the bones were, she’d make a break for them.
“Apparently more than one,” said Diane.
Caitlin looked over at Charlotte, who nodded in agreement with Diane. “There’s another set of bones from Somerset said to be those of a witch that were discovered in a cave,” she said.
“You’re kidding. . ” said Caitlin.
“Why do you think these bones and not the others are your ancestor?” Diane asked the question again.
Diane heard the door open in the next room-Andie taking Vanessa her tea.
“The story is different. In the case of the Somerset bones, the alleged witch was killed by a monk through some kind of ritual. . She was supposedly turned to stone.” Charlotte waved a hand as if dismissing the story.
“Wasn’t Annwn turned into. . ” began Caitlin.
“Salt?” said Diane.
“No,” said Charlotte. “Some people say Annwn turned some woman to salt, but that’s not what happened.”
“But the stories from the two caves sound very similar-stone, pillar of salt. How do you know it’s not just one story with several variations?”
Charlotte sighed heavily. “Annwn was a Druid artisan. She was deceived by her husband and his Roman lover, the daughter of a government official. They lured her into a cave, and while she talked with her beloved, the Roman woman crept up behind her and stabbed her in the back. The pillar of salt was probably a Christianized addition to the story, influenced by the biblical story of Lot’s wife. The story I just told you has been in my family for generations. No one was turned to salt. I mean, you can’t really do that.”
“I think it’s obvious,” said Caitlin. “The bones are her ancestor.”
Diane stared at both women for a moment, then slid open the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a sealed packet, opened it, walked around her desk and stood in front of Charlotte.
“Will you give me a sample of your DNA?”
The two of them looked at her as if she’d asked them to pee in a glass. Diane pulled a swab from the kit.
Diane smiled. “I’ll take it from your cheek. Doesn’t hurt.”
“Why?” asked Charlotte, her mouth turned down into a frown.
“If we can get some usable DNA from the bones then there’s a chance we can tell if the bones are truly your ancestor.”
Charlotte looked over at Caitlin. Both stared at Diane as if she were pulling some kind of trick on them.
“It’s my understanding,” she said, “that the Druids were scholarly people.”
“We are,” said Char
lotte.
“A positive result would strengthen your case.”
“What proof do I have that you won’t manipulate the data?” asked Charlotte.
“I’m a person of goodwill.”
Charlotte still hesitated. Caitlin was on the verge of telling her not to do it. Diane could see the suspicion in her eyes. Maybe if she gave them a little information, it might ease their suspicions.
“I was asked to take a look at the bones to find out what I can. Mr. Rose wants to know everything he can about the skeleton. You say you are a relative. This is a possible way to prove it.”
“I suppose I have no choice.”
“You always have a choice. This is simply the only way I know of supporting your claim.”
“Or dismissing it,” said Caitlin.
Diane suspected that Caitlin was more interested in the protest than the disposition of the bones.
Diane looked at Charlotte. “If she is not a relative, then you don’t want to claim her, do you?”
“She’s someone’s relative,” said Caitlin. “She should be treated with dignity.”
“She will be. I treat every body I examine with dignity.” Diane put her forearms on her desk and leaned forward. “Look, this is the way I communicate with people who have died long ago. I read what is written in their bones. I respect the information that they tell me.”
“Go ahead,” said Charlotte. “I’m trusting you to tell me the truth.”
She opened her mouth and allowed Diane to take a swab from the inside of her cheek. Diane sealed the swab in its pouch, went behind her desk, labeled it and locked it in the bottom drawer.
“Thank you. I assure you I will tell you the truth when I have it. I have no interest in doing otherwise. Now I’m going to have to leave. I’m attending a funeral.”
“I’m sorry,” said Charlotte. “Not someone very close, I hope.”
“I’m close to her family.”
“A death in the family is very sad.”
“Yes, it is. However, she was a hundred and fourteen when she died, and we also have reason to celebrate her life.”
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