Bound For Eternity

by Sarah Wisseman

  I hung up. The thought of anything happening to Emma made my insides swoop and plunge. I laid my head down on the desk and tried not to panic again. I wasn't just a mom. I was a professional curator. I had a serious deadline coming up-the exhibit had to be mounted on time, murder or no murder, possible kidnapping or not...

  The phone rang.

  "Lisa, it's me. I've been meaning to call you sooner. I just got back from North Carolina."

  I sagged with relief. "James. I'm sorry about that dinner."

  "I'm sorry too. I knew you were exhausted and depressed; you've been under a lot of stress. Now, how are you?"

  His voice had swept my fears into the wings, but now they jumped back to center stage. "I've had a threatening e-mail."

  James, always a good listener, was instantly practical and helpful. This time, I welcomed his protective attitude. I felt as vulnerable as a small animal outside in January with not enough fur and no place to hide. He said abruptly, "I want you and Emma to move in with me. There's plenty of room, and we can share car-pooling and kid-watching so Emma will never be alone. What do you say?"

  My last doubts about the permanence of our relationship vanished.

  "I think it's a great idea."

  "I'll expect you at six, then. I can fetch the kids. Tuna casserole okay?"

  I laughed. "I'm an omnivore, remember? I'll eat whatever you feel like cooking."

  I replaced the receiver and leaned my head against the softly buzzing computer monitor. James was pure gold. I smiled as I remembered how husbandly he had sounded.

  The fog of helplessness brought on by Betsy's murder and the horrid e-mail had receded a little. I had an ally again. I would do my work, as McEwan advised, and stop snooping.

  But there was a difference between active, visible snooping and passive, sneaky observation. To do my job, I needed to delve deeply into the database. If, in the course of legitimate exhibit preparation, I should observe any more clues-I'd telephone McEwan instantly.

  Or would I?

  Lisa Donahue, private eye, solves the case and takes all the glory.

  Right.

  CHAPTER 37

  TOMB ROBBERS

  My maroon briefcase looked like a squirrel's nest after a hard winter. I couldn't find my notes on the Egyptian collection. The green folder was supposed to have all my bits of paper on the true locations of artifacts for my exhibit, plus a one-page summary-my exhibit outline. Maybe I'd left them at home. I felt one more time in the outer pocket, and my fingers closed on a folded sheet. I sighed with relief. At least I had the summary, and I wasn't losing my marbles after all. Just my cool, calm, collected demeanor.

  It was a chilly, dreary Sunday afternoon. Emma and Sam were at a movie with James, giving me time for a mad dash to the museum. I had arrived at about 4:15-forty-five minutes before closing time. And I was on the verge of breaking the new security rules again. Well, I wasn't alone in the building-Ellen was at the front desk, and a few visitors were wandering the galleries-but technically I should have told Ellen I was here on the way in. To save time, I had sped up the back stairs and let myself into the corridor next to Sociology.

  The second murder investigation had prevented Ginny from pulling all the artifacts I needed for "Bound for Eternity." I was running out of time, but I didn't want to bug Ginny again (and risk having my head snapped off). I'd use Ginny's computer again, because it was next to the registration files, and I could cross check old ledgers and computer records much more easily. Ginny wouldn't like it, but Ginny was surely at home on a Sunday. And while I was at it, I could run a couple of searches on Carl's Celtic categories, which I'd noted down on another slip of paper.

  I plunked my briefcase down on the floor and booted up her computer. To my surprise, it asked for a second password.

  Curiouser and curiouser. I hadn't needed a second password the first time I'd used Ginny's computer. The other computers were set up so everyone could get on the database with only one password, known to all the senior staff and changed monthly. I thought quickly. What sort of password would Ginny pick? Ginny loved mythology, and had a strong feminist streak. How about a goddess? Not an Egyptian one, since those were in use as security passwords. Greek or Roman, then. I tried "Hera," "Juno," and "Aphrodite," without success. Then I entered the goddess of hunting, Diana.

  Bingo.

  Ginny, the huntress. How appropriate for that long, lean body with its feline grace. Come to think of it, both Ginny and Susie resembled big cats-maybe a sleek leopard and a glossy black panther? Which one was more sinister?

  The screen altered to a new desktop. I pulled up the database and entered one of my artifacts, a mummy cartonnage that was supposed to be in storage aisle C. To my surprise, the location had changed. Sensing that I was onto something, I keyed in another artifact from my list. Again, a new location appeared-a shelf in storage that I had never checked.

  I was puzzled. Why did this database look like the one on every other computer in the museum but contain different information?

  I sat back and drummed my fingers on the edge of the desk. Different databases? Or was Ginny's version offline part of the time and not up-to-date?

  Or was it a mirror database for another purpose?

  My friend Dick, a Boston lawyer, had told me a story, years ago. A case of fraud-no, embezzlement. The employee had tracked his cash withdrawals in a locked, mirror version of the same database everyone else used.

  Okay, how could I figure out if this one was a mirror?

  I minimized the database, and looked at Ginny's list of files and applications on the hard drive. The database was listed under the "Registration" folder.

  No, wait a minute. It shouldn't even be on the hard drive! If it was the same database everyone else used, the shared database on the museum's local network, the icon should appear only on the desktop. I clicked on that icon, opened the same file for the mummy cartonnage I had looked at previously, and stared in amazement. The location said "Storage, Aisle C, drawer 8."

  I made each database screen smaller so I could compare them side-by-side, entry-by-entry. I checked four more items on my "missing" list.

  The two databases were different. In Ginny's locked database, the cartonnage, the footstool, and two sets of mummy beads were listed in the locations where I had actually found them. These locations were altered in the database accessible to the rest of the staff.

  Why would Ginny go to so much trouble? I checked the mummy face portrait entry. The duplicate portrait-the one I suspected was a forgery-appeared in the public database.

  The original artifact-the face portrait that belonged with my mummy- appeared only in Ginny's database.

  It must be Ginny, not Carl after all. I had been totally wrong, focused on the wrong person and the wrong motives.

  Ginny was moving fake pieces in and out of the collections. Her motive had to be money. As I thought about having more money to spend myself I remembered Ginny's expensive clothes-her cashmere sweater. It seemed so out of character for someone so dedicated to the museum's progress and reputation. Or rather, apparently dedicated-she had fooled all of us.

  That still left me with proving the connection between manipulating the database and actual theft of priceless artifacts. Our collection probably still had some fakes acquired by accident before Ginny's time, not to mention legitimate pieces gussied-up by nineteenth century restorers. Which collection was she milking?

  I checked Carl's Celtic categories, but turned up nothing unusual. So I entered in only the Egyptian artifacts I had queries about, and hit the "acquisitions data" button. All the migrating artifacts belonged to two collections only: the Talbot collection acquired starting in January 1924 and the recent acquisitions dating to 1987 and later.

  Marion had been working almost exclusively with the Talbot collection...

  "What the hell are you doing?" said a voice.

  Suddenly my screen went dark.

  ? ? ? ?

  "Owww..."

/>   Someone was groaning. Her head was a rotten melon, with a squishy spot on one side. Her mouth was made of used paper towels, with a tongue that tasted like a moldy piece of bread...

  It was my head that had a dent in it. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a raspy croak. "Wha...what happened?" There was no answer, only darkness.

  I tried to move, but I was swimming in molasses...no, wet clay, or maybe Jell-O...

  There was something hard and lumpy under me. I wrenched my eyes open. Lumber scraps and buckets. Cement block walls and metal shelving. I was lying on the hard floor of the storage closet in Exhibit Prep, with my hands twisted behind me and tied securely with something sticky. Probably duct tape. I shuddered as I remembered Betsy.

  Then door opened and two blurry forms in snug black jeans and sweatshirts appeared. The images merged into one triumphant Ginny Maxwell.

  "Awake, are you? Busybody curator, I should have hit you harder. You'd think a threat to harm a child would be enough, but no, you had to keep snooping."

  She came close enough for me to see the sneer on her lipsticked lips. She would choose that shade that looked exactly like dried blood.

  "I haven't quite decided how to dispose of you. I want your body to be found outside the museum-not like the other ones-and I might have to make you walk there. Or I could put you in a packing case-there's one here just about your size." She lit a cigarette and smirked at my expression of consternation. "Yeah, I like that idea. Seal you up real good and ship you out." She crossed one leg over the other, leaning elegantly against the door.

  I stared at her, my addled brain trying to master the concept that Ginny had already murdered two people and was planning to do away with a third: me. "I don't understand. How could you kill your friends and colleagues? What have you gained besides money?"

  "Money, you fool, is the primary reason I do anything. I had a good racket going until Marion interfered. Very lucrative. I needed the extra income. After all, the salary I get here is just ridiculous for someone of my experience."

  "You were stealing-I mean, replacing-original artifacts with fakes?" I didn't need the confirmation, but I wanted to keep her talking.

  "Yup. And shipping the good stuff to New York. I gather you caught on to the second database?"

  "Only today. I stumbled on it. I can't believe you used a museum computer to track the fakes." I twisted my torso, trying to sit up and raise myself off the board that was biting into my back.

  "Had to." Ginny used her foot to push me back down. "We needed the convenience and speed of a system that was already in place. I just had to tweak the entries a little, change a few numbers and locations. Besides, no one caught on for three years."

  "Three years! You've been using the museum as a conduit for stolen antiquities for three years?"

  "Yeah. Clever, huh? Too smart for you ivory-tower types. But you foxed me, you bitch. I couldn't find that list of yours, the one you were compiling of artifacts in the wrong locations. Not in your office here or at home..."

  So she was my stalker, and my apartment thief! Now I could see how her tall, thin form would be completely believable in men's clothing.

  "...But it was just a matter of time. Betsy told me you'd been using my computer, you see."

  "There's no crime in that. We all used each other's computers..." I was cut off as she stuffed my mouth with a rag stiff with old paint, and wrapped a piece of duct tape around my face. Luckily it left my nose free. Here I was, trussed up just like Betsy...Betsy!

  Ginny smiled as she apparently read my mind. "I'll let you breathe a bit longer, sweet little Miss Marple. No time now to listen to any more of your yapping." She ground her ashes under one black-booted foot, completely oblivious of any fire hazard, and pushed the door shut behind her.

  It touched the jamb and then silently swung back open just enough so I could observe her by craning my neck to the left. I twisted so that I faced the door, trying all the time to loosen the duct tape around my hands.

  Ginny was unpacking a set of Egyptian artifacts that looked eerily familiar to me. Animal mummies, beads, a small sarcophagus, and a footstool-they looked like duplicates of artifacts already in the museum. How on earth could she manage all this by herself? She must have an accomplice outside the museum.

  The gag was horrible, reeking of old turpentine, and my tongue felt impossibly dry. The tape around my wrists was so tight I could feel my arms beginning to go numb. Frantically, I looked around in the dim light for something sharp. In one corner-thank goodness, the one closest to me-I spied a discarded saw leaning against a paint bucket. I checked on Ginny. She was concentrating on the delicate task of un-wrapping an exquisite pectoral. Moving as quietly as I could, I shifted myself towards the saw.

  I had to get out before I was sealed into a packing case. Gingerly, I felt for the saw blade with my fingertips. Now if I could just saw through the tape...

  Scrape. Gouge. I winced as I felt the teeth of the saw cut my skin.

  Now I could feel blood dripping down my wrist.

  Awkwardly, I pushed my bound hands up and down, up and down, against the blade. It was going to be a close call, whether the saw toppled over before the tape parted. Outside the closet, I could hear ripping sounds as Ginny opened another case.

  Suddenly there was silence, and then I heard Ginny's quick footsteps headed towards the closet. I shifted my body to conceal the saw.

  Ginny came in and reached for a hammer hanging on the hook behind me. She glanced at me to make sure I was properly subdued and scared. Satisfied, she glided back to her packing cases.

  I moved my wrists against the saw and felt a new trickle of blood as the blade scratched my skin in a different place. I was making a bloody mess. Sweat ran down my back as I positioned myself again with the tape pressed against the teeth.

  After a few minutes of vigorous rubbing, the tape parted. The relief of pressure on my arms was enormous. Quickly I tore off the gag with only a few long, blond hairs and started on the tape binding my feet.

  I moved close to the door to see where Ginny was. I spotted her neat dark head bent over another packing case. How far to the intercom? No, better try to get to the front desk, if anyone else was still there.

  Ginny was busy, paying no attention to me. I figured it was now or never.

  I pushed open the door and tried to sprint across the shop. My legs were pins and needles from being tied up, and I staggered. Ginny whirled around. "Hey!" she yelled, starting after me.

  Clumsily, I turned left into the hallway and lumbered like Quasimodo for the back exit. I peeked behind me just in time to see Ginny coming around the corner. Where could I go? Whipping my head to the other side, I saw the door into vase storage slightly ajar on my left. I nipped in and darted down one of the aisles that were dimly lit from a small window near the eaves.

  Ginny was behind me. She scooped up a Greek amphora and threw it hard at me just as I reached the end of the aisle. Missing me by an inch, it smashed into the wall, causing dozens of broken shards to ricochet backwards. One nicked my neck, causing me to yelp with pain. Blood streamed down my jacket.

  As I turned sharply to run up the next aisle, Ginny skidded on the pile of shards and careened into a shelving unit. That bought me a few seconds to grope for the handkerchief in my pocket and press it against the wound as I dashed back the way I had come.

  Crash. Ginny had thrown another pot.

  I wondered if the vases were insured-I doubted it. Insurance was too expensive for the museum's budget.

  A third vase smacked into the back of my head, causing me to sway momentarily. Groaning, I reached out desperately with both arms, knocking several vases into the aisle. The noise was astounding-maybe the resulting pile would slow Ginny down a little.

  There goes several thousand dollars worth of antiquities.

  I had reached the hallway. My neck was bleeding profusely and I was getting dizzy. Now where?

  A doorway yawned open on my right, and I stu
mbled and swayed into Sociology, praying that one of the other doors would be open so I could get out. Did sociologists work on Sundays too?

  Running footsteps sounded behind me. My body was no longer under my control. I sank gracefully into a heap behind a secretary's desk.

  I heard the footsteps slow down as she entered the offices. Ginny's lithe figure passed me.

  "Who's there?" a male voice called.

  A door slammed, and the footsteps receded.

  I figured I had to move now or give up. I rose, gasping as the pain caught up with me, and banged my thighs against the desk as I limped back the way I had come.