Chapter 4
Frank was late. Diane wasn’t surprised. Columbus, Georgia, was a four-hour round trip, aside from whatever business he had to do there. She wrote a note telling him to meet her at the museum and was taping it to the door when she heard a voice coming from the apartment across the stairwell.
“Cats aren’t allowed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Diane turned, tape and message still in hand, and saw a woman in a blue chenille robe and pink hair net peering out of an apartment door.
“Marvin’s allergic to cats. That’s why we chose this apartment house. Cats aren’t allowed.”
There was a distant sneeze. The woman’s head retreated momentarily into the apartment, leaving behind a veined hand gripping the edge of the door and a blue sleeve as visible cues that she was still there. After another sneeze and a man’s muffled voice from inside, the woman spoke with that tone of impatience and irritability that arises between two companions of long duration.
“I’m telling her. She’s right here, and I’m telling her.”
Diane waited, trying to think of the woman’s name—
Ogle, Ogden, Adell, Odell—that was it, Veda Odell.
When the rest of Mrs. Odell appeared again, Diane spoke.
“I’m sorry for his allergy.”
“He doesn’t need sympathy, he needs for you to get rid of the cat.”
“I don’t have a cat.”
Veda Odell thrust out her chin. “You heard Marvin sneezing. He’s allergic to cats. Nothing else. Just cats.”
“Perhaps he has a cold.”
Mrs. Odell eased herself a little farther into the hallway, craning her neck as if trying to get a peek into Diane’s apartment. “It’s a cat. He gets this way around cats.”
Diane taped her note to the door and turned to go. “Well, Mrs. Odell, I don’t have a cat. Maybe one passed through the yard.”
“No . . .” She hesitated, as if just noticing Diane’s black sequined dress and the cashmere wrap over her arm. “That’s a mighty pretty dress. I hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”
“I think the weather is supposed to be clear. We’re having a party for the contributors to the museum, and I’d hate for the attendance to be low because of rain.”
“You work for the museum?”
“I’m the new director of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History.”
“You are? I heard you’re a grave digger.”
Diane opened her mouth, closed it again and wrinkled her brow. “A grave digger?” she said at last. “No, Mrs. Odell, I’m not.”
“Well, I could have sworn,” she said, but let her voice trail off. “Marvin and I were hoping you could tell us about the funeral homes here. The inside scoop, you know.”
Diane stared a moment before she said anything, trying to imagine the scenario going on inside Mrs. Odell’s head. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to be going. I hope your husband gets better.” Diane hurried to her car.
It was a short drive to RiverTrail Museum. It’s why she had chosen the apartment, even though they didn’t allow pets.
What I’d like to have is a house
, she thought, as she drove slowly down the steep meandering road,
a big house with big airy rooms—that cleaned themselves. No
—she unconsciously clutched the locket that rested on her chest—
an apartment is better right now.
At the bottom of her mountain road she turned onto a stretch of level four lane before starting the climb to the museum. The trees still blossomed with spring blooms, and the days were getting longer. She rounded the curve and RiverTrail came into view. It was a lovely old building, especially with the new renovations. But as the evening grew darker, the outline of the museum would look like an old sanatorium out of a Dracula movie.
She wheeled her Taurus into the parking space between Andie’s Toyota and Donald’s Lexus, and walked across the pavement to the museum entrance.
The string quartet had just arrived. Diane held open the door for the four college-student musicians. They looked elegant in their long black dresses, carrying their instrument cases.
“Thanks, Dr. Fallon,” said the cellist.
“We really appreciate your asking us here,” tall, willowy Alix, the first violinist, added.
From the music to the caterers, Diane had used people from the surrounding community. She wanted local support, and thought that giving it in turn would make her job easier.
“My pleasure. Thank you for coming.”
Diane peeked into the Pleistocene room on her way to the kitchen. The large vaulted room was now transformed from a work in progress to a rather wonderful exhibit. To make room for a long table of party food, Diane had omitted some of the animals and Paleo-Indian dioramas that would eventually appear in the exhibit. She included only the megafauna, the spectacular big guys, the ancient giant species who always impressed.
The caterers had laid out an appetizing array of finger food on a table decorated with leafy long-blade plants, hard plastic museum-quality replicas of dinosaurs and a magnificent ice sculpture centerpiece of a mammoth with long curved tusks.
The head caterer, a woman in her late fifties, stood back smiling and folded her arms. “I think it looks rather good.” She leaned and whispered to Diane, “We found a mold for the ice sculpture. We were quite pleased.”
“Well, I like it very much. And the food looks wonderful.”
The first of the guests had started flowing through the doors. Among them were real estate agent Mark Grayson and his wife, Signy. As Diane approached to greet them, she overheard Mark Grayson telling board member Craig Amberson that the museum would be better served if they would sell this piece of prime real estate and move into a building closer to Atlanta. Diane greeted him with a smile anyway. Tonight was not the night for fighting.
“Good to see you, Mark. Signy. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” His lips stretched into a thin smile.
Model-thin Signy, in a red shiny dress, muttered something and gave Diane a smile that looked more mocking than polite. Diane shifted her attention to the other guests. Kenneth Meyers, CEO of NetSoft, and his wife, Katherine, edged in beside the Graysons.
“Looks like quite a crowd.” Kenneth gave Diane’s hand a firm shake. He was lean and tan, a contrast to his soft, pale wife. “Tell me, did CyberUniverse do a good job for us?” It was no secret that Kenneth was thinking about buying the budding company.
“They did a wonderful job. I’m very pleased,” Diane told him. “You’ll have to see their animations.”
She welcomed each guest—board members, contributors, the cream of Rosewood society, fashionably arrayed in black, white and diamonds, rich greens, deep blues and dark maroons. Signy stood out like a bright ruby among them. The quartet began to play a Brahms violin concerto.
Frank, looking handsome in his tux, arrived with his son, Kevin, his ex-wife, Cindy, and her husband, David Reynolds.
“I’m sorry,” Frank apologized. “I was late getting back from Columbus.”
“That’s all right.” She was actually surprised, and pleased, that he had made it.
Frank’s ex-wife was blond, petite and very pretty in a plain, long black gown with a string of pearls. David—tall, handsome and friendly—pumped Diane’s hand up and down, telling her how very happy he was that she had invited them.
“My pleasure.”
Kevin, sporting a tux and a fresh haircut, shook Diane’s hand solemnly.
“Frank told me you’re interested in forensic anthropology,” she said.
“I’m interested in bones and detective work. Is that what you do?”
“It’s what I used to do.”
“And damn fine at it.” Diane felt a heavy arm wrap around her shoulder.
“Harvey Phelps, how are you?”
Diane gave him a big smile and leaned into him as he kissed her cheek. Aside from his being a large contributor to the museum, Diane genuinely liked him—loud voice, bad jokes and all. He was on the museum board and had been a strong supporter of Milo and now her.
“I’m better than I have a right to be. I like what you’ve done here. Looks good—all of it.”
“Oh, Diane you’ve done a great job.” Laura Hillard was a psychiatrist and Diane’s oldest friend, dating from their kindergarten days in Rosewood. She shimmered in a dark blue gown. Even her blond hair, done in a perfect French twist, sparkled. As she gave Diane a light cheek-touching hug, she whispered, “No matter what Signy Grayson says.” Her blue eyes twinkled as she laughed. Mark Grayson was Laura’s ex-husband. After three years their marriage had dissolved into irreconcilable differences. The differences being Laura’s opposition to Mark’s girlfriends.
Diane managed a genuine laugh along with Laura. “The staff and students worked very hard to get ready.”
“The catering is great. I adore that ice sculpture. I wish Milo could see this. He would just love to see you carry on his work.” Laura leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Beware of Mark. He’s working the crowd tonight.”
“Milo would be right at home here.” Harvey Phelps raised a glass to the mammoth.
As Harvey and Laura looked in the direction of the mammoth, they seemed reflective. “Poor Milo,” said Harvey. “He died right here, you know.”
“Here, where?” said Diane.
“Where the mammoth is standing,” said Laura. Milo Lorenzo was Diane’s predecessor, as well as the one who recruited her to the museum. Most of the renovations and ideas for the exhibits were Milo’s. Taking RiverTrail from the old-fashioned model of simple static cataloging and displaying of artifacts into the current concept of museum philosophy—interactive, educational, and research oriented—was his dream. The building plans Donald wanted to complain about were Milo’s.
“This is where he had his heart attack?” said Diane. She remembered the last time she had talked to him on the phone. He was in as much hurry as she was for her to finish her job in South America and come to Rosewood to take up her new position as his assistant director. He’d died two days later.
Laura and Harvey nodded. “If the old boy had to die,” said Harvey, “this was as good a place as any.”
Diane left Laura and Harvey reminiscing about Milo and walked to the giant short-faced bear exhibit, stepped up on the platform, and picked up a microphone placed there for her. She caught the attention of the quartet and gave them a signal to stop playing. With the sudden cessation of the music the crowd stopped talking.
“Hello, everyone. I am pleased to welcome you, our board of directors, our best and most generous supporters and honored guests, to the preopening reception of our Pleistocene room.
“Most of you knew Milo Lorenzo and knew about his dreams for the museum. So it is with great pleasure that I invite you to see what we’ve been doing to make his dream a reality. Thanks to each and every one of you for your help and support, which have made it possible.”
Diane looked at the faces and wondered if she had made any sense. She hated speaking in public and had this vision that halfway through all her speeches, she began speaking nonsense syllables. But they clapped, and considering herself lucky, she quickly stepped down and threaded her way through the sea of tuxedos, fancy dresses and champagne glasses and greeted all the guests.
It was tiring, making small talk and smiling, being political. She felt like a shape-shifter becoming weary of holding the same shape, and the evening was just getting started. At least, everyone seemed to be having a good time, and there was a genuine interest in the exhibits. That was the most important thing: the exhibits.
On her way to join guests who were touring other rooms, she stopped by to speak to Gary, Leslie and Samantha, standing with their proud parents next to the sloth exhibit.
“They all did a great job,” Diane told the parents. “It is a fine sloth.”
“Does that mean we get an A?” asked Gary.
Diane nodded. “Sure does.” She smiled as a father took a photo of her and the students with the huge skeleton towering over them.
As she was making her way out of the Pleistocene room, the quartet started a piece from the
Peer Gynt
Suite. Diane froze in her tracks, her heart pounding against her ribs. She grasped the edge of a huge planter to keep herself from running out of the building.
Chapter 5
Diane’s body was crushed by waves of almost unbearable grief and fear.
I’m in the museum,
she told herself over and over as the music taunted her, growing louder and louder until the violins were screaming at her. She wanted to scream at them to stop, but she stood still, making her hands into tight fists, breathing deeply. She caught her breath, stood several moments longer, turned and looked at the faces of the musicians, then at the crowd of guests. Everyone appeared normal. The music ended abruptly and the only sound was clapping. Diane stood still, collecting herself. Finally, she was able to walk on unsure legs to the quartet.
“That piece wasn’t on the play list,” she said, trying to sound casual.
It must not have worked, because that look of having done something wrong but not knowing what swept across their faces.
“It was in your note,” said Alix, the first violinist. She flipped through her music and produced a piece of paper.
Diane took it from her. The hand-printed note on museum stationery said,
Please add “In the Hall of the Mountain King” to the play list
. Her initials were at the bottom.
“It was here when we returned from our first break. Luckily, we knew an arrangement for it. I mean . . . is there something wrong?”
Diane forced a smile and shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong. Someone from the staff probably wanted to hear it. They often use my name when ordering things.”
Apparently, with wild abandon,
she thought. “All of you are doing a beautiful job. I’ve gotten several compliments, and Mrs. Harris wants to talk with you about doing a library function.”
“That’s great. We really appreciate this opportunity, Dr. Fallon,” said Alix, and the other three murmured in agreement before they took up their bows and prepared to perform their next arrangement.