One Grave Too Many (40 page)

“That’s an odd thing to say. I wonder what she meant.”

“I don’t know.”

“How’s Frank?”

“He picked up an infection. They’re treating it. You haven’t been visited again by the police, have you?”

“No.”

Diane looked around at the murals. “I wonder how much money we’re talking about.”

“A lot. The last painting sold a year ago for 7.4 million in Paris.”

“So if Grayson could buy the museum, he could take the paintings out, do a little remodeling and resell the building to cover his cost and still come out with almost—what?—ninety million dollars? Not counting the property that goes with the building, which he could sell to the Japanese.”

“That’s a lot of money,” said Korey. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to kill you.”

Diane stared at Korey.

“Maybe he has tried to kill me,” she said. “I thought it had something to do with the skeleton, but it doesn’t have to, does it?” She shook her head. “The person who tried to break into the faunal lab was dressed just like the person who attacked me. That suggests that my attack had something to do with the skeleton.”

“The faunal lab? I hadn’t heard.”

“Last night. Bernie scared him away.”

“Bernie?” Korey laughed. “Good for him.”

“By the way, Chanell Napier is the new head of security, so if you have any questions or suggestions, you have someone to address them to. I should have hired a head a long time ago.”

“Don’t let all this get you down, Dr. Fallon. It’s just stuff. This is a great museum, and I can only see it getting better.”

Diane stood up. “Now I have to figure out what I’m going to do about all this.”

“Do you reckon he told all his cronies about the paintings, or was that just between him and the flashy Mrs. G.?” asked Korey.

“Interesting question. Probably just between the two of them, I’d think. I imagine they just tossed the others enough of a bone to get them on their side.” Diane looked at the paintings again. “Korey, you’ve certainly made my day.”

Korey’s gleaming smile lit up his face. “This is something, isn’t it?”

“Keep this quiet,” said Diane.

“Sure. I hope it was all right to have the expert come down.”

“Of course. You did absolutely right.”

Diane decided to forgo a visit with the herpetologist. Instead, she went back to her office and called Vanessa Van Ross.

Diane told her about the paintings and their probable value. The other end of the phone was silent for a long while.

“Doesn’t that explain a lot? That little worm. Well, Diane, you have some decisions to make.”

“Yes. I was thinking about how much we could do in the museum for that amount of money. On the other hand, what a treasure they are for people to visit. That’s why we’re here. We suddenly have something unique and unbelievably valuable. Should bring in a much larger audience.”

“You have plenty of time to make decisions. It’s good to have choices. And it’s good to find out what that weasel and his floozie wife are up to. Korey sounds like a bright young man.”

“He is. I’m pleased with the entire staff of the museum.”

Diane hung up the phone and sat staring at her Escher prints, in particular at the tessellation of angels and devils. Her mind went back to her attack. What if that was Mark Grayson? But why was Frank shot? Of the things going on lately, it was hard to separate which of the acts went with which motivations.

That amount of money was indeed great enough to kill for; if they couldn’t make her leave, then they could make her gone for good. But his attempts to discredit her were poor at best. The fake orders were a joke, the music was cruel, but surely they didn’t think it was sufficient to make her quit.

Her mind went to the skeleton and the faunal lab break-in. Someone close knew she was trying to identify the skeleton. Close. How close? Could they have a job in the museum?

She called up on her computer a list of people hired in the last week. There were several: one custodian, the exhibit designer hired a carpenter, Donald hired an assistant, she’d hired Melissa and Alix, and two of the curators brought in graduate assistants. That was it. But anyone could come in and not be noticed. Because of all the work there was a lot of temporary help coming and going, not to mention the people working on the restaurant. Diane closed her eyes and tried to think. She didn’t really know where to begin, nor did she want to investigate her employees—sneaking around in Donald’s office had left a bitter taste in her mouth. On the other hand, checking out her employees had turned up Leonard’s connection to Grayson.

She turned off her computer and told Andie she was going home to get a good night’s rest.

“Good. I’ve been concerned about you.”

“I’ll get plenty of sleep tonight. Provided my neighbor doesn’t try to search my apartment again.”

“What?”

“Didn’t I tell you about that?” Diane related the story and had Andie in stitches.

“What strange people. So it’s the landlady who has the cat?”

“Yes.”

“Nice of you not to squeal on her.”

“I think she’s going to give it away.”

“If she can’t find a home, I’ll take it.”

“Are you serious?”

“I love cats.”

“I’ll let her know.”

Before she went home, Diane went to the hospital. They had put Frank in a private room. Linc was there reading a newspaper when she entered. Frank was asleep. Diane tiptoed in.

“How is he?”

“Better,” said Linc.

Frank opened his eyes. “Hey. I was wondering when you were going to come see me.”

Diane kissed him on the cheek.

“You can do better than that. You want to give my brother the wrong impression about us, after all I’ve been telling him?”

Diane kissed his lips. “I just didn’t want to get you too excited.”

“I could use a little excitement. The hospital’s a drag. What’s new?”

“Quite a lot. My head conservator’s solved the Mark Grayson mystery.” She told him about the paintings.

Linc whistled. “Damn, brother, we could go over with a chain saw tonight and make out with a bundle.”

“I’m surprised Mark hasn’t resorted to that. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s a lot of money,” said Frank. “You think Grayson is behind the attack on you?”

“I’ve thought of it, but we had an attempted break-in of the faunal lab and the guy apparently visits the same tailor as my guy—mask and all.”

“That’s interesting. What do the police say?”

“They’ll get back to us.”

“I’ll talk to Izzy,” said Frank.

“He was the one who took the call.”

“I’ll talk to him anyway. He may not have put the two together.”

Diane didn’t say anything. She glanced at Linc, who met her eyes.

“How are you feeling?” asked Linc.

“I’m going home to get a good night’s sleep.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“How’s Star?” asked Frank.

“She’s doing better. She’s brokering jobs for the guards.”

“What?” asked Frank.

She told him about Star’s guard’s looking for a job for her son. “It’s not a big job, and if it’ll get Star better treatment . . .”

Frank took her hand. “You’re a jewel, Diane. Go home and take care of yourself. I’ve got plans when I get out of this joint.”

Diane kissed Frank again before she left. “You take care of yourself, if you plan to carry out your plans.”

She was tired—a soft bed would feel good. She pulled out her car key, said good-bye to Frank and Linc and walked outside, glad to get away from the sterile smells of the hospital.

Approaching her car, she frowned. Someone in a van had parked so close to her driver’s side it was going to be a close fit getting in. She squeezed between the vehicles and clicked her car door open just as someone grabbed her from behind and pulled a hood over her head. She heard the side door of the van slide open.

Diane fought hard, grabbing at the hands restraining her and tried to scream. A sharp blow from something hard as steel to the back of her head caused an overwhelming pain inside her skull, and everything went black for several seconds. She was stunned nearly to unconsciousness, and she collapsed but didn’t pass out. She could feel herself being dragged into the van. The door slammed closed, and they tied her arms behind her and then her feet together. She prayed someone in the parking lot saw what happened to her.

The van started moving. Backing out of the parking space, then forward. She listened to the road sounds. They were going slow through the parking lot, bumping over the speed breakers. She counted them. Four before they turned left out of the lot. She knew which exit they took. Maybe that would help later—if she got out of this.

“What do you want?” she asked, and was met with silence.

They weren’t going to let her hear their voices.

Left turn—about five seconds and a left turn. She listened. A helicopter overhead. That would probably be a traffic chopper, or maybe one carrying someone to or from the hospital. She could find out. What time was it? She left the hospital about 4:15—it was now probably 4:25.

The van stopped. The engine idled, traffic sounds passed. Red light. About thirty seconds after, they started again. Definitely a red light. They speeded up, then slowed. Another red light. It had probably just turned yellow.

“Careful,” someone whispered. Male.

There were at least two of them. One was warning the other not to get stopped.

They drove for another minute and stopped again. Another traffic light. Three so far. In her mind’s eye she could see the route they were taking. This time they turned right. They were taking a route that was on the way to the museum. Abruptly, they turned left and stopped.

Where was this? She tried to think of what was here. Houses?

They started up again, turned right and onto a rough road and stopped again. She heard doors slam. They were leaving her here?

Diane lay there for what seemed like hours and listened. She heard faint road noises, but nothing else. She shifted her position until she was sitting up, leaning against the side of the van. She wished she’d gone to the bathroom before she left the hospital.

Who is it,
she wondered.
Grayson?
Or the killer of the bony remains sitting in her vault? Or maybe someone else she’d managed to really piss off. Maybe it was the Odells. She tried to smile, but even the Odells didn’t seem the least funny right now. Concentrating on remembering the turns and stops kept her mind busy early on, but now fear welled up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. What were they waiting for? Was this some kind of torture? Softening her up with the dread of waiting? Waiting for time to pass? Waiting for someone?

She worked at her bonds but they were tight; she kept pulling at them anyway. She was growing hot and sick from the hood over her face. She inched her way to where she thought the rear of the van was. She raised her legs and dragged her feet along the back, feeling for the handle. She found it and tried to manipulate it with her feet. It was locked or she was clumsy. She started beating on the door with her feet as hard as she could. Nothing, no one came, and her legs were getting cramped.

OK, she needed another plan. She scooted toward the front until she ran into the back of the seats. Now, to work her way into the front seat. She stood and hopped through the opening between the seats and tried to feel with her fingers behind her for the keys. She found the ignition, but the keys weren’t there.

Hopping and turning around, she tried the front visor with her head. She found it, but couldn’t get a grip on it. She wedged her nose between the visor and the ceiling but couldn’t get the visor to budge. She gripped the edge with her teeth and pulled and was rewarded with a clink of falling keys.

Now, to look for them. Squatting, she felt the front seat with her face. Good. The keys were there. She was too frightened to feel any joy. For all she knew they could be watching her through the windows. She stood again, turned with her back to the driver’s seat, squatted and felt for the keys with her fingers.

They . . . no, it . . . was in her grasp. Thank God there was just one key on the ring, and she didn’t have to worry whether or not it was right-side up. She maneuvered until she fit the key into the ignition.

She hesitated. What would be the best thing to do? Get out and run—blind? Or try to drive the van blind? She opted to stay in the van and turned the key. The van started.

She grasped the gearshift lever in her hands and tried to pull it into reverse. It wouldn’t move. She tugged at it. Nothing. What was she doing wrong? She envisioned herself in her car, putting it in gear. The brake pedal. The damn safety mechanism. The vehicle won’t let you take the gearshift out of park until the brake pedal is pressed. Her feet were tied together, and her hands were tied behind her. She couldn’t sit and reach the brake pedal and still reach the gearshift.

She inched her toes backward, wedging herself against the steering wheel until she felt her heels touch the brake pedal. Shifting the gear with her hands in this position was impossible. She caught the shift with the front of her arm, pushed her shoulder forward and down. She felt a slight bump as the transmission slipped into reverse. Now, for the moment of truth. She twisted herself around and sat down in the driver’s seat and pressed the accelerator with both feet. As the van darted backward, she questioned her sanity. But she hadn’t hit anything yet.

A sudden crash slammed her farther back into the seat. Pain shot up both arms to her shoulders. “Damn,” she shouted.

She maneuvered around until she was in the passenger’s seat. She opened the door and hopped out into a fist in the stomach.