One Grave Less (10 page)

“That’s good, Jin. Did you do the stable isotope analysis on the bone?”

“I was getting to that. Scott did the analysis. The ratios look like the bone came from someone who was raised in the Amazon rain forest. Does that help?”

“It’s another piece of the puz—”

She stopped . . . gripped the phone. . . . She couldn’t breathe.

Oh God
.

“Boss? You there?”

Jin’s words were faint in her ears.

“She’ll call you back.” It was Frank talking to Jin.

She heard the sound of the phone receiver being put back on the cradle.

“What’s wrong?” Frank sat down beside her. “Diane, are you ill?”

“Simone. What if Simone was bringing me . . . what if that was . . . Oh, dear God. What if it was Ariel, my little Ariel? What if that was her little bone I was cutting?”

Tears flowed from her eyes as she bent over, choking on her grief.

If Frank hadn’t been holding her, Diane would have fallen to the floor. All this time she had told herself, made herself believe, that Ariel had somehow gotten away during the massacre. That somehow she had hidden in the jungle she knew so well, had saved herself from the slaughter. She had wanted to believe that somewhere Ariel was alive, was well, was happy. That someday she would grow up to be old enough . . . old enough to travel, and perhaps she would make her way to America . . . to Georgia . . . back to Diane. And all that time there was also the dark fear that this moment would come.

“If it was your Ariel,” Frank whispered in her ear, “and I’m not saying that it was—but if it was her, she was in the best, most loving hands.”

Diane leaned against Frank for a long time. When finally she pulled away she was feeling . . . she didn’t know what to feel, or believe. She balled her hands into fists so she wouldn’t shake.

“Why else would Simone come to see me . . . carrying a child’s bone? She found where Ivan Santos buried the dead from the mission. She found . . .” Diane’s lower lip trembled and she bit it to stop the quivering. “She found Ariel’s grave.”

“What do the other things mean?” said Frank. “The feathers and the animal parts?”

“I don’t know. Simone hasn’t been able to talk,” said Diane. She sat down on the sofa, suddenly tired. “I asked Garnett to find out how she is doing. I didn’t think the hospital would give me the information. He said she was still unconscious with a severe concussion. They don’t know if she’ll recover. On the other hand, they said she might wake up at any time. You know how those injuries are.”

“Does her employer know what she was working on?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know. Garnett is handling everything. Since I know her, I have to at least act like I’m steering clear of the investigation.”

But she wasn’t going to. Except for tonight.

She and Frank spent the rest of the evening trying to talk about the wedding, about Star, music . . . anything except his work, the museum, and Ariel.

 

The morning brought no less pain than the evening before had. Diane was haunted by the thought that the little bone might belong to Ariel. Instead of cradling it, she had cut into it, thin-sectioned it, cut off a part and sent it downstairs to be crushed for analysis.

She knew her thoughts were irrational. Frank was right—as she did with all bones, she gave it the best of care, allowing it to tell whatever story it had to tell.

She was up earlier than Frank and she made breakfast for the two of them. It was Frank who always insisted on breakfast. Diane supposed it was a good thing. If it were only her, she’d probably sleep in and have a protein drink on the way to work. Today she and Frank had pancakes, scrambled eggs, and orange juice. A good, nourishing breakfast, but it did not sit well in her stomach.

When she drove her red SUV into the parking lot, heart-ache gnawed at her insides. But she had to put on a professional face. She had to do her duty.

She made up her mind that today she was going to visit the hospital. Maybe Simone would be awake. Her folks would be there. Maybe they would know something.

She was early; the museum had not yet opened for business. She walked up the steps of the huge granite edifice to the large glass doors, where the guards let her in. The first place she went was the Mayan Room to see the damage.

She smelled the soapy solution Korey was using to clean certain artifacts. She walked through the tunnel and into the exhibit room. Staff from Conservation, Exhibit Designing, and Planning were already there, busy trying to repair the damage. It was like an archaeological dig of sorts, the way her crew gently worked on the stone pedestals and display cases that looked like ancient ruins.

Korey was stooped near a soot-covered faux stone molded to resemble an intricate face surrounded by symbols. His dreadlocks were pulled back in a low ponytail and he was pointing to a dark streak.

“It’s working,” said the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, soapy toothbrush in hand. “It just takes a while.”

Korey caught sight of Diane, stood up and walked over to her.

“How bad is it?” she said.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” said Korey. “We’ve been working on the soot. Trying to see if we can salvage all the faux stonework. I think we can save most of it. Some of it will have to be done over. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Diane, looking around the room. “Damn it.”

“I hear they tried to burn up the security guard. That’s vicious.”

“They were bad guys. The real thing,” said Diane.

She walked with Korey around the room, examining the damage while Korey explained how they were dealing with it.

“How long?” asked Diane

“Let me get back to you at the end of the day on that, Dr. F. We’re still working out the best cleaning formulas.”

“All right. Thanks, Korey. I know this is taking you away from your conservation work.”

“It’s not a problem. We’ll get the room back up as quickly as we can,” he said.

The museum was opening its doors and the first tourists were arriving as Diane crossed the lobby to the office wing of the museum. She picked up her pace before anyone was tempted to speak with her. Later in the morning she would get David and they would visit Simone at the hospital to see how she was doing. But there was work to be done first.

Andie was already behind her desk. She stopped Diane. There was a visitor. A woman who looked vaguely familiar to Diane was sitting in the waiting area. It was a cozy area decorated by Andie in a charming way, but the woman sat stiffly, clearly uncomfortable.

Sybil Carstairs—that was her name. She and her husband, Edmond, were new contributors to the museum. She held a folded piece of paper clenched in her fist as she rose. She didn’t take the hand Diane offered. Diane let it drop to her side.

“Mrs. Carstairs, isn’t it?” said Diane.

“As if you didn’t know,” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

Diane raised her eyebrows. “Please step into my office,” she said.

As Diane passed, Andie gave her an almost imperceptible shrug.

Diane indicated a chair in front of her desk. She went around behind her desk and sat down, rested her folded hands in front of her, and looked at her visitor.

Sybil Carstairs was a tall, thin woman perhaps in her fifties, maybe sixties, Diane couldn’t tell. She took good care of herself, but didn’t have the genes for looking young. She had beautifully coiffed dark brown hair and wore an expensive slate gray silk suit. She had diamond rings on fingers of both hands. Her finger joints were just starting to show the effects of arthritis.

“What can I do for you?” Diane said.

The woman’s lips trembled.

“Slut,” she whispered.

“What?” said Diane. She was beginning to think the woman was not in her right mind and that perhaps she should call Mr. Carstairs.

“You heard me. I don’t know who you think you are, but when I finish you won’t have this job anymore to use to patrol for . . .” She struggled for the right word and gave up.

“What are you talking about?” said Diane.

The woman threw the paper at Diane. It landed on her desk and almost fell to the floor before Diane caught it. Diane unfolded it and smoothed it out on her desk.

It was an e-mail from Diane to Edmond Carstairs asking if he wanted to meet in the afternoon for sex. Diane could understand why Sybil might be upset, but surely she knew that this was not from Diane.

“Mrs. Carstairs, you must know that I didn’t send this message,” said Diane.

“It has your name on it,” she said, as if that were definitive proof.

“What in the world would I be doing sending your husband an e-mail like this?” said Diane.

Sybil waved her hand toward Diane. “Just what it says.”

Diane pinched the bridge of her nose and looked back up at Sybil.

“I’m engaged to a wonderful man. I have a terrific job and great friends. If I were going to run the risk of losing my fiancé, my job, and the respect of my friends by soliciting an affair, it would be with George Clooney and not your husband. I didn’t send this. Obviously, my e-mail was hijacked.”

“You think this is funny? We’ve been married thirty-seven years. It’s not funny to me.”

“No, Mrs. Carstairs, I think it is anything but funny. Someone is trying to harm my reputation and I take that very seriously. Quite frankly, I’m surprised that you would take this seriously. Hijacking e-mails is not an uncommon occurrence. What does your husband say?”

“He denies that there’s anything going on. And I believe him. He doesn’t know why you would send him a message like that.”

Her raised chin made her look defiant and a little juvenile. Clearly neither of them knew anything about the pitfalls of computer mail.

“I did not send this. I hardly know your husband. I know that the two of you are generous to the museum and we are grateful. This is a terrible thing someone did and I’ll try to get to the bottom of it. But I have to tell you that it is almost impossible to trace this kind of thing.”

Sybil was still angry. Diane wasn’t sure if it was because she wasn’t convinced, or because she was emotionally all geared up for a confrontation and found there was nothing to confront about. She stood up.

“I’ll be watching you,” she said. “And I’ll be speaking with Vanessa Van Ross.”

“Then I’m sure she’ll put your mind at ease.” Diane rose to see her out.

Sybil left. Walking stiffly with her head held high, she marched out of the office without glancing back.

“Boy, what was that about?” asked Andie.

She had her springy brown-red hair held away from her face with silver hair clips that Diane thought probably came from her boyfriend. Diane explained about the e-mail.

“I’ll get David to try and track it down, but I don’t think there is much success in cases like this.”

She made light of it, but she was worried. First the rumor about drugs, then the call to Frank about her entertaining men, and now this. She needed to get to the bottom of it.

“Another day at the museum,” said Andie. “Are all museums like this?”

“You thinking of looking for another job?” Diane grinned at her.

“And miss all the drama? Nope. Just wondering.”

Diane made an internal assessment of her state of mind and decided that her heart was not in administrative work right this minute. She looked at her watch.

“I’m going to visit someone in the hospital. Hold the fort. . . .”

The phone rang and Andie answered it. She held it out to Diane.

“Thomas Barclay,” said Andie, wrinkling her nose.

Diane was glad they didn’t have video phones.

“Thomas, what can I do for you?” said Diane.

Barclay laughed. “Funny you should ask. I just called to let you know that someone’s hacked into your e-mail account. That is, unless you are soliciting an assignation.”

“Oh, no. Not you, too?” said Diane. She told him about Sybil Carstairs.

“I know Edmond. I’ll talk to him,” he said.

That was the nicest that Barclay had ever been to her. Diane was suspicious.

“I would appreciate that very much,” she said.

“This happened to my daughter. It’s an aggravation, but most people know it’s a hoax.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Diane. “Thank you for your call and your help.”

When she hung up, Andie was looking at her with suspicion. Diane knew it was for Barclay.

“I think he is just being helpful,” said Diane.
For once
. “I’m gone. You’re in charge.”

Diane stopped by the museum shop and bought Simone a plush gorilla that had just arrived. Simone loved jungle animals, especially gorillas. She called David and he met her outside by his black Land Rover. They drove to the hospital.

On the critical care floor Diane asked about Simone Blake.

“Your names, please?” asked the nurse, eyeing the rather large gorilla.

“Diane Fallon and David Goldstein,” she said.

“I’m sorry, the family has asked that the two of you not be allowed to see Miss Blake.”

Someone from an embassy had taken Rosetta. That startled Maria. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. She could see Rosetta was upset. Everything considered, she was surprised the kid hadn’t lost it before now. Maria couldn’t imagine making a daring escape plan and executing it when she was Rosetta’s age.

It was important to find out if Rosetta knew who had kidnapped her. Maria didn’t know much about the massacre at the mission. She was under the impression it was the work of some rogue rebel gang. If a government or embassy personnel had a hand in it . . .

Maria gently tried to coax the little girl to explain, but gave up quickly. It was clear Rosetta didn’t much want to talk about the traumatic events surrounding the attack on the mission. Maria would respect that.