Bound For Eternity Page 19

  I tried to be conciliatory. Geese can be pretty aggressive. "I know it's your job, but I also know how busy you are, and I'm trying to get better at..."

  "You really need to stick to curatorial stuff!" Ginny snapped. "Do your research, write your label copy, but leave the moving of artifacts to those who know the system! Honestly, sometimes I think we'll never have people who keep to their job descriptions!"

  "Well, at my last job, we had such a tiny staff that we all helped each other, and sometimes our responsibilities overlapped..."

  "Why can't you accept that you're not in Philadelphia anymore? We do things differently here. I should know; I've been here the longest."

  Goose ten, Lisa zero. I'd better get out of snapping range. "How about I just give you a list of the artifacts I still need? Then you can just pull them and put them in Exhibit Prep."

  "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you. Put the list in my mailbox."

  Ginny turned back to her computer, her back stiff with indignation.

  I exited with appropriate speed and replayed the conversation as I walked back to my office.

  The Registrar from Hell. You'd almost think she was looking for an excuse to blow up at me. I had never expected that kind of reaction, even though I knew Ginny was very turf-conscious. What was it Sheila had said-"The smaller the stakes, the bigger the battle." I was still relatively new; this was only my second semester. We were all so compartmentalized. Wouldn't my job-and Ginny's- be easier if we allowed each other a little slack? I didn't want to have to type out a list every time I wanted to look at something-we'd drown in paper at our so-called "paperless university." And what was the point of having my own set of keys, if I couldn't go in and out of storerooms freely?

  I promised myself to bring the issue up with Victor, if I could find a time when His Highness was receptive. But not until after my exhibit was mounted. Right now I'd lay low and just get my label copy ready.

  But first, I pulled out the card McEwan had given me. Luckily, he was in.

  "This is Lisa Donahue, at the Museum."

  "Yes, Mrs. Donahue. We've had no luck tracing the man who was following you. Have you found out something new?"

  I explained about the misplaced artifacts and the surprise discovery of the two face portraits.

  "When did you make these discoveries?"

  "Um-recently. I meant to call you."

  McEwan sounded grim. "There's something more, isn't there?"

  "Yes. My apartment was robbed a couple of weeks ago. At the time I thought it had no connection to the museum, but now I'm not so sure. It looked like an ordinary break-in-my TV and VCR and some jewelry were taken-but then two days ago I noticed that some computer diskettes were missing, too." I explained how I wouldn't have been surprised if the laptop had been taken, but luckily it had been at the museum.

  "Sure you didn't just misplace the diskettes?"

  "Positive. They're the ones I always keep at home as back-ups of important files."

  McEwan didn't waste time bawling me out for withholding potentially vital information. "I'll check with the guys in your precinct; they'll have a complete report. Now back to the artifacts: do you think the portrait shift was recent?"

  "I don't know. They're so close in appearance; I can't tell you which portrait was in the wrappings the first time I looked at it. The forgery could have been introduced into the collection years ago, and no one would have noticed because no one has studied the mummies in the last ten years."

  "But the substitution of one portrait for the other on the mummy is recent?"

  "I think so." I wished I could be sure; it would be nice to give him conclusive information instead of just speculations.

  He said, "It seems to me that you have two problems that need to be solved. The introduction of fakes into the collection-who and when-and the poor record-keeping of the locations of artifacts."

  This guy doesn't miss much, I thought.

  "Before I found the second mummy portrait, I thought all the weird locations were probably accidental. Every large collection has mistakes in the record, and all museums have some fakes. Now I can't help wondering if we have deliberate misplacement of artifacts."

  "Deliberate misplacement, eh? And extra artifacts that shouldn't be there? Sounds like someone is making some dough on the side. I think I'll do some checking with the NYPD-my New York colleagues." McEwan extracted a promise from me to share any further incidents immediately, and hung up.

  ? ? ? ?

  It was getting late. I wanted to get into Victor's office and go over the final exhibit plan, but Carl had been in there forever. I looked at my watch and fidgeted with my braid. Four-thirty already. It would be difficult to see Victor before he left for the day if Carl took any longer.

  I resignedly took the "hot seat" out side Victor's office-an ancient folding chair that was in constant danger of collapse. At least the red light wasn't on. Victor had installed a light over his office door that he controlled from a switch under his desk. Green meant, "Okay to knock and take your chances;" red meant "pondering important stuff; don't disturb me if you value your job." The system reminded me of a menopause meters in a cartoon I'd seen once: the settings were "irritated," pissed off," "seriously disturbed," and "RUN!"

  I sat musing over my conversation with Ginny, wondering if I could have handled our grumpy registrar more tactfully. Suddenly I realized the door wasn't fully closed. Never bashful about eavesdropping, I scooted the chair closer.

  "...You understand how important this deal is to me."

  "Yeah, Victor, but I really don't see how we can avoid other staff getting to know about it. I mean Jeez, people are so nosy..."

  "Carl, you know how to keep your mouth shut. Choose your times carefully and finalize the details. Stay late if you have too-I'll give you compensation time when it's all over.

  "Okay."

  "Give me a progress report next week."

  "Will do."

  I heard chairs scraping, and I stood up myself so it would look like I'd just arrived and hadn't been eavesdropping. Carl came sauntering out, looking animated and not a little smug when he spotted me.

  "Hey, Lisa. It's almost quitting time! Better make it snappy-the boss wants to leave early."

  I groaned inwardly, and slid into Victor's inner sanctum.

  He looked up. "Lisa. I really am on my way out. It is urgent?" His eyes were a non-threatening, pussy willow gray today

  "I just wanted to go over my final outline of the Egyptian exhibit with you."

  "Hmm. That deserves a little more time than we have right now. How about first thing tomorrow morning?" His manner was curt but not unfriendly.

  I agreed, a little wearily, and left Victor packing his briefcase. The delay meant just a little less time to get my exhibit mounted. The labels wouldn't be printed until the very last moment and the paint on the walls would be so damp it would stick to the backs of museum donors at the opening.

  But that was the least of my worries. As I crossed through the staff workroom to my office, I wondered about the conversation I had overheard.

  What were Victor and Carl up to? Why didn't they want the rest of the staff to know about it? Did this "deal," whatever it was, have anything to do with fake antiquities? Somehow the idea of Carl as the villain in our piece was palatable- barely-but not Victor.

  I stared out the window, my mood plummeting, and was thinking sinister thoughts when there was a rap on my doorframe. I whirled around, startled.

  "Lisa, it's me. Sorry to make you jump." It was Ellen, waving a fax. "I just got the results of the TL dating on the terracotta antefix."

  "And?" I asked.

  "It's modern." Ellen was grim. "Now we have something else to put into a 'Fakes and Forgeries' exhibit."

  "Great," I replied. "I guess we're like most other museums, then. Fakes in the collections that have been there for years." I hoped that was true; the alternative was starting to give me waking nightmares. "Hey, Elle
n, you talk to Carl a lot. Do you know why he's been closeted with Victor so much lately?"

  "No, but I think he's job-hunting."

  "How come?"

  "He's been printing his resume-on company time."

  Ellen departed, and I returned to my primary worry.

  Was I doomed to suspect all my bosses of engaging in illegal activities?

  CHAPTER 32

  "OH MY HEART...DO NOT STAND AS WITNESS AGAINST ME..." (BOOK OF THE DEAD)

  The candlelight flickered over the linen tablecloth and napkins, casting a soft, golden glow over James' face and beard. From the kitchen came marvelous smells compounded of garlic, rich tomato sauce, and savory meats.

  We were both exhausted. I was preoccupied with my exhibit and my fears about my colleagues being engaged in illegal activities, not to mention murder. James was feeling overwhelmed with his new administrative responsibilities. He had just become head of Radiology after one of his colleagues had accepted a job in Washington, and his workload had doubled overnight.

  The garlic bread arrived, and our hands bumped as we both reached for a piece. James returned to the subject of the museum. "Have you talked to McEwan yet about your suspicions?"

  "Yup-yesterday. He's following up on what I told him." I tipped the last of my wine into my mouth. "Right now, I suspect practically everyone I work with! You don't know how uncomfortable it is to work with someone you think is up to no good."

  "Don't I? I assure you, plenty of doctors are up to no good. No, I mean have you talked to the police about how artifacts are moving around and the way forgeries keep turning up?" James eyed the fragrant, steaming pasta dish the waiter was placing in front of him with the enthusiasm of a true omnivore.

  "Yes, but I'm still not certain how much is deliberate, and how much is accidental. Most museum collections have quite a few fakes, and all museums have misplaced artifacts-especially those that are only half-computerized like ours. Almost everything that's happened has a legitimate explanation as well as a sinister one." I twisted a strand of hair that had escaped my elegant braid and sampled my eggplant lasagna. Pretending not to see James's frown, I poured more of the strong red wine in my glass.

  James took another piece of bread, and dunked it in the olive oil with crushed garlic and basil. "Well, if someone is smuggling fake antiquities into the museum, how would they do it?"

  "That's what's bothering me. I don't know how anyone could smuggle stuff in and out without the rest of us catching on. We all keep weird hours, we're in and out of each other's spaces all the time, and the database is accessible from every computer."

  "Isn't the database password protected?" He passed the basket of hot, crusty bread to me.

  "Sure," I said, taking another piece. "We change the password every month, plus every time someone leaves-so no disgruntled employee can get in and mess things up."

  "What about access to the museum's storerooms? Who controls that?"

  "Marion did. Now I guess it must be Ginny."

  "Hmm." James inhaled more of his spaghetti alla carbonara. "What about access to the museum on weekends?"

  "No one controls that, really. We all have keys."

  "But you have a new rule about two people being in the building at all times, right?"

  "Right," I agreed. I could feel that my cheeks were flushing. The wine gave me the illusion that I was being unusually intelligent. "But it's an ineffective rule because none of the staff like changes, and we all keep forgetting to notify each other when we're going to be in the building off-hours. I know Susie zipped in last Sunday to get something she'd forgotten, figuring she'd be too quick for someone to bump her on the head." I stopped with my glass in mid-air.

  "What now?"

  "I just remembered that I saw Susie putting something in the museum safe a couple of days ago. She was being sneaky about it-she didn't want anyone to see her."

  "Well, I don't think that means anything. Her behavior could be because of something totally disconnected to the murder. She's Victor's assistant, after all. Oh, didn't you tell me Susie was jealous of Marion because Victor liked her?"

  "Yes, but Susie was being silly. Marion was no threat to her. Victor was kind to Marion because he knew she was incredibly shy."

  James gave me what I was beginning to call his "judge look"-a no-nonsense, don't-get-bogged-down-in-details look. "Okay, Victor's a nice man, but he's still a suspect. Don't eliminate anyone yet. If you want to solve this thing, you're going to have to look very carefully at who is getting into the museum at odd hours-with or without the rest of the staff knowing."

  I swirled the dregs of my wine around the bottom of my glass. "I really hate considering my colleagues as potential murderers. There's Carl-Carl's been acting strange and is apparently doing something secret for Victor. Susie has spotted him in the museum at unusual times."

  "Okay, that's one."

  "Then there's Susie herself. Coming and going constantly, always with a cast-iron excuse like an errand for Victor. She has access to parts of the museum the rest of us don't-such as the extra storeroom for office supplies. And she draws attention to Carl's odd behavior at every opportunity."

  "Interesting. What about the tall registrar lady-you know, the dark-haired one with the grumpy expression?" James asked. He pushed his empty plate away and leaned precariously back in his chair. Why did all the men I knew like to teeter on two chair legs instead of resting comfortably on four?

  "You mean Ginny. Grumpy is right-she about bit my head off yesterday. She has always worked some weekend hours, taking time off during the week. Something to do with visiting her mother."

  Now I was grumpy. No wonder, I worked with such charming people.

  "Hmm. Let's go back to your boss."

  "Victor? Let's not," I stared at my empty glass.

  "Victor. Does he come in at odd hours?"

  "Victor is a law unto himself. He come and goes when he pleases, and the general staff rules don't apply to him." The whole discussion was depressing me. Museum people were all neurotic. Why had I chosen to work among them?

  "Is there any one on your staff who does obey the rules?" James let his chair tip forward so it thudded on the tiled floor.

  "Me, most of the time. Aren't I virtuous?" The bottle was empty and I looked at it mournfully.

  James signaled to the waiter. "Do you want dessert?"

  "No. I think I need to go home." I could feel one of my black headaches coming on.

  James eyed me. One eyebrow shot up to his hairline. "Are you okay?"

  "Of course I'm okay," I told him. "I've got too much work, there's a murderer lurking around my museum, and I can't sleep at night. Don't be such a mother hen." I shrugged into my coat while he paid the bill.

  "Want me stay over tonight?"

  "Not this time. I'm just...I don't know, I think I need a little time alone."

  "Having second thoughts about us?"

  "No, it's not that," I said. "Just give me a little space."

  James was unusually silent during the short walk to my apartment. He turned me to face him when we reached my door. His grip made dents in my arms. "Lisa..."

  I gave him no help at all. I just stood there like a robot.

  "Call me," he said, and walked away.

  ? ? ? ?

  By the time I had shed my coat, I was beginning to chastise myself for letting James leave without trying to explain my behavior. But then why should I explain? Men never explained-they expected women to cope with sudden shifts from intimacy to withdrawal. James was a wimp. If he were a real man, he'd just drag me off to his cave instead of allowing me to inflict my bad mood on him.

  Stomping around the apartment (quietly, so I wouldn't wake Emma) I stoked my wretchedness until it glowed with a sullen red heat.

  I poured myself another glass of wine and sat hunched in my favorite chair. The wine soaked into my pores along with a dirty gray fog of depression. I felt mean and stupid. How could James love such a woman?

&
nbsp; I kicked the cat off my pillow and buried myself in a mound of quilts.

  CHAPTER 33

  SCRIBE OF THE GODS

  The next morning, I finally met with Victor.

  I felt terrible, barely functional after dosing myself with three cups of coffee and four Ibuprofens. The cloud of guilt that shrouded my heart hurt more than the headache and the sinister pangs in my gut.