Bound For Eternity Read online

  Even with its crazy traffic, I'd take Boston any day over filthy Philly. Philadelphia was the past. Six years of seedy apartments and low-paying graduate assistantships. Wedded bliss among orange-crate furniture and my older brother's kitchen castoffs. Chinese carryout on the living room floor, surrounded by anatomy books and stacks of journals.

  My husband Tom and his crazy medical school friends, all with gallows humor and dark-circled eyes...

  Remembering Tom, I patted the coffee cup holder he had installed. He'd added a compass, too. Such a personalized interior, so much a guy's first car- now mine, for better or worse.

  I eased into the line of cars turning right onto Massachusetts Ave., and picked up a little speed. I fell into my usual conversation with myself, interspersed with rude remarks at other Boston drivers. I wanted some excitement in my new job, but not too much. Last year had been so difficult, with the move from Philly...

  "Watch it, you twit! Stay on your own side of the road!"

  ...being a single mom, turning my doctoral thesis into a viable publication.

  Tom's death-that was the worst. Tom died in a car accident only eighteen months ago.

  All my hopes and dreams derailed overnight.

  "Idiot! Where'd you learn to drive?" I muttered, swerving to avoid a black SUV.

  We gave up the row house. I sent out my C.V. to a zillion different colleges and museums, and finally managed to swing the museum job and return to my native Boston. That was a plus-I could visit my dad on the Cape on weekends. And he could finally get to know Emma, his granddaughter.

  A spiffy little blue car zipped into the tiny space ahead of me. I swore, and then remembered what happened the last time I'd done that, when Emma was in the car. A little voice piped up from the back seat, "Mommy, what's an asshole?" Cringing, I replied that it was just a bad word only people old enough to drive could use.

  I hoped my little darling didn't try out her new word in school today.

  I clutched the wheel with both hands. A headache lurked behind my eyes; haunches bunched and ready to pounce.

  As I drove, my latest nightmare returned in snatches. Ice on the Charles River, skating behind someone with a shopping cart...I couldn't see Tom, only black ice merging with a black, starless sky. Tears rolled down my cold cheeks as I skated faster and faster. Emma's voice shrieked from behind me: "Mommy! Mommy, wait! I'm so scared!" And then the ice was cracking. Tom-he was ahead of me! I couldn't get there in time. I was falling...

  A real stinker. The nightmares and headaches were the latest manifestations of my grief for Tom that wouldn't go away no matter how hard I tried to keep myself busy.

  Think about something nice, why don't you, like what if James Barber were my boyfriend instead of Ellen's.

  Bad idea. I tried to divert my baser self by thinking about Victor Fitzgerald's probable reaction to the mummy project. He would be pleased with the X-ray results, but he wouldn't show it. Public display of feeling had no place in Victor's world. Maybe I'd capture his interest with the proposed CT scans. I'd explain that if we could identify which internal organs were still in place, we'd learn how mummification changed during the Roman period-how Roman embalmers took shortcuts, making the mummy exteriors looks good instead of preserving the tissues.

  And the story wouldn't be complete unless we knew what happened to the child. Why did he-or she-died so young? Did the broken jaw mean a fall, or maybe a fight? The CT scans would show vertical sections, like one of those hard-boiled egg-slicing gadgets my mother had.

  When I finally pulled up to Playtime, the tiny driveway was choked with parental cars and children being herded by tired teachers. I parked two blocks away and walked. The September dusk was crisp and bracing, with the tang of salt I loved. Deliberately, I crunched through the heaps of swirling red and gold leaves on the sidewalk.

  A blond pixie in a bright red jumper rushed up and hugged my legs. Waving a grimy envelope marked "Emma's Tooth," she asked, "Mommy! How much will the Tooth Fairy bring this time?"

  "Oh, fifty cents, if she's feeling rich."

  I smiled, remembering my brother's tooth fairy story. Years ago, David and his wife had been traveling with their son, who was littering the capitals of Europe with baby teeth. David played Tooth Fairy in several currencies, and one night he was caught putting the coins under Mathew's pillow. Mathew sat up, tears streaming down his chubby little face, and said, "Daddy, I know you're Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, but do you have to be the Tooth Fairy, too?"

  Emma and I turned to go, but Emma's teacher called out, "Mrs. Donahue!" I turned back. "Emma taught the class a new word today..."

  I blushed and wished a piece of pavement would open and swallow me up.

  "...None of the other children knew what an X-ray was, so it was fascinating. You have such an interesting job!"

  Relieved, I thanked her and hustled Emma into the car. That was a close call-I really must stop swearing when Emma could hear me.

  I inserted Emma's favorite sing-along tape as I pulled away from the curb. Immediately the little soprano voice chimed in with "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine!"

  "Yikes!" That light was red, and I'd barely managed to stop in time. Breathing deeply, I struggled to slow my heartbeat.

  It was fully dark by the time we arrived at the loading dock. Good thing the museum stayed open late on Tuesdays. I called a student guard on my cell phone to help me with the cardboard box.

  Just one more thing-was this any way to transport a valuable artifact? Where I came from, artifacts traveled in specially constructed wooden crates, after being wrapped in acid-free tissue and supported by corrugated plastic or Ethafoam. And they never traveled in the dirty cargo area of aging VW wagons like mine.

  ? ? ? ?

  "C'mon, Emma. You can see the Egyptian stuff." Emma, who loved the museum, hopped out of the car and followed me, skipping across the pavement. A skinny young man met us at the double doors.

  "Hi, Stuart. Can you help me take the mummy back to the gallery? We might as well put it back in the case and save Marion a trip to the dungeon." The dungeon was basement storage was a large, no frills cage on a cement floor. Marion, a real compulsive type, liked to check on her charges down there at least once a week.

  "Okay." We maneuvered the box into the elevator; an antique model that a visiting sixth grader thought was one of the museum's exhibits. Delightedly playing elevator girl, Emma pushed the button for the fourth floor.

  I couldn't think of another museum that kept its prime displays hidden in a fourth-floor attic. Our university added to the treasure-hunt atmosphere by obscuring signs for the museum behind large trees and parking meters.

  The galleries were almost empty, with just a couple of visitors checking out the gift shop on their way home. Carrying one end of the box, I walked backwards into the Egyptian gallery until Emma said, "Mommy, why is that lady asleep in the case?"

  I looked over my shoulder and almost dropped my end of the mummy.

  A woman was sprawled on her stomach in the open case, right where the mummy was supposed to rest. The back of her head was bloody and she wasn't moving.

  It was Marion.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE REALM OF THE DEAD

  I asked Stuart to take Emma into the next gallery. "I'll be back in a few minutes, darling. I have to call for help. Stay with Stuart."

  Emma clearly wanted to ask questions, but she followed Stuart readily since he was her favorite babysitter.

  I raced to the alarm box and hit the emergency switch. The siren went off, and I winced at its loudness. That should bring both university and city police. Now what? Call for an ambulance. I used the desk phone to dial 911.

  "I'm calling from the Boston University Museum of Archaeology and History...yes, that's right. Someone's been struck on the head...no, I'm not sure, but she's definitely unconscious and very badly injured. Do you know where the Museum is? Okay, come to the Commonwealth Avenue entrance, and I'll meet you there."
>
  I called Victor Fitzgerald's number. No luck-he was out. I left an urgent message and then went back to see if there was anything I could do for Marion. I felt for a pulse at her throat. Nothing, but she was still warm. Shaking, I peeled back one of her white gloves-the ones we all wore when handling artifacts-and checked again at her wrist. No pulse. Close up, the wound to the back of Marion's head was hideous, with the skull dented and bits of bone protruding. I backed away, feeling the bile rise in my throat.

  As I held my hands over my mouth, trying not to throw up, I heard the wail of sirens approaching. The loneliest sound in the city, especially at night.

  Better go down and meet the police. After checking on Emma, who was being distracted by Stuart sketching cartoons at the information desk, I unlocked the main museum doors, ran down to the first floor and out the front entrance of Wigglesworth Hall.

  The night air was damp and chilly and my legs suddenly felt like cold linguini. I sank down onto a wide step. I'd forgotten my jacket. Arms crossed over my chest, I shivered and shook.

  Marion was injured and probably dead. It sure didn't look like an accident. Who had been in the museum with me? Was he (or she) still around? The very thought made my stomach clench. Ellen...I needed Ellen's moral support. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in my best friend's number. Ellen wasn't home.

  I left a message telling Ellen that there'd been an accident at the museum and she'd darned well better call me.

  The urge to yell for help was still there. I reached into my pocket for the crum-pled-up tissue that was usually there, and pulled out a business card. James Barber. I turned it over. He had added both his home phone and his cell numbers. Quickly, before my conscience could kick in, I dialed the cell number.

  "James Barber here. Leave a message at the beep and I'll get back to you."

  I told his voicemail that there had been a death at the museum-not Ellen, of course-and I was about to be questioned by the police. Could he call back?

  Feeling foolish, I slipped the phone back in my pocket just as the ambulance and university and city police roared up together.

  "Where's the injured party?"

  "Upstairs, in one of the galleries. I'll show you." The head of Campus Security, two Boston police officers, and a stretcher team followed me. "It's Marion Grainger, our preparator."

  I watched two paramedics check for a pulse, for a breath, for a heartbeat. One guy shook his head at the other. They stood up, waiting for the officer in charge to tell them when they could move the body.

  My voice came out in a croak. "She's dead, isn't she?"

  "I'm afraid so, miss."

  Shrieks of protest clamoring in my head, I sank down against a pillar for support. Tears stung my cheeks.

  The police sergeant, a young blond guy who didn't look old enough or burly enough to be a cop, took notes while a photographer took pictures from several angles. I couldn't help thinking that at least this time, I didn't have to worry about photo permissions and copyright violations.

  "Miss?" The sergeant was ready to interview me. "I'm Detective Clyde, Boston PD. You are?"

  "Lisa Donahue. I'm a curator here." I was surprised that my voice worked.

  Suddenly I heard footsteps on the stairs, and James appeared.

  "Who are you, and how did you get in here?"

  "I'm Dr. Donahue's lawyer, so your detective let me in. James Barber is the name." He moved into a protective position at my left shoulder as I suppressed a smile. A lawyer, was he?

  Clyde took in the two of us arrayed against him and asked me to repeat the full name of the deceased. "Marion Grainger. And who's her next of kin?"

  "Her mother is still alive. Same last name, lives in New Hampshire. There's probably an address in her personnel file. Susie Blake, our assistant director, would know." My heart plummeted as I realized I would probably be elected to make that condolence call.

  "Tell me exactly what you saw and heard from the time you entered the museum."

  "The three of us came up the elevator with the mummy about six-thirty, after I picked up my daughter from day care...we carried the mummy into the gallery and saw Marion...her head was all bloody..." I broke down and bawled. James enveloped me in a hug and I dripped all over his shirt.

  Embarrassed, Clyde turned away for a moment until I could vocalize again. He must be new on the job, I thought-not quite used to distraught females.

  James found me a folding chair, which I sank into gratefully.

  The crime scene unit arrived. Clyde gave some instructions, and two men began to dust for fingerprints on the glass mummy case, the door to the gallery, and the clipboard lying at Marion's side.

  Sergeant Clyde turned back to me. "Did you touch anything?"

  "I tried to get a pulse, at her neck and wrist, but I didn't move her and I didn't touch anything else."

  Reaction made my vocal cords squeak like the changing voice of a teen-aged boy. "My daughter, Emma, saw her first..." I stopped. "Officer, can I call someone else to take Emma home? She's only seven. I don't want her here any longer than she has to be. Surely you can interview just me? I saw everything she did."

  "I'll still need to speak with her briefly, but yes, you can make the call. We'll want you to stay longer, though." He assumed correctly that James wasn't budging from my side.

  "I understand." I pulled out my cell phone and called my neighbor.

  "Magda? Thank goodness you're home. Something awful has happened at the museum..." Mindful of the cop listening to every word, I modified what I was going to say. "Our preparator is seriously injured...the thing is, Emma is with me. Any chance you could come and get her, maybe feed her some supper and keep her until I get back?"

  Magdalena, bless her, asked no questions but said she was on her way.

  I turned off my phone, clutching it in my hand, and waited for the next question.

  "Who else was in the building?"

  "Um, lots of people. There were still a few visitors when we came in, because today we're open late, plus the guard, plus anyone from the other departments who was working late." I explained that the departments of English and History occupied the first two floors; the museum shared the third floor with Sociology. Registration, Conservation, and most of the locked storage rooms were on that floor, with the five public galleries, the gift shop, and the main offices on the fourth floor.

  "What kind of security system do you have?" Clyde asked, writing in his notebook.

  "An ancient one-it only covers the galleries and the offices on one side of the hall on this floor, not the storerooms or the stuff downstairs." Wigglesworth Hall, built in the 1940s, had been designed as a classroom building, not a museum. "We have an alarm panel with switches instead of a key pad. We call Campus Police using our code names."

  I took a deep breath. Explaining the next part was never easy. I told him that I was "Bastet," the Egyptian cat goddess; Victor was "Re" (sun-god and head honcho); Carl Jacobsen, the other curator, was "Osiris" (king of the underworld); and Susie Blake, our assistant director, was "Isis" (Osiris' sister/wife).

  James laughed out loud and Sergeant Clyde looked mildly stunned.

  "Why doesn't the system cover the entire museum?"

  I smiled wryly. "Funding shortages. It was too expensive to wire all those separate classrooms on two different floors."

  "I see. Was any part of the system on when you came in?"

  "No. It isn't turned on until the last staff person leaves."

  "What about access to this floor, besides the elevator?"

  "The north and south stairways come all the way up to this floor, but the east stair goes only to the Dean's office on the second floor."

  "Right," he said, making another note. "I'll need the names and phone numbers of all your staff. And who is your boss?"

  "Victor Fitzgerald. I can give you a Xeroxed list of all the staff."

  A female officer stuck her head in the gallery. "Sir? The neighbor is here to take the little girl
home."

  "Come with me while I ask her a couple of questions, then she can go."

  I stood with my arm around Emma, feeling her shiver and praying she wouldn't remember the details of Marion's death. I had to admire Clyde's sensitivity. He treated her courteously, talking to her gently as he led her through her testimony. Emma answered his questions without hesitation, but she butted up against me several times for reassurance.

  "Did I do okay, Mommy?"

  "Good job, sweetheart. Now go with Magda and I'll be home soon."

  Emma didn't move. She was looking at James.

  "Who are you?"