Bound For Eternity Read online

  "Thanks, Lisa. I'll take it over later, after we've done the exhibit pull. And I'll ask Ginny about it."

  I left her alone in Egyptian chaos.

  CHAPTER 6

  DESSICATED

  I was still thinking about Marion when Emma and I got home.

  "Mommy, I'm hungry. What's for dinner?" Emma asked.

  "Just a minute, sweetie. I'll look in the fridge to see what we have. Do you want a banana for a snack?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" Emma grabbed an overripe one from the ceramic bowl on the counter and skipped over to the TV.

  I rummaged. The elderly refrigerator was chock-full of plastic tubs and mysterious saran-wrapped bowls. It needed a major excavation-soon. Leftover orange beef (too old), part of a store-bought quiche (too fattening), and a dubious container of unidentifiable rice-and-something. As I put it back, the can of orange juice I was defrosting fell on my big toe.

  "Shit!" I clapped my hand over my mouth. "OUCH!" I said, loudly enough for Emma to hear me. I hopped around, muttering. It hurt. "OH, PIFFLE!"

  There, that was better. I was newly resolved to curb my tongue, but it was hard not to yell my favorite expletives when my toe was throbbing. It wasn't just the teachers and other parents I had to worry about; Emma was precocious enough already.

  Finally I found a viable container of vegetarian chili (low-fat and spicy) and some macaroni and cheese (Kraft, of course-Emma's favorite). I pulled both out, stuck the bright yellow macaroni in the microwave and put the chili on the stove to heat. I kicked my shoes under the table and headed to the bedroom to change. Oreo streaked past me and jumped up on the bed.

  "Hey, fella! How was your day?" Oreo blinked at me and began to wash.

  I glanced around my room with pleasure, reveling in the new décor of blue and mauve that I'd done on a very limited budget. Restful and serene, just what its owner was not. I reached for my jeans, which were draped sloppily over a ladder-back chair, and grabbed a red turtleneck. Fire engine red with brownish-blond hair? Why not, live dangerously. At thirty-two, I still loved primary colors-just like my daughter. It was hard to adjust my image and try to dress like a sober professional. But museum curators were meant to look a little eccentric. Why, Tom would say...

  I thought of him so often. Talked to him too, though friends told me that was a normal symptom of grief. If only he hadn't insisted on driving to Albany in January. If only the highway hadn't been so slick...The familiar ache began pounding in my temples.

  Time for some ibuprofen, or wine-or both. Whoops, no, not that combination (bad for the liver). Just wine then.

  Emma rushed into the room and hugged me. Oreo flew off the bed.

  Good timing, kids, you saved me from myself.

  We went into the kitchen to eat supper.

  ? ? ? ?

  Ellen called after Emma was in bed.

  Listening, I pictured Ellen in her immaculate, galley-sized kitchen. She was a petite, vivacious woman with a compact body that just missed being "pleasantly plump." She'd probably just finished a Healthy Choice frozen dinner, and was padding around in sweats and furry slippers.

  Naturally, we talked about the police investigation for a few minutes, ignoring McEwan's warning about sharing crime details. Surely he didn't expect us to keep quiet about such a traumatic event? For me to refrain from talking with my best friend? Answer: he didn't. He wanted to see who talked and who didn't.

  Then Ellen switched gears. "How are the headaches?"

  Phone tucked under my chin, I refilled my wineglass without spilling a drop. "Better-or at least they were before Marion was killed. But I get them because I keep having bad dreams, and then I can't get back to sleep. The next day, I'm draggy and grouchy, and then the cycle repeats."

  "Or," said Ellen, "You get the headaches because you're repressing the bad feelings that go with the dreams."

  "Well, the bad feelings are the grief and the depression over Tom's death that I thought I was getting over."

  "Maybe you're rushing things. Have you gone to that grief therapy group yet?" Ellen knew someone who ran a group in Cambridge. I had resisted so far. Join the crowd? Most of the museum folk I knew were in therapy. I had other resources, I thought, staring into my wine glass. I was strong enough to get through the stages of grieving without professional help...

  "I haven't, yet," I admitted. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt. I think I've been dithering because I don't know if I can spill my guts to a group of strangers. It might be easier to go to a one-on-one session."

  "That would be expensive. Remember the first group session is free," Ellen encouraged me. "You can check it out, and then drop it if the format doesn't suit you."

  "I'll think about it. I've still got that flyer you gave me."

  "Good girl!" Ellen's voice lifted with anticipation. "Well, James is coming soon. Gotta go."

  ? ? ? ?

  I tossed the ratty old sponge onto the windowsill. The rest of the dishes could wait. The Merlot bottle was nearly empty, so I tipped the remainder into my glass and went back to my small living room. TV was company, of sorts. I flicked on the tube and sipped slowly, hoping the electronic images would blot out the mental images of Ellen with James.

  Presently I discovered that the movie I was watching made no sense at all and I was staring at a copy of Monet's haystacks on the wall. I was wasted; time to go to bed.

  I crossed to the window to close the blinds. As I pulled the cord, the flicker of a lighted cigarette caught my eye down below. There was a tall, thin man standing in the shadow of the corner store where I usually bought my Globe and New York Times. He was wearing a loose jacket-maybe an Army surplus jacket- and a floppy hat. The streetlight was too dim to make out his features, but I was sure I hadn't seen him before. What was he doing there?

  I was instantly sure he was watching my window. Feeling uneasy and telling myself I was being paranoid, I watched him pull out a cell phone and punch in a number. Deciding to call the building supervisor if I saw him again, I closed the blinds with a snap.

  A few minutes later I was snuggled under the covers, Oreo on the pillow next to my head. As I drifted off to sleep, a little voice in my brain spoke to me:

  Remember, you're not really paranoid if they are out to get you...

  CHAPTER 7

  THOTH, GOD OF WISDOM

  The next morning I was late for work. My brain felt fuzzy and my eyes were gritty. Must have been the rotten night. Or was it the sediment in that last glass of red wine? Chardonnay was safer than Merlot. I must remember that.

  I knocked on the back door so the cop on duty would let me in. The front doors were sealed with yellow police tape and the museum was still closed to the public.

  I paused in front of my favorite case in the Roman gallery. Lamps with impudent satyrs and dancing maenads jostled with Pompeian fresco fragments, lead water pipes, and a ceramic brazier. Against the backdrop, made cheerful with "Roman Red" paint, were stamped handles from ancient wine jars, one bearing the name "Ateius." The name of the manufacturer, I wondered, or perhaps of the purchaser of the wine jars? I must remember to look it up. I had always been interested in pottery production and trading patterns, and stamps provided a unique source of information.

  Then I noticed pigeon shit dripping down the front of the statue of Augustus. Damn! Another bird had gotten in through the attic windows. Now I'd have to phone the front desk and find a student slave to clean it up.

  I turned the key in my office door, and halted abruptly in the doorway.

  Carl Jacobsen was seated at my computer terminal, busily pinging away. His black leather jacket and briefcase were flung across the only other chair, and his Starbucks coffee cup was balanced precariously on top of my National Endowment for the Arts grant file.

  "Hey, Carl, what's going on?" I tried not to sound irritated, but I'd only had the private office for a month, and the feeling was still luxurious. I hung up my green mock-suede jacket, and turned around to look at Carl.

  "My comput
er's down. Victor said to use yours." His tone was a little less cocky than usual, maybe a shade defensive. It was one of the realities of a poorly funded, short-staffed museum that there were never enough computers in working order. We all had to share, but the other staff usually asked first. Carl kept typing, his black hair falling artistically across his handsome brow. His whole attitude said the universe owed him a living.

  "Ah, Carl," I said, with mock sweetness. "You remember my grant application is due today. The NEA has strict deadlines, and Victor will have something to say if it's not in on time."

  "Forgot." Now he sounded flippant. "I only need about twenty more minutes."

  I ground my teeth and suppressed a rude comment. Instead, I said, "Twenty minutes then. If you need longer, you'll just have to come back later. I need to have this grant finished by two."

  He ignored me, continuing to type. Carl said he was a runner, but I suspected he was describing past practice rather than current habit. He looked fit from the front, but the side view revealed a little paunch forming.

  I hated running. I preferred bounding around to dance videos in my own apartment, with only Emma and Oreo as audience. They thought exercise was hilarious.

  I flung out of the office, feeling only slightly guilty for being a grouch. Carl had the sensitivity of a tank and loved taking other people's spaces.

  It hadn't always been this way. He could be great company when he put his mind to it, but these days he got on my nerves. It didn't help that we were competing for the same thing-a permanent position that was not dependent on soft money. The curator position-with hard funds-was supposed to come through around Christmas time, and Victor would decide which of us was worthy enough to keep on staff for the long-term. So far, I thought that Carl had the edge. He always seemed to have Victor's ear, and had gotten some plum exhibit assignments. Victor responded to academic ambition in a man; I wasn't sure he recognized the same motivation in a woman. And when that woman was a single mom...well, I'd just have to prove to him that I was the original Superwoman.

  I checked my mail. I missed the familiar clamor of schoolchildren on a tour of the medieval armor exhibit. It was eerily quiet.

  Susie Blake stopped me in the hall. She looked fetching in what was obviously a new outfit, a fitted gold tunic over a beige skirt. Susie shopped at up-scale stores because she could afford to; I made do with Filene's Basement and sales at L.L. Bean's.

  "Look at that! Our visitors will think having police all over the museum is just business as usual," she waved her hand at the Crime Scene Unit team in the Egyptian gallery. "And the media have been calling all morning. Victor's fit to be tied. So, how are you, and how's the NEA grant coming?"

  "I'm okay. Tired and depressed, but that's normal." I twisted a long lock of gold hair around my fingers. "The grant would go a bit faster if Carl hadn't swiped my computer before I got in. I'll get it over to you after lunch."

  "That Carl's a stinker! Are you going to complain to Victor? He's in a foul mood today." Susie looked eager for a confrontation.

  "Nah. He'll be done soon, I hope. I'd just as soon avoid the issue for now."

  "Carl's upset too. It's not just what happened to Marion-he's been extra touchy since he got dumped by Shelley."

  "I didn't know that. Too bad. Shelley was too good for him anyway." Susie and I had both liked Shelley, who was a medical student with ideas and ambitions that went far beyond just dating Carl. "The Grants and Contracts office is open until four, right?"

  "Four-thirty, actually. So we'll have time to make the thirty copies if you get it to me by three or so. Lunchtime would be even better." Susie reached out and adjusted my sky-blue scarf-a personal attention I hated.

  Susie's sleekly flowing skirt made a satisfying swish as she continued down the hall.

  I glanced at my watch. I had time for a quick cup of coffee, and then I had an appointment with Victor.

  ? ? ? ?

  The morning sun was filtering through the attic windows as I warily approached Victor's inner sanctum, X-rays in hand. I took a deep breath, knocked briskly, and waited. No answer. I rapped again.

  "Come in!" Victor Fitzgerald was talking on the phone. Probably to the Dean, since he sounded deferential.

  A Princeton graduate who had completed an internship at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, Victor was at home both in academia and in the museum world. It didn't hurt his public image that he also came from a wealthy New Jersey family with a passion for collecting Chinese and Celtic art.

  Victor didn't look at me as I entered, but I was used to that. Everything about his attitude indicated that junior staff members were born to wait. After all, a good boss shouldn't encourage intimacy or, heaven forbid, too much communication.

  Today Victor sported a navy-blue sweater and a blue-and-gold tie, and his thinning dark hair was swept back from his high forehead (did he use black hair dye, or gel, I wondered?). He had just turned forty, and the staff all wondered if his mid-life crisis was starting. Victor's recent behavior showed some dangerous symptoms: he was dumping his older wife for a younger model; he'd been caught eyeing expensive new cars...

  I pulled out the only other chair gingerly. Screech. I crossed my legs and tried to look calm. What color were his eyes today?

  "I'll give you a report at the end of the day...no, the police have not removed the crime tape yet, so we can't reopen. Sure. Goodbye," he said, finally swiveling pewter-gray eyes my way.

  More March sky than frozen pond, I thought in relief.

  He zeroed in on the big envelope. "Are those the mummy X-rays? Let's have a look. We can use my slide sorter table." Victor motioned to the desk behind him.

  I tipped the envelope and spread out the X-rays. As Victor studied them, I summarized the findings about the likely age of the mummy and the possibly broken jaw.

  "What's this?" he asked, pointing to the jumbled teeth.

  "We think it's an extra tooth. Maybe an un-erupted one? I was thinking of showing this X-ray to my daughter's orthodontist."

  Victor smiled at me. "Good idea!"

  I was surprised. Maybe he wasn't such an iceberg all the time-after all, Susie found him attractive. He did have a long, elegant figure and he knew how to dress well. Very unusual for a guy. Hmm.

  Control yourself. Don't show interest in the boss.

  "So, a fractured jaw? And you think CT scanning will reveal more information?

  "Yes. It's a different kind of imaging. CT scans show cross-sections instead of top or side views."

  "How much will the hospital charge?"

  "Nothing. They'll do it for free, as long as we credit them in any publicity or publication."

  Victor nodded his approval. "When will you do this? Maybe I should come."

  I hid a smile. I knew he liked to control publicity and photo opportunities.

  "It's set up for the twenty-fourth. They're going to call me to confirm."

  "How inconvenient! I have to be in New York that day. You'll have to take care of any media coverage." He told me exactly what to say.

  "Okay. Um, there's one more thing. Remember we talked about a mummy sculpture? I spoke with that guy at Brown University-He's at their Supercomputing Center, and he's already done the mummies from the Oriental Institute. He says we need to have really thin slices-no more than two millimeters apart- if we're to do a three-dimensional reconstruction of the mummy's head. A 3-D rendering would really be a draw for the exhibit."

  "Is this person going to charge for the head?"

  "No. Same deal; he just wants credit in the exhibit labels and any article or catalogue we do. I have it all written down."

  We went over the details, and then Victor told me the date of the Egyptian opening was moved up to December instead of next March.

  "The reason is that I need more time on the Celtic exhibit. We have a chance to get some spectacular stuff, but it means waiting a few months."

  "What sort of stuff?" I asked curiously.

  "You'l
l find out in due course." Victor was buttoned up again and his gray eyes turned chilly.

  "Who's curating the Egyptian exhibit?"

  "You are," he replied, extracting a manila folder from the neat pile on his desk.

  I was stunned that Victor was assigning me so much. Carl would have been his usual choice, but Carl was thoroughly tied up with his upcoming exhibit on Pueblo pottery.

  Victor flourished a list of objects for the exhibit in my face. "Go over these- get Ginny's assistance. I have assigned most of Marion's work to Ginny because she is the one most likely to know where things are. Then you can pull the artifacts out and start drafting some label copy. When I come back, we'll go over it. You have some background in the ancient Near East, I believe?" He picked up his coffee.