Beverly Connor - Dead Secret

Yesterday’s paper lay on top of her cluttered walnut desk. The headline across the front page read: Helen Elizabeth Price Egan, 1891–2005 . Most of the front page was taken up with the story of Vanessa Van Ross’s grandmother, who had died at age 114. Diane and some of the museum staff were going to her funeral later in the morning.

Vanessa Van Ross was the most prominent member of the museum board, RiverTrail’s most generous contributor, and Diane’s mentor. Diane stared at the photograph of the young Helen Elizabeth, wondering if she had any idea she would go on to live a hundred years after it was taken.

Andie Layne, Diane’s administrative assistant, came bop-ping in with two cups of steaming hot tea, put one in front of Diane and sat down in the chair opposite her desk.

“Good to have you back. You and Frank get a lot of fishing in?”

“Sure did. He taught me how to fish for trout. A lot more active than sitting in a boat with a pole. We had a great time.”

“So you think you guys will ever get married?”

Diane took another drink of tea, hoping Andie didn’t see the grimace on her face. Life with Frank would be great, and he had certainly hinted that they should marry, but Diane was convinced that they got along so well because they saw each other so little. They were never in each other’s pockets, tripping over each other’s feet, or irritated by each other’s idiosyncracies.

“Things are going well the way they are,” muttered Diane.

Fortunately, Andie didn’t linger on the subject, but went dancing on to the next thing on her mind.

“Neva told me about the caving trip you guys had. Wow. Exciting.” She pointed to the newspaper clipping peeking out of the folder, sipped her tea and swung her legs back and forth. “That mummy you found-you think it was an accident or murder?” Her thick auburn curls shook as she talked in her animated way, and she looked delighted at the thought of murder.

“Accident is the most likely scenario.” Diane sipped her green tea. It tasted like Andie had squeezed an orange into it.

Andie looked over at the photograph on the wall of Diane descending on a rope into the vertical entrance of a cave. “I just don’t see how you all can go down into a cave like that. I would be terrified.”

“It’s fun. You kind of have to like dark, closed-in places.”

Diane glanced at her e-mail as she listened to Andie. Nothing urgent. Andie had answered and filed away most of her messages while she was gone. She could also see that Kendel had handled the rest. Life had gotten easier in the museum since she’d hired Kendel Williams, her assistant director.

Between Kendel and Andie, her absence was hardly noticeable. That is, if she didn’t look at the stack of queries from her curators-requests for larger budgets, more room, and all the assorted concerns they invariably had.

“I understand it’s really beautiful inside a cave. I’ve seen pictures. . ”

“Sometimes caves are beautiful; sometimes they’re pretty ugly. Depends on the cave. But every cave has its own magic. This one we’ve been mapping’s pretty nice. Very large, with a variety of formations.”

“Neva said you almost had a bad fall. That sounds scary.”

“Sort of. Mike threw me a rope, so it ended well. We did find the lost caver because of it.” That was how Diane handled the question about her fall when it came up-made light of it, praised Mike, and diverted attention elsewhere. So far, with everyone except Frank, it had worked.

“The lost caver. That sounds forlorn, doesn’t it?” Andie stared for a long moment at the photograph of Diane hanging on the rope, then laid a folder on Diane’s desk. “These are the letters that need your signature. But you can wait till after the funeral. Wow, a hundred and fourteen. Imagine that. After she became a teenager, she lived another hundred years.”

“It is amazing to think about. Vanessa has had her grandmother a long time. This must be hard on her.”

“If I’m gonna live that long, I’d hate to live most of my life as an old woman,” Andie said.

“Spoken like a youngster,” a soft voice behind her said.

They looked up to see Vanessa Van Ross standing in the doorway wearing a dark blue silk suit. Her silver hair was swept up in her usual French twist.

Andie turned bright red. “Mrs. Van Ross, I am so sorry. . I didn’t mean. . I. . I’m so sorry.”

The older woman put an arm around Andie’s shoulder. “That’s all right, dear. I tell my doctor the same thing every time I see him. They’ve been able to put a man on the moon for over thirty years, but they still can’t make me look twenty.”

Andie was a little consoled. “May I get you some tea?”

“No, thank you, dear. I just came to ask Diane if she would ride with me to church. The children are taking Mother. I love them all dearly, but right now the three of them are too much.”

“Certainly. Would you like to go now?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s a little early. I thought I’d just enjoy the museum until it’s time to leave. You go about your business. Maybe I will take a cup of tea.”

Andie hurried off to make a cup. Diane led Vanessa into the private sitting room adjacent to her office.

“Feel free to stay in here if you like. I just need to check in with the crime lab.”

As she spoke, raised voices-between Andie and someone whose voice Diane didn’t recognize-filtered in from Andie’s office.

“I demand you allow me to see her now,” the disembodied voice said. Diane and Vanessa raised their brows at each other.

“I suppose I’d better go see about this. Andie will be in with your tea shortly.”

Diane walked through her office and into Andie’s, where she stood with her arms folded, literally barring the door. Two women were facing Andie, one about her age, the other maybe twenty years older. It was the younger who threatened to go through Andie to get to Diane’s office; at least it had been a young voice.

What struck Diane first about her was that she was purple. She had hair dyed black with burgundy highlights, wore low-rise dark-purple jeans with glitter in the fabric, and a light purple cami covered by a darker purple cotton blazer. On a silver chain around her neck hung an amethyst crystal about the size of the woman’s little finger. She also wore purple eyeshadow and lipstick. Odd as it might seem, she actually looked good.

The other woman had no particular matching color scheme. She wore a plain navy cotton-blend pantsuit with a stark white shirt. Her red hair was streaked with gray and, Diane noticed when she turned her head, stuffed into a sloppy bun on back of her head. Several strands had escaped and now hung down on each side of her face. She wore no makeup to camouflage her drooping eyelids and slight jowls.

“Can I help you?” asked Diane.

The young purple woman looked surprised, as if she never really expected to see the person she was asking for.

“I’m Caitlin Shanahan. This is Charlotte Hawkins. We’ve come to speak with the head of the museum.”

“I’ve come a very long way to see Diane Fallon,” said Charlotte Hawkins.

Caitlin Shanahan had a Midwestern American accent. Charlotte Hawkins’s was British. Diane thought she knew who they were.

“I’m sorry,” said Andie. “They somehow slipped through security. I told them the museum was closed today.”

“It’s all right, Andie. I’m Diane Fallon.” She led them into her office. “I only have a little time this morning, but please sit down and tell me what you’ve come about.”

The two of them sat in the stuffed chairs that faced Diane’s desk. The younger woman, Caitlin, spoke first.