Dead Past (31 page)

“Darcy, the guy was using you. Why can’t you see that?” said her father.

She looked up at her father. “Daddy, I know you think that, but you didn’t know him.”

“Darcy,” said Diane. “Listen to your father. He knows Blake Stanton far better than you.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? Dad’s never met him.”

“He knows his type,” said Diane. She saw her father nodding his head.

“You don’t understand . . . ,” began Darcy.

“Darcy, besides being director of the museum, do you know what else I do?”

“Yes, we all do. You’re director of the crime lab.”

Her parents exchanged shocked glances.

“Yes, and in that capacity we investigated Blake Stanton’s murder.”

“The man who was threatening him killed him. He did it, and it’s my fault. If I had just given him the gemstones.” She started to cry.

“Darcy.” This time Diane used her stern voice, the one that scared the herpetologist and the mayor. “I want you to listen to me. There was no such man. He didn’t exist.”

“He must. Blake wouldn’t lie to me.” Her voice sounded in genuine anguish.

“He didn’t just steal the dinosaur egg and the gems,” said Diane. “A
Conus gloriamaris,
eight
Cypraea aurantium,
and a giant whelk from Aquatics are missing. A
Boloria improba acrocnema
is missing from Entomology. You know how rare they are. In all, over thirty thousand dollars’ worth of museum items were stolen.”

Darcy’s eyes grew wider and her mouth dropped open. “No. That can’t be.”

Her parents were clearly stunned. Probably wondering now if it was a good idea for them to encourage their daughter to confess and take her medicine.

“That’s not all. He was doing the same thing to the university. Rare books are missing, as well as money from the petty cash drawers of several departments. Darcy, your father is right: Blake Stanton was using you to gain access to valuable items. I know this hurts, but you can’t defend him. For your own sake, when the police question you, don’t defend him.”

Darcy started sobbing. Diane felt guilty for being so harsh. Both her parents looked very concerned.

“Darcy didn’t know about the other things,” said her mother.

“You can see this guy was using her,” her father said. “The police will be able to see that.”

Diane nodded. “Darcy, Blake’s behavior was typical of a sociopath. One of their special gifts is to get trusting people to believe them. He was a seriously disturbed young man and not worth the emotions you have invested in him.”

“You didn’t know him; he was so nice to me,” said Darcy.

Her father looked at the ceiling in frustration.

“Darcy, honey,” said her mother.

“Darcy,” said Diane, “after the explosion, all of us who lived near the house had to evacuate. While I was trying to leave, Blake came up from the explosion, pulled a gun on me, and tried to hijack my car. I was able to escape on foot, but he fired shots at me from a pistol he was carrying.”

Her mother sucked in her breath.

“Oh, God,” said her father. “I knew he was no good, Darcy.”

“Is that true?” said Darcy.

“Yes, it is. He was not a nice boy.”

Darcy started to cry. Diane hoped she had gotten to her.

“What are you going to do?” asked her father. “I believe my daughter didn’t know about the other thefts.”

“So do I. What do you want, Darcy?” asked Diane.

“I don’t know. I love working in the museum, I do. I’m sorry about the diamonds. They are in the planter, they really are.”

“I know. They have been found. Darcy, I know you loved working at the museum, but you still broke not only my trust, but the trust of the people you work with.”

“I know,” she said.

Her mother patted her hand again. She looked so sad for her daughter.

“However,” continued Diane, “if you are willing to become a docent, where you don’t have access to the museum vaults or exhibits, you can work your way up again and salvage your career in museums.”

“You mean you won’t fire me?” said Darcy. She looked stunned.

“No, I’m not firing you. You can work as a docent. If you choose to quit, you won’t get a letter of recommendation.”

“Does everyone have to know?” asked Darcy. She looked around at all the flowers.

“No, you can tell them you want to work with kids, if you want.”

Darcy looked at both her parents. They smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she said to Diane. “I appreciate a second chance, I really do. Why are you giving me one?”

“There has been enough tragedy in the last couple of weeks. It needs to stop.”

Diane bid Darcy good-bye and left her room. Her parents followed her out.

Her father hitched up his pants by the belt and put his hands on his hips. Her mother laced her arm through his.

“You’ve been more than fair with Darcy,” said her father. “Her mother and I thank you for that. She really is a good girl—I don’t understand how she could fall for that guy.” He shook his head.

“Guys like Blake Stanton are good at conning people,” said Diane.

“He certainly did a number on my little girl,” he said.

“I hope Darcy continues to recover,” said Diane.

“The doctors said she’s doing well. We’re real grateful for that. We’d like to take her home to convalesce when she’s released. Will that affect her job?” he asked.

“No. She doesn’t have to come back until she’s well.”

Diane left the hospital and drove to the museum. It was a relief to have the talk with Darcy over with. She had been dreading it ever since she found out that Darcy was Blake’s girlfriend. It had been a welcome surprise that she wanted to confess and showed true remorse. That made Diane’s job easier—and made it easier to give her a break. Now, if the other stolen items could just be recovered.

The museum was opening for the day when she arrived. There were two big tour buses sitting in the parking lot. Diane liked seeing that, especially in this weather. Inside there was a long line at the ticket counter. Chaperoning a line of schoolchildren were several teachers and parents whom she recognized as having visited many times. And there were others who were vaguely familiar. She was glad to see so many repeat visitors.

She crossed the lobby and headed for Aquatics. She wanted to tell Juliet that she had spoken with her grandmother.

 

“Dr. Fallon.”

The voice was one of the chaperones standing in line with a group of children.
Damn.
She didn’t want to be delayed right now. She smiled and walked over to him.

“Dr. Thormond.”

Diane held out her hand to the man standing with twenty or so third graders. Martin Thormond was a history professor she’d met on campus at one of her presentations for the museum. She knew he was angling to be one of the curators she recruited from the university, but his area of expertise wasn’t represented in the museum. The closest museum area to his expertise would be archaeology, and she already had an archaeology curator in Jonas Briggs.

It was odd. When she first presented the idea of university professors serving as curators in exchange for providing them office and research space, it was met with a great deal of skepticism and downright snobbery in some cases. Now, apparently, curator at the RiverTrail museum had become a plum assignment.

“It’s good to see you again,” said Diane. “I see you’ve been tagged for chaperone duty. One of these yours?”

“Michael over there.”

He pointed to a blond-headed kid making faces at two little girls, apparently seeing how wide he could stretch his mouth with his fingers.

“Yep, that’s my pride and joy,” he said.

He laughed and, at the same time trying to keep the rest of his wards in a straight line, caught a dark-headed boy about to make a break for it.

“I tell you, I now have much more respect for a mother duck.”

Diane laughed and muttered some comment about their energy. The level of noise was getting louder as more children arrived. Diane wondered where the docents were.

Some girls in another line were saying tongue twisters to each other.

“Say this,” one said. “She sells seashells at the seashore.”

It was answered by another little girl with perfect pronunciation.

“Now say it real fast.”

That was harder and ended in a fit of laughter.

“Try this real fast. Black bugs blood, black bugs blood.”

That twister erupted in a tangle of words and laughter. The teachers joined in—“Around the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran.”

It sounds as if they have a tongue twister for every department in the museum,
thought Diane.

Someone started the old favorite, “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

An alliteration of
p
’s again, thought Diane. Why did that tug at her brain?

“. . . totally unexpected and just so much more work.”

Dr. Thormond was talking the whole time, and Diane didn’t have any idea what he was saying. She nodded, hoping a nod made sense.

“None of us had a clue Dr. Keith was leaving,” he continued.

Dr. Keith . . . history.

“Are you talking about Shawn Keith?” asked Diane.

“Yes. He’s left us in just the worst time. I’m having to take his classes,” said Dr. Thormond.

“He lives in the basement of my apartment building,” said Diane. “I didn’t know he was moving.”

“He caught everyone by surprise. I can’t believe he was job hunting all this time and none of us knew,” he said.

While Dr. Thormond expressed annoyance at Dr. Shawn Keith’s abrupt departure, Diane was thinking about when she first saw Blake Stanton aiming his gun at Professor Keith’s car. All along she’d thought it was just an opportunistic encounter. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Blake had run to someone he knew and they got into some kind of argument and Blake pulled a gun on Keith. Someone at the university end had to help grease the way for Blake to steal things there. What if it was Keith?

The docents in charge of the groups of children came and they started on their tour. Diane waved at Thormond as he left with his baby ducks, and she detoured up to her crime lab.

Her crew was there. David was at the computer—Diane didn’t know if he was working on a case, one of his databases, or algorithms for working with databases. Neva was at a microscope and Jin was sitting by himself looking glum.

“Those cigarette butts. I could’ve had my DNA lab,” he moaned.

“Jin,” said Diane sharply, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get to work. Not everything is high-tech.”

Jin jumped at the sound of her voice. “What do you mean, Boss?” he said.

“You photographed the cigarette butts before you picked them up, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Of course, I did,” he said, a trifle indignant.

“Look at the photographs and find out what kind of cigarettes they are.” Diane stood over him, folding her arms over her chest.

“How will that help us? You can’t nail down a single person with a brand. Hundreds . . . thousands, maybe millions of people will smoke the same brand.”

“Jin, with those thinking skills, I’m not sure you deserve a DNA lab.”

“Boss!” he cried.

“Right now we don’t even have a list of suspects—forget about a perfect match. Get us a pool of possibles to work with.”

“OK, I find out what kind of butts they are and then I get a list of everyone in Rosewood who smokes that brand?”

“Jin, I’ve never seen you feeling this sorry for yourself,” said Diane.

“I let someone sneak up on me,” he lamented.

“You weren’t meant to hear, that’s why they were sneaking. Find a suspect population and then narrow it down. For example, we’re thinking the motive for McNair’s murder might be revenge for the deaths of the students. Who felt the deaths the most?”

“The parents,” he said.

“Who else?”

Jin thought a minute. “The people who had to deal with it. Us.”

“And I’m sure there are more. Where would members of those pools of suspects have been found lately . . . for long periods of time . . . smoking cigarettes?”

Jin thought again. “The crime scene. Tent city,” he said.

“Then why don’t you get your sorry self out to where the tent city was and look for cigarette butts?” she said. “In the tent where we were, I noticed several people stepping out to smoke. I’m sure that was true where the coffee tent was also, and where the crowd of onlookers waited, and where the media were set up. If you’re lucky, the cigarette butts you found at the warehouse will be distinctive or uncommon in some way. If you find a match at the tent city, then at least we will be on a trail of clues again.”

“Boss, that’s a good idea. But they will be trampled by now; the DNA will be degraded; they will be mixed in with the butts thrown out by the people dismantling the tents.”

“Right now we are just looking for clues that might point us somewhere; we are not necessarily looking for evidence we can take to court.”

“I’m with you, Boss, but still, there’s a possibility that everyone will have been smoking the same brand.”

“Not necessarily,” said David. “If the brand is Marlboro you’re in trouble; about half the smoking population smokes them. However, that diminishes with age. You get in the twenty-six-plus age group and the percentage falls considerably. Look at your photographs and see if you can figure out what brand you have and go from there. Diane’s right. Get off your sorry butt and do some old-fashioned detective work.”

They all stared at David. Neva spoke first.

“You have a cigarette database, I take it?”

“Of course, I do. Do you know how may perps smoke?” said David.

“But you’ve memorized it,” said Neva.