One Grave Too Many

The phone rang. She let it go for several rings and picked up the receiver when no one answered.

“RiverTrail Museum.”

“This is the Bickford Museum, confirming an order placed with us. May I speak with Diane Fallon?”

“This is she. What order are you confirming?” Diane searched her memory, trying to remember what might have been ordered.

“Casts of Albertosaurus, Pteranodon sternbergi, Tylosaurus, and a triceratops, for a total of 143,500 dollars.”

“Oh, yes. We received the items in perfect condition. The display is opening this evening. I’m sure our records show that the invoice has been paid. I reviewed the accounts myself.”

“No, you’re correct, payment was received. This is a new order.”

Diane stared into space, shocked for a moment. “For the same items?”

“Yes, identical to the first order.”

“When was this order placed?”

“It’s dated last Wednesday. We saw that we had shipped an order for the same items to RiverTrail Museum six months ago, so I’m calling to verify that this is not a duplicate of that order.”

“I’m glad you called. There has been some mix-up. How did you receive this order?”

“By fax.”

“Please cancel the order, and if you don’t mind, would you fax a copy of that order back to me so that I can straighten it out here?”

“Certainly. I’ll send the fax right now.”

Diane put down the receiver and sat at her desk for a moment, trying to imagine how duplicate orders of a purchase that large and that unique could have been made. She tried buzzing Andie, then remembered that she had gone out to speak with the caterers. She walked into Andie’s office just as the fax was arriving from Bickford. The order was as the man had said, placed the past Wednesday. It showed Diane’s name-and her signature. She punched in the number code to print the recent history of fax transmissions and tried to make some sense out of the order while she waited. Had she actually forgotten and duplicated the order? No, she couldn’t possibly have forgotten; she already had life-sized skeletons of dinosaurs standing in the exhibit hall. In getting away from human bones, she hadn’t expected dinosaurs to cast a giant shadow over her life. Diane had expected to find peace here. She scooped up the report from the print tray and went back to her office.

Chapter 4

Frank was late. Diane wasn’t surprised. Columbus, Georgia, was a four-hour round trip, aside from whatever business he had to do there. She wrote a note telling him to meet her at the museum and was taping it to the door when she heard a voice coming from the apartment across the stairwell.

“Cats aren’t allowed.”

“I beg your pardon?” Diane turned, tape and message still in hand, and saw a woman in a blue chenille robe and pink hair net peering out of an apartment door.

“Marvin’s allergic to cats. That’s why we chose this apartment house. Cats aren’t allowed.”

There was a distant sneeze. The woman’s head retreated momentarily into the apartment, leaving behind a veined hand gripping the edge of the door and a blue sleeve as visible cues that she was still there. After another sneeze and a man’s muffled voice from inside, the woman spoke with that tone of impatience and irritability that arises between two companions of long duration.

“I’m telling her. She’s right here, and I’m telling her.”

Diane waited, trying to think of the woman’s name-Ogle, Ogden, Adell, Odell-that was it, Veda Odell. When the rest of Mrs. Odell appeared again, Diane spoke.

“I’m sorry for his allergy.”

“He doesn’t need sympathy, he needs for you to get rid of the cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

Veda Odell thrust out her chin. “You heard Marvin sneezing. He’s allergic to cats. Nothing else. Just cats.”

“Perhaps he has a cold.”

Mrs. Odell eased herself a little farther into the hallway, craning her neck as if trying to get a peek into Diane’s apartment. “It’s a cat. He gets this way around cats.”

Diane taped her note to the door and turned to go. “Well, Mrs. Odell, I don’t have a cat. Maybe one passed through the yard.”

“No. .” She hesitated, as if just noticing Diane’s black sequined dress and the cashmere wrap over her arm. “That’s a mighty pretty dress. I hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”

“I think the weather is supposed to be clear. We’re having a party for the contributors to the museum, and I’d hate for the attendance to be low because of rain.”

“You work for the museum?”

“I’m the new director of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History.”

“You are? I heard you’re a grave digger.”

Diane opened her mouth, closed it again and wrinkled her brow. “A grave digger?” she said at last. “No, Mrs. Odell, I’m not.”

“Well, I could have sworn,” she said, but let her voice trail off. “Marvin and I were hoping you could tell us about the funeral homes here. The inside scoop, you know.”

Diane stared a moment before she said anything, trying to imagine the scenario going on inside Mrs. Odell’s head. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to be going. I hope your husband gets better.” Diane hurried to her car.

It was a short drive to RiverTrail Museum. It’s why she had chosen the apartment, even though they didn’t allow pets. What I’d like to have is a house, she thought, as she drove slowly down the steep meandering road, a big house with big airy rooms-that cleaned themselves. No-she unconsciously clutched the locket that rested on her chest-an apartment is better right now.

At the bottom of her mountain road she turned onto a stretch of level four lane before starting the climb to the museum. The trees still blossomed with spring blooms, and the days were getting longer. She rounded the curve and RiverTrail came into view. It was a lovely old building, especially with the new renovations. But as the evening grew darker, the outline of the museum would look like an old sanatorium out of a Dracula movie.

She wheeled her Taurus into the parking space between Andie’s Toyota and Donald’s Lexus, and walked across the pavement to the museum entrance.

The string quartet had just arrived. Diane held open the door for the four college-student musicians. They looked elegant in their long black dresses, carrying their instrument cases.

“Thanks, Dr. Fallon,” said the cellist.

“We really appreciate your asking us here,” tall, willowy Alix, the first violinist, added.

From the music to the caterers, Diane had used people from the surrounding community. She wanted local support, and thought that giving it in turn would make her job easier.

“My pleasure. Thank you for coming.”

Diane peeked into the Pleistocene room on her way to the kitchen. The large vaulted room was now transformed from a work in progress to a rather wonderful exhibit. To make room for a long table of party food, Diane had omitted some of the animals and Paleo-Indian dioramas that would eventually appear in the exhibit. She included only the megafauna, the spectacular big guys, the ancient giant species who always impressed.

The caterers had laid out an appetizing array of finger food on a table decorated with leafy long-blade plants, hard plastic museum-quality replicas of dinosaurs and a magnificent ice sculpture centerpiece of a mammoth with long curved tusks.

The head caterer, a woman in her late fifties, stood back smiling and folded her arms. “I think it looks rather good.” She leaned and whispered to Diane, “We found a mold for the ice sculpture. We were quite pleased.”

“Well, I like it very much. And the food looks wonderful.”