Dead Secret (6 page)

Chapter 8

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.

“Charlotte just came from England. She has asked my coven to help her reclaim the bones of her ancestor.”

“Coven?”
This ought to be good,
thought Diane.

“I’m a Wiccan. Charlotte is a Druid. Though not the same, we share a kindred spirit . . . if for nothing else than that we are both misunderstood minority religions.”

“What do you want with me?” asked Diane, although she suspected she already knew.

“Annwn is my ancestor,” said Charlotte. “We know that her bones were sent here from the Rose Museum in Dorset.”

Diane raised her eyebrows slightly, surprised that the witch had a name. It intrigued her. She wondered if it was her real name, or just families filling out the legend over the years. “Exactly what are you asking of me?”

“That you give the bones back so that I can take them home and bury them properly.”

“Surely you must know that I can’t do that.”

Charlotte tucked her stray locks of hair behind her ears, leaned forward, and looked earnestly at Diane. “People of goodwill can do anything,” she said.

“Wouldn’t you agree that my goodwill should extend to those who entrust items to me?”

“So you do have them?”

“Actually, I don’t know whether I do or not. I just got back from a two-week vacation. I really don’t know what may have arrived during my absence. So our conversation may be moot.”

“Can you check to see if you have them?” asked Charlotte.

Diane looked at her watch. “Not right now. I’m leaving soon.”

Caitlin stood and leaned on Diane’s desk. “Look, I told Charlotte that in this country we place value on ancestral remains. I explained to her about the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.”

“NAGPRA does not apply here. We know they are not the bones of a Native American,” said Diane.

“I’m making an analogy. Work with me. We have the act because many of us over here place value on returning remains to their descendants.”

“Nevertheless, I could not give them to you if I were to have them. And Miss Shanahan, please sit down.” To Diane’s surprise, Caitlin did as she was told.

“Why can’t you give them to me?” asked Charlotte.

“You know there is another claimant. What if he walked in and asked for them and I gave them to him?”

“He’s not related.”

Diane was actually glad they came to see her. It was a good opportunity to learn about some of the lore surrounding the bones. “Why do you think they are the bones of your ancestor?” she asked.

“The story of Annwn has been in my family for generations,” said Charlotte, holding her arms wide, as if that would encompass all her ancestry. “She was a Druid, she was accused of being a witch, and she was murdered in a cave.”

“Why do you think these specific bones are hers?” asked Diane.

“How many bones of witches in caves can there be?” Caitlin was getting exasperated.

Diane had the impression that if Caitlin knew where the bones were, she’d make a break for them.

“Apparently more than one,” said Diane.

Caitlin looked over at Charlotte, who nodded in agreement with Diane. “There’s another set of bones from Somerset said to be those of a witch that were discovered in a cave,” she said.

“You’re kidding . . . ” said Caitlin.

“Why do you think these bones and not the others are your ancestor?” Diane asked the question again.

Diane heard the door open in the next room—Andie taking Vanessa her tea.

“The story is different. In the case of the Somerset bones, the alleged witch was killed by a monk through some kind of ritual. . . . She was supposedly turned to stone.” Charlotte waved a hand as if dismissing the story.

“Wasn’t Annwn turned into . . . ” began Caitlin.

“Salt?” said Diane.

“No,” said Charlotte. “Some people say Annwn turned some woman to salt, but that’s not what happened.”

“But the stories from the two caves sound very similar—stone, pillar of salt. How do you know it’s not just one story with several variations?”

Charlotte sighed heavily. “Annwn was a Druid artisan. She was deceived by her husband and his Roman lover, the daughter of a government official. They lured her into a cave, and while she talked with her beloved, the Roman woman crept up behind her and stabbed her in the back. The pillar of salt was probably a Christianized addition to the story, influenced by the biblical story of Lot’s wife. The story I just told you has been in my family for generations. No one was turned to salt. I mean, you can’t really do that.”

“I think it’s obvious,” said Caitlin. “The bones are her ancestor.”

Diane stared at both women for a moment, then slid open the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a sealed packet, opened it, walked around her desk and stood in front of Charlotte.

“Will you give me a sample of your DNA?”

The two of them looked at her as if she’d asked them to pee in a glass. Diane pulled a swab from the kit.

Diane smiled. “I’ll take it from your cheek. Doesn’t hurt.”

“Why?” asked Charlotte, her mouth turned down into a frown.

“If we can get some usable DNA from the bones then there’s a chance we can tell if the bones are truly your ancestor.”

Charlotte looked over at Caitlin. Both stared at Diane as if she were pulling some kind of trick on them.

“It’s my understanding,” she said, “that the Druids were scholarly people.”

“We are,” said Charlotte.

“A positive result would strengthen your case.”

“What proof do I have that you won’t manipulate the data?” asked Charlotte.

“I’m a person of goodwill.”

Charlotte still hesitated. Caitlin was on the verge of telling her not to do it. Diane could see the suspicion in her eyes. Maybe if she gave them a little information, it might ease their suspicions.

“I was asked to take a look at the bones to find out what I can. Mr. Rose wants to know everything he can about the skeleton. You say you are a relative. This is a possible way to prove it.”

“I suppose I have no choice.”

“You always have a choice. This is simply the only way I know of supporting your claim.”

“Or dismissing it,” said Caitlin.

Diane suspected that Caitlin was more interested in the protest than the disposition of the bones.

Diane looked at Charlotte. “If she is not a relative, then you don’t want to claim her, do you?”

“She’s someone’s relative,” said Caitlin. “She should be treated with dignity.”

“She will be. I treat every body I examine with dignity.” Diane put her forearms on her desk and leaned forward. “Look, this is the way I communicate with people who have died long ago. I read what is written in their bones. I respect the information that they tell me.”

“Go ahead,” said Charlotte. “I’m trusting you to tell me the truth.”

She opened her mouth and allowed Diane to take a swab from the inside of her cheek. Diane sealed the swab in its pouch, went behind her desk, labeled it and locked it in the bottom drawer.

“Thank you. I assure you I will tell you the truth when I have it. I have no interest in doing otherwise. Now I’m going to have to leave. I’m attending a funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charlotte. “Not someone very close, I hope.”

“I’m close to her family.”

“A death in the family is very sad.”

“Yes, it is. However, she was a hundred and fourteen when she died, and we also have reason to celebrate her life.”

“I didn’t know people could live that long,” said Caitlin. “Imagine.”

“It is hard to imagine,” said Diane, rising to show them out the door.

Vanessa was sitting on the couch in the sitting room that adjoined Diane’s office, sipping the tea that Andie had brought her. “That was very strange. I confess, Andie and I sort of eavesdropped.”

“I’ll say,” said Andie. “I thought they were going to run over me. They’re witches?” She hesitated. “Sorry, couldn’t help but listen.”

“Wiccan and Druid. As I understand it they’re not the same, and neither is necessarily a witch. Anyway, it was interesting. I don’t know if I can discover if the story goes with the skeleton, but it’ll be fun working on it. Andie, did we get a package from the Rose Museum in England while I was gone?”

“Yes. The paperwork is in your in box. Mr. Rose said in the letter that he doesn’t want you to start until you speak to him. There were also some pretty cool photographs with the paperwork—this statue in a cave. I thought you’d like that. Do you really think you can get DNA from the skeleton? I had the idea from reading the paperwork that the skeleton is really old, like
really
old, like over a thousand years.”

“I don’t know if I can get any usable DNA or not. It will certainly be interesting if I do.”

Vanessa stood up. “I suppose it’s time. I have to tell you, I’m dreading this. People from all over are coming. Even the governor is sending someone. It is going to be a long funeral. Gram would hate it.”

Chapter 9

Diane gazed out the window of Vanessa’s limo as they pulled up in front of the First Presbyterian Church. It was a huge structure built with granite from Georgia. The rock, blue when it was freshly quarried, had weathered to a dark bluish gray after ninety-two years of exposure to the elements. Helen was twenty-two years older than the church. Her daughter was two years older than the ninety-two-year-old structure. Odd and somehow comforting, thought, Diane, that people could be older than this stone edifice.

The central sanctuary had tall stained-glass windows in shades of blue and green and was flanked by two medieval-looking towers. The parking lot was to one side and was already filling up. Vanessa was right: A great many people were there—many more, Diane guessed, than her grandmother had known. But as Vanessa said, this was the price for being from a prominent family and for living way past a hundred.

Vanessa asked Diane to sit with her and her family—five generations of them beyond Helen Egan. The family members smiled at Diane and patted Vanessa’s arm as they sat down.

As Vanessa held on to her hand, Diane realized that her mentor was probably mourning the loss of her only grandmother, but also of Milo Lorenzo, the museum founder. Vanessa had said good-bye to him here also. It was Milo who had hired Diane. The museum was his life’s work, the centerpiece of all his creative endeavors, and he died much too young of a heart attack before it was finished. Diane was supposed to be the assistant director, but thanks to Vanessa and to Milo’s will, she became director with all the power that Milo had designed for himself. But more than the visionary of the museum, Milo was the love of Vanessa’s life, and Diane could feel the loss flowing from her like a current of electricity as she sat silently on the hard wooden pew.

The church was filling up quickly now. Diane looked behind her at the people. She spotted Korey, her head conservator, Mike, Andie and Kendel sitting together. They must have come together from the museum. She saw most of the board members either seated or entering the church. Some who caught her eye nodded. The mayor was there; so were the chief of detectives and the police commissioner. She spotted several businessmen from Rosewood and Atlanta whom she knew because they were large contributors to the museum. Attendance was a who’s who of Rosewood and beyond. Diane put an arm around Vanessa’s granddaughter, eight-year-old Alexis Van Ross, who had come from the pew in front of her and slid in beside her.

The service began. Diane hoped it would be a short one. The minister was a young man full of hope and awe that someone he knew had lived such a long life. It was not a sad service. It was filled with references to the great events, inventions and changes Helen had witnessed in her many years.

As Diane listened to the minister’s words, she had the unexpected realization that she had not had a memorial service for her daughter, Ariel. Her thoughts brought tears to her eyes, and she blinked to try to keep them at bay. Why had she never done that? Because, she thought, answering her own question, she did everything she could to avoid dealing with the fact that Ariel was dead. Diane fingered the locket at her throat. She absently pulled Alexis to her, and the little girl leaned into Diane and put her arms around her waist.

Before Diane realized it, the ushers were at the end of the pews to let the family file out of the church first. When Diane stood, it was a relief. She was glad the service was over. She held Alexis’s hand and walked out with the family.

“Just the cemetery now and it will be over.” Vanessa patted Alexis’s blond curls. “You know, I’m going to put it in my will that I don’t want a funeral. I’m not sure I agree with this final good-bye ritual.”

Right now Diane agreed with her. The limo drove up and the driver opened the door for Vanessa, Diane and Alexis. Alexis had bonded with Diane ever since she’d been given a private tour of the museum.

“Can I spend the night at your house sometime?” she asked.

“Alexis . . . ” said Vanessa.

I would like that,
thought Diane. “Sometime,” she said. “I’ll talk to your mother in a few weeks; how will that be?”

Alexis was the farthest generation from Helen Egan—her great-great-great-granddaughter. Diane wondered if the little girl understood just what an amazing thing that was.

Rose Street Cemetery wasn’t far from the church. Diane could already see the tops of the larger monuments. It was an old cemetery, fifty years older than Helen Egan. It seemed fitting. Helen Egan would be buried beside her husband, who had died half a century earlier than she.

The limo driver drove them to the plot, now covered with a tent under which were rows of chairs for the family. Diane didn’t want to sit through another service. She told Vanessa she was going to stand with her people from the museum.

“Of course, dear.” Vanessa looked around at the cars pulling onto the shoulder of the small roadway. “I can’t believe this many people came to the cemetery. What could they be thinking?” Vanessa cocked her lips into a half smile. “Come, Alexis. It won’t be long now.”

Diane walked to where Andie and the others were standing.

“Hey, Dr. F.,” said Korey. “Want a ride back with us? We brought the minivan.”

“Probably so. Let me talk to Vanessa when the graveside service is over.” She stood between Andie and Korey as people gathered around and listened to the final words.

The ceremony was very short, to Diane’s relief. When it was over, they all stood in a line of people waiting to express their condolences to the family.

Vanessa was speaking to the mayor and a tall man with dark salt-and-pepper hair as Diane approached. The mayor frowned when he saw Diane, but quickly recovered. She guessed he had just remembered that she was now a friend and not a foe. She hadn’t really spoken with him since an argument resulting from his urging that the museum be moved. She didn’t really want to speak with him now, but there he was.

“I hear a lot of good things about the . . . museum,” the mayor said.

Diane knew he almost said “crime scene lab,” but realized at the last minute that this wasn’t the venue to talk about it.

Diane nodded and muttered, “We do our best.”

“Ah, you must be Diane Fallon.” It was the tall, distinguished-looking man beside the mayor. He looked like a politician too. “Vanessa has told me much about you.”

“This is Steve Taggart,” said Vanessa. “His mother and father are old acquaintances of my parents.” She pointed to an elderly man with sparse white hair and a silver-headed cane, and a slim silver-haired woman with him. They were talking to Vanessa’s mother and a friend of Diane’s.

“We think Steve’s going to be one of Georgia’s next senators in Washington,” added the mayor.

Steve Taggart extended his hand, and Diane shook it. “I’m thinking about running. Talking to my family about it. One doesn’t run alone; unfortunately, it’s a family affair.”

“Indeed,” agreed the mayor.

Diane smiled and nodded, wondering if they would notice if she turned and ran. Unfortunately, her way was blocked by a throng of people closing in on the family. Vanessa, apparently with the same idea, wandered away to speak to a young couple, leaving Diane with the mayor and the Taggarts.

“My father’s been wanting to meet you,” he said. “He’s wild about your new Egyptian exhibit.” Steve Taggart stepped a few feet over to a small group of people and escorted an elderly gentleman to Diane. “Dad, this is the director of the museum. My dad’s Emmett Taggart. . . .”

“Of course,” said Diane. “Mr. Taggart is one of the museum’s supporters . . . among many other things, I understand.” Diane shook his hand and he held on to it, placing his other hand on top.

“Dad believes in giving back to the community. Something he’s drilled into all of us since we were old enough to sit up and listen.” Steve Taggart was already making his political speeches.

As Steve Taggart spoke about his father, Diane noticed that the elder Mr. Taggart seemed to have an unpleasant odor. She caught just a whiff, but her cheeks suddenly burned with embarrassment for him.

“Wonderful exhibit.” The elder Taggart shook her hand as he spoke. “That mummy and all those trinkets that he was wrapped with—so interesting. This is my wife, Rosemary.” The older woman nodded at Diane. She seemed more curt and standoffish than the rest of her family. “And this is my grandson, Robert. He’s my daughter’s son.”

Robert was shorter than his politician uncle, but a lot like him, except with auburn hair. He had the same black eyes and broad-toothed grin. As Diane made small talk with the Taggart family, she heard Kendel, Korey, Mike and Andie talking to Vanessa, who hugged each of them. Diane didn’t realize Vanessa knew Mike and Korey that well, then remembered that she was prone to making nighttime visits to the museum just to look around by herself, and both Mike and Korey often worked late.

The only other time that Diane had seen Korey in a suit was at formal museum functions. He usually wore T-shirts and Dockers. Today, however, he had on a suit, and his long dreadlocks were gathered up and tied in a low ponytail down his back.

“We’re real sorry, Mrs. V.,” said Korey. “Bekka’s mother’s in the hospital. She wanted you to know that she would’ve been here. . . .”

“Tell her that’s all right; we understand and hope her mother gets better soon.”

Bekka was one of the anthropologists at the museum. She was making a record of Helen Egan’s 114-year history and had spent a lot of time with her. Diane was sure she hated missing her funeral.

Diane herself was wishing she could escape as she listened to the voices expressing condolences and making light banter. Mr. Taggart kept going on about ancient Egypt and burning mummies for firewood, and did they really do that or was Mr. Twain pulling everyone’s leg.

“He was pulling our leg. He was the only one who ever mentioned that practice, I believe.” Diane had to remind herself that Mr. Taggart, as well as being a prominent humanitarian and businessman, was a major contributor to the museum, and that his enthusiasm was a good thing.

“And you, Mrs. Taggart, are you a fan of ancient Egypt?” asked Diane.

“The trinkets were lovely.” Rosemary Taggart’s voice had not lost any of its strength; it was smooth and strong, like her skin. Mrs. Taggart had good genes. “I enjoy the shells and the gems in the museum. Some of the other things are not to my taste.”

Diane smiled, wishing she hadn’t asked. She glanced at Vanessa, who was being approached by a man Diane suspected was from the governor’s office. Vanessa smiled and held out her hand, and the man took it in both of his. Vanessa turned her head slightly and looked toward Andie, Kendel and the other members of the museum group. Vanessa’s face froze.

Diane followed Vanessa’s gaze to the museum employees. They were all staring at Mike, who had a look of confusion and pain on his face. He fell to his knees.