Dead Past

wide awake.
    “I’m sorry to call you so late,” said Diane.
    “It’s not late,” said Andie. “What you need?”
    “You know that basket you made for Juliet Price?”
    “How could I forget it?” answered Andie.
    “The mermaid doll, was it in a box? I seem to recall that it wasn’t.”
    “No, it wasn’t. Is that why you called?”
    “Yes. Thanks for the information.”
    “Anytime,” said Andie.
    Interesting, Diane said to herself. I’ll wait until morning to call Laura.

Chapter 31

    It was the first good night’s sleep Diane had since the explosion. She woke up feeling good—no midnight calls, no murders, no bad dreams. She made herself scrambled eggs, the kind of bacon that’s already fried and just needs to be microwaved, the kind of toast made in the broiler and not the toaster, and orange juice. She didn’t know exactly why she felt so good.
    Her mind had certainly been working overtime while she slept. Besides an epiphany she was experiencing about Juliet Price, her head was buzzing with questions about the cases that needed to be solved. Uppermost in her thoughts today was the question of how Blake Stanton had gained access to her museum holdings. How did he manage to get into every department in the museum and how did he know so much about what they had and what was valuable?
    She enjoyed her breakfast and then dashed outside where she found, to her relief, her car unmarked by the mad graffiti artist, Patrice Stanton. She drove to the museum and parked in her usual place. The weather had been warmer the past few days, but the temperature was dropping again and the wind was strong. She wrapped herself in her coat and hurried up the steps to the warmth of the museum.
    She met Juliet in the lobby. Juliet’s platinum hair was pulled back and out of her face. Diane thought that was a good sign—becoming visible.
    “Dr. Fallon,” said Juliet, “I want to thank you for everything you’re doing for me. You and Dr. Hillard are really being great.”
    “I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll try.” Diane didn’t mention the idea she was having—she wanted to talk it over with Laura first.
    “Whatever you do, I appreciate it.” She looked at her watch. “I’m waiting for visiting hours at the hospital,” she said. “Darcy is in her own room now and can have limited visitation. This is terrible for her.”
    “Yes, it is,” said Diane, “but it looks as if she is on the mend.”
    “Her parents can’t decide whether they should tell her that her boyfriend was killed,” said Juliet.
    “Oh, no,” said Diane. “Was he in the explosion, too?”
    “Yes, but he survived that.” Her voice went down to a whisper. “But later he was murdered.”
    Diane was so shocked it caught her breath.
    “Murdered?”
    Some of the museum staff came through the doors, bringing with them a gust of cold wind. Diane shivered.
    “Come to my office where we can talk,” she said.
    She hadn’t meant it to sound like such a command, but Juliet followed her back to her office. Diane took her into her lounge area and plied her with orange juice.
    “What was her boyfriend’s name?” asked Diane. Still trying hard not to sound like she was interrogating her.
    “Blake Stanton,” said Juliet.
    If Juliet was disturbed by Diane’s questioning, she didn’t show it. Diane hoped she was successful at looking casual. She remembered how Blake had told his parents at the hospital that she was the director of the museum. She just assumed he had seen her in the newspaper or something. But it was clear now, he knew who she was because he had been to the museum, probably on more than one occasion.
    “Darcy’s crazy about him,” said Juliet, sipping on her orange juice. “She doesn’t like his parents much. She said his mother’s a real nut job.”
    “Was he at the museum often? I don’t recall seeing him here,” said Diane.
    “He was here with her a lot. He said he was thinking about going into a career in museum work, so Darcy showed him around all the departments and let him watch her plan some of the exhibits. Some people actually thought he worked here. He was really helpful to everyone.”
    I’ll bet he was, thought Diane. A little con artist in training—gain their trust and raid their pantry.
    “He was a student.” It was a statement, but Diane made it sound like a question.
    “He’s one of those students who never graduates.” Juliet sighed. “Darcy is going to be devastated. She was