One Grave Less

of the huge granite edifice to the large glass doors, where the guards let her in. The first place she went was the Mayan Room to see the damage.
    She smelled the soapy solution Korey was using to clean certain artifacts. She walked through the tunnel and into the exhibit room. Staff from Conservation, Exhibit Designing, and Planning were already there, busy trying to repair the damage. It was like an archaeological dig of sorts, the way her crew gently worked on the stone pedestals and display cases that looked like ancient ruins.
    Korey was stooped near a soot-covered faux stone molded to resemble an intricate face surrounded by symbols. His dreadlocks were pulled back in a low ponytail and he was pointing to a dark streak.
    “It’s working,” said the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, soapy toothbrush in hand. “It just takes a while.”
    Korey caught sight of Diane, stood up and walked over to her.
    “How bad is it?” she said.
    “Not as bad as it could have been,” said Korey. “We’ve been working on the soot. Trying to see if we can salvage all the faux stonework. I think we can save most of it. Some of it will have to be done over. I’m sorry.”
    “So am I,” said Diane, looking around the room. “Damn it.”
    “I hear they tried to burn up the security guard. That’s vicious.”
    “They were bad guys. The real thing,” said Diane.
    She walked with Korey around the room, examining the damage while Korey explained how they were dealing with it.
    “How long?” asked Diane
    “Let me get back to you at the end of the day on that, Dr. F. We’re still working out the best cleaning formulas.”
    “All right. Thanks, Korey. I know this is taking you away from your conservation work.”
    “It’s not a problem. We’ll get the room back up as quickly as we can,” he said.
    The museum was opening its doors and the first tourists were arriving as Diane crossed the lobby to the office wing of the museum. She picked up her pace before anyone was tempted to speak with her. Later in the morning she would get David and they would visit Simone at the hospital to see how she was doing. But there was work to be done first.
    Andie was already behind her desk. She stopped Diane. There was a visitor. A woman who looked vaguely familiar to Diane was sitting in the waiting area. It was a cozy area decorated by Andie in a charming way, but the woman sat stiffly, clearly uncomfortable.
    Sybil Carstairs—that was her name. She and her husband, Edmond, were new contributors to the museum. She held a folded piece of paper clenched in her fist as she rose. She didn’t take the hand Diane offered. Diane let it drop to her side.
    “Mrs. Carstairs, isn’t it?” said Diane.
    “As if you didn’t know,” she whispered in a hoarse voice.
    Diane raised her eyebrows. “Please step into my office,” she said.
    As Diane passed, Andie gave her an almost imperceptible shrug.
    Diane indicated a chair in front of her desk. She went around behind her desk and sat down, rested her folded hands in front of her, and looked at her visitor.
    Sybil Carstairs was a tall, thin woman perhaps in her fifties, maybe sixties, Diane couldn’t tell. She took good care of herself, but didn’t have the genes for looking young. She had beautifully coiffed dark brown hair and wore an expensive slate gray silk suit. She had diamond rings on fingers of both hands. Her finger joints were just starting to show the effects of arthritis.
    “What can I do for you?” Diane said.
    The woman’s lips trembled.
    “Slut,” she whispered.
    “What?” said Diane. She was beginning to think the woman was not in her right mind and that perhaps she should call Mr. Carstairs.
    “You heard me. I don’t know who you think you are, but when I finish you won’t have this job anymore to use to patrol for . . .” She struggled for the right word and gave up.
    “What are you talking about?” said Diane.
    The woman threw the paper at Diane. It landed on her desk and almost fell to the floor before Diane caught it. Diane unfolded it and smoothed it out on her desk.
    It was an e-mail from Diane to Edmond Carstairs asking if he wanted to meet in the afternoon for sex. Diane could understand why Sybil might be upset, but surely she knew that this was not from Diane.
    “Mrs. Carstairs, you must know that I didn’t send this message,” said Diane.
    “It has your name on it,” she said, as if that were definitive proof.
    “What in the world