One Grave Less

the lake to drown herself.” She paused. “What about you?”
    “I don’t know. The shoes do bother me a little. But why would anyone do anything to Madge? She was the most unlikely person to be murdered. Unless it was some maniac wandering the nature trails behind the museum. We’ll leave it to Garnett.”
    “He’d like us to do more of that anyway,” said Izzy.
    “Yeah, I know,” said Diane. “I’m just a criminalist busybody.”
    “I didn’t say that,” said Izzy. He turned to David. “Did I?”
    David’s chuckle was interrupted by a knock at the door on the museum side of the lab.
    Diane raised her eyebrows and got up and looked at the tiny built-in monitor beside the door. It was Gerda Sorenson from the mailroom. The tiny blond woman looked nervous, casting glances to her right where the crime lab guard for the museum entrance was posted. He sat in an office with a glass front and was dressed like the Rosewood policeman he was. Gerda probably thought he could come out and pull a gun on her at any minute. Many of the museum personnel were leery of the third floor west wing of the building. If they only knew about the equipment David kept in the basement , Diane thought as she opened the door.

Chapter 36
    “Hello, Gerda,” said Diane. “Can I help you?”
    “I need to talk with you. I think. It’s about Madge. I should have said something yesterday.”
    Diane thought that was an interesting thing to say. Madge wasn’t dead yesterday. But Gerda saw something—she had Diane’s attention.
    “Please come in.” Diane showed her to the seat left vacant by Lynn Webber when she departed.
    Gerda Sorenson was in her forties, petite, tanned, with a slightly lined face that went along with being a sun worshipper. Her hair was pale blond and her eyes, light blue. She wore a sand-colored cotton jumper with lots of pockets, and a pastel yellow shirt.
    “You know David Goldstein, Neva Hurley, and Izzy Wallace?”
    Gerda nodded. The crime lab staff spent many of their breaks in the museum break room, frequently ate at the restaurant, and often visited the exhibits. Since not one of them was shy, they were well known to most of the museum staff.
    Gerda sat quietly for a moment. No one said anything but simply waited for her story to unfold in its own time.
    “A mailroom is like the post office,” she said simply. It came out like a Zen koan.
    Gerda paused and Diane half wondered if she wanted them to meditate on it. Instead, Diane nodded encouragement.
    “Only I or people who work for me can put up or deliver the mail. No one can just come in and go through it,” she said.
    Diane cocked an eyebrow. Ah .
    “Yesterday morning I came in and found Ms. Stewart in the mailroom going through bags of mail waiting to be put up. She had spilled part of a bag on the floor,” continued Gerda.
    She twisted the gold band on her ring finger as she spoke. “I was stunned. I asked her what she was doing. I used a little harsh language, I’m sorry to say. But this was serious. She said she had ordered a catalog and was looking for it. The board members have mailboxes if they want to receive mail here, and some, like her, do. I told her that she can’t go rummaging through the mail, that it was against the law. She . . .” Gerda stopped a moment. “I don’t like speaking ill of the dead. She’s not here to defend herself.”
    “Nevertheless,” said Diane, “we need to hear your story.” Diane pitched her voice so that she hoped she was both comforting and reassuring to Gerda that she was doing the right thing.
    Gerda nodded, still twisting her ring. “Ms. Stewart got all huffy. She stuck her chin out and said she was going to tell Vanessa Van Ross on me. Just like that—those words. She said she was going to tell on me. I told her it was illegal even for Mrs. Van Ross to go through the mail like that. I suggested to her that we both go speak with you. She got huffy again and said, ‘Well, we’ll just forget this, then.’ And she stormed out of the room.”
    “That was all she said she was looking for?” asked Diane. “A catalog?”
    “That’s what she said. I couldn’t imagine the . . . well, the arrogance of tossing people’s mail on the floor to look for a catalog. I told her that anything that came in for her was put in her box. When she left I looked at the boxes that had been filled the previous day. I swear, it looked like she had been rummaging through them as well. Just for a