One Grave Too Many

allergies.”
    The landlady looked miserable.
    “Well, you can’t go stealing keys and poking around in people’s rooms. Dr. Fallon was attacked in the parking lot the other night. How do you think she felt seeing someone hiding behind her curtains?”
    “That was the only place I could hide. She was coming in the door and I was scared to move.”
    “Marvin, take Veda across the hall—and give me my key.” The landlady held out her hand, and Veda dropped the key in it.
    Marvin and Veda Odell left, and the other tenants went back to their apartments. There was only Diane and the landlady. Diane gave her the kind of look she did when Ariel got into something she shouldn’t have.
    “Oh, dear. You know, don’t you?”
    “I saw the tail the other night.”
    “She’s such a nice cat, and good company. I was hoping. . . . I guess I’ll have to get rid of her.”
    “Maybe you can find the Odells another apartment over a funeral home,” said Diane.
    “They are such a strange couple, aren’t they? They love planning their funerals. Can you imagine? That’s such an odd thing to have as a hobby. Two of them. How do you suppose they found each other in the first place?”
    “They probably met at a funeral,” said Diane.
    The landlady shrugged. “You’re probably right.”
    Diane sat on her sofa, suddenly very tired.
    “You know they had children,” the landlady said. “Seven of them. They all died. Veda showed me pictures of their funerals. Kind of makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?” With that, the landlady went back to her apartment.
    Yes, thought Diane, it does make my skin crawl. She locked her door, put a chair under the knob, and dragged herself into the bedroom. Before she got in bed she took a pain pill to ease her throbbing back. As she climbed in bed she noticed the light blinking on her answering machine. Frank, she thought, and reached for the playback button.

Chapter 37
    The message was from Gregory, asking her to call, he had some news. She looked at the clock. Much too early in England to call now, but in a few hours . . . As she was setting her alarm to wake her up in five hours, the phone rang. She snatched it up.
    “Diane,” said Gregory. “I figured you’d wait until some decent hour to return my call, so I thought I’d call you back.”
    “Do you ever get any sleep?” she asked.
    “I don’t need much, really. Four hours a night and I’m fit for the day. I have some news, mostly good. If not good, at least informative.”
    “I could use some good news.”
    “The good news is that Ivan Santos and his people are still in Puerto Barquis. No evidence that any have sneaked out of the country or into the U.S. Bad news is they are mounting a successful coup.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. The population’s been through a lot.”
    “I’m afraid they are in for more of the same.”
    “I hate saying I’m relieved he’s not here.”
    “I know. I have some more news too. I’ve been checking around, and found out that someone in your State Department was discussing the events of last year at a small private party a few weeks ago. I don’t think he meant harm, but I chastised him just the same. God knows they’ve been giving me a hard time. One of the people at the party was from Rosewood.”
    “Really? Who?”
    “Gordon Atwell. Do you know him?”
    “I do indeed. He’s on my board of directors and one of the people siding with Mark Grayson. He also holds the mortgage on the museum—or, rather, his bank does.”
    “Then maybe this news will help.”
    “It will.”
    “How is everything else?”
    “Are you sure you want to know?”
    “Something’s happened, I can hear it in your voice. Tell me about it.”
    “It’s a long story. Will you be able to get your four hours’ sleep?”
    “Fire away.”
    Diane told him the entire story, ending with Mrs. Odell behind her drapes. That part left him laughing.
    “I shouldn’t laugh. I’m sorry, but the image of this woman dressed in—what did you say, pink chenille?—hiding behind your draperies . . . not to mention you about to club her with a cast-iron skillet, of all things. Is it an antique?”
    “Not exactly. I bake cornbread in it.”
    “Cornbread? Just that one thing?”
    “Yes. It takes several years to season it just right for cornbread. You don’t wash it, so you can’t cook anything else in it.”
    “You’re joking. How do you clean the thing?”
    “You wipe it out after you take out the bread.