One Grave Too Many

need sympathy, he needs for you to get rid of the cat.”
    “I don’t have a cat.”
    Veda Odell thrust out her chin. “You heard Marvin sneezing. He’s allergic to cats. Nothing else. Just cats.”
    “Perhaps he has a cold.”
    Mrs. Odell eased herself a little farther into the hallway, craning her neck as if trying to get a peek into Diane’s apartment. “It’s a cat. He gets this way around cats.”
    Diane taped her note to the door and turned to go. “Well, Mrs. Odell, I don’t have a cat. Maybe one passed through the yard.”
    “No . . .” She hesitated, as if just noticing Diane’s black sequined dress and the cashmere wrap over her arm. “That’s a mighty pretty dress. I hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”
    “I think the weather is supposed to be clear. We’re having a party for the contributors to the museum, and I’d hate for the attendance to be low because of rain.”
    “You work for the museum?”
    “I’m the new director of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History.”
    “You are? I heard you’re a grave digger.”
    Diane opened her mouth, closed it again and wrinkled her brow. “A grave digger?” she said at last. “No, Mrs. Odell, I’m not.”
    “Well, I could have sworn,” she said, but let her voice trail off. “Marvin and I were hoping you could tell us about the funeral homes here. The inside scoop, you know.”
    Diane stared a moment before she said anything, trying to imagine the scenario going on inside Mrs. Odell’s head. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to be going. I hope your husband gets better.” Diane hurried to her car.
    It was a short drive to RiverTrail Museum. It’s why she had chosen the apartment, even though they didn’t allow pets. What I’d like to have is a house , she thought, as she drove slowly down the steep meandering road, a big house with big airy rooms—that cleaned themselves. No —she unconsciously clutched the locket that rested on her chest— an apartment is better right now.
    At the bottom of her mountain road she turned onto a stretch of level four lane before starting the climb to the museum. The trees still blossomed with spring blooms, and the days were getting longer. She rounded the curve and RiverTrail came into view. It was a lovely old building, especially with the new renovations. But as the evening grew darker, the outline of the museum would look like an old sanatorium out of a Dracula movie.
    She wheeled her Taurus into the parking space between Andie’s Toyota and Donald’s Lexus, and walked across the pavement to the museum entrance.
    The string quartet had just arrived. Diane held open the door for the four college-student musicians. They looked elegant in their long black dresses, carrying their instrument cases.
    “Thanks, Dr. Fallon,” said the cellist.
    “We really appreciate your asking us here,” tall, willowy Alix, the first violinist, added.
    From the music to the caterers, Diane had used people from the surrounding community. She wanted local support, and thought that giving it in turn would make her job easier.
    “My pleasure. Thank you for coming.”
    Diane peeked into the Pleistocene room on her way to the kitchen. The large vaulted room was now transformed from a work in progress to a rather wonderful exhibit. To make room for a long table of party food, Diane had omitted some of the animals and Paleo-Indian dioramas that would eventually appear in the exhibit. She included only the megafauna, the spectacular big guys, the ancient giant species who always impressed.
    The caterers had laid out an appetizing array of finger food on a table decorated with leafy long-blade plants, hard plastic museum-quality replicas of dinosaurs and a magnificent ice sculpture centerpiece of a mammoth with long curved tusks.
    The head caterer, a woman in her late fifties, stood back smiling and folded her arms. “I think it looks rather good.” She leaned and whispered to Diane, “We found a mold for the ice sculpture. We were quite pleased.”
    “Well, I like it very much. And the food looks wonderful.”
    The first of the guests had started flowing through the doors. Among them were real estate agent Mark Grayson and his wife, Signy. As Diane approached to greet them, she overheard Mark Grayson telling board member Craig Amberson that the museum would be better served if they would sell this piece of prime real estate and move into a building closer to Atlanta. Diane greeted him with a smile anyway.