One Grave Too Many

Harvey reminiscing about Milo and walked to the giant short-faced bear exhibit, stepped up on the platform, and picked up a microphone placed there for her. She caught the attention of the quartet and gave them a signal to stop playing. With the sudden cessation of the music the crowd stopped talking.
    “Hello, everyone. I am pleased to welcome you, our board of directors, our best and most generous supporters and honored guests, to the preopening reception of our Pleistocene room.
    “Most of you knew Milo Lorenzo and knew about his dreams for the museum. So it is with great pleasure that I invite you to see what we’ve been doing to make his dream a reality. Thanks to each and every one of you for your help and support, which have made it possible.”
    Diane looked at the faces and wondered if she had made any sense. She hated speaking in public and had this vision that halfway through all her speeches, she began speaking nonsense syllables. But they clapped, and considering herself lucky, she quickly stepped down and threaded her way through the sea of tuxedos, fancy dresses and champagne glasses and greeted all the guests.
    It was tiring, making small talk and smiling, being political. She felt like a shape-shifter becoming weary of holding the same shape, and the evening was just getting started. At least, everyone seemed to be having a good time, and there was a genuine interest in the exhibits. That was the most important thing: the exhibits.
    On her way to join guests who were touring other rooms, she stopped by to speak to Gary, Leslie and Samantha, standing with their proud parents next to the sloth exhibit.
    “They all did a great job,” Diane told the parents. “It is a fine sloth.”
    “Does that mean we get an A?” asked Gary.
    Diane nodded. “Sure does.” She smiled as a father took a photo of her and the students with the huge skeleton towering over them.
    As she was making her way out of the Pleistocene room, the quartet started a piece from the Peer Gynt Suite. Diane froze in her tracks, her heart pounding against her ribs. She grasped the edge of a huge planter to keep herself from running out of the building.

Chapter 5
    Diane’s body was crushed by waves of almost unbearable grief and fear. I’m in the museum, she told herself over and over as the music taunted her, growing louder and louder until the violins were screaming at her. She wanted to scream at them to stop, but she stood still, making her hands into tight fists, breathing deeply. She caught her breath, stood several moments longer, turned and looked at the faces of the musicians, then at the crowd of guests. Everyone appeared normal. The music ended abruptly and the only sound was clapping. Diane stood still, collecting herself. Finally, she was able to walk on unsure legs to the quartet.
    “That piece wasn’t on the play list,” she said, trying to sound casual.
    It must not have worked, because that look of having done something wrong but not knowing what swept across their faces.
    “It was in your note,” said Alix, the first violinist. She flipped through her music and produced a piece of paper.
    Diane took it from her. The hand-printed note on museum stationery said, Please add “In the Hall of the Mountain King” to the play list . Her initials were at the bottom.
    “It was here when we returned from our first break. Luckily, we knew an arrangement for it. I mean . . . is there something wrong?”
    Diane forced a smile and shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong. Someone from the staff probably wanted to hear it. They often use my name when ordering things.” Apparently, with wild abandon, she thought. “All of you are doing a beautiful job. I’ve gotten several compliments, and Mrs. Harris wants to talk with you about doing a library function.”
    “That’s great. We really appreciate this opportunity, Dr. Fallon,” said Alix, and the other three murmured in agreement before they took up their bows and prepared to perform their next arrangement.
    Diane turned and took another long look at the crowd. Everyone was eating, talking or looking at the exhibits. No one was looking in her direction. She walked among the guests, the note folded up in one hand, smiling at each face she met. No mischief-makers or secret enemies showed themselves.
    Frank, his son and his ex-wife were looking at the computer video depiction of the receding Laurentide Ice Sheet that brought a close to the Pleistocene period. She