One Grave Too Many

way to make themselves a target. But there were plenty of pictures of open burials in the process of being excavated—skeletonized bodies piled on one another. It made her stomach turn.
    So Donald had been reading about her. He knew the places she’d been with her team. How much else did he know? The articles talked about the mass graves, the politics of the region, the United States’ and world response to atrocities, but never any personal details about the field crew. Never anything that the forensics team chose to keep private.
    Who knew about the last year in Puerto Barquis? Only the people she’d worked with. Only members of World Accord International. Quite a few people, but all were good at being circumspect. She hadn’t confided in anyone here. Did someone know? Did someone know what “In the Hall of the Mountain King” meant to her? It wasn’t exactly a secret, but to find out, you had to know one of her team—know them well enough for them to trust you.
    She returned the magazines to the shelf and looked back over the room, her cheeks burning with anger. She’d a mind to search it, go through his desk drawers, his filing cabinet. But she didn’t. This job was her return to a civilization where tyrants are kept in check. She wasn’t going to become one after she’d spent the past ten years working to bring them to justice.
    She shouldn’t have come into his office. First, the mistake she’d made with the bone, and now this. She was getting sloppy. If she couldn’t do a good job for Frank, she shouldn’t have said she would look at the bone. If she couldn’t control her employees without invading their privacy, then she didn’t need to be museum director. She left Donald’s office and locked the door behind her, got on the elevator and rode to the second floor.
    As Diane walked down the hallway to the large conference room, she heard murmurs of restless conversation. Turning the corner, she saw the board members standing in the hallway. Half were looking very unhappy. Donald was deep in conversation with Madge Stewart. He looked up when Diane approached, then down at his watch.
    “It’s locked,” said Madge, tapping her foot, her springy gray hair bouncing with each tap. Madge had missed the contributors’ party because she had marked it wrong on her calendar, and she blamed Diane. It appeared to Diane that Madge often blamed whomever was available for everything that the vagaries of life made her do.
    “I have other meetings. If I ran my restaurants like . . .” Craig Amberson was fidgeting with his briefcase. Laura had told Diane he was quitting smoking. He had actually asked the doctor if he could wear two nicotine patches in the beginning.
    Kenneth Meyers was working on his Palm Pilot. “Get yourself one of these,” he told Craig. “You can work anywhere.”
    Diane looked at her watch. Three minutes late. “I’m sorry. I had some unexpected business to attend to.”
    Even Harvey Phelps appeared curt. “Where’s Andie? Doesn’t she have a key?”
    “Laura went to look for her, just before you got here, Harvey,” said Mark Grayson, looking at his watch. “Look, Diane, if this is the way you intend to run things . . .”
    Laura rounded the corner. “Couldn’t find Andie or Diane. . . . Oh, there you are.”
    “Andie’s running some errands,” said Diane. “I have three minutes after eleven. Why is everyone so impatient?”
    “Because we’ve been waiting for more than twenty minutes,” said Mark.
    “Donald reminded us last night that the meeting was rescheduled for 10:45,” said Laura.
    Diane had the key in her hand, ready to unlock the door. She spun around and faced Donald. “Why did you do that?”
    He took a small step back. “You said to change the meeting to fifteen minutes earlier.”
    “No, I did not.”
    “I have your E-mail.”
    “I didn’t send it. This is going to stop.” She thrust the key in the lock. Before she turned it, the door opened, almost knocking her backward.

Chapter 9
    Diane and every one of the museum board members took a step backward at the startling sight of a disheveled, droopy-eyed Signy Grayson stumbling into the hallway and almost to the floor, if Diane hadn’t held on to her arm. The heavy aroma of metabolized alcohol and perfume wafted over the small crowd.
    “I must have fallen asleep. It’s, uh, been a long day.” She looked at them in confusion.
    No one said anything for several beats, shifting their gazes from