One Grave Too Many

Diane.
    “Not a happy camper, but at least he’s tucked away safe and sound.”
    Izzy was courteous, but not friendly. She turned to the mayor.
    “Mayor Sutton, nice of you to come visit the museum,” she said, taking his offered hand. His handshake was a little too hard to be polite. He’d have to work on it if he wanted to campaign for governor.
    “I thought it would be a good time to meet you,” the mayor said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at your . . . event the other evening. Pressing matters. But perhaps we can talk now, privately.”
    “Of course. Korey, fill the policemen in on the break-in.”
    She started to escort the mayor to Korey’s office, but it had a large window open to the lab.
    “This way,” she said, and they stepped out into the hallway.
    As they emerged into the hallway, an older man, about five foot seven, if he weren’t slightly stooped in the shoulders, stopped to greet her. “Dr. Fallon. I wanted to thank you for the opportunity to work here.” With his white hair, bushy eyebrows, toothbrush moustache and crystal blue eyes he might have been a wizard dressed up in modern, albeit well-worn clothes.
    “Jonas Briggs.” Diane clasped his outstretched hands in hers. “My pleasure. This is—”
    “Mayor Walter Sutton,” Jonas said. “Yes, we’ve met, after a fashion. Crossed verbal swords in the city council meetings. Democracy is a wonderful thing, don’t you think, Mayor?”
    The expression on the mayor’s face suggested that he didn’t think democracy was wonderful at all. “Yes, yes,” he muttered.
    “Jonas, may I use your office?” she asked.
    “Certainly. It’s unlocked. I was just going to the staff lounge. Introduce myself to some of the people in the museum here.”
    Jonas Briggs looked like a man who had found a home.
    “His office is on this floor,” Diane told the mayor. “We’ll use it, rather than going downstairs to mine.”
    Jonas’ office was across from the archaeology exhibits, the smallest section in the museum. In the back of his office was a small workroom. Through its open doorway Diane could see pieces of broken pottery sitting on worktables.
    In his outer office he had already moved in large bookcases and filled them to capacity with his books. On the wall were enlarged photographs of archaeological excavations. From their dress, the archaeology crew looked like they were from the thirties. In one corner of the room was a table flanked by two stuffed chairs. A Staunton sandalwood chessboard was set up on the table and a painting of bold, bright slashes of color hung on the wall.
    Diane sat behind the desk and indicated one of the stuffed chairs for the mayor.
    “What is it you want to talk about?” she said as he pulled the chair nearer the desk and sat down and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the arms of the chair. If Jonas was a wizard, the mayor was a toad.
    “I’m going to be blunt, Ms. Fallon. I believe in speaking plainly and getting to the point. It saves time, and time is money.”
    “Please do, Mr. Sutton.”
    He twisted and sat half upright. His frown deepened and he stared hard at her. She kept a pleasant expression on her face and held his stare. She was tempted to ask him if this was a contest.
    “There are two things I want to talk with you about. First, it has come to my attention that you are interfering in police business.”
    Come to my attention was an unpleasant weasel phrase that annoyed Diane. She raised her brow and cocked her head. “I believe you’re misinformed.”
    “Misinformed?” He leaned forward. “I have this from the police chief himself.”
    “He is misinformed.”
    “Let’s not dance around this, Ms. Fallon. You were seen by two policemen at a crime scene—the George Boone house.”
    “Detective Janice Warrick had released the house before I was asked to take a look at it. As far as the detectives were concerned, it was no longer a crime scene.”
    “You were asked there by an Atlanta detective who has absolutely no jurisdiction in the case.”
    Diane was beginning to wonder just how good a friend Izzy Wallace was to Frank. “Again, you have been misinformed.”
    “Frank Duncan is an Atlanta detective. He’s in the fraud division, not even homicide. He has absolutely no business interfering in a Rosewood matter.”
    Walter Sutton leaned farther forward and placed a hand on the desk. For a moment, Diane thought he was going to pound it. She had never met the mayor and was