The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

believe one has to get one’s hands dirty or you’re nothing but a
hobbyist.
” The note of contempt he used for that last word left no doubt what he thought of such dabblers.
    Debbie said, “You’ll be back in the field before you know it, Simon. At your age, it just takes time to heal.”
    “I don’t
have
time. I left Turkey seven months ago, and I’m worried the excavation’s turned into a mess.” He gave a sigh. “But it couldn’t be as big a mess as we’re dealing with here.”
    “I assume Dr. Robinson told you what we found in the autopsy yesterday,” said Jane.
    “Yes. And to say that we’re shocked is an understatement. This is not the kind of attention any museum wants.”
    “I doubt it’s the kind of attention Madam X wanted, either.”
    “I wasn’t even aware we
had
a mummy in our collection until Nicholas discovered her during his inventory.”
    “He said that was back in January.”
    “Yes. Soon after I had my hip operation.”
    “How does a museum lose track of something as valuable as a mummy?”
    He gave a sheepish smile. “Visit any museum with a large collection, and chances are you’ll find basements as disorganized as ours. We’re a hundred and thirty years old. In that time, over a dozen curators and hundreds of interns, docents, and other volunteers have worked under this roof. Field notes get lost, records go missing, and items get misplaced. So it’s not surprising we’ve lost track of what we own.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I must assume the largest burden of blame.”
    “Why?”
    “For too long, I left the operational details entirely in the hands of Dr. William Scott-Kerr, our former curator. I was abroad so much, I didn’t know what was happening here at home. But Mrs. Willebrandt saw his deterioration. How he began to misplace papers or affix the wrong labels to displays. Eventually he became so forgetful, he couldn’t identify even common implements. The tragedy is, this man was once brilliant, a former field archaeologist who’d worked all over the world. Mrs. Willebrandt wrote me about her concerns, and when I got home, I could see we had a serious problem. I didn’t have the heart to immediately dismiss him, and as it turned out, I didn’t have to. He was struck by a car and killed, right outside this building. Only seventy-four years old, but it was probably a blessing, considering the grim prognosis had he lived.”
    “Was it Alzheimer’s?” asked Jane.
    Simon nodded. “The signs were probably there for a decade, but William managed to cover it up well. The collection was left in complete disarray. We didn’t realize how bad things were until I hired Dr. Robinson three years ago, and he discovered that accession ledgers were missing. He couldn’t find documentation for a number of crates in the basement. In January, when he opened up the crate containing Madam X, he had no idea what was inside it. Believe me, we were all stunned. We had no inkling there was
ever
a mummy in the collection.”
    “Miss Duke told us that most of the collection comes down from your family,” said Frost.
    “Five generations of Crispins have personally wielded trowels and shovels. Collecting is our family passion. Unfortunately, it’s also a costly obsession, and this museum has sucked up what was left of my inheritance.” He sighed again. “Which leaves it where it is today—short of funds and dependent on volunteers. And donors.”
    “Could that be how Madam X ended up here?” asked Frost.
    “From a donor?”
    “Donated artifacts do come our way,” Simon said. “People want a safe home for some prized antiquity that they can’t properly care for. Or they want a nice little plaque with their name on a permanent display for everyone to see. We’re willing to take almost anything.”
    “But you have no record of a donated mummy?”
    “Nicholas found no mention of one. And believe me, he searched. He made it his mission. In March we hired Josephine to help us with the Madam X analysis, and she couldn’t track down the mummy’s origins, either.”
    “It’s possible Madam X was added to the collection when Dr. Scott-Kerr was curator,” said Debbie.
    “The guy with Alzheimer’s,” said Jane.
    “Right. And he could have misplaced the paperwork. It would explain things.”
    “It sounds like a reasonable theory,” said Jane. “But we have to pursue other theories as well. Who has access to your basement?”
    “The keys are kept at the