The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

bodies down here? What kind of people do you think work in museums?”
    “I don’t know, Dr. Robinson. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
    “Then ask
me.
Talk to
me,
instead of tearing apart crates. I know this museum. I know the people who’ve worked here.”
    “You’ve been curator here for only three years,” said Jane.
    “I also worked here as a summer intern when I was in college. I knew Dr. Scott-Kerr, and he was utterly harmless.” He glared at Crowe, who had just fished a vase out of the open crate. “Hey! That’s at least four hundred years old! Treat it with respect!”
    “Maybe it’s time for you and me to step outside,” said Jane.
    “We need to talk.”
    He shot a worried glance at the three detectives, who had started opening another crate. He reluctantly followed her out of the basement and up the stairs to the first-floor gallery. They stood by the Egyptian exhibit, its faux tomb entrance looming above them.
    “Exactly when were you an intern here, Dr. Robinson?” Jane asked.
    “Twenty years ago, during my junior and senior years in college. When William was curator, he tried to bring in one or two college students every summer.”
    “Why are there no interns now?”
    “We no longer have money in our budget to pay their expenses. So we find it almost impossible to attract any students. Besides, when you’re young, you’d rather be working out in the field anyway, with other kids your age. Not confined to this dusty old building.”
    “What do you remember about Dr. Scott-Kerr?”
    “I liked him quite a bit,” he said. And a smile flickered on his lips at the memory. “He was a little absentminded even then, but he was always pleasant, always generous with his time. He gave me a great deal of responsibility right off the bat, and that made it the best experience I could have had. Even if it did set me up for disappointment.”
    “Why?”
    “It raised my expectations. I thought I’d be able to land a job just like it when I finished my doctorate.”
    “You didn’t?”
    He shook his head. “I ended up working as a shovel bum.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “A contract archaeologist. These days, that’s pretty much the only kind of job one can get with a fresh archaeology degree. They call it cultural resource management. I worked at construction sites and military bases. I dug test pits, looking for any evidence of historic value before the bulldozers moved in. It’s a job only for young people. There are no benefits, you’re always living out of a suitcase, and it’s damn hard on the knees and back. So when Simon called me three years ago to offer me this job, I was glad to hang up my shovel, even if I’m earning less than I did in the field. Which explains why this position went vacant for so long after Dr. Scott-Kerr died.”
    “How can a museum operate without a curator?”
    “By letting someone like Mrs. Willebrandt run the show, if you can believe it. She left the same displays in the same dusty cases for years.” He glanced toward the reception desk, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know what?
She
hasn’t changed a whit since I was an intern. That woman was born ancient.”
    Jane heard footsteps thump on the stairwell and turned to see Frost trudging up the basement steps. “Rizzoli, you’d better come down and see this.”
    “What did you find?”
    “We’re not sure.”
    She and Robinson followed Frost back down to the basement storeroom. Spilled wood shavings littered the floor where the detectives had searched through several more crates.
    “We were trying to pull that crate down, and I braced myself against the wall,” said Detective Tripp. “It kind of gave way behind me. And then I noticed
that.
” He pointed toward the bricks.
    “Crowe, shine your flashlight this way, so she can see it.”
    Crowe aimed his beam and Jane frowned at the wall, which was now bowed outward. One of the bricks had fallen away, leaving a gap through which Jane could see only blackness beyond.
    “There’s a space back there,” said Crowe. “When I shine my light through, I can’t even see a back wall.”
    Jane turned to Robinson. “What’s behind these bricks?”
    “I have no idea,” he murmured, staring in bewilderment at the bowed wall. “I always assumed these walls were solid. But it’s such an old building.”
    “How old?”
    “At least a hundred and fifty years. That’s what the plumber told us when he came to update the