One Grave Too Many by Beverly Connor Page A

mind her own business, which was now the museum, and not man’s inhumanity to man. But it haunted her that she had always been too late to help the victims. They were already decayed flesh and bones by the time she saw them. It would have been nice just once to be in a position to stop some atrocity.
    “That black eye looks like it might hurt,” Diane said, letting the sentence hang between them.
    Melissa was young, shy, and that evening Diane was her employer—powerful stimuli to say something about what had happened, if only to lie. They both stood, paused in the hallway.
    “Yes, it does, some. Clumsiness,” Melissa said at last.
    “I was exercising. I have to keep strength in my arms to play the violin. You wouldn’t believe how much stamina it takes to keep your arms at that level for hours. I don’t know how Lacy manages that viola for so long. Anyway, I accidently hit myself in the face with one of my hand weights. Almost knocked myself out.”
    Melissa laughed at herself and Diane thought she heard a slight tremor in her voice—and such long, detailed explanations often meant that the teller was lying.
    “What bad luck, just before the event. I hope it heals quickly.” Diane didn’t pursue it. But her friend Laura knew Melissa’s family. She would mention it to her.
    After seeing that the office doors were locked, Diane walked with Melissa back to the party. Mark Grayson was on his way out.
    “Leaving early?” said Diane.
    “Signy’s staying. I’ve got an overseas conference call. Nice get-together. I’m sure everyone’s having a good time. I’ll see you at the board meeting tomorrow.” He punched the air between them with his finger. It could have been a quick, friendly gesture, the way some men talk with their hands, but it seemed to Diane like he was pointing a gun. She was glad to see the door close behind him.
    Melissa had taken up her place with the string quartet and they began playing Diane’s favorite part of Max Bruch’s Violin Concerto in G Minor—the Allegro Moderato. Diane entered the Pleistocene hall where she mingled, talked, laughed at bad jokes and sipped wine. Her feet hurt from the effects of hardly ever wearing high-heeled shoes, and her head ached.
    “Wow,” Andie said, coming up behind her. “We all did a good job, didn’t we?”
    Diane turned and nodded as she looked at the guests. “Yes, I believe it’s a success. I had my doubts on occasion, but everyone seems to be having a good time. Andie, did you request that the quartet play the Peer Gynt suite?”
    “Who? No, I thought you were handling the music selections.”
    “I did, but someone wanted to hear it, and I just wondered who it was.”
    Andie shrugged just as a good-looking guy tapped her on the shoulder and pulled her toward the murals.
    Diane moved toward the buffet. The ice mammoth looked fresh and unmelted. She reached out to touch the trunk and found it cold and dry.
    “They just replaced it,” Donald said, filling his plate with caviar and crackers. “Apparently, they made several. Someone who works for them must be an ice-carving fool.” He drifted away and melted into a crowd of black tuxedos before she could say anything more to him.
    Signy was working the room in her husband’s absence. She reminded Diane of a mouse cursor trail, the way she and her red dress flashed around the room, flirting with the men, ignoring the women. David Reynolds was Signy’s current target. She threw back her head, laughing at something he said. Diane caught sight of David’s wife, Cindy, at the bison exhibit looking over the head of her son, frowning at the scene. Diane recalled Frank mentioning how easily Cindy could become jealous.
    Kevin was demonstrating the computer animations to a tall elderly woman dressed in a long silk gown as white as her hair, dripping pearls and diamonds. It was the unmistakable Vanessa Van Ross, the museum’s best patron, second only to the late Milo Lorenzo as the driving force