The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley Page B
Authors: A. J. Hartley
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Antiquities, greece, Theft from museums, Museum curators
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properly restored. I think it looks like the cover of a Whitesnake album."
52
A. J. Hartley
"I like it," Cerniga decided, grinning and fishing his notebook from an inside pocket.
"Ten bucks and it's yours," said Deborah, sitting at her desk. "I guess I have to tell you about the person at my apartment?"
"Not really," said Cerniga. "Unless you have something to add to the report you gave over the phone."
"Oh," said Deborah, deflated. "I guess not."
"You didn't see him?"
"Just his hand on the gate."
"White?"
"Yes."
Cerniga drummed a ballpoint on the edge of his notebook.
"Let's talk some more about the museum," he said, "in the office?"
She led him back past the information desk and restrooms to the bookstore (it was really a gift shop, but Richard had insisted that most of the "gifts" were books) and the office which adjoined it. There was a pair of desks with computers, a printer, two telephones, and a bookcase. The rest of the room was dominated by an oval conference table in polished mahogany and eight chairs. They sat at one end as Keene came in, muttering inaudibly to one of the uniforms outside. He didn't look at Deborah.
"There's not much to tell," said Deborah, watching Keene's sour consideration of the office walls, his eyes sliding off the posters of pre-Columbian art and local photography exhibits like a minister flicking through Playboy .
"Richard was a local benefactor of the arts and education--"
Keene snorted. Deborah gave him a look.
"Something stuck in my throat," said Keene, waving it away with a mirthless smile.
"Having always valued the arts, culture, education, and the like," said Deborah carefully, "he decided to open a small museum. Admission was free. The collection was . . . erratic."
"Erotic?" said Keene, smirking.
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T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
"Erratic," said Deborah.
"Oh," said Keene. "Too bad."
Deborah turned to Cerniga.
"He displayed all kinds of stuff," she said. "Odds and ends from all over the place displayed in old-fashioned cases pretty much at random. Anyway. When he retired he decided to make more of the place. He set up a board of trustees and hired a curator--"
"You," said Cerniga.
"Not the first time," she said. "I am the third. I've only been here three years."
"And you came here from . . . ?"
"I did my graduate work here," said Deborah. "But I'm from Boston originally and went to school in New York."
"Yeah, you sound like you're from someplace like that,"
said Keene, emphasizing his own Southern drawl in case she might have missed it. "I figured it was just education ."
Deborah didn't know what to say. Keene resented her, and though she was used to that, she usually had to earn it. The policeman just didn't like her, hadn't liked her since the moment he met her.
"I've been trying to expand and focus the collection ever since," she said, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.
"That was part of what last night was about, actually. A fund-raiser. We are planning to bring in a collection of Celtic antiquities--"
"That's fascinating," said Keene with total disdain. "How about you give us a guest list from last night's little shindig."
"We were wondering," Cerniga explained, slightly apologetic, "if one of the people who was here for the fund-raiser stayed behind, or came back later."
Deborah took a second to process what he was saying: no one cared that Richard was dead. They cared that he was murdered.
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out the RSVP list.
"This has everyone who said they were coming," she said.
"I can't be sure that they were all actually here, though I 54
A. J. Hartley
could probably go through it and confirm most of them myself. There were a few I didn't know, and it's possible that Richard invited some others who aren't on the list."
That was Richard all over. Bring her in to get everything organized, then upset her system on a whim . . . It always exasperated her and made her smile.
"What about staff?" said
52
A. J. Hartley
"I like it," Cerniga decided, grinning and fishing his notebook from an inside pocket.
"Ten bucks and it's yours," said Deborah, sitting at her desk. "I guess I have to tell you about the person at my apartment?"
"Not really," said Cerniga. "Unless you have something to add to the report you gave over the phone."
"Oh," said Deborah, deflated. "I guess not."
"You didn't see him?"
"Just his hand on the gate."
"White?"
"Yes."
Cerniga drummed a ballpoint on the edge of his notebook.
"Let's talk some more about the museum," he said, "in the office?"
She led him back past the information desk and restrooms to the bookstore (it was really a gift shop, but Richard had insisted that most of the "gifts" were books) and the office which adjoined it. There was a pair of desks with computers, a printer, two telephones, and a bookcase. The rest of the room was dominated by an oval conference table in polished mahogany and eight chairs. They sat at one end as Keene came in, muttering inaudibly to one of the uniforms outside. He didn't look at Deborah.
"There's not much to tell," said Deborah, watching Keene's sour consideration of the office walls, his eyes sliding off the posters of pre-Columbian art and local photography exhibits like a minister flicking through Playboy .
"Richard was a local benefactor of the arts and education--"
Keene snorted. Deborah gave him a look.
"Something stuck in my throat," said Keene, waving it away with a mirthless smile.
"Having always valued the arts, culture, education, and the like," said Deborah carefully, "he decided to open a small museum. Admission was free. The collection was . . . erratic."
"Erotic?" said Keene, smirking.
53
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
"Erratic," said Deborah.
"Oh," said Keene. "Too bad."
Deborah turned to Cerniga.
"He displayed all kinds of stuff," she said. "Odds and ends from all over the place displayed in old-fashioned cases pretty much at random. Anyway. When he retired he decided to make more of the place. He set up a board of trustees and hired a curator--"
"You," said Cerniga.
"Not the first time," she said. "I am the third. I've only been here three years."
"And you came here from . . . ?"
"I did my graduate work here," said Deborah. "But I'm from Boston originally and went to school in New York."
"Yeah, you sound like you're from someplace like that,"
said Keene, emphasizing his own Southern drawl in case she might have missed it. "I figured it was just education ."
Deborah didn't know what to say. Keene resented her, and though she was used to that, she usually had to earn it. The policeman just didn't like her, hadn't liked her since the moment he met her.
"I've been trying to expand and focus the collection ever since," she said, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.
"That was part of what last night was about, actually. A fund-raiser. We are planning to bring in a collection of Celtic antiquities--"
"That's fascinating," said Keene with total disdain. "How about you give us a guest list from last night's little shindig."
"We were wondering," Cerniga explained, slightly apologetic, "if one of the people who was here for the fund-raiser stayed behind, or came back later."
Deborah took a second to process what he was saying: no one cared that Richard was dead. They cared that he was murdered.
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out the RSVP list.
"This has everyone who said they were coming," she said.
"I can't be sure that they were all actually here, though I 54
A. J. Hartley
could probably go through it and confirm most of them myself. There were a few I didn't know, and it's possible that Richard invited some others who aren't on the list."
That was Richard all over. Bring her in to get everything organized, then upset her system on a whim . . . It always exasperated her and made her smile.
"What about staff?" said
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