‘‘Kingsley,’’ she said. ‘‘How are you? Recovered, I hope. If you’re calling to go on a road trip again, you can forget it.’’
He laughed out loud. ‘‘I’m doing great. I’m back at work. Joey’s little mouse gun didn’t do much damage. I thought you might want to hear about Clymene and her family. I still can’t think of her as Iris.’’
‘‘Go ahead,’’ said Diane. She flipped through the pages of the magazine, looking at the pictures. She heard him sigh.
‘‘Where do I start? Ma and Pa are being evaluated. We don’t quite know what to do with them. The sisters had made a lavish apartment for them on the upper floor and locked them in it. Their punishment for being the worst parents of the century was to be forced to live together. When they got too rowdy, they were put in the outbuilding we were in and made to contemplate their behavior. The father, Alain Delaflote, had a mild stroke some time ago. I’m wondering if it was induced somehow, but no way to prove that at this point.’’
‘‘This is so bizarre,’’ said Diane.
‘‘That’s not the word for it. I’m talking twilight zone. You remember how lovely Sarah Wallace is— and she is nine years older than her sister, Jerusha Delaflote.’’
‘‘Yes, I thought Sarah Wallace was a very attractive woman,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Well, did you ever see a movie called What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Bette Davis played Baby Jane, an aging former child star.’’
‘‘I’ve seen it,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Jerusha is Baby Jane. And at five years younger and a hundred pounds heavier than her husband— well, you said it, payback’s a bitch.’’
‘‘I’m glad I didn’t wait around for them to be brought out of the secret room,’’ said Diane. ‘‘How is Rose?’’
Diane came to the article on the Bickford Museum and its new director, Brenda McCaffrey, formerly from the Pearle, and raised her eyebrows.
‘‘She’s doing well. The doctors had to repair her shoulder joint, but she’s already made a full recovery. The various jurisdictions where Clymene and her many deceased husbands lived are trying to make their cases to prosecute Clymene, but they are not making much progress. Too much of the evidence is just circumstantial. They don’t have any cotton balls like you did.’’
‘‘How about the baby kangaroo?’’ said Diane, though she was now only half listening.
‘‘Joey’s in some hot water. He’s been arrested for killing Rev. Rivers and for drugging us. Lily and Rose are being charged with kidnapping and assault on police officers,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s all a tangled mess.’’
‘‘But very interesting for your book,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Very. Instead of a couple of chapters on Clymene—I suppose I should call her Iris—it’s going to be a whole book. Seriously, I think we make a good team,’’ he said.
‘‘I thought we were pretty pathetic,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I mean, curtain rods were the best we could do?’’
Kingsley laughed again. ‘‘You may be right,’’ he said.
After they hung up, Diane called Agent Jacobs.
‘‘Diane. Hello. Good to hear from you,’’ he said.
‘‘I wanted to thank you for helping us out with the Egyptian government. They were most gracious.’’
‘‘I really didn’t do much,’’ he said. But Diane thought otherwise.
‘‘I was wondering if you would do me another favor,’’ she said.
‘‘If I can,’’ he said.
‘‘Find out who was on the short list to be the new director of the Bickford,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Sure, I can do that. I know a few people on their board. I’ll call you right back,’’ he said.
‘‘Thanks,’’ said Diane.
She called the director’s office at the Pearle Museum. The secretary answered. ‘‘Hello, Dr. Fallon. Our interim director is out right now. I guess you heard Dr. McCaffrey’s good news,’’ she said.
‘‘Yes, I was just reading about it in Museum World. I thought I would send her a congratulatory gift.’’
‘‘That’s so nice of you. I’m sure she will appreciate it,’’ she said.
‘‘Do you know what kind of perfume she wears?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘Sure do, Jean Patou’s Joy. She loves it. Very expensive,’’ she said.
‘‘Thanks,’’ said Diane.
‘‘We here at the Pearle are just so sorry about those Egyptian artifacts burning up in the fire at Golden Antiquities,’’ the secretary said. ‘‘A lot of people here didn’t want to sell them in the first place, and to think they have been destroyed.’’
‘‘My head conservator is going to try and restore some of them, but you know how that is,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I do,’’ she said.
‘‘Thanks again,’’ said Diane, and she hung up.
Her private line rang and she picked it up. It was Agent Jacobs.
‘‘You’ll find this interesting,’’ he said. ‘‘Kendel Williams and Brenda McCaffrey were the only two contenders for the Bickford directorship,’’ he said. ‘‘Neither was notified. They were about to send out requests for interviews when the shit hit the fan at RiverTrail. That took Kendel out of the running.’’
‘‘You’ll find this interesting. Brenda McCaffrey’s favorite perfume is Jean Patou’s Joy,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Is it, now? The whiff Kendel smelled at Golden Antiquities. Well, I may not go down in defeat on this after all. Thank you,’’ Jacobs said.
‘‘I know that’s not exactly proof,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Now that I know where to look, I’ll get the evidence. The Bickford would be a nice place to be if one were dealing in looted artifacts,’’ he said. ‘‘Thanks, Diane. Feel free to do me a favor again sometime.’’
‘‘My pleasure,’’ she said.
Diane hung up the phone and went to see Kendel.
About the Author
Beverly Connor is the author of the Diane Fallon Forensic Investigation series and the Lindsay Chamberlain archaeology mystery series. She holds undergraduate and graduate
anthropology, sociology,
began her writing career,
degrees in archaeology,
and geology. Before she Beverly worked as an archaeologist in the southeastern United States, specializing in bone identification and analysis of stone tool debitage. Originally from Oak Ridge, Tennessee, she weaves her professional experiences from archaeology and her knowledge of the South into interlinked stories of the past and present. Beverly’s books have been translated into German, Dutch, and Czech, and are available in standard and large print in the UK.