The Keepsake Page 6

  “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 reception desk, so pretty much everyone on staff does.”

  “Then anyone on your staff could have placed Madam X in the basement?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Debbie and Simon looked at each other, and his face darkened. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Detective.”

  “It’s a reasonable question.”

  “We are a venerable institution, staffed by excellent people, most of them volunteers,” said Simon. “Our docents, our student interns—they’re here because they’re dedicated to preservation.”

  “I wasn’t questioning anybody’s dedication. I just wondered who had access.”

  “What you’re really asking is, Who could have stashed a dead body down there?”

  “It’s a possibility we have to consider.”

  “Trust me, we’ve had no murderers employed here.”

  “Can you be absolutely certain of that, Mr. Crispin?” Jane asked quietly, but her gaze left him no easy escape. She could see that her question had disturbed him. She had forced him to confront the awful possibility that someone he knew, now or in the past, could have brought death into this proud bastion of learning.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Crispin,” she finally said. “But things may be a little disrupted here for a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somehow a dead body ended up in your museum. Maybe she was donated to you a decade ago. Maybe she was placed here recently. The problem is, you have no documentation. You don’t even know what else is in your collection. We’re going to need to take a look at your basement.”

  Simon shook his head in bewilderment. “And just what are you expecting to find?”

  She didn’t answer the question; she didn’t need to.

  SEVEN

  “Is this absolutely necessary?” said Nicholas Robinson. “Do you have to do it this way?”

  “I’m afraid we do,” said Jane, and handed him the search warrant. As he read it, Jane stood by with her team of three male detectives. Today she and Frost had brought in Detectives Tripp and Crowe for the search, and they all waited as Robinson took a painfully long time examining the warrant. The ever-impatient Darren Crowe give a loud huff of frustration, and Jane shot him an annoyed look of Cool it, a pointed reminder that she was in charge of this team, and he’d better toe the line.

  Robinson frowned at the paperwork. “You’re searching for human remains?” He looked up at Jane. “Well, of course you’ll find them here. This is a museum. And I assure you, those bones on the third floor are ancient. If you’d like me to point out the relevant dental evidence—”

  “It’s what you have stored in the basement that interests us. If you’ll unlock the door down there, we can get started.”

  Robinson glanced at the other detectives who stood nearby and spotted the crowbar in Detective Tripp’s hands. “You can’t just go breaking open crates! You could damage priceless artifacts.”

  “You’re welcome to observe and advise. But please don’t move anything or touch anything.”

  “Why are you turning this museum into a crime scene?”

  “We’re concerned that Madam X may not be the only surprise in your collection. Now, please come down with us to the basement.”

  Robinson swallowed hard and looked at the senior docent, who’d been watching the confrontation. “Mrs. Willebrandt, would you call Josephine and tell her to come in right away? I need her.”

  “It’s five minutes to ten, Dr. Robinson. Visitors will be arriving.”

  “The museum will have to stay closed today,” said Jane. “We’d prefer that the media not catch wind of what’s going on. So please lock the front doors.”

  Her order was pointedly ignored by Mrs. Willebrandt, who kept her gaze on the curator. “Dr. Robinson?”

  He gave a resigned sigh. “It appears we have no choice in the matter. Please do as the police say.” Opening a drawer behind the reception desk, he took out a set of keys, then led the way past the wax statue of Dr. Cornelius Crispin, past the Greek and Roman marble busts, to the stairwell. A dozen creaking steps took them down to the basement level.

  There he paused. Turning to Jane, he said: “Do I need an attorney? Am I a suspect?”

  “No.”

  “Then who is? Tell me that much at least.”

  “This may date back to before your employment here.”

  “How far back?”

  “To the previous curator.”

  Robinson gave a startled laugh. “That poor man had Alzheimer’s. You don’t really think old William was storing dead bodies down here, do you?”

  “The door, Dr. Robinson.”

  Shaking his head, he unlocked the door. Cool, dry air spilled out. They stepped into the room, and Jane heard startled murmurs from the other detectives as they glimpsed the vast storage area, filled with row upon row of crates stacked almost to the ceiling.

  “Please keep the door closed, if you could,” said Robinson.

  “This is a climate-controlled area.”

  “Man,” said Detective Crowe. “This is going to take us forever to look through all of these. What’s in these crates, anyway?”

  “We’re more than halfway through our inventory,” said Robinson. “If you’d only give us another few months to complete it, we’d be able to tell you what every crate contains.”

  “A few months is a long time to wait.”

  “It’s taken me a year just to inspect those rows there, all the way to the back shelves. I can personally vouch for their contents. But I haven’t yet opened the crates at this end. It’s a slow process because one needs to be careful and document everything. Some of the items are centuries old and may already be crumbling.”

  “Even in a climate-controlled room?” asked Tripp.

  “The air-conditioning wasn’t installed until the 1960s.”

  Frost pointed to a crate on the bottom of a stack. “Look at the date stamped on that one. ‘1873. Siam.’”

  “You see?” Robinson looked at Jane. “There may be treasures here that haven’t been unpacked in a hundred years. My plan was to go through these crates systematically and document everything.” He paused. “But then I discovered Madam X and the inventory came to a halt. Otherwise, we’d be further along by now.”

  “Where did you find her crate?” asked Jane. “Which section?”

  “Down this row, back against the wall.” He pointed to the far end of the storage area. “She was at the bottom of the stack.”

  “You looked in the crates that were on top of hers?”

  “Yes. They contained items acquired during the 1910s. Artifacts from the Ottoman Empire, plus a few Chinese scrolls and pottery.”

  “The 1910s?” Jane thought of the mummy’s perfect dentition, the amalgam filling in her tooth. “Madam X was almost certainly more recent than that.”

  “Then how did she end up underneath older crates?” asked Detective Crowe.

  “Obviously someone rearranged things in here,” said Jane. “It would have made her less accessible.”

  As Jane gazed around the cavernous space, she thought of the mausoleum in which her grandmother had been interred, a marble palace where every wall was etched with the names of those who rested within the crypts. Is this what I’m looking at now? A mausoleum packed with nameless victims? She walked toward the far end of the basement, where Madam X had been found. Two lightbulbs overhead had burned out in this area, throwing the corner into shadow.

  “Let’s start our search here,” she said.

  Together Frost and Crowe pulled the top crate off the stack and lowered it to the floor. On the lid was scrawled: MISCELLANEOUS. CONGO. Frost used a crowbar to pry u
p the lid, and at his first glimpse of what lay inside, he flinched back, bumping against Jane.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Darren Crowe suddenly laughed. Reaching into the crate, he pulled out a wooden mask and held it over his face. “Boo!”

  “Be careful with that!” said Robinson. “It’s valuable.”

  “It’s also creepy as hell,” murmured Frost, staring at the mask’s grotesque features carved into wood.

  Crowe set the mask aside and pulled out one of the crumpled newspapers used to cushion the crate’s contents. “London Times, 1930. I’d say this crate predates our perp.”

  “I really must protest,” said Robinson. “You’re touching things—contaminating things. You should all be wearing gloves.”

  “Maybe you should wait outside, Dr. Robinson,” said Jane.

  “No, I won’t. The safety of this collection is my responsibility.”

  She turned to confront him. Mild-mannered though he appeared, he stubbornly stood his ground as she advanced, his eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. Outside this museum, if confronted by a police officer, Nicholas Robinson would probably respond deferentially. But here on his own territory, in defense of his precious collection, he appeared fully prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

  “You’re rampaging through here like wild cattle,” he said.

  “What makes you think there are more 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 restroom. This was once their family residence, you know.”

  “The Crispins?”

  “They lived here in the mid-1800s, then the family moved into a new home out in Brookline. That’s when this building was turned into the museum.”

  “Which direction does this wall face?” asked Frost.

  Robinson thought about it. “That would be facing the street, I think.”

  “So there’s no building on the other side of this.”

  “No, just the road.”

  “Let’s pull some of these bricks out,” said Jane, “and see what’s on the other side.”

  Robinson looked alarmed. “If you start removing bricks, it could all collapse.”

  “But this obviously isn’t a weight-bearing wall,” said Tripp.

  “Or it would already have fallen.”

  “I want you all to stop right now,” said Robinson. “Before you go any further, I need to speak to Simon.”

  “Then why don’t you go ahead and call him?” said Jane.

  As the curator walked out, the four detectives remained in place, a silent tableau poised for his departure. The instant the door shut behind him, Jane’s attention shot back to the wall.

  “These lower bricks aren’t even mortared together. They’re just stacked up, loose.”

  “So what’s holding up the top of that wall?” asked Frost.

  Gingerly, Jane eased out one of the loose bricks, half expecting the rest of them to come tumbling down. But the wall held. She glanced at Tripp. “What do you think?”

  “There’s got to be a brace on top supporting the upper third.”

  “Then it should be safe to pull out these lower ones, right?”

  “It should be. I guess.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “You fill me with such confidence, Tripp.” As the three men stood by and watched, she gently eased out another loose brick, and another. She couldn’t help noticing that the other detectives had backed away, leaving her alone at the base of the wall. Despite the gap she’d now opened, the structure continued to hold. Pe
ering through, she confronted only pitch blackness.

  “Give me your flashlight, Crowe.”

  He handed it to her.

  Dropping to her knees, she shone the beam through the gap. She could make out the rough surface of a facing wall a few yards away. Slowly she panned across it, and her beam came to a sudden halt on a niche carved into the stone. On a face that stared back at her from the darkness.

  She stumbled backward, gasping.

  “What?” said Frost. “What did you see in there?”

  For a moment, Jane could not speak. Heart thudding, she stared at the gap in the bricks, a dark window into a chamber she had no wish to explore. Not after what she’d just glimpsed in those shadows.

  “Rizzoli?”

  She swallowed. “I think it’s time to call the ME.”

  EIGHT

  This was not Maura’s first visit to the Crispin Museum.

  A few years ago, soon after her move to Boston, she had found the museum listed in a guidebook to area attractions. On one cold Sunday in January, she had stepped through the museum’s front door, expecting to compete with the usual weekend sightseers, the usual harried parents tugging along bored children. Instead she’d entered a silent building staffed by a lone docent at the reception desk, an elderly woman who had taken Maura’s entrance fee and then ignored her. Maura had walked alone through gallery after gloomy gallery, past dusty glass cases filled with curiosities from around the world, past yellowed tags that looked as if they had not been replaced in a century. The struggling furnace could not drive the chill from the building, and Maura had kept on her coat and scarf during the entire tour.

  Two hours later, she had walked out, depressed by the experience. Depressed, also, because that solitary visit seemed to symbolize her life at the time. Recently divorced and without friends in a new city, she was a solitary wanderer in a cold and gloomy landscape where no one greeted her or even seemed aware of her existence.

  She had not returned to the Crispin Museum. Until today.

  She felt a twinge of that same depression as she stepped into the building, as she once again breathed in its scent of age. Though years had passed since she’d last set foot here, the gloom she’d felt on that January day instantly resettled upon her shoulders, a reminder that her life, after all, had not really changed. Although she was now in love, she still wandered alone on Sundays—particularly on Sundays.