thirteen

Tightening my jacket around me, I scanned the museum for the cat. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered. GD really had vanished. He might as well have exited into another dimension.

I snatched my purse off the counter. Right. GD could take care of himself.

A thunderous banging sent me leaping skyward, a personal high-jump record. I whirled, clutching my bag to my chest. A face in the window, its mouth contorted, pinned me with its gaze.

My throat closed, stopping my breath. And then the face resolved itself—Herb.

Nostrils flaring, I wrenched open the door. “Herb! It’s after one a.m.!”

He scuttled into the museum. “I am well aware of the time. I was passing and saw you inside.”

“Passing or lurking?” Blood pounded in my head. How long had he been watching me?

He drew himself up, his barren skull gleaming beneath the fluorescent ceiling light. “I do not lurk. Given recent events at the museum, lights on after midnight seemed suspicious, and I came to investigate.”

“I thought you were just passing.”

“I came to investigate as I was passing.”

“Whatever. Herb, you’re the closest thing to a witness to Christy’s murder, the only person who can say it was a man with Christy. My friend Adele is in jail, because the police think she did it. You need to let them know what you saw.”

“I agree that in spite of my quite logical aversion to law enforcement, we do have a civic duty.”

Blowing out my breath, I muttered a thank you to whatever higher power might be listening. “Fantastic. Detective Slate is in charge of the investigation, and he seems reasonable.”

“Then you can tell him something else I’ve remembered—something the murdered woman said. ‘You dug your own grave,’ she said.”

“You dug your own grave?” But Christy was the one who’d died. “You’re sure? Did she say anything else?”

“I’m quite sure she did, but I didn’t hear it. That’s all I remember. Good evening.” He sidled toward the door.

“Wait! Herb, it won’t matter if I tell the police. They need to hear it from you.”

“I don’t see why.” He grasped the door handle. “Information is information, and you appear to be a fairly reliable source, in spite of your bizarre employment.”

“Because you’re the one who heard Christy.” Even I could hear the high whine of desperation in my voice. “You’re the witness!”

“And I have told you everything I know. Please relay it to your lieutenant.”

“At least tell me where I can get in touch with you if the police have more questions.”

“I think not.” He darted out the door.

Cursing Herb, the police, and myself for getting in the middle of this, I ran after him, slamming the door shut behind me. Its bang echoed down the fog-shrouded street, and my teeth clenched. This would not win me points with the Viking upstairs.

The fog swirled, leeching color from the street, pressing against the streetlamps. Some people find fog eerie. I find it comforting. It didn’t bother me that I couldn’t see Herb. I could hear him, his footsteps thudding ahead on the sidewalk. I took off in pursuit.

A car door slammed. An engine revved. Two red lights blinked on, blurs in the fog, illuminating the mud-spattered license plate of a yellow VW Bug. I made out the first number and letter—4G—and the car roared off.

Stumbling to a halt, I considered returning to my pickup and trying to follow. But my romance with fog does not extend to driving in it. In this gray soup, not even Dieter would give odds on me catching Herb. But at least I had the beginnings of a license plate. Add to that the make and model of the car, and the police should be able to track Herb down. Shouldn’t they?

I walked back to the museum, careful not to trip over the sidewalk’s cracks and crevasses. I passed a gleaming motorcycle in a shop window and turned back. I’d gone too far, missed the museum door.

The open museum door. A gust of wind caught it, and it swayed.

My hand shot out, steadying it.

I’d closed that door.

My hand clenched. I knew I’d closed the front door. I remembered wincing as it banged shut.

Blood thrumming, I pushed the door wide and edged my head inside. The plastic curtains billowed … stirred by the breeze from the open door? Or had someone walked through them into the tea room?

“Hello?” My heart thudded against my ribs. Stupid. I was being stupid, imagining things.

A low, feline growl was my response.

My shoulders slumped. The cat. It had probably disturbed the curtains. But that didn’t explain the open front door.

I bit my lower lip. Had I locked the alley door? The thought of checking left me cold, but I forced my leaden legs to move forward. I found the unopened bottle of Kahlua beneath the counter and grasped it around its neck like a weapon. The liquid gurgled as I tilted it upside down. The bottle was satisfyingly heavy.

I crept toward the plastic drapes. Of course it was just me and the cat. I paused beside the plastic sheets. How many times had I done this in my own home, half-afraid someone had broken in, only to find I was wrong?

Taking a breath, I burst through the curtains, bottle extended. Weak light from the street and the museum made monsters of the boxes and buckets in the tea room. The looming silhouettes might not be creatures of evil, but they made great hiding places for a human invader.

I was creeping myself out. I hurried to the electrical switch and flipped on the overhead lights. The fluorescents flickered to life, humming. Bare concrete. Boxes of wood flooring. Paint cans. A saw horse.

No one was inside.

A cold breeze stirred my hair, raised gooseflesh on my neck. I followed the draft through the short hallway, past the restrooms, to the alley door. It stood wide open. An overhead light gleamed off the dumpster outside.

Somehow, I’d messed up.

But I wasn’t the sort of person to leave doors open willy-nilly. And I knew I hadn’t now, not after a murder had been committed. That door had been closed. I might not have locked it when I came in, but I knew I’d shut it.

Someone had been inside the museum.