he asked.
‘‘No. I haven’t a clue. Not much of one anyway. I
was attacked here in the museum last night by the
same man who attacked me in the hospital. He called
me a bitch on both occasions.’’ Diane told him about
the attacks, about his anger, and what he had said—
about her being a dirty dealer.
‘‘You think it may be related to the artifacts?’’ he
asked. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me yesterday when I was
here about the first attack and what he said?’’ That’s the trouble when you decide to withhold
important information from the FBI. They want to
know why and you need a really good explanation.
Diane took a deep breath.
‘‘I wasn’t sure it was related. I had just been attacked in my home; that’s why I was at the hospital.
Well, not exactly attacked. Let me start from the
beginning.’’
Diane told him about waking up in the wee hours
of the morning, about falling in the blood.
‘‘The assault at the hospital was violent, and whatever happened in my apartment was extremely
violent—they seemed at the time to be related. The
artifacts—well, that wasn’t violent. At least not at our
end, though something may have been going on at
Golden Antiquities. When I woke up yesterday morning I was drugged and confused and it took a while for
the barbiturates to get out of my system. Apparently
someone had put sleeping pills in both my and, I suspect, Ross’ drinks when we dined together. That’s why
he fell asleep at the wheel. At least that’s the hypothesis until he gets some tests back. But, that’s why I
slept through a violent murder in my living room.’’ ‘‘Okay, I’ll admit, that’s not a bad answer. Ross was
drugged too? Why?’’ Jacobs asked.
‘‘I think someone wanted to make me sleep soundly.
But rather than keep up with who got which drink,
they just doctored both of ours,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I just
discovered that the waiter who filled our drinks didn’t
show up for work yesterday.’’
‘‘That’s cold. Ross could have died,’’ said Jacobs.
He shook his head. ‘‘There was only blood, no body
in your apartment?’’
Diane nodded. ‘‘The blood trail indicated the body
was dragged outside and put in the trunk of my car.’’ Jacobs cocked an eyebrow. ‘‘They didn’t arrest
you?’’
‘‘The DA wanted to. The barbiturates in my tox
screen gave me an alibi of sorts. I’m not out of the
woods.’’
‘‘No one saw anything?’’ he asked.
‘‘Or heard anything, which is really strange. I can
hardly walk across the floor without my downstairs
neighbors calling up and telling me to be quiet. And
my neighbors across the hall live to eavesdrop on
what’s going on in my apartment—they even broke in
once because they were sure I was harboring a forbidden cat.’’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘‘Do you know who
the blood belonged to?’’
‘‘The DNA is a match to Clymene O’Riley,’’ said Diane. He looked startled. ‘‘Ross’ Clymene?’’ he asked. ‘‘The very one,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I thought she was in jail,’’ said Jacobs, ‘‘. . . or did
I hear that she escaped?’’
‘‘Yes, she escaped, right after I visited her at her
request. That’s another long story,’’ she said. ‘‘Well, you’re right. None of this makes any sense.
Why would Clymene escape and then show up at your
apartment?’’ he asked.
‘‘I don’t know. Why would someone else decide to
kill her there? The whole thing had to be premeditated and coordinated. And why drug me?’’ said
Diane. ‘‘I’m aware that all of this makes me look
guilty of something.’’
‘‘Maybe that’s the point. If Clymene blamed you
for her conviction, could she be behind the artifact
problem? It started before her demise,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t see how . . .’’ She stopped.
‘‘What?’’ he asked.
‘‘Clymene’s late husband, the one she was convicted
of murdering, was an amateur archaeologist. Clymene
boned up on archaeology in order to lay her trap for
him,’’ said Diane.
‘‘So she could have made contacts,’’ said Jacobs.
‘‘See?’’ He patted Diane on the hand. ‘‘You need to
tell your doctor all your symptoms, no matter how
much you think they are unrelated, and let him make
the diagnosis.’’
Diane smiled. ‘‘It hadn’t occurred to me that Clymene might have masterminded this. All she would
have to do is get Golden Antiquities to switch the
artifacts and make a call to the newspapers.’’ ‘‘That’s a possibility,’’ said Jacobs. ‘‘I’ll look into it.
I’ll see if Randal Cunningham had any dealings with
Clymene. Did she have friends, known associates?
Some people in prison have a following.’’
‘‘She had visitors. And there’s a possibility she
conned Rev. Rivers, the prison counselor, into helping her escape. He was found murdered at his home after
she broke out,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Something went bad for her,’’ mused Jacobs. ‘‘If
it’s true that she orchestrated all of this, I wonder
what went wrong.’’
‘‘Orchestrated. That’s what’s been going through my
mind. The whole thing feels like some kind of game.
If it were just a simple crime, it wouldn’t be so hard to
understand. Motives would be more straightforward. I
know there is no way either Kendel or I or anyone
else at the museum could make the artifact switch
work as a moneymaking plan the way it was done.’’ ‘‘Could it be a game Clymene started but now can’t
finish?’’ he said.
‘‘Maybe.’’ Diane began gathering up the money. ‘‘I need to take the whole package for analysis,’’