like pure gold. But these weren’t Diane’s favorites.
What she liked best were simply the shells themselves, the spiky, shiny, swirling, spiraling, multicolored unaltered seashells. There was something very calming about just looking at them—much like the joy of looking at the Vermeers.
She was looking in wonder at the details of a particularly lovely pelican shell when she heard raised voices coming from the aquatic lab.
Chapter 15
The door to the aquatic lab was ajar and Diane moved toward the opening. Only one of the voices was doing the shouting. Diane recognized it as belonging to the new aquatic collections manager, Whitney Lester.
“I know you stole the shells. It will be easier on both of us if you just admit it now.”
Diane didn’t hear the answer, only a soft murmur.
“I’m tired of wasting my time with you. You are going to lose your job. That’s certain. Whether or not it goes to the police is up to you. Where are the damn shells? I’m not going to have valuable articles go missing on my watch, do you hear?”
Diane walked into the lab and found Lester glowering over Juliet Price. Lester had backed her up against a table. Juliet looked terrified.
“I’m sick of your mousy ways. Tell me, damn it!” yelled Lester.
“What’s going on?” said Diane, in a voice she hoped was calm.
Whitney looked in Diane’s direction with the same angry look she was giving Juliet, ready to light into whoever was interrupting her. Her expression turned to surprise, then an attempt at a smile.
“Dr. Fallon, I didn’t hear you come in.”
How could you with all your yelling, thought Diane. “What’s going on?” she repeated.
“Miss Price stole several valuable shells from the collection. I’m trying to persuade her to give them back.”
Diane looked at Juliet Price. Her arms were folded over her stomach and she was bent over. Her blond hair swung forward and hid her face.
“Dr. Price, are you all right?” asked Diane.
“She’s fine. She’s a malingerer.”
Diane ignored Whitney. “Juliet, are you all right?” Diane walked toward her and guided her to a chair.
“I didn’t steal the shells,” she whispered. “I need this job.”
Diane heard a snort from Whitney. “You should have thought of that. . . .”
“Enough,” said Diane. “Juliet, you aren’t going to lose your job. Sit right here and try to stay calm. I’ll be right back.”
“Mrs. Lester, in the office, now,” said Diane.
Whitney Lester looked as if she’d been hit between the eyes. “You’re not going to leave her out here?”
“Now, Mrs. Lester.” Diane preceded her into the collection manager’s office and sat down behind her desk.
Whitney Lester followed and stood for several seconds as if waiting for Diane to get up from her desk. After a moment she sat in a chair in front of the desk, smoothing her brown suede skirt under her. She sat up straight and arranged her face to show her serious disapproval—or at least that’s what it seemed to Diane as she watched the movements of Lester’s expression go from surprise, to puzzlement, to a stern demeanor. She reached up once to smooth her salt-and-pepper hair.
“What’s this about?” asked Diane.
“Juliet stole some valuable shells. I’m trying to get them back.” She puffed up her chest, looking very righteous.
“What’s missing?” asked Diane.
Whitney straightened up again, looking more confident. “A Conus gloriamaris, seven inches long and worth four thousand dollars. Eight Cypraea aurantium, three hundred dollars apiece.” She ticked off each item on her fingers, hitting each finger firmly and bending it back as if that lent greater emphasis to the loss. “A giant whelk worth two hundred fifty dollars. That’s over six thousand dollars worth of shells.”
“Have you informed Security?”
“No, I like to handle things in my own department,” she said.
“Did you see Dr. Price take them?” asked Diane.
“No, but she is the only one who could have. They were here last week in the vault. I saw them. Now they’re gone. She’s here practically all the time and the only one who has access to the vault.”
“So you were browbeating her. Couldn’t you see she is terrified?”
“Yes, I could see that. I was trying to get a confession. You, of all people, should appreciate that.”
“This isn’t a police interrogation room, nor is Dr. Price some perp you pulled in off the street. She’s an employee of this museum, and no employee here will be bullied. I hope that’s clear.”
“My management style . . . ,” began Whitney.
“Is not acceptable,” interrupted Diane.
Whitney looked back through the open door as if to see if