Dance Of Death

She took a slug of champagne. It had been the week from hell, with Bill threatened and in hiding, Margo's murder, the stress of the opening, the warnings from Pendergast… But right now she was too tired and exhausted to feel any fear. All she wanted to do was go home, double-lock the door, and crawl into bed. Instead, she had to endure hours of speechifying, mingling, and forced gaiety.

Menzies placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "When this is all over, I'd like you to take a week's vacation. You deserve it."

"Thanks. I wish I could begin now."

"Three more hours."

Nora held up her glass. "Three more hours," she said, and took another gulp of champagne.

A string ensemble struck up Haydn's Emperor Quartet as the crowd began to move toward the food tables. They were loaded with blini au caviar, prosciutto, rare French and Italian cheeses, mounds of crusty baguettes, crudites, fresh oysters on beds of crushed ice, cold lobster tails, smoked sturgeon-the works. Other tables groaned with wines and champagne, and every third person seemed to be a waiter rushing about with a silver tray loaded with drinks and food.

"Nora," said Menzies, "you must circulate."

She groaned. "God help me."

"Come on. We'll face the ravening hordes together." He took her arm and they began making their way slowly through the crowd. Nora found that she was greeted at every turn by congratulators, peppered with questions from the press. Her stunt with the Tanos had apparently gone down exceptionally well, everyone assuming it had been long pla

When at length she returned to their assigned table, she found that several other members of the department were there, including Ashton, the show's chief curator. As the serious eating got under way, Collopy, flanked by his young wife, mounted the podium and gave a short, witty speech.

Then it was time for the cutting of the ribbon. Nora, Menzies, Ashton, and a few other curators lined up at the podium while Collopy, wielding the gigantic pair of scissors used for such occasions, went to the ribbon and made a hash of trying to cut it. When it was finally accomplished, a cheer went up and the huge doors leading to the Sacred Images exhibition swung open. Smiling and nodding, Menzies, Nora, and the rest of the Anthropology Department led the way, the partygoers following in an excited crush behind.

It took about half an hour to reach the far end of the hall, propelled along by the mass of people behind them. Nora felt a shudder as she passed through the room Margo had been murdered in, but, of course, all trace of the crime scene had been removed and nobody but her even seemed aware of it. As she moved farther and farther beyond the scene of the murder, Nora felt the horror replaced by a quiet sense of pride. She could hardly believe they'd managed to pull it off.

Menzies stayed close beside her, occasionally murmuring compliments on the cases she had curated or arranged. The Tanos had come and gone, leaving some bits of turquoise, pollen, and cornmeal on the top of the mask case, which everybody took care to leave in place. At last, when they reached the final hall, Menzies turned to Nora and bowed.

"I do believe we have done our duty." He smiled, face twinkling. "And now you may beat a discreet retreat home. I, unfortunately, have some work to do upstairs in my office. Let's talk next week about that vacation I owe you."

He bowed again and Nora, with relief, turned to make her way to the nearest exit-and home.

FIFTY-ONE

For perhaps the fiftieth time in the last two days, Larry En derby had made up his mind to quit, get the hell out of the museum.

It wasn't enough that he worked in a windowless basement room in the Museum of Natural History, the spookiest damn place in all of New York City. He couldn't get the horror of what he'd found two days ago out of his head. They hadn't even given him a frigging day off, offered him counseling, or even thanked him. It was like he didn't count. It was like she didn't count, the way they just moved right ahead with the exhibition as if nothing had happened.

Margo Green. He didn't know her well, but she'd gone out of her way to be nice to him the few times they'd met. Which was more than he could say for most of the curators and all the administrators. It was just the way the museum treated everybody below a certain level: hired help.

But, if he could admit it to himself, Enderby was mainly disgruntled because the museum had chosen this exact time-during the biggest party in five years-to switch over yet another museum hall to the new security system. So, instead of scarfing down caviar and champagne with the beautiful people two flights up, they were down there in the basement once again, toiling over software subroutines.

Sure, they'd been invited to the party, like everyone else in the museum. That just added insult to injury.

He rolled back from the computer console with an exaggerated sigh.

"Holding up?" Walt Smith, project manager for the museum's security upgrade, asked from behind a nearby monitoring screen.

Smitty had been unusually gentle since Enderby's discovery, two days before. Everyone was tiptoeing around him, like somebody had died in his family.

"How about a short break to check out the party?" Enderby asked him. "I wouldn't mind a few of those cocktail shrimp."

Smitty shook his head. He held a BlackBerry in one hand and a cell phone in the other. "I don't think that's going to be possible, Larry. Sorry."

"Come on, Smitty," Jim Choi, the software engineer, said from the far side of the diagnostic display unit. "Just give us half an hour. You'd be surprised how many shrimp I can ingest in half an hour. The party's almost over, they'll run out of food soon."

"You know we can't alter the schedule. The Astor Hall's just like any other, one more on the list. What, we're going to sneak the hands of the atomic clock back five minutes, maybe nobody will notice?" Smitty laughed at his own miserable joke.

Choi rolled his eyes. Smitty was not known for his rapier-like wit.

Enderby watched the goatee on Smith's chin waggle up and down as he laughed. It was a straggly little thing, seemingly attached by only a few hairs, and Enderby half hoped it might fall off one of these days. Despite Enderby's general irritation, he had to admit Smitty wasn't a bad guy to work for. He'd worked his way up through the ranks and, despite being only thirty-five, was as Old Museum as they came. A real stickler, relatively humorless, but as long as you were a conscientious worker and did your job, he looked out for you. It wasn't Smitty's fault the museum bigwigs were demanding that the new security system be fully installed and operational, yesterday.

Smitty stood up and walked across the room, past racks of computer workstations and servers, to a bank of six dozen small CCTV monitors mounted in the far wall. Most of the monitors showed black-and-white still lifes of empty museum hallways and display cases. Half a dozen in the lower right corner, however-the video feeds from the Hall of the Heavens, where the opening party was going on-were a riot of movement. From his terminal, Enderby watched the little images dance and jitter their way across the screen with a heavy heart. Upstairs, the museum's slope-shouldered, mouth-breathing curators were rubbing elbows with starlets and nymphets; and here he was, toiling in this cave like some troglodyte. True, it could be worse-he could be working in the "Pit," the museum's Central Security Office, which was twice as large but unpleasantly hot and crammed full of even more screens and keyboards than this Advanced Technology Center. Worse, but not much worse.