Free The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley

my graduate degree is in."
    "And what does a museum director major in?" he said, smiling easily again so that she felt herself relax a fraction.
    "I double majored in English and archaeology," she said,
    "but a lot of people do business."
    "I prefer it your way round," he said.
    "So do I," she said, and this time her smile was warmer.
    "Still," he said, indicating the case containing a magnificent stone-headed tomahawk. "The company you keep! Look 62
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    at this nasty little thing. A barbarous weapon if ever there was one. I guess there's something to be said for Manifest Destiny, eh?"
    "I don't think the Native Americans were any less civilized than the white settlers because they had less efficient ways of killing people," she said with an ironic smile.
    "Native Americans," he said. "Funny isn't it, the way people think they can fix everything with words."
    Deborah felt a flicker of irritation but didn't have time to respond.
    "Miss Miller?" It was Tonya.
    She had emerged from the long gallery to the residence and was hovering, her hands clasped awkwardly in front of her.
    "Can I have a word?" she said.
    Deborah got up.
    "In private, if you don't mind," Tonya said.
    Deborah gave an apologetic nod toward Bowers, and the two women walked back to the museum office in silence.
    "What's on your mind, Tonya?" said Deborah after they had closed the door behind them. They were both standing, stiff and apprehensive.
    "I think you know," said Tonya. "Look," she said. "I was just curious. I have a buddy in the force, and he told me about the murder as soon as the call came through. He said something about a secret room and . . . I kinda wanted to see what was going on, you know? I didn't think it would be Mr. Dixon. I didn't mean nothing by it."
    Deborah didn't know Tonya well, but she had spoken to her enough for that last phrase to ring strangely. Tonya didn't talk like a janitor, and she didn't wear her blackness on her sleeve. Her diction was, Deborah had often observed, carefully grammatical, educated, so that she had often wondered from what white-collar profession she had fallen to wind up cleaning out museum toilets. She spoke so that everyone knew that they had no right to look down on her for what she did or what she looked like. The Tonya Deborah knew would 63
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    never say, "I didn't mean nothing by it," and the phrase somehow threw the entire confession into a strange and uncertain light.
    "You probably shouldn't have come in till the police arrived," said Deborah wearily.
    "No ma'am," said Tonya, shaking her head, as if amazed by her own audacity. "That's surely right."
    No feisty riposte, no carefully worded suggestion as to what the prim white bitch could do with her suspicions. "No ma'am, that's surely right"?
    From Tonya? No way.
    Deborah's eyes narrowed. It was like casting extras in Gone With the Wind.
    "You want I should get you a coffee?" said Tonya, after a sigh of relief. "I was fixing to make one, but my guts was all knotted up. I think I could drink me something now."
    Deborah managed a smile and a nod, and watched her go with a mixture of disbelief and unease. "My guts was all knotted up"? Who was she trying to fool, and why?
    When she got back into the lobby, Calvin Bowers was talking to a big man in a shiny suit: Harvey Webster. Her heart sank, but she kept her chin up and walked briskly toward them. Webster looked serious, but his face lit up as he saw her coming. He showed no ill effects from the evening's alcohol or the fact that she had turned him out on his ear.
    "Terrible business," he said as she arrived, his voice low and gently musical. "Just terrible. If there's anything I can do, you just holler."
    "Thank you, Harvey," said Deborah. "I will."
    "The police called me first thing," he said. "Said we should close the museum."
    "What?" said Deborah. "For how long?"
    "Not long," he said. "Two, maybe three weeks."
    "Three weeks!" said Deborah.
    "Maybe we can talk