Free Murder in the Smithsonian by Margaret Truman

in with her late fiancée’s murder, and he felt, sensed, knew that if he wanted to avoid another museum-connected murder he’d better pay very close attention to the lovely Heather McBean.

Chapter 9
    Constantine Kazakis rode the elevator to the Museum of Natural History’s third floor. He walked slowly along the circular balcony, occasionally looking down at the eight-ton African bush elephant that dominated the first-floor rotunda.
    He came to a door marked
Staff Only
, opened it with a key and moved inside. Ahead of him were endless rows of white steel lockers, tall and short, wide and thin. A small bearded man had taken a drawer from one of them and was examining its contents. He heard Kazakis, glanced up over half-glasses and said, “Good morning, Constantine.”
    “Good morning, Sanford. You’re here early.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Eight.”
    “I couldn’t sleep. We’re reevaluating the
Gryllidae
exhibit this week.”
    Kazakis smiled. The box Sanford held contained a variety of crickets, which were the basis for the exhibit he’d mentioned. It was the Entomology section, where, Kazakis knew, no one ever said crickets when the term
Gryllidae
was available. It was the same in Ornithology,where a simple crossbill was always
Loxia curviorstra
.
    Kazakis moved from Entomology to his section, Gems and Minerals, where he was an assistant curator. He, too, was early. This was the day the famed Hope Diamond, the focal point in the Hall of Gems for millions of visitors, was to be removed from its case for the first time in years.
    The Hope had originally been cut from the 112-carat Tavernier diamond belonging to Louis XIV. It had been stolen during the French Revolution, then resurfaced in its new form on the London market in 1830. It was donated to the Smithsonian in 1958 by renowned gem collector Harry Winston.
    The Hope had always been considered flawless, but Kazakis’s boss, Walter Welsh, decided to bring in an outside gemologist to search for hidden flaws and to reweigh it. It was listed at 44.5 carats, but the world standard for the carat had recently changed.
    Kazakis sat at his desk and read the
Post
. The Tunney murder was still front-page, and Captain Hanrahan was quoted as saying, “The department has assigned every available resource to the Tunney murder. We’re looking into all possible leads.” When asked whether anything new had developed, Hanrahan answered, “No, nothing concrete. This is a complex case. All I can say at this time is that we have every confidence that something positive will develop in the near future.”
    Kazakis put the paper down as a secretary came in. “Coffee?” she asked.
    “Yes, please.”
    He was soon joined by other curators from the mineral and gem division. “Any bets?” one of them asked.
    “About what?”
    “On what the Hope weighs?”
    Kazakis shook his head.
    “How about flaws? I bet you five bucks, Connie, that they find at least one.”
    “Save your money,” Kazakis said.
    At ten the gemologist, Dr. Max Shilter, arrived. The gem division’s staff accompanied him to where the Hope Diamond glittered from its glass-fronted vault. Ten armed Smithsonian security guards, augmented by four MPD officers, formed a circle around Walter Welsh, who, visibly nervous, unlocked the vault and lifted the blue diamond from its bed as though plucking a newborn from a cesarean section. “Let’s go,” he said, his face grim. The entourage went to Welsh’s office, where, while others looked on, Dr. Shilter began what would be a painstaking examination, culminating in a precise weighing on a special scale.
    Kazakis watched carefully. Before coming to the Smithsonian he had worked as a jewelry designer and gem cutter. Taking the assistant curator job had meant less income but there was the prestige to be considered. The way he had it figured, he would put five years into the curatorship, then return to designing and cutting, with the Smithsonian credential enhancing