SIX

The docent at the Crispin Museum appeared ancient enough to be exhibited in a display case herself. The gray-haired little gnome was barely tall enough to peer over the counter of the reception desk as she announced: “I’m sorry, but we don’t open until exactly tenAM. If you’d like to come back in seven minutes, I’ll sell you the tickets then.”

“We’re not here to tour the museum,” said Jane. “We’re with Boston PD. I’m Detective Rizzoli and this is Detective Frost. Mr. Crispin is expecting us.”

“I wasn’t informed.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes. He and Miss Duke are in a meeting upstairs,” the woman said, clearly enunciating the title Miss and not Ms., as though to emphasize that in this building, old-fashioned rules of etiquette still applied. She came around from behind the counter, revealing a plaid kilt-skirt and enormous orthopedic shoes. Pinned to her white cotton blouse was a name tag:MRS. WILLEBRANDT, DOCENT. “I’ll take you to his office. But first I need to lock up the cash box. We’re expecting a large crowd again today, and I don’t want to leave it unattended.”

“Oh, we can find the way to his office,” said Frost. “If you’ll tell us where it is.”

“I don’t want you to get lost.”

Frost gave her his best charm-the-old-ladies smile. “I was a Boy Scout, ma’am. I promise, I won’t get lost.”

Mrs. Willebrandt refused to be charmed. She eyed him dubiously through steel-rimmed spectacles. “It’s on the third floor,” she finally said. “You can take the elevator, but it’s very slow.” She pointed to a black grille cage that looked more like an ancient death trap than an elevator.

“We’ll take the stairs,” said Jane.

“They’re straight ahead, through the main gallery.”

Straight ahead,however, was not a direction that one could navigate in this building. When Jane and Frost stepped into the first-floor gallery, they confronted a maze of display cases. The first case that greeted them contained a life-sized wax figure of a nineteenth-century gentleman garbed in a fine woolen suit and waistcoat. In one hand he held a compass; in the other, he clutched a yellowed map. Though he faced them through the glass, his eyes looked elsewhere, focused on some lofty and distant destination that only he could see.

Frost leaned forward and read the plaque at the gentleman’s feet. “‘Dr. Cornelius M. Crispin, Explorer and Scientist, 1830 through 1912. The treasures he brought home from around the world were the beginnings of the Crispin Museum Collection.’” He straightened. “Wow. Imagine listing that as your occupation. Explorer. ”

“I think rich guy would be more accurate.” Jane moved on to the next case, where gold coins glittered under display lights. “Hey, look. This says these are from the kingdom of Croesus.”

“Now there was a rich guy.”

“You mean Croesus was for real? I thought he was just some fairy tale.”

They continued to the next case, which was filled with pottery and clay figurines. “Cool,” said Frost. “These are Sumerian. You know, this is really old stuff. When Alice gets home, I’m going to bring her here. She’d love this museum. Funny how I never even heard of it before.”

“Everyone’s heard of it now. Nothing like a murder to put your place on the map.”

They wandered deeper into the maze of cases, past marble busts of Greeks and Romans, past rusted swords and glinting jewelry, their footsteps creaking on old wood floors. So many cases were crammed into the gallery that the passages between them were narrow alleys, and every turn brought a fresh surprise, another treasure that demanded their attention.

They emerged at last into an open area near the stairwell. Frost started up the steps to the second floor, but Jane did not follow him. Instead, she was drawn toward a narrow doorway, framed in faux stone.

“Rizzoli?” said Frost, glancing back.

“Hold on a minute,” she said, gazing up at the seductive invitation that beckoned from the doorway lintel:COME. STEP INTO THE LAND OF THE PHARAOHS.

She could not resist.

Moving through the doorway, she found the space beyond so dimly lit that she had to pause as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. Slowly a room filled with wonders revealed itself.

“Wow,” whispered Frost, who had followed.

They stood in an Egyptian burial chamber, its walls covered with hieroglyphs and funerary paintings. Displayed in the room were tomb artifacts, illuminated softly by discreetly placed spotlights. She saw a sarcophagus, gaping open as though awaiting its eternal occupant. A carved jackal head leered from atop a stone canopic jar. On the wall hung funerary masks, dark eyes staring eerily from painted faces. Beneath glass, a papyrus scroll lay open to a passage from the Book of the Dead.

Against the far wall was a vacant glass case. It was the size of a coffin.

Peering into it, she saw a photograph of a mummy resting inside a crate, and an index card with the handwritten notice:FUTURE RESTING PLACE OF MADAM X. WATCH FOR HER ARRIVAL!

Madam X would never make an appearance here, yet already she’d served her purpose, and crowds were now turning up at the museum. She’d drawn in the curious, the hordes seeking morbid thrills eager for a glimpse of death. But one thrill seeker had taken it a step further. He had been twisted enough to actually make a mummy, to gut a woman, to salt and pack her cavities with spices. To wrap her in linen, binding her naked limbs and torso strip by strip, like a spider spinning silken threads around its helpless prey. Jane stared at that empty case and considered the prospect of eternity inside that glass coffin. Suddenly the room seemed close and airless, and her chest felt as constricted as if she were the one bound head-to-toe, strips of linen strangling her, suffocating her. She fumbled at the top button of her blouse to loosen her collar.

“Hello, Detectives?”

Startled, Jane turned to see a woman silhouetted in the narrow doorway. She was dressed in a formfitting pantsuit that flattered her slender frame, and her short blond hair gleamed in a backlit halo.

“Mrs. Willebrandt told us you’d arrived. We’ve been waiting upstairs for you. I thought you might have gotten lost.”

“This museum is really interesting,” said Frost. “We couldn’t help taking a look around.”

As Jane and Frost stepped out of the tomb exhibit, the woman offered a brisk and businesslike handshake. In the brighter light of the main gallery, Jane saw that she was a handsome blonde in her forties-about a century younger than the docent they’d encountered at the front desk. “I’m Debbie Duke, one of the volunteers here.”

“Detective Rizzoli,” said Jane. “And Detective Frost.”

“Simon’s waiting in his office, if you’d like to follow me.” Debbie turned and led the way up the stairs, her stylish pumps clicking against the well-worn wooden steps. On the second-floor landing, Jane was once again distracted by an eye-catching exhibit: A stuffed and mounted grizzly bear had its claws bared as though about to slash anyone coming up the stairs.

“Did one of Mr. Crispin’s ancestors shoot this thing?” asked Jane.

“Oh.” Debbie glanced back with a look of distaste. “That’s Big Ben. I’ll have to check, but I think Simon’s father brought that thing home from Alaska. I’m just learning about the collection myself.”

“You’re new here?”

“Since April. We’re trying to recruit new volunteers, if you know anyone who’d like to join us. We’re especially looking for younger volunteers, to work with the children.”

Jane still couldn’t take her eyes off those lethal-looking bear claws. “I thought this was an archaeology museum,” she said. “How does this bear fit in?”

“Actually, it’s an everything museum, and that’s what makes it so hard to market ourselves. Most of this was collected by five generations of Crispins, but we also have a number of donated items. On the second floor, we display a lot of animals with fangs and claws. It’s strange, but that’s where the kids always seem to end up. They like to stare at carnivores. Bunnies bore them.”