Grace Among Thieves by Julie Hyzy Page B

tour group had been staged in a corridor down the hall; they were now being herded downstairs. I caught up with the guard who was bringing up the rear. “Where are you taking them?” I asked, sneaking a discreet look at his badge. I’d met him once before, but until I saw “Cornell,” I couldn’t come up with his name.
    Tall, solid, and with military-cropped short hair, Cornell kept close watch on the trudging tourists as he answered, “Carr wants them held in the entrance hall until further notice. Not as much chance for them to get into trouble.”
    The group shuffled forward as directed, murmuring among themselves. A few shot backward glances toward where we’d left Mark Ellroy. They wore expressions of fear and disbelief. Couples held tight to one another. Others cast wary glances at their peers. I was happy there were no children in this bunch.
    Cornell continued, “We’ve got everything under control. No one’s getting out until we say so.”
    I knew his words were meant to reassure, but I also knew of secret passages that had helped another murderer escape.
    “You’re joining us?” he asked when I continued to accompany the exodus.
    I shook my head. “I’m heading back . . . down.” I caught Cornell’s glum look of understanding, so thankfully didn’t have to explain that I would be returning to where Lenore had met her death. “I need to relieve Frances. As soon as I can, however, I’ll be up to help in the entrance hall.”
    I inched past the group when they turned down the next corridor. I reached the yellow staff stairway and trotted down as quickly as I could, my entire body pinging with awareness. My hands balled into fists as my pace picked up. I was angry—so angry—that another murder had been committed on Marshfield grounds that I felt almost eager to spring into action if I happened to cross paths with the killer.
    In a twisted way, I almost wished I would. Whoever had killed Lenore and attempted to kill Mark Ellroy was not a member of the Marshfield staff. I was sure of it. Whoever it was must have posed as a docent, probably as he plotted his next major theft.
    I was furious. Frustrated. My head buzzed with the need to
do
something. Adrenaline pumped under my skin, flushing me with a sense of invincibility. “Come on,” I wanted to scream. “Let me at him.”
    I hurried through a narrow basement corridor toward the spot I’d left John and Frances, but all I could see were the backs of staff members from the laundry and maintenance departments. They clustered in the doorway, jostling one another for a better look as they all peered at the meticulous process of evidence collection.
    Excusing myself as I made my way through the four-deep throng, I realized that despite their curiosity, they’d been effectively held back from trampling the scene by a slim band of crime scene tape. Bright yellow, flimsy plastic, it nonetheless worked like magic to keep everyone out of the stairwell. It kept me from entering the area as well.
    I was grateful to see that our local law enforcement was on the scene much faster than they’d been in the past, but I hated the fact that we here at Marshfield had provided so much practice. I spotted Frances just out of the evidence technicians’ way, a few steps up from the ground level. I called out to her. “Where’s John?”
    She’d glanced up at the sound of her name, her expression at once both annoyed and relieved. “There you are,” she said. To the technician closest to her position, she pointed at me. “You can let her in. She’s my boss.”
    The tech gave the briefest of nods then turned to me. He wore gloves and booties and carried a clear plastic bin full of items I couldn’t begin to recognize. “You can walk in up to here.” The tech drew an imaginary line on the ground about a foot from the doorway, where I ducked under the tape. “You can join your friend on the stairs,” he said, “but don’t come any closer than