One Grave Too Many Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Praise for the novels of Beverly Connor

  “Calls to mind the forensic mysteries of Aaron Elkins and Patricia Cornwell. . . . Chases, murder attempts and harrowing rescues add to this fast-paced adventure.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Connor combines smart people, fun people, and dangerous people in a novel hard to put down.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “Outstanding. . . . Connor grabs the reader with her first sentence and never lets up until book’s end. . . . The story satisfies both as a mystery and as an entrée into the fascinating world of bones. . . . Add Connor’s dark humor, and you have a multidimensional mystery that deserves comparison with the best of Patricia Cornwell.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “In Connor’s latest multifaceted tale, the plot is serpentine, the solution ingenious, the academic politics vicious. . . . This entertaining mystery is as chock-full of engrossing anthropological and archeological detail as a newly discovered burial mound.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Connor’s books are a smart blend of Patricia Cornwell, Aaron Elkins, and Elizabeth Peters, with some good, deep-South atmosphere to make it authentic.”

  —Oklahoma Family Magazine

  “Crisp dialogue, interesting characters, fascinating tidbits of bone lore and a murderer that eluded me. When I started reading, I couldn’t stop. What more could you ask for? Enjoy.”

  —Virginia Lanier, author of the Bloodhound series

  “Beverly Connor has taken the dry bones of scientific inquiry and resurrected them into living, breathing characters. I couldn’t put [it] down until I was finished, even though I wanted to savor the story. I predict that Beverly Connor will become a major player in the field of mystery writing.”

  —David Hunter, author of The Dancing Savior

  “Combin[es] forensic anthropology with some pretty sharp antagonists. There is something about ancestors and bones that adds unspeakable excitement and foreboding to a mystery story. . . . Connor’s style is original and fresh.”—Midwest Book Review

  ONYX

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

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  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 2003

  Copyright © Beverly Connor, 2003

  eISBN : 978-1-101-11878-8

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  To Diane Trap

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to GBI crime scene specialist Terry Cooper for his help—and sense of humor. And another special thanks to Genny Ostertag for her amazing work on my manuscript.

  RiverTrail Museum

  Second Floor

  Thrid Floor

  Chapter 1

  “His head isn’t on straight.”

  “It doesn’t seem to fit. Maybe it’s not his.”

  “Dr. Fallon—”

  Diane Fallon, director of RiverTrail Museum of Natural History, looked up from the work she was trying to finish to see the spectacle of Gary and Samantha, two university students, balancing between a ladder and a construction platform, holding the skull of a giant sloth tilted at an odd angle atop its fifteen-foot skeleton. She raked her gaze over the offending skull as Gary was trying to wire it in place. “Wait a minute,” she said.

  Diane climbed the ladder to the platform to have a look at the problem. She glanced at her watch as she lay down on her stomach on the platform. It was late and she was tired. She inspected the bones and shook her head and pointed to the neck of the giant creature. “You have the atlas on backward.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Gary, I’m sure. Bones are like puzzle pieces. When they’re put together right, they fit together perfectly. How do you think your head would fit if your neck was on backward?” The other students giggled. “Did you follow the diagram I gave you?”

  “Yes . . . I thought we did. I already have it wired in place.” He said this as if expecting Diane to say, “Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to make the head fit, won’t we?”

  “You’ll have to redo it.”

  “It’s getting late, Dr. Fallon. I’ve got a big test tomorrow to study for.”

  “The opening of the exhibit is tomorrow evening. Test or no test, we have to finish this display. You’ve known the schedule since the beg
inning of the semester. Lay the skull here on the platform, gently. Unwire the atlas and put it on correctly. Follow the diagram.”

  “Ah, man,” Gary whined.

  Samantha looked close to tears. Diane could hear the frustration in their voices, but there was nothing else to do. The exhibit had to be finished and they were aware of the timeline.

  Leslie, the third of the student threesome, looked at her watch as Diane stepped down off the ladder. “It is getting late,” she said.

  “I realize this is terribly unfair.” Diane pulled loose a piece of packing tape that had stuck to her slacks. “Normally, students get to ask fellow students which teachers are a bitch to work for, but I’m new at the museum and have no track record. You guys can spread the word. Do the work assigned, do it correctly and on time. I give only A’s and F’s. We miss the opening, it’s an F.” The three students’ eyes widened in surprise. “You’ve already wired the entire postcranial skeleton and done a good job. Getting the head on straight won’t take as long as you think.”

  “Dr. Fallon, telephone.” Andie, her assistant, brought the cordless phone from Diane’s office. Diane took it and retreated across the room away from the grumbling students.

  “Yes?”

  “Diane, how are you?” It was a voice she hadn’t heard in three years, and she was surprised that the sound of it made her smile.

  “Frank? Frank, I’m . . . fine. And you? It’s been a while.”

  “I’m good.” He hesitated half a beat. “I wrote you several letters.”

  “I didn’t receive them.”

  “I didn’t mail them.”

  “Oh.”

  “Could I take you to dinner?” he asked. “There are some things I’d like to talk with you about.”

  “I don’t know. This is a bad time, Frank.”

  He hesitated again. “I hate to ask a favor of you over the phone.”

  “A favor? What is it?” Diane looked over at her students busily working on the sloth exhibit. She hoped she had sufficiently put the fear of God into them so that they wouldn’t mess up again.

  “I have a bone that may belong to a missing girl. . . .”

  Diane’s voice caught in her throat. “A bone? No,” she said a little too roughly, almost choking on the words.

  “No, what?”

  Andie was standing in front of her, holding out two handfuls of artificial leaves. The interruption gave her mind time to think and her racing heart time to slow down.

  “Hold on just a moment, Frank.” Diane placed a hand over the mouthpiece and raised her eyebrows at Andie.

  “They sent the wrong plants, Archaeopteris, but Donald insists we go ahead and use them. He says no one will know the difference.”

  “That’s why we’re here—to teach them the difference. Tell him this is a museum of natural history, not a B-grade movie set—we have to be accurate.”

  Andie smiled. “That’s about what I told him you’d say.”

  “I’m sorry, Frank. We’re opening a big exhibit tomorrow evening and I’m up to my ears.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No, I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Forensic work. I don’t do it anymore.”

  There was such a long stretch of silence on the phone that Diane thought he might have hung up. “You still there?”

  “But that’s what you do,” he said.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Look, this is off the record. It’s only one bone.”

  “I don’t care. There are other bone experts you can take it to. Get them . . . One bone? You have only one damn bone? There’s probably nothing I could do with that anyway.”

  “It’s half a bone, really. You can tell me if it’s human.”

  “If that’s all you want to know, any decent osteology student can tell you that.” If you can find one, she thought, watching hers fumble with the sloth. “But I can’t do it.”

  “It may belong to someone I know. I play poker with the missing girl’s father. He’s been my best friend since we were kids, and his daughter baby-sat Kevin. The police are treating this as a runaway, but the girl’s parents are afraid her boyfriend has done something to her. Her brother found the bone in the woods behind her boyfriend’s parents’ home.”

  In the woods, Diane thought. “No.”

  “Diane . . .”

  “I have to go, Frank. I’m working with some students, and if they see me talking on the phone, they’ll want to do it too. It’s good to hear your voice again. It really is. Come by sometime.” She hung up.

  Diane stood still for a moment. Hearing Frank’s voice was good. The tenor of it brought back past feelings—of warmth and passion. Why did he have to be talking about bones? She filled her lungs with air to clear her head, exhaled and went back to her students.

  It was almost ten o’clock before the last person left. Diane was alone in the museum—but not completely alone. Jake Houser and Leonard Starns, the two night security guards, were making their rounds. And somewhere in the three-story structure the cleaning crew was hard at work.

  Everything was almost ready for the reception the next evening—just a few odds and ends left. Diane walked among the exhibits representing North America in the Pleistocene. The skeleton of a huge Bison antiquus stood, as if on the ancient tundra, against the background of a restored mural of a grazing herd, oblivious to the Paleo-Indians hiding in the tall grass with their Clovis point-tipped spears.

  The giant sloth turned out not to be the disaster she had feared. It stood majestic among prehistoric flora, head on straight, looking out at the skeleton of Mammothus columbi several feet in front of it. Something in the mammoth exhibit caught her eye. Archaeopteris leaves sprouting around the mammoth’s feet. Donald, damn him, had put the wrong vegetation in anyway. He was such a willful . . . She stepped over the barrier rope carefully and took up the plants. A loud knock on the front doors brought her head up with a start.

  She leaned over to look through the double doorway into the museum lobby. Jake appeared from the direction of the primate room.

  “I’ll get it, Dr. Fallon,” he called out as he pressed the intercom button. “The museum is closed,” he said into the speaker.

  “Hey, Jake, it’s Frank.”

  Frank Duncan. So he wasn’t giving up. Diane heard the clank of keys in the door and their voices.

  “Frank, what the hell you doing around here this late?”

  “Checking up on your moonlighting. Might try it myself. You get to sleep a lot, I hear.”

  She heard them both laugh.

  “How’s that boy of yours?” asked Frank. “In an Ivy League school, isn’t he?”

  She still couldn’t see Frank, but Jake had turned so she could see his face. He was a lean-looking man, at home with a scowl, but a large grin pushed his deep frown lines upward.

  “Dylan’s great. You know he graduated? With honors. I have this cousin who’s always bragging about his boys being first in our family to get a college education.” Jake laughed. “The twins went to community college. Dylan went to Harvard.”

  Diane listened as Jake and Frank talked about Jake’s son. She liked the normalcy of their conversation—so far removed from recent events in her life. Coming here to the museum was the right decision.

  “What’s he going to do now he’s graduated?” asked Frank.

  “Looks like he’s going to be accepted to Harvard Business School. They don’t just take everybody right out of college, you know. Most of the time they wait till they’ve worked a bit. See who’s rising to the top. I’m real proud of the boy.”

  “What I can’t figure,” said Frank, “is where he got his brains.”

  “Not from his daddy, that’s for sure. I told Carol it’s a good thing he looks like me, or I’d be suspicious. How’s your Kevin?”

  “Growing. He’s in eighth grade now. I’m glad I have a while before I have to start shelling out for college tuiti
on.”

  “I hear you there.”

  “Diane Fallon here?” asked Frank.

  Jake turned and looked in her direction. “Yes, she’s here.”

  Diane was still standing underneath the huge tusks of the mammoth. She watched Detective Frank Duncan of the Metro-Atlanta Fraud and Computer Forensics Unit set down a briefcase at the door and cross the wide marble lobby into the Pleistocene room. He had the same handsomeness, the same smile, the same familiar face—perhaps just a little older than the last time she saw him.

  “Nice,” he said, reaching up and brushing the tips of his fingers along the bottom of a gigantic curved tusk. It reminded her of that Celine Dion song—“It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.”

  “Did these things used to roam the neighborhood?” he asked.

  “Up until about ten thousand years ago.”

  “Long gone, eh?”

  “A mere blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things.”

  He stood under the head and tusks of the mammoth with her, his eyes searching her face. “You look good. Damn good.”

  Diane brushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Too much time in the sun. My face is looking like parchment.”

  Frank shook his head. “A few lines around the eyes and mouth only give you character. You’re a little thin, maybe. Didn’t they feed you in South America? You’re all right, aren’t you? Didn’t pick up anything?”

  “No, Frank, I didn’t pick up anything. I’m fine.”

  Frank tilted his head to one side, inspecting her wrist and arm. “A fellow I know came back from the Amazon and he had this insect bite on his arm that wouldn’t go away. Swelled up, started itching and turned black. When he couldn’t stand the itch any longer, he went to the doctor. The doctor thought it was a boil and started to lance it. Just as he touched the skin with his scalpel,” Frank touched his finger gently to her forearm, “the thing burst open and this big, black, ugly fly crawled out of his arm and flew off. Disgusting.” He tickled her skin with the tips of his fingers.