Scattered Graves dffi-6 Read online

  ‘‘Well, don’t this just take the cake,’’ said the sheriff. He glared at Bryce. ‘‘I suggest you find my evidence. It didn’t just walk off by itself. I’m sure you keep a log of everything that comes in and goes out of this lab, don’t you? I know that Diane did.’’

  ‘‘I assure you, Sheriff, we will make every effort to find it,’’ said Bryce.

  ‘‘I don’t want to hear about your efforts. I want my evidence,’’ said the sheriff.

  ‘‘Maybe we’d better ask Diane,’’ said Bryce. ‘‘You will notice that she can waltz in here anytime she wants.’’

  ‘‘Now, why would she steal the bones?’’ said Canfield. ‘‘She’s the one who is supposed to have them. Quit pointing fingers and get me my evidence. I can’t believe this. You’re the one who hijacked it. Don’t go blaming other people for your foul-up.’’

  Diane decided that this would be a good time to leave Bryce to his hunt.

  ‘‘Let me know when they’ve been found, Sheriff,’’ she said as she turned to go back to her lab.

  She felt oddly ill at ease turning her back on Bryce and his crew, as if when she got back to her lab there would be a knife sticking between her shoulder blades.

  Diane wrote a preliminary report for Sheriff Canfield on the results of the analysis of the few bones she had. She had learned very little from them, and it didn’t look like she would learn much more. She would take a sample down to Jin to see if he could extract some DNA.

  She read over her summary again. She hadn’t found any fragments to suggest there was more than one individual. The lateral angle measurement of the audi tory canal made it probable the individual was male. The pattern on the pubic symphysis suggested he was in his early twenties. The piece of metal could mean that he had some type of body piercing. That was it: not much, mainly suggestions. She packaged and la beled samples to take to Jin and locked them along with the bones in her vault and changed the key code.

  Diane locked up her lab and left via the museum side exit. As she passed the break room, she saw Jen nifer Jeffcote-Smith sitting at one of the tables drink ing her coffee. From the steam rising out of the cup, it looked hot. She didn’t look happy. Diane hesitated a moment, then went in.

  ‘‘Come to gloat?’’ asked Jennifer when she saw Diane. ‘‘No,’’ said Diane pulling up a chair.

  ‘‘Then what are you looking at?’’ said Jennifer. ‘‘I think I’m looking at a scapegoat,’’ said Diane. Jennifer looked up sharply. ‘‘What’s that supposed

  to mean?’’

  ‘‘You know, Lloyd Bryce has a temper, and he loses

  it easily,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘You will have to be more clear,’’ she said. ‘‘Or

  just leave—that would be good too.’’ She continued

  to sip her coffee, breaking eye contact with Diane. ‘‘He didn’t lose his temper with the sheriff, and

  Canfield was laying into him pretty hard.’’

  ‘‘So?’’ said Jennifer.

  ‘‘You need to ask yourself why,’’ said Diane. ‘‘This is your story. You ask yourself why,’’ she said. ‘‘Because he wasn’t angry,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Look. Will you get to the point or leave? In case

  you haven’t noticed, today hasn’t been a good day for

  me.’’ Jennifer set her coffee down. She twisted her

  wedding rings.

  It hasn’t been a good day for you? Diane thought

  to herself. Look at my face, lady.

  ‘‘How long were you out of your lab?’’ asked Diane. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘‘How long were you gone getting coffee? It was

  about noon when you came up. That’s a busy time

  for the restaurant,’’ said Diane. ‘‘It could have taken

  a while.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t keep track of the time,’’ she said. ‘‘Doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t take long for some

  body to get the bones,’’ said Diane.

  Jennifer folded her arms and gave Diane her full

  attention. ‘‘Why do you say I’m a scapegoat?’’ she

  asked.

  ‘‘They hire you to come to Rosewood from Califor

  nia with the promise of a lab and equipment. Then

  they discover they don’t have a lab and equipment, so

  either they will have to stock one for you or let you

  go. You said you moved your family here and your

  husband quit his job. That sounds like grounds for a

  suit to me if they let you go. However, they could

  sandbag you, then fire you and maybe save a lot of

  money. After today they can let you go and say it was

  because you were incompetent.’’

  ‘‘I’m not incompetent.’’ Jennifer raised her chin and

  glared at Diane.

  ‘‘I’m not saying you are. I’m just talking about a

  scenario—one you need to keep in mind,’’ said Diane. Jennifer was quiet for a long moment. ‘‘Why are

  you telling me this? You may have been the one who

  stole the bones.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t, and blaming me isn’t going to help you.

  I’m just giving you a heads-up,’’ said Diane. Jennifer’s blue eyes glistened as if she were about

  to tear up. ‘‘It wasn’t supposed to work out this way,’’

  she said.

  ‘‘No, I don’t imagine it was,’’ said Diane. ‘‘What

  color was the hair?’’

  Jennifer looked at her, puzzled. ‘‘What are you talk

  ing about?’’

  ‘‘The sheriff said they found hair. What color was

  it?’’

  ‘‘Dark—very black. I was thinking it might be Asian

  or Indian. Why?’’

  ‘‘Because, if most of the bones are gone, we need

  all the information we can get. What about the fin

  gernails?’’ said Diane. ‘‘What did they look like?’’ ‘‘I really didn’t look at them. I just looked at the

  bones. And before you ask, there wasn’t much to look

  at. They were all in pieces. There wasn’t much to be

  done,’’ she said.

  ‘‘What about the skull bones? Did you notice any

  thing on the occipital that might look like a bullet

  hole?’’

  ‘‘I hadn’t gotten around to identifying the parts yet.

  I had just begun separating them into categories. I put

  them in separate tubs so they wouldn’t get lost. I

  didn’t want to put them on the table. My lab isn’t

  really a lab.’’ She took another sip of her hot coffee.

  ‘‘Why would you ask about a bullet hole in the occipi

  tal anyway?’’ Jennifer looked at Diane suspiciously. ‘‘I have the first bones that were found,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘I saw something that might be beveling on a piece

  of occipital. I had intended to try to piece the skull

  together—see if perhaps it was a bullet hole.’’ ‘‘They were in too many distorted pieces. It wouldn’t

  be possible,’’ said Jennifer.

  ‘‘Maybe and maybe not. Did you notice anything

  that suggested there was more than one individual?’’

  asked Diane.

  ‘‘I hadn’t gotten that far. Frankly, Bryce had me

  running errands most of the morning—getting stuff for my lab. We were going to convert the darkroom into

  a lab.’’

  Diane stood up. ‘‘I’m sorry this is happening,’’ she

  said. ‘‘I really am.’’ She turned to go, then turned

  back. ‘‘Out of curiosity, whose idea was it that you go

  get coffee? Was it your idea or someone else’s?’’ ‘‘Bryce...,’’ Jennifer began and suddenly stopped.
>
  The look in Jennifer’s eyes told Diane everything she

  needed to know.

  She left Jennifer there, figuratively and literally cry

  ing over her coffee. Diane felt very tired. She decided

  to go home. Maybe Frank would be there.

  Chapter 10

  Frank wasn’t home, but he hadn’t left a message say ing he wasn’t coming. Diane sat down at the piano to practice as soon as she had put her things down. Frank had a baby grand piano, and he was teaching her how to play. When she had first seen his piano, she re marked, the way people do when they see a beautiful piano, ‘‘Oh, I wish I could play.’’ He said he would teach her, but she resisted the idea at first. She thought she should learn on some lesser piano. Somehow, the quality of her playing and the quality of the sound of such a fine piano didn’t seem like a good match. But there was something heavenly about sitting down and listening to the sound of the hammers striking the strings, even if all you could play was ‘‘Off We Go to Music Land.’’ Today she played to keep her mind fo cused more than anything else.

  Fortunately she had progressed since those begin ning lessons and was now learning a nocturne by Chopin. It was from a book of easy classic pieces for the piano; most of the notes were taken out, leaving the basic melody and some harmonic chords. But it was pretty and she could play it—a little.

  She hadn’t been playing long when she heard the door open. She stopped.

  ‘‘Don’t stop on my account,’’ said Frank. ‘‘It’s sound ing good.’’

  ‘‘It’s still not right, and I’m not sure...’’

  She heard him put his car keys in the small ceramic tray he used for that purpose, then his watch, and the change in his pockets. After a moment she smelled the scent of him—a mixture of Frank and aftershave. He came up behind her, put his face next to hers, and kissed her jawline.

  ‘‘You’re treating the measures as if there were a slight rest at the end of each one. Measures are just that—a unit of measure. Play right through it.’’ He put his hands around her, under her arms, and began playing the piece. After a moment he switched to the full Chopin, adding the notes that had been left out for beginners like her. He included the grace notes, the trills, the full range of keys along the keyboard. He stopped abruptly.

  ‘‘See?’’ he said.

  Diane laughed, stood up, turned, and kissed him. ‘‘Yeah, I get it. I need more practice.’’

  Frank’s jaw dropped when he got a look at her face. ‘‘Diane, my God, what happened?’’

  ‘‘Did you hear anything on the news?’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘No,’’ he said. He came around the piano bench and touched her face and put his arms around her. ‘‘What happened?’’ he said again.

  They sat down on the sofa and Diane leaned against him and told him about Delamore, the cliff, the death.

  ‘‘You almost died,’’ he said. ‘‘Diane . . . why didn’t you call me?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t want to upset you, and I was all right. As it turned out, he was in more danger than I was.’’

  ‘‘Diane...,’’ he said again, as if saying her name over and over would ensure she was really there. ‘‘Really, now I’m serious. I’ve had some experience with trauma and death—’’

  ‘‘As I well know.’’

  ‘‘Well, yes,’’ he said. ‘‘You have to believe me, for your own emotional well-being, please have someone get me whenever you are involved in any way in a severe trauma. Death and near-death experiences af fect you in ways you cannot handle alone.’’

  ‘‘Are you saying I need your strong shoulder to lean against?’’

  ‘‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying. It’s no weakness on your part...or mine. It’s a human need.’’

  ‘‘So, when you get shot up, you need my shoulder as well?’’ she said.

  ‘‘You know very well that I do,’’ Frank said.

  ‘‘That’s very sweet,’’ Diane said.

  ‘‘Call me if anything even remotely like this ever happens to you again.’’

  ‘‘Okay, I will.’’

  ‘‘You promise?’’ he said.

  ‘‘I promise.’’

  ‘‘Okay. Tell me the rest of it,’’ Frank said.

  ‘‘Edgar Peeks thinks I killed him,’’ she said. ‘‘I be lieve he would have arrested me had not Colin Pre hoda arrived to spring me.’’

  ‘‘Peeks strikes me as incompetent. Spence Jefferies wants to hire people who are loyal to him regardless of their qualifications. I doubt if Peeks can make a case even when he has one.’’

  ‘‘Maybe not, but he can leak it to the papers that I’m a suspect. That wouldn’t be good for me or the museum.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry about it now.’’ Frank kissed the top of her head. ‘‘Other than hanging on the side of the cliff, how was the rest of your day?’’

  She told Frank about Bryce hiring Goldilocks the forensic anthropologist from California and putting her in the museum forensic anthropology office. She told him about Jin having to strong-arm Curtis Crab tree, who was apparently also a detective. Then she told him about the closet.

  Frank laughed during the whole narrative.

  ‘‘They were in the closet having a conversation?’’ he said, with a characteristic twinkle in his eye. ‘‘How big is the closet?’’

  ‘‘Pretty big,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Small room size. I sup pose that was the most private place they could find.’’

  ‘‘How could he not know the forensic anthropology lab belongs to the museum?’’ asked Frank.

  ‘‘I don’t know. It’s true that I haven’t done any work for the crime lab since Bryce took over. Nothing has come up. That’s not particularly unusual. Maybe that’s why he thought I was no longer working as the forensic anthropologist. But I would have thought the new administration would have known.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘It’s straightened out now. I feel sorry for the forensic anthropologist he hired. She was totally broadsided today. I don’t know why David or Neva didn’t tell him the lab belongs to the museum.’’

  ‘‘Why didn’t David tell you about the forensic an thropologist?’’ asked Frank.

  Diane hesitated a second and sat up. That was a good question.

  ‘‘Perhaps he didn’t know about it,’’ she said.

  ‘‘He didn’t know?’’ said Frank with a raised eye brow. ‘‘Is that likely?’’ He pulled her back to him.

  ‘‘No. David always knows everything going on in the lab. He didn’t tell me because he wanted me to be surprised and more inclined to rip Bryce a new one.’’ She stared at the fireplace and wished there was a fire in it. ‘‘I’m worried about David. He is really very levelheaded, despite his playing at being paranoid. But lately he seems truly paranoid. Losing the lab was a blow to all of us, including me. And now is not a good time for either of us.’’

  The two of them had worked together as human rights investigators. They probed and recorded the worst behavior of humankind in hopes of achieving even the smallest amount of justice. In South America they were uncovering mass graves filled by a particu larly vicious dictator. He struck back at them hard. In the massacre he led, Diane had lost her adopted daughter, and both she and David had lost many good friends.

  Diane had spent months in despair and on benzodi azepine. When she finally stepped back into life again, she couldn’t go back to doing the work she had done before. The offer to be director of RiverTrail Museum of Natural History was a salvation. She was several months into her position when David Goldstein showed up and asked for a job. Like her, he had been aimless since the massacre, walking a fine line this side of sanity. He wanted to work in Diane’s newly estab lished crime lab. There he felt he could actually bring bad guys to justice.

  And now it was coming up on the anniversary of the massacre. Every year it was hard. Every year they managed. This year David had had his comfortable rug pulled out from under him when the new mayor of Rosewood decided to
rearrange the spoils of his election victory.

  Frank reached out a hand and grasped hers. ‘‘I know,’’ he whispered.

  Diane had been able to adjust to being replaced as director of the crime lab mainly because of Frank. Living with Frank held nice surprises. He was the most levelheaded, reasonable person she had ever known. She hadn’t realized how calming it would be just being with him on a daily basis.