Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

do not have the manner of death but should know more tomorrow after we complete a brain bucket. I do have a question about a different case.
    She’d hesitated then, because she knew she shouldn’t give out information to anyone. Jo Ann Whittaker, though, was the one person she could talk to. A professional tucked all the way in Boulder, Jo Ann would never be able to connect the Silverton dots. Still, Cameryn understood what she had to share would have to be framed carefully. Slowly, she’d typed, Do the words ‘Keep Sweet’ mean anything to you? I’d appreciate any information you might have. Cameryn Mahoney (Please call me Cameryn)
    Her finger hovered over the key only a moment before she hit “Send.” She had just finished pulling on her nightshirt when she’d heard another ping of the computer. The message read:
    Dear Cameryn ,
    (Please call me Jo Ann.) Your question will take some time to research, but I should have an answer for you Monday afternoon. Until then,
    Jo Ann
    Jo Ann had contacted her again only an hour ago as she’d been driving down the Million Dollar Highway. The ping of her BlackBerry had told her it was an e-mail. Shifting her eyes, she’d glanced at it and seen that it was from Jo Ann Whittaker. Pulling onto the next overlook, she’d heard the engine of her car clatter in idle as she sat staring at the tiny screen, at the same time fingering Mariah’s silver ring in her pocket. The e-mail had read:
    Dear Cameryn,
    It’s Monday afternoon and I am, unfortunately, running behind. I don’t have all the facts yet, but I can say I have discovered some interesting news about the words ‘Keep Sweet’ that I think you will find most enlightening. I will share what I know this evening. Can you divulge any more information about the case?
    Jo Ann
    Although her mammaw talked of God and angels, Cameryn had never really believed in signs. Yet the e-mail had promised an answer and that, in and of itself, was a small miracle. She’d read it once, twice, three times through before looking out her windshield. In a mountain crevice she saw broken tree limbs, victims of a small avalanche. There was a graveyard feeling to that wash of trees; the ones that had died had been reduced to gray skeletons, their arms bleached like bones. Other trees on the edge were leaning, touching, as though the stronger held the weaker. Like Cameryn held up Hannah, she thought. But now Cameryn needed someone powerful to hold her up. She knew she’d found strength in the person of Jo Ann. Slowly, on the tiny keypad, Cameryn had written:
    Dear Jo Ann,
    I’m on my way to do the brain bucket so we’ll connect this evening. I really am excited to find out what you’ve discovered. Thank you so much for your interest and your help.
    Cameryn
    The thought that someone was on her side had calmed her. As Cameryn had pulled back onto the highway once more, she’d felt the knot inside her relax. What good would it do, worrying and making plans, until she had all the facts? The brain bucket could reveal the death as a suicide; after that she would find a way to get the ring to the sheriff, which meant all the worrying she’d done up till then would be for nothing. Jane Doe’s death had to be suicide. Cameryn was sure of that. And now it sounded as though the ring would yield an important clue, which could point them all in the right direction.
    “So it’s Jo Ann, is it?” Dr. Moore said now, breaking into her thoughts. “You’re on a first-name basis with the dean and you’re only seventeen. It’s clear that you, Miss Mahoney, are a rising forensic star. If Jo Ann Whittaker is shepherding you, then you’re in the very best of hands. So—are you ready to begin this task?” He gestured toward the counter, and Cameryn was surprised to see Mariah’s brain exactly where they had left it. The chemical had whitened the brain slightly, turning it a pearly beige. Picking up the bucket, Moore took Mariah’s brain to the sink. “You might want to watch how I do this, Miss Mahoney,” he said. “There’s a real finesse to the procedure.”
    Carefully, Dr. Moore lifted the lid from the specimen jar and set it to one side. Then, with both hands, he removed Mariah’s brain to hold it over the plastic container while the formalin fell off the sides in a shower of tiny droplets. The string slipped back into the bucket, drifting gently, slowly, until it settled on the bottom like a single strand of hair.
    “The brain’s