Dead Secret

were very persuasive.”
    “I think someone here helped Emmett Taggart orchestrate everything,” said Diane. “He couldn’t have done it by himself. I doubt he would have known how to find people like Valentine and MacRae.”
    “That may be true. But the only crime scene we are working is the one in the study. That’s all we can do. No search of the rest of the house, no search of the grounds or outbuildings.” Garnett shook his head in disapproval.
    “Jin, you wait in the van,” said Diane. “They pulled a fast one on us.”
    He nodded. “Sure. We brought a computer. I’ll just entertain myself.”
    “David and Neva, you two work the study,” Diane told them.
    Emmett Taggart had not died but was in critical condition and had been removed from the scene by the time Diane entered the study where he had been shot. The room had a leather, wood and tobacco-stand ambience that said it was for men only.
    Taggart had been sitting behind a mahogany desk when he was shot. There wasn’t much blood, just spots on the desk and chair and some high-velocity spatter almost invisible to the naked eye on the rug and desk.
    Garnett ushered Diane into the parlor, where Mrs. Taggart was sitting on a love seat. She looked much the same as she had at the funeral, but wore a mauve pantsuit and a light pink silk scarf tucked around her throat, rather than mourning black. She was fidgeting with a piece of old yellowed lace, gathering it up with her fingers.
    When Diane sat down across from her, she saw that the material in Mrs. Taggart’s hand was a lace collar. It was a moment before Diane realized that it was the same lace collar worn by the very young Mrs. Taggart in the snapshot found with Caver Doe.
    Garnett seemed completely clueless as to the purpose of this meeting, but Diane thought she understood.
    “Thank you for coming.” Mrs. Taggart’s voice was almost cordial.
    Diane thought that odd. But she didn’t respond to her first impulse and say, That’s all right; I had to do the crime scene anyway. The woman was not as cold as she had been at the funeral. Diane dug deeper into herself to come up with more compassion. Sometimes sympathy fled her in the wake of everything she had to deal with.
    “Why did you want to see me?” asked Diane.
    “I want you to tell me what happened.”
    “I don’t know for sure. . . .”
    “All right, this stops right here,” a man in a dark, expensive-looking suit said as he walked into the room. The lawyer had arrived. He was followed by Robert Lamont. It was then that Diane noticed Lamont scratching, and the bandages on his arms. “Mrs. Taggart, you don’t have to say another word.”
    “Get out,” said Rosemary Taggart, her mouth set and her eyes downcast.
    “You heard the lady,” said the lawyer.
    “I was talking to you, you sycophant.” She glared at him. “You aren’t my lawyer and I don’t want you here.”
    The lawyer looked shocked, then sympathetic. “You don’t understand. I’m here to help.”
    “You are here to do no such thing. And stop treating me like I’m senile. I have a lawyer and she’s on her way. Until she gets here, I’m talking privately to this woman. Now get out. I know enough about the law to know that when I say you aren’t my lawyer, you have to get out.”
    “Grandma,” said Robert, “he only wants to make sure you are okay and don’t say anything to incriminate yourself. ”
    “Just last week I had a thorough annual physical that included mental acuity. I am certifiably fit in mind and body. If you don’t leave, then I will leave with this woman so I can talk in private. You don’t know what business I have with her, so don’t presume that you are competent to take care of my needs.”
    “I think we need to do as she says,” said Garnett. He seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in ushering the two men out of the room.
    Rosemary Taggart smiled grimly. “I always include a mental checkup when I get a physical, for just such an occasion. I don’t trust my family—God help me.”
    She bowed her head for a moment. Diane didn’t know if she was praying, falling asleep, or just organizing her thoughts. She brought her head up sharply.
    “Tell me about Dale. Tell me what you think happened to him. You’ve seen him, touched his bones.”
    “Mrs. Taggart . . .”
    “Call me Rosemary. I’m never going by the name Taggart again.”
    “Okay, Rosemary. It’s a guess, but it is based on what we have discovered. Dale