Dead Secret

say anything, and Diane knew that meant her sister found her argument persuasive but didn’t want to admit it.
    “Susan, we can go at it from both angles. Alan can follow his theory, I’ll follow mine, and maybe between us we can get Mother out. This isn’t a contest. The goal is to get Mother back.”
    “That sounds reasonable,” admitted Susan. “You said on the phone that you had a medical procedure. How are you?”
    “I’m doing okay. A little sore. I was stabbed in the arm.”
    Susan looked over at her, then back to the road. “Well, if you insist on dealing in crime . . .”
    Diane had decided on the plane that the best way to get through this visit with her family was to say as little as possible and stay focused on the task at hand.
    “I was at the funeral for one of Rosewood’s most prominent citizens,” Diane said.
    “I read about that in the paper.” Susan gasped. “They said a student was stabbed.”
    “That’s true. I didn’t know I was also stabbed until later. The, uh, knife was very sharp.”
    “God, what’s the world coming to?” said Susan. She turned a corner sharply, and Diane held on to the handle above the door for support.
    “That’s what we’ve been asking ourselves,” Diane said, keeping her mouth firmly closed about Susan’s driving.
    Diane’s sister drove to Mountain Brook, one of the wealthy suburbs of Birmingham populated by new money in old mansions that were layered on wooded hillsides above narrow, winding quiet streets whose curbs were lined with expensive automobiles. Her parents’ home was a large rock-faced structure that looked like an English manor. Susan lived next door in an equally large brick home built a century ago by a steel tycoon. She drove up the steep, winding drive to the garage and parked the car.
    “You’ll be staying at Mother and Dad’s. I’ve made up the guest room for you. We’re all having dinner there this evening—including Alan. I hope that’s not a problem.”
    “No. Whatever all of you feel comfortable with.”
    Susan gave another one of her exasperated sighs. “It’s not about our comfort. Alan is a friend of the family and is Mother and Dad’s lawyer.”
    “That reminds me,” said Diane. “We have an appointment in an hour and a half. Do you want to go with me, or do you want me to handle it?”
    “I’ll go with you. Like you said, going at it from two directions won’t hurt. Dad went in briefly to the firm today. He’ll be home in an hour or two.”
    Diane got out of the car and grabbed her bag from the rear seat. “I’ll just freshen up a bit and we can get started.”

    Daniel Reynolds’s office was over the mountain in downtown Birmingham. They made it with five minutes to spare and were ushered straight into his office by a young woman. Reynolds was sitting at a large dark-wood library table stacked with files. His desk was much older, with scrollwork around the sharp edges. Both looked antique. The desktop held pens, a pad of paper and a telephone. All the office walls were lined with glass-enclosed bookshelves filled with law books. There was no computer visible in his office.
    Reynolds himself looked like he belonged out West working cattle. Not because of what he wore—he had on a silver-gray dress shirt and gray suit pants with dark gray suspenders, his suit coat thrown over the back of his chair. It was his rugged face that made him look like a cowboy, that and his wiry steel-gray hair. He stood and held out his hand. Diane and Susan shook it in turn and introduced themselves.
    “One of you is from Georgia?” He gestured to two chairs.
    “That’s Diane,” said Susan. “She lives in Rosewood, Georgia.” She sat down, holding her purse in her lap, and fidgeted with the strap. “I live in Mountain Brook. My husband is in business with my father. They have a brokerage firm here in Birmingham—Fallon and Abernathy. Diane . . . Diane has several jobs.”
    Diane suppressed a smile. Susan made it sound like she worked at McDonald’s during the week and Waffle House on weekends. “I’m director of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History, as well as the director of the Rosewood Crime Lab and the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab.”
    “You do indeed have several jobs. There’s got to be a story in that.”
    “There is. A long one.”
    Diane and Reynolds smiled at each other. Susan was clearly out of her comfort zone. Diane would have liked to reach out and take Susan’s hand to