Dust to Dust

people hate scandal. The son was the most logical. Mothers are driven to protect their children.
    Diane had another thought. Kathy Nicholson, the neighbor across the street from the Walters, had a son the same age as Wendy’s son. Did he know what happened? Was he involved? He did move far away from Georgia—as far as he could get without going into the ocean. He rarely came home. Curious.
    “I know you have lots of questions.” Frank’s husky voice came out of the dark. “But you need to get some sleep.”
    Diane smiled to herself. “Was I thinking too loud?”
    Frank gave a deep-throated chuckle. “I just know you.” He leaned over and kissed her.
    “What you need to be thinking about is how to get a judge to issue a search warrant for their cars and houses,” he said. “Word games aren’t going to convince any judge, and most aren’t impressed with coincidences either. I don’t know all the evidence you’ve collected, but I don’t think any of it actually connects directly to anyone in the Walters family.”
    “It doesn’t, and you’re right. But I have some ideas,” Diane said. She moved over to the crook of Frank’s arm, snuggled against him, and went to sleep.
    Diane’s bodyguards followed her to work and took up their positions in the lobby of the crime lab. It was probably one of their easier assignments, thought Diane. At least it would be until something happened.
    The crime lab was empty when she arrived. She went straight to her lab and began working on the remaining bones David had excavated from the well. She measured and examined each one, adding the new information to what she already had. She stood back and looked at the young male skeleton with its missing bones.
    It would have been necessary to remove all flesh, blood, marrow, and sinew from the bones before they could be crushed to make the temper. Almost certainly, they were skinned and boiled. Not a pleasant task. Something you wouldn’t want to do in your kitchen. In a shed, perhaps.
    Diane cast her mind back to Marcella’s place. There were two outbuildings—three, if the carport was counted. One of them, Marcella identified as a potter’s shed. The other one, her daughter, Paloma, told Diane, was filled with junk from previous owners and should be torn down. Did it have a vent in its roof? A chimney? She didn’t remember.
    She did have a clear image of the yard filled with various items of decor. She wondered which owner had put them there. Did they have meaning? Were there any clues to be had from the concrete statuary?
    But not everything was concrete. Diane remembered seeing a large cast-iron pot planted with flowers. It would have been perfect for boiling body parts. She would ask Marcella where she found it. Probably not in the yard, if it was old. She didn’t think cast iron would last long out in the weather. Or would it? Perhaps it was in one of the sheds.
    Diane repacked the bones, washed her hands, and put the paperwork on her desk. She called down to museum security to see if everything was calm. It was. No incidents whatsoever. That was a relief. Her team should be in the crime lab by now. She went to speak with them.
    Neva, Izzy, and David were there working when she entered. Diane called them over to the round table and asked them for updates on the crime scenes they were working on.
    “We almost don’t have time for any more crime,” said David. “We need to open a branch office. Not that I’m complaining. It’s good for business. Never a dull moment.” He gave a rundown on the various evidence they had in process, then turned to Marcella Payden.
    “We’ve started the backyard research project again at Marcella’s. Scott’s been a big help. He’s a little too careful where he steps—jumpy about the prospect of more abandoned wells—so he’s slow, but I can’t say I blame him. And the paramedics haven’t made a run out to the house in several days. So things are good.”
    Diane smiled. “David, you speak French. Why didn’t you tell me that Gauthier is the French word for Walters?”
    David looked at her for a moment. “Why would I?” he asked.
    “Oh,” she said.
    She realized they knew next to nothing about the Carruthers, Walters, and Nicholson families. They knew only about Stacy Dance and her crime scene. She gave them a brief description that turned to a long description when they started asking questions.
    “Talk about your weird coincidence,” said Izzy. “Jeez, this