Dust to Dust

after all.”
    “Yeah,” said Neva. “We have a creatively disturbed, immature woman—writing a secret message on the bottom of drawers doesn’t seem to be a sign of maturity. I think we ought to find out who she is.”
    “What we need,” said Diane, “is a list of all the people who ever lived in the house. We can start with ownership records.”
    “That ought to be easy,” said Neva. “I’ll go down to the courthouse and do a search.”
    “Hanks mentioned that he would do it, but if we do it, it will save him time. I don’t think this is a high priority with him, and it shouldn’t be. It’s unlikely to be related to what happened to Marcella.”
    “Except,” said David, “they did steal objets d’art.”
    Diane nodded. “The paintings they took were hidden in the wall for no telling how long. Even though the pottery they stole was Marcella’s own work, the thieves may not have known that.”
    Neva rubbed her hands together. “I like this.”
    David rolled his eyes. “She’s become Nancy Drew. You know we solve crimes all the time, don’t you?”
    “I like this old stuff,” she said. “It’s interesting. I can see the attraction to archaeology—lots of old mysteries there.”
    “Okay, then,” said David. “Like Diane said, the thing we need to find out is how old the note is, and how old the pottery is.”
    “I’ll go down to the courthouse first thing and search the property records,” said Neva.
    Izzy stood, hitching up his pants as he stretched and yawned. “Tell you what, Neva, next time you decide to have a speaker, let me know so I can maybe sleep in or go wash my car.”
    “You didn’t find that fascinating?” said Neva.
    “I think it’s voodoo,” said Izzy. “It’s like them profilers. I don’t buy them either. Have you ever heard them?”
    Diane smiled to herself.
    “I noticed you didn’t give him a sample of your handwriting,” said Neva.
    “Yeah, well, like I was going to let him say a bunch of gobbledygook about me and have you guys never let me live it down. I’m smarter than that.” Izzy grinned at Neva.
    Diane noticed that Izzy smiled and even laughed more and more since he had started to work with them. His good friend Frank Duncan had noticed it too. The crime lab had been good for Izzy—oddly enough—even with all the death they dealt with. It was catching the evildoers with proof of their evil deeds that did it for him. Izzy’s son had been killed in a meth lab explosion. Not a meth lab of his making, but he and thirty fellow students died not knowing that someone was cooking meth in the basement of the house they were partying in. It wasn’t fair and it hurt Izzy to the core. Izzy needed to do something that worked, something that he could see would put bad people in prison. He decided that maybe the crime lab would be that place where he could make a difference. So he eased his way in. So far it seemed to be working for him and for the crime lab.
    “I’m going home, folks. See you tomorrow,” Izzy said.
    “I’m going home too,” said Diane. “You guys do the same.”
    It was dark when Diane got in her SUV. She drove home thinking about Harmon Dance. His daughter was exhumed today. She wondered whether it was just more pain, or a relief that he might find out something better than what he had been trying to live with. Lynn Webber would probably carry out the autopsy right away. They might know something tomorrow.
    Diane drove home to Frank’s house. It had taken a while for her to call it home. In the beginning, it was a temporary arrangement until she found a house of her own. It turned out to be more comfortable than she thought it would be, and a lot easier than her apartment with her bizarre neighbors had been. Of course, they all thought she was the bizarre one. It was why they asked her to move. She couldn’t blame them. There was an awful lot of havoc surrounding her when she lived there. Not so much at Frank’s. Perhaps it was because he was there. She was not alone. She was not as easy a target.
    Diane pulled into the drive. The lights were on in the house, but Frank’s car wasn’t there. The lights were controlled by a timer so that it always looked like they were home in the evening. She walked up to the steps just as a car pulled in behind hers. It startled her for a moment. She turned the key in the lock, ready to bolt inside if she had to. The headlights went out and she heard a car door open.
    “Hi, Dr. Fallon. I