One Grave Less

nodded. “Yeah.”
    “Well, I meant . . . look, the woman dresses up for a crime scene.”
    Neva smiled at him. “When I was nine I got these white shoes for Easter. Mama told me not to get them dirty. After church I went outside and completely forgot about my shoes—and my dress. I got them both filthy,” said Neva. “Kids forget things like not getting their shoes dirty.”
    “Madge Stewart wasn’t a kid,” said Izzy.
    “Sometimes she was,” said Neva. “Look, I’m giving you ammunition for your argument.”
    Diane knew Neva was right. Diane’s big complaint about Madge Stewart was the way her friends—like Vanessa and Laura—had babied her. Hiding in the closet eavesdropping, for heaven’s sake, then running to Vanessa like she was tattling. How childish was that?
    “But she was an adult,” said David, “and whenever I saw her she was always well dressed.”
    “The woman was, well, I mean, she was on the museum board. Was she, what’s the word?” said Izzy. “Was she mentally challenged? You’re talking like she was.”
    “No, she wasn’t,” said Diane. “But her personality never got out of the stage where she believed everyone would always think she was cute, no matter what she did.”
    “She was an artist,” said Neva. “We talked a few times. She liked my work.”
    “An artist? Really?” said Izzy. “Do I know her work?”
    Diane and Neva smiled. “Maybe,” said Neva. “She illustrated children’s books. Her preferred style was pointillism and she used bright colors. I liked her work.”
    “Pointillism?” said Izzy.
    “Dots of paint,” said David. “Seurat.”
    “Not ringing a bell,” said Izzy. “I’ll Google it.”
    Diane had the feeling that none of them wanted to talk about Madge Stewart’s death. She didn’t either. And it wasn’t up to them to solve it. It was up to Garnett. She was satisfied to leave it to him—sort of. However, Lynn’s story, as Izzy called it, did leave her wondering. Why did Madge go down to the edge of the lake?
    “Do you have a tox report?” Diane asked.
    “Not yet,” said Neva. “Lynn hasn’t sent any samples over. She may send them to the GBI or another lab because of our closeness to Madge.”
    “How about her clothes?” said Diane.
    “Same,” said David. “The only thing we did was work the scene. As Lynn said, the scene was pretty well trampled. I found where her heels went into the edge of the bank before she fell in, but I haven’t found any trace evidence whatsoever. I practically vacuumed the boulder. I looked for prints, but it was weathered sandstone. But that was just being thorough. It’s not a surface to hold prints. I also looked at the metal posts the chain was threaded through. I didn’t find anything.”
    “He brought the chain back here,” said Izzy.
    “Just being thorough,” said David. “I’ll check each link. There might be a partial. I’m not optimistic. The lake was deep where she went in—about seven feet. Jin dived and did a grid search of the bottom. He found her other shoe and a few beer cans.”
    Diane nodded. “Do you feel like it was an accident?” she asked David.
    He hesitated. “As bad as I hate to say it, I’m like Lynn. Yes, I think it was an accident. But it nags at me. I don’t know if it’s because it was someone I knew, or because of my basic suspicion of all deaths that occur when you are under ninety and not asleep in bed.”
    Diane looked at the other two.
    “Accident,” said Izzy. “Neva said she couldn’t swim.”
    Diane looked over at Neva.
    “She said she never liked the idea of getting her hair wet or water up her nose. But she liked boating. She wasn’t afraid of the water,” said Neva. “She was illustrating a book about two kids learning to sail. We were talking at lunch one day outside on the patio. When she found out I was an artist, she liked talking to me.”
    Diane realized that she had never had a good conversation with Madge, really. Just party conversation at the museum events, or mildly unpleasant conversations at board meetings. The thought increased her feelings of guilt. She had never really tried to get to know Madge. She was a more interesting person than some of her annoying habits had led Diane to believe.
    “What about you, Neva? What do you think?” asked Diane.
    “Accident. Isn’t the simplest explanation the most likely? For it to be homicide, the story gets too complex. And nothing whatsoever indicates she jumped into