One Grave Less

said.
    The safe room’s outer door was a bookcase in the corner of the living room. Frank opened a small door that concealed a keypad. He punched in his code and the door opened.
    Star stuck her head out. Her black hair was cut in a smooth bob with bangs. It was all one color, which Diane thought was an improvement over fuchsia and chartreuse. She was dressed in black slacks elaborately decorated with swirls of metal studs near the bottom of the pleated leg. With it she wore an ice-blue satin blouse and jacket.
    “Uncle Frank!” She came running to his arms. “The safe room works. I heard someone around the house trying to break in and I ran to the room and locked myself in and called nine-one-one. But I have to tell you, we need a PA system in there so I can fuss at the guys while they are in the house, like, ‘What part of this house is protected by a security service don’t you understand?’ And I need a gun.”
    “Star.” Diane hugged her. “You’re safe, thank God.” Diane had Star’s face between her hands. “You did good.”
    “It really worked. I felt like Jodie Foster and that vampire chick in that movie.”
    Diane had to flip through her memories of popular culture to figure out what Star was talking about. Frank hugged Star again and kissed the top of her head.
    “I’m proud of you. You’re not getting a gun,” he said.
    The rest of the evening went by in a blur. Diane called Neva and the two of them worked the house as a crime scene. Frank and the policemen searched the house from attic to basement, assisted by Gregory, who was unable to just stand around while everyone was whirling about him. The other policemen searched the grounds.
    Garnett drove up thirty minutes later. He told them that, even with all the mess, Izzy wasn’t finding anything useful in Diane’s old apartment. Diane and Neva weren’t finding anything either. The intruders knew how to not leave much behind.
    The policemen searching did find where the perps had parked their vehicle. Diane took as many measurements as she could of the ill-defined tire marks. They weren’t even real tire tracks, just impressions in the leaf detritus. Still, she got a rough idea of the distance between the wheels. She might be able to narrow down the type of vehicle they used.
    It was past midnight before they had the house back. Gregory helped Frank repair the door. Neva had to take Gregory’s fingerprints to add to the exemplars. A terrible way to treat a guest. Gregory took it with a lot of humor, like this was just his life. Diane was dead tired. Fear about Star had drained away a lot of her energy.
    Frank and Gregory were finishing up the door, Diane was wiping down the fingerprint powders left on the surfaces. She stood looking at the clock on the mantle. She had to find a way to get some answers. All of the brain power they had dedicated to crime, and they had nothing. Diane needed to talk to some of the others. Martine Leveque knew Simone Brooks and Oliver Hill best. Damn it, she was just going to have to talk to them.
    Diane went into the room she had made into her private home office and sat down in front of the laptop on the desk, called up her address book, and looked for the number she had for Martine. She calculated the time difference between here and Paris—six hours. Martine would already be up, having her cup of coffee, looking out the window. That was her habit in South America. Diane dialed her number.
    “ Oui ,” came the answer. Diane recognized her voice.
    “Martine, this is Diane Fallon. I know you prefer not to talk with me, but I really need to speak with you. Please.”
    There was a long pause. Diane thought she may have hung up, or simply left the phone.
    “I told Gregory, I don’t want to maintain our friendships. It’s not personal. You understand,” she said.
    “I do. Simone has been attacked. She may die. I’m trying to find out why.” Diane thought she heard a slight intake of breath.
    “Simone?” she said.
    “She’s in a coma.” Diane hurriedly explained what happened.
    “She is saying one of us caused that terrible thing? I don’t believe it,” Martine said.
    “Neither does Steven. He’s here, suffering from the same rumormongering that I am—and that Gregory and David are,” said Diane.
    “My life here is very calm. I teach children to paint, I arrange flowers, I garden, I ride my horse, I surround myself with beautiful things. But I will try to help you. What do you want to