One Grave Too Many

that the crime scene information?”
    “Yes.”
    Diane regarded the yellow-brown envelope for a moment before she reached for it. She held it tentatively, like it might morph into a snake if she moved too quickly. She knew the envelope held the photographs of a mother, father and their son—dead. Not peacefully asleep, like some people describe the dead, but lifeless, possibly covered in blood, probably limbs lying at odd angles where they fell, stilled when their efforts to defend themselves failed.
    Opening the envelope would be opening a door she thought she’d closed and locked for good.

Chapter 11
    Diane stared at the envelope.
    “Are you all right?” Frank asked after a moment.
    “What?” Diane looked from the envelope to Frank as if she had forgotten he was there. “Yes. I was just thinking.” She snatched up the envelope, opened it and pulled out the crime scene photos.
    Frank dropped into the chair, loosened his tie and leaned forward.
    “Have you seen them?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “It’s hard looking at people you know, murdered. How did you come by the photos? Who called you to the crime scene?”
    “A uniform cop friend with the department. Izzy Wallace. He doesn’t like the new guys any better than I do. He got them for me. George was his friend too.”
    “Another poker buddy?”
    “Yes. And we all belong to the same hunting club.”
    Diane grimaced. “Do you know the time of death?”
    “Just generally—the coroner thinks somewhere between two and four in the morning. They’ll know more after the autopsies.”
    “Can you get the autopsy reports?”
    “Yeah, Izzy can get them.”
    “Tell me, why do they suspect the daughter? Do they have more evidence than that she may have been a drug user and may have had access to the gun?”
    Frank bowed his head a moment, and Diane looked up from the photograph.
    “They caught her trying to sell a coin collection. It’s one George inherited from his father—very valuable.”
    “How do the detectives know the collection was in the house at the time the Boones were killed?”
    Frank looked like he had just tasted something bitter. “George’s mother and stepfather, Crystal and Gilroy McFarland, said they were.”
    “You don’t believe them? They wouldn’t deliberately incriminate their granddaughter?”
    “You’ve got to know Crystal. She was a piece of work, even when George and I were kids. Not what you’d call the nurturing type. Nothing like Louise.” He paused a moment and glanced down at the spread of photos lying on the desk in front of Diane. “Crystal didn’t call Star or Jay her grandchildren. They were adopted, and that didn’t count with her.”
    Diane clenched her teeth and began examining the first photo. Fourteen-year-old Jay lay crumpled on the ground near a large oak tree. He was on his stomach, one arm under his body, the other at his side and bent at the elbow. One leg was straight; the other was bent at the knee. He was wearing a light blue jacket, jeans, and white Nike running shoes. A close-up of his back showed the bullet hole in the jacket and just a small amount of blood. Possibly small-caliber gun, she thought. Just a kid . She shivered. Even with her experience excavating massacres, it still astonished her that the architects of such atrocities included children in their plans.
    “What does Detective Warrick think happened?” Diane asked.
    “That Star and maybe her boyfriend came into the house while the parents were sleeping and shot them, stole the coins and jewelry, and on their way out they ran into Jay coming home and shot him. I need to mention that Jay and Star are natural siblings. George and Louise adopted them together when Jay was two and Star was four. She wouldn’t have killed her little brother.”
    “But her boyfriend might?”
    Frank shrugged. “I don’t know her boyfriend.”
    “They haven’t found him?”
    “No.”
    “You said she was trying to sell the coins. What about the jewelry?”
    “Warrick believes they either stashed it somewhere or the boyfriend still has it.”
    Diane looked at the photograph again. “Why does Detective Warrick think the parents were killed first?”
    “Looks as if they were asleep in their beds.” He gestured to a photograph half exposed under the stack. “If Jay was killed first, they’d have heard the shot. Neither were heavy sleepers, and George was not shy with a gun.”
    “What was Jay doing out so late?”
    “That I don’t