One Grave Too Many

pantsuits than they had in the gowns they had worn at the reception. Melissa’s shoulder-length locks were now trimmed short. The hairstyle was becoming on her well-shaped head.
    “Alix, Melissa. What can I do for you?” asked Diane.
    They glanced at Frank, who rose and complimented their music.
    “Sorry to disturb you, but there’s no one in the office,” Alix said, indicating Andie’s office.
    “I’m sure Andie will be back shortly. Can I help you?”
    They were silent for just a beat, glancing at each other before Alix spoke. “We just wanted to let you know we’ve been hired to assist the tour guides. We were told we need to fill out some papers.”
    “Ms. Fielding also asked us to bring you this.”
    Melissa’s sleeve slid up a fraction as she stretched her arm to hand a file folder to Diane. Diane noticed bruises on her forearm. She made a mental note to call Laura, and as quickly dismissed her concern about the bruises as probably nothing, and none of her business.
    “Thanks. How do you think you’ll like your new jobs?” Diane opened the folder. A note attached to the first page said that it was paperwork for yet more duplicate orders for supplies.
    Melissa’s smile made her look pixielike with her new cut. “Great. We start tomorrow learning the nature trail.”
    “We really appreciate the jobs,” said Alix.
    “The museum needs dedicated staff, so we’re glad to have you,” said Diane. “Melissa, I see you cut your hair. It looks very chic.”
    “It looks good now,” said Alix. “You should have seen it when she first whacked it off. She looked like she’d been attacked by a weed eater. I had to even it up for her. I told her if she wants anything done right, don’t do it herself.”
    Both girls laughed, and Diane looked forward to having the two of them around.
    “I believe I hear Andie back. She’ll give you the forms to fill out.”
    They closed the door behind them and Diane turned her attention to Frank.
    “We need to go to the crime scene,” she said.

Chapter 12
    There were two cars in the drive as Frank rounded the corner and drove up to the freshly painted two-story farmhouse.
    “This place is so secluded in the woods, I’ve hired some security to keep anyone from taking things out of the house. It looks like that was a good plan. That’s the McFarlands.”
    “George’s parents?”
    “His mother. She married Gil about five years ago.”
    As Frank parked the car Diane watched the couple arguing with the security guard, a large man who looked as though he should be able to handle himself. Clearly, however, he wanted to back away from the woman yelling at him. Crystal McFarland was a tall woman, cigarette thin, with hair as blond as yellow corn piled on top of her head. She had on snug-fitting coral capri pants of some shiny fabric. Her matching tank top was stretched tight across her chest, which, Diane guessed by the shape and cleavage, was as natural as the color of her hair. Despite her thin frame, the backs of her arms shook—along with her ornate earrings—as she punched the air with her fist in front of the guard.
    Her husband, equally irate, was as lean as she and looked about ten years younger. His straight brown hair came just below his ears. He had on tight jeans and a torn white tee shirt. The mild kyphotic curve of his spine caused his long torso to look slightly concave. Diane guessed it was from years of poor posture and not congenital.
    Diane and Frank got out of the car and Diane retrieved the suitcase of crime-scene paraphernalia. She’d had Frank stop by her apartment on the way so she could dig the case from the depths of her closet.
    They started toward the house and as they neared, Diane noticed Gil McFarland’s hands were stained black with grease. Abruptly, as if the sound of closing car doors only now reached their ears, Crystal and Gil turned.
    “This is your doing, Frank Duncan.” She came at him with her fists raised. “George was my son, my son, and this is my house, my house—do you hear? Mine.” She stopped in front of him and put her hands on her hips. I’m going in my house and get my things.” Her body made a slight twist every time she said my. My house, my things, my son. They were all the same to her, Diane thought; possessions. Her son was murdered in this house and though understanding that grief manifested itself in many ways, Diane saw none in Crystal McFarland.
    “This is Star’s house.” Frank was calmer