One Grave Too Many

Is everything all right with you? How’s Kevin?”
    “Kevin’s fine. But I’m at the hospital. I got a call when I got home. Star tried to commit suicide this morning. She’s not good.”
    “Oh, Frank.” Diane’s voice trembled. This is not the time to collapse, she scolded herself.
    “I didn’t want to tell you, I mean, after last night, but . . .”
    “Do you know what happened?”
    “It was after they picked up her breakfast. She used a corner of her bed to cut her wrists. God, she had to be desperate to go through that. They said she lost a lot of blood.”
    “An otherwise healthy person can lose up to forty percent of their blood volume before they even require a transfusion.” After she said it, Diane realized that it must have sounded so technical and cold. She wanted to be comforting. “I can come over.”
    “I don’t know what to do,” he said.
    So much sadness. Diane felt guilty. Last night her story, and now this.
    “Find out who did this to her family. It won’t heal her overnight, but it will help.”
    “I know, but right now, I don’t know what else to do,” he repeated. “We got all this information, but what does it leave us with?”
    “That’s why I called. I think I know where to look for the rest of the skeleton.”

Chapter 22
    The other end of the phone was silent except for the hospital sounds in the background.
    “The skeleton?” Frank finally said. “You mean the one the collarbone was taken from? You know where it is?”
    “Maybe. I’m not certain, but it’s a good lead. Remember I told you that it might be someplace where animals were processed? Andie told me about an item in the sheriff’s incident report about someone trespassing on land belonging to a taxidermist.”
    Sheriff’s incident report. Diane just realized that probably meant it was in the county and not the city limits—not the jurisdiction of the chief of detectives but in the jurisdiction of the county sheriff. She hoped that boded well for their investigation.
    “I remembered the mounted animal heads in George’s house, and that sounded like a good lead. This was just a few days ago. The trespasser could be someone looking to recover a body he left there several years ago, hoping it would never be discovered.”
    “That does make sense.”
    Diane could hear relief in his voice. Hope is a powerful thing.
    “Do you know the taxidermist’s name?” he asked.
    “It might be Luther.”
    “Luther Abercrombie. He’s mounted a fish or two for me. Did some work for George too. You too, as a matter of fact.”
    “Me?”
    “If I’m not mistaken, Milo Lorenzo bought some stuffed animals from him for the Georgia collection.”
    “Can we make arrangements to go see him?”
    “Yeah. We can do that. I want to visit with Star first, when they let me in.”
    “Would you like me to come to the hospital? Could you use some company?”
    “No, but thanks. I’ll be all right, especially now we have this lead. Maybe I can hold out some hope for her. Look, thanks, Diane. This . . . just, thanks.”

    “So,” said Sheriff Bruce Canfield, “you’re asking me if I can help solve one of the biggest murders here in decades and at the same time make a fool of that new chief of detectives in Rosewood?”
    Sheriff Canfield was a large man in his late fifties. He had a full head of hair the color of brown that comes from a bottle, and a uniform that looked like it might have shrunk a bit in the wash. He laughed out loud.
    “That’s not exactly the way we’d put it,” said Frank, grinning at the sheriff. “But yes, that’s what we’re asking.”
    “Well, who can pass up a deal like that? Let’s go.” He stood up and guided them out of his office. “How is George’s little girl?”
    “Right now she’s sleeping and sedated.” Frank told him about her trying to kill herself.
    “Poor thing. Maybe we can do something here.”
    Diane and Frank followed the sheriff’s car out to the Abercrombie farm, which consisted of three hundred acres of woodland and pastures, a white farmhouse and a garage with a sign that read ABERCROMBIE’S TAXIDERMY. They parked their cars on a gravel drive and walked up to the gate. The sign on the gate read: I’LL GIVE UP MY GUN WHEN THEY PRY IT FROM MY COLD, DEAD FINGERS.
    The sheriff opened the gate and hollered, “Luther, you got company.”
    A man much younger than Diane had imagined came out of the taxidermy shop wearing a leather apron and wiping his hands on a