Scattered Graves

happened there. The neighbors had been awakened by the arrival of the police just one too many times, and they were frightened. Diane understood that. Everyone needs peace in their lives.
    She was staying with Frank Duncan temporarily until she found herself a new place. Frank was a detec tive in the Metro-Atlanta Fraud and Computer Foren sics Unit. Atlanta wasn’t far from Rosewood, and Frank drove into the city daily to work. He wanted her to move in with him permanently. She was think ing about it, but she was also thinking that she wanted her own house. Despite Frank’s terrific hospitality, she still felt like a guest. Somehow, coming into someone’s house and using it as her own didn’t seem right to her.
    However,
working out
for the moment, the arrangement was better than she had expected. She had
    gained a measure of peace in her own life by moving in with Frank. And if the truth be known, no longer being director of the crime lab gave her time—a price less commodity. She had time to design the new pri mate exhibit, she had more time to spend with Frank, she was learning to play the piano, and she’d been caving three times this month alone. And she was even considering getting a dog, maybe an Irish wolfhound or a Lab. Life was good. She was thinking about her good life as she turned into the driveway.
    Frank’s house was a Queen Anne set back from the road. It was a house much like Frank—traditional, reliable, solid. It had polished hardwood floors, sandcolored walls, and oak and walnut furniture as substan tial as the house itself. It always smelled like furniture polish and always shined.
    Frank wasn’t there when Diane arrived. He’d left a message on his answering machine saying he wouldn’t be back until the following day. It wasn’t uncommon— Frank traveled a lot in his job—but it was a shame; it was nice when they both got home early. Diane spent the evening watching the Sci Fi channel—that was also nice. Frank wasn’t the science fiction fan she was, and Diane would not subject him to a Star Trek marathon if he was home.
    Frank called just before Diane got into bed.
    ‘‘How was your day?’’ she asked as she snuggled into the softness of the down mattress.
‘‘Good. Love putting the white-collar guys away. They never expect it. I’ve been chasing a spate of identity theft complaints. Those are always fun to track down. And I got an Atlanta mortgage embezzler who’s been on the run with a few million of his com pany’s money. They picked him up in Hawaii.’’
‘‘Wonder why he didn’t go outside of U.S. jurisdic tion if he went that far,’’ said Diane.
Frank started laughing. ‘‘He thought he had.’’
‘‘You’re kidding?’’ Diane grinned as much at Frank’s mirth as at the humor of the failed escape. She could just see his eyes crinkle and sparkle as he laughed.
‘‘I kid you not. It made my day. Another good an swer for all those kids who ask, ‘Why do I have to learn this? I’ll never use it.’ So, tell me about your day.’’
Diane told him about the progress on the exhibits, but not about the bones found in the farmer’s field. Sliced-up bones weren’t a conversation topic she wanted to have before she went to sleep. They talked for almost an hour. A good end to the day.
    The morning brought sunshine and sparkling frost on the ground. It was a great day to be outside and a great day to take the scenic route to work. It was a little longer, but it was her favorite route, especially in the morning when there was little traffic. The nar row road went through a short patch of woods that were beautiful even in winter when most of the trees were bare of leaves. The trees had shades of bark that ranged from dark brown to tan to almost white, interspersed with the greenery of spruce, cedar, and magnolia trees. And you never knew when a doe and her fawn might be grazing along the roadway or dash ing for the woods.
    As she drove, Diane listened to classical music on the radio. On the hour, the news came on, and she started to change stations but stopped when she heard that the first item of local news was about the bones. She frowned as the anchor described it as the woodchipper murder and told of the crushed bones of an unknown victim found by Rose County farmer Arlen Wilson and his grandson. Sheriff Canfield explained to a persistent reporter that the bones were only recently found and he didn’t yet know whom they belonged to but that a