Scattered Graves

‘‘Are you lost?’’
    Diane stared at her, wondering whether perhaps the woman had escaped from an asylum.
‘‘Oh, by the way,’’ Goldilocks continued. ‘‘I’m Dr. Jennifer Jeffcote-Smith. I’ve just arrived from Cali fornia.’’
And you got lost somewhere over Utah , thought Diane.
‘‘Nice to meet you, Dr. Jeffcote-Smith, I’m Dr. Diane Fallon and I’m wondering what you are doing in my office.’’
Jennifer Jeffcote-Smith, attired in a powder blue silk suit that matched her eyes and went great with her shoulder-length wavy blond hair, stared blankly at Diane for a moment.
‘‘Oh,’’ she said finally. ‘‘Well, this is awkward.’’
The expression on her face looked to Diane as if Dr. Jeffcote-Smith thought it was awkward only for Diane. There appeared to be a tiny gleam in her eye and an almost imperceptible twist at the corners of her evenly lipsticked mouth that could easily turn into a smirk.
‘‘No, not awkward,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I’m sure it must be some kind of strange misunderstanding.’’ Like I just walked into a parallel universe.
‘‘Lloyd said you—well, aren’t working here,’’ she said.
‘‘That would be Lloyd Bryce?’’ said Diane.
‘‘Yes; let me go get him. This had better come from him, don’t you think?’’
Dr. Jeffcote-Smith rose and started out the door.
‘‘Oh, I need to get in the vault to familiarize myself with the equipment. I understand it’s state-of-the-art. If you would write the key code down for the door, I’d appreciate it.’’ She walked out of the office, across the lab, and out the door that led to the crime lab.
Diane was still speechless at the effrontery. What was Bryce thinking? Obviously Bryce had asked either Neva or David to let the woman in the lab. No one else had the code to Diane’s door.
It was several minutes before Jennifer JeffcoteSmith returned with Lloyd Bryce. He came bustling in with a deep frown on his face, his dark eyes ablaze with annoyance. He wore jeans, a brown sport coat, and a yellow-gold shirt. Diane could tell it was an expensive shirt, but oddly, it made him look cheap. He wasn’t a tall man. He was trim, had dark short hair, and wore too much aftershave. She tried not to breathe deeply.
Diane hadn’t liked him from the beginning and wasn’t sure why. Now she was beginning to think her initial reaction had been a premonition.
He hesitated a moment, studying her face, but he didn’t ask the obvious question. ‘‘Diane, you are just making a fool of yourself.’’ Bryce sounded a bit like a machine gun with words for bullets.
Dr. Jeffcote-Smith’s mouth was definitely starting to look like a smirk. She was enjoying this, and Diane wasn’t sure why. She’d never met the woman.
‘‘I think not, Lloyd,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Look at that brass plaque on the wall. What does it say?’’
‘‘Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab. I’ve read it. I don’t know who Aidan Kavanagh is, but he has nothing to do with this. You don’t work here any more. I’ve hired Jennifer to be the new forensic an thropologist, and that’s that. Any effort to hang on will only prove humiliating to you. Now, go run your little museum.’’
‘‘Aidan Kavanagh has everything to do with this,’’ said Diane evenly. ‘‘His father is the major funding source for this lab. The other major funding source is the museum. This is a private lab, privately funded, under the control of the RiverTrail Museum of Natu ral History and its director. That would be me. This lab predates the crime lab, and there are no public monies involved. It is not an agency of the city of Rosewood. You have no authority here whatsoever.’’
Bryce stared at her like she was speaking a language he didn’t understand. Perhaps she was. Perhaps you can’t do this was completely foreign to him. Jennifer’s smirk had lost some of it’s momentum. In her eyes Diane saw what looked like fear. That was odd too.
‘‘You would say anything,’’ he said at last. ‘‘I’ve seen contracts.’’
‘‘This is not a matter of what I would or would not say to keep my lab. It’s a matter of legal record. What you saw may have been the contract the forensic lab has with Rosewood, but apparently you didn’t read it. There is not so much as a paper clip that passes be tween these units that is not recorded and checked by accountants. When Rosewood had their idea of put ting the crime lab in museum space, the contracts