Scattered Graves

isn’t
really a lab.’’ She took another sip of her hot coffee.
‘‘Why would you ask about a bullet hole in the occipi
tal anyway?’’ Jennifer looked at Diane suspiciously. ‘‘I have the first bones that were found,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I saw something that might be beveling on a piece
of occipital. I had intended to try to piece the skull
together—see if perhaps it was a bullet hole.’’ ‘‘They were in too many distorted pieces. It wouldn’t
be possible,’’ said Jennifer.
‘‘Maybe and maybe not. Did you notice anything
that suggested there was more than one individual?’’
asked Diane.
‘‘I hadn’t gotten that far. Frankly, Bryce had me
running errands most of the morning—getting stuff for my lab. We were going to convert the darkroom into
a lab.’’
Diane stood up. ‘‘I’m sorry this is happening,’’ she
said. ‘‘I really am.’’ She turned to go, then turned
back. ‘‘Out of curiosity, whose idea was it that you go
get coffee? Was it your idea or someone else’s?’’ ‘‘Bryce...,’’ Jennifer began and suddenly stopped.
The look in Jennifer’s eyes told Diane everything she
needed to know.
She left Jennifer there, figuratively and literally cry
ing over her coffee. Diane felt very tired. She decided
to go home. Maybe Frank would be there.

Chapter 10
    Frank wasn’t home, but he hadn’t left a message say ing he wasn’t coming. Diane sat down at the piano to practice as soon as she had put her things down. Frank had a baby grand piano, and he was teaching her how to play. When she had first seen his piano, she re marked, the way people do when they see a beautiful piano, ‘‘Oh, I wish I could play.’’ He said he would teach her, but she resisted the idea at first. She thought she should learn on some lesser piano. Somehow, the quality of her playing and the quality of the sound of such a fine piano didn’t seem like a good match. But there was something heavenly about sitting down and listening to the sound of the hammers striking the strings, even if all you could play was ‘‘Off We Go to Music Land.’’ Today she played to keep her mind fo cused more than anything else.
    Fortunately she had progressed since those begin ning lessons and was now learning a nocturne by Chopin. It was from a book of easy classic pieces for the piano; most of the notes were taken out, leaving the basic melody and some harmonic chords. But it was pretty and she could play it—a little.
    She hadn’t been playing long when she heard the door open. She stopped.
‘‘Don’t stop on my account,’’ said Frank. ‘‘It’s sound ing good.’’
‘‘It’s still not right, and I’m not sure...’’
She heard him put his car keys in the small ceramic tray he used for that purpose, then his watch, and the change in his pockets. After a moment she smelled the scent of him—a mixture of Frank and aftershave. He came up behind her, put his face next to hers, and kissed her jawline.
‘‘You’re treating the measures as if there were a slight rest at the end of each one. Measures are just that—a unit of measure. Play right through it.’’ He put his hands around her, under her arms, and began playing the piece. After a moment he switched to the full Chopin, adding the notes that had been left out for beginners like her. He included the grace notes, the trills, the full range of keys along the keyboard. He stopped abruptly.
‘‘See?’’ he said.
Diane laughed, stood up, turned, and kissed him. ‘‘Yeah, I get it. I need more practice.’’
Frank’s jaw dropped when he got a look at her face. ‘‘Diane, my God, what happened?’’
‘‘Did you hear anything on the news?’’ said Diane.
‘‘No,’’ he said. He came around the piano bench and touched her face and put his arms around her. ‘‘What happened?’’ he said again.
They sat down on the sofa and Diane leaned against him and told him about Delamore, the cliff, the death.
‘‘You almost died,’’ he said. ‘‘Diane . . . why didn’t you call me?’’
‘‘I didn’t want to upset you, and I was all right. As it turned out, he was in more danger than I was.’’
‘‘Diane...,’’ he said again, as if saying her name over and over would ensure she was really there. ‘‘Really, now I’m serious. I’ve had some experience with trauma and death—’’
‘‘As I well know.’’
‘‘Well, yes,’’ he said. ‘‘You have to believe me, for your own emotional