Scattered Graves dffi-6

by Beverly Connor

  The first thing she noticed was a treacly smell of per fume, and she wondered whether Neva, who had wanted to work with Diane’s imaging computers in the lab vault, had changed perfumes. But Neva didn’t usu ally wear it as heavy or as sweet as the aroma she smelled. Diane walked into her office just off the lab and stopped abruptly. There was a young woman sit ting at her desk. Her first thought was that it was Goldilocks sitting in her chair.

  Chapter 8

  ‘‘Can I help you?’’ said Goldilocks. ‘‘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 were carefully worked out between the city attorneys and ours. At no time did this forensic anthropology lab relinquish any of its connection to the museum. It be longs to and is administered by the museum.’’

  She hoped like hell that Colin and the museum ac countants could find a way to break the contract with the crime lab and get rid of this damn nuisance. Bryce had suddenly become a major pain in her backside.

  One problem with breaking the contract was the taxes the museum would have to pay each year. That was the little blackmail scheme the last administration had thought up. They upped the taxes because of valu able assets the museum owned, then offered to forgive them if Diane would house and run the crime lab.

  She thought they could work around the taxes. They hadn’t fought it at the time because she and the board liked the idea of the crime lab. And it had worked out well. She had not, however, accounted for such a change in the thinking of new administrations—she should have.

  ‘‘You are a disturbed woman who can’t let go, and you’ve concocted this tale,’’ said Bryce. ‘‘I’ll have the city attorney look at the contract right now.’’ He grabbed his cell, punched in a number, and spoke to someone in low tones.

  Jennifer had retreated from the two of them and was leaning against one of the metal tables. She had her arms wrapped around herself as she gazed around the room. She looked both angry and scared. Diane wasn’t sure who she was angry with, her or Bryce.

  ‘‘Now do we have everything under control?’’ said Diane when Bryce was off the phone.

  ‘‘This thing about the forensic anthropology lab is not finished by a long shot,’’ he said.

  ‘‘No, you’re wrong. It’s over,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘We’ll see. In the meantime, Jennifer will be work ing here,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Have you heard nothing I said? This is my lab, and I don’t need an assistant,’’ said Diane.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jennifer flinch at the word assistant. Diane needed to ratchet the ten sion down, but she wasn’t sure how, other than give away her lab. And she wasn’t going to do that, even temporarily.

  ‘‘Jennifer is the official Rosewood forensic anthro pologist. She is the person all skeletal remains will be given to for analysis. What will you need a big lab for then?’’

  David had told her Bryce was clueless. She’d thought David was just overly critical, but apparently he was right. The man really didn’t know anything.

  ‘‘Bryce, Rosewood gets how many skeletons a year? Almost none. Virtually all of the bones we analyze come to me from neighboring counties, other states, and other countries. I’m all for Rosewood having its own forensic anthropologist, but the city will have to supply her with a lab and equipment. You can’t ask the museum to do it. Now, I have work to do.’’

  ‘‘I’ll see you later today—with the police if neces sary,’’ said Bryce. He stomped out of the lab.

  Diane looked over at Jennifer.

  ‘‘I need to get my purse,’’ she said.

  Diane followed her into the office. ‘‘You moved here from Ca
lifornia?’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Yes, with my family. My husband quit a job he loved in order to support my career,’’ she said, retriev ing her purse from the bottom drawer of the desk.

  Diane hardly knew what to say. She should have been kinder to her. This had to be a blow. Bryce may not have believed her, but Jennifer knew something was not right.

  ‘‘I’m sure they’ll find you very good lab space,’’ began Diane.

  Jennifer looked sharply at Diane. ‘‘I don’t need your pity.’’

  Diane was surprised at her vehemence. ‘‘I wasn’t offering you pity,’’ she said, ‘‘just friendliness.’’

  Jennifer put her purse under her arm and walked out of the office, the heels of her Dolce & Gabbana pumps clicking on the floor like ricocheting bullets. At least she’s rich, thought Diane.

  Diane stood for a moment staring at the closed door. ‘‘This has got to be the strangest day,’’ she said under her breath.

  She saw that the watercolor of the lone wolf hunting that she kept on the wall, the only decoration in her osteology office, had been taken down and was leaning against the wall. She walked over and picked it up.

  ‘‘Now, why didn’t Goldilocks like you?’’ she said to the picture. ‘‘Maybe she’s friends with Little Red Rid ing Hood.’’ Diane hung the painting back on the wall.

  She then changed the key code on the doors to the lab. Safely locked in, she went to the drying racks to look at the wood-chipper bones.

  She put on her lab coat and gloves, stopping mo mentarily to see whether she could hear any more closet conversations. All was quiet. She checked the bones. They were mostly dry, and she began laying them out on the table in basically anatomical position. They looked like a fossil find—like Lucy laid out with her tiny ribs and scant bones. Diane had only seventytwo pieces of bone to work with.

  She picked up the petrous part of the temporal bone, the bone she hoped would reveal the sex, made measurements of the fragment, and recorded them. She mixed up casting compound and began making a cast of the acoustic canal. She set the poured cast aside and examined the rest of the fragments one by one, looking for any anomalies, any cut marks that might not have been made by the wood chipper, anything that might have identification value. She reached for a piece of the hip bone that included the pubic symphysis—the place where the two sides of the hip bones join. The surface was rugged with well-defined grooves, which meant the person was young—late teens, early twenties.

  Diane turned to get the camera to photograph the piece when she was suddenly jarred out of her thoughts by very loud yelling coming from the crime lab next door.

  Chapter 9

  Diane stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. The voices were coming from deeper within the lab and not the closet. She reached for a phone to call the crime lab when she heard her name.

  Okay , she thought, it’s somehow about me. I am the landlord, so to speak, and this sounds serious. Land lords check into serious noises.

  She walked to the adjoining door, unlocked it, and entered the crime lab. It hadn’t changed much, still all glass and metal cubicles and fancy equipment. The voices were clearer now. One was Sheriff Canfield’s; he was red faced and very angry. He was standing in front of Bryce, yelling at him. Bryce was backed against a desk, staring wide-eyed at the taller sheriff.

  A woman with long blond hair in a ponytail, wear ing khaki slacks and a pink polo shirt, sat in one of the cubicles with her door open. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips turned into almost a smile. Must be Rikki. Diane thought the look on Rikki’s face was far too excited. She was obviously enjoying the con frontation. Diane glanced around the room but didn’t see Neva.

  ‘‘Did you really think you could get away with this? What goes on in the heads of you people? We didn’t elect you...’’

  Bryce caught sight of Diane. He straightened up and pointed a finger at her.

  ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he said.

  ‘‘I heard the yelling,’’ she began.

  Sheriff Canfield turned and saw Diane’s face. ‘‘You’ve

  been hurt,’’ he said. ‘‘What in the world happened to you?’’ His concern was obvious and sincere. ‘‘Police brutality,’’ she said.

  Bryce shook his finger in her direction. ‘‘Get out. This is none of your business.’’

  Bryce’s callousness angered Canfield just that much more. ‘‘It is most certainly her business,’’ said Canfield. ‘‘Now, get the bones and give them to her right now. Do you hear? Now!’’

  ‘‘Sheriff, we’ve hired a forensic anthropologist to analyze our bones, if you will give her a chance,’’ said Bryce. His voice and manner were remarkably calm, considering the situation.

  ‘‘I don’t give a shit if you hired Britney Spears to buy your underwear. You don’t get to decide who the bones go to; I do.’’

  ‘‘What’s going on?’’ asked Diane.

  ‘‘This son of a bitch waylaid my deputy on the way to bring you the rest of the bones we’ve found so far—and it was a lot of them, with some hair and fingernails mixed in. My deputy was on his way to your lab with them when this dirtbag stopped him and took them away from him. He and a security guard damn near wrestled them out of my deputy’s hands. My deputy told me Bryce said he would deliver them to you, but I knew better.’’

  ‘‘We didn’t wrestle them from him,’’ said Bryce.

  ‘‘How did you know they were on the way?’’ Diane asked him.

  ‘‘Huh?’’ Bryce looked at her, silent for a moment. ‘‘We didn’t. The security guard and I just happened to be out there when the deputy drove up.’’

  ‘‘The bones,’’ repeated the sheriff. ‘‘Get the damn bones and give them to Diane. And if you ever do anything like this again, I’ll put your ass in a sling.’’

  Their attention was diverted at the sudden sound of the elevator. After a moment the doors opened and Jennifer Jeffcote-Smith stepped out, carrying a tray with three cups of coffee.

  ‘‘Jennifer,’’ said Bryce, ‘‘give the sheriff back his bones.’’

  She gave one of the coffees to Rikki and brought another to Bryce. The third she held in her hand.

  ‘‘I haven’t finished with them,’’ she said. ‘‘I just got them an hour ago.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care,’’ said Sheriff Canfield. ‘‘You shouldn’t have had them in the first place.’’

  Jennifer looked at Bryce, then the sheriff, and finally Diane. Her eyes narrowed when her gaze got to Diane. It lingered a moment; then she suddenly switched her attention to the sheriff and laid a dazzling smile on him.

  ‘‘I’m perfectly capable of analyzing those bones,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’m sure you are, ma’am, and I’m not questioning your credentials or your abilities. We’ve got a jurisdic tion issue here. Please pack up the bones and give them to Diane,’’ said Canfield.

  Jennifer looked at Bryce and he nodded. She audi bly sighed and walked over to the room that was Da vid’s photography studio.

  Diane stood with the sheriff, wishing she hadn’t come into the crime lab, thinking that maybe it wasn’t a good thing for landlords to check out suspicious noises after all. As she waited, she studied Bryce, who stood looking at nothing in particular, the corners of his mouth turned slightly down. Trying to usurp Canfield’s jurisdiction was a stupid thing to do, even if he thought it was a way to poke Diane in the eye. Why had he done it?

  Jennifer wasn’t gone long—and she came back empty-handed. They all looked at her. Diane thought she looked alarmed, but she quickly regained her com posure. She walked to Rikki’s cubicle.

  ‘‘Did you move the bones?’’ she asked Rikki.

  ‘‘Why would I?’’ said Rikki. ‘‘I don’t do bones.’’ She put the end of a pencil in her mouth, and Diane wanted to tell her not to pick up things in a crime lab and put them in her mouth.

  ‘‘Okay.’’ Jennifer cleared her throat. ‘‘The, ah, bones aren’t
where I left them. Has someone been in my lab?’’ Her voice had a slightly higher pitch and a strained calm quality to it.

  ‘‘What?’’ said the sheriff, looking at Bryce. ‘‘You’ve lost them?’’

  ‘‘I haven’t lost them,’’ said Bryce. He turned to Jen nifer. ‘‘What do you mean they’re not where you left them? Where did you leave them?’’

  ‘‘In my lab,’’ she said. ‘‘They were in tubs on the table, and now they are gone.’’

  ‘‘Could you have put them somewhere else?’’ asked Bryce.

  ‘‘No. They aren’t where I left them. Someone must have come in and moved them while I was getting the coffee,’’ she said.