Free Scattered Graves by Beverly Connor Page A

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 California?’’ 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