Free Murder Bone by Bone by Lora Roberts Page A

lock him up for the day.”
    Drake sighed. “Leave him here. I don’t want to be responsible for more phone calls about his howling.”
    “He doesn’t howl much anymore.”
    “If that’s what you think, it’s lucky for you I’m in a position to squash the neighbors’ complaints.”
    I hefted the knapsack. “Okay, does anyone need to go to the bathroom before we leave?”
    The boys ignored me. Moira, I already knew, was dry.
    It took four trips back and forth before all the kids and equipment were loaded into Bridget’s rusty old Suburban. I would have driven my own equally rusty VW bus, but it didn’t have enough space for all the equipment.
    The Suburban was a whole new driving experience for me. I lumbered it carefully down the driveway, managing not to hit any of the digging students. The Public Works crew was putting in overtime down the block, crunching through some more asphalt. I waved at Stewart, and he and Doug waved back.
    We threaded through cool, leafy streets. Palo Alto wore Sunday morning quiet; the sidewalks downtown were only crowded around the coffee and bagel shops. On an impulse I stopped at the Bagel Works. The kids fell on the warm cinnamon-raisin bagels with enthusiasm.
    Claudia, too, appreciated the cup of coffee I’d brought her in a to-go cup with a lid. She settled herself in the passenger seat and accepted responsibility for tending Moira and Mick, strapped into car seats on the middle bench. The older boys occupied the back bench, along with an indestructible-looking tape recorder, a pile of cassette tapes and Tintin books, a box of coloring books and crayons, and enough Legos to build a whole city.
    That Suburban was like a yacht. There was room behind the third bench seat for the rest of it: stroller, bulging diaper bag for Moira, change of clothes for both Mick and Moira in case of accident, everyone’s warm jacket in case it was cold in San Francisco, the knapsack of food, and the Suburban’s toolbox, which I desperately hoped not to need. I can keep my old bus running because I know it so well. I didn’t have a clue about Bridget’s car.
    Claudia sipped noisily at her coffee and took a bagel from the bag on the front seat. “This is a great idea,” she said, glancing behind her. “Keep the little mouths full, and they’re much quieter.”
    “It won’t last.” I headed for 280, the more scenic route to San Francisco. “Thanks for agreeing to come, Claudia I’m just not up to handling four kids in a museum by myself.”
    “Who is?” Claudia turned toward me. “I didn’t come because I’m so nice, Liz, so don’t waste your thanks on me. I came to hash over the bones.”
    I checked the rearview mirror to see the kids’ reaction to this. None of them appeared to be able to hear what we said in the front seat. Corky and Sam were barely visible way in back, their heads together over the tape recorder. Faint strains of Ray Stevens drifted up to us. In the middle seat, Mick munched steadily through his bagel. Moira wasn’t eating the piece of bagel clutched in her chubby fist; she had already succumbed to road hypnosis.
    “Okay, what about the bones?”
    Claudia wriggled herself more comfortably into the seat. She enjoyed second-guessing Drake about any of his cases, but especially the occasional suspicious death. In her opinion, he didn’t apply the scholarly method. “What have you learned from Drake?”
    “Nothing, really. He just wants to get them dug up and hopes to figure out who it is.”
    My peripheral vision glimpsed Claudia’s huge, Chessy-cat smile. “I know who it is.”
    “Claudia!” The Suburban bumped over a couple of lane markers before I wrenched it back into line. “How on earth—”
    “I don’t know his name, of course.” Claudia shrugged off this minor detail. “But I thought about it all evening, and when I talked to Melanie, I knew.”
    “Melanie? What does she have to do with it?”
    “Oh, nothing with the crime, I’m sure.”