‘‘How could he not know the forensic anthropology lab belongs to the museum?’’ asked Frank.
‘‘I don’t know. It’s true that I haven’t done any work for the crime lab since Bryce took over. Nothing has come up. That’s not particularly unusual. Maybe that’s why he thought I was no longer working as the forensic anthropologist. But I would have thought the new administration would have known.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘It’s straightened out now. I feel sorry for the forensic anthropologist he hired. She was totally broadsided today. I don’t know why David or Neva didn’t tell him the lab belongs to the museum.’’
‘‘Why didn’t David tell you about the forensic an thropologist?’’ asked Frank.
Diane hesitated a second and sat up. That was a good question.
‘‘Perhaps he didn’t know about it,’’ she said.
‘‘He didn’t know?’’ said Frank with a raised eye brow. ‘‘Is that likely?’’ He pulled her back to him.
‘‘No. David always knows everything going on in the lab. He didn’t tell me because he wanted me to be surprised and more inclined to rip Bryce a new one.’’ She stared at the fireplace and wished there was a fire in it. ‘‘I’m worried about David. He is really very levelheaded, despite his playing at being paranoid. But lately he seems truly paranoid. Losing the lab was a blow to all of us, including me. And now is not a good time for either of us.’’
The two of them had worked together as human rights investigators. They probed and recorded the worst behavior of humankind in hopes of achieving even the smallest amount of justice. In South America they were uncovering mass graves filled by a particu larly vicious dictator. He struck back at them hard. In the massacre he led, Diane had lost her adopted daughter, and both she and David had lost many good friends.
Diane had spent months in despair and on benzodi azepine. When she finally stepped back into life again, she couldn’t go back to doing the work she had done before. The offer to be director of RiverTrail Museum of Natural History was a salvation. She was several months into her position when David Goldstein showed up and asked for a job. Like her, he had been aimless since the massacre, walking a fine line this side of sanity. He wanted to work in Diane’s newly estab lished crime lab. There he felt he could actually bring bad guys to justice.
And now it was coming up on the anniversary of the massacre. Every year it was hard. Every year they managed. This year David had had his comfortable rug pulled out from under him when the new mayor of Rosewood decided to rearrange the spoils of his election victory.
Frank reached out a hand and grasped hers. ‘‘I know,’’ he whispered.
Diane had been able to adjust to being replaced as director of the crime lab mainly because of Frank. Living with Frank held nice surprises. He was the most levelheaded, reasonable person she had ever known. She hadn’t realized how calming it would be just being with him on a daily basis.
The last things Frank did before going to bed were to play the piano—some beautiful piece—then, before turning out the light, he wrote in a journal. After their first several days living together, Diane mentioned that she hadn’t known he kept a journal.
‘‘It started when Kevin was younger. Cindy and I were in the middle of our divorce, and Kevin was having trouble dealing with it and with some problems at school,’’ Frank had told her. ‘‘I could see he was suffering. I started reading psychology books and searching the Internet. I was looking for some way to help us both through a rough time. There’s a mountain of junk psychology out there. You’d be surprised how little of it has any factual basis. But you know how we detectives are...’’
‘‘Handsome and sexy?’’ Diane had said.
‘‘Thorough. We leave nothing undone. I uncovered a couple of articles on new research into how people can make themselves happier.’’
‘‘I have some ideas on how I could make you hap pier,’’ Diane had said, smiling at him.
‘‘I’ll take you up on that.’’ He had kissed her.
‘‘Tell me about your journal first,’’ she had said.
‘‘Had I known you were such a tease,’’ he’d said. ‘‘The research involved a simple technique which I thought at first was too good to be true. But it turns out it works. Every night before I go to sleep, I think of three good things that happened that day and I write them in my journal. Then I spend a moment thinking about why they occurred. That’s all there is to it.’’
‘‘And this works?’’ Diane remembered being in credulous.
‘‘It does. It worked for Kevin, and it works for me. It helped Kevin realize that not everything was going wrong in his life. It’s very subtle, but it works. It im mediately improved my dreams, and I noticed that I had a happier outlook on life. It has a long-term calm ing effect on me. Hadn’t you noticed?’’
‘‘You’ve always been a calm, happy guy,’’ Diane had told him. ‘‘According to your brothers, you were born that way.’’
‘‘This still helps,’’ he’d said.
‘‘You write down things that go well in your job?’’ Diane had asked.
‘‘Sure. If I solve a case, or if I see something nice like a dog riding down the road with his head hanging out the window and a smile on his face, or you. I write a lot about you. Just a sentence or two, like the times you returned from a caving trip with no bruises or near-death experiences. Then I go to sleep having thought only about the good things during the day and not about the meanness I saw or the guy that got away.’’
Diane adopted that habit. She didn’t write it down. She just went to sleep listing in her mind the good things that went well during the day. Frank was right. It was subtle, but it worked.
Diane was wondering what three good things she could possibly think of from this stupid day. Being with Frank was definitely one of them. She started to kiss him when the telephone interrupted the moment and Frank went to answer it.
‘‘It’s for you,’’ he said, coming back with the phone in his hand. ‘‘There’s something going on at the mu seum that needs your attention.’’
Chapter 11
