One Grave Too Many

The Boone family portrait was like that. They all looked happy-and so different from the only other photos she had seen of them. George and Louise were in the center of the picture, their bodies slightly facing each other and their faces turned toward the camera.

George’s tanned face testified that he spent time outdoors. His short dark brown hair was receding slightly. His dark eyes, staring at Diane from the picture, looked friendly. Louise had what might be called a perky face. Her smile was big and crinkled the corners of her hazel eyes. Her shoulder-length brown hair and bangs made her look carefree and young.

Jay’s forearm rested on his father’s back, as if casually leaning against him, a broad smile illuminating his face. He looked so young. He and Star looked alike-dark hair, dark eyes, same slender straight noses. Star’s hair was a short cut with one side combed over and longer than the other. A blond streak on each side framed her face. She had the same charming grin as her brother. It was hard to imagine that Star could turn on her family. But family portraits aren’t meant to show the dark side.

Diane set the picture down beside the other photographs of various family members-cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents? She noted that there were none of Crystal McFarland.

She disengaged herself from thoughts about the family, glad she hadn’t known them, and began again with her task of measuring their drops of blood, computing angles, stringing trajectory lines. The work had such inherent tedium and required such focus, it was easy to keep her mind on the task and not try to analyze the data before all of it was in. But she did have a few ideas forming. An interview with Star would be good. Perhaps Frank would arrange it.

As she measured and computed in the quiet house, sounds subtly began to ease into her consciousness-the owl she’d heard earlier, the house settling. House settling — what did that mean exactly? What was actually settling? The wood framing? And why was it starting now?

She stopped a moment, as she often did when stray thoughts began intruding too far into her task. A straying mind makes mistakes. She put down her tools, stretched, and kneaded her tired shoulders. Her stomach growled, and she looked at her watch. Frank seemed to be taking his time. Probably buying several of everything so they could have a choice. She smiled at the memory of the stack of doughnuts he had brought to her apartment.

There it was again-a creaking, like one board rubbing against another. Now that she wasn’t making any noise, the settling sound was louder. She listened, wondering if all old houses make sounds. Creak. She walked around the bed to the doorway and listened. Nothing. Silly, she thought, mentally reminding herself that it had been Melissa in Andie’s office and not some intruder, and that she was apt to become crazy and paranoid if she didn’t watch herself.

She had started to pick up her measuring tools when she heard it again. From her vantage point by the door, it seemed to be coming from the stairs. It reminded her of the jump tales told around campfires-the ones where the ghost keeps saying: “I’m on the first step. . I’m on the second step. . ” Now she was being silly.

Of course, it could be Frank coming back and setting up in the kitchen or somewhere before he called to her. This is ridiculous, she thought. She headed for the stairs. From the top she peered down the stairway into the darkness. Hadn’t the lights been on downstairs?

“Frank?” she called out. No response. It wasn’t him. It was probably nothing. She turned to go back to work, determined to keep her mind on what she was doing. There it was again; another creaking sound. A hand clasped on her arm from behind.

Diane jumped instinctively and pulled away, but the hand stayed, the grip biting into her upper arm. She grabbed at the fingers as she was pulled and shoved, trying to turn around to see who it was. She was pushed forward through a doorway and fell on her shoulder, skidding on a rug across a hardwood floor, bumping her head on some piece of furniture. She saw the butcher knife looming over her before she saw the face of the person who held it.

“I’ll cut you with this. I will.”

Diane looked into the twisted face of a boy of about sixteen, his tangled brown hair falling into his eyes. His clothes looked as if he’d been living in a cave. They were wrinkled, dirty and covered with cobwebs.

“You’re Star’s boyfriend, aren’t you?” Diane found herself saying with more resolve than she felt.

“Shut up!”

She clutched the dresser she had landed next to and pulled herself to her feet. Her gaze darted around the room. Cedar bed and dresser, buck head mounted above the green-and-red plaid-covered bed, no personal items. The guest room? Had he been living here? No. It was too neat. Her mind was a whirl of questions and her head hurt.

He stood a few feet away. Holding the knife toward her. “I heard you and him talking. You want to pin this on me-me and Star.”

“No, that’s not true.”

He waved the knife. “Don’t lie. I heard you talking. I heard what he was saying.”

“What you heard was fear that maybe Star did it. You heard fear, not certainty. You heard when he talked about Star, he couldn’t even make a complete sentence. Frank loves Star. She’s the daughter of his best friend. He’s her guardian now, and he’s scared to death for her. If you were listening, you had to have heard that.” Diane thought she saw a subtle change in his features. “Do you know who did this?” she asked.

“I didn’t. Neither did Star.”

“Why, then, are you standing here holding a knife on me?”

“ ’Cause. . Look, shut up. You don’t know nothing.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” She heard the high-pitched sound of her phone ringing in the other room. “That’s my phone. He’ll expect me to answer it.”

“He’ll just think you went to the bathroom or turned it off.”

“At any rate, he’ll be back soon.”

“I know.” He paced back and forth between her and the door. “I got to think.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Don’t talk. I got to think.”

“What’s your name?”

“Look, what do I have to do to get you to shut up?”

“Why did you pull me in here? Why didn’t you just hide out until we left? You must want something.”

“I thought you were going to search the house, and I’d get you first. And maybe you have some money.”

“Okay, now that you have me first, what are you going to do?”

He took a couple of steps toward her. “I could get rid of you.”

“If you didn’t kill Star’s parents, why start now? Look, let me help you. What’s your name?”

“Dean! It’s Dean. Are you satisfied? Don’t you think I know you just want to turn me in?”

“Turning yourself in might not be a bad idea.”

“It sounds like a bad idea to me. You people are all alike. You have to have control, tell me what to do.”

“No. You have control over what you do. You make up your own mind. I’m just suggesting you do something that works. This isn’t working for you. Look at yourself in the mirror. Unless rheumy eyes and snot running out of your nose is a new fad like green hair and body piercing, you’re not doing that well. You’re hungry, you’re alone, the police are looking for you-it’s not working.”

He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “Yeah, and just what do you think turning myself in will do?”

“It will be a start in solving this. It will look really good for you if your lawyer can say to the court that you turned yourself in because you’re innocent and want to help find out who killed your girlfriend’s parents.”

“Like they’re going to believe that. Besides, I can’t afford a lawyer. They’ll just give me one of those free ones that don’t know nothing.”

“Do you know how to make a silencer?”

He looked at Diane as if she were the one on drugs. “What? A silencer? Like a hit man uses? That metal thing you screw on your gun? No, I don’t know how to make one. How would I know how to make one of those?”

“How did you and Star get her grandfather’s coins?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”