Diane Fallon parked her car well out of the way alongside the narrow drive. She closed her car door and stood looking at the old farmhouse illuminated by the headlights of a police car and the forensics van already there. Diane was director of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History and director of the Rosewood Crime Lab, which was housed in the museum. It was in her role as crime lab director that she was here, but she suspected on this occasion she would be wearing both hats. That was because the house belonged to Dr. Marcella Payden, whom the museum’s archaeology curator, Jonas Briggs, had hired to create a reference collection of prehistoric potsherds for the museum’s archaeology department.
It was an old house, perhaps from the early 1900s, set among trees that looked old enough to be original to the place. The two-story white wooden structure had a blue tin roof and long open porches on the first and second floors that stretched across the front of the house. There was a redbrick chimney on each end. At one end of the house a metal carport contained a light-colored SUV. Large square-cut stones lined the gravel driveway.
The yard was mainly dirt with rock-bordered areas that had once been flower beds. Broken concrete yard ornaments-statuary, fountains, vases-littered the yard. From its appearance, the place could have been an archaeological dig. In reality, it was just an old farmhouse yard containing an odd assortment of disused items.
Diane changed from her heels to comfortable loafers and slipped a flannel shirt over her dark metallic burgundy cocktail dress. She held the shirt tight around her as she walked toward the house to shield herself from the wind, which was becoming chilly.
Neva Hurley and Izzy Wallace were taking their kits from the crime scene van as they spoke with a patrolman. Diane waved to them.
“What do you know?” asked Diane as she got within earshot.
Neva and Izzy were police officers with the Rosewood PD and two of the four crime scene investigators who worked for Diane. Neva was energetic, slim, and in her late twenties. Izzy, the newest member of the crime lab, was a fiftysomething, sturdily built guy. They grinned at her when she approached.
“You know Officer Daughtry?” asked Izzy, with a tilt of his head to indicate the patrolman.
“Diane Fallon,” she said, shaking the officer’s hand.
“Good to meet you, ma’am,” he said.
He seemed a little green. Must be a rookie, Diane thought.
“Nice outfit,” said Neva. “I like the way your dress matches the burgundy in the plaid of your shirt. Very lum berjack chic.”
Diane smiled. “I’ve been to a benefit at Bartrum University.”
Neva looked at her watch and up at the sky. It was close to dawn.
Diane gave her a weak smile. “Frank hasn’t given up on teaching me to dance. We went out afterward.”
There was a gust of cool wind and Diane folded her arms across her middle to keep the chill out. She thought she heard the faint ring of wind chimes in the distance. She nodded toward the house.
“David called me about this. What’s going on?”
David Goldstein was assistant director of the crime lab. This evening he was on duty handing out assignments while he worked in the lab.
“David called you?” said Neva. “He didn’t have to. We’ve got it covered. Ol’ Izzy here is doing pretty good.” Neva punched him affectionately in the shoulder. “Rosewood PD said a woman was attacked here earlier tonight.”
“Attacked? She survived?” Diane asked. Her body relaxed.
“Yes, but I don’t know how bad off she is,” said Neva. “The lead detective’s on his way. I think he’s been questioning someone. That’s all I know.”
Neva looked at Patrolman Daughtry as if he might have more information. He shook his head and shrugged.
“I was told to wait here for Detective Hanks,” he said.
Neva squinted, observing Diane. “Is there something special about this case?”
“Marcella Payden is an adjunct professor of archaeology at Bartrum and a consultant for the museum,” said Diane.
“Oh,” said Neva. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The crunch of gravel and two blinding headlights heralded an approaching car. Diane stepped closer to the van with Izzy, Neva, and the patrolman, and they watched the car pull in behind the police car.
Detective Hanks, she thought. She recognized him, but she hadn’t worked with him before. He took a step in their direction just as gunfire cut the ground at his feet.