Murder Bone by Bone by Lora Roberts

abode, the master bedroom. It was a nice room, furnished with Bridget’s trademark of frugality and ingenuity. Tonight, despite my fatigue, sleeping in that big, fluffy bed where procreation had regularly been accomplished made me feel uncomfortable. I read deeply into Villette with Barker snoring on the floor beside the bed for some time before sleep claimed me.
    The morning came too quickly. I could have used another couple of hours of unconsciousness, but Mick was an early, and noisy, riser, and a lot of scurrying around went on to get Corky and Sam and him off to school. The carpool Bridget had arranged came by to pick up the older boys. I put Moira in the stroller and walked Mick down to his preschool, where we lingered for a few minutes, awed by the way the teachers managed to function in the chaos.
    The walk home was very pleasant. Despite her demanding nature, with only Moira to tend I felt pleasantly carefree. We admired a couple of dogs, discussed the first crunchy leaves from the sycamores in Johnson Park, and waved at Stewart and Doug and their buddies, who were starting to deploy their equipment. When we got to Bridget’s driveway, Dinah Blakely was parking her car at the curb.
    “Am I the first?” She looked cheerful in her red jacket and black jeans. No khakis this time; I supposed she was only going to supervise, not dig. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
    Agreeing with this, I wheeled the stroller up the front walk and sat on the porch steps to disengage Moira. Dinah put down her bucket of tools, took one edge of the tarp that covered the excavation, and pulled it back with a flourish.
    Then she screamed, turning away with her hands to her face to stare at me, while incoherent noises came from her throat.
    Leaving Moira in the stroller, I ran over to the edge of the sidewalk. Richard Grolen lay facedown in the dirt. The back of his head was hidden by a heavy, jagged chunk of concrete.
    He appeared quite dead.
     

Chapter 11
     
    The screaming upset Moira, but, strapped into her stroller with her back to the commotion, she seemed less in need of help than Dinah Blakely, so I turned back to Dinah.
    But even as I wondered whether to slap her or shake her out of her screams, she stopped. Falling to her knees beside Richard, she pulled at the chunk of concrete.
    “Um, I wouldn’t do that.” I stepped forward. “We should leave everything just as we found it. Why don’t you go call the police and I’ll stay with the body?”
    She didn’t answer at first, just flung me a disgusted look. With the chunk of concrete off his head, Richard didn’t look so bad. True, the back of his head was smashed like a soon-to-be peeled hard-boiled egg. Dinah pressed her fingers into his neck, then turned his face out of the dirt.
    “Look,” I said, kneeling beside her. “You shouldn’t be touching—”
    “He’s alive, you idiot!” Her words came out sharp and loud. She groped in her handbag, still anchored to her shoulder by its strap. “Forget the police. Call an ambulance.” She pulled a compact out of her bag, yanked it open, polished the mirror briefly on her sleeve, then held it near Richard’s face. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it clouded.
    I leaped up and raced for the steps. Moira made urgent noises as I went by. “In a minute,” I told her, taking the steps two at a time. My voice choked with hope and dread, I told the 911 dispatcher where to send an ambulance immediately. She wanted me to stay on the line, but I had other calls to make.
    I dialed Drake’s home number, knowing he probably hadn't left for the day yet. With the phone cord stretched to its utmost, I could see Moira at the foot of the porch steps, her little face screwed up angrily. Beyond her was an incongruous picture: Dinah Blakely using her small archaeologist’s brush to whisk the dirt away from Richard’s face.
    Drake answered on the third ring. “What?” His voice was surly—no coffee yet.
    “Come over right