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mask, not stylized, but with refined, realistic features. It was quite beautiful.
    It was a reconstruction in progress, a broken three-dimensional puzzle being reassembled. The sand allowed the pieces to stand on edge as Marcella worked with them. Several sherds lay on the table waiting to find their place in the emerging form. So far almost half the face had been reconstructed—most of the chin, the nose, one cheek, an eye, half a forehead. In the sand behind the larger piece was a smaller reconstruction. It looked as if it was going to be the ear and the other cheek. Several sherds were glued together in clusters but still lacked the links that connected them to the main piece.
    Beside the box of sand were drawings of the face. One was an extrapolation of the finished work. Diane wondered where the mask was from. She was lost in thought when Marcella’s phone rang.
    It startled her for a moment—a phone ringing in a house whose owner was gone. Diane walked over to the computer table and answered it with a simple “Hello.”
    “Who is this, please?” It was a female voice, possibly young. Sometimes it was hard to tell. The accent seemed Midwestern, but Diane wasn’t good with accents.
    “Whom are you trying to reach?” Diane asked.
    “Someone in my mother’s house . . . I mean, are you a detective? I’m Paloma Tsosie. Marcella Payden is my mother.”
    “Mrs. Tsosie,” said Diane, “I’m very sorry about what happened to your mother. I’m Diane Fallon. I’m with the police looking over the house.” Diane didn’t like to say “crime scene” to relatives. It was too harsh, too scary.
    “Are you one of the crime scene people?” Marcella’s daughter asked.
    “Yes.”
    Paloma Tsosie paused a moment. “That’s a coincidence,” she said almost absently. “Mother does contract work for a museum director named Dr. Diane Fallon.”
    “Same person,” said Diane. “I have several jobs.”
    “How odd,” she said.
    “It is, a little. How can I help you?” asked Diane.
    “My husband and I are flying out to Georgia. We’re in Arizona now.” She paused. “We would like to stay at the house. Is that possible?”
    Diane thought of the blood on the floor. Marcella’s daughter couldn’t see that.
    “We have a lot of fingerprint powder, equipment, and lights all over the house,” said Diane. “But I think I can have it cleaned up for you by this evening. I’ll have to ask the lead detective, of course.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “The museum can put you up in a hotel in Rosewood. It would be closer to the hospital.”
    “Oh, that would be very kind. Thank you,” said Paloma, clearly liking the idea.
    “Do you have someone to pick you up at the airport?” asked Diane.
    “Jonas Briggs. He’s a family friend. He’s going to meet us,” she said.
    “Fine. I’ll let him know your hotel,” said Diane.
    “This is very kind of you,” she said.
    “I wish you were visiting under better circumstances,” Diane said. She paused a moment. “I’m in your mother’s workroom. She has a lot of work in progress and the house just had a break-in,” said Diane.
    “A break-in? You mean after Mother was attacked? No.”
    “Yes, several hours after. I don’t know what they took. But they didn’t get her computer equipment. I was wondering if you would allow me to take her work and her computer to her office at the museum?”
    “That would be good. Mother’s work is really important to her, and I know she has a lot of it on the computer. She does all kinds of three-dimensional scans of her pottery sherds. She would want it kept safe.”
    “Good. I’ll give you an inventory of what we take,” she said.
    “She just bought a big-screen TV that she loves. Did they get it?” asked Paloma.
    “No. It’s in her bedroom,” said Diane.
    “That’s a relief. Could you take that to her office as well?” she asked.
    “Certainly,” said Diane. “I’ll see if the police will keep an eye on