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he wants to play.
    The man laughed, gold tooth flashing. “Well, I hope he doesn’t. I’m Richard Grolen, from the archaeology department. At Stanford,” he added when I frowned.
    “That’s nice. Why are you here?”
    He shook his head, still smiling. “Man, I guess Dinah didn’t tell you. We’re the excavation team.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the group of students who leaned against the van.
    “Dinah told you to come?”
    He settled his thumbs in the belt loops of his worn jeans. They fit him, I noticed, very well. “She said you had some bones to dig up.” He looked at the pile of dirt where the sidewalk used to be. One of the rib bones still stuck out. “I see what she means. This will be great lab work.”
    He moved as if to turn away. I tightened my grip on Barker’s collar, and he growled again. “Did she also tell you,” I said, “that the police don’t want you to dig them up?”
    "They don’t?” Richard Grolen's face registered shocked surprise. “No, she didn’t mention that. Truth to tell, I haven’t actually spoken with her. She left a message with this address, said she was looking into it as a lab site.”
    “She looked. It isn’t.”
    He took off his baseball cap and brushed one hand over the top of his head, where the straight, gray-blond hair was thinning. “Thing is,” he said confidentially, “we were heading for a site up near Jasper Ridge and we got kicked out. There’s a big butterfly count going on or something, and they were afraid we’d disturb the bugs.” He smiled disarmingly. “So when I got her message we were already loaded up looking for a place to dig. So . . ." He shrugged, moving those nice chest muscles in an interesting way. “Here we are. Rarin’ to go.”
    Moira started squirming to get down. Barker pulled at his collar. One of the students called plaintively. “Should we get the stakes out, Dr. Grolen?”
    A doctor, yet. “Look,” I said, starting to lose my grip on child, dog, and temper. "The police want to do their own investigation here. You’ll have to talk to them before you can lift so much as one shovelful of dirt.”
    Richard Grolen frowned. His voice was a little crisper. “You know, the sidewalk isn’t on your property or anything. I’ll take care of the police. You don’t have to worry about this at all.”
    "That's what you think.” I knew how Drake would feel about the archaeology department moving in on his bones, no matter how charming their representatives. “I can’t control the dog anymore.”
    Luckily a bigger force of nature was unleashed, before Barker could bound down the stairs and kill the students with big, wet, dog kisses. Melanie Dixon’s BMW drew up to the curb. She climbed out, tightening her mouth in disapproval when she saw the pile of dirt. She scanned and dismissed the students before lighting on Richard Grolen at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes widened.
    “Why, Richard!” She hurried up the sidewalk and took his hands, laughing. “Richard Grolen! How nice to see you again, after all this time!”
    Richard’s face wore that charming smile again. “Melanie! Good God, this takes me back. As if this neighborhood wasn’t enough, now you’re here!”
    “It’s been so long.” She gave him a dainty hug and stepped back. “You look just the same, you old pirate. What have you been up to? Why are you at Bridget’s house?”
    Richard gave me the tail end of the smile. “Is this Bridget? You’re Melanie’s friend? Small world, isn’t it?”
    “Don’t be silly.” Melanie scowled at me as if I had been guilty of impersonation. “This is Liz. What in the world is happening here, Liz? What’s that?” A toss of her head, which hardly disturbed her shiny, perfectly cut brown hair, indicated the dirt pile. “Why are you keeping Richard standing in the yard?”
    “I’m not keeping him at all. He can leave now.” Melanie and Bridget are both part of a poet’s group that meets