"Easy for you to say. I'm the one who's running."

"I'm serious. She's just trying it for the fun of it-doing it on a lark. She told me."

Dean didn't think Lydia Larkin did anything for the fun of it. She was far too conniving-more a hawk than a lark. But the election was only one problem of many. The world was turning at Mach speed and Dean felt himself racing along with the uninformed, totally out of control. He knew with the Dawkinses about to leave and with the Lucky Pup Mine controversy settled, he'd better concentrate on finding an answer to the body Martha discovered before any chance to do so was gone for good. All of the potential candidates with the opportunity to steal the bone were rapidly drifting away.

"So what's the problem?" Weller said before signing off. "You think Lydia knocked off Fitzgerald so she could run for sheriff?" Weller asked the question amid an unrestrained chuckle.

Dean was beginning to wonder, but answered no. "I'd just like to know the whole story."

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"So who cares?" Weller said as he hung up.

The nagging question of Fitzgerald continued to block out the other important matters Dean should have been concentrating on. He mulled the subject over in his mind and decided to speak to Lydia Larkin again. He telephoned but there was no answer.

New guests were arriving at Bird Song-before others had vacated-and the duties of running the lodging establishment took up most of the afternoon, in mind and action. Towels were in short supply, rooms needed quick cleaning, and Cynthia, Maria, and Dean had their hands full. There were errands to run: a walk to the variety store for light bulbs-a matron in 2C had filched every one before departing-a toilet plunger job in 3B. Finally things calmed down enough to give Dean and his wife a few minutes of free time.

"Let's take a walk," Cynthia suggested, taking her husband's hand. The couple strolled down Seventh Street to the bridge that crossed the Uncompahgre River as it spilled its way down from the mountains. Children from the nearby campground drifted sticks and other small floating matter in the stream. A tow-haired boy happily dropped a Marlboro cigarette box in the churning water and then ran downstream to monitor its progress. It reminded Dean of the cigarette tin Martha had described. But unlike the floating package that danced among the rocks, the tin had not floated away.

"Why would someone who switched the bones take the cigarette tin?" Cynthia asked, as if reading his mind.

"Maybe they were afraid it would date the skeleton," Dean answered. "It did."




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