thought she had entered hell. There were bones everywhere on the rough wooden tables. They were being bleached in the sunlight. A large glass aquarium held no water or fish. Instead it was filled with what looked to be beetles and the severed head of some large creature that still had most of its flesh. It could have been a cow. Or a deer. A large stone pestle and mortar sat on a bench, clearly being used to crush bone into dust. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn that she’d just walked into a serial killer’s house.

She did know better, though. She had gotten Tamara’s address from Peter, then done some research on the woman before she left the office. It had been easy enough to do. She was a world-renowned naturalist artist. Her work had been featured at the UN building in New York City. She had a master’s degree in biology from Stanford, but after graduating she found herself drawn more to art that represented the real, living world. She started with sculptures of the interior of the intestines. She taught herself how to skin animals and process the tissues. She would make articulated puppet skeletons of bones from several different animals as a way to show how all of nature fits together. Her idol was Georgia O’Keeffe, who was famous for her paintings of bones. Tamara said in one article Lucy found, “Where Georgia O’Keeffe painted pictures of bones, I cut out the middle part and just use the bones as art.” The articles only referred to Tamara using animal bones. Never human.

“Hello,” called a female voice back to Lucy. A woman stepped out into the sunroom and smiled. She looked to be in her late fifties, with yellow curly hair. She was dressed in jeans and a tan linen vest over a white T-shirt. Around her neck, reading glasses hung from a red-beaded chain. She looked fit and happy. Like one of those older women who needed no makeup to help their beauty. She held paintbrushes in her hand and was wiping them with a rag.

“Hi,” Lucy said.

“Are you bringing me a dead cat?” the woman asked, smiling.

“Was I supposed to?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I was just teasing. A lot of times when strangers come to visit my studio they bring me roadkill for me to use in my work. Instead of flowers.”

“Sorry,” Lucy said. “No dead cats or flowers.”

“Why are you wearing an ambulance uniform?” the woman asked.

Lucy had completely forgotten once again that she was wearing her EMT clothes. “Umm . . . no reason,” she said, hoping that the subject would be dropped. “I actually just want to ask you a few questions. I’m with the newspaper.”

The woman’s face lit up, and her hands went up in the air in an expression of relief as she said, “Finally. I was beginning to think it didn’t work and I had spent all those hours for nothing.”

“What didn’t work?” Lucy asked.

“The publicity,” she said. “Here, come inside. Let’s sit down.” Lucy followed her though the sunroom and into the house, which had low viga-lined ceilings and Mexican tile floors. Out a huge picture window was a sweeping view of the plains. “Do you want any tea? Or water?” the woman asked.

Lucy said no, and they sat in comfy light green chairs by a low coffee table painted with sea blue streaks. On the table was a sculpture of a face, but it was made completely out of small bones. Another example of her work.

“Now,” Tamara said. “Tell me everything. How were they found?”

“Umm . . . I’m not sure exactly what you mean,” Lucy said. “Can I just clarify a few things?” Lucy pulled the photo of the crime scene out of her purse and handed it to Tamara, who put on her glasses and looked at the photo, smiling.

“So,” Lucy said, “is this your work?”

“Yes,” Tamara said, before adding, “Oh shoot, it looks like the balloons I put on there are gone. I guess the wind took them away. There’s five dollars down the drain.”

“And this was publicity?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. It’s guerrilla art. Like my version of graffiti or flash mobbing,” Tamara said. “My publicist and I figured that I would do these outdoor installations as underground promotion. The only way to make it work was to do it anonymously. I thought you all from the media would have contacted me about them on Friday, and we would get some