Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  She walked out with him on her way to the crime lab. “Are you going to just let the police reinterview Stacy’s band members?” asked Diane as they walked down the hall to the lobby.

  “I think they’ll do a better job. I’m sure they’re scarier than I am,” he said.

  Diane started to leave him to go to her appointments, when she spotted three women at the information booth. She knew them. So did Kingsley.

  “Well, hell,” they both whispered together.

  Chapter 30

  Diane stood looking at Kathy Nicholson, Wendy Walters, and Marsha Carruthers as they turned in her direction. It was obvious they were being directed to Diane’s office. The three of them spotted her and Kingsley. For a moment, Diane had the urge to run and hide behind the mammoth in the Pleistocene room.

  Their faces ranged from grim to angry. As the three women approached, Diane wondered which office would be better for whatever was about to happen: her osteology office in her forensic anthropology lab with its cold, spartan decor, or her more comfortable museum office with its Zen-like qualities. She opted for Zen-like. That office was closer.

  Marsha Carruthers looked much as she had when they interviewed her. She wore another dark dress. This one was gray with black buttons and a white collar and cuffs.

  “I’m glad both of you are here,” Marsha said. “We intend to speak with you.”

  Diane supposed it was only fair, since she and Kingsley went to their homes intending to speak with them, and did.

  “Very well. We can talk in my office,” said Diane.

  She retraced her steps to her office, opening the doors to the administrative wing of the museum for her guests. She led them down the hall into Andie’s office, where she found Jonas Briggs waiting for her.

  “I thought I would escort you to the staff meeting,” said Jonas. He smiled cheerfully, probably relieved that Marcella was doing so much better than the doctors had expected.

  As Diane attended to Jonas, the three women waited impatiently. Kathy Nicholson spent the time scrutinizing Andie’s seating area, a room Diane thought would be good for entertaining Peter Rabbit’s mother, with its cottage-style overstuffed chairs and sofa. The room’s colors of pink, blue, and green, and the floral design, were repeated in a porcelain grandfather clock. A rag rug in matching colors sat underneath a dark cherry pie-crust coffee table. Kathy Nicholson’s gaze shifted from one item to the next, lingering on a crackled figure of a rabbit sitting on the coffee table beside magazines about museums.

  The other two women simply stood, frowning and waiting. Diane didn’t introduce anyone. It didn’t seem appropriate and she didn’t think the three women would appreciate it.

  “Change of plan,” said Diane. “Andie, you are taking my place at the meeting.”

  Andie’s eyes grew wide. “What? Me?”

  “You know the curators and the issues. You have the budgets. And you’ve been wanting to be more involved at a higher level,” said Diane.

  “Yes, but, I mean, they are all college professors, and I’m, well, me,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Jonas, putting an arm around her shoulder, “but you sit on the right hand of the queen herself. Just remember that. And also that underneath their clothes, those college professors all wear Underoos.”

  Andie laughed.

  “You’ll do fine,” said Diane. “They are all excited about the webcam project. If anyone gives you trouble, you can send them to me.”

  “See there?” said Jonas. “That’ll put the fear of God into them.”

  After Jonas and Andie left, Diane ushered her three visitors into her office. Kingsley helped Diane pull up enough chairs to her desk. Diane thought about taking them into her sitting room but decided she wanted her desk between herself and the women. Kingsley was on his own.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to make a call first,” said Diane before anyone spoke. She walked behind her desk, sat down, and dialed David’s number. “We have permission for the research project,” she told him.

  “Great. I thought we would. Marcella loves research. How is she?” he asked.

  “She seems much better,” said Diane.

  “Good. Jin loaned me Hector and Scott. So, okay, what’s the deal? Hector’s the older twin, right? And there is something about his shirt?” said David.

  “The color is a longer wavelength than Scott’s,” said Diane.

  “Yeah, that’s it. God, I hope this isn’t a mistake,” he said.

  “They’ll do fine,” she said.

  “They have improved the research design. We are going to collect samples using a smaller grid system-collect more samples-to determine the least number of samples needed for accurate results.”

  “They enjoy research,” said Diane. “You shouldn’t have any problems.”

  “Oh, and I’ve lined up some archaeology students to excavate, in case we find anything,” said David.

  “Just remember, if you locate anything, you have to call the coroner before you take anything out of the ground,” said Diane.

  “I’ve informed Whit, so he knows we might call,” said David.

  “Then you are good to go,” said Diane. “Keep me informed.”

  She hung up the phone. They were all staring at her, the three women and Kingsley. She supposed at this end it was a strange conversation.

  “Now,” said Diane, “what can I do for you?”

  “You can recant what you said to the newspaper,” said Marsha Carruthers. “You aren’t getting that trash out of jail. He killed my daughter.” She leaned forward and repeated her plea. “He killed my daughter.”

  Diane guessed that Marsha’s other daughter hadn’t confided in her, or she would have mentioned it first thing. She hoped Samantha didn’t wait too long. Diane didn’t want the police to be the ones to tell the Carruthers it was their daughter who found Stacy’s body.

  “You told me you were not interested in getting that monster out of jail,” said Kathy Nicholson. “But it’s obvious you lied.”

  She pulled the newspaper article from her purse and tossed it on the table. It was the one Diane had already read.

  “Neither I nor Dr. Kingsley had anything to do with the article in the paper,” said Diane. “And we are not trying to get Ryan Dance out of jail.”

  “Then where did the newspaper get this information?” asked Wendy Walters.

  “I’ve not talked with the reporter. I don’t know her,” said Diane.

  “You told me you worked for… or are the director of”-Kathy pulled Diane’s card out of her purse and read from it-“the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab. But it turns out you’re a museum director.” She tossed the card on her desk with the article. “Why would you deceive us in this way?”

  “How is it you’re qualified to say anything about how that woman died?” said Wendy. “People are going to believe what they read in the newspaper and there is going to be a call for the Dance boy’s release, and the police are going to be chasing a wild goose, because…” She threw up her hands. “This is just stupid. Are the two of you scam artists? Is messing with people’s lives how you get your kicks?”

  “I am director of this museum. I’m also director of the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab, which is part of this museum. And I’m director of the Rosewood Crime Lab,” said Diane.

  They stared at her for a moment. Wendy spoke first. “What does Rosewood have to do with any of this? It’s Gainesville’s jurisdiction.”

  “I wasn’t representing Rosewood when I spoke with you or when I investigated the scene of Stacy Dance’s death,” said Diane.

  “Then you were using your employer’s time and facilities for personal gain,” said Wendy.

  “No, I was not,” said Diane. “First, my work was pro bono; second, I didn’t use Rosewood’s facilities or their time… even though I could have. You see, our crime lab does forensic analysis for jurisdictions all around the world, not just Rosewood. I’m still not understanding why you
are here and what you hope to have me do.”

  “Is it true you said that woman was murdered?” said Marsha.

  “Stacy Dance,” said Diane. “Yes, she was murdered.”

  “We discovered that our medical examiner said she died by accident in a rather perverted and disgusting fashion,” said Marsha. “What we want you to do is to recant what is in the paper. Our police aren’t stupid. Neither is our ME. You have no business contradicting them. All it’s done is get people to wondering about Ryan Dance. People have called me. People are saying we are rich and we have railroaded some poor boy.” She stopped and her lips quivered. “And my baby did not die in the same disgraceful way that woman did.”

  “I know the circumstances of your daughter’s death and those of Stacy’s death are quite different,” said Diane. “Neither of us is responsible for the reporter saying they were similar. But we do know how Stacy died, and she did not die by her own hand. She was killed somewhere else. Her body was staged in that embarrassing way. It was not her doing.”

  “It’s your word against our law enforcement people,” said Marsha. “They are good at what they do. They would not have said it was an accident if there was any evidence it was murder.”

  “My husband knows two members of the museum board,” said Wendy. “Thomas Barclay and Madge Stewart. He is going to call them and tell them what you’ve been doing.”

  “That’s fine,” said Diane. “Call away. I can’t change my findings. But you need to stop and look at the situation. You seem to be under the impression that it’s easy to get someone out of prison. It isn’t. Nothing in what we have discovered can in any way be used to get Ryan Dance’s sentence overturned, or even reviewed, for that matter. And, certainly, the inaccurate reporting in a newspaper can’t do anything for him.”

  “And,” added Kingsley, “it is out of our hands. As you point out, the matter falls under the jurisdiction of the Gainesville police. It’s their investigation now.”

  The three of them sat for a moment looking at one another, as if groping for something else to say. Finally they stood up. Marsha Carruthers leaned her hand on Diane’s desk.

  “I won’t forget this. Ever. I won’t forget.”

  Diane wanted to tell her to spend her energies on her living daughter. She wanted to tell her to do something to keep the good memories of Ellie Rose. She wanted to tell her she was so sorry that this terrible thing happened to her and her family. She didn’t say any of those things. Instead she stood up, and she and Kingsley escorted them out of her office.

  As Diane watched them go down the hallway toward the lobby, she wondered whether they would have been such good friends had the tragedy of Ellie Rose not bonded them together. Diane and Kingsley walked back into her office to debrief.

  “Something was off. Something happened that they didn’t mention,” said Diane as she sat back down at her desk. “Or was this not strange to you?”

  “I got the same impression. It was probably the article. If the Carruthers family have been getting crank calls, it would put them on edge. You know how disturbing such things can be. Especially if you are being called a criminal, and the man who killed your daughter is characterized as an innocent victim,” said Kingsley. “I think Marsha is afraid of everything being in the news again, bringing back the intensity of those raw emotions. She is afraid of reliving the nightmare of her daughter’s death again every day and is fighting those who would revive it.”

  “It looks to me as if she already relives it every day,” said Diane.

  “Privately,” said Kingsley. “Not publicly. That’s what she dreads. Funny, I was watching them. Marsha and Wendy were inside themselves, completely absorbed. I doubt they could even give a general description of what your office looks like. Kathy Nicholson was the only one of them interested in the things around her-your assistant’s office, your office. While we were getting the chairs, she was looking at your Escher prints, your photographs, the fountain. I got the impression Kathy hadn’t wanted to come. I think she would like to break her bond with the other two.”

  “What implications does that have?” said Diane.

  “I have no idea. Just throwing stuff out. Like you, something bothered me too. But I can’t put my finger on what exactly,” he said. “Maybe it’s that they seemed like the three witches from Macbeth. Okay, that was unkind, but I find them just a little spooky.”

  “Do you think Marsha or her husband could have killed Stacy?” said Diane. “You see how angry both of them are at us. What emotions must Stacy have brought out in them, poking around in their daughter’s death?”

  “I think it’s a possibility the police should look at, but I’m not sure they will,” he said.

  He didn’t say the two of them should look into it, but she felt that was what he was thinking. Perhaps she should have asked Marsha what she was doing the day Stacy died. Maybe dug a little deeper. But Diane had wanted to get them out of her office. Marsha Carruthers wouldn’t have answered anyway.

  Kingsley left and Diane looked over some budget requests before she headed for the crime lab. She thought about looking in on the meeting of museum curators, but decided she would let Andie handle it. If she were present, it would completely change the dynamics of the meeting.

  Diane stopped at the information desk to speak with a docent, when someone touched her arm. She turned to greet them with a smile.

  “Kathy Nicholson,” Diane said, trying not to let the smile freeze on her face. “Did you forget something… or perhaps remember something?”

  Chapter 31

  Kathy Nicholson, sans Marsha and Wendy, stood beside the information desk with her purse on her shoulder. She had on a light wool jacket she hadn’t been wearing in the meeting.

  “No, I didn’t forget anything,” she said. “I’d like to speak with you.” She looked around as if she were being watched, or on the lookout, lest she be seen by someone she knew.

  “Let’s go to my office,” said Diane.

  She told the docent she would see her the next day and led Mrs. Nicholson back to her office and closed the door. Diane didn’t sit behind her desk, but pulled up a chair and sat across from her.

  “May I get you a drink?” asked Diane. “I have a refrigerator in the next room with cold sodas.”

  “No, thank you, no,” she said. “I have a friend meeting me in your museum restaurant a little later. She said it’s very good.”

  “It is,” Diane said.

  Diane waited for Kathy Nicholson to speak. Kathy looked at her well-manicured hands a moment and back up at Diane.

  “You must be wondering why I’m here,” she said.

  “I am,” said Diane. “I hope you don’t intend to try to persuade me to recant, as Mrs. Carruthers put it. It’s not just my findings regarding Stacy’s death, but those of our medical examiner as well.”

  “No, I haven’t come for that, but the others think I have,” she said.

  “Oh?” said Diane.

  “Do you really have all those jobs?” Kathy asked.

  “Yes, I do. The forensic anthropology lab is part of the museum. The crime lab is housed here and I run it. I used to be a human rights investigator,” Diane said, hoping that might help Kathy to understand her qualifications.

  “They-we-weren’t always like this. We were very happy people. You wouldn’t have known Marsha ten years ago. Wendy either. Ellie Rose’s death changed so much for us. But nine years is a long time, and I am so tired.”

  “Of what?” said Diane, gently.

  “That’s a good question. Marsha’s grief, I guess. That’s a terrible thing to say, I know. And I know you don’t ever get over something like her daughter’s tragic death. My husband died of cancer and I miss him every day. But… but I don’t”-she frowned as if searching for the right word-“I don’t cover the world with it. I don’t walk through it as if it were syrup. I don’t know.” A small sigh escaped her lips, as if she gave up looking for the right expression. “Wendy told me w
hat you said yesterday-about Marsha losing what it felt like to love her daughter, or something like that. She has, I think. That desperate anguish she felt when they found Ellie Rose’s body is still fresh in her now, just like it was then.”

  Diane wondered why she was telling her all this. But she didn’t say anything. She just listened. Her former boss at World Accord International always said the ability to listen is one of the most powerful tools one can have.

  After a moment’s silence, Diane spoke. “Why do you think Marsha has not healed?”

  “I don’t know. At first, Wendy and I tried to help Marsha cope. But after a while, Wendy just went along with her, and I stayed across the street with my husband more and more. We quit having the neighborhood barbecues we used to have when the children were small. I have a son, Colton. He’s in California now at Berkeley studying political science. He’s getting a master’s.”

  “Do you see him much?” asked Diane.

  “Not a lot. I go out there some. I’m thinking about moving,” she said.

  Diane smiled.

  “My son doesn’t like to come here anymore. I don’t blame him. Bad memories. Wendy’s son, Tyler, is in law school at UGA now. He doesn’t come home much either. So much has changed. I sometimes resent Marsha and her family. I think Wendy does too. I know that’s unfair and cruel.”

  “But understandable,” said Diane. Kathy obviously wanted to talk. Diane wondered whether she had been frank with anyone about this.

  “Colton was a year younger than Ellie Rose. He and Tyler are the same age. We were so happy then. There were lots of kids in the neighborhood. Several people moved away after Ellie Rose’s death. Even though Colton was a boy, I was afraid after El’s death. You never know why someone kills children, or if yours might be next. All of us parents were afraid. Many distanced themselves from the Carruthers. Others, like Wendy and me, tried to help. But as I said, there was no helping her. I don’t know what it would have been like if it had been my child. Wendy said your child was murdered,” she said.