Dust to Dust

by Beverly Connor

  “I told her not to do anything dangerous. Dad doesn’t have anybody now.”

  “I’m working with someone your dad hired to find out what happened to her. The police ruled her death an accident,” said Diane.

  Ryan’s face transformed into a cruel mask. “I know what they said and they’re full of shit. Stupid bastards. They were stupid then. They’re even stupider now.” He spat out the words as if they were bitter seeds. “She don’t deserve none of this. None of us do.”

  More visitors came in and filled the cubicles, and the noise level rose. Most everyone spoke in low voices, but Diane could pick out sniffling, sobbing, whispered anger, and laughing among the low cacophony of sounds. She wanted to finish this, get the hell out, and go home.

  “Would you mind telling me what you think put you here?” said Diane. “From your point of view.”

  He was quiet for a moment and his face went back to the emotionless mask it had been before she’d mentioned the death of his sister.

  “Don’t you think I’ve been laying awake at night for nine years trying to figure that out? I don’t know. I didn’t know that Carruthers girl. Never knew her. I was twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake; she was in fucking high school. I never went driving by her house like they said I did. I never went into that neighborhood.”

  “Start from the beginning and tell me what you do know,” said Diane.

  “The beginning was me sitting watching the Atlanta Braves on TV and the police coming in with a search warrant. That’s the first I ever heard of that girl.”

  “A witness reported seeing your car in the neighborhood, and took down your tag number,” said Diane. She tried keeping her voice even and calm.

  “Don’t I know it. She was at my trial. I never saw that bitch before and I wasn’t in that neighborhood. A lot of rich folk live there. What would I be doing there?”

  “She said she recognized you in your Atlanta Braves cap, your gold Chevrolet, and your license plates,” said Diane.

  “Maybe my car was there, maybe my hat was there, but I wasn’t there. Somebody put the frame on me.”

  “You have any idea who would do that?” asked Diane.

  “No damn idea whatsoever. I’ve never hurt nobody bad enough to do this to me,” he said.

  “Sometimes people overreact to something hurtful. Is there anyone you can think of who might have a small grudge, something that got blown out of proportion in their mind?”

  “I’ve broke up with girlfriends, but none of them would do this. Like, they’d have to be crazy to kill somebody and blame it on me. What kind of maniac would do that? I never went with no girls that crazy . . . or that mean.”

  Diane wasn’t getting anything useful out of Ryan. It was a wasted trip. He genuinely seemed clueless, or he was a really good actor. On the other hand, many criminals were really good actors.

  “Did you have your car stolen or used by anyone else around that time?” asked Diane.

  “No, not that I know,” he said.

  “How would you not know?” she said.

  “Well, I wasn’t in my car all the time. Somebody could’ve borrowed it and brought it back while I was working or watching TV or . . . sometimes I’d go out drinking and, well, somebody could’ve borrowed it then,” he said. “I might not know about it.”

  “Did you always take your car keys with you?” said Diane.

  “I left the keys shut up in the sun visor, you know, like in Terminator 2,” he said.

  “I understand you were a truck driver at the time,” said Diane.

  “Dad got me the job. He was a loading dock foreman at Walker Ace. They transport all over. But I only drove local,” said Ryan.

  “Where was your car when you were working?” asked Diane.

  “Sometimes at my apartment, when I rode to work with Dad. Sometimes in the lot at work. They keep the lot locked so nobody can steal stuff out of your car.”

  “Did Stacy tell you what she was working on?” asked Diane.

  “Just that she was going back and talking to witnesses and stuff. I told her to be careful. I told her to get a detective to do that, not do it herself. But she was stubborn.”

  “Did she tell you any details about what she found?” asked Diane.

  He shook his head. “She had a hard time getting people to talk to her, but . . .”

  “But what?” prodded Diane.

  “Last time we talked she seemed, well, happy. She never wanted to get my hopes up, but I know she felt good about something,” he said.

  “When was that?” asked Diane.

  “About a week before she . . . before she died,” he said. “She should have left it alone. Maybe she could’ve found some detective real cheap to do the legwork for her. She shouldn’t ’ave done it by herself. You find out who killed her. It’s not right for her to be dead and me stuck in here. None of us did nothing to deserve this.”

  Diane saw movement of the guards in the background and looked at her watch. Time to go.

  “Thank you for talking to me,” she said.

  “Thanks for helping my sister and my dad.”

  He spoke as if there was no hope for him. Diane watched him leave before she rose from the stool.

  She didn’t wait for Ross inside the prison. Instead, she left and waited outside by the car for him to return. It didn’t take long. Within five minutes he came walking out of the gates and over to the car.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Waste of time,” said Diane. “Either he knows nothing or he’s a good liar. I don’t know which.”

  They got into Kingsley’s Prius and he started the engine. Diane felt relief when they pulled out of the prison grounds and into traffic toward Rosewood.

  “He did seem genuinely sad about his sister,” she said. “How did you do?”

  “Interesting, in a way. No information, but he had some pinups under his mattress. All were more mature and voluptuous ladies than Miss Carruthers. Judging from that, his tastes don’t seem to run to high school girls.”

  “He was closer to her age back then,” said Diane. “Besides, maybe those were the only kind of pictures he could get hold of.”

  “I know the pictures don’t mean anything. But if he had pictures of younger girls hidden in his cell, that would have meant something,” said Kingsley.

  “Anything else in his cell?” asked Diane.

  “Books about sports, a Bible, hygiene stuff, letters from his father and sister,” he said.

  “How did you get the warden to let you in his cell?”

  “You’d be surprised at how many career employees would like to retire from criminal justice and take a job with a private firm—and take home two salaries, as it were. To that end, they can be awfully accommodating to firms such as the one I work for,” said Kingsley.

  “Interesting,” said Diane. “Did you read the letters?”

  Kingsley nodded. “Nothing there that contributes to our purposes. His sister didn’t keep him apprised of what she was doing.”

  “That’s what he told me. He said she didn’t want to get his hopes up. But he did say that about a week before she died, she was optimistic about something. She didn’t tell him what.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got the prison visit over with.” Kingsley grinned at her. “I’m sorry. I know you hated it.”

  “It’s so depressing. Surely there must be a better model for a penal system,” she said.

  “I’d like to go to Stacy’s apartment. Are you up for it?” he asked.

  “I need to check in at the museum for a while, then the crime lab. I’ll pick up a crime scene kit and meet you there. We need to process her apartment the right way, even though it’s been trampled all over.”

  Chapter 12

  When Ross Kingsley dropped Diane off at the museum, the first thing she did was go to her office suite, take a hot shower, and change clothes. Relieved to have the smell of prison off her, she went to her desk and checked in with Andie Layn
e, her administrative assistant, and Kendel Wil liams, her assistant director.

  The museum had been running so smoothly lately, it almost scared her. And today hadn’t brought any emergencies either: no fires to put out, no problems to solve, no large shipments overdue, no displays to put on hold, no cranky curators, no lost children—and the number of visitors to the museum was still on the rise. They were making money. So far, so good.

  After her meetings, Diane spent an hour doing paperwork. Most of the time she didn’t mind the budget reports, the requests, the letters, or even cutting through the red tape that frequently accumulated in the course of business. Doing paperwork was like oiling the machinery of the museum. Paperwork kept things running; it gave her staff what they needed to do their jobs; it kept the museum on the cutting edge. Less paperwork meant the museum was getting static. Diane particularly didn’t mind it today. It was so far removed from the world of prisons. The moment she walked into the old Gothic building, she welcomed the smell of the museum, the smooth wood walls, brass fixtures, polished granite floors—and most of all, the happy people. She finished signing the last report and headed upstairs to archaeology to see Jonas Briggs.

  Jonas had a two-room suite on the third floor, across from the archaeology exhibits. One room was his office; the other was a small lab where he did most of his work. His office was wall-to-wall bookcases and was filled with as many books and papers as Marcella’s. He did have a couple of blank spaces on the walls where he had hung enlarged photographs of archaeological excavations from the thirties. In another space he’d hung an abstract painting with bold, bright slashes of color, which he said was done by an elephant. A table flanked by two stuffed chairs sat in one corner of the room. A Staunton sandalwood chessboard was always set up on the table and he and Diane played when time would allow.

  Jonas was sitting at his desk. A young couple Diane recognized from a photograph as Paloma Tsosie and her husband, Mark, sat in the two stuffed chairs.

  “Diane, come in,” said Jonas. He rose from behind his desk and introduced Marcella Payden’s daughter and son-in-law. Jonas had said they were both teachers on the Navajo reservation. They looked younger than Diane had imagined. They also looked younger than their pictures. They must have both been just out of college.

  “I wanted to thank you for the hotel,” said Paloma, rising to shake Diane’s hand. “It’s so nice, and so convenient to the hospital.”

  Paloma looked like an early version of her mother. She was petite, had an oval face, honey blond hair, large blue eyes, and full lips.

  Her husband, Mark, had short black hair, dark eyes, and light brown skin. He had a lean face, a slender nose, and sharp cheekbones. They were an attractive couple. Mark stood with his wife and shook Diane’s hand, reiterating the thanks his wife had offered for Diane’s hospitality. Diane felt sincerity from both of them. They were grateful for her kindness and it showed in their eyes and their firm, lingering handshakes.

  “You’re welcome. I’m fond of your mother and it’s the least I could do,” said Diane. “She has done some wonderful work for the museum. We’re very excited about the collection she is putting together.”

  Mark offered Diane his chair, but Jonas shoved a stack of journals off a chair and brought it around for her. Paloma and Mark sat back down. Jonas rolled his desk chair around so he wouldn’t be behind his desk.

  “How is Marcella?” asked Diane.

  Paloma grasped her husband’s hand. “She still has swelling in her brain. The doctors are hopeful. I’m not sure what that means.” She looked at Mark and Jonas, and back at Diane. “They won’t say much.”

  “They probably don’t know much,” said Jonas. “We just have to wait. Marcella’s a fighter.”

  Paloma smiled briefly. “She is that. We have an appointment to speak with the detective this afternoon. I’m worried he’s off in the wrong direction,” she said. “Jonas told us how he was questioned.”

  “It’s just the way the detectives do things,” said Diane. “Don’t read too much into it.”

  “This arguing thing—Mother loves scholarly debates and her friends love to argue with her. She never bothers debating people who don’t have intelligent ideas. It’s just the way she is. It’s obvious to me it was those hooligans who attacked you and that detective—Hanks—who also attacked Mother. What’s wrong with him that he can’t see that?”

  “He’s just getting the obvious interviews out of the way first,” said Diane.

  It wasn’t exactly true, but she could see Paloma getting herself worked up, and she doubted Hanks would interview Jonas again.

  “I hope so,” said Paloma. “Unless they find out who did all of it, Mother will never feel safe in that house again, and she loves her house. She said it needs to be on If Walls Could Talk, you know, that home-and-garden show about old houses.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Fallon is right,” said Mark. “The detective has to understand her world before he can understand what happened to her. When he sees she’s not a woman who brings enemies around her, he’ll look outside her circle.” His wife smiled at him.

  Diane asked Jonas, “Did you ask Paloma what her mother’s words that night might have meant?”

  Jonas looked blankly at Diane for a moment. “Oh, I clean forgot. There’s just so much going on,” he said.

  “What?” asked Paloma.

  “When I found . . . While we were waiting for the ambulance, Marcella was conscious for a few moments. She said what sounded like ‘tiger after all loose moment.’ I don’t know if I heard it right. Her voice was faint,” said Jonas. “We couldn’t make anything out of it.”

  “She said, ‘Tiger after all. Lewis moment,’ ” said Paloma, nodding her head. She looked over at her husband, who agreed. “If she could make sense right after she was hurt, then there’s a chance she’ll not be permanently damaged. Don’t you think?” She gazed at all of them, as if looking for agreement.

  Mark nodded. “I think you’re right.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “That’s hopeful.”

  Diane and Jonas glanced at each other, shrugged slightly, and focused back on Paloma.

  “That makes sense to you?” asked Jonas.

  “Lewis Blaire is one of her colleagues at Arizona. He’s a cognitive archaeologist. His work is about—”

  “Perception,” said Jonas, nodding.

  “He has the idea we perceive things subconsciously before we do consciously, and that ability gave early man an edge to deal with fast predators like the saber-toothed tiger,” said Paloma.

  Diane cocked an eyebrow and looked at Jonas.

  “The idea is that you perceive a predator subconsciously and act instinctively before it has a chance to jump you. Kind of an early-warning system.” Jonas wiggled his hand. “I have my doubts, but the idea is supported by some brain-function research. I just don’t think it could help you outrun a sabertooth.”

  “Mother liked the concept because it happened to her,” said Paloma. “She was surface collecting in an overgrown field—I was with her—and suddenly out of the blue, she jumped way to the side and almost knocked me down. She scared me. I asked her what was wrong, why had she done that, and she said she didn’t know. Well, we looked down and saw there was a rattlesnake lying in the grass, and if she had taken another step forward, she would have stepped on it. If you believe Lewis’ concept, her subconscious perception had caused an instinctive involuntary physical reaction that saved her from the snake before she could even think about it. She calls those kind of phenomena ‘Lewis moments.’ ”

  “Interesting,” said Diane. “That means she probably had one of those moments before she was attacked.”

  Paloma nodded. “But the sabertooth got her anyway.”

  “So what does this mean, really?” asked Diane.“Marcella saw or heard something that didn’t register, but caused her to react in some way and—what?”

  They were silent for a minute, looking at each other in turn. Jonas spoke f
irst.

  “I think that’s exactly what happened. She subconsciously detected some threat and reacted in some way, but no threat appeared immediately. That’s what she meant by ‘tiger after all.’ There was a sabertooth in the bushes after all and it attacked her.”

  Chapter 13

  Diane suggested they all go to the museum restaurant for lunch. As they stepped into the elevator just outside Jonas’ office, Paloma wrapped her sweater tight around her and gave a little shiver. She looked fragile and frightened and very young. Mark put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I had to buy a sweater when I got here,” she told Diane. “I’m not used to it being so chilly this time of year.”

  “It’s a little colder than normal here,” said Diane. But what she thought was how vulnerable the young couple looked. He in his loafers and jeans and blue T-shirt, and she in her sandals and jeans and peasant blouse, they were innocents.

  “I’ve been trying not to turn my heat on at night,” said Jonas, “but in a few days, I’m going to have to give in.”

  The restaurant had a medieval atmosphere with its vaulted ceilings and rough-hewn wood tables. It was cozy, especially in the evenings when each table was lit by can dlelight. At the time of day they were there, it had sunlight streaming in from the wall of windows and French doors leading to the trellis garden. The restaurant was full of diners. The waitress showed them to a booth in the corner and left them with tall menus written in calligraphy.

  “Suddenly, I’m hungry,” said Paloma, her eyes darting over the menu.

  “If you like steak, I suggest the filet,” said Diane.

  She was convinced that high-protein foods and chocolate were medicine, and the two of them looked as if they needed some strong medicine. The very idea of losing someone you love is the scariest, most helpless feeling in the world. She hoped Paloma wouldn’t have to face the loss of her mother, especially to such a mean cause.

  “I agree,” said Jonas, “the steaks here are great.” He closed his menu without looking at it. “You’ve talked me into it.”