Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  “He can do stuff like this?” said Kingsley.

  “He and Jin too. They love codes, but-and if you repeat this, I’ll have to kill you-Frank is better at it,” said Diane.

  Kingsley laughed. “He can really decipher that?”

  “Sure. I’ll have to see if he has time. If not, I’ll ask Jin to do it,” she said.

  “I think the thing I appreciate most about working with you-aside from your brilliant mind, of course-is that all the people around you have such unusual talents that are terribly useful and interesting.”

  “That’s true. I have a great appreciation of them myself,” said Diane.

  They rode in silence for a while, Diane still trying to make sense of the writing. She gave up and slipped the pages back into the bag. Her talents simply didn’t run to encryption.

  “You know I have to reinterview all of Stacy’s band members,” Kingsley said after a while. “I was completely fooled by Samantha and Jimmi. I thought they were telling me the truth.”

  “They probably saw themselves as telling you the truth. You heard her. Samantha makes her own reality. It’s apparently the way she copes,” said Diane. “It’s apparently the way her parents are coping.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m a pretty bad detective when I can’t tell if kids are telling me lies,” said Kingsley.

  “They aren’t kids. They’re nascent adults. They’re always a challenge. But, yes, I agree you will have to talk with them again.”

  The rest of the way to Rosewood, they discussed what they had learned, which, other than the spectacular revelation that Samantha Carruthers discovered Stacy Dance’s body, and that Ellie Rose Carruthers kept a diary, wasn’t a lot.

  They both believed that Kathy Nicholson, the neighbor across the street, did not, in fact, see the face of Ryan Dance. But at this point, she believed she did, and probably could not be shaken from that belief.

  “Do you think the father, Dr. Carruthers, could have killed Stacy?” asked Kingsley.

  “I don’t know. He has a temper.”

  “Yes, but it was mostly verbal,” said Kingsley.

  “Mostly verbal? What about his charging up to the car and banging on the roof?” said Diane. “That seemed pretty physical.”

  “But when I was facing him, he could have been much more threatening and in my face, but he wasn’t. I think he is basically a timid man. That’s why he works out his bravery in the games. He never has to face anyone.”

  “What does he do for a living?” asked Diane.

  “He’s a podiatrist,” said Kingsley. “Works mainly in sports medicine.”

  “Still,” said Diane, “if he thought Stacy might be able to free her brother, what would he do? I think just the possibility of it might enrage both Samantha’s mother and father.”

  “I don’t know if the mere possibility would make him go over the edge,” said Kingsley. “But I think the police should look at his alibi-assuming they reopen the case. I hope Dr. Webber comes through.”

  “I wonder how it’s going. Lynn should have the body by now… In fact”-Diane looked at her watch-“she should have had the body for several hours.”

  “If she finds that it’s a homicide, my boss and I-he likes to be in on these things-will take the evidence you collected to the detective in charge and ask him to reopen the case.”

  “Then it will be out of your hands?” asked Diane.

  “I think so. Stacy’s father asked only that we determine if her death was murder. We’ll have done that-provided Webber finds what we hope she finds.”

  They pulled up in the driveway and Diane got out. She bent down to talk to Kingsley before she closed the door.

  “It’s been another interesting day,” she said. “I suppose we won’t find out what Lynn discovered until tomorrow. If I hear from her tonight, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Same here,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Diane shut the door and went inside. Frank was already home and had just gotten out of the shower. His salt-and-pepper hair was still wet. Diane gave him a kiss and headed for the shower herself. When she got out and went to the kitchen to find him, he had fried bacon and sliced tomatoes and lettuce to make BLT sandwiches. And he had heated some tomato soup. Comfort food. It smelled good.

  “This is nice,” said Diane.

  She sat down and they ate sandwiches and drank soup out of large bowls with handles and talked about music. Frank told her Stomp was coming to the Fox Theater and that he would like to take her, Kevin, and Star. Kevin was his son by his first marriage and Star was his adopted daughter. Kevin was in high school; Star was a student at Bartrum. Diane thought they both would enjoy Stomp. She would too.

  “How are you on free time?” asked Diane.

  “What is it you want me to do?” He grinned at her.

  Diane got up and retrieved the copied pages of the diary. “This is the journal written by the girl who was murdered nine years ago. Any chance you could decode it?” she asked. She handed him the pages.

  Frank studied them for several minutes, now and again taking a sip of his soup and a bite of his second sandwich.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “If you don’t have time, I can give it to Jin,” she said.

  “Is that a challenge?” he asked.

  Diane grinned. “No. I just don’t want to impose.”

  “It won’t be that hard. Didn’t you say she was fifteen?”

  “Yes. But I have no idea what could be the key.” Diane had learned from a previous case where decoding was involved that you need a key to decipher it.

  “I doubt there is one,” he said. “This is something she would have a facility for. She would want to write it as fast as if she were writing normally. I believe it’s a combination of rebuses and simple substitution.”

  “Oh,” Diane said. “I couldn’t make anything of it.” She paused. “Okay, this is embarrassing. What’s a rebus? I know what substitution codes are.”

  “Words and parts of words are represented as pictures.” Frank waved a hand. “For example, the phrase ‘I cannot’ might be represented by pictures of an eye, a tin can, and a rope tied into a knot,” he said.

  “I knew you could do it,” she said.

  “When I can’t break the code of a fifteen-year-old, I’ll pack it in.” He grinned at her.

  After dinner Diane called Kendel, the assistant director of the museum, and they discussed Kendel’s upcoming trip to Australia. Afterward, she and Frank spent the remainder of the evening watching TV, a luxury for both of them. It was a nice end to a day filled with reliving other people’s tragedies. She wondered what the Carruthers’ evenings would be like from now on.

  Diane awoke early, but Frank was already up. She heard his footfalls on the hardwood floor. He came in the door to their bedroom carrying a tray with orange juice and cereal, and with the morning paper under his arm.

  “Breakfast in bed?” she said, looking quizzically at him as he put the bed tray over her lap. “Is one of us dying? Is it an anniversary I forgot about? Were we fighting last night and I didn’t realize it? I know you are very low-key sometimes.” She grinned at him.

  “No. I just wanted you to start your day off well,” he said, and gave her a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling.

  “Why? I mean, why today especially?” she said.

  He laid the newspaper on the tray beside her silverware. “Because I think today may be one of those days where the shit hits the fan.”

  Chapter 27

  Diane eyed him and picked up the paper. There on the top banner, the place on the page giving the reader a teaser for what is to come inside, was a school picture of Stacy Dance and a short paragraph with the caption: HOW WE TREAT CRIME VICTIMS WHO AREN’T AFFLUENT-WHY DO THEY FALL THROUGH THE CRACKS OF JUSTICE?

  Diane looked up at Frank, who pulled up a chair, turned it around, and rested his arms on the back as he drank his own glass of orange juice.

  “What is this?
” she said. “Who?”

  “You might want to get some food in you before you read any further,” he said, smiling.

  Diane took a drink of orange juice and opened the paper. The article started off about Stacy Dance, a college student who was trying to better herself. The article finessed the circumstances of her death, but said the death was ruled accidental by the medical examiner, Oran Doppelmeyer. It went on to say the ME had overlooked obvious signs that Stacy Dance was murdered, and suggested it was her socioeconomic level that drove the findings and not empirical evidence. The article had several quotes from Stacy’s father, Harmon Dance, and told of his desire to find justice for his daughter.

  Diane stole glances at Frank as she read. He merely grinned and sipped his orange juice. She recognized the style as that of Lynn Webber, even though the byline was of a journalist from the Atlanta newspaper.

  “Lynn wrote this,” Diane muttered. “She must have called Mr. Dance. What was she thinking?”

  “Keep reading,” Frank said.

  The style of the article changed. Apparently the journalist had added her own observations. She mentioned the death of Ellie Rose Carruthers and said the deaths were similar-that Ellie Rose was strangled and her clothes were in disarray, like Stacy Dance. But the investigations were treated quite differently, again alluding to the higher socioeconomic level of Ellie Rose Carruthers. The article revealed that Stacy Dance had been trying to clear her brother of the conviction of Ellie Rose’s murder, and the file in which Stacy kept all her evidence was missing. And the final provocative question: Could it be the real killer of Ellie Rose Carruthers also killed Stacy Dance in order to shut her up?

  Diane looked up at Frank.

  “I hardly know what to say,” she said. “I told Ross she wouldn’t go off half-cocked.”

  “At least she didn’t use your name or mention the museum,” said Frank.

  “There is that. And she only mentions that Dance hired a private investigation firm, but not the name of it. Ross will be relieved. I think. But what the heck was she thinking?” Diane threw down the paper.

  “Didn’t you say she is inclined toward vindictiveness?” said Frank.

  “Yes, but this is just going to alienate the detective in charge of Stacy’s case, not to mention cause a political uproar. It might even hurt Lynn,” said Diane.

  “I’m surprised she made a comparison with the two murders. My impression is they were not alike at all,” said Frank.

  “They aren’t, and she didn’t. I think Lynn presented an article to the journalist and asked her to publish it under her byline. The journalist-what is her name?” Diane looked at the paper. “Meryl Babbitt. She-as is her right, since it’s under her name-added details of her own. She probably saw they were both strangled, and ran with it from there.”

  Diane poured the milk over her cereal and took a bite. “At least no one will be calling me at the museum-except maybe Ross Kingsley. His wife will have to scrape him off the ceiling first. Jeez, I can’t believe Lynn did this.”

  Diane finished her cereal and took the tray back to the kitchen. Frank was collecting his things and was about to head out the door.

  “I’m going to take the diary pages with me,” he said.

  “Sure. Thanks for doing this,” she said.

  “No problem. I’ll enjoy it. But I’ll have to work at it in free moments,” he said.

  Diane kissed him good-bye and changed out of her nightshirt into black slacks, a white shirt, and a dark red jacket. She drove to the museum, parked on the crime lab end of the building, and went up the private elevator to the lab. David was there alone. The others hadn’t arrived yet. He was at the round debriefing table reading the newspaper.

  “Isn’t this the case you are working on?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And before you ask, I don’t know… well, yes, I do, but I don’t know why she chose such a forum.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked David.

  “Lynn Webber.” Diane explained about the history of Lynn Webber and Oran Doppelmeyer.

  “So, a little public humiliation for Dr. Doppelmeyer, then,” said David.

  “It would seem so. At least she didn’t mention my name.” Diane sat down at the table with David. “You know how you’ve been wanting to do a study of methods for finding buried human remains?”

  “Marcella’s yard?” said David. “I’ve been thinking about that very thing.”

  “I’m going over to the hospital to see whether Marcella’s daughter will give us permission,” said Diane.

  “I’ll ask Jin to let me borrow Heckle and Jeckle,” said David. “He should be glad for the opportunity to work alone for a while.”

  “They aren’t so bad,” said Diane. “They enjoy research, so I’m sure they will be glad to help with the project.” She stood up. “You clear it with Jin and I’ll get Marcella’s permission.”

  Diane drove to the hospital. As she parked, she toyed with the idea of going down to the morgue to speak with Lynn Webber, but decided against it. She wasn’t sure what she would say to her. No doubt Lynn was getting quite a few calls anyway. Diane went up to the ICU waiting room. She found Paloma and her husband sitting on one of the small sofas. Both were reading paperbacks.

  “Oh, hi,” said Paloma.

  Diane greeted them, pulled up a chair, and sat down. “How is your mother?” she asked.

  “Much better. She’s speaking more easily. We are waiting for the next visiting time,” Paloma said.

  “No more one-word sentences to decipher,” said Mark.

  “That’s good. Have you spoken with Jonas, by any chance?” asked Diane.

  “Yes, he visited with Mother late yesterday. She thinks someone may be buried in her yard. Maybe the woman who lived there-she wasn’t real clear,” said Paloma. “I was afraid she may be, well, you know.”

  “Frankly, we didn’t give it much credibility,” said Mark, “but Jonas seemed to agree with her.” He cocked an eyebrow at Diane. “Is it possible?”

  “Possible, yes,” said Diane. She explained to them about the research project she would like to do in Marcella’s yard.

  “Mother would love it,” said Paloma. “Look, why don’t you go in at the next visiting time?”

  “I don’t want to take away from your time,” said Diane.

  “That’s all right. She’ll enjoy your visit. Mark and I can go down for some breakfast,” she said.

  Diane agreed and went in at the next scheduled visiting period. Marcella looked considerably better than she had the last time Diane saw her. She had more color in her face and her eyes looked brighter. She was sitting up, sipping broth through a straw. She smiled when Diane entered the room.

  “I want to thank you for your kindness to Paloma and Mark,” she said. Her voice was weak, but Mark was right; her sentence structure was much better.

  “I’m glad to be able to help,” said Diane. “I came to ask your permission to carry out an experiment in your yard.”

  Marcella smiled. She clearly liked the idea of experiments.

  “That sounds delightful,” she said. She took a sip of broth. “Jonas told me you found the sherds I was concerned about,” she said.

  “We did. That is what spurred the desire for the experiment,” said Diane.

  “Do you think someone is buried in my backyard? The note… I wondered if whoever wrote it was, well, murdered. I think there was some deranged artist living in the house and he may have done away with someone. What do you think?”

  “I think I’d like to take a look in your yard. We are always looking for better ways to detect buried human remains. David has wanted for a long time to have a place to take soil samples to run a chemical analysis to see if he can pinpoint locations where remains have been buried. He wants to try other methods too-resistivity, seismic-and make comparisons. I wanted to ask your permission,” said Diane.

  “Yes, I think that is an intriguing idea. We can perhaps solve my littl
e mystery and get some scientific information to boot. A good plan,” she said.

  “Tell me,” said Diane. “How old do you think the writing on the desk is?”

  “The desk was under a lot of junk that hadn’t been moved in a very long time. I had an antiques dealer look at it. He thinks it is a handmade desk from the 1930s. If it helps, it had a buffalo nickel dated 1920 in one of the drawers. It was worth two dollars.” She grinned and took a sip from a cup of coffee on her tray. “I hadn’t finished looking into the pedigree of the house. I went to the historical society and spoke with a few old-timers who worked there. They weren’t much help remembering, but they gave me a computer printout of a picture of the front of the house from about fifty years ago. It hasn’t changed much. I was going to the courthouse next.”

  “I have someone searching the courthouse records,” said Diane. “Tell me about the three paintings on the living room wall.”

  “That was the most fun thing. I was knocking out a wall upstairs, and there they were. Very nice, I thought. They seemed like they fit the house. I hung them in the living room,” she said.

  “Were they signed?” Diane asked.

  “In a way. There is a picture of a bird in the lower-right corner of each one. A black-and-white bird. I thought the artist might have a bird name, like Finch, Crow, Sparrow-there are any number of surnames that are birds. That’s a thought,” said Marcella. “Perhaps there is something in the paintings that we can date.”

  “The thieves took the paintings,” said Diane.

  “Why would anyone steal those old paintings?”

  “That’s one of the things we hope to find out. They also took your pottery that was in the living room hutch.”

  “I don’t know what the paintings were worth, but they are going to be sorely disappointed in the pots. They aren’t real artifacts,” said Marcella.

  Marcella pronounced each word with a short pause. Diane noticed her voice was fading quickly.

  “What did you make of the subjects in the paintings?” asked Diane.

  “One was a young woman, another was a young man-actually, they looked more like teenagers. The background of both was woods. Very wistful faces. The third was a woman, perhaps in her thirties, sitting in a chair.”