Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

“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.”

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 Layne, 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.