Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

Diane didn’t like being a passenger. She’d rather be driving. There was a kind of helplessness about being a passenger.

“Yes. You think I’m making the same mistake as Doppelmeyer? I’ve made up my mind and I’m dismissing all other possibilities?”

“No, not really,” said Diane.

“But just a little?” he asked.

“No, but I do think the temptation to go in that direction is very strong. We just have to keep an open mind and follow the evidence. Were there any jealousies? Sometimes people don’t need a really big motive for murder. Small, petty ones will do.”

“I asked about that. I interviewed each one separately. From what I can tell, Stacy and the boyfriend seemed pretty solid. I didn’t see any jealousies about who gets to solo, or who gets top billing. Stacy wasn’t even the lead singer; the other girl was.”

“Did they have a lot of gigs? Did they make money?” asked Diane.

“Not really. They mostly played at school dances, bar mitzvahs, weddings, county festivals, that sort of thing. They’ve never played a club. The boyfriend said they were discussing doing a CD. These days you can apparently make them yourself. Don’t know about distribution, though. He seemed to think they could sell enough from their Web site to get a following. What struck me about all of them is that they were having fun. They didn’t see themselves as struggling musicians; they saw themselves as already having made it and were just looking to make it bigger. Stacy’s death is a blow to them. Their grief seems genuine.”

“Have you seen the Web site?” asked Diane.

“Yes. Nothing stands out. It introduces them, has a sample of their music, has a short video. It has a nice memorial for Stacy. Which, I should add, tells the world that she was murdered, not that she died by accident.”

“Did any of them know anything about the investigation she was doing?”

“That was an odd thing, at least to me. No, they didn’t. They said Stacy kept the business about her brother private. She didn’t even confide to her boyfriend about the investigation. Her friends thought she needed a place where concerns about her brother and his problems didn’t exist-and that was with them and the band. I think we’re here,” he said, turning onto a road that introduced itself as Georgia Heritage Estates.

The neighborhood Ellie Rose Carruthers had lived in was quite different from the one Stacy Dance and her brother, Ryan, grew up in. This place was far from the industrial district. It was an upper-middle-class neighborhood of doctors, lawyers, and upwardly mobile professionals. The yards were neatly manicured. There was no house that needed a coat of paint. One thing for sure, Ryan’s car would have certainly stood out in a neighborhood filled with the higher-end cars she saw parked in the garages and driveways. Kingsley drove to a large two-story brick house and parked in the drive.

“The house across from this one belongs to the family of Ellie Rose Carruthers,” he said. “This is Kathy Nicholson. She was the main witness who put Ryan in this neighborhood. Stacy came to see her three days before she died. Kathy Nicholson’s husband died five years ago. He owned three hardware stores around Gainesville, and she lives alone,” he said.

“Does she know we are coming?” asked Diane.

“No. This is a surprise,” he said.

“Oh,” said Diane.

They walked up to the house and knocked on the large, ornate oak door. Diane could hear footfalls almost immediately. The door was opened by a woman, slightly heavyset, dressed in brown slacks with a brown and cream striped blouse with a soft satin sheen to it. Her hair was ash brown with blond highlights and cut in a short, modern style. Kathy Nicholson had smooth skin, pretty features, and dark brown eyes. Right now she wore a cautiously pleasant look on her face. Diane saw her eyes dart to the car, then to the two of them-Kingsley in his casual sport coat and slacks, Diane in her Ann Taylor camel-colored jacket and pants. Kathy Nicholson seemed to relax. Diane knew it would be only for a moment.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Kingsley took out his private investigator’s license and gave it to her. None of the flash-it-in-front-of-her-in-hopes-she-doesn’t-look routine.

“Mrs. Nicholson, I’m Dr. Ross Kingsley and this is my associate, Dr. Diane Fallon. May we speak with you? We can talk over at that lovely table you have in your side yard if you like,” he said.

“Doctors. I hadn’t realized that private investigators have such high standards, or are times just hard?” She smiled at the two of them, but it didn’t show in her eyes.

“It’s the firm I work for,” said Kingsley, grinning at her. “They like educated investigators. My doctorate is in psychology. I was previously a profiler for the FBI.”

Kingsley was really rubbing the education in a bit, thought Diane.

“And what about you?” she asked Diane. “What’s your doctorate in?”

“Forensic anthropology,” said Diane.

“That’s about bones, isn’t it?” she said. Diane nodded. “What do you want?”

She was suspicious now, Diane could see. Probably thinking about the visit she had about five weeks ago from Stacy Dance. Too many people coming around doing detective work-about one of the worst things to happen in her nice, pretty neighborhood.

“It’s about Stacy Dance,” Kingsley said.

The woman’s smile disappeared. “I told that young woman what I saw. I’m sorry it was her brother. I know she was just a girl at the time and I understand that she believes him to be innocent. I told her if it were my brother, I probably would too, but I saw what I saw. I’m not going to help you get that monster out of jail.” She handed Ross back his ID and started to close the door.

“Stacy was murdered,” said Kingsley before she got the door completely closed.

The woman stopped and stared at him through the six-inch opening in the door.

“Murdered?” she whispered. “I don’t want anything to do with this.”

“We just want a few minutes of your time to ask you about Stacy,” said Kingsley. “Her father is our client. His daughter is dead; his son is in prison. I would like to find out what happened so he can have some measure of peace.”

She relented. Diane could see it in her eyes first, the softening around the corners. Kathy Nicholson stole a glance across the street, then opened her door.

“Come inside. It’s too cold to be outside,” she said.

Kathy Nicholson ushered them into her living room, a roomy space with a large picture window. It was a formal living room with traditional furniture-a gold brocade sofa, matching accent chairs, highly polished coffee table and end tables. A portrait of her and her husband when they were young hung over the fireplace. She had a cream carpet throughout that was spotless.

Mrs. Nicholson was a good housekeeper. There was no dust, nor any clutter. The room also presented a starkness, like a place where no one lived. Perhaps it was because it was a room rarely used. Diane could see through a doorway into the dining room-a room that also had everything in its place. Mrs. Nicholson may have had a den or TV room tucked away that looked more lived in, but what she showed to the world was neatness and order.

Diane and Kingsley sat on the sofa, their backs to the window. Kathy Nicholson sat on one of the chairs. She didn’t look comfortable, but Diane didn’t think it had anything to do with the chair.

Mrs. Nicholson didn’t offer refreshments. Diane and Kingsley weren’t guests and were not under the protection of hospitality. They were intruders, people who had come to tear at the heartstrings and bring back bad memories. Perhaps even to affront those memories.