Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

“Perhaps he did, but that was the only time he was seen,” said Kingsley.

“Could be. I also noted that she did her gardening at the same time every day. If you needed a witness to be in a specific place in front of the victim’s house, she would be your witness. And everyone in the neighborhood probably knew her schedule.”

Kingsley nodded. “That’s true. What else? You said maybe three things?”

“The tattoo. She saw it because he had his arm hanging out the window,” she said.

“And?” he asked.

“It would be his left arm she saw, the arm that wasn’t on the steering wheel. When you drive with one hand, which one do you use?”

“I’m left-handed, so I drive with my left hand,” he said.

“Ryan Dance is left-handed too,” she said.

“We left-handed people are pretty good with our right hands, living in a right-handed world as we do,” said Kingsley. “Just playing the devil’s advocate.”

“I know. All of these things I mentioned are tiny and can’t remotely be used to benefit Ryan or get justice for Stacy. They are just interesting, small bits of information. They probably mean nothing. But when small pieces start adding up, sometimes you get a whole pot.”

“A whole pot of what?” he said.

“I’m working on something else that has to do with broken pottery,” she said. “It’s on my mind.”

“Her identification of Ryan gave me pause,” he said. “I don’t believe she saw his face.”

“Neither do I,” Diane said.

“So, did she call the Carruthers’ house right away?” said Kingsley.

“Of course,” said Diane.

“Do you think they will see us?” he asked.

“I believe so. There is a neighbor going over to her house now. I’m willing to bet it’s for moral support.”

“Why do you think they’ll talk to us?” said Kingsley.

“They want to find out what we are up to-if they need to mount an effort to keep Ryan in prison. They want to scope us out to see if we are the kind of people who are up to the task of perhaps getting Ryan out of prison,” said Diane.

“You don’t think Kathy Nicholson believed we are only interested in Stacy Dance,” said Kingsley.

“Nope. They can’t afford to believe that,” said Diane.

“I agree. You’re not a bad profiler,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t believe in profiling?” said Diane.

“Slip of the tongue. I meant psychologist,” he said, and put the car in gear to drive across the street to the Carruthers’ house.

The door was opened as soon as they rang the doorbell by a woman perhaps in her early fifties, in shape, and tanned. Her dark brown hair was cut in a sort of a graduated pageboy style with blunt bangs. She wore a white blouse and dark gray slacks. She wasn’t Marsha Carruthers. She was the neighbor Diane had seen walking over at a hurried pace. Perhaps I was wrong , thought Diane. Perhaps she was called over to be gatekeeper .

“Can I help you?” the woman asked.

Kingsley gave her his ID and explained what they were doing there, just as he had with Kathy Nicholson. The woman glanced at it and gave it back.

“I suppose you know this is a cruel intrusion,” she said.

“It’s certainly not our intention to be cruel,” said Kingsley. “My client’s daughter was murdered in a terrible way. We know she came to visit here a few days before her death. We were hoping Mrs. Carruthers would help. May we see her?” asked Kingsley.

She opened the door and stepped aside. “I’ll be here with her,” she said.

“Of course,” said Kingsley. “A good neighbor is a priceless treasure.”

The woman looked startled for a fraction of a second. She was probably not expecting him to quote Chinese proverbs. As Diane recalled, that was in his fortune cookie the other evening.

She led them into yet another formal living room. This one was not as bright and sunny as the one across the street. The dark, wine-colored drapes were closed. No outside light came in. The only illumination was from several lamps around the room. This living room was furnished with dark leather furniture, wood and glass tables, and a Persian carpet on a hardwood floor. The centerpiece of the room was the portrait over the mantel: a beautiful oil of Ellie Rose Carruthers-forever young, with long, wavy blond hair and blue eyes.

“Mrs. Carruthers.” Kingsley held out a hand to a woman seated in one of the leather chairs. She didn’t reach out to take it and Kingsley let it drop.

She had blond hair-bleached, but bleached well. She was too thin. Diane thought she probably had been too thin for several years now. She didn’t smile at them. Her face, strained, lined, looked like carved stone. She sat in the brown leather chair wearing a brown dress with brass buttons. She made Diane think of a chameleon, as if she could easily blend in with the chair and disappear altogether.

“Thank you for seeing us,” said Kingsley.

He and Diane stood waiting for an offer to sit, which never came.

“Why have you come to dig in my wounds?” she said. Her voice sounded like pieces of gravel rubbing together. The other woman, the neighbor, stood at her chair like a handmaiden. She put a hand on Marsha Carruthers’ shoulder. Marsha reached up and touched it.

“We haven’t come to cause pain,” said Kingsley. “We’re investigating the murder of Stacy Dance. We wanted to talk with you about her visit.”

“Why do you say she came here?” said Marsha Carruthers.

Diane noted that they weren’t surprised at the word murder .

“We are retracing her steps,” said Kingsley. “Can you tell us what she talked about?”

“Do you think her death had anything to do with her investigation?” asked Mrs. Carruthers.

They weren’t getting anywhere. They were answering each other’s questions with questions. As they sparred, Diane had been observing the room. The chair Marsha Carruthers sat in seemed out of place in relation to the rest of the furniture. Then she saw the indentations on the Persian rug. The chair usually sat facing the fireplace. They had swung it around to face outward. It usually sat where someone could sit and look at the painting of Ellie Rose. Was that how Marsha filled her days, sitting in front of her daughter’s painting? Or perhaps it was Ellie Rose’s father who sat and looked at his daughter when he came home from work. Diane wanted to cry.

“That’s our best working theory at the moment,” said Kingsley.

“So you’re thinking that wretched excuse for a human sitting in prison is an innocent victim?” Her mouth curled into an ugly shape.

“No, I don’t think that,” said Kingsley. “We are investigating Stacy Dance’s death. Will you tell me what you talked about?”

“You don’t know that her death had anything to do with-with this,” she said. “You know where those people lived. How do you know the sister wasn’t like the brother-into God knows what, probably drugs or something just as vile? That’s the life they lived, and I resent your implying that she died because she discovered that piece of human garbage is innocent,” she said.

“Mrs. Carruthers, Stacy Dance was a very nice girl. She took care of her neighbors, drove the elderly to their doctor’s appointments. She was in college-”

“College? The University of Georgia is a college. Bartrum is a college. That place she went to is just a glorified tech school. She was nothing like my Ellie Rose.”

Marsha looked back and forth from Kingsley to Diane as if daring them to defend Stacy again. The grief had sucked all kindness and love from her. She was empty of everything but hate.

“You’re wrong about Stacy,” said Diane. “And about Gainesville Community College for that matter, but especially about Stacy. She was kind. I understand-”