Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

“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.”

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.