Dust to Dust

floor lamp beside it. Marcella’s nightstand had a picture of a young family. She had a married daughter. Diane guessed it was a picture of the daughter and her family.
    The bedroom was neat and uncluttered. The adjacent room was a different matter. It was a study in clutter. Long library tables flanked by bookcases lined three of the walls. Additional bookcases stood on each side of the door. All were overflowing with books, journals, and papers. More books were stacked on the floor, in corners, and on chairs.
    On the table to her left sat a computer, printer, and scanner—probably the one David installed. Scattered across the table near the computer were printouts of potsherds she had scanned, many annotated in her own handwriting.
    The wall above the table and every available wall space were covered in an amazing collection of maps: satellite maps of canyons, deserts, and terrains with oxbow rivers, topographical maps, road maps, and maps of archaeological sites showing postholes and other ground features. Many of the maps had numerous red dots scattered across them in clusters. After a moment Diane realized each dot probably represented a location where a potsherd had been found. As in crime scene investigation, the location of items reveals much.
    The table on the opposite wall had several reconstructed pots and boxes of sherds. One box looked as if it might be part of the reference collection Marcella was creating for the museum. At one end of the table, relatively clear of clutter, were a microscope and a box of slides.
    But the star of the room was on the center table. In a box of sand stood a face being reconstructed from broken pieces of ceramic pottery. Diane walked over to it. The piece appeared ancient to her eyes. It had the look of tempered American Indian ceramic. Its dark tan surface was sprinkled with white inclusions of the tempering material. But Diane had never seen any Indian artifact like this—a mask, not stylized, but with refined, realistic features. It was quite beautiful.
    It was a reconstruction in progress, a broken three-dimensional puzzle being reassembled. The sand allowed the pieces to stand on edge as Marcella worked with them. Several sherds lay on the table waiting to find their place in the emerging form. So far almost half the face had been reconstructed—most of the chin, the nose, one cheek, an eye, half a forehead. In the sand behind the larger piece was a smaller reconstruction. It looked as if it was going to be the ear and the other cheek. Several sherds were glued together in clusters but still lacked the links that connected them to the main piece.
    Beside the box of sand were drawings of the face. One was an extrapolation of the finished work. Diane wondered where the mask was from. She was lost in thought when Marcella’s phone rang.
    It startled her for a moment—a phone ringing in a house whose owner was gone. Diane walked over to the computer table and answered it with a simple “Hello.”
    “Who is this, please?” It was a female voice, possibly young. Sometimes it was hard to tell. The accent seemed Midwestern, but Diane wasn’t good with accents.
    “Whom are you trying to reach?” Diane asked.
    “Someone in my mother’s house . . . I mean, are you a detective? I’m Paloma Tsosie. Marcella Payden is my mother.”
    “Mrs. Tsosie,” said Diane, “I’m very sorry about what happened to your mother. I’m Diane Fallon. I’m with the police looking over the house.” Diane didn’t like to say “crime scene” to relatives. It was too harsh, too scary.
    “Are you one of the crime scene people?” Marcella’s daughter asked.
    “Yes.”
    Paloma Tsosie paused a moment. “That’s a coincidence,” she said almost absently. “Mother does contract work for a museum director named Dr. Diane Fallon.”
    “Same person,” said Diane. “I have several jobs.”
    “How odd,” she said.
    “It is, a little. How can I help you?” asked Diane.
    “My husband and I are flying out to Georgia. We’re in Arizona now.” She paused. “We would like to stay at the house. Is that possible?”
    Diane thought of the blood on the floor. Marcella’s daughter couldn’t see that.
    “We have a lot of fingerprint powder, equipment, and lights all over the house,” said Diane. “But I think I can have it cleaned up for you by this evening. I’ll have to ask the lead detective, of course.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “The museum can put you up in a