Dust to Dust

Lassiter? I’m sure you thought his killing Stacy was to hide what the two of you did to frame her brother. Stacy had Ellie Rose’s diary pages and she was beginning to decipher them. But the other two must have mystified you.”
    Diane was careful to accuse Everett Walters of the killings, although she thought that it was Tyler who choked Stacy to death. That conclusion was based, weakly perhaps, on the fact that he had done it before, and that his overlapping boot prints were lifted from the spot where Stacy actually died. But right now, she wanted Tyler to believe that he could clear himself.
    “Ellie’s diary?” said Marsha. “She had Ellie’s diary?”
    “Yes. She was a musician and good at math,” said Diane. Like Frank, she thought. “Stacy was probably translating the parts that told her how Ellie was afraid of Tyler and his grandfather. Did Stacy call you, threaten you?”
    “She called Granddad,” said Tyler. “Stupid thing to do.”
    “What about Lassiter and Payden?” asked Diane. “Weren’t you curious why they had to die?”
    “He said it needed to be done,” said Tyler. “You haven’t answered my question. Why would he kill Ellie Rose?”
    Diane eyed Everett. He looked smug. He didn’t know she knew about his sister. Showtime.
    “Some killers get off on the terror of their victims,” said Diane, not taking her eyes off Everett. “Sometimes it’s a sexual-control thing. Is that right, Ross?”
    “Often,” he said.
    “But not you,” said Diane. “It was a god-control thing with you. I imagine as a boy staying over at your big sister’s, playing among all the statues of fauns, gargoyles, and dragons, it was like a little kingdom, a little Olympus. And what you really liked to do, what really made you feel powerful and in control, was to sneak up behind the unsuspecting prey and strike them dead, like a god in his dark realm. They never knew it was coming. You had the power to snuff out their life, and just like that, they were no more.”
    Everett’s face slowly dropped its smug expression. He looked worried. Finally.
    “What?” said Tyler. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Didn’t he tell you?” said Diane. “Your grandfather is a serial killer from way back. Not the ordinary kind, I don’t think. He had more control than others of his kind. He prided himself in that.”
    “Not all serial killers lack control or feel a compulsion to constantly seek out victims,” said Kingsley. “Some are opportunistic killers. I suspect your grandfather is one of those.” Kingsley looked Everett in the eyes. “You can go for years without killing, can’t you? You’re like the smoker who can just stop and not look back and not obsess about having another cigarette.”
    “But I’ll bet Everett couldn’t resist the possibility of killing Ellie Rose,” said Diane. “It was an opportunity presented to him, so he brought the hatchet. It’s not that easy for a fourteen-year-old, like you were, to strangle someone. He knew there was a possibility she was still alive. And the pull of nostalgia was just too great, even for a man of his control.”
    “Are you serious?” said Tyler. He briefly took his eyes off his grandfather, and Everett started to reach for his ankle gun. “Watch it, old man. Is this true?” he asked him.
    Everett straightened up. “Rubbish. Fantasy.”
    “Not according to your sister, Maybelle,” said Diane.
    Everett looked sharply at Diane, his eyes wide with surprise. He paused for many long moments, staring at Diane.
    “Mags has to be a hundred and ten by now,” he whispered.
    “Not quite a hundred. Ninety-seven, I believe,” said Diane.
    “Senile,” said Everett. Some of his smugness came back into his face.
    “Actually, quite lucid,” said Diane. “Creepy as hell, but her story is consistent with what we found in the well.”
    The smug look was short-lived. His mouth turned down into a frown.
    “You know,” said Diane, “I’ll bet when you had your fingerprints taken at the time you were bonded for your business, you worried. You worried if they were on the items you dropped in the well when your father was coming to take your sister away. It was a long shot that they would ever be found, but it had to give you pause. And then came Dr. Marcella Payden, archaeologist and curious homeowner. She was looking for the artist who had created the broken pottery that she discovered in the fire pit in her yard and painted the