Dust to Dust

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.

Chapter 23
    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.
    “It’s kind of you to speak with us,” said Diane.
    “Yes,” agreed Kingsley. “What we are trying to do is retrace Stacy’s steps before she was killed.”
    Kathy Nicholson said nothing, offering no information. They were going to have to ask for everything.
    “Will you tell us what you spoke with her about?” asked Kingsley.
    She was silent a moment. Then she looked resigned.
    “She wanted to know about my testimony. She started by telling me that she knew her brother, and that he was kind.” She rolled her eyes and looked past them at the house across the street. “I simply told her what I saw.”
    “Was she upset?” asked Diane.
    “Of course. But I don’t know what she expected. That now I’ve had nine years to think about it, I made a mistake? Well, I didn’t.”
    “Tell us what you saw,” said Diane.
    “I thought you were here about Stacy. I’ve told you, I’m not going to help you get that monster out of jail,” she said.
    “I’m asking questions that I know Stacy probably asked you,” said Diane. “We would like to know her frame of mind. We would like to see if there was anything she heard that might have sent her in some direction