Dust to Dust

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.