Dust to Dust

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.
    “Lynn wrote this,” Diane muttered. “She must have called Mr. Dance. What was she thinking?”
    “Keep reading,” Frank said.
    The style of the article changed. Apparently the journalist had added her own observations. She mentioned the death of Ellie Rose Carruthers and said the deaths were similar—that Ellie Rose was strangled and her clothes were in disarray, like Stacy Dance. But the investigations were treated quite differently, again alluding to the higher socioeconomic level of Ellie Rose Carruthers. The article revealed that Stacy Dance had been trying to clear her brother of the conviction of Ellie Rose’s murder, and the file in which Stacy kept all her evidence was missing. And the final provocative question: Could it be the real killer of Ellie Rose Carruthers also killed Stacy Dance in order to shut her up?
    Diane looked up at Frank.
    “I hardly know what to say,” she said. “I told Ross she wouldn’t go off half-cocked.”
    “At least she didn’t use your name or mention the museum,” said Frank.
    “There is that. And she only mentions that Dance hired a private investigation firm, but not the name of it. Ross will be relieved. I think. But what the heck was she thinking?” Diane threw down the paper.
    “Didn’t you say she is inclined toward vindictiveness?” said Frank.
    “Yes, but this is just going to alienate the detective in charge of Stacy’s case, not to mention cause a political uproar. It might even hurt Lynn,” said Diane.
    “I’m surprised she made a comparison with the two murders. My impression is they were not alike at all,” said Frank.
    “They aren’t, and she didn’t. I think Lynn presented an article to the journalist and asked her to publish it under her byline. The journalist—what is her name?” Diane looked at the paper. “Meryl Babbitt. She—as is her right, since it’s under her name—added details of her own. She probably saw they were both strangled, and ran with it from there.”
    Diane poured the milk over her cereal and took a bite. “At least no one will be calling me at the museum—except maybe Ross Kingsley. His wife will have to scrape him off the ceiling first. Jeez, I can’t believe Lynn did this.”
    Diane finished her cereal and took the tray back to the kitchen. Frank was collecting his things and was about to head out the door.
    “I’m going to take the diary pages with me,” he said.
    “Sure. Thanks for doing this,” she said.
    “No problem. I’ll enjoy it. But I’ll have to work at it in free moments,” he said.
    Diane kissed him good-bye and changed out of her nightshirt into black slacks, a white shirt, and a dark red jacket. She drove to the museum, parked on the crime lab end of the building, and went up the private elevator to the lab. David was there alone. The others hadn’t arrived yet. He was at the round debriefing table reading the newspaper.
    “Isn’t this the case you are working on?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she said. “And before you ask, I don’t know . . . well, yes, I do, but I don’t know why she chose such a forum.”
    “What are you talking about?” asked David.
    “Lynn Webber.” Diane explained about the history of Lynn Webber and Oran Doppelmeyer.
    “So, a little public humiliation for Dr. Doppelmeyer, then,” said David.
    “It would seem so. At least she didn’t mention my name.” Diane sat down at the table with David. “You know how you’ve been wanting to do a study of methods for finding buried human remains?”
    “Marcella’s yard?” said David. “I’ve been thinking about that very thing.”
    “I’m going over to the hospital