Dust to Dust (23 page)

“Was Rosewood’s crime lab involved in this?” he asked.

“You forget, I have labs and fancy equipment all over this building,” said Diane.

“All right, then. Is this thing going to bite me in the ass?” he asked.

“I think it will turn out to be a good thing,” said Diane.
Eventually
.

Garnett didn’t ask any more questions, such as how did the newspaper get hold of the story? He probably thought Mr. Dance called them. Diane was happy Garnett didn’t ask. She might fudge a little when telling him certain things, but she was very careful to protect the honest relationship they had.

Garnett ended the conversation and Diane hung up the phone. She frowned at it a moment before she turned back to Kingsley.

“Is her article a problem for you?” she asked.

“No, not really. But I don’t understand why she said some of the things she did,” he said.

“The reporter added a lot of her own thoughts about comparison of the two murders,” said Diane.

“That explains a lot.” Kingsley steepled his hands. “Actually, it might shake up things enough to cause the killer to react,” he said.

“Shaking things up is what the reporter said she was trying to do. I’m not sure I approve of the shaker method of finding the truth,” said Diane.

Kingsley gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “You’re probably right. But you never know.”

“The article made the Gainesville police look bad. That’s not a good thing,” said Diane. “Maybe they did miss the boat, but they were kind of broadsided on this.”

“Not really,” said Kingsley. “Dance has been calling them every other day trying to get the case reopened.They should have known something might be coming their way.”

“I’ve noticed you have a lot less sympathy with the authorities now that you’ve made a career change,” she said.

“I guess I’ve been seeing a little more of the other side,” he said. He put the tips of his fingers in the fountain on her desk. “Nice. I like the way you did the rocks.” He took his fingers out and patted them on his jacket. “Did Frank say he could decipher the diary?” he asked.

Diane nodded. “Frank said it should be fairly straightforward. He may have even used the word
fun
.”

“I’ve never quite understood how deciphering works,” said Kingsley.

“It helps that there’s always a pattern,” said Diane. “Seriously, what did your employers say when they saw the newspaper?” she asked.

“They were sorry they weren’t mentioned by name,” he said, and gave her a rather lame smile. “What can I say? It’s about business. However bad the article looked to the police, to my bosses it showed the effectiveness of their firm—and the speed with which we can determine the truth.”

“Is that what we did, determine the truth?” said Diane.

“Part of it. Didn’t we? The rest is up to the Gainesville police now. They will be wanting the evidence you collected. I’m going to suggest they send someone over here to sign for it. My bosses wanted to personally deliver it to the Gainesville PD, but I told them we need to have a simpler chain of custody from one official agency to another, and they agreed.”

“All right. Jin is working on the analysis. I’ll find out when he expects to finish. We’ll hand over the evidence and the analysis. I suppose Mr. Dance is satisfied. Have you spoken with him?”

“Yes. He’s very pleased that we have cleared his daughter’s name. He’s not happy that we have to turn the evidence over to the Gainesville police. He doesn’t trust them. I told him the news media will be keeping an eye on them. He said it shouldn’t have come to that; they should have done the job right the first time.”

“I agree,” said Diane. “However, things are how they are.” She stood up. “I need to give some instructions to David and meet with a few of my curators, so I’m going to run you off.”

Kingsley stood up. “I understand. If I stay much longer, I don’t think you could get me out of that chair. You have a very comfortable office. Though I find the photograph of you hanging over that chasm a little disturbing every time I look at it.”

Diane smiled. “A lot of people do.” She said it as if it were a strange thought. Diane loved caving and she particularly liked vertical-entry caves. There was something quite exciting about repelling down an open chasm.

She walked out with him on her way to the crime lab. “Are you going to just let the police reinterview Stacy’s band members?” asked Diane as they walked down the hall to the lobby.

“I think they’ll do a better job. I’m sure they’re scarier than I am,” he said.

Diane started to leave him to go to her appointments, when she spotted three women at the information booth. She knew them. So did Kingsley.

“Well, hell,” they both whispered together.

Diane stood looking at Kathy Nicholson, Wendy Walters, and Marsha Carruthers as they turned in her direction. It was obvious they were being directed to Diane’s office. The three of them spotted her and Kingsley. For a moment, Diane had the urge to run and hide behind the mammoth in the Pleistocene room.

Their faces ranged from grim to angry. As the three women approached, Diane wondered which office would be better for whatever was about to happen: her osteology office in her forensic anthropology lab with its cold, spartan decor, or her more comfortable museum office with its Zen-like qualities. She opted for Zen-like. That office was closer.

Marsha Carruthers looked much as she had when they interviewed her. She wore another dark dress. This one was gray with black buttons and a white collar and cuffs.

“I’m glad both of you are here,” Marsha said. “We intend to speak with you.”

Diane supposed it was only fair, since she and Kingsley went to their homes intending to speak with them, and did.

“Very well. We can talk in my office,” said Diane.

She retraced her steps to her office, opening the doors to the administrative wing of the museum for her guests. She led them down the hall into Andie’s office, where she found Jonas Briggs waiting for her.

“I thought I would escort you to the staff meeting,” said Jonas. He smiled cheerfully, probably relieved that Marcella was doing so much better than the doctors had expected.

As Diane attended to Jonas, the three women waited impatiently. Kathy Nicholson spent the time scrutinizing Andie’s seating area, a room Diane thought would be good for entertaining Peter Rabbit’s mother, with its cottage-style overstuffed chairs and sofa. The room’s colors of pink, blue, and green, and the floral design, were repeated in a porcelain grandfather clock. A rag rug in matching colors sat underneath a dark cherry pie-crust coffee table. Kathy Nicholson’s gaze shifted from one item to the next, lingering on a crackled figure of a rabbit sitting on the coffee table beside magazines about museums.

The other two women simply stood, frowning and waiting. Diane didn’t introduce anyone. It didn’t seem appropriate and she didn’t think the three women would appreciate it.

“Change of plan,” said Diane. “Andie, you are taking my place at the meeting.”

Andie’s eyes grew wide. “What? Me?”

“You know the curators and the issues. You have the budgets. And you’ve been wanting to be more involved at a higher level,” said Diane.

“Yes, but, I mean, they are all college professors, and I’m, well, me,” she said.

“Ah,” said Jonas, putting an arm around her shoulder, “but you sit on the right hand of the queen herself. Just remember that. And also that underneath their clothes, those college professors all wear Underoos.”

Andie laughed.

“You’ll do fine,” said Diane. “They are all excited about the webcam project. If anyone gives you trouble, you can send them to me.”

“See there?” said Jonas. “That’ll put the fear of God into them.”

After Jonas and Andie left, Diane ushered her three visitors into her office. Kingsley helped Diane pull up enough chairs to her desk. Diane thought about taking them into her sitting room but decided she wanted her desk between herself and the women. Kingsley was on his own.

“I’m sorry, but I have to make a call first,” said Diane before anyone spoke. She walked behind her desk, sat down, and dialed David’s number. “We have permission for the research project,” she told him.

“Great. I thought we would. Marcella loves research. How is she?” he asked.

“She seems much better,” said Diane.

“Good. Jin loaned me Hector and Scott. So, okay, what’s the deal? Hector’s the older twin, right? And there is something about his shirt?” said David.

“The color is a longer wavelength than Scott’s,” said Diane.

“Yeah, that’s it. God, I hope this isn’t a mistake,” he said.

“They’ll do fine,” she said.

“They have improved the research design. We are going to collect samples using a smaller grid system—collect more samples—to determine the least number of samples needed for accurate results.”

“They enjoy research,” said Diane. “You shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Oh, and I’ve lined up some archaeology students to excavate, in case we find anything,” said David.

“Just remember, if you locate anything, you have to call the coroner before you take anything out of the ground,” said Diane.

“I’ve informed Whit, so he knows we might call,” said David.

“Then you are good to go,” said Diane. “Keep me informed.”

She hung up the phone. They were all staring at her, the three women and Kingsley. She supposed at this end it was a strange conversation.

“Now,” said Diane, “what can I do for you?”

“You can recant what you said to the newspaper,” said Marsha Carruthers. “You aren’t getting that trash out of jail. He killed my daughter.” She leaned forward and repeated her plea. “He killed my daughter.”

Diane guessed that Marsha’s other daughter hadn’t confided in her, or she would have mentioned it first thing. She hoped Samantha didn’t wait too long. Diane didn’t want the police to be the ones to tell the Carruthers it was their daughter who found Stacy’s body.

“You told me you were not interested in getting that monster out of jail,” said Kathy Nicholson. “But it’s obvious you lied.”

She pulled the newspaper article from her purse and tossed it on the table. It was the one Diane had already read.

“Neither I nor Dr. Kingsley had anything to do with the article in the paper,” said Diane. “And we are not trying to get Ryan Dance out of jail.”

“Then where did the newspaper get this information?” asked Wendy Walters.

“I’ve not talked with the reporter. I don’t know her,” said Diane.

“You told me you worked for . . . or are the director of”—Kathy pulled Diane’s card out of her purse and read from it—“the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab. But it turns out you’re a museum director.” She tossed the card on her desk with the article. “Why would you deceive us in this way?”

“How is it you’re qualified to say anything about how that woman died?” said Wendy. “People are going to believe what they read in the newspaper and there is going to be a call for the Dance boy’s release, and the police are going to be chasing a wild goose, because . . .” She threw up her hands. “This is just stupid. Are the two of you scam artists? Is messing with people’s lives how you get your kicks?”

“I am director of this museum. I’m also director of the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab, which is part of this museum. And I’m director of the Rosewood Crime Lab,” said Diane.

They stared at her for a moment. Wendy spoke first. “What does Rosewood have to do with any of this? It’s Gainesville’s jurisdiction.”

“I wasn’t representing Rosewood when I spoke with you or when I investigated the scene of Stacy Dance’s death,” said Diane.

“Then you were using your employer’s time and facilities for personal gain,” said Wendy.

“No, I was not,” said Diane. “First, my work was pro bono; second, I didn’t use Rosewood’s facilities or their time . . . even though I could have. You see, our crime lab does forensic analysis for jurisdictions all around the world, not just Rosewood. I’m still not understanding why you are here and what you hope to have me do.”

“Is it true you said that woman was murdered?” said Marsha.

“Stacy Dance,” said Diane. “Yes, she was murdered.”

“We discovered that our medical examiner said she died by accident in a rather perverted and disgusting fashion,” said Marsha. “What we want you to do is to recant what is in the paper. Our police aren’t stupid. Neither is our ME. You have no business contradicting them. All it’s done is get people to wondering about Ryan Dance. People have called me. People are saying we are rich and we have railroaded some poor boy.” She stopped and her lips quivered. “And my baby did not die in the same disgraceful way that woman did.”

“I know the circumstances of your daughter’s death and those of Stacy’s death are quite different,” said Diane. “Neither of us is responsible for the reporter saying they were similar. But we do know how Stacy died, and she did not die by her own hand. She was killed somewhere else. Her body was staged in that embarrassing way. It was not her doing.”

“It’s your word against our law enforcement people,” said Marsha. “They are good at what they do. They would not have said it was an accident if there was any evidence it was murder.”

“My husband knows two members of the museum board,” said Wendy. “Thomas Barclay and Madge Stewart. He is going to call them and tell them what you’ve been doing.”

“That’s fine,” said Diane. “Call away. I can’t change my findings. But you need to stop and look at the situation. You seem to be under the impression that it’s easy to get someone out of prison. It isn’t. Nothing in what we have discovered can in any way be used to get Ryan Dance’s sentence overturned, or even reviewed, for that matter. And, certainly, the inaccurate reporting in a newspaper can’t do anything for him.”