Dust to Dust (18 page)

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 that we could follow. This is not about Ryan Dance. It’s about Stacy. We are trying to get into her head—a big part of what was in her head was her brother.”

“We have spent nine years in this community trying to get over it,” she said.

“You never get over something like this,” said Diane. “You can only try to deal with it in some way that doesn’t drive you crazy. I would like to think that for you that would mean helping us bring a little peace to another grieving father.”

Kathy Nicholson nodded. “I had no quarrel with Stacy Dance. She was a young kid at the time of the trial. I remember her outside the courtroom. Her father wouldn’t let her come in and she would wait out in the hallway with a relative. I could see she wanted to put her family back together. There was nothing I could do about that. The day I saw him—the day El went missing—he was driving an old gold Chevrolet. It was a large gaudy thing with rust spots all over it. It wasn’t a car that we see here. Arlo Murphy’s father down the street had a rusty old Ford fishing truck, but that’s all he used it for—to go fishing. This car drove past El’s house going too slow, like someone looking for an address.”

“Where were you?” asked Kingsley, turning to look out the window.

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s too great a distance from here to the road. Well, I wasn’t in the house looking out the window. I was in my garden. It’s not there now. I quit gardening when my husband died. My garden was close to the road. I saw him clearly. His window was rolled down. His arm was resting on the door, half out the open window. I saw the snake tattoo he had on his forearm. I wrote down the license plate number. I was president of Neighborhood Watch then and I wrote down suspicious tags. Are you going to tell me that it wasn’t his plate number?”

“No,” said Kingsley. “We’re just trying to get at what you told Stacy you saw. Surely she asked you questions, like was he looking at Ellie Rose Carruthers’ house when he drove past?”

She was silent for several moments, her mouth set in a frown, her hands clutching the arms of the chair.

“I told her I saw him,” she said.

“Did he turn his head in your direction?” Kingsley pushed her. His voice was calm, but he was pushing. Diane thought Stacy probably had pushed too. If the person was looking at the Carruthers’ house, his face wasn’t turned toward Mrs. Nicholson in her garden.

“Which way was he going?” said Diane.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Nicholson asked.

“Which direction was he driving when you saw him?” she said.

“I was standing in my garden. Looking across the street at him. He was going north—to my left.” She gestured with her arm.

“This street isn’t a dead end, is it?” asked Diane.

“No,” she said.

“Did he come back and look again?” asked Diane.

“I didn’t see him if he did,” she said.

“How long were you in your garden?” Diane asked.

“From nine in the morning until eleven. That’s when I worked in my garden,” she said. “And my eyes are good. I have reading glasses now, but my eyes were twenty-twenty then.”

Diane had read Kathy Nicholson’s statement to the police, as well as her court testimony. It was in the file Kingsley had. Diane was willing to bet it was in Stacy’s file too, the one that was missing. In Nicholson’s first statement she emphasized the car, the plates, the Atlanta Braves cap, and the tattoo. Not the face. In court she said she recognized him. She pointed to him sitting beside his counsel. But the trial was held after Ryan Dance’s face had been all over the news. The documents didn’t say anything about a lineup.

Diane was willing to bet the first information Nicholson gave was the truth. Truths are often put forth first by witnesses because they are what is actually in the memory. Only afterward, when the pressure is on—from family, victims, police, prosecutors—do witnesses start saying things that are not exactly the truth, but could be. After all, it was so clear—the car, the hat, the tag, the tattoo. It was easy for Kathy Nicholson to say she saw the face and believe she had seen it, after she had been questioned by so many people who wanted her to be a good witness. She lived across the street from a grieving family who wanted the man put in jail. Pretty intense pressure.

“Was there a lineup?” asked Diane.

“You sound like you are trying to prove that monster was innocent,” she said.

“Didn’t Stacy ask you these questions?” said Diane.

“She asked me some of them. She didn’t hammer at me the way you two are doing.” She glared at them. “I told her I picked him out of a collection of photographs the police showed me,” she said. “And I did.”

“In the photo array, which one was it?” asked Diane.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “It was nine years ago.”

“Yes, nine years ago at one of the worst times in your life and the lives of everyone around you. Was it the first one or the last?” said Diane.

“The first one, I think,” she said. “I think you’d better go now. This has not been pleasant.”

“I know,” said Diane. “And you have been far more cooperative than we had a right to expect. I thank you.”

Kathy Nicholson straightened up a little, then stood up. “I’m sorry for Stacy and her father.” She paused. “Do you think her murder had something to do with her brother?” she asked.

“We don’t know,” said Kingsley. “That’s one theory, but we have to wait for all the evidence.”

“How could it? I saw what I saw. I wasn’t mistaken,” she said. “It wasn’t someone else.”

“We don’t know why she was killed. It may have had nothing to do with what happened here nine years ago,” said Kingsley. “It may be just a big coincidence.”

She showed them out the door, and Diane and Kingsley walked to his car and got in. He started it up and drove out of Kathy Nicholson’s drive and onto the street and stopped.

“Chilly,” said Kingsley. “I’m glad we didn’t have to do this outside.”

“Me too,” said Diane, looking out the window at the Carruthers’ house.

“I would have helped ask questions,” said Kingsley, grinning, “but it looked like you were on to something. Did you notice something?”

“Two or three things jumped out,” Diane said. “If he was looking at Ellie Carruthers’ house, why would he drive only in this direction?” Diane pointed in the direction Kingsley’s car was headed. “He would have to look out the passenger window to see the house. Much easier to look out the window on the driver’s side. So why didn’t he case the house coming from the other direction? He could have seen more.”

“Perhaps he did, but that was the only time he was seen,” said Kingsley.

“Could be. I also noted that she did her gardening at the same time every day. If you needed a witness to be in a specific place in front of the victim’s house, she would be your witness. And everyone in the neighborhood probably knew her schedule.”

Kingsley nodded. “That’s true. What else? You said maybe three things?”

“The tattoo. She saw it because he had his arm hanging out the window,” she said.

“And?” he asked.

“It would be his left arm she saw, the arm that wasn’t on the steering wheel. When you drive with one hand, which one do you use?”

“I’m left-handed, so I drive with my left hand,” he said.

“Ryan Dance is left-handed too,” she said.

“We left-handed people are pretty good with our right hands, living in a right-handed world as we do,” said Kingsley. “Just playing the devil’s advocate.”

“I know. All of these things I mentioned are tiny and can’t remotely be used to benefit Ryan or get justice for Stacy. They are just interesting, small bits of information. They probably mean nothing. But when small pieces start adding up, sometimes you get a whole pot.”

“A whole pot of what?” he said.

“I’m working on something else that has to do with broken pottery,” she said. “It’s on my mind.”

“Her identification of Ryan gave me pause,” he said. “I don’t believe she saw his face.”

“Neither do I,” Diane said.

“So, did she call the Carruthers’ house right away?” said Kingsley.

“Of course,” said Diane.

“Do you think they will see us?” he asked.

“I believe so. There is a neighbor going over to her house now. I’m willing to bet it’s for moral support.”

“Why do you think they’ll talk to us?” said Kingsley.

“They want to find out what we are up to—if they need to mount an effort to keep Ryan in prison. They want to scope us out to see if we are the kind of people who are up to the task of perhaps getting Ryan out of prison,” said Diane.

“You don’t think Kathy Nicholson believed we are only interested in Stacy Dance,” said 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.