“Doctors. I 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 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
