Diane grinned. “No. I just don’t want to impose.”
“It won’t be that hard. Didn’t you say she was fifteen?”
“Yes. But I have no idea what could be the key.” Diane had learned from a previous case where decoding was involved that you need a key to decipher it.
“I doubt there is one,” he said. “This is something she would have a facility for. She would want to write it as fast as if she were writing normally. I believe it’s a combination of rebuses and simple substitution.”
“Oh,” Diane said. “I couldn’t make anything of it.” She paused. “Okay, this is embarrassing. What’s a rebus? I know what substitution codes are.”
“Words and parts of words are represented as pictures.” Frank waved a hand. “For example, the phrase ‘I cannot’ might be represented by pictures of an eye, a tin can, and a rope tied into a knot,” he said.
“I knew you could do it,” she said.
“When I can’t break the code of a fifteen-year-old, I’ll pack it in.” He grinned at her.
After dinner Diane called Kendel, the assistant director of the museum, and they discussed Kendel’s upcoming trip to Australia. Afterward, she and Frank spent the remainder of the evening watching TV, a luxury for both of them. It was a nice end to a day filled with reliving other people’s tragedies. She wondered what the Carruthers’ evenings would be like from now on.
Diane awoke early, but Frank was already up. She heard his footfalls on the hardwood floor. He came in the door to their bedroom carrying a tray with orange juice and cereal, and with the morning paper under his arm.
“Breakfast in bed?” she said, looking quizzically at him as he put the bed tray over her lap. “Is one of us dying? Is it an anniversary I forgot about? Were we fighting last night and I didn’t realize it? I know you are very low-key sometimes.” She grinned at him.
“No. I just wanted you to start your day off well,” he said, and gave her a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling.
“Why? I mean, why today especially?” she said.
He laid the newspaper on the tray beside her silverware. “Because I think today may be one of those days where the shit hits the fan.”
Chapter 27
Diane eyed him and picked up the paper. There on the top banner, the place on the page giving the reader a teaser for what is to come inside, was a school picture of Stacy Dance and a short paragraph with the caption: HOW WE TREAT CRIME VICTIMS WHO AREN’T AFFLUENT-WHY DO THEY FALL THROUGH THE CRACKS OF JUSTICE?
Diane looked up at Frank, who pulled up a chair, turned it around, and rested his arms on the back as he drank his own glass of orange juice.
“What is this?” she said. “Who?”
“You might want to get some food in you before 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 to see whether Marcella’s daughter will give us permission,” said Diane.
“I’ll ask Jin to let me borrow Heckle and Jeckle,” said David. “He should be glad for the opportunity to work alone for a while.”
“They aren’t so bad,” said Diane. “They enjoy research, so I’m sure they will be glad to help with the project.” She stood up. “You clear it with Jin and I’ll get Marcella’s permission.”
Diane drove to the hospital. As she parked, she toyed with the idea of going down to the morgue to speak with Lynn Webber, but decided against it. She wasn’t sure what she would say to her. No doubt Lynn was getting quite a few calls anyway. Diane went up to the ICU waiting room. She found Paloma and her husband sitting on one
