Dust to Dust by Beverly Connor

he did most of his work. His office was wall-to-wall bookcases and was filled with as many books and papers as Marcella’s. He did have a couple of blank spaces on the walls where he had hung enlarged photographs of archaeological excavations from the thirties. In another space he’d hung an abstract painting with bold, bright slashes of color, which he said was done by an elephant. A table flanked by two stuffed chairs sat in one corner of the room. A Staunton sandalwood chessboard was always set up on the table and he and Diane played when time would allow.
    Jonas was sitting at his desk. A young couple Diane recognized from a photograph as Paloma Tsosie and her husband, Mark, sat in the two stuffed chairs.
    “Diane, come in,” said Jonas. He rose from behind his desk and introduced Marcella Payden’s daughter and son-in-law. Jonas had said they were both teachers on the Navajo reservation. They looked younger than Diane had imagined. They also looked younger than their pictures. They must have both been just out of college.
    “I wanted to thank you for the hotel,” said Paloma, rising to shake Diane’s hand. “It’s so nice, and so convenient to the hospital.”
    Paloma looked like an early version of her mother. She was petite, had an oval face, honey blond hair, large blue eyes, and full lips.
    Her husband, Mark, had short black hair, dark eyes, and light brown skin. He had a lean face, a slender nose, and sharp cheekbones. They were an attractive couple. Mark stood with his wife and shook Diane’s hand, reiterating the thanks his wife had offered for Diane’s hospitality. Diane felt sincerity from both of them. They were grateful for her kindness and it showed in their eyes and their firm, lingering handshakes.
    “You’re welcome. I’m fond of your mother and it’s the least I could do,” said Diane. “She has done some wonderful work for the museum. We’re very excited about the collection she is putting together.”
    Mark offered Diane his chair, but Jonas shoved a stack of journals off a chair and brought it around for her. Paloma and Mark sat back down. Jonas rolled his desk chair around so he wouldn’t be behind his desk.
    “How is Marcella?” asked Diane.
    Paloma grasped her husband’s hand. “She still has swelling in her brain. The doctors are hopeful. I’m not sure what that means.” She looked at Mark and Jonas, and back at Diane. “They won’t say much.”
    “They probably don’t know much,” said Jonas. “We just have to wait. Marcella’s a fighter.”
    Paloma smiled briefly. “She is that. We have an appointment to speak with the detective this afternoon. I’m worried he’s off in the wrong direction,” she said. “Jonas told us how he was questioned.”
    “It’s just the way the detectives do things,” said Diane. “Don’t read too much into it.”
    “This arguing thing—Mother loves scholarly debates and her friends love to argue with her. She never bothers debating people who don’t have intelligent ideas. It’s just the way she is. It’s obvious to me it was those hooligans who attacked you and that detective—Hanks—who also attacked Mother. What’s wrong with him that he can’t see that?”
    “He’s just getting the obvious interviews out of the way first,” said Diane.
    It wasn’t exactly true, but she could see Paloma getting herself worked up, and she doubted Hanks would interview Jonas again.
    “I hope so,” said Paloma. “Unless they find out who did all of it, Mother will never feel safe in that house again, and she loves her house. She said it needs to be on If Walls Could Talk , you know, that home-and-garden show about old houses.”
    “I’m sure Dr. Fallon is right,” said Mark. “The detective has to understand her world before he can understand what happened to her. When he sees she’s not a woman who brings enemies around her, he’ll look outside her circle.” His wife smiled at him.
    Diane asked Jonas, “Did you ask Paloma