Free Dust to Dust by Beverly Connor

with his neatly trimmed beard and tweed sport coat. She noted some small changes since she last saw him: His brown hair was a little longer, and he looked tanned. He must have been on vacation.
    “Ross, this is a surprise. How are you?” said Diane.
    “Quite well, thank you. I hope this is not inconvenient. I should have called—you might have been in a cave somewhere—but I had to be in Rosewood anyway, so . . . anyway, here I am.”
    Frank looked at the distressed dress over her arm, arched an eyebrow, and looked back up at her.
    “Long story,” she said.
    “Did you have to go to the hospital?” Frank asked.
    Diane knew he was only half joking.
    “No,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. “I was lucky. It was a short drop.”
    She noticed Kingsley had a briefcase. It was sitting on the floor near his feet. This was business. The last time he came to her about business hadn’t turned out well. Actually, it eventually turned out well, but the journey was hell. He followed her gaze.
    “I have something I would like to talk to you about,” he said.
    “Okay. Would you mind if I hop in the shower and change into some fresh clothes first? I’ve had an eventful morning that began long before dawn. It won’t take me long,” she said.
    “Sure,” said Kingsley. “Frank is being a very entertaining host.”
    Diane went into the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and got into the shower. The warm water felt good on her sore muscles and she would have liked to stay longer. But she hurriedly washed her hair, soaped up her body, and rinsed off. Frank came in as she was dressing.
    “You all right?” he asked.
    “Fine. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” She smiled and kissed him. “Really, I’m fine this time. I only rolled down an embankment.”
    He laughed and left the room. Diane finished dressing in slacks and a sweater and combed back her short wet hair.
    Frank had her a cup of fresh, steaming coffee sitting on the table next to her favorite chair when she came back into the living room. It felt good to get comfortable in the cozy room with its stuffed chairs, polished wood, and sunny, cream-colored walls. There was no fire in the fireplace, but its presence in the room dialed up the cozy factor. Ross Kingsley certainly looked comfortable.
    “So,” said Kingsley, “what happened this morning? I’ve had interesting mornings myself, but I don’t think they ever quite reach the same level of interest that yours do.” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee.
    Diane told them about the early morning’s events, leaving out details of the case. Kingsley listened with a combination of openmouthed disbelief and amusement. Diane tried to make it more of a comedy of errors than the real danger it was. Frank had his usual, I-can’t-let-you-out-of-the-house-can-I expression on his face.
    “As I said, my mornings aren’t nearly as interesting,” said Kingsley. He paused for a moment as if looking for another excuse not to get down to his business.
    “How’s the FBI?” asked Diane.
    “I’m not with the FBI anymore,” he said.
    Diane hadn’t expected that. Ross had seemed so comfortable there. “I wasn’t aware,” she began.
    “I had an identity crisis. I discovered I wasn’t wearing clothes; I was a fraud,” he said.
    Diane glanced over at Frank. He looked as puzzled as she felt.
    “You’re going to have to explain,” she said.
    “I came to the realization as I was working on my book on profiling that it was all smoke and mirrors. I was a con, no different from those psychic-astrologer folk you visit at carnivals for a psychic reading,” he said.
    “I’m not sure I understand,” said Diane.
    “I’d been regarding profiling as if it were a science,” he said.
    “You have repeatedly told me it isn’t an exact science, that it’s a tool,” said Diane.
    “I know I said that, but down deep I believed it was something more than that. I thought it rested, at least, on good psychological