Dust to Dust

by Beverly Connor

  Diane repacked the bones, washed her hands, and put the paperwork on her desk. She called down to museum security to see if everything was calm. It was. No incidents whatsoever. That was a relief. Her team should be in the crime lab by now. She went to speak with them.

  Neva, Izzy, and David were there working when she entered. Diane called them over to the round table and asked them for updates on the crime scenes they were working on.

  “We almost don’t have time for any more crime,” said David. “We need to open a branch office. Not that I’m complaining. It’s good for business. Never a dull moment.” He gave a rundown on the various evidence they had in process, then turned to Marcella Payden.

  “We’ve started the backyard research project again at Marcella’s. Scott’s been a big help. He’s a little too careful where he steps—jumpy about the prospect of more abandoned wells—so he’s slow, but I can’t say I blame him. And the paramedics haven’t made a run out to the house in several days. So things are good.”

  Diane smiled. “David, you speak French. Why didn’t you tell me that Gauthier is the French word for Walters?”

  David looked at her for a moment. “Why would I?” he asked.

  “Oh,” she said.

  She realized they knew next to nothing about the Carruthers, Walters, and Nicholson families. They knew only about Stacy Dance and her crime scene. She gave them a brief description that turned to a long description when they started asking questions.

  “Talk about your weird coincidence,” said Izzy. “Jeez, this case is full of them. You think it’s the same family—Gauthier and Walters?”

  “I don’t know,” said Diane.

  “You know,” said Neva, “sometimes people change their names if they don’t want to be associated with an infamous relative. Imagine how Jeffrey Dahmer’s extended family must feel.”

  “Sometimes they do it because the old name is just too hard to pronounce,” said David. “Or they don’t want to sound foreign.”

  “It’s probably just a weird coincidence,” said Diane, “but I’d like to investigate the possibility.”

  “What you’re thinking is that the Walters family doesn’t want the connection made between them and their Mad Potter relative,” said David. “Assuming the Mad Potter was a Gauthier, and the Walters are really the Gauthiers.”

  “I think it may be a possibility,” said Diane. “The Walters are a prominent family. Gordon Walters, the oncologist in Gainesville, is testing the waters for a run for Congress. He, or his father, Everett Walters, might want to keep the skeletons in the closet.”

  “Who wouldn’t want to keep these skeletons hidden?” said Neva. She shivered and pushed her hair back behind her ears. “I gave the facial reconstruction drawings to Hanks. He’s going to show them around some of the area retirement homes. He doesn’t hold out much hope that anyone will remember them after so long, but there’s always a chance.”

  “You did a good job on the drawings. I hope we get some hits,” said Diane.

  “You know,” said Izzy, “I think we need to have our own Web site where we can post Neva’s reconstructions. A lot of people have computers these days. Who knows? We might get some hits there.”

  Izzy wore jeans and a T-shirt like the rest of her team usually wore. He started out with slacks and button-up shirts. Diane was glad to see that he had adapted well to her team. Not that he should dress like them, but she wanted him to feel a part of the team, to identify with them. Not everyone could.

  “Good idea,” said Diane. “Would you like to do it?”

  Izzy raised a hand as if shoving the idea away from himself. “I’m just learning about computers. But good ol’ David here . . .”

  “I think it’s a good idea too,” said David. “It wouldn’t be hard. The hard part is to make it so people can find it. Your average person doesn’t go surfing for missing persons. But we can give it a try.”

  “Okay, in your spare time, then, go ahead,” said Diane. “Neva, I want you to remember everything you can about the black Escalade you saw. Did it have any stickers on it? Did it have a front plate that identified the dealership? Anything?”

  “I’ve gone over it in my head,” said Neva. “I believe it had a UGA parking sticker on the front window, but I’m not sure. It didn’t have a dealer plate, or any front plate.”

  “Find out if anyone among the Gainesville families we discussed has a car like that,” said Diane.

  “Will do,” said Neva. “I can probably get a list of Cadillac Escalades registered on the UGA campus. You want me to do a little investigating and see if the Tyler guy might be a hiker?”

  “Yes,” said Diane. “But would he wear his good hiking boots except when he was hiking? Jin doesn’t.”

  Neva grinned broadly. “We start judging what perps might do based on Jin’s behavior and no telling what we might come up with,” she said, and they all laughed. “If they’re really comfortable, and I’m guessing they would be, then he might like them in a high-risk situation.”

  Diane nodded and turned to David. “Have you been able to identify any of the fingerprints you found on the objects in the well?”

  “I haven’t run them yet,” he said. “That’s on my schedule for this morning.”

  “Be sure to include the database of people who’ve been bonded,” said Diane.

  David put a hand over his heart. “Have you ever known me not to be thorough?” he said.

  “Never,” said Diane. “I’m just looking for reasons for a judge to grant a warrant.”

  “I hear you,” said David. “We will scour the evidence.”

  Diane’s cell vibrated in her suit pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the display. Detective Hanks.

  “Hi,” said Diane. “What’s up?”

  “You know I told you I was sending someone to retirement homes looking for people who remembered Maybelle Gauthier?”

  “Don’t tell me you found someone who knew her. That’s great,” said Diane.

  “Nope,” said Hanks. “We found her.”

  Chapter 51

  Diane sat frozen for a moment. Speechless.

  “I thought that would surprise you,” said Hanks.

  “Are you saying you’ve found Maybelle Agnes Gauthier? She’s alive?” said Diane.

  Diane wondered whether her face looked like David’s, Izzy’s, and Neva’s did—wide-eyed, drop jawed. She didn’t know why she was so stunned. Vanessa’s mother was alive and she was about the same age as Gauthier.

  “I’m going out to interview her late this afternoon,” said Hanks. “I thought you would like to come along.”

  “Yes,” said Diane, “definitely.”

  “She’s alive?” David said when Diane hung up. “The woman who wrote on the desk drawer? Actually, do we really know that was her? What do we know about her? Do we really know she even lived in the house?”

  “We are fairly sure she was an artist who did oil paintings,” said Neva. “Vanessa’s mother remembered her—right? We don’t know if she was into ceramics or if she was a murderer. David’s right, we really don’t know much about her. We just suspect a lot. Do you think she’s as clearheaded as Vanessa’s mother?”

  “No idea,” said Diane.

  “I really doubt it,” said Izzy. “I’ve been thinking about that writing on the desk. You know, it’s kind of crazy.”

  “You think?” said Neva.

  “Okay, smarty, hear me out,” said Izzy. “What if her family knew she was crazy and was going to come take her to the funny farm, and she got wind of it? Maybe she left the message so that, I don’t know, her imaginary friends would find it and save her. I mean, who else did she expect would find it? I’m betting she’s loony tunes.”

  “She might have been taking drugs when she wrote that,” said David. “She was an artsy type. Maybe a member of the beat generation. Were they only writers, or could other artists claim membership?”

  “Beat generation?” said Neva.

&n
bsp; David shook his head. “I forget how many babies we have here. This was before you were born. Google it.”

  “David,” said Diane, “it was before you were born.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but I have an old soul,” he said.

  A call came in about a crime scene and Diane sent Neva and Izzy out on the call. It was the kind of scene Diane hated—someone killed in a bar. It meant dealing with people who were intoxicated, belligerent, and evasive.

  “Take backup,” said Diane. “Call and ask that my bodyguards be assigned to you. I’m going out later with Hanks to the retirement home.”

  “Sure,” said Neva. “Tell us all about it when you get back.”

  Neva and Izzy retrieved their crime scene kits from the locker and headed out. Diane asked David to look for a match for the fingerprints on the items retrieved for the well and to call UGA to get a list of Escalades with parking permits.

  “I want to know as soon as you can find out. Neva may be busy for a while,” said Diane.

  She went back to her office to finish up her paperwork. Before she began, she called Vanessa.

  “Diane, we must be psychic,” said Vanessa. “I was about to call you to report our progress. We found a stack of letters from the dates you and I were talking about. We are just sitting down to begin reading them.”

  “That’s good news, Vanessa. I called with some interesting news of my own. Detective Hanks found Maybelle Gauthier in a retirement home. We are going to see her late this afternoon.”

  There was a pause. “Did he, now? How clever of Detective Hanks. She’s alive. I’ve been thinking that she was probably buried near that house. But she’s alive—and retired? You say she is in a retirement home? I wonder what she retired from?” said Vanessa.

  Diane could hear her speaking with her mother and she heard Lillian’s clear voice say she wanted to go see her.

  “I guess you heard that,” said Vanessa.

  “Yes, I did,” said Diane.

  She was about to say that it wouldn’t be a good idea today; then she thought that perhaps it might. Lillian Chapman was a contemporary of Maybelle. There was a chance Lillian could get through to her whereas they might not. Diane had no idea what condition Maybelle Gauthier was in. Like Lillian, she was getting close to a hundred.

  “Let me make a call,” said Diane.

  At four o’clock they were in Vanessa’s limousine—Diane, Vanessa, Lillian, Detective Hanks, and Mrs. Hartefeld, who, Vanessa said, “insisted on coming to look after Mother.” Diane knew better. Like the rest of them, Mrs. Hartefeld was overcome with curiosity.

  She and Hanks sat on one seat, facing to the rear, Vanessa and the others facing forward. It reminded Diane of a stagecoach, only the ride was smoother. Vanessa served them orange juice from a small refrigerator. Diane had expected Hanks to say no when she called, but he too thought they might get more information if Lillian were there. Hanks seemed surprised that Lillian Chapman wasn’t frail. Diane thought he expected her to be in a wheelchair. She was slim, had strength in her arms and legs, and had a sharp mind and a clear voice. She did not look like a woman in her mid-nineties.

  Vanessa and her mother wore pantsuits. Vanessa’s was a navy raw silk suit with a blue shirt. Her mother wore a turquoise linen suit with a peach blouse. Both had platinum white hair. Vanessa’s was pulled back in a twist. Her mother’s was short with a slight wave that reminded Diane of the twenties, but with a little more lift. Harte had on a black skirt and a pink sweater set with pearls. They looked like very unlikely sleuths.

  Lillian was telling Diane and Hanks about one of the letters. Diane was particularly thrilled to hear what they had discovered among one stack of letters tied with a pink ribbon. It contained a piece of information she needed to go along with other evidence to present to a judge for a warrant.

  “I knew Ernestina Hillard from childhood,” said Lillian. “Poor soul died young. She wasn’t yet eighty.”

  Hanks suppressed a smile.

  “She wrote me while we were in Europe. My husband, Vanessa’s father, was in the diplomatic corps and we traveled a lot in those days. Vanessa was schooled in Switzerland. I don’t know whether that was a good idea or not.”

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Mother,” she said.

  “Be that as it may, there we were, and the only news we got from home was bits in foreign newspapers and letters from friends. Dear Ernestina was the most reliable. She wrote me about the scandals, in particular. I’m ashamed to say, I rather enjoyed them.”

  “Was there a scandal concerning the Gauthiers?” asked Hanks.

  Diane thought Detective Hanks would be impatient to get to the point, but he seemed to be somewhat in awe. She got the sense that he enjoyed meeting Vanessa and riding in her limousine.

  They passed through an area of road construction where the pavement was uneven and their orange juice almost sloshed out.

  “Oh dear,” said Lillian. “I didn’t get anything on me, did I?” She looked down at her blouse. “You know, the older you get, the less you can afford to have food stains on your clothes.”

  Hanks laughed.

  “You’re fine, Mrs. Chapman,” said Harte.

  “Diane told you about the letters, didn’t she?” asked Lillian.

  “Yes,” said Hanks. “People don’t write letters much anymore, do they?”

  “No, they don’t, and that’s a shame. But I have to tell you, I rather enjoy my e-mail,” she said.

  Hanks raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t expecting that.

  “Vanessa and Harte found so many of my old letters. Apparently, I had just dumped bundles of them in a trunk. But the one thing they found was just a wonderful surprise,” she said.

  “What was that?” asked Hanks. He knew, because Diane told him when they picked him up at the station. It was kind of him to let Lillian tell it.

  “An unopened letter from 1957. I can’t imagine a greater treat. Judging from the date on it, it must have arrived about the time we were packing to come home from Europe. We flew home, of course, but our trunks and the furniture were sent by ship. I guess I just stuck the letter in one of the steamer trunks with my other letters. I always kept my letters together with a pretty ribbon tied around them so they wouldn’t get lost. In all the rush and confusion of packing and unpacking, I must have forgotten it was there. Travel in those days was quite a bit more involved than it is today, you know, particularly with a retinue as large as ours, and if you had an unmarried teenage girl under your arm. You would not believe those European men, their audacity.” Lillian waved her hand as if to dismiss the thought. “But in any event, that which was lost is found again. And what a surprise when we found it. Vanessa, Harte, and I had a wonderful time reading it.”

  She took it out of her purse and handed the translucent blue pages to Hanks. He and Diane had to strain to read the spidery handwriting.

  Dear Lillian,

  Do you remember the Gauthier-Farragut divorce? Certainly you do, beautiful Edith Farragut in that big Parisian hat coming out of the courthouse dressed just like she did when she was a young girl. Here in North Georgia! She was a sight. Remember us laughing. We were awful.

  Well, I have more news. You remember my telling you that three years ago her daughter, Maybelle Gauthier, just dropped off the face of the earth? Neither Edith nor Jonathan would talk about her. You wouldn’t believe the rumors that were flying. Her father married her off to a prince. No one believed that one. For having such a beautiful mother, Maybelle was quite a gawky girl. The Barbers down the street said she committed suicide. She was over forty and never married, Mr. Barber said, so what else could she do? He always was a harsh judge of character. Some of the kinder folk said she went to Paris to study art. I think I believed that. She was such a wonderful artist. You remember the portraits she did—and the landscape your mother bought that time. It was beautiful. But I digress.

  Here’s the juicy bit of news I promised. Maybelle’s father, Jonathan, took Everett (you rememb
er Everett—Jonathan Gauthier’s son by that new young wife he married seventeen years ago. Everett is about Vanessa’s age, I think, maybe a bit younger) and his wife, and moved to Atlanta—and changed their name to Walters! Can you believe that? He changed his name! He didn’t tell anyone. Virgil found out quite by accident when he was getting some legal work done. (They share the same lawyer. Virgil had no idea.) We still don’t know what happened to Maybelle. Her mother lives in Marietta. As far as I know, she is still keeping with her maiden name, Farragut. Sarah tried to ask her one time about Maybelle, but Edith ignored her. I wonder what happened to that girl. And why do you think Jonathan changed his name? Strange, isn’t it?

  I’ll be happy to see you safe at home. I just can’t imagine living in strange countries all these years. Has Vanessa forgotten her native tongue? You’re lucky she didn’t marry a foreigner while you were there. I’ll bet you’ll be glad to get back to civilization.

  Safe journey,

  Ernestina

  They arrived at the retirement home. The chauffeur pulled into a parking place near the door and stopped.

  Chapter 52

  “Oh my. This is a dreary place,” said Lillian Chapman as she stepped out of the car and put a hand on Detective Hanks’ arm.

  “I would hate to live here,” muttered Vanessa. “It looks so sad.”

  Diane retrieved a box and a file folder from the car, then turned and looked at the building. It was a one-story sprawling structure of concrete blocks painted a pale yellow. The grass in the surrounding yard had turned brown and dry with the coming of fall. The few scraggly trees had already lost their leaves.

  “I appreciate your allowing us to come, Detective,” said Lillian. “This is going to be interesting.”

  “I’m hoping she will respond to someone who once knew her,” he said.