Dust to Dust

by Beverly Connor

  They entered the building and went into an office just to the right of the front door. A young woman with multicolored hair got up from her desk and came to the counter. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt that said I’LL TRY TO BE NICER IF YOU TRY TO BE SMARTER.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with a bright smile. She quickly scanned the five of them and gathered up several forms. “You’ll have to fill these out,” she said before Hanks could give her an answer. The woman smiled at Lillian. “This is a real nice place.”

  “I’m sure,” said Lillian. “Very nice hair extensions you have, my dear. I particularly like the purple and green together.”

  The young woman patted her hair. “Oh, thanks.”

  Hanks showed her his badge. Diane noticed he had taken off his arm sling and left it in the car. His movements were a little stiff, but he wasn’t wincing in pain.

  “We have an appointment to see Miss Gauthier,” he said.

  “The police to see Miss Agnes? Well, I hope she hasn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t a bank job or anything, was it?” The young woman giggled at her joke.

  “Please send them in here, Miss Jolley.”

  Jolley, thought Diane. Her name is Jolley. They went into the office of Ms. Christina Wanamaker, according to the name on the door.

  “Please, sit down,” she said. She was a woman in her early forties. She had dyed black hair pulled back in a severe French twist. Thick eyebrows and turned-down lips. She looked around for a moment, seeing that there were more people than chairs.

  “Miss Jolley,” she called, “could you bring two more chairs?”

  The screeching sound of chairs being pulled across the tile floor split the air. Harte was nearest the door. She ran out to help carry them in. They sat down and Hanks made introductions as Ms. Wanamaker pulled a file out of her drawer and opened it on her desk.

  “I’m hoping you know of family for Miss Gauthier,” said Ms. Wanamaker. “We, of course, have a mandate to take care of the indigent, but the economy being what it is, we would welcome it if relatives could help with the expense of her care.”

  “We hope this leads to her relatives,” said Hanks. “We have reason to believe it will.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?” she asked.

  “We have some definite leads we are following,” said Hanks.

  Ms. Wanamaker’s face brightened. “Are they in a position to help, do you think?”

  “It’s possible,” said Hanks.

  Diane could see he was walking a fine line between trying to keep to the truth and trying to keep Ms. Wanamaker cooperative. She referred to Maybelle as indigent. If Everett Walters was indeed her brother, he certainly could and should have been helping all these years.

  “Can you tell us something about her?” asked Hanks.

  “I don’t know a lot,” said Ms. Wanamaker. “As best I can determine, she’s been in the system for more than fifty years. Over that long period of time there have been many changes in care, and most of her original records were lost. What I do have has been pieced together and is very sketchy. Miss Gauthier was first institutionalized in a clinic in the early or mid-fifties. I don’t have an exact date. That facility was called the Riverside Clinic, in Rosewood. I believe there is now a museum where the clinic used to be.

  Diane and Vanessa couldn’t have been more startled if someone had thrown ice water on them.

  “Is that your museum?” asked Hanks.

  “Yes,” said Diane. “What is currently the RiverTrail Museum building was the location of a clinic in the forties and fifties.”

  So, Maybelle Agnes Gauthier had been a resident of the psychiatric clinic that used to be in the building. When renovations of the building were under way in preparation for the opening of the museum, boxes of old records were discovered in the basement and subbasement. Diane wondered whether Gauthier’s name was listed somewhere among them. She would ask her archivist to find out.

  “Oh,” said Ms. Wanamaker, “you know it, then.”

  Diane nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  “It closed down sometime in the fifties, as I understand,” the retirement home director said.

  “In 1955,” said Diane.

  “Miss Gauthier was moved to a retirement home in Clarksville after that. It burned, and that’s where a lot of the files were lost. After the fire, she was in the hospital for a time, due to burns on her arm. She was not severely injured, but she was hurt badly enough that she needed care for a time. After that, she was in three other nursing and retirement homes before she came here. As I said, she has been in the system a long time.”

  “When she was first institutionalized, she would have been in her early forties,” said Diane. “Do you know what she was diagnosed with?”

  “We don’t have the original diagnosis, but over the years she has been diagnosed with a list of things,” said Ms. Wanamaker, picking up a piece of paper. “Everything from schizophrenia, delusional disorder, dissociative identity disorder, paranoid personality disorder, bipolar disorder, to Ganser syndrome. Personally, I don’t think anyone knew. I don’t know what symptoms she had when she was first institutionalized. Seriously, if she kept being shuffled from nursing homes to retirement homes, it couldn’t have been that severe. She has always been coherent while she has been here. In fact, she is an artist. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” said Hanks. “Painter, right?”

  “She’s done some wall murals for us, even at her age. They are quite good. She’s also a very good potter.” Ms. Wanamaker pointed to a shelf behind them. “She did that.”

  They all turned and looked at a ceramic pitcher formed in the shape of a beautiful girl with long curling hair. One lock of hair looped and curled, making the handle for the pitcher. The eyes were empty.

  “Would you like to see her now?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Hanks, “that would be good.”

  Chapter 53

  The retirement home smelled like a prison to Diane. She didn’t like it. She walked beside Hanks as Christina Wanamaker led them down a long hallway. Several wheelchairs were in the hall with elderly men and women asleep in them. No one was attending to them. Diane noticed a few visitors, but most of the residents were alone.

  The walls of the facility were painted the same pale yellow as the outside of the building. The floors were a green tile. Bad elevator music was piped in from somewhere. The place was clean, but Lillian was right; it was dreary. It made Diane realize that the hardest thing in the world to be is old, poor, and alone. Time to find her inner objectivity. It wouldn’t do to break down and cry here in the hallway.

  Ms. Wanamaker led them to a large sunroom. One wall was painted with tropical plants, flowers, and birds. It was the cheeriest thing Diane had seen in the place. Gauthier’s work, thought Diane, was still very good. At the far end of the room a woman, dark against the waning light, sat near a large picture window.

  “Miss Gauthier,” said the retirement home director, “you have visitors.”

  “Visitors,” came a rough, halting voice. “I? Visitors? I don’t believe I’ve ever had visitors before.”

  They approached the woman, their shoes clicking and echoing on the tile floor. Diane set her box and folder down on a nearby table and grabbed a couple of chairs. Harte helped her. They placed them near the woman. The director adjusted the window blinds to reduce the sunlight coming through. Now there was just the ambient light from the fixtures in the room, a harsher light. Diane, Vanessa, Lillian, and Hanks sat down in a semicircle in front of the woman. Harte sat back a little behind Lillian.

  Maybelle Agnes Gauthier was a lanky woman. Even at her advanced age she did not look shrunken, but large boned and tall. Her hair, fine white wisps over the crown of her head, was thin and showing a pinkish scalp. Her face was crisscrossed with lines. Her lips had all but disappeared, they were so thin and lined. She wore a pink housedress, a gray bulky sweater, leggings, and house slippers. But most noticeable about her were her
eyes. Diane had never seen eyes their color. They were a dark bluish color with flecks of yellow and light blue, almost like copper ore. The eyes followed each one of them as they arranged their chairs. They had a sheen to them as they moved, as if she had had cataract surgery.

  “Maybelle,” said Lillian, “it’s been a very long time. The last time I saw you was at one of Rosewood’s cotillions and we were young women dressed in white gowns and gloves.”

  “Cotillion. I haven’t heard that word in a long time. Who are you? I don’t recognize you.”

  “I’m Lillian Chapman. I used to be Lillian Egan.”

  “Lillian Egan? I don’t remember. You say we knew each other? I didn’t know many people.”

  “We did not know each other well,” said Lillian, “but our paths crossed on occasion. My father owned the railroad that ran through Rosewood.”

  “I remember the railroad. I think my father probably hated your father.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “He hated a lot of people.”

  “We would like to know about your life,” said Detective Hanks.

  “My life? You would like to know about my life? Why?” she said.

  “We think it would be interesting,” he said.

  “Do you?” she said. “All of you people have come here thinking my life is interesting? Why is that?”

  “You are a famous artist, for starters,” said Hanks.

  Gauthier was far more clearheaded than Diane thought she would be. It frankly surprised her. She knew Lillian had a keen mind, but she came from a long line of people who aged slowly.

  “And we have been digging in your backyard,” said Hanks slowly.

  She looked startled, almost confused. Then she said, “Young man, I don’t have a backyard.”

  “You did a long time ago,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

  “A long time ago, yes. That was so very long ago. Before . . . before . . .”

  She let the sentence fade away without finishing it. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself.

  “May we record our conversation?” said Hanks.

  Silence.

  He turned on the recorder anyway.

  “You know, Maybelle, at our age,” said Lillian, “there isn’t much that can hurt us anymore. Sometimes it’s good to tell people about our lives before everything is gone. I remember your mother and her large hats.”

  Maybelle smiled. “Those hats. As a little girl, I used to traipse around the house in those hats.” She frowned. “Until Father came home. He was opposed to traipsing. My mother is dead. So is my father.”

  “We are very old,” said Lillian.

  “Yes. Very old,” she repeated. “Why have you come?” she asked again.

  “You asked us to,” said Diane. “You said if you ever disappeared, come find you. You wrote it on the bottom of a desk drawer. It took a long time, but we are here.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared at Diane.

  “I did, didn’t I? I had forgotten. It was so long ago.”

  “Why did you leave your note on the bottom of a drawer?” asked Hanks.

  “I didn’t want my father to find it. He wouldn’t know to look there. I thought Mother would.”

  “How did you come to be here?” asked Diane. “Why aren’t you living in Pigeon Ridge? You did live there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. My mother gave the house in Pigeon Ridge to me. It was hers to give. I came to be here because my father put me away. Mother came to see me, but she couldn’t rescue me like I thought she would. I have a brother somewhere. I don’t think he knows where I am. He was a good brother. He must be dead too. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you my story after all.” She turned her head away, dismissing them.

  “We know your brother,” said Diane.

  Gauthier jerked her head back around and looked at Diane.

  “Your younger brother, Everett. Isn’t that his name?” said Diane.

  “You know him?” she said. “Does he know where I am?”

  “We found you,” said Diane. “He could have too. You would be proud of him. He has several businesses. He married and has a son. He has a grandson. His son is a doctor and is going to run for Congress. His grandson is a law student at the University of Georgia. He’s going to be a lawyer.”

  Diane stopped and let it sink in. It didn’t take long. She saw the change come over her eyes. Gauthier had been indigent, living in dingy retirement homes for almost sixty years, and her brother had prospered. The whole family had prospered.

  “Is that the truth?” Gauthier said.

  Diane had found a photo on the Internet for the occasion. It was an award banquet for Everett’s son, Gordon Walters. The whole family was there, sitting around the table. Thank God for the Internet. She went over to Gauthier and handed her the photo.

  “This is your brother here. Beside him is your nephew, Gordon Walters, his wife, Wendy, and your grandnephew, Tyler Walters,” said Diane.

  “Walters?” said Maybelle Gauthier. “Why is his name Walters?”

  “Your father left Rosewood and changed his name,” Diane said.

  “Everett looks like Father,” she said. “He looks like Father.”

  “Does he?” said Diane.

  “He left me here and never looked for me.” She looked up at Diane and her eyes were hard, like jet coal. “You came here for my story. Okay, I’ll tell it. I’ll tell you my story, all of it. There’s not much they can do to me now.”

  Chapter 54

  “Father was a hard man with no use for art, or daughters. But Mother was rich and she was strong willed. She protected me. I didn’t have any pets growing up. I knew better. Father couldn’t be trusted. He was mean and vindictive.” Maybelle Gauthier looked at Lillian. “If your father was alive, he would tell you. My father ruined many men with lies. Lies were sharper than swords.”

  “I seem to remember Papa saying something about Jonathan Gauthier,” said Lillian.

  “Mother divorced him and lived on her own. She owned property in Pigeon Ridge and told me I could live there. Father tried to marry me off to one of his friends. I wouldn’t have it. I was in love with someone else, an artist.”

  She shook her head and her eyes suddenly softened. She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, Diane almost jumped, her voice was so filled with venom.

  “Father ruined him, ruined his family, and told me it was my fault. I heard he died not long after. I think he killed himself. He was sensitive. Not like me. I was as strong as my mother. Like her, I lived by myself. I lived on the money from my trust fund and my portraits.”

  The light filtering through the windows was fading and a kind of darkness settled over the room, even with the overhead lights.

  “I didn’t make any more friends. It was dangerous, because of Father. And after a while I grew too old to marry off. Father found himself a new wife, and they had a son. That was Everett. After that, Father left me alone. He had what he wanted. Then I got two ideas.” Gauthier’s eyes glittered with excitement at the memory.

  “I had grown tired with painting and I wasn’t selling as much as I used to. I always thought Father had something to do with that. It was like him. I still had Mother and my trust fund. I became interested in pottery. I’d see it in art shows in Atlanta and liked the idea of the clay flowing though my fingers. And I quite liked the symbolism of vessels. I didn’t like the shiny stuff the other artists produced. I wanted something more earthy. I discovered how the Indians made pottery, and I liked that. There was a creek not far from my house that had an ample supply of clay. But I wanted to do something different.”

  She paused for a moment and licked her thin lips.

  “And I wanted to ruin my father’s favorite thing—his son. Everett was old enough to go about by himself. Children did in those days, especially boys. I invited him to come visit me. I showed him my art. I got to know him. He was a lot like Father—mean. But he seemed to like me well enough. I think because I was strong. Not many people s
tood up against Jonathan Gauthier.

  “I had an idea for making my pottery come alive, in a manner of speaking. Making each piece have meaning greater than a mere pot. Make it a true vessel. I got Everett to bring me young people his age to model for live masks. I tempered my pottery with grit then and sold the pieces in Atlanta. Mine were unique and they sold well.”

  Diane hadn’t seen Harte leave and didn’t know she was gone until she came back with bottled water for everyone. Apparently she’d noticed Maybelle was getting hoarse.

  Maybelle took a long drink before she continued. Diane was afraid she might change her mind and stop. Hanks thought the same thing, she guessed, for he frowned when he was handed his drink. But she didn’t stop. She merely quenched her thirst.

  “I took Everett to movies in Atlanta—violent movies. I could see by the look in his eyes he liked them. I’d drop little hints about Father—about people who crossed him, how some disappeared. Then I’d say it wasn’t true. It wasn’t, but I knew that denying it would make him believe it. He was so much like Father. I told him so, and he liked the idea. He wanted to be like Father.

  “I’d been toying with the idea for a long time of trying out a new temper that would add more meaning to my work. I needed Everett to do it. I told him about bone temper, how wonderful it was, and how we needed bones to do it. Not just any bones, but human bones, the way the Indians did it, I told him. I gradually raised the idea in his mind of killing one of the people he brought home. Someone no one would miss. I could see the idea excited him. I coaxed him, we talked about it, and I asked him his ideas, until, after a while, he thought it was all his idea. But I told him how to do it, to use the small hatchet and do it quick and efficient. He did and he was good at it. The first one was a tramp.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Diane could see that Harte was shivering. She pulled her sweater tighter around her and nervously fingered her pearls. Vanessa and Lillian were quiet and still, their faces blank masks.

  “I sold a great many pottery vessels, each one with its own unique face—young, old, beautiful, harsh. Did you see the pitcher in Miss Wanamaker’s office? That one wasn’t special and is made with ordinary clay, but you can get the idea of what the others must have been like. Isn’t it beautiful? All the pottery vessels I made after that had a special look about them. People in Atlanta told me they looked as if they could come alive. They were right. But they didn’t know it.”