Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  The bones were a gray-brown color-the same as the surrounding soil. They stood out in relief like a piece of artwork. She brushed off a last clump of dirt and took a photograph. Diane moved to the edge of the well where she knelt and took several more photographs of the bones.

  She asked for the basket, which David immediately lowered down to her on the end of the rope. She removed the skull first. She turned it over and brushed the dirt off it. What caught her eye at once was the cut in the back of the skull. There was little doubt in her mind that it would fit the pottery cast. Diane set the skull on batting in the basket and signaled for David to pull it up.

  The vertebrae snaked from where the skull had been lying on its side, curving before terminating at the sacrum. When they winched the basket back down, she picked up the vertebrae one at a time and put them in the basket in order, along with the pelvis. It was a female pelvis, from a teen. She signaled David to hoist them up. Next she sent the ribs.

  The rest of the bones were in disarray. Diane stopped and sat back on her haunches. The angular rocks behind the wire bit into her back. She folded her arms and sat for several moments, glad the webcams weren’t aimed at her face. She took several deep breaths.

  When she worked as a human rights investigator in South America, there was a nun in the mission where they were housed who was forever giving them advice that sounded like Zen koans. Once when Diane and her crew became disturbed over a mass grave, she said, “In order to get close to them, you must get far away from them.” It was a concept they all knew and relied upon, but when Sister Margaret said it, it took on a more spiritual essence. Diane often had to stop and find that faraway place to put her emotions.

  The remains had been butchered. Of course, she knew they would have been, if, indeed, these were the bones that were ground up for temper. But being confronted with the jumbled, cut bones was far more disconcerting than the intellectual knowledge of what had theoretically happened.

  The arm bones were behind the body, upside down, as if someone threw them down the well after the torso was thrown in. They were broken-some from the falling rock, or the falling Hector, and some from the butchering. The shoulder blades were nothing more than spines of bone. The bodies of the scapulae were gone; only jagged edges remained. Scapulae were relatively thin. Probably they were easier to grind down than the heavier bones. She took several more photographs.

  She picked up one of the long bones of the arm to place it in the basket. Under it lay another. That made three humeri. The minimum number of individuals in the well went from one to two. The bones represented at least two bodies. She placed the bones in the basket and watched as they were raised to the top.

  “You want to take a break?” David called down.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Send down some small boxes.”

  She collected the hand bones, tiny pieces that belonged to the wrist and hand. Again there were bones that represented at least two people. She rough-sorted them into left and right and size. One of the individuals was larger than the other. Most of the hand bones were missing. There were not four complete sets. Maybe they were yet to be uncovered. Maybe they too had been ground into temper.

  A piece of something caught her eye. It had been under the arm bones, and like the bones, was similar in color to the earth. But this object was not bone. She began gently teasing and sweeping the dirt away. She found the edges. It was something rolled up. She believed it was leather. Once she had outlined it in the soil and excavated a few inches under it, she carefully picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. Something was wrapped inside it.

  As she put it in the basket, the object came apart and two hammers fell out: a large iron mallet and a smaller hammer with a broad face. She paused again and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Damn it. She knew what it was. The bone hadn’t been ground; it had been pulverized. Bones had been put in the leather and pounded with the hammers. First the large hammer to break it up, then the smaller one for finer work. She sent it up and then she climbed the ladder to the surface. She needed a break.

  Up top, Detective Hanks had been watching the computer screen with Mike. It looked as though Mike had been giving him a lecture-probably on soils, or Blue Ridge geology. Neva was wrapping the bones and packing them in boxes. Scott was helping. Topside around the well looked like a scene from Road Warriors-all scaffolding and cables that had a jury-rigged quality to it. Sparks popped from the flames of a wood fire that was burning for warmth.

  When David helped her off the ladder, he stared at her face. She knew what he noticed. He’d seen it in her many times, as she in him when they were working on mass graves. That forlorn, hopeless look. The knowing that even if you brought the perpetrators to justice, it wouldn’t balance the scales, because you hadn’t prevented those victims from suffering; you hadn’t stopped the killing. David put his arms around her and hugged her. The others looked up, a little alarmed, as if she might be hurt.

  “Are you all right?” said Neva.

  “Sure,” said Diane. “I’m just taking a break.” She tried a weak smile.

  She greeted Detective Hanks as David put a cold bottle of water in her hand.

  “Have you been here very long?” she said.

  “Not too long. I’ve been working with Sheriff Braden. Thanks for the introduction. He’s been easy to work with,” he said.

  “That’s good. The county sheriffs don’t always welcome Rosewood detectives,” she said, grinning at him. “I assume my crew has been bringing you up to speed on what we’re doing?”

  “I’ve been watching you on the laptop. I’m not sure it’s helped very much. Kind of like watching paint dry, if you know what I mean. No offense. Mike’s been telling me about…” He looked at Mike. “What was that word?”

  “Inceptisol,” said Mike.

  Mike grinned and winked at Diane after Hanks turned back around to her. He had probably been purposely pedantic-something Mike enjoyed doing to unsuspecting people.

  “Yeah, which, as I understand it, is dirt-that, soil horizons, and nice rocks. Like I said, it’s like the Discovery Channel around you guys.” He took Diane’s arm.“I thought I’d fill you in on what Braden told me.”

  Chapter 39

  They sat on Marcella’s front porch. Diane took her helmet off and set it down by her feet. She hugged her brown nylon jacket around her against the cool breeze. Hanks gestured toward the helmet.

  “Neva and Mike tell me that all of you explore caves together,” he said.

  Diane nodded. “We do, as often as we can. I particularly enjoy mapping unexplored caves,” she said.

  “Is that dangerous?” he asked, staring at her hard hat.

  “It can be,” she said, “but we practice safety.”

  Hanks nodded, looking back at Diane. “Mike talks a lot about rocks,” he said. “Tell me, do women really dig that?”

  “They do, but I think it’s the whole package they like,” said Diane, smiling. “Mike is one of our more popular continuing education instructors.”

  He shook his head and Diane waited for him to get around to what he wanted to talk about. A lot of Detective Hanks’ small talk revolved around trying to understand the people around him. It was as if he found Diane and her crew a complete mystery. Of course, nearly everyone she knew, including Frank, found her love of caving a mystery.

  “Sheriff Braden is a stand-up guy,” Hanks said. “He was surprised about the overlap in our cases. Wasn’t sure what to make of it either. He spoke with Lassiter’s friends, but didn’t discover much. She lived alone and had no family. Never married, as far as they knew. She worked as a secretary all her life in a family-owned office supply company. She retired eleven years ago and has done volunteer work since. The woman lived a very quiet life. She was known as an expert knitter and taught a few classes at a local knitting shop. This is not the resume of a woman who would have enemies. It looks like a burglary-homicide.”

  “What was taken?” asked Diane.


  “Her purse and jewelry box for sure. Not valuable items. Braden thinks she may have been killed because she wouldn’t reveal the whereabouts of valuables they may have thought she had. I asked him about artwork. He said he didn’t know of anything missing. We went to her apartment together. There was nothing that we could see missing from the walls or from display cabinets. Her neighbors said she didn’t have anything like pottery in her house. She liked porcelain figurines of fancy-dressed ladies that she bought from TV shopping networks, but all of them seemed to be there and, frankly, I can’t see anyone stealing them. The boot print is all we have that connects these two crimes, and neither of us have any answers. The sheriff hasn’t found any witnesses in her neighborhood who might have seen anyone near her home.”

  “What about the people at the Rosewood historical society?” asked Diane.

  “Miss Lassiter did secretarial work for them three days a week. She would also come in just to visit on days she wasn’t working,” he said. “They knew who her friends and neighbors were and a little bit about all of them. She was a woman who offended no one and enjoyed her retirement.”

  “Had Marcella spoken with her?” asked Diane.

  “Yes. I talked with Dr. Payden before I came here. She asked the people at the historical society, Miss Lassiter included, about the owners of this house here in Pigeon Ridge. She particularly wanted to know whether there was an owner who was an artist. Dr. Payden had a list with her of previous owners that she had gotten from the courthouse records. She said Miss Lassiter had a vague recollection of the house, but couldn’t tell her anything.”

  “Maybe the attack on Marcella and Miss Lassiter’s murder had nothing to do with what happened here years ago. Maybe someone who visited the historical society targeted both of them for some other reason. Perhaps their attackers thought they had money,” said Diane.

  “Maybe. But as you pointed out, stealing pottery and old paintings wouldn’t seem to be a fast track to riches. Miss Lassiter’s friends said she didn’t have any valuable jewelry. They seem to be the most stupid thieves I’ve run across. It doesn’t look like they are getting anything of real value.”

  “Did Neva or Marcella give you the list of previous owners of the house?” asked Diane.

  “Neva did.” Hanks took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. “Original owner was Edith Farragut, then Maude Saxon, Kenneth Northcutt, Jonathan Ellison, and Marcella Payden. From the dates we estimate for the artist, Edith Farragut would have owned the house at that time. The only specifics I have about her are that she built the house at the turn of the last century and maintained ownership until 1959, when it was sold to Maude Saxon. I’ve got someone looking for a death certificate for Ms. Farragut, and census records to see who might have lived here with her. I think she would have been too old in the 1950s to be the Mad Potter. This would have been a younger person’s occupation. At any rate, she certainly would be dead now if she was an adult buying property at the turn of the century,” he said. “She’d be well over a hundred and… What?” he said, staring at Diane.

  “How absentminded of me,” Diane said. “I have a friend who might have known the family. The paramedic said his grandmother referred to the woman who owned the house as being rich. Wealthy people in a small town like this would know one another,” said Diane.

  “Who are you talking about?” asked Hanks.

  “Do you know Vanessa Van Ross?” she said.

  “The mayor’s mother?” he said. “You know her?”

  “She’s the real power behind the museum,” said Diane.

  “And here I was given to understand that you are the queen of the museum,” he said.

  “Not at all. I’m just the viceroy,” she said, smiling. “What made me think of Vanessa was your mentioning age. You know Vanessa’s family is filled with centenarians and su percentenarians, don’t you?” she said.

  “Actually, no I didn’t,” he said. “What’s a supercentenarian?”

  “Someone more than a hundred and ten. Vanessa’s grandmother died not long ago at the age of a hundred and fourteen,” said Diane. “Her mother lives with her and is approaching a hundred. Vanessa is around the age of the paramedic’s grandmother. Between her and her mother, she might know something.”

  “Is her mother, ah, clearheaded?” he asked.

  “Sharp as a tack,” said Diane. “So was her grandmother up until the time of her death.”

  Diane fished her phone out of her jacket pocket and selected Vanessa’s number. The call was answered by the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Hartefeld, this is Diane Fallon. May I speak with Vanessa?” she asked.

  “Of course, Dr. Fallon. Anything to get her out of my hair this afternoon,” she said.

  Diane heard Vanessa in the background. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harte, give me the phone. And you are going to help me with these photographs? Hello, Diane, dear. How are you?”

  “I’m well,” said Diane.

  “From what I hear, you are in a well. Is that where you are calling from?”

  “Almost. I’m topside now. How do you get your information?” she said, smiling into the phone.

  “I visited Marcella and she was having the most wonderful time watching you excavate her well on a computer,” she said. “I do hope that young man who fell in is doing all right.”

  “Hector Spearman is doing fine,” said Diane. “Recovering from his injuries, and irritated at having to be off work, but other than that, he’s good. What I was calling about is this house.” Diane explained about the paramedic’s grandmother knowing the place from when she was a girl. “The courthouse records show the owner at the time was Edith Farragut. Did you know her?”

  “Edith Farragut. That name does sound familiar. Edith Farragut,” she said again. “I didn’t go to high school in Rosewood. Most of my teenage and young-adult years were spent in Switzerland and other parts of Europe. However, Mother might remember the woman,” said Vanessa.

  “She or someone in the house was an artist,” said Diane. “Did pottery and painting, I believe. This would be before 1959.”

  “You say the people who lived in that house were wealthy? That wasn’t a particularly wealthy section of Rosewood. It may have been a rental and someone else entirely lived there,” she said.

  Diane hadn’t thought of that.

  “I’ll ask Mother and get back to you. She’s napping now, so it will be later on this evening. I’ll speak with her when we are having our cocoa.”

  “Thank you,” Diane said.

  “You’re welcome. I quite like the webcam proposal,” she said. “I should very much like to have a setup in my house. I can be, what do they call it, one of your beta testers,” she said. “Too bad we didn’t think of this when we were putting the dinosaurs together. What fun the schools would have had with that.”

  “I’ll set you up first thing,” said Diane. She flipped her cell closed. “Vanessa’s going to speak with her mother this evening,” Diane said to Hanks, then relayed to him the rest of the conversation.

  “That might be the break we need. I didn’t think about it being a rental,” he said.

  “Neither did I. I think it’s because stuff belonging to the occupant is still here-the desk, the paintings,” said Diane.

  “I suppose,” he said. “What have you found in the well, speaking of stuff they left behind?”

  “I’ve found the bones of at least two individuals, so far. One is a teenage female who was killed with a sharp blow to the head. She had been butchered and some of her bones crushed, perhaps for pottery temper. I found a large piece of leather and iron hammers that may have been used for crushing the bone, but I won’t know for sure until we examine it.”

  Hanks let out a long breath. “Man, that’s cold-blooded and gruesome.”

  “It is,” said Diane.

  “If you will, keep me informed. Garnett gave me the old case too, even if it’s not related to the attack on Dr. Payden,” he said.
r />   “I will,” she said.

  Diane stood up. Rest over. It was time to go back in the well.

  Chapter 40

  Diane worked in the well past dark. The temperature dropped and her hands got stiff and cold. Her support crew up top were no doubt getting uncomfortable too, so she quit for the night. She had revealed most of a second skeleton. It was in a similar condition to the first-sharp trauma to the head, butchered. The bones belonged to a male in his teens. He was a little larger than the female but not much older. Diane covered over the remaining bones with black plastic and climbed out of the well.

  Neva and Scott had taken the excavated bones and other evidence to the lab earlier. Diane asked Neva to use the skull to start a facial reconstruction with the 3-D laser scanner and software. Neva was an artist and Diane taught her how to read a skull to visualize what the face would have looked like. This enabled her to enhance the computer drawing to give her pictures a more realistic quality. She also taught Neva how to make a cast of the skull and do a sculpted representation of the victim. Neva turned out to be very skilled at artistic reconstruction.

  David decided to camp out at the well. Marcella again volunteered her living room and the policemen were again on guard, happy for the overtime. Diane fervently hoped there were no more surprises awaiting on Marcella’s property.

  “Why don’t you let me finish the excavation?” said David as Diane was climbing into her SUV. “I’m perfectly capable.”

  “Of course you are, but I want to finish it,” she said. “It’s almost done. Tomorrow morning ought to finish it.”

  “If you change your mind, call,” he said, patting her shoulder and closing the driver’s-side door for her.

  He motioned to her and Diane rolled down the window. “Is Frank home yet?” he asked.

  “Sometime tonight,” she said. “Call if anything happens.”

  David laughed. “What’s left to happen?”