Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  Laura Hillard, Diane’s psychiatrist friend, and her family went several generations back as residents of Rosewood.

  “Does she remember what they said?” asked Diane.

  “No. She got so many letters during that time,” Vanessa said. “When Daddy was ambassador, our life was a whirl-wind.”

  “I don’t suppose she saved the letters,” said Diane.

  “Well, that’s the thing. She’s insisting that Harte and I go up in the attic and look for them. She can’t remember exactly where they are stored, and you know how big our attic is. It’s going to be like finding the lost Ark in the government’s warehouse,” said Vanessa. “Harte told me to use that analogy. She said, since you love science fiction, that you would understand it.”

  Diane laughed. “I do, and it’s a good analogy.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. I know how you hate bad analogies. Poor Thomas Barclay still hasn’t recovered from your scolding of him over the ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire’ reference.”

  Diane smiled to herself. “Thomas called this evening. A man named Everett Walters is wanting him to dismiss me from the museum. Do you know an Everett Walters? He owns some businesses in Atlanta and Gainesville.”

  “Dismiss you? This person thinks he has a say in who is director of my museum? For what reason did he think you should be fired?”

  Diane could almost see the look of indignation on Vanessa’s face. She related the conversation she had with Thomas Barclay.

  “I think Walters wants me away from that case in Gainesville. I won’t get into that. It’s a really long story,” Diane said.

  “I’ll call Thomas,” Vanessa said.

  Nothing infuriated her more than people messing with the museum.

  “Everett Walters? The name sounds familiar. Yes, the Everett Walters I know has a son, Gordon Walters, who, I believe, is a doctor. I’ve heard talk of him running for Congress. I don’t know why he thinks that makes him qualified. Doctors can be so arrogant. Is that the same Everett Walters who called Thomas?”

  “That’s him,” said Diane.

  “I hope Thomas gave him an earful, but I doubt it. I’ll let you know if we find anything in the attic,” she said.

  Diane looked at the clock sitting on the fireplace mantel. It was too late to call Detective Hanks. Besides, it would be better to wait and see if Vanessa found anything. She went back to Frank and Kingsley. They were still discussing possible scenarios for who killed Ellie Rose.

  “Vanessa thinks she might find some more information about the previous owners of Marcella’s house,” said Diane as she sat down. “That’s Detective Hanks’ case-the one with the strange boot print connection to Stacy Dance’s crime scene,” she reminded Kingsley. “It was Vanessa’s mother who remembered the name of the family who owned Marcella’s house years ago. Vanessa said her mother just remembered that Laura’s great-grandmother wrote letters to them while they were in Europe about the latest gossip involving the Gauthier family. Apparently they were…”

  Diane stopped. Frank and Kingsley were staring at her, both with surprised looks.

  “What?” she said.

  “You don’t speak French,” said Kingsley.

  “No. I’m not good with languages. I barely spoke enough Spanish and Portuguese to pass for the village idiot when I was in South America.”

  “The Anglicized name for Gauthier,” said Frank, “is Walters.”

  Chapter 50

  “Gauthier and Walters are the same name?” said Diane.

  “Yes,” said Kingsley. “That is, sort of. One is French and the other is English.” He grinned.

  “Can that be only a coincidence?” said Diane.

  Frank didn’t say anything for several moments. He studied the list of things Ellie Rose wrote in her diary about the two people she feared. But he didn’t seem really to be looking at it.

  “You know,” he said at last, “this might explain the attack on you.”

  “How?” asked Diane.

  “You are the only person investigating all three crime scenes-Marcella Payden, Mary Lassiter, and Stacy Dance. The perp might think that, if you were out of the way, then no one would make the connection between the Rosewood, Hall County, and Gainesville crimes.”

  It made chilling sense. But who was the enginer who threw a petar at her gate and blew it up? Did Everett Walters send the thug who shot his way into Frank’s house? Did his son? His grandson? His daughter-in-law? Everett Walters called Thomas Barclay to have her fired. Did he think that would get her off the case? Did he perhaps take a less violent route, while some other member of the family took the more violent approach?

  But that was not the first question she needed to answer. The first question was, were the Walters of Gainesville related to Maybelle Agnes Gauthier of Rosewood?

  The ringing phone brought her out of her thoughts.

  “Diane, this is Vanessa. I’m sorry for calling so late. I just had a thought. It’s silly really, but you know, it’s one of those strange coincidences. Did you know that Gauthier in English is Walter? Isn’t that interesting?” she said.

  Of course, Vanessa spoke fluent French. It appeared that everyone except Diane was multilingual.

  “Frank and Ross Kingsley just this minute pointed that out to me. We were marveling at the strangeness of the coincidence.”

  “I’ve found a trunk full of letters,” said Vanessa. “There are probably more trunksful stuck in hidden places in the attic. Tomorrow we’ll help Mother go through these. With a target date of 1957 or thereabouts, it’ll be easier. Except that Mother will probably want to read them all.”

  “Thank you, Vanessa,” she said. “You’ve been a really big help in this.”

  “Oh, good. I can get one of those patches, can’t I?” she said.

  “What patches?” said Diane.

  “Oh, don’t you know, dear? The museum staff designed a small patch to give to whoever does consulting with the dark side. They sew it on their caps or their jackets or whatever. Lawrence Michaels just got his for some kind of handwriting thing-he didn’t reveal any details, so don’t worry-and he’s so proud.”

  “I was unaware of the patch,” said Diane. She rubbed her forehead and pinched the bridge of her nose. The museum staff were always up to something, it seemed.

  “They found letters,” Diane told Frank and Kingsley when she hung up. “But I think it’s going to be a while before they find the ones they are looking for. From what Vanessa says, Lillian Chapman, Vanessa’s mother, never threw any of her letters away, and she’s nearly a hundred.”

  “You know, that might be just what we need,” said Kingsley. He gathered up the papers and put them in his folder.

  “A lot of it will be gossip,” said Diane.

  “Maybe. But it may also contain leads.” He put the file under his arm and rose. “I thank you for dinner and the illumination.”

  After he left, Diane pushed crime and murder out of her mind and practiced the piano. Frank had found her an intermediate-level version of Pachelbel’s Canon in D that she was learning how to play. It was a nice way to end the day before going to bed. Frank always played the piano before he went to bed. He chose Diane’s favorite Chopin nocturne.

  Diane lay awake thinking about the Walters family. It would be more than a coincidence if they were related to the artist who disappeared more than fifty years ago. She kept going over scenarios for all that had happened. What if someone in the Walters’ household killed Ellie Rose? Who would it be? Did Wendy know who it was? There was a good possibility that she would. Whom would she protect? Her son? Certainly. Her husband? Probably, but maybe not. Then again, many women would protect the father of their children in order to keep the stigma away from them. Her father-in-law? Less likely, but most people hate scandal. The son was the most logical. Mothers are driven to protect their children.

  Diane had another thought. Kathy Nicholson, the neighbor across the street from the Walters, had a son the same age as We
ndy’s son. Did he know what happened? Was he involved? He did move far away from Georgia-as far as he could get without going into the ocean. He rarely came home. Curious.

  “I know you have lots of questions.” Frank’s husky voice came out of the dark. “But you need to get some sleep.”

  Diane smiled to herself. “Was I thinking too loud?”

  Frank gave a deep-throated chuckle. “I just know you.” He leaned over and kissed her.

  “What you need to be thinking about is how to get a judge to issue a search warrant for their cars and houses,” he said. “Word games aren’t going to convince any judge, and most aren’t impressed with coincidences either. I don’t know all the evidence you’ve collected, but I don’t think any of it actually connects directly to anyone in the Walters family.”

  “It doesn’t, and you’re right. But I have some ideas,” Diane said. She moved over to the crook of Frank’s arm, snuggled against him, and went to sleep.

  Diane’s bodyguards followed her to work and took up their positions in the lobby of the crime lab. It was probably one of their easier assignments, thought Diane. At least it would be until something happened.

  The crime lab was empty when she arrived. She went straight to her lab and began working on the remaining bones David had excavated from the well. She measured and examined each one, adding the new information to what she already had. She stood back and looked at the young male skeleton with its missing bones.

  It would have been necessary to remove all flesh, blood, marrow, and sinew from the bones before they could be crushed to make the temper. Almost certainly, they were skinned and boiled. Not a pleasant task. Something you wouldn’t want to do in your kitchen. In a shed, perhaps.

  Diane cast her mind back to Marcella’s place. There were two outbuildings-three, if the carport was counted. One of them, Marcella identified as a potter’s shed. The other one, her daughter, Paloma, told Diane, was filled with junk from previous owners and should be torn down. Did it have a vent in its roof? A chimney? She didn’t remember.

  She did have a clear image of the yard filled with various items of decor. She wondered which owner had put them there. Did they have meaning? Were there any clues to be had from the concrete statuary?

  But not everything was concrete. Diane remembered seeing a large cast-iron pot planted with flowers. It would have been perfect for boiling body parts. She would ask Marcella where she found it. Probably not in the yard, if it was old. She didn’t think cast iron would last long out in the weather. Or would it? Perhaps it was in one of the sheds.

  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.”