Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  “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.

  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 remember 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.

  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.