“Do you remember their last names?” asked Diane.
“No. I didn’t care what their last names were. Those were their fathers’ names,” she said.
“Why didn’t you change your name to Farragut?” asked Diane. “Why did you keep your father’s name?”
Diane had caught Gauthier by surprise. She looked wide-eyed for a moment, as if trying to understand the question.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t know.”
“Why did you use a drawing of a bird for your signature?” asked Hanks.
She smiled. “Mother used to call me her little magpie,” she said, “and I lived in Pigeon Ridge. I liked the idea of being something that could fly away whenever I wanted.”
Hanks looked at Diane and his lips twitched into a whisper of a smile.
“How many were there?” said Diane. “How many did you turn into art?”
“Not many. Not many. Ten, maybe. Perhaps fewer,” she said.
“Where are they buried?” asked Diane.
“I don’t know exactly. Everett handled that. Somewhere nearby.”
Hanks rose to his feet. “Thank you for speaking with us.”
He said it as if it were all he could do to say the words. Diane understood.
Hanks reached to take the box containing the mask from Gauthier. She snatched it away.
“Can’t I keep it? It’s mine.”
“It’s evidence, ma’am,” he said, and took the box and put the lid back on it.
They left her there, sitting in the empty sunroom with the harsh light shining on her. No one spoke until they were almost to Rosewood. Lillian broke the silence.
“All that going on in Rosewood, and no one knew? Weren’t those poor people reported missing?”
“They must have been,” said Diane.
“The little boy she said liked to sit still. Poor little thing,” said Harte.
“He was worked hard,” said Diane. “The muscle attachments on his little bones were too developed. He’d led a hard life. He was undersized for his age. He wouldn’t have looked like the teenager he was.”
They were silent again until they were pulling up to the crime lab parking lot where Vanessa had picked up Diane and Detective Hanks.
“Is that what you have to deal with every day?” asked Vanessa before they got out.
“It’s usually not this crazy,” said Hanks. “No, I take that back. When someone gets stabbed for his shoes, or his lunch money, that’s pretty crazy. But I don’t usually deal with insanity on quite this scale.”
He put his sling back on his arm. Diane saw that he was still in pain.
“I want to thank you for the ride,” he told Vanessa. “I’ve never ridden in a limousine before.”
“Everyone should have a limousine ride at least once,” Vanessa said, smiling at him. “Thank you for putting up with us.”
“You were very helpful,” he said. “Mrs. Chapman, you made the woman connect with her past. I’m not sure I could have done that.”
“I’m glad we could be of service,” Lillian said. “It certainly gives one something to think about, doesn’t it?”
Diane and Hanks got out and watched the limousine leave the parking lot.
“I’m sure there’s fresh coffee in the crime lab if you’d like some,” said Diane.
“Fresh coffee sounds good. Will your personnel be up there this late?” he asked.
“Are you kidding? They’re waiting on pins and needles to hear the story,” she said.
“That’s the first time I’ve met Vanessa Van Ross,” said Hanks. “You say she’s the real power behind the museum?”
“Yes, she is,” Diane said.
“An interesting family. I have a ninety-year-old great-grandfather and he has to have twenty-four-hour care. Mrs. Chapman is heading to a hundred, you say? I could invite her out for racquetball.”
Hanks shook his head as he entered the lobby for the crime lab and nodded at Diane’s bodyguards, who were playing cards with the crime lab guard.
“Interesting family,” Hanks said again.
“The Gauthiers were an interesting family,” said Diane.
They got on the elevator and rode to the crime lab.
“Interesting isn’t how I would describe them,” said Hanks.
Diane was right; her team were all there, including Jin-plus Frank. Diane grinned and introduced Frank to Detective Hanks.
“I thought you would be here soon, so I thought I’d take you to dinner in the restaurant,” Frank said.
“Why don’t we all order dinner?” Diane said. “We can eat it in my office and Detective Hanks and I can debrief with you.”
“Let’s,” said Neva. “We are dying to hear about Gauthier. Could you get any sense from her?”
“That depends on your definition of sense,” said Hanks.
“How was the bar fight crime scene?” Diane asked.
“Uneventful,” said Neva.
“Yeah, the guy lying on the floor with a knife stuck in his gut kind of sobered them up,” said Izzy. “We didn’t have any trouble.”
They ordered dinner. While waiting for it to arrive, Frank, Izzy, and David moved the round table from the crime lab to Diane’s office. She, Neva, and Jin carried the chairs. Neva batted Hanks away when he tried to take one of the chairs.
“You have to be really sore,” she said.
“It’s not so bad.”
“I don’t believe that,” Neva said. “We’ve all been hurt and it, well, it hurts.”
“That’s one of the things I miss around here,” said Jin, “your way with words.”
Neva hit him in the shoulder of his Hawaiian shirt. Even with the weather cooling down, Jin still wore Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts when he was off duty. Diane thought it was funny that he was critical of what Scott and Hector wore.
They put the chairs around the table and Neva sat down. “Okay,” she said. “Tell us all about it.”
Alternately, Diane and Hanks told Maybelle Agnes Gauthier’s story to an astonished audience.
“And I thought she was probably the victim,” said Jin, “living with some guy she couldn’t get away from who made crazy pots.”
“Wait a minute,” said Neva. “You mean she was here, when this was a clinic? She was an inmate?” Neva sat with one foot resting on the chair seat, hugging her knee to her.
“Yes,” said Diane. “How’s that for a really disturbing coincidence?”
“I don’t think they called them inmates,” said David.
“I’d say it’s a good word,” said Izzy. “I’ve lived in Rosewood all my life and I’ve never heard of these people.”
“This whole thing goes way off the dial on my freak meter,” said Neva.
“You should have been there with her,” said Hanks. “She’s got the strangest color eyes. Didn’t you think so?”
Diane agreed.
“She had praise for your drawings,” Diane told Neva.
“Oh, well, I’ll just quit my job and take her letter of reference with me to New York,” said Neva.
The buzzer rang on the museum side of the crime lab.
“Food’s here,” said Izzy.
He and Frank went to get it. They came back pushing the cart with their food. Frank handed it out and they settled in to dinner.
“David,” said Diane, “you were quiet during the narration. What have you got up your sleeve that you haven’t told us yet?”
“What makes you think I have something up my sleeve?”
“I know you,” said Diane. “What is it?”
“Two things,” said David. He turned silent as he slowly savored a bite of his salad with his favorite dressing.
“David,” said Jin, “you don’t have to make an entrance. What is it?”
He put his fork down. “UGA issued a parking sticker to Tyler Walters for a black Cadillac Escalade.”
“Okay,” said Hanks. “That’s what I want to hear. You said two things?�
��
“I got a hit on the fingerprints from the potting clay we found in the well. First, let me say that the thumbprint in the dried blood on the sculpting tool matches the thumbprint in the clay. Second, when I ran the database for people who are bonded, the print came up a match for Everett Walters. Detective Hanks, I think you can get a warrant now to search the cars and residences of both of them.”
Diane and her crew, Frank, and Detective Hanks discussed every permutation of possible solutions to the crimes, and she was sure one of them was probably correct. But sorting out which individual actually attacked Marcella, which one killed the Lassiter woman, and who killed Stacy Dance was impossible-or at least, beyond them for the moment.
“We’ll probably wake up with a brilliant idea in the morning,” said Neva.
“I’m sure,” said Jin as the two of them helped Diane put the dishes back on the cart.
Frank and Izzy put the table and chairs back in their places and Diane told them all to go home. She knew David would probably go down to the basement where he had his own private office and work into the night on some project that involved some algorithm or database or other.
Diane followed Frank’s car home and pulled up behind him in the drive. There was already a car parked over to the side of the driveway. Diane recognized it as Lynn Webber’s black Mercedes SUV. Lynn was sitting on their doorstep looking up at the stars through the tall trees.
Chapter 56
“Lynn?” said Diane, as she and Frank approached the steps. “Have you been waiting long?”
Lynn stood up with a Coke in one hand and an envelope in the other. She was dressed for colder weather than the current temperature warranted-jeans, suede jacket, and boots. She looked stylish, as always, but she also looked to Diane like a kid about to run away to a colder clime.
“No, not long. I would have called, but sometimes it’s better to just show up,” she said.
“Hello, Dr. Webber. How are you this evening?” Frank took out his keys, opened the door, and stepped aside to let Lynn and Diane enter.
“I’m fine, and please call me Lynn, because I’m going to call you Frank,” she said.
“Okay, Lynn,” he said. “Would you like some coffee?”
She held up her plastic bottle of soda. “No thanks. Got caffeine here.” She looked around at the decor. “This is a beautiful house,” she said as she shrugged out of her coat.
“Thanks,” said Frank. He led the way into the living room and offered Lynn a seat. Diane and Frank sat opposite her.
“I’m sorry it’s so late. You must be wondering what I’m doing here.”
Diane started to speak, but Lynn barely paused.
“I need to apologize. I’m aware of the care you used in selecting your words when you responded to Chief Stark’s concerns about the newspaper article. I very much appreciate your discretion. I like my job here and I know what would happen if they knew it was I who initiated the article. I wish I could say I’m sorry I did it. But I’m not. However, I am sorry I misused your trust in me to settle my grievance with Doppelmeyer.”
Diane didn’t quite know what to say, at least to someone who was currently a guest in her home. But it didn’t matter, because Lynn wasn’t slowing down.
“One reason I’m not repentant is because Doppelmeyer is a sorry excuse for a medical examiner. I know that sounds like I’m being tacky, but it’s true, and he needs to be outed. If he doesn’t do his job right, justice is not served. Innocent people can go to jail and the guilty are left to kill again. I know I can’t travel across the United States and root out every bad ME. But I can this one.” She took a deep breath.
“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.” She took the envelope and handed it to Diane. “I did some research. This is my way of making up to you and Ross Kingsley-and to, well, you’ll see.” She stood up. “I explained everything.” She put her jacket over her arm. “I thought it would be colder out this evening. Can’t count on weather forecasts worth a darn.”
Frank and Diane saw her out to her car and watched her drive off.
“What the hell was that?” said Diane on the way back into the house.
“She certainly can talk when she gets going,” said Frank. “Needs to work on her apologies, however.”
Inside, Diane sat down on the couch, opened the envelope, and took out several typed pages. It was an analysis of an autopsy. Diane read the pages several times and put them back in the envelope. She felt strangely unsurprised, though she wouldn’t have guessed. She could call Ross in the morning. Right now, she was tired and wanted to go to bed.
The phone awakened Diane out of a pleasant dream of swimming in an underground lake flanked with giant crystal formations. She looked at the clock. It was just past four in the morning. She reached for the phone but Frank got to it first. She held her breath. Early calls were never good.
“Hello,” he said, and paused. “It’s for you.” He handed Diane the phone.
“I know it’s very early,” said the female voice, “and I’m so sorry to call you this early, but I need you to come to my house, please. I’m not sure what else to do.”
“Who is this?” said Diane.
“I’m sorry. This is Kathy Nicholson. Could you and Mr. Kingsley come? My son is here. He needs to talk with you. Please come. We’ll tell you about it when you get here.”
“All right,” said Diane. She replaced the phone, sat up in bed, and swung her feet around.
“Who was that?” said Frank.
Diane told him. “You think it’s a trap?” she said.
“Don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure what would be gained by trapping you at this point. The horse is out of the barn. Are you going?”
“I’m going to call Ross,” she said. “If he can go, I will. If not, I don’t know. Kathy Nicholson sounded frantic, and desperate.”
Diane dialed Ross Kingsley’s number. Lydia answered in a sleepy voice.
“Lydia, this is Diane Fallon. I’m very sorry to wake you up. I just got a call from someone Ross and I have been interviewing-may I speak with him?”
“Yes, just a moment.”
Diane assumed they were replaying the same scene that she and Frank just went through. But she heard Lydia mumble.
“You know, if you and she would have an affair like normal people, I could get some sleep.”
“Hey, Diane,” Kingsley said. “What’s going on?”
Diane apologized again for waking him and Lydia. Then she told him about the phone call from Kathy Nicholson.
“I can meet you there,” he said.
There was no, “What do you think this is about?” Just, “Let’s go,” as if she had called him and said, “ ‘ Come, Wat son, the game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!’ ”
Diane got into her clothes. Frank came in with an instant breakfast and told her to drink it.
“Take your gun,” he said.
Diane looked at him and sighed. He was right; she needed to take a gun. The gun issued to her by Rosewood hadn’t yet been returned to her, but she had her backup gun. She slipped on the shoulder holster. It felt strange. She didn’t think it would ever feel familiar. She put on a dark zip-up jacket and finished her breakfast, drinking the last of it down.
There wasn’t much traffic in Rosewood that early in the morning, but by the time she got on the interstate, it had picked up considerably. At the turnoff to Gainesville, dawn had begun to crack enough that she could just see a line of light outlining the horizon. Kingsley had timed it just right. He pulled in behind Diane as she parked on the street in front of Kathy Nicholson’s house.
It was still dark and the streetlights were on. Diane looked across the street at the homes belonging to Marsha Carruthers and Wendy Walters. All the windows were dark. Only the porch lights were lit.
“What do you think this is about?” asked Kingsley.
“Something to do with that house over there,” said Diane, gesturing with her head towar
d the Carruthers’ house.
The lights were burning inside the Nicholson residence. They walked up to the door and rang the bell. Kathy must have been waiting at the door, for it opened immediately.
“Oh, thank you for coming. I just don’t know what to do and, and, well, you seemed so nice.” She paused. “I hope it was the right thing, calling you, but…” Her sentence trailed off.
Diane could see Kathy had been crying. Her nose and eyes were red and puffy. She sniffed and put a tissue to her nose and led them to the living room, where a young man was standing near the couch that sat under the front window. He had been looking out. Even though the drapes were drawn, there was a slight part where he had held them open. He had been crying too. His tanned face was puffy like his mother’s. Diane tried to remember his name-Colton.
Colton was a tall, lanky young man. Diane did the math. He would be twenty-three. He looked both younger and older. In his face and manner he could still be a teenager. But not in his eyes. They were older. He had dark hair cut short, and light brown eyes. He wore jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt with CALIFORNIA BERKELEY printed across the front.
“Please, sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?” said Kathy.
Both Diane and Kingsley declined. They sat beside each other on the couch by the front window. Diane felt the pressure of her gun under her jacket.
“My son came in late last night. I didn’t know he was coming until he called me to pick him up at the airport.” Kathy Nicholson sat down in a chair with a sigh. Her son stood beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “This is just the most, the most terrible thing. I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” Colton said. “I need to go over and talk to Marsha and her family. I have to do this, Mom.”
“Why don’t you tell us first,” suggested Diane.
Colton nodded. “Okay.” He pulled the other stuffed chair closer to his mother and sat down. “It’s about El Carruthers. That guy in prison? He didn’t kill her.”
Chapter 57
Tears spilled onto Colton’s cheeks. “I was only fourteen. Do you know how young that is?”
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