Dust to Dust (37 page)

Kingsley nodded and stroked his short beard. “I’ll buy it,” he said.

Frank looked up from the drawings to Diane. “Is that what the call was about just now? This Everett Walters?”

“Yes,” said Diane. “He called Thomas Barclay. They serve together on some board in Atlanta. He wanted Barclay to fire me. Maybe he thought I’d be too busy trying to save my job to pursue this case.”

“Thomas Barclay. Isn’t that the banker who gave you a hard time about the Egyptian artifact scandal?” asked Kingsley.

“The very one,” said Diane. “Even Barclay thought Everett Walters was a little too dramatic in his demand. Walters must have been very insistent.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” said Kingsley. “Very suggestive. What was it again that Ellie Rose said about them in her diary?”

He rustled through the papers on the table until he came up with the diary translation Frank wrote.

“If we put the names in place of the symbols, it reads: Dread seeing Tyler Walters. Tyler Walters has gotten mean since Everett Walters came into his life. Tyler Walters is just too creepy. Everett Walters scares me.” Kingsley put the list down. “Tyler lived next door to Ellie Rose Carruthers. You don’t think . . .”

“You know,” said Frank, “just because Ellie Rose was put off by them doesn’t mean they killed her. I know that’s what’s running through your minds right now. And not to put a damper on things, but we don’t know if Diane’s decipher of these symbols is correct. I think it is, but we don’t know for sure.”

“I know,” said Diane, “but here’s the clincher. Barclay just told me that one of Everett Walters’ businesses is Walter Ace Parcel Delivery. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the company Ryan Dance worked for, and it was in their secured parking lot that he parked his car—the car with all the evidence in the trunk that he claims someone must have planted. You have to admit, it’s worth looking into.”

“You’re right,” said Kingsley. “My God, you’re right about that.”

“So now you do intend to look into the Ellie Rose murder case? The one you assured those women in Gainesville that you weren’t investigating?” said Frank.

“Yes,” said Diane. “This may turn out to mean nothing, but it’s really making the hair stand up on the back of my neck.”

“Just checking,” said Frank. “I find it a little chilling myself.” He smiled. “I know I would follow up on it.”

“It makes sense about Wendy Walters,” said Kingsley. “It was obvious she and Marsha Carruthers are codependent. I could see what Marsha was getting out of the dependent relationship, but I couldn’t understand what Wendy was getting. If she was trying to assuage her guilt, it would lead her to go way above and beyond the behavior of a good neighbor.”

“Her guilt about what exactly?” said Frank.

“That’s the question,” said Kingsley, absently pulling at his tie. “Did someone in her family kill Ellie Rose, and did she know about it?”

“Jeez, it’s beginning to sound like a Shakespearean tragedy,” said Diane. She started to offer more coffee when the phone rang again. She left them at the table wondering if Wendy was some variation of Lady Macbeth and went to answer it.

“Diane, it’s Vanessa. How are you?” she asked.

“I’m doing well. No real lasting effects. Frank replaced the doors today. You’d never know they had been shot up,” said Diane.

“That makes me shiver every time I think about it. I don’t know how you remained so calm during all that,” she said.

“I wasn’t really all that calm,” said Diane.

“You did well. I’m very impressed. God forbid, if I’m ever in that situation, you are the one I want by my side to protect me. But the reason I called, Mother said she remembered getting letters about the Gauthier family when we were in Europe. She said the letters were from Laura Hillard’s great-grandmother, Ernestina. She kept mother up-to-date on all the Rosewood gossip in those days,” said Vanessa.

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.”

“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 Wendy’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?