Dust to Dust

“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