Dust to Dust

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