Dust to Dust

by Beverly Connor

  “Pour him a drink,” said Kingsley. He nodded toward the bar in the corner where Wendy poured Marsha’s drinks.

  Everett nodded and Wendy got her son a bottle of vodka and poured him a drink, which he downed in one gulp.

  “Now, what’s this about the text message?” said Walters. “The boy seems to think it’s important.”

  “The Athens police department executed a search warrant on Tyler’s residence. In the closet they found incriminating evidence.”

  “Of what?” said Everett. “They found nothing.”

  “A sequin that matched my dress,” said Diane. “You stepped on it when you attacked me at Marcella Payden’s house and carried it back on the bottom of your boot.”

  “That’s nothing,” said Everett. “Just as I thought, you got nothing.”

  “Granted, the sequin alone, it could be argued, is just a coincidence. Even the matching fibers could be considered a coincidence. They’re common. However, they also found a broken piece of pottery,” said Diane.

  Everett laughed. “You got nothing.”

  “On the contrary,” said Diane. “You broke a pot on the way to your vehicle.”

  “A broken piece could have come from anywhere,” said Everett.

  “You stole pottery that Dr. Marcella Payden made. She does archaeological research. Do you know what a histological examination is? It’s a microscopic inspection of stuff, like tissue, broken pottery kind of stuff. The point is, we can match that piece with the broken pieces of her property. We can place Tyler at Marcella’s house at the time of the second attack.” Diane stopped a moment to let it sink in.

  “Tyler. Not me,” said Everett.

  Good, thought Diane, be the self-centered bastard you are.

  “I don’t have the results of the search of your premises yet,” said Diane.

  His eyes narrowed and his gun wavered in her direction. “You won’t find anything,” he said.

  “That remains to be seen. You seem to be ignorant of how trace evidence works. Which brings me to boots.”

  Everett winced at her words. Diane could see he didn’t like being called ignorant.

  “Boots?” whispered Tyler. He moved toward the table.

  “What you doing, boy?” said Everett.

  “Getting their guns,” he said, “so they don’t make a grab for them. You said they’re desperate. I see that guy, Kingsley, eyeing them.”

  “Good thinking, boy. We can figure this out. You just hang in there. Feeling that vodka yet?” said Everett.

  “A little,” he said. He groaned as he reached for the guns. He got hold of them, put them in his lap, and scuttled back, leaning against a wall. “Mom, throw me a pillow.”

  Wendy took a decorator pillow from the couch and tossed it to her son, who put it under his leg with a yelp. He took another swig of vodka.

  “What about the boots?” said Tyler.

  He looked pale and his leg was still seeping blood. She had better hurry.

  “Your Garmont hiking boot,” said Diane.

  Wendy sucked in her breath. “I gave you some—”

  “Shut up, you damn fool,” said Everett.

  Tyler set the bottle down and looked at Diane. “What about them?”

  “We identified the make of shoe by the tread pattern that we collected from the floor at Marcella’s house. We can match the boot prints to individual boots because of the nicks and wear patterns. We already have.”

  “Again, Tyler,” said Everett.

  “We have a warrant to look for your size ten and a half Oliver steel toe safety boots,” said Diane, locking her gaze with his.

  She had surprised him. He was startled, but recovered quickly and started to speak, but Tyler beat him to it.

  “Put down your gun, Granddad, or I’ll shoot.”

  Chapter 61

  “What the hell you talking about, boy?” said Everett.

  Tyler held the gun straight out in front of him, pointing it at his grandfather.

  “I don’t like the way you been saying that all the evidence is on me. Put it down or I’ll shoot. You been telling me I need to be strong. This is me being strong. Put down the gun.”

  “I could shoot you before you could shoot me,” said Everett.

  “Go ahead, risk it.” Tyler sniffed.

  “That’s liquor courage, boy. It ain’t real,” said Everett.

  “It’s real enough. Now put it down,” he said.

  “Better think about what you’re doing, boy,” Everett said. “We’ll get out of this.”

  “I am thinking. I want to hear more about how I didn’t kill Ellie Rose. All these years you been holding it up to me,” said Tyler.

  “Can’t you see what she’s doing? She’s lying,” said Everett.

  “This is the last time. Put it down on the floor,” said Tyler. “If she’s lying and I sense it, you can have it back.”

  Everyone looked back and forth between them as if they were watching a tennis match. Tyler’s hand wavered and Diane thought his grandfather was going to shoot him. Tyler steadied his hand.

  “I could shoot you, boy,” said Everett.

  “I could shoot you, old man,” said Tyler.

  “It looks like we got ourselves a Mexican standoff,” said Everett.

  Wendy jumped suddenly with astonishing speed and tackled Everett, knocking him over in the chair.

  Diane heard the gun fall but didn’t see where it went. She started to rise.

  “If anybody moves, I’ll shoot,” said Tyler. “You people better start taking me seriously.”

  Diane relaxed back in her seat.

  Tyler’s voice was high-pitched and strained, but his words weren’t slurred. And although his skin was pale, his eyes were bright. For the short term, he was okay. For the long term, if they couldn’t end this soon, he would pass out, which would be fine if Everett was disarmed.

  Diane knew Everett had planned to kill them all and blame it on Tyler. She heard it in his talk, saw it in his eyes. He was thinking that all the evidence pointed to Tyler. He didn’t quite believe the boot prints implicated him—or he thought he could get around it—perhaps by saying he gave them to one of Tyler’s friends, some guy he didn’t know—maybe Ray-Ray or his cousin. Diane needed Everett to see that his plan wouldn’t get him off the hook. She needed to tell him how deep in alligators he really was. She didn’t think Everett knew about the discoveries in the well. She doubted seriously he knew about their visit to his sister. It was time he knew.

  The scuffle hadn’t lasted long. From the look on Everett’s face, it surprised him that a mere woman could overpower him. But he hadn’t counted on the anger that the much-younger Wendy had toward him. Diane saw the gun. She saw Everett start to reach for it right before Wendy kicked it under the couch.

  Now, instead of being in the clutches of both a madman and a wounded, intoxicated kid with no moral center, they were in the clutches of only the kid. Diane thought that was better. She thought Tyler could be reached.

  “Now, Granddad, pick up the chair and sit down. I can shoot you before you make it to the door, and I will. Mother, thanks. You sit down too,” said Tyler. “I want to hear more about my innocence. So that means I want all of you to put your hands in your lap and keep them there. If you so much as scratch, I’ll shoot. I don’t have a lot of options anymore and damn little patience.”

  “You do have options,” said Diane. “We know that you were present at all the crime scenes, but not that you killed Stacy Dance or Mary Lassiter, or that you attacked Marcella Payden.”

  “What?” said Wendy. “Tyler, who are these people? I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Shut up, Mother.” Tyler rubbed his eyes. “God, there’s so much you don’t know,” he mumbled. “You and Dad are so clueless.”

  His grandfather was watching him, waiting for a chance. Diane stared at him a moment. He moved his right leg forward a fraction.

  “Your grandfather has a gun strapped around his ankle,”
said Diane.

  “I know,” said Tyler, “but if he keeps his hands in his lap, it won’t be a problem.” He held out his gun toward his grandfather and took another drink of vodka.

  “Very well, then, Tyler,” said Diane. “Please, let me tell you what we have. You have a way out of this.”

  “That little creep doesn’t deserve a way out,” spat Marsha.

  Diane locked gazes with her. “If he isn’t at fault, he does deserve a way out,” said Diane.

  She hoped she could telegraph to Marsha to keep her mouth shut and not infuriate the little creep holding the gun on all of them. Her husband seemed to get the message. He reached over to her.

  “I said not to move,” said Tyler.

  “I’m just holding my wife’s hand,” said Samuel evenly.

  Diane saw him squeeze it and put his own back in his lap. Kathy Nicholson glared at her. She and Colton kept quiet.

  “You see what they’re doing, don’t you, boy?” said Everett.

  “Would you stop calling me boy? I’ve always hated that. Yes. They all want to live, with the possible exception of Marsha.” He took another drink of vodka. “But that doesn’t mean Fallon doesn’t have interesting things to say. I’m a lawyer, almost, and I can evaluate it. You’ve never given me any credit. Now shut up.” He coughed.

  “Why would Granddad have killed El?” said Tyler, not taking his eyes off Everett. “Not to save me.”

  “Did your grandfather tell you why he wanted to kill Marcella Payden or Mary Lassiter? I’m sure you thought his killing Stacy was to hide what the two of you did to frame her brother. Stacy had Ellie Rose’s diary pages and she was beginning to decipher them. But the other two must have mystified you.”

  Diane was careful to accuse Everett Walters of the killings, although she thought that it was Tyler who choked Stacy to death. That conclusion was based, weakly perhaps, on the fact that he had done it before, and that his overlapping boot prints were lifted from the spot where Stacy actually died. But right now, she wanted Tyler to believe that he could clear himself.

  “Ellie’s diary?” said Marsha. “She had Ellie’s diary?”

  “Yes. She was a musician and good at math,” said Diane. Like Frank, she thought. “Stacy was probably translating the parts that told her how Ellie was afraid of Tyler and his grandfather. Did Stacy call you, threaten you?”

  “She called Granddad,” said Tyler. “Stupid thing to do.”

  “What about Lassiter and Payden?” asked Diane. “Weren’t you curious why they had to die?”

  “He said it needed to be done,” said Tyler. “You haven’t answered my question. Why would he kill Ellie Rose?”

  Diane eyed Everett. He looked smug. He didn’t know she knew about his sister. Showtime.

  “Some killers get off on the terror of their victims,” said Diane, not taking her eyes off Everett. “Sometimes it’s a sexual-control thing. Is that right, Ross?”

  “Often,” he said.

  “But not you,” said Diane. “It was a god-control thing with you. I imagine as a boy staying over at your big sister’s, playing among all the statues of fauns, gargoyles, and dragons, it was like a little kingdom, a little Olympus. And what you really liked to do, what really made you feel powerful and in control, was to sneak up behind the unsuspecting prey and strike them dead, like a god in his dark realm. They never knew it was coming. You had the power to snuff out their life, and just like that, they were no more.”

  Everett’s face slowly dropped its smug expression. He looked worried. Finally.

  “What?” said Tyler. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?” said Diane. “Your grandfather is a serial killer from way back. Not the ordinary kind, I don’t think. He had more control than others of his kind. He prided himself in that.”

  “Not all serial killers lack control or feel a compulsion to constantly seek out victims,” said Kingsley. “Some are opportunistic killers. I suspect your grandfather is one of those.” Kingsley looked Everett in the eyes. “You can go for years without killing, can’t you? You’re like the smoker who can just stop and not look back and not obsess about having another cigarette.”

  “But I’ll bet Everett couldn’t resist the possibility of killing Ellie Rose,” said Diane. “It was an opportunity presented to him, so he brought the hatchet. It’s not that easy for a fourteen-year-old, like you were, to strangle someone. He knew there was a possibility she was still alive. And the pull of nostalgia was just too great, even for a man of his control.”

  “Are you serious?” said Tyler. He briefly took his eyes off his grandfather, and Everett started to reach for his ankle gun. “Watch it, old man. Is this true?” he asked him.

  Everett straightened up. “Rubbish. Fantasy.”

  “Not according to your sister, Maybelle,” said Diane.

  Everett looked sharply at Diane, his eyes wide with surprise. He paused for many long moments, staring at Diane.

  “Mags has to be a hundred and ten by now,” he whispered.

  “Not quite a hundred. Ninety-seven, I believe,” said Diane.

  “Senile,” said Everett. Some of his smugness came back into his face.

  “Actually, quite lucid,” said Diane. “Creepy as hell, but her story is consistent with what we found in the well.”

  The smug look was short-lived. His mouth turned down into a frown.

  “You know,” said Diane, “I’ll bet when you had your fingerprints taken at the time you were bonded for your business, you worried. You worried if they were on the items you dropped in the well when your father was coming to take your sister away. It was a long shot that they would ever be found, but it had to give you pause. And then came Dr. Marcella Payden, archaeologist and curious homeowner. She was looking for the artist who had created the broken pottery that she discovered in the fire pit in her yard and painted the portraits she found hidden in the walls. What if Marcella found your sister, Maybelle, and she told about the well? There goes your reputation. And here your son is about to run for U.S. congressman. You couldn’t do anything when your father sold the property—you couldn’t tell him it should stay in the family because of what was in the well, but you could do something now to keep the current owner quiet. Had you planned to try and buy it back? Maybe clean out the well?”

  Everett said nothing. He stared at Diane so hard, she thought he was trying to will her to shut up.

  “What well? What’s this about?” said Tyler.

  “It’s about why you are innocent,” said Diane.

  That kept his attention on her story. Tyler was looking for a way out. When he first came into the room, he didn’t think there was a way out without more murder, and his having to leave behind everything he knew. He had hope now, and Diane was counting on his hope to get them out of this alive.

  “At first I wondered about Mary Lassiter,” said Diane. “How did she figure in this? Of course, when we found out that she worked at the historical society where Marcella Payden was asking questions about who lived in the house in Pigeon Ridge, I realized that Mary Lassiter was your age. You both were contemporaries in Rosewood. Marcella sparked a memory in Mary Lassiter. She knew something about an artist who disappeared when she was a girl. The artist had a brother, Everett. She remembered you. She probably looked you up on the Internet. People do that a lot these days, trying to get in touch with people they used to know. For her it was probably a lark, maybe a chance for a little romance late in life. She didn’t know you would consider her to be a loose end to be tied up, along with Marcella Payden. That’s why Mary Lassiter’s purse was stolen when she was killed. You wanted her cell phone, but didn’t want the police to focus on the phone. You didn’t want them looking at her call records. But Sheriff Braden is very thorough, and he’ll check the call records as well as the Internet history records where she worked at the historical society.” Diane paused a moment, letting it sink in.

  “You see, Everett Gauthier,�
� Diane continued, “we’ve been really busy at the crime lab.”

  “Gauthier?” said Wendy and Tyler together.

  “That was Everett’s family name before they moved from Rosewood, before it was changed to Walters—the Anglicized version of Gauthier. Everett’s father’s attempt to hide the family skeletons, as it were, by changing his family’s last name. Everett’s sister, Maybelle, did to him what he did to your son. She hated her father and his new wife, and she decided to ruin her half brother, Everett. She turned him into a killer.”

  “No,” whispered Everett. “No. My sister loved me. She wouldn’t have said those things.”

  “Well, when she discovered that you lived in luxury while she lived as an indigent in insane asylums and nursing homes for almost sixty years, what did you expect?”

  Diane looked at the others, then at Tyler.

  “Everett’s sister, Maybelle Agnes Gauthier, your great-aunt, had a unique way of making her pottery. She used human bone from people she enticed Everett to kill. The sixteen-year-old Everett chopped them up and boiled the parts so she could render the bones into dust to temper the clay for her pottery. Nice little family, huh?” said Diane. “We found some of the bodies in the well, along with Everett’s bloody fingerprints on the tools and in the clay.”

  Everett Walters was shaking now. Diane couldn’t tell if it was from anger or from the fear that came with revelation.

  “That’s what you brought into your house, Wendy,” said Diane, “a monster who had access to your son. And he brought him to this. This is why I have sympathy with Tyler, Marsha. He didn’t have a chance, under the influence of someone like Everett.”

  “Shut up. Shut your damn hole, you bitch. Shut your damn mouth.” Everett was shaking his fist at Diane.

  “You,” said Wendy, “have the nerve to tell her to shut up, you monster. Look what you’ve done.”

  Everett ignored Wendy, but continued to stare at Diane. “I’ll kill you, if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll kill you and you’ll know it’s coming. I’ll chop you up while you are still alive. You’ll feel everything. You bitch. You bitch. You’ll feel every cut.”