David got up and went to a cooler he had tucked in a corner of the room and brought everyone a cold drink. Diane took a long sip. It was a cool evening, but the ice-cold drink still tasted good.
“Any idea who this serial killer is? We are talking about a serial killer, aren’t we?” he said. “And as wildly interesting as this is, it looks like it all happened a long time ago. Does it have anything to do with the here and now?” He took a drink and held the cool bottle on his collarbone.
“Some kind of killer,” said Diane. “At best, someone who illegally disposed of a body. I don’t know that we have a whole yard full of bodies. We may have only the one in the well. As for a player in this, we have a few ideas. We think the ceramic artist might be the same one who wrote the strange message on the bottom of the desk drawer, and the one who did the paintings that were stolen.” Diane pointed to the wall over the sofa. David, Neva, and Mike turned to look at the blank wall as if a shadowy image might remain.
“Why the pictures?” he asked. “They were painted by this Mad Potter?” Hanks asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” said Diane. “We do know the pictures were signed by the artist with a drawing of a bird. The paramedic’s grandmother-”
“Wait, you lost me. The paramedic’s grandmother? What paramedic? The ones who came here?” said Hanks.
Diane explained that the paramedic who tended to Hector was familiar with the place, and his grandmother had knowledge of the house from when she was a teenager.
“Humph, small world,” Hanks said, and took another drink.
Diane found that explaining the whole train of thought out loud, paired with what evidence they had and didn’t have, was helpful to her understanding. She hoped Hanks found it illuminating, but he seemed more entertained than anything else.
Diane mentioned her thought that the initials MAG in the signature on the desk drawer might be symbolized by the picture of a bird. Hanks wasn’t impressed with that. She didn’t blame him. It sounded rather silly when she repeated it out loud to a skeptical ear.
“I get that, because the thieves stole the old paintings, it looks like the attack on Dr. Payden and the theft could have something to do with the old bones-and where the bones came from. But, frankly, that bird thing is a stretch,” he said. “The whole past-present thing is a stretch.” He brought the hand holding his drink up to his face and rubbed his eye with a free finger.
“There’s also Marcella’s pottery that was stolen,” said Diane. “We speculated the thieves thought they were taking valuable Indian artifacts. But consider that Marcella’s pottery and the pieces found here on the property were all fired on a bonfire kiln, which gave all of them the same distinctive appearance. The thieves might have been after pottery made by the Mad Potter, as you so colorfully call him or her, and took Marcella’s pieces by mistake.”
“Perhaps, but that connection is so tenuous, it really doesn’t bear spending time on, really. No offense. Not that we don’t need to find out who might be buried here, but, like I said, it looks like it was a long time ago and doesn’t have anything to do with the attack on Dr. Payden. And I’m more concerned about that. I’m sorry, but there it is,” he said.
Diane smiled at him. “So it would seem. But here’s the kicker.” Diane leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “Neva has been tracing the ownership and history of this house-retracing Marcella’s steps as she tried to discover the home’s pedigree. That search took them both to the courthouse and the historical society. Yesterday at the historical society, Neva met a volunteer named Mary Phyllis Lassiter,” Diane said.
“That name sounds familiar,” Hanks said.
“You may have heard it on the news. Neva and Izzy processed her crime scene today. She was strangled in her home overnight,” said Diane.
He looked startled. “Okay, I’ll grant you, that’s an interesting coincidence,” he said.
“More than coincidence. Izzy called just before you arrived,” said Diane. “He’s working late at the crime lab processing the evidence. At the Lassiter crime scene they found the same expensive hiking boot print that we found here when Marcella was attacked-not just from the same kind of boot,” said Diane. “The same boot.”
Detective Hanks sat in stunned silence for a moment.
“You know, you could have started out with this information,” he said.
“Perhaps,” said Diane.
“Did the Lassiter woman live in Rosewood?” he asked.
“Hall County. Just over the line. You’ll need to speak with Sheriff Braden,” said Diane.
“You say Izzy Wallace is processing the evidence now? Can I see it?” he asked.
Diane shook her head. “Telling you about the boot print is a courtesy. The sheriff gets to see his evidence first,” she said.
Hanks nodded. “I can respect that.” He paused, staring at the blank wall behind the sofa, looking deep in thought. He shifted his position again, and again winced in pain. “Then what do we have here?”
“I don’t know,” said Diane.
Hanks looked at Neva. “What did the Lassiter woman say to you?” he asked.
“Nothing to me.” Neva explained the interchange at the historical society. “I think you need to speak with Marcella and find out if she met Ms. Lassiter when she was there.”
He nodded. “Are there any other surprises you have to spring on me?” he asked Diane.
“No. That’s about all we know,” she said.
He laughed. “I hope we aren’t dealing with a league of Mad Potters trying to keep their ceremonies and history a secret.”
“That would surprise me,” said Diane. “I have no explanation. It could be that, unknown to us, the paintings
“Or,” suggested Diane, “Marcella’s attacker could be trying to prevent us from uncovering an old crime. The perpetrator could still be alive, though up in years, I would imagine. Or it could be a big coincidence, and what we first thought about Marcella’s attack was correct-they just didn’t know she was home, and got caught in the middle of a robbery.”
Hanks flexed the hand that was in the sling back and forth, exercising it. “You’ve given me a lot to work with, I’ll give you that. I haven’t made any headway talking to Ray-Ray Dildy’s associates. He was just a two-bit petty crook. No one I’ve spoken with knows what he was up to lately. But, basically, he was a loser to the end.”
Diane saw the subtle frustration in Hanks that he hadn’t been able to solve this crime-the eye tic he had frequently rubbed, the clinching of his jaw. He needed to prove himself. She understood that. Rosewood’s previous chief of police had been murderously corrupt, and Hanks had been one of his last hires. Even though Hanks wasn’t known to have done anything wrong, there was the taint of association. For the chief of police to have hired him, he must have thought him corruptible. How did anyone fight that? Hanks wanted to solve this, and do it himself. The fact that he had shared a little of his investigation tonight was a sign that he might be mellowing a bit where Diane was concerned.
“Do you know Sheriff Braden in Hall County?” asked Diane.
“We haven’t met,” he said.
“I’ll call and tell him you’re coming, if you like,” said Diane. “I can send Izzy over with the evidence at the same time.”
Hanks nodded. “Sometime tomorrow, late morning would be good.”
“I’ll give him a call in the morning,” said Diane.
“I appreciate that.” Hanks rose from his seat. “Well, I’ll say this. This has been interesting.” He finished the rest of his drink and looked around for a garbage can. David got up and took the bottle from him.
Diane left shortly after Hanks. On the way home she tried to call Frank on the home phone. No one answered. His car wasn’t in the drive or in the garage when she arrived. She opened the front door and went inside. On the answering machine she found a message saying he wouldn’t be home at all. He and his partner were going to Nashville, Tennessee, on a case-but only for a day-he thought.
She felt a little dispirited as she listened to the message. She had looked forward to seeing him. She wondered whether he had found time to look at Ellie Rose Carruthers’ diary pages. Probably not.
