Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

He shook his head and Diane waited for him to get around to what he wanted to talk about. A lot of Detective Hanks’ small talk revolved around trying to understand the people around him. It was as if he found Diane and her crew a complete mystery. Of course, nearly everyone she knew, including Frank, found her love of caving a mystery.

“Sheriff Braden is a stand-up guy,” Hanks said. “He was surprised about the overlap in our cases. Wasn’t sure what to make of it either. He spoke with Lassiter’s friends, but didn’t discover much. She lived alone and had no family. Never married, as far as they knew. She worked as a secretary all her life in a family-owned office supply company. She retired eleven years ago and has done volunteer work since. The woman lived a very quiet life. She was known as an expert knitter and taught a few classes at a local knitting shop. This is not the resume of a woman who would have enemies. It looks like a burglary-homicide.”

“What was taken?” asked Diane.

“Her purse and jewelry box for sure. Not valuable items. Braden thinks she may have been killed because she wouldn’t reveal the whereabouts of valuables they may have thought she had. I asked him about artwork. He said he didn’t know of anything missing. We went to her apartment together. There was nothing that we could see missing from the walls or from display cabinets. Her neighbors said she didn’t have anything like pottery in her house. She liked porcelain figurines of fancy-dressed ladies that she bought from TV shopping networks, but all of them seemed to be there and, frankly, I can’t see anyone stealing them. The boot print is all we have that connects these two crimes, and neither of us have any answers. The sheriff hasn’t found any witnesses in her neighborhood who might have seen anyone near her home.”

“What about the people at the Rosewood historical society?” asked Diane.

“Miss Lassiter did secretarial work for them three days a week. She would also come in just to visit on days she wasn’t working,” he said. “They knew who her friends and neighbors were and a little bit about all of them. She was a woman who offended no one and enjoyed her retirement.”

“Had Marcella spoken with her?” asked Diane.

“Yes. I talked with Dr. Payden before I came here. She asked the people at the historical society, Miss Lassiter included, about the owners of this house here in Pigeon Ridge. She particularly wanted to know whether there was an owner who was an artist. Dr. Payden had a list with her of previous owners that she had gotten from the courthouse records. She said Miss Lassiter had a vague recollection of the house, but couldn’t tell her anything.”

“Maybe the attack on Marcella and Miss Lassiter’s murder had nothing to do with what happened here years ago. Maybe someone who visited the historical society targeted both of them for some other reason. Perhaps their attackers thought they had money,” said Diane.

“Maybe. But as you pointed out, stealing pottery and old paintings wouldn’t seem to be a fast track to riches. Miss Lassiter’s friends said she didn’t have any valuable jewelry. They seem to be the most stupid thieves I’ve run across. It doesn’t look like they are getting anything of real value.”

“Did Neva or Marcella give you the list of previous owners of the house?” asked Diane.

“Neva did.” Hanks took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. “Original owner was Edith Farragut, then Maude Saxon, Kenneth Northcutt, Jonathan Ellison, and Marcella Payden. From the dates we estimate for the artist, Edith Farragut would have owned the house at that time. The only specifics I have about her are that she built the house at the turn of the last century and maintained ownership until 1959, when it was sold to Maude Saxon. I’ve got someone looking for a death certificate for Ms. Farragut, and census records to see who might have lived here with her. I think she would have been too old in the 1950s to be the Mad Potter. This would have been a younger person’s occupation. At any rate, she certainly would be dead now if she was an adult buying property at the turn of the century,” he said. “She’d be well over a hundred and… What?” he said, staring at Diane.

“How absentminded of me,” Diane said. “I have a friend who might have known the family. The paramedic said his grandmother referred to the woman who owned the house as being rich. Wealthy people in a small town like this would know one another,” said Diane.

“Who are you talking about?” asked Hanks.

“Do you know Vanessa Van Ross?” she said.

“The mayor’s mother?” he said. “You know her?”

“She’s the real power behind the museum,” said Diane.

“And here I was given to understand that you are the queen of the museum,” he said.

“Not at all. I’m just the viceroy,” she said, smiling. “What made me think of Vanessa was your mentioning age. You know Vanessa’s family is filled with centenarians and su percentenarians, don’t you?” she said.

“Actually, no I didn’t,” he said. “What’s a supercentenarian?”

“Someone more than a hundred and ten. Vanessa’s grandmother died not long ago at the age of a hundred and fourteen,” said Diane. “Her mother lives with her and is approaching a hundred. Vanessa is around the age of the paramedic’s grandmother. Between her and her mother, she might know something.”

“Is her mother, ah, clearheaded?” he asked.

“Sharp as a tack,” said Diane. “So was her grandmother up until the time of her death.”

Diane fished her phone out of her jacket pocket and selected Vanessa’s number. The call was answered by the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Hartefeld, this is Diane Fallon. May I speak with Vanessa?” she asked.

“Of course, Dr. Fallon. Anything to get her out of my hair this afternoon,” she said.

Diane heard Vanessa in the background. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harte, give me the phone. And you are going to help me with these photographs? Hello, Diane, dear. How are you?”

“I’m well,” said Diane.

“From what I hear, you are in a well. Is that where you are calling from?”

“Almost. I’m topside now. How do you get your information?” she said, smiling into the phone.

“I visited Marcella and she was having the most wonderful time watching you excavate her well on a computer,” she said. “I do hope that young man who fell in is doing all right.”

“Hector Spearman is doing fine,” said Diane. “Recovering from his injuries, and irritated at having to be off work, but other than that, he’s good. What I was calling about is this house.” Diane explained about the paramedic’s grandmother knowing the place from when she was a girl. “The courthouse records show the owner at the time was Edith Farragut. Did you know her?”

“Edith Farragut. That name does sound familiar. Edith Farragut,” she said again. “I didn’t go to high school in Rosewood. Most of my teenage and young-adult years were spent in Switzerland and other parts of Europe. However, Mother might remember the woman,” said Vanessa.

“She or someone in the house was an artist,” said Diane. “Did pottery and painting, I believe. This would be before 1959.”

“You say the people who lived in that house were wealthy? That wasn’t a particularly wealthy section of Rosewood. It may have been a rental and someone else entirely lived there,” she said.

Diane hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ll ask Mother and get back to you. She’s napping now, so it will be later on this evening. I’ll speak with her when we are having our cocoa.”

“Thank you,” Diane said.

“You’re welcome. I quite like the webcam proposal,” she said. “I should very much like to have a setup in my house. I can be, what do they call it, one of your beta testers,” she said. “Too bad we didn’t think of this when we were putting the dinosaurs together. What fun the schools would have had with that.”