One Grave Too Many (31 page)

“Frank’s told us a lot about you,” his partner said. “I’m glad to meet you. Frank’s tough. I’m sure he’s going to pull through this.”

“I think he’ll be just fine,” she said, trying to believe her own words. That’s what they wanted to hear too. No small talk, just
Frank’s going to pull through.

“Oh,” said Izzy. “We found this in the bushes.” He handed her her cell phone. “No sign of your purse.”

“Thanks. I imagine it’s in a gutter somewhere.”

After that exchange, Diane had to explain what had happened to her. The two Atlanta detectives were surprised at the coincidence. Maybe they would give Izzy a nudge, she hoped.

She excused herself and went to the nurses’ station to ask if she could see Frank when he was awake.

“Are you a relative?”

“No, a friend.”

“I’m sorry, only family members are allowed. His wife is with him now.” The nurse was curt, and she started to turn her back on Diane.

“He doesn’t have a wife,” said Diane.

The nurse stopped and stared at Diane with sparkling black eyes.

“That is probably his ex-wife,” continued Diane. “They’ve been divorced for five years, and she’s been remarried for five years. However, they have a son who needs to hear how his father is doing. So it’s a good thing for her to see for herself. There’s also a little girl upstairs whose whole family has been murdered. Frank is her guardian, and she needs to hear how he’s doing. If she had been responsible for what happened to her family, Frank wouldn’t be lying in there now.”

“Are you Diane?” asked another nurse who had been openly listening to Diane’s diatribe.

“Yes.”

“He’s been asking for you. He’s pretty insistent. I think the doctor will allow you to see him.” She eyed the first nurse as she spoke.

“If the doctor says so . . .”

Cindy Reynolds came through the double doors from the recovery rooms, and the first nurse frowned at her. Cindy didn’t notice. She headed for Diane, and the way her eyes were tearing up, it frightened her.

“How is he?” asked Diane, afraid of the answer.

“He looks so pale. But the nurse says he’s doing well under the circumstances.”

“And Kevin?”

“He doesn’t know yet. He’s at my mother’s. I didn’t want to say anything to him until I . . . I had to see for myself.”

“Of course. Star’s just terrified.”

“That poor child. If anything happens to Frank, it’ll be as bad on her as it will on Kevin—worse, in a way. Kevin has family who love him. Star’s all alone.” Cindy took a breath and bit her lip. “Let me know how he’s doing.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone.”

“If there’s any change, I’ll call.”

All animosity that Cindy may have been harboring from their last encounter had evaporated. At least that was one good thing—Diane couldn’t handle any more verbal sparring.

She had to wait another hour before she could get in to see Frank. She was tired, and all the adrenaline that had been keeping her pain-free was dissipating and her back was throbbing, as were several muscles that weren’t hurting before.

When one of the nurses told her she could see him, she hoped she didn’t look like she was on her last legs.

Cindy hadn’t exaggerated when she said Frank looked pale. He was so white he could have been dead. Diane held the door frame so she wouldn’t fall.

“He’s doing much better now,” said the nurse. “I’ve had a chance to work with him for a couple of hours now, and his blood pressure is up to normal. So is his temperature. You’re Diane, right? He’s been asking for you.”

Diane came over to his side and took his hand. It was cold. “Frank, it’s me, Diane.”

His eyes opened slightly and she thought she saw him attempt a smile. He gave her hand a weak squeeze.

“Don’t try to talk. I’ve seen Star. She’s worried, but I told her you’re going to be fine. When I leave here I’ll go back up and tell her I’ve seen you.”

He nodded his head. “You?” he whispered.

“I’m doing great. Healing up just fine.”

“Liar,” he whispered.

“Don’t try to talk anymore. Just get well. That’s an order from Star.”

His lips turned upward and he closed his eyes. She looked at the nurse.

“He’s fine,” she assured Diane. “He’s going to be in and out of it. I’ll keep him alive. It’s what they pay me for.”

“Please,” she said and squeezed his hand before she left.

She felt she should feel better than she did, but he looked so weak, and the last time she saw him he was so strong. She put a smile on her face and went into Star’s room. She was still asleep. Diane sat in a chair and watched her. It was a comfortable chair, and they both needed the rest. She leaned back and went to sleep, not waking up until she heard her name whispered. It was Star, awake and looking at her.

“Uncle Frank. Have you seen him? How is he?”

“I saw him”—she looked at her watch—“an hour ago. He’s doing fine. Very weak, but recovering.”

“He’s not going to die?”

“No.” Diane hoped that was true.

Tears welled up in Star’s eyes and trickled down the sides of her face. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“You don’t worry about that now. Get well yourself.”

“I’m sorry I was mean to you.”

“Don’t worry about that either.”

“Why did this happen to him? Is it because of me?”

“Because of you? No. This isn’t your fault. The police think it was a robbery. He was getting money out of the ATM.”

“Yeah, a robbery. First you, and now Frank. Like I believe that was coincidence.”

“Neither do I. But don’t think about any of that. It would make him feel really good if he came in to see you getting better. Concentrate on that.”

Diane left Star dozing and went down to see if she could find Izzy. She caught him as he was going out the door.

“Any more news about Frank?” she asked.

“He’s in critical condition. That’s all they’ll say. How did he look to you?”

“Very pale and weak, but the nurse said he was doing well. I’d like to take her word on it. Izzy, will you give me the name of the little girl who witnessed the shooting?”

“Now, you know I can’t do that.”

“You’ve already discounted her as a witness. What’s the harm?”

He studied the tile floor for several seconds before he took out his notebook and scribbled something on a page and tore it out.

“This didn’t come from me, but if you find anything out, let me know first.”

“I will. Thanks.”

The sun was setting, and the address Izzy had given her wasn’t in a section of town she wanted to visit at night, but she wanted to hear what the little girl saw.

Diane knocked on the door of a small paint-peeled white house with bright white lace curtains in the window. She saw an older black woman peek out the window before she came to the door.

“Yes, can I help you? Are you out of gas?”

“No ma’am. My name is Diane Fallon.” She showed the woman her driver’s license. “Is this the Stillwood residence?”

“Who is it, Mama?” A younger woman came into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Some woman who says her name is Diane Fallon. I asked her if she run out of gas.”

“I’ve heard that name, just today. Something about digging up bones. Something about the museum?”

“I’m director of the RiverTrail Museum, and I’m also excavating some bones on a farm outside of town.”

Diane thought the best policy was to be as honest as she could. Having some white stranger coming to her house at night wanting to talk with her small daughter would not be something the mother would warm up to.

“What you want with us?” asked the older woman.

“This is rather delicate and I’ll understand if you say no, but I was wondering if I could talk with your daughter about what she saw today?”

“You mean at the hospital? I don’t know. She was really upset, and the policemen didn’t help any.”

“The man who was shot was my . . .” Diane hated to use the term
boyfriend.
She felt too old to have a boyfriend, but she didn’t know what else to call him—except
friend.
“He was a close friend of mine, and I believe the police are looking in the wrong direction for the person who shot him. I believe your daughter.”

The younger woman thought a moment, then relented. “All right. It will be good for her to talk with someone who believes her.”

“Come in. Don’t stand out there on the porch,” the older woman said. “Tamika, will you come here a minute? A lady wants to ask you something.”

A young black girl in a pink shirt and embroidered overalls sprinkled with glitter and her hair in a bun on top of her head came into the room and held on to her mother.

“Hi, Tamika. My name’s Diane Fallon. Can I ask you some questions?”

“What about?”

“About today at the hospital.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Let’s not stand here in the hallway. Sit down in the living room here.” Tamika’s grandmother led the way into the living room.

Diane sat on a brown stuffed chair with cutwork embroidery doilies on the arms and an antimacassar on the back. She fingered the needlework.

“This is nice. Did you do it?” she asked the older woman.

“I did those things about twenty-five years ago. Still do it when my eyes let me. Wanted to teach my daughter, but she didn’t want to learn.”

The younger woman rolled her eyes. “You just wasn’t patient enough to teach me.”

Diane smiled and turned her attention to the little girl. “Tamika, you told the police that the man who shot Mr. Duncan wasn’t really a black man.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Would you mind telling me how you know that he wasn’t?”

“When he run, I don’t know, he just didn’t look like a black man.”

“Is there anything else you noticed?”

“His dreads weren’t real. They were braids, and way too black. I think it was a wig, and not a very good one. Have you ever seen real dreads? Up close, I mean?”

Diane nodded. “My head conservator has long dreadlocks. He’s the guy that restores and takes care of a lot of the museum things.”

“He does? You work at the museum?”

“She’s head of the museum,” said her mother.

“You are? What you doing here asking about this?”

“The man who got shot was my friend. I want to find out who really did it.”

“So you believe me?”

“Yes, I do. Could you see his face?”

Tamika shook her head. “I just saw part of his face. Just here.” She patted her jaw. “And that was through a window, and he had the collar of his shirt pulled up.”

“Thank you, Tamika. I appreciate you talking to me.” Diane took out one of her cards she had in her pocket. “Here’s my phone number at the museum. If you remember anything else, give me a call, please. If I’m not there, my assistant, Andie, will take a message. And when the museum opens for visitors in a couple of weeks, you and your family can come for free.”

Tamika took the card. “Thanks. Can we go to the museum, Mama?”

“Sure, when it opens.”

“That’ll be in a couple of weeks,” Diane repeated.
If I ever get back to work,
she chided herself.

She stood up to leave, but picked up the needlework. “Would you like to teach some workshops?” asked Diane.

“I’ve never done that.”

“Not many people know how to do cutwork.”

“You know what that is, do you?”

“Yes ma’am. I do, and I know it’s quality work. Think about it, and give me a call. We’ll be doing small workshops now and then for the community. I think lots of people will be interested in learning how to do this.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Diane said good-bye to Tamika, her mother and grandmother, thanking them again for seeing her. It was dark when she got back to her car and drove back to her apartment.

She parked as close as she could get and scrutinized the area before she left her car. No lurking shadows or strange noises. However, she hadn’t seen the man coming last night. But she wasn’t looking for trouble last night.

She walked as quickly as she could to her apartment house without breaking into a run. Climbing the stairs, she yearned for a ground-floor apartment. After letting herself in, she locked and chained the door and collapsed on the couch.

It was much earlier than she usually went to bed, but she ached all over and was bone tired. She made herself get up and go to the bedroom, slipped off her clothes, pulled on a long tee shirt, took one of her pain pills and fell into bed.

Diane thought she would drift off to sleep immediately, but she lay awake thinking. Though her body was tired, her mind raced. It was clear to her that the attack on her and the one on Frank were related. If that was true, then the attack on her probably didn’t have anything to do with the museum. But the problem was, if it had to do with not wanting her to find the bones, the attacker was too late. The bones were found, and even if she were out of the picture, someone else would analyze the bones. She wasn’t the only forensic anthropologist in the world.

Star was the key. The lead detective, Janice Warrick, thought Star and her boyfriend, Dean, killed her parents. Having put all her money on that theory of the crime, she didn’t want a new theory—a new one that would make her look bad—raising its head.

Frank was like the king’s pawn, and Star was the king. Take away her guard and she would be checkmated and sent to prison—case closed on the Boone murders. The skeletal remains would be forever separate from the Boone murders—especially if both Diane and Frank were dead. The two of them were the only ones tying the two cases together. It would be forgotten if they were dead and Star was in prison.