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.
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.
But there was the clavicle. Maybe that’s what the breakin at the museum was about. Take away the clavicle and it would take away the physical connection Frank and she had with the skeleton. There would be the report, but it would just be a rumored bone coincidentally found by George Boone.
But there was a serious flaw in her argument. Which was the reason she believed the Boones were killed in the first place-so that no one would find out where they found the clavicle, so that no one would find the rest of the skeleton, so that it would never be identified. If Star was in jail and Diane and Frank were dead, the skeleton would still be identified because it was already found. That was a bad flaw, and she was too tired to try to work it out. She finally slipped into a confused, fitful sleep.
Diane awoke in a panic, feeling that she’d forgotten something, something important. Frank was shot. That was it. He was in critical condition. She felt sick. How many mornings had she awakened in the past year with that blank mind, then those thoughts:
Critical but stable condition. Critical but stable was good for now. She’d take what comfort she could get. Next she called to check on Star. That wasn’t as good. She’d been moved back to the jail.
After a shower, juice and a quarter of a bagel for breakfast, Diane went to the hospital. Frank was still in critical care, but they hoped to move him to a room that day. That worried her. Whoever shot him might try again, and he was completely vulnerable. They let her see him for a few minutes.
He looked better. There was some color in his face. His hand wasn’t as cold when she held it. His grip was stronger.
