The Night Killer

Have I ever told you that?” said Frank. “Besides, if we’re right, there’s a woman in danger. Do you think your new friend Travis might know anything about Tammy?”
    “I don’t know. But I need to alert him about the woman living with them.” Diane grabbed the phone and called information to get Travis’ home number. It rang about fifteen times before he picked up.
    “Travis,” he answered.
    Diane explained their concerns. “I was wondering if you could check on the woman we saw there,” she said.
    “Sure. I’ll be damned. That kind of makes sense, don’t it? That ol’ Slick’s slicker than I thought. I can go over there right now. I’ll let you know,” he said.
    “Does your cell phone have a camera?” asked Diane. “I was wondering if you could get a picture of Tammy, and perhaps her guest.”
    “You mean kind of spy-like?” he said.
    “Yes,” said Diane.
    “I can give it a try,” he said.
    When Diane hung up, she turned to Frank.
    “My lipstick,” she said.
    “What?”
    “I was going to throw it away, but it’s still in that sack of things Slick returned. There’s no way Tammy didn’t use it. I’ll bet it has her prints on it. I’ll lift them and see if we can get a match.”
    “If we can get a picture of Tammy, Ben and I can run it by some of the clinics and nursing homes in the Atlanta area to see if anyone recognizes her,” said Frank.
    Diane was surprised at how relieved she felt to have an explanation of Slick Massey’s and Tammy Taylor’s behavior. Ben’s analysis might be wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong. That was why they returned Diane’s things. Slick didn’t want her digging any deeper into their business. Diane felt energized. She was about to pour them another glass of wine when the phone rang again.
    “Too soon to be Travis,” said Diane. She looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. She answered.
    “Hello, is this Diane Fallon?” said a breathy female voice.
    “Who is calling?” said Diane.
    “This is Christine McEarnest. Roy and Ozella Barre are my parents. I was wondering if me and my brothers could come talk to you?”

Chapter 23
    Christine McEarnest wore clothes well. She was slim, with a well-balanced body. She was wearing a shirtdress of chocolate brown polished silk, a wide dark belt, dark hose, and brown platform sandals. Her ensemble looked new. The men with her were less dressy. Her husband, Brian, wore Dockers with a khaki shirt. Her brother, Spence Barre, had on jeans and a denim shirt over a white tee. All three sat on the couch in Diane’s meeting room at the museum, looking solemn. Christine had red-rimmed eyes. Spence kept looking at his watch. Diane sat opposite them in one of the stuffed chairs. They had declined the drinks she offered them. Christine twisted an embroidered cotton handkerchief in her hand.
    “I don’t know why Roy Jr.’s late. It isn’t like him,” she said.
    This got a derisive grunt from her husband. Christine gave him a sharp look.
    “Roy Jr. knows how important this is,” she said. “It was his idea.”
    Christine had introduced all of them by explaining what they each did for a living—obviously an important thing to her, a sign that they had left the mountain hollow and made something of themselves. Christine managed a dress shop in Reston, Virginia. Her husband, Brian, worked for the U.S. Geological Survey as a computer technician. Her brother Spence was a medical technician in Knoxville, Tennessee, and her brother Roy Jr. owned an art gallery in Helen, Georgia. They had all done well and Christine wanted Diane to know it, to know that they and, more important, their parents mattered.
    She hadn’t needed to convince Diane and certainly didn’t need to justify their existence to her. The truth that people mattered was written in Diane’s DNA.
    “We need to get started,” said Brian McEarnest, glancing at his own watch. “We can’t waste Dr. Fallon’s time like this. Roy Jr. will be here when he gets here.”
    “I know,” said Christine. “I was just hoping he would be here. I thought he would get here before us. Helen isn’t that far away.”
    “You know Roy Jr.,” said Spence. “He gets all absorbed in a painting and time just stands still for him. He’s unaware that it’s ticking by for the rest of us.”
    Christine and Spence looked like their mother—brown-blond hair, blue eyes, chubby cheeks. The last time Diane saw Ozella Barre alive, she was standing on