“What’s that mean?” Novak asked.
“Keep a close eye on Julia Vargas. She is Jim’s daughter, which makes her a target for the Popov family.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday, November 3, 3:30 p.m.
Using information from Andrews, Julia found Vicky Wayne’s mother, who lived in the south side of Richmond just over the James River. Parking in front of a brick rancher, she tugged off her sunglasses and walked across the small yard carpeted in weeks’ worth of leaves. There was an old green van in the driveway and several kids’ toys.
She walked up the concrete steps and knocked. Inside the house, she heard the hum of a kid’s TV show and then the steady thump of footsteps moving toward the door. Seconds later, the door opened to an older woman with gray hair tucked back in a ponytail, tired blue eyes, and a drawn face. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Frannie Wayne?”
“Yes.”
Julia introduced herself and showed her badge. “I’m reopening your daughter’s murder case. I was hoping you had time to talk.”
The old woman’s face wrinkled into a frown. “My Vicky has been gone twenty-five years. Why would anyone care about that now?”
“I care,” Julia said.
“Why? You were barely a child when it happened.”
“My father worked the original case. I know it troubled him that the case was never solved.”
“Might have been if he’d not killed himself.”
“I understand.”
The woman stared at Julia a long moment, as if sensing they both had a lot of hurt vested in this case.
“Could I come inside so we can talk?” Julia prompted.
“Let me see your badge again.”
Julia held it up, allowing the woman to study it closely.
She sighed. “Okay, sure. I’m not certain I’ll be of any help, but come on inside.”
Julia entered the dimly lit house. The thermostat was turned up, and the air smelled stale. On one wall hung a collection of crucifixes. Some were simply made of wood, while a few were inlaid with silver or engraved with chapters and verses that Julia suddenly felt guilty not knowing.
She followed the woman past two glass cabinets filled with angel and small dove figurines.
“This is a lovely collection,” Julia said, pausing to study the cases.
“After Vicky died, I was interviewed by some reporter. I said that Vicky liked angels and doves. People started sending them to me. At first I set them anywhere, but after a while so many came I bought those cabinets secondhand.”
“How many do you have?”
“Hundreds, I reckon.” She sat in the center of a worn sofa covered in a faded floral print.
Julia sat in a wingback chair covered in a plaid.
“I keep thinking, I’m going to reupholster these chairs,” she said. “I used to do a lot of crafty things until my arthritis flared up. But lately, it doesn’t make much sense. The furniture is comfortable, and I don’t have the energy I used to.”
Julia leaned forward with hands clasped together. “What can you tell me about Vicky?”
A faint smile tipped the edges of the woman’s lips. “She was a firecracker. Wanted to set the world on fire. This house, my world, was never big enough for her. She used to love to dance. I paid for dance lessons when I could afford it, and she was good. Always practicing her steps. She wanted to be onstage.”
“She danced in a club in Shockoe Bottom.”
“She thought it was her chance to make it big. Vicky was so excited when she was hired. I wanted to come and see her dance, but she always made excuses. Time wasn’t right. Or if we made a date for me to come see her, she’d cancel at the last minute because she was schmoozing fancy clients. Said it was all part of the business.” Mrs. Wayne pulled a loose thread on her sweatshirt, twisted, and snapped it free. “I didn’t know until a reporter called and said she was a stripper. I should have known better.”
“Did Vicky ever say if anyone in the club was bothering her?”
“If there was someone, she didn’t say. Always fine when I asked.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
“She said there was a man paying attention to her. Said he was nice. Treated her well. I asked to meet him a couple of times, but again she always found an excuse.”
“Do you remember a name?”
The old woman shook her head. “She never gave his name.”
“What was he like?”
“She said he was tall, good-looking. Never said what he did for a living. I do remember he wanted her to quit the club and find another job. She said leaving the job was not an option. She owed her boss money, and dancing was helping her pay off her debts.”
“What did she owe him for?”
“Costumes, room and board, things like that, she said.”
“Do you remember the name of her boss?”
“No. But her club was on the street where those other girls were killed. The police asked me a lot about Gene Tanner. Wanted to know if he knew Vicky.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know, but the cops said he had an alibi,” she said. “The police said he was in . . .” She paused, then seemed to remember. “In Atlantic City when that other girl died. They said there was no way he could have killed her.” She sat back, her gaze tired and dull. “Why are you talking to me about this after all this time?”
“I’m talking to everyone associated with the case. Sometimes a new perspective helps. Folks are more likely to talk after time passes. What scared them at the time of the murder no longer intimidates them.”
The woman frowned.
“Did Vicky keep any kind of diary? Write any letters? Was there anything that the cops might have overlooked?”
“I still have the letters that her married boyfriend wrote her. I was ashamed when I found out she was taking her clothes off for strangers, but then to know she was chasing after a man who belonged to another woman, well, I was mortified. I should have destroyed them, but I couldn’t bear to lose any more of Vicky.”
“You didn’t tell the police about the letters?”
“No, I didn’t,” Frannie said. “And I wouldn’t be telling you this now if my mama were still alive.” She pushed herself up. “It would have broken her heart to see how her granddaughter turned out.”
“Can I see them?”
For a long moment she didn’t speak. “You’re right about time. It has a way of breaking some of the chains. I might as well give the letters to you.”
Julia rose, electrified by the idea of new evidence. The letters might be of no significance, but they might also be very important.