“How old did he look?”
“Around the same age I was at the time.”
Whitlock removed a pen from his pocket and scribbled something on his notepad.
“The young man who sketched Anne’s locket,” Violet said. “What did he have to say about it?”
I looked at Whitlock, and he nodded, giving me the green light to share information about Logan.
“Logan is missing,” I said.
“Missing?” Eugene said, setting a coffee mug down in front of Violet. “What do you mean?”
“No one has seen him in several days. Believe me, if I could talk to him, I would. I believe finding him is the key to solving Audrey’s murder.”
“Seems like you need to do it sooner than later.”
“That we do.” Whitlock closed his notepad and stood. “We’ll leave you our numbers. If you remember anything else, any detail, call us.”
Violet nodded, blotting her eyes with a tissue she pulled from her pocket.
Eugene walked us to the door, shaking his head as he said, “It’s hard, you know? Thinking about the possibility of knowing what happened to Anne after all this time. I was resigned to the fact that we’d never know.”
“I think we’ll find answers,” I said. “At least, my gut tells me we will.”
Whitlock and I stepped onto the porch, and as the door closed behind us, Whitlock blew out a breath. “A truck. A man with a tattoo. A locket with Anne’s name on it. A scarf that may provide further evidence …”
“And two girls,” I said. “One dead. And one still missing, presumably dead.”
Whitlock opened the driver’s side door and paused. “I think we may be looking at the same killer. A man who waited twenty-five years to strike again.”
I nodded, because I believed he was right.
If both women had died by the same hand, then the killer had stepped out of the past and into the present, and there was no reason to believe they were finished killing yet.
17
Whitlock dropped me off at the house with a quick nod and a promise to stay in touch. Then he drove away, disappearing down the hill. I stood there for a moment, allowing the morning sun to warm my back as I thought through our conversation with Violet and Eugene.
We had learned a lot.
Violet’s grandfather had built the cabin.
Her family owned the land where Audrey was murdered.
Around the time Anne went missing, they’d seen a man with a cross tattoo.
It was as if the cold case was refusing to stay cold, at long last.
I unlocked my vehicle, slid behind the wheel, and gave Giovanni a call. “Your car’s not here.”
“I’m in a meeting with our financial advisor,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“My visit with Violet and Eugene Fontaine is putting everything into perspective. Are you free for lunch?”
“I’m always free for lunch with you. Where would you like to go?”
“The Boathouse Diner.”
