by Stacy Juba
"I'm not sure. I'll let you know if it'll be more than a week."
Minutes later, Kris made her way across the icy parking lot and looked back. Dusk shadowed the brick building.
She had lied. In fact, she had turned out to be good at skirting the truth. She would write the article Cheryl expected and push to get it in the paper. Kris hadn't yet exploited Cheryl Soares, but she knew that she might.
She'd like to help her first.
Chapter Six
25 Years Ago Today
Fremont High School History Club member Patricia Addison wins a state award for her essay on Greek Mythology.
Holly gripped the sides of the armchair in Kris's living room. "You're kidding. You called the dead girl's sister?"
"Her name was Diana and her sister is Cheryl," Kris said.
"I know her name is Cheryl. It's right on the front page." Holly gestured to the Saturday edition on the coffee table.
Smiling, Kris picked up the newspaper. Her first published work. Okay, it had been a slow news day, but there it was, 'By Kris Langley, Staff Writer.' Exhaustion had swallowed her ambitions in New York. Here she was alive, rejuvenated. She craved more bylines.
Kris had approached Dex with the bookstore idea and he'd suggested contacting other owners for a round-up. He allowed her to lead off with Treasures in the Aisles, and assigned a photographer to a meeting of Cheryl's book discussion group. Dex had convinced Jacqueline of the story's merit, but her lips had tightened and she’d stacked typing jobs onto Kris's desk.
"You're psyched, huh?" Holly asked.
"You bet. I feel like I can do anything." Kris folded the newspaper onto her lap and leaned against the cranberry-slipcovered couch.
"How will you find out more about the murder? You won't tell Cheryl you lied, will you?"
"I'll say an old-timer at the paper recognized her name and told me about Diana."
"You really think she'd open up? She might not want to talk about it."
Kris’s brow furled. She'd hoped to impress her family and prove the newspaper had career potential. Her sister hadn't reacted as she'd expected. Only her father had offered congratulations. Dear old Mom hadn't bothered getting on the phone.
"I'll convince her to talk," Kris said. "That's what reporters do."
Holly reached for the coat draped over the armrest. "I'd better go. Don't make plans for next Saturday. There's this resident at work, Dennis. He's flown in the helicopter with me as an observer. I've invited him to dinner. He's lonely, and I think he'd hit it off with R.J., but I don't want him to feel like a third wheel."
"Forget it. You're setting me up on a blind date. You know I hate those."
"Come on, it'd be totally casual. Please? R.J. isn't sure of his schedule yet, but he's ninety percent certain about Saturday night."
"Holly-"
"What's the big deal? If you don't like him, you never have to see him again."
Kris shoved a pair of gloves into her sister’s hand. "All right, but it's just one dinner. I'm warning you, don't build me up to this guy. I'm not looking for a boyfriend."
"I won't. You'll have fun, I promise."
She wanted to wipe off Holly's grin. As a new writer, fun wasn't the word she would've chosen.
***
Monday at work, Kris focused on obits, weddings and births, even though Diana Ferguson had been discovered dead twenty-five years ago this week.
Dex lingered near her desk, a backwards baseball cap topping his wrinkled sweatshirt and jeans. "Your story wasn't half-bad. You know how to get to the point."
"Thanks," she said. "I think. It wasn’t half-bad, huh?"
"I'll keep my eye out for another feature you can do." He glanced down at the front page of The Greater Remington Mirror. "Jesus Christ! The Mirror did a huge write-up on the new judge at Fremont District Court. Where the hell is Jacqueline?" He stormed across the newsroom.
Bruce strolled over to Kris, his red gold hair flaming in the sunlight that filtered through the window. Soon the sun would set and the staff would shrink to a skeleton crew. "You got your first byline, huh? You didn't tell me you were working on something. Is this gonna be a regular thing?"
"Maybe," she said. "Why do you care?"
He smirked, but avoided her question. "I doubt you'll have much time. People don't stop dying."
"I don't mind putting in extra hours. You'd be surprised what you can accomplish when you don't sleep."
"Yeah, well be careful, or they'll take advantage of you." Bruce stomped back to his desk.
Now that he had a competitor, he didn't seem interested in her weekend. Good. Maybe he'd leave her alone. Kris reached for her ringing phone. "Newsroom. This is Kris."
"Kris, this is Cheryl Soares. Thank you for the wonderful article. Your story was excellent. The picture came out nice, too. I really appreciate the publicity."
"I'm glad. Uh…Cheryl? I have something to discuss with you. Could I come by tomorrow?"
"Of course. Is something wrong?"
"I'll explain when I see you." Kris replaced the receiver and stared at the phone. Ready or not, she had to take the next step.
***
Her right ankle jiggling, Kris shifted on the couch. A few feet away, a customer in her mid-seventies shuffled through cookbooks on a low shelf. Kris hoped the woman browsed so she and Cheryl could talk uninterrupted.
Cheryl smiled from the easy chair. "What can I do for you?"
"After the bookstore piece ran, my editor recognized your name," Kris said. "Dex Wagner, the editor-in-chief, has worked at the paper for years. He told me about your sister, Diana."
The older woman in the aisle gasped. She dropped a cookbook and hugged herself as if coldness had invaded her fragile body. She limped closer, fingering her close-cropped gray hair. Her face had tightened, every wrinkle distinct. "You're interested in Diana?"
Cheryl's smile thinned. "This is my mother, Irene Ferguson. This is Kris."
Kris's heart missed a beat. Irene lowered herself onto the couch, her lavender perfume fragrant. Her long sweater and loose stretch pants enveloped a petite figure. Her blue eyes were heavy with decades of grief. "No one asks about Diana. No one remembers her."
"Dex remembers," Kris said. "He and his daughter sat with Diana and her father at school banquets. He told me that Diana and her dad seemed close."
"That's true," Irene admitted. "Mr. Wagner's name sounds familiar. How kind of him to recall. That was so long ago."
"Diana's case interested me because my cousin was murdered fourteen years ago. Her killer was found so her parents have some peace. I don't think they could have handled it if the murderer went unpunished." The words felt strange on Kris's tongue. She'd never told anyone about Nicole.
"How awful," Cheryl said with a faraway expression. "Your coming here is ironic. Today is the anniversary of the night Diana's body was found."
"I know," Kris said. "I looked up the old newspaper accounts. Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?"
"That's not a good idea. Nothing against you, but it's stressful for my mother to relive the details."
"No, please." Irene's voice cracked with emotion. "Kris is the first person to ask about Diana in years. What would you like to know?"
Kris didn't hesitate. "Who do you think did it?"
"Jared Peyton," Irene said. "Diana had him in her car, and wherever they went, he killed her. He was the last person to see her alive."
Cheryl spoke slowly as if uttering each word required stamina. "Let me backtrack. Jared was from out of town ... but he went to Fremont State College. He had an apartment near there. Diana broke up with him after a few months ... said she was tired of having a boyfriend. We ... we found out later that he was possessive, even once they'd split up."
"He called the house a few times, depressed," Irene said. "I thought it was a normal reaction after a break-up. I had liked Jared, and suggested to Diana that maybe she was being hasty. She never told us he was stalking her. If sh
e had told me ..."
"Unfortunately, we didn't know till after her murder," Cheryl murmured. "Diana's co-workers said he'd been calling the bar, harassing her, for weeks. It went on till the night she died. Diana was upset and left work early that evening, telling her boss she was sick." She broke off, her face contorting with pain.
Kris glanced from mother to daughter. "But didn't she go out with Jared? Why would she if he was bothering her?"
"All I can think of is that she was trying to be nice," Irene said. "He had come into the bar that night, and she yelled at him, which was unlike her. Diana must've felt guilty."
"From what the police said, after Jared left, Diana got two or three phone calls," Cheryl said. "She took off around 8:45, probably to go home. On the way, she drove by the local pizza place and saw Jared entering with his friends. She followed them inside."
Kris held her breath. The old newspaper story had sprang to life. "What happened?"
"His friends said she and Jared went to another table to talk. He'd been drinking, so it wasn't the best time for that. They stayed a few minutes, then around 9:15, Jared said he and Diana were leaving."
"According to everyone, he and Diana seemed on good terms." Irene toyed with the chain of her heart-shaped gold locket. "Diana probably thought they'd worked things out, that he'd finally leave her alone, but he must've been acting. By the end of the night, he had killed her. Oh, God, why did he have to hurt her? She was just trying to be nice ..." Her shoulders quivered with sobs.
Sighing, Cheryl knelt by her mother's feet. She drew her spine straight and Kris sensed she was forestalling her own emotions to comfort her mother. "It's okay, Mom. It's all right."
"She must have been scared."
"I know."
"I don't understand where Diana could have been going with him. How could she be so naive? I knew something was wrong. I kept waiting, and waiting, and she never came home. Wherever they went must've been where he killed her. There wasn't enough blood in the woods, so the police think she was dumped."
Cheryl paled. "Mom."
"Jared was never arrested because the police couldn't find evidence," Irene told Kris. "There was another suspect, Vince Rossi, Diana's ex-boyfriend. His father owned the bar where she worked. I disliked Vince from the beginning, but he couldn't have killed her, not when she left with Jared. Besides, Vince threw a party at his house that night, so he was always with someone."
"Supposedly always with someone," Cheryl corrected. "His friends could've covered for him. Maybe a couple of them were involved."
"Did Vince and Jared know each other?" Kris asked.
"Sort of," Cheryl said. "My sister broke up with Vince for Jared. Once, Jared visited her at the bar, and the guys got into a fight. I don't know much about it."
"Diana would've been better off without either of them." Her mother stumbled to her feet and grasped onto the wall, her face milky. "They were her first boyfriends. I used to tell her she should date and have fun. All she did was paint in her room. Now I wish I'd kept quiet. Excuse me." Irene rushed into the bathroom.
Kris rubbed her pounding temples. "I'm sorry for bringing this up."
"Mom's stubborn," Cheryl said. "Hopefully, now that she's talked about it, she'll feel better."
"I read Diana's high school yearbook. I was surprised to find she worked at a bar. She seemed so ..."
"Ambitious? She was, but Diana changed a lot when our father died. After graduation, she started working at a drugstore. She left for the bar a few years later. Both jobs were at night so she could have the flexibility to paint. Diana insisted she painted best with the natural light. Sometimes I think Diana was lost in her painting world." Tears washed Cheryl's eyes and dampened her lashes.
"How did she get interested in art?"
Irene stepped out of the bathroom, patting her cheeks with a paper towel. "Her father was an artist. Diana used to sit in the den, watching him. He bought her a set of watercolors when she was a little girl and she was hooked."
"When did the police last investigate the case?" Kris asked.
"Fifteen years ago. A new DA came on board, and the state police re-opened their cold case file, but nothing came of it. Lieutenant Frank at the Fremont Police Department has tried to help us. Even he's given up."
"I could investigate," Kris said. "I can't promise anything, but you seem to have a few suspects. I'd be willing to try."
Massaging the locket, Irene squeezed beside Kris on the couch. "I had hoped you'd investigate from the moment you mentioned Diana. Thank you. That would mean so much to me."
Kris exhaled. She'd done it. Now she had Irene's blessing and a possible exclusive.
Cheryl's brow creased. "Kris, I'm not sure about this. I appreciate the offer, but so much time has passed. I don't think my mother can take getting her hopes dashed again."
"If Kris doesn't find anything, I can accept it," Irene said. "Isn't it worth a try?"
"I'll do what I can, Mrs. Ferguson," Kris said.
"Call me Irene." She opened the locket. "This is Diana. She'd be happy too."
A little girl smiled in the faded oval photograph, dark hair tied back with ribbons.
Diana Marie Ferguson, a child destined to be murdered.
Snow flurries whirled outside the shop as Kris prepared to leave. She tightened her scarf and reached for the doorknob, surprised none of them had noticed the weather.
But they had been lost in the past.
Cheryl came up behind Kris. Her voice sounded sad and tired. "Please don't tell my mother too much, even if you're making progress. I don't want to raise her hopes."
Irene hunched on the couch, turning the locket over in her hand.
"I'll be careful with what I say," Kris said. "My aunt would've been eager, too."
"How was your cousin killed?"
"She was strangled, kidnapped by a neighbor while walking alone. We were twelve."
Cheryl heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry. I think I remember reading about that. It happened locally, didn't it?"
"Yes."
"I know you're a terrific writer. I couldn't have been happier with the business story. I'm just concerned about my mother."
"I understand," Kris said. "I won't let you down."
She trudged out to her car and brushed off her windshield. She waited behind the steering wheel as the defroster warmed the interior.
Not knowing Diana's whereabouts must've tormented Irene. Kris's family had agonized over Nicole's disappearance. As one day blended into the next, Nicole had seemed further and further away.
Finding her was worse.
Kris had learned a new phrase that May, a litany that surged back into her mind, drumming to the beat of the windshield wipers.
If only.
If only it hadn't rained the afternoon Nicole disappeared.
If only she hadn't climbed into the car with Randolph Coltraine.
If only Aunt Susan were home when Nicole called for a ride.
Kris swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth. If only I hadn’t tricked her.
She chose the long route home, driving fast. Kris hadn't driven in New York and had forgotten the thrill of a climbing speedometer. Her first week back, she'd landed a speeding ticket.
Kris skidded onto the Fremont State College campus, her tires kicking up tufts of snow. She passed dorms, tennis courts and the library before parking in front of the deserted baseball field. White trees cast shapeless shadows across the broad expanse of snow. A chunk of ice slid off the roof, hitting the front window. Kris jumped, her hand to her heart.
"No one's out there," she murmured, gazing into the woods. "Not now."
But once.
Beyond those trees, Diana had lain dead.
Police crowded the scene, their search over.
Middle-aged reporter Dex Wagner scribbled in his notebook.
Twenty-five years ago today.
Chapter Seven
25 Years Ago Today
Two young boys who f
ell through the thin ice at the Fremont Park Pond are rescued by Patrolman Arthur DeBaggis.
When she reached the newsroom, Kris assigned herself the task of tracking down Jared. After an Internet search yielded little result, she called the Fremont State College Alumni Association and said she wanted to reunite her husband and his old classmate Jared for a surprise party.
According to the association, Jared and Yvonne Peyton lived in Cambridge. He also managed a Boston art gallery. So Jared dealt in art. Maybe that explained his relationship with Diana. Kris got his home number and soon had Yvonne Peyton on the line. She wove her second lie in five minutes, ignoring the slight stirring of guilt.
Okay, her methods were morally questionable, but she had a legitimate reason. Investigative reporters went undercover. It was their job. True, she was an obit writer, not an investigative reporter, but that was a minor technicality.
"I'm calling from the Fremont State College Career Services Department," Kris said. "We wondered if your husband is still employed at an art gallery?"
"He owns the gallery. Your alumni magazine should write a feature story. They've done articles on people far less successful than my husband." A critical note had entered Yvonne Peyton's haughty voice.
"I'll suggest that. Where is the gallery located?" Kris jotted down the address, thanked Yvonne and hung up. The gallery wasn't far from Quincy Market. She'd visit tomorrow morning.
Bruce loitered beside her and cupped one hand on the wall. "In early again? Don't you have anything better to do?"
"I’m just a dedicated gal. What can I say?"
"Who were you calling?"
Hell, what was another lie?
"Brides who didn't give me enough information for their wedding announcements," Kris answered.
"Thought you might be hot on another scoop," he said with an edge of sarcasm.
Then again, she'd enjoy making him sweat. "Who said I wasn't?"
The office manager buzzed her over the phone intercom. "Kris, there's a young man at the counter for you. He seems upset."