On the Street Where you Live (26 page)

There were more Monopoly houses placed on the map she had sketched, all of them neatly marked with the names of people who had lived at that address at that time. She had added houses for the Mayers and Allans and Williamses and Nesbitts. The names of their daughters or sons appeared in the lists of those regularly present at gatherings and parties and picnics and cotillions attended by Madeline Shapley, Letitia Gregg, Ellen Swain, Julia Gordon, and Phyllis Gates.

She had opened one of the boxes George Lawrence brought over and was thrilled to see that it contained diaries and letters. Fascinated, she immediately began to read some of them, then realized she should complete her study of the museum material first.

In the end she compromised and worked with both sources simultaneously. As the collective personal stories began to unfold, she felt as if she was stepping back in time and actually sharing the world of the 1890s.

Sometimes she found herself almost wishing she had lived then. Life in the 1890s seemed so much more sheltered, so much less demanding than her own life.

Then Emily asked herself abruptly if she was crazy. Sheltered! she thought. Three of those friends who
had confided in each other, who had shared gatherings and picnics and dances, died at ages nineteen, eighteen, and twenty. That's not very sheltered.

One bundle of letters that she was sure would be very promising had been written over the years by Julia Gordon to Phyllis Gates, when the Gates family returned to Philadelphia after the summer ended. Obviously Phyllis Gates kept them and then returned them to the Lawrence family.

Julia became engaged to George Henry Lawrence in the fall of 1894. That winter he traveled to Europe on business with his father, and when he returned Julia wrote to her friend:

Dear Phyllis,

After these three long months, George has returned, and I am so very happy. The best way I can make you understand the depth of my emotion is to quote from the collection of letters I have recently read.

To attempt to describe my joy and feelings at meeting and greeting my dear one must prove a failure. We spent the evening very sweetly and pleasantly.

And now we plan our wedding, which will take place in the spring. If only Madeline and Letitia were here to be my bridesmaids along with you. What has become of our dear friends? Madeline's family has moved away. Douglas Carter has taken his own life. Edgar Newman continues to be very low in spirits—I do believe he loved Letitia very dearly. We
must continue to keep all of them, the missing and the dead, in our thoughts and prayers.

Your loving friend,

Julia

Her eyes moist, Emily reread that letter. She doesn't mention Ellen Swain, she thought, then realized that Ellen did not vanish until over a year later.

I wonder what Julia would have thought if she could have looked into the future and known that her great-great granddaughter, Martha, would be found buried with Madeline.

She laid the letter down on her lap and sat quietly. Madeline and Martha, she thought, Letitia and Carla, Ellen and . . . ?

Unless something happened, there would be another victim on Saturday; she was now convinced of the inevitability of that. Oh, dear God, help us to find a way to stop him, she prayed.

She had intended to close off the dining room before Clayton Wilcox arrived, but she was so deeply absorbed in reading the letters that when the doorbell rang, she ran to answer it, forgetting either to turn off the light or close the door.

For a moment after she opened the front door, the sight of Dr. Clayton Wilcox's hulking figure standing on the porch caused a sensation of pure fright to rush through her. What is
happening
to me? she asked herself, as she stepped aside to let him in and murmured a greeting.

She had been hoping that he would hand her the bag of books and leave, but instead Wilcox walked past her and stood well inside the foyer.

“It's gotten quite chilly,” he said pointedly.

“Of course.” Emily knew she had no option but to close the door. She realized her palms were drenched with perspiration.

He was holding the bag of books and glancing around the foyer. The arched entrance to the living room was to the right, revealing a room already filled with shadows.

There was also an entrance to the dining room from the foyer, and in that room she had turned on the chandelier over the table, and it starkly illuminated the drawing board with the Monopoly houses. The table and dining room chairs piled with books and papers were plainly visible to Wilcox.

“I see you're working in here,” he said. “Why don't I put these books with the others?”

Before she could find a way to stop him, he was in the dining room, had placed the Enoch College book bag on the floor, and was carefully studying the drawing board.

“I could help you with this,” he offered. “I don't know if I mentioned that I am attempting to write a novel set in Spring Lake during the last twenty-five years of the nineteenth century.” He pointed to the house at 15 Ludlam Avenue that she had labeled with Alan Carter's name.

“You are correct,” he said. “This is where the Carter family lived for many years, beginning in 1893. Before that,
this
was their home.” He picked a
house out of the box and placed it directly behind her own home.

“Alan lived right behind this house?” Emily said in shock.

“At that time the house was in the name of his maternal grandmother. The family lived with her. When she died, they sold her home and moved to Ludlam Avenue.”

“You
have
done a great deal of research on the town, Dr. Wilcox.” Emily's mouth was dry.

“Yes, I have. For my book, of course. May I sit down, Emily? I have to talk to you.”

“Yes, of course.”

She quickly decided she would not invite him into the living room. She did not want to go into that darkened area with him walking behind her. Instead she deliberately took the chair nearest the door to the foyer. I can run if he tries anything, she told herself. I can get outside and scream for help . . .

He sat down and folded his arms. Even seated across the table he conveyed a powerful presence.

His next words stunned her.

“Emily, you are a criminal defense lawyer and from what I understand a very good one. I believe I have become the prime suspect in the deaths of Martha Lawrence and Carla Harper. I want you to represent me.”

“Have the police told you that you are a suspect, Dr. Wilcox?” Emily asked, playing for time. Was he toying with her? she wondered. Was he about to confess to her, and then . . . She tried not to complete the thought.

“Not yet, but they will be able to build a substantial case against me. Let me tell you why.”

“Please don't, Dr. Wilcox,” Emily interrupted. “I must tell you that I absolutely could
never
represent you. I am a witness in any legal hearing involving Martha Lawrence. Don't forget I was here when her body—or I should say,
skeleton
—was discovered. So please don't tell me anything that I might be asked to repeat under oath. Since I can't be your lawyer, there would be no attorney-client privilege.”

He nodded. “That had not occurred to me.” He got up slowly. “Then, of course, I won't share with you any more of the great difficulty I am facing.” He looked down at the board. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Emily?” he asked.

“No, I do not.”

“You don't think you might have had a previous life—as Madeline Shapley?”

The image of the finger bone with the sapphire ring flashed through Emily's mind. “No, I don't, Doctor.”

“With all that has been said and written about the subject of reincarnation this past week, I find myself beginning to wonder. Did I live here before in one of these houses? Did I
choose
to return here for that reason? What could I possibly have done in an earlier life that I have so many psychic debts to repay now?”

His face became suddenly haunted. “If only one could undo a moment of weakness,” he said quietly.

Emily felt that at that moment Dr. Wilcox was not even aware of her presence.

“I have to make a very hard decision,” he said, then sighed. “But it is one that must be made.”

She shrank back as he passed her. She did not follow him to the door, but stood ready to escape from the dining room to the porch if he turned on her.

To her relief, he went directly to the front door and opened it. Then he paused. “I think it would be a good idea if you lock and bolt the doors these next few nights, Emily,” he warned.

O
NE CAN FEEL
the increasing nervous apprehension of the residents of Spring Lake.

The police are grim-faced. Already they patrol the streets more frequently.

One seldom sees a woman walking alone, even in the daytime.

Each day the tabloids have become more sensational in their rush to feed the frantic curiosity of their readers.

“The Reincarnated Serial Killer of Spring Lake” has become national, even international, news.

The talk shows vie with each other to present differing views on regression and reincarnation.

This morning, on
Good Morning America,
yet another prominent scholar on the subject soberly explained that while many people believe reincarnation gives them countless new opportunities for continued life, others regard it as a great burden.

The Hindus, the scholar pointed out, are absolutely certain that they will be reincarnated. They desperately wish to
break
the cycle of birth and rebirth,
to
halt
the process. For that reason they are willing to endure severe self-inflicted austerities and the most demanding kind of spiritual practices to achieve release.

Do I want release?

In two more days, my task will be finished. I shall again return to a normal state, and live out the remainder of my life in peace and tranquillity.

But I shall continue to write a detailed account of everything that is occurring. In it, as in the other diary, the “who” and “what” and “why” and “when” will be made clear.

Maybe someday a fourteen-year-old boy will again find the diary—the two diaries—and want to relive the cycle.

When that happens, I will know that I have returned to Spring Lake for the third time.

B
ERNICE
J
OYCE HAD DECIDED
to spend the week in Spring Lake. “As you know, I flew up from Florida for the memorial Mass,” she explained to Reba Ashby, as they shared breakfast on Thursday morning.

“I had intended to fly back to Palm Beach Monday afternoon, but then realized that would be quite foolish since I'd be coming north next week. So instead, I extended my stay here.”

They were seated at a window table. Bernice glanced out. “It's a real spring day, isn't it?” she asked, her voice wistful. “I walked the boardwalk for over an hour yesterday. It brought back so many wonderful memories. Then I had dinner with the Lawrences at another old friend's home. How we reminisced!”

Reba had not run into Mrs. Joyce at the hotel on either Tuesday or Wednesday and assumed she had checked out as planned. She was delighted to see her in the elevator this morning, both of them on the way to the dining room.

At their first meeting she had said she was a journalist with a national news magazine, careful to avoid mentioning the name of
The National Daily.
Even though I probably could have, she thought now, as she locked a sympathetic expression on her face while listening to an anecdote about Spring Lake in the 1930s. She was positive Bernice Joyce had never read
The National Daily,
if indeed she had ever heard of it.

“Let it not even be mentioned among you,” as St. Paul had counseled the Ephesians. Bernice Joyce undoubtedly felt that way about tabloids.

Reba wanted to get a line on the other people who had been at the party the night before Martha Lawrence vanished. She intended to continue to milk the Dr. Wilcox angle for all it was worth, but there was always the possibility that he was telling the truth, that he had placed the scarf with his wife's pocketbook and someone else had taken it.

“Have you gotten together with any of the other
people who were questioned by the police last Saturday, Mrs. Joyce?”

“Actually, I have compared notes with two couples who live near the Lawrences. Most of the others I know less well. For example, I am very fond of Robert Frieze's first wife, Susan. His second wife, Natalie, I do not care for. Robert was there with Natalie. Then there was . . .”

By the end of her second cup of coffee, Reba had a list of names to work on. “I want to write a sensitive profile of Martha as people remember her,” she explained. “How better than to start with the people who were with her in the last hours of her life.”

She scanned the list. “Why don't I read these names back to you and see if I have them all.”

As she listened, Bernice Joyce realized that she was visualizing the living room of the Lawrence home. She had been thinking of that night of the party so much this week that it seemed to be coming back to her in ever-sharpening focus.

The scarf
was
on that table in the foyer, she thought. I noticed Natalie Frieze walk down the foyer with her purse in her hand, and I assumed she was in the powder room. I was watching for her to return.

The face of another guest came into her mind. I am becoming increasingly certain that I saw him move Rachel's pocketbook. The scarf was under it.

Should I discuss this with Detective Duggan? she wondered. Do I have the right to even mention a name in a police investigation if I am not absolutely sure that my impression was accurate?