On the Street Where you Live (7 page)

The question that Tommy Duggan knew was inevitable came: “Are you suggesting that this perhaps was a serial killing, tied into a murder in Spring Lake one hundred and ten years ago?”

“I'm suggesting nothing.”

“But both Martha Lawrence and Madeline Shapley disappeared on September 7th. How do you explain that?”

“I don't.”

“Do you think Martha's killer is a reincarnation?” Reba Ashby from
The National Daily
asked eagerly.

The prosecutor frowned. “Absolutely
not!
No more questions.”

Osborne caught Tommy's eye as he exited the room. Tommy knew they were sharing the same thought. Martha Lawrence's death had just become a juicy headline story, and the only way to stop it was to find the killer.

The remnants of a scarf with metallic edging was the only clue they had with which to begin the search.

That, and the fact that whoever the killer was, he—and for now they were assuming it was a “he”—knew about a grave that had been dug on the Shapley property secretly over one hundred years ago.

A
T NINE O'CLOCK
Emily awoke from the uneasy sleep she'd fallen into after she closed the windows and blocked out the sounds from the backyard.

A long shower helped to diffuse the sense of heaviness that was gripping her.

The body of the missing girl in the backyard . . .

The snapshot slipped under the door . . .

Will Stafford had cautioned her that she was being too impulsive in buying this house. But I
wanted
it, she thought, as she tightened the belt of her terry-cloth robe around her waist. I
still
want it.

She stuffed her feet into slippers and went downstairs to make coffee. Ever since her college days it had been her routine to shower, make coffee, then
dress, with a cup of coffee nearby. She had always sworn she could feel lights go on in different sections of her brain as she sipped.

Even without looking outside she could see that it was going to be a beautiful day. Rays of sunshine were streaming through the stained-glass window at the landing of the staircase. When she passed the living room, she paused to admire the decorative fireplace screen and andirons she'd put in place yesterday. “I'm almost positive they were bought for the Spring Lake house when it was built in 1875,” her grandmother had told her.

They looked as if they belonged there. And I
feel
as if I belong here, Emily thought.

In the dining room she saw the oak sideboard with boxwood panels, another piece that the movers had brought down from Albany. That sideboard had definitely been purchased for this house. Years ago her grandmother had found the receipt for it.

While she waited for the coffee to brew, Emily stood at the window and watched the police squad carefully sifting the dirt at the excavation site. What kind of evidence would they find four and a half years after Martha's death? she wondered.

And why the dogs this morning? Did they seriously believe that someone else was buried here?

When the coffee was ready she poured a cup and took it upstairs, then turned on the radio as she dressed. The lead story was the discovery of Martha Lawrence's body, of course. Emily winced as she heard her own name on the news, and that “The new owner of the property where Martha Lawrence's remains
were found is the great-great-grandniece of another young woman who mysteriously disappeared over one hundred years ago.”

She snapped off the radio as her cell phone rang. It's going to be Mom, she thought. Hugh and Beth Graham, her father and mother, both pediatricians, had been at a medical seminar in California. She knew they had been due back in Chicago the night before.

Her mother had not been comfortable with the idea of her buying the house in Spring Lake. She's not going to like what I have to tell her, Emily thought. But there's no way I can avoid it.

Dr. Beth Graham was clearly distressed at what had occurred. “Good God, Em, I remember as a child hearing the story of Madeline and how her mother had lived her whole life still hoping that one day Madeline would walk through the door. You mean to say that another young girl in Spring Lake was missing and her remains were found on the property?”

She did not give Emily a chance to answer before continuing. “I'm so sorry for her family, but for the love of heaven the one thing I hoped was that you'd at least be safe there. After that stalker was arrested, I breathed easy for the first time in a year.”

Emily could picture her mother in her office, standing small but ramrod straight at her desk, her pretty face creased with worry. She shouldn't be worrying about me, she thought. I'm sure right now the waiting room is filled with babies.

Her parents shared a medical practice. Though in
their early sixties, neither one of them even considered retirement. Growing up, her mother had often told her and her brothers, “If you want to be happy for a year, win the lottery. If you want to be happy for life, love what you do.”

Her mother and father loved every one of their little patients.

“Mom, look at it this way. At least the Lawrence family will have closure, and there's no reason to worry about me.”

“l suppose not,” her mother admitted reluctantly. “There's no chance they'd let that stalker out, is there?”

“Not a chance,” Emily said heartily. “Now go take care of your babies. Give my love to Dad.”

When she pushed the
OFF
button of the cell phone it was with the quiet resolve that there was no way her parents were going to hear about the copycat stalker. She also was glad she had made the decision to report the snapshot pushed under the door to the Spring Lake police, just in case her parents ever
did
get to hear of it.

She had dressed in jeans and a sweater. As much as possible, she wanted this day to go ahead as she had planned. The Kiernans had taken the furniture from the small bedroom next to the master suite, and that space would make a perfect office. Her desk and files and bookcases were in it now. She needed to set up her computer and fax and unpack the books. The phone company was coming this morning to install new telephone lines, one of which would be computer dedicated.

She wanted to place family pictures throughout the house. As she twisted her hair into a knot and caught it up with a comb, Emily thought of the pictures she had weeded out before the move to the Manhattan apartment.

All the pictures with Gary were gone.

Also all the college pictures with Barb in them. Her best friend. Her best buddy. Emily and Barbara. Where you find one, you find the other.

Uh-huh, Emily thought as the familiar stab of pure pain shot through her. Meet my ex-husband. Meet my used-to-be best friend.

I wonder if they're still seeing each other? I always knew Barb had a yen for Gary, but I never dreamed it was reciprocated.

After three years there was no question. The residual pain was caused by the enormity of the betrayal, although on the personal level, both of them had lost their ability to cause her sorrow.

She made the bed, pulling the sheets tight, tucking them in. The cream-colored coverlet complemented the sparkling green-and-rose print of the bed skirt and the window treatments. She would eventually trade the chaise lounge for a pair of comfortable chairs at the bay window. But for now, it matched the decor and would do.

The firm ring of the doorbell meant one of two things, either the telephone service was there or the media. She glanced out the window and was relieved to see the panel truck with the familiar Verizon logo on it.

By five of eleven the technicians from the phone
company were gone. She went into the study and turned on the television to catch the news.

“. . . century-old finger bone with a ring . . .”

When the program ended, Emily turned off the TV and sat quietly. As the screen went black she continued to stare at it, her mind a kaleidoscope of childhood memories.

Gran telling the stories about Madeline over and over again. I always wanted to hear about her, Emily thought. Even when I was little I found her fascinating.

Gran's eyes would get a faraway look as she talked about her. “Madeline was my grandmother's older sister. . . . My grandmother always looked so sad when she talked about her. Madeline was her big sister, and she worshiped her. She would tell me how beautiful she was. Half the young men in Spring Lake were in love with her.

“They all made it their business to walk past the house, hoping to see her sitting on the porch. That last day she was so excited. Her beau, Douglas Carter, had spoken to her father and received permission to propose to her. She expected him to bring her an engagement ring. It was late afternoon. She was wearing a white linen dress. Madeline showed my grandmother how she had changed her sixteenth birthday ring from her left to her right hand so that she wouldn't have to take it off when Douglas came . . .”

Two years after Madeline disappeared, Douglas Carter had killed himself, Emily remembered.

She got up. How much more could her grandmother
recall of the events she had been told about as a child?

Her eyesight was failing, but she was still in remarkably good health. And, like many very elderly people, her long-term memory had strengthened with age.

She and a couple of her old friends had moved at the same time to an assisted-living facility in Albany. Emily dialed the number and heard the phone picked up on the first ring.

“Tell me about the house,” her grandmother ordered after a quick greeting.

There was no easy way to tell her what had happened. “A young woman who disappeared has been found there? Oh, Emily, how could that happen?”

“I don't know, but I want to find out. Gran, remember you told me that Madeline had had a ring on the day she disappeared?”

“She was expecting that Douglas Carter would bring her an engagement ring.”

“Didn't you say something about her wearing a ring that had been her sixteenth-birthday present?”

“Let me see. Oh, yes, I did, Em. It was a sapphire ring set with tiny diamonds. From the description of it, I had one like it made for your mother when she was sixteen. Didn't she give it to you?”

Of
course,
Emily thought. Someone swiped it at a youth hostel that summer I went hiking in Europe with Barbara.

“Gran, by any chance do you still have that recorder I gave you?”

“Yes, I do.”

The several summers she had been in Europe during her college days they had made tapes and sent them to each other.

“I want you to do something. Start talking into it. Tell me everything that you can remember having heard about Madeline. Try to remember names of people she may have known. I want to know anything that comes back to you about her or her friends. Would you do that?”

“I can try. I just wish I had those old letters and albums that got burned in the garage fire years ago. But I'll see what I can dredge up.”

“Love you, Gran.”

“You're not trying to figure out what happened to Madeline after all these years?”

“You never know.”

Emily's next call was to the prosecutor's office. When she gave her name she was put through immediately to Elliot Osborne.

“I watched the news,” she said. “By any chance was the ring you found a sapphire surrounded by small diamonds?”

“It was.”

“Was it on the ring finger of the right hand?”

There was a pause. “How do you know that, Ms. Graham?” Osborne asked.

After she had hung up, Emily walked across the room, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch. She walked around the side of the house to the back, where the investigative unit was still sifting through the dirt.

They had found Madeline's ring and finger bone in
with Martha Lawrence. The rest of Madeline's remains were found just inches below the plastic shroud. In her mind's eye, Emily could vividly see her great-great-grandaunt as she must have been on that sunny afternoon. Sitting on the porch, in a white linen dress, dark brown hair cascading around her shoulders, nineteen years old, and in love. Awaiting her fiancé, who was bringing an engagement ring to her.

Was it possible after one hundred and ten years to learn what had happened to her?
Someone
found out where she was buried, Emily thought, and chose to bury Martha Lawrence with her.

Deep in thought, her hands in the pockets of her jeans, she went back inside.

W
ILL
S
TAFFORD HAD
a 9:00
A.M.
closing on a commercial office building in Sea Girt, the next town from Spring Lake. As soon as he returned to his office, he tried to call Emily, but her phone had not yet been connected, and he didn't have the number of her cell phone.

It was nearly noon when he reached her. “I went to New York right after your closing yesterday,” he explained, “and didn't know what was going on until I heard it on the news late last night. I'm so sorry for the Lawrences, and I'm sorry for you.”

It was gratifying to hear the concern in his voice. “By any chance did you see the interview with the prosecutor?” she asked.

“Yes, I did. Pat, my receptionist, came in to tell me it was on. Do you think that by any chance . . . ?”

She knew the question he was going to ask. “Do I think that the ring they found in Martha Lawrence's hand belonged to Madeline Shapley? I know it did. I spoke to my grandmother, and she was able to describe the ring from what she'd heard about it.”

“Then all these years your great-great-grandaunt has been buried on the property.”

“It would seem so,” Emily said.

“Someone knew that, and put Martha's body with hers. But how would anyone have known where Madeline Shapley was buried?” Will Stafford sounded as puzzled as Emily felt.