Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (7 page)

***

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 she 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 7

25 Years Ago Today

Two young boys who fell through the thin
ice at the Fremont Park Pond are rescued by Patrolman Arthur
DeBaggis
.

W
hen 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."

Upset? Had she ruined an obituary? Kris had
caught a typo on the obit page last night before the paper went to
press. The first paragraph had read "He was the wife of." Thank
God, she'd spotted it. Her error would've devastated the poor
family. What if she'd missed another one?

Pulse quickening, she excused herself and
walked through the maze of desks to the main office.

A man in his late twenties stood at the
counter, arms crossed over his black leather bomber jacket. Dark
hair feathered to the nape of his neck in soft waves. His smooth
molded cheekbones and the cleft in his chin had hardened to stone.
Kris's heart speeded up, partly from the anger rolling off him,
partly from his rugged attractiveness.