Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (8 page)

"Hello, I'm Kris. Can I help you?"

"I'm Eric Soares. I want to talk to you."

"Soares? Are you Cheryl's son?"

"Yeah, and I have a problem with this
newspaper."

Out of the corner of her eye, Kris saw Bruce
rummaging in a supply cabinet, listening. Front office personnel
stole glances over their computer screens.

"Let's discuss this in the conference room,"
she said.

Eric gave her a cool nod. He followed her
down the corridor and Kris struggled to recall her meeting with
Cheryl and Irene. They'd parted on good terms. Hadn't they?

She sat behind the long oval table used for
weekly news staff meetings. Gold award plaques for editorial and
advertising excellence hung on the walls and a white erasable board
showed assignments for the upcoming Presidents' Day automobile
supplement. Eric chose the plush swivel chair opposite Kris.

Kris breathed in and out a couple of times.
She wished he weren't so damn good- looking. His sexiness unhinged
her, brought fire to her cheeks. Maybe he wouldn't notice, or would
attribute it to nerves.

"You've convinced my grandmother that Diana's
killer will finally get what he deserves," Eric said. "She talks
about it all the time. I think you were irresponsible to stir up
the past."

"I never promised her success."

"She's raised her hopes pretty high."

Kris clasped her moist hands on her lap,
avoiding his smoldering green eyes. "I understand your concerns,
but don't you want your aunt's murderer punished?"

"It's impossible. Eventually, you'll give up
and move on to the next exclusive. Where does that leave my
grandmother?"

"I realize this is a longshot, but it's worth
a try. If I don't have any luck, I'll help Irene through it. I care
about her."

"You care about breaking a big story."

"Both are important. I'd like to prove
it."

"I've read the news clippings about my aunt,"
Eric said. "Your paper portrayed her like a whore."

"You can't blame me for that. I was a
toddler." Kris's jellied knees trembled under the table and she
pressed her sneakers into the carpet.

"I don't want my grandmother exploited."

"I won't hurt her."

"If you don't find Diana's killer, then you
already have."

"You're hurting your grandmother more," Kris
said softly. "She deserves to have her wishes respected. She needs
another chance."

"You have the nerve to insinuate that you
know my grandmother better than I do? You haven't been there all
those years. You haven't seen the false hopes."

"What if this time, it's not false? You'd
take that opportunity away from her?"

Eric raked her with his cold gaze. "Do you
realize how many state and local police officers have worked this
case over the decades?"

To Kris's relief, her face had cooled down.
Maybe his strange effect on her had diminished. "I'll try my
hardest. I'm sure Irene understands that's all I can do."

Shaking his head, he rose. "Disappointing my
grandmother is bad enough, but your paper had better not exploit
her. If this paper prints one negative word, you'll hear from
me."

***

Eric's words echoed in Kris's mind as she
drove to Boston the next morning. She shouldn't let him get to her.
Her intentions were honorable. Still, his accusations stung.

She'd barely prepared for the Jared Peyton
interview, too preoccupied with Diana's family. Worsening matters,
Bruce had pushed for details about Eric's visit. Kris said that a
funeral home director submitted the wrong calling hours and the
family blamed the paper.

She parked her car at a meter and glanced
around the street. Jared had established his gallery, Classic
Perspectives, in an artsy neighborhood that boasted a rare books
shop and antique stores.

Kris hesitated outside the brick gallery, the
largest building in sight. She examined a lighthouse watercolor
propped in the window before opening the glass door. Elaborately
framed landscapes and seascapes covered the pale blue gallery
walls. Three levels divided the high-ceilinged main room, each
accessed by curved ivory-carpeted stairways. Through the gold
railings, Kris admired softly lit statues and vases on the upper
floors.

She approached a lacquered cherrywood
counter. A young woman in her late teens perched on a stool,
reading an art history textbook.

"I'm looking for Jared Peyton," Kris
said.

"Sure. Can I tell him your name?"

"Kris Langley."

The young woman rose, revealing a
well-fitting plum pantsuit, and headed toward the stairs. Kris
recognized the strains of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons" drifting
from the speakers.

"Daddy, Kris Langley is here to see you," the
salesgirl called.

Daddy? Jared Peyton was married; Kris had
known he might have children, but she hadn't expected to bump into
one of them.

A slender man in a navy blue suit and
collarless white shirt rounded the steps. He had an aristocratic
stamp to his long nose and clean shaven angular face. He grinned at
his daughter, and his noble look melted into delight. "Hey, Allie,
the Wheeler exhibit is coming along great. We picked just the right
frames and lighting."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased, Dad."

"Trey Wheeler is one of the most up and
coming artists in New England," Jared explained to Kris. "We're
having an art show here next weekend." He gestured to a peaceful
mill scene over the counter. "That's a Trey Wheeler."

"It's beautiful," Kris said.

Settling into her stool, his daughter picked
up her book. "My father discovered Trey. That's why he talks about
him like a proud uncle."

"If I hadn't, someone else would've seen his
talent." Respect laced Jared's voice, and Kris envied his passion.
This man loved art. Like Diana.

"When you take a study break, go up and
look," he told Allie.

Jared extended his hand to Kris. It felt
silky, as if he'd rubbed lotion into his skin. "Why don't we go in
my office."

He led her to a large room in back of the
gallery, his movements fluid and graceful. Jared sat behind a
golden oak rolltop desk with cubbyholes, its deep yellow finish
exposing the rich grain of wood.

Kris slid into a tufted green velvet chair,
wondering if the furniture came from one of the neighborhood
antique stores. Artwork lined the walls, ranging from fruit still
lifes and modern geometric designs, to a tranquil oil painting of
the ocean. Framed photographs of his wife and daughter filled the
bookshelves behind his desk. Kris gazed at one shot of an
attractive blonde in a zip-up bathing suit. That must be Yvonne.
Jared crouched beside his wife in a pair of swim trunks. Even on
the beach, his black hair was perfectly sculpted, smoothed back off
his high forehead.

Another picture showed Yvonne and her
daughter in formal dresses, posing before a stone fireplace, their
heads bent close together. Allie shared her mother's long blonde
hair and pale complexion.

"You have an attractive family," Kris
said.

Jared smiled. "Thank you. They both have my
love of art. Unfortunately, I can barely draw a stick figure, so I
entered the art world the only way I could. Allie isn't artistic
either so she's majoring in art history, but my wife Yvonne has
marvelous talent."

He pointed behind him to the ocean painting.
Orange red streaks brushed the sky as the sun rose over blue waves.
"She did that before we were married."

"It's lovely. She's an artist then?"

His smile turned wistful. "She could've been.
I'm afraid she lacks confidence. Maybe I should have sold her
paintings to prove that people would buy them, but she did so few
that I wanted to hold onto them. Yvonne prefers crafts projects
now. You didn't come here to discuss my family, I'm sure. What can
I do for you?"

Kris's throat thickened. "I'd like to talk to
you about Diana Ferguson."

Surprise flickered in Jared's brown eyes.
"Diana Ferguson? You're kidding."

"Mrs. Ferguson asked me to investigate
Diana's death. I'm a reporter."

"I'm not sure how comfortable I am with
this." Jared shifted in his chair, twisting his body away from her.
"I don't want to be quoted in your article."

"You wouldn't be. It's strictly for
information purposes."

"How can I be assured of that?"

"You have my word. I realize you don't know
me, but I promise this is just to gain perspective from outside the
family."

Sensing a waver of doubt in his skeptical
glance, she pressed forward. "This is old news. Unless the mystery
is solved, which I admit after twenty-five years seems unlikely, my
paper won't be interested. But Mrs. Ferguson is a nice lady. I'm
looking into it for her sake."

"You have a lot of strikes against you,"
Jared said after a long silence.

"I'm well aware of that."

"I'll give you some background, but I need to
be clear on one thing. I don't want you mentioning Diana in front
of my daughter. My wife and I never saw the point of her
knowing."

"That's no problem. I understand." Kris asked
her first question before he changed his mind. "Could you tell me
about that night?"

"Diana had broken up with me about a month
before her death, and hadn't been taking my calls. I'm not talking
about the calls at the bar. I don't know who was harassing her
there, but it wasn't me. I found out she'd spread that lie later,
when the police treated me like a murderer. She made her friends
believe I was a stalker."

Jared lowered his head. "God knows what her
motives were. I've never understood."

Kris opened her mouth, but quickly shut it.
"Go on."

"I spent Christmas break with my parents in
Springfield, hoping to get Diana out of my mind. It didn't work.
When school started again, I went to see her in person. On Thursday
night, around 6:30, I got up the courage to drop by the bar. Her
friends gave me dirty looks. I had no clue why. On top of that,
Diana made a scene, yelled at me to leave her alone."

Jared clapped a hand to his chest. "I was
stunned. I had never heard Diana raise her voice. I slunk out like
a scolded dog and went back to my apartment."

"What did you do then?"

"Drank beer, like any guy would do after a
rejection. My roommate came by around 8:30 and found me. He told me
to forget Diana. He and some other guys were grabbing a bite to eat
and going out partying. They talked me into joining them.

"Diana was driving past the pizza place, and
saw us go in. I didn't want to talk to her, but she looked sad. I
let her lead me to another table. Diana said she couldn't explain
why she'd treated me badly, but that she felt horrible." Jared
hesitated. "The police never believed me, but she mentioned that
maybe we could get back together. She said she needed to straighten
out something first."

"The newspaper accounts reported that you
left the restaurant together," Kris said.

"I wasn't up for partying. Diana offered me a
ride home, and I told my friends we were leaving. I was hoping
she'd come into the apartment so we could talk, but she didn't. She
dropped me off a little before 9:30, and that was it. I never saw
Diana again."

"Did anyone see her drop you off?"

"No, I lived on Taylor Street, about a mile
from campus," Jared said. "It was a huge building. Diana let me out
in the parking lot, and I went up to my apartment on the first
floor. I turned off the lights and went to bed."

He had no alibi, no one to verify his
whereabouts. Irene Ferguson had hinted as much.

Jared seemed to read Kris's thoughts.
"Unfortunately, my roommate didn't get home till late, about 2:15,"
he said. "Remember, it was Thursday, party night at Fremont State.
Things were crazy off-campus."

"So Diana left, and from there she was
killed. What do you think happened?"

"She went somewhere, or picked up someone she
knew. Whoever she saw next killed her."

Kris considered his words. Oddly enough, his
story made sense, but if he hadn't harassed Diana, someone else
had.

"Did Diana have enemies?" she asked.

"Her previous boyfriend, Vince Rossi, had
trouble written all over him." Jared's face turned to granite.
"Have you heard about him?"

"A little bit."

"He was crude, violent, and as jealous as
hell. Once, while we were dating, I visited Diana at the bar. Even
though it was a college hangout, I'd never been there. Vince went
ballistic, roughed me up, gave me a black eye. His friends were
obnoxious, too, but he was the ringleader." Jared's hand shot out
again, as if punctuating the observation.

"Tell me about you and Diana," Kris said.
"Were you surprised she broke up with you?"

"Very. I thought things were going great, but
around Christmas, Diana said she couldn't get close to anyone. It
hit me hard."

"Did you know her friends?"

"She didn't have many. I met Diana's mother a
few times, and her sister and brother-in-law. Diana had a nephew
she adored, about two-years-old. She'd read him stories."

Kris couldn't picture Eric Soares as an
innocent child curled up on his aunt's lap. She cleared her head
with a shake. "How would you describe Diana?"

"Quiet, except when it came to art," Jared
said. "We met during an art show held at Fremont State. We went out
a few times and gradually she trusted me with her artwork. Her
paintings were dark for someone so young. I remember she was
working on sketches about a terrified young girl turning into a
tree. She did one painting of dead people ferried across the River
Styx. Greek myth, you know? A beaten three-headed dog guarded the
entrance."

"Did Diana talk about selling her art?" Kris
asked.

"She painted more for herself than an
audience. Diana would get absorbed, distant. She told me that she
lived for the moments when she could tune out the world. That
discipline and drive -- that need, I suppose -- are what my wife
lacks. The difference between a professional and an amateur. Diana
didn't use her skills to attain success, as much as I urged her.
She said marketing her work would take time away from
painting."