Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (15 page)

Irene’s gaze was riveted to the painting
above the bed. "I used to run a memorial ad in the paper on Diana's
birthday. People looked at me as if I were crazy, but I wanted to
get attention. Maybe Jared would feel guilty, or if his friends
knew something, they'd come forward."

"Did you ever speak to an editor, or contact
a TV station? Maybe they would've done an anniversary story."

"Cheryl didn't think it was a good idea, not
after how the press treated Diana the first time. I've put Diana's
picture on the Internet, since people are interested in unsolved
murders, but nobody contacted me."

She gripped Kris's hands with cold fingers.
"I hope you never suffer the death of a child. It's the cruelest
thing that can happen to a parent. I'd pass a sweater at the mall
and think how I should buy it for Diana's birthday. If something
funny happened at work, I couldn't wait to tell Diana. Then I'd
remember and the hurt would rush back. Do you know how awful it is
to sit at your child's grave?"

Kris shook her head, although she could
imagine the emptiness. After Nicole's death, Aunt Susan wore her
nightgown around the house for months. Kris overheard Uncle Neal
confide to her mother how alone he felt.

Puzzles bolted into the room, darting past
Kris's feet. She gaped as the ferret hustled under the bed. "Does
he always do that?"

Irene laughed. "He's got good timing. How
about dessert? It's getting maudlin in here."

"Sounds good."

While Irene sliced Boston cream pie and
poured coffee, Kris moved a mound of throw pillows further down the
couch, making room for a stack of photo albums. She opened the
first book and stared at a picture of Diana and her father grinning
before a Christmas tree. They had the same dimples.

Joe Ferguson appeared in no further
photographs. The next section showed Diana's high school
graduation. Dressed in a white cap and gown, she held a red rose
alongside Raquel. Diana's eyes were puffy, but Raquel beamed. Kris
turned to the wedding of Cheryl and Michael. It seemed strange
seeing them in their early twenties, younger than their son was
now. Diana wore a coral bridesmaid's dress with sleek opera gloves,
her face glowing.

Irene passed Kris a triangle of Boston cream
pie. "I was so happy when Cheryl met Michael. It was a whirlwind
courtship, but he was a good kid. They had Eric less than a year
after they got married. Michael gave up his band to support his
family."

She pointed to a picture of the couple
hoisting boxes from a car trunk, their son's stroller in the
background. "That was the day Cheryl and Michael moved into their
house, not long before Diana ... died. They were the first home in
the neighborhood. They got a little nervous when construction was
delayed on the other houses. For awhile, it looked like they
wouldn't have neighbors."

"Diana must've been crazy about Eric." Kris
fingered a shot of Diana rocking her nephew.

"She was a godsend to Cheryl. She'd be
available to babysit on a half hour's notice since you never know
when you'll get called to substitute."

The photographs of Diana stopped. Kris closed
the book.

How horrible for Irene. What a shock to learn
her daughter had been murdered. Kris and Holly had found out about
Nicole's recovered body after their parents roused them out of bed.
Kris and her sister had stared at each other, and they both knew
what was coming. Their father removed his glasses, fogged with
tears. Their mother clutched his hand.

Kris jumped as the phone rang. Irene answered
it, talked for a few minutes, and extended the receiver. "It's
Eric."

Her fingernails digging into the couch, Kris
brought the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"My grandmother told me you'd be there," Eric
said. "Did she cook everything in the cupboards?"

"Pretty much."

"She's a great cook. Gram mentioned you got
hold of that cop. The appointment's set for tomorrow at 2:30?"

"Right. Can you get out of school that early?
I have to work at four." Kris swallowed hard, and turned away from
Irene's knowing smile. A blush heated her neck. Damn Eric Soares
for making her feel like a teenager.

"I wouldn't miss it," he said.

***

Kris arrived at the paper a couple hours
ahead of schedule. She'd devoted so many hours to the Diana
Ferguson investigation that she'd fallen behind on collecting "25
Years Ago Today" items and typing birth announcements. Jacqueline
would never approve more feature stories if she lagged on her
editorial assistant duties. Kris opened her thick folder of birth
write-ups, submitted by families and local hospitals.

Around three o'clock, she was summoned to the
front desk and thoughts of newborns faded. A woman in her
mid-forties glowered from the other side of the counter. The pit of
Kris's stomach sank. Not again. Not another angry visitor.

She managed a tight smile. "I'm Kris Langley.
You were looking for me?"

Bracelets clanking down her wrist, the
willowy blonde jabbed her ivory-tipped index finger into the air.
She pressed her other hand on the waist-length white fur coat that
engulfed her thin frame. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Speechless, Kris controlled her automatic
instinct to shout back, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I don't understand," she said. "Can I help
you?"

The visitor's pointy chin tilted up. Diamond
earrings glinted below her sleek ash blonde helmet of hair. "You'd
better believe it. Give me the name of the newspaper's attorney so
I can sue."

"Sue? What is this about?"

"You have some nerve trying to link my
husband to murder. You're messing with the wrong family."

The woman had cut her flowing blonde locks,
but suddenly Kris recognized her from the pictures in Jared's
office. "Your husband? Are you Yvonne Peyton?"

"Yvonne Harper Peyton. My father was an
influential town official for thirty years. My brother is selectman
chairman. You've made a big mistake."

Her ponytail bobbing, Jacqueline hurried over
to the counter. "I'm the managing editor. I couldn't help
overhearing. Why don't we go into the conference room and discuss
this. It's right over there."

‘Fine, I’d like to discuss how you manage
your staff." Yvonne stalked ahead.

Jacqueline grabbed Kris's arm. "What have you
done?"

"I'm…I’m investigating a twenty-five-year-old
murder for a story," Kris stammered. "Her husband's a suspect, but
I never accused him."

"Murder? Do you know who this woman is? Her
family's a legacy in Fremont. Her brother feeds us half our news.
Come with me." Jacqueline pulled her into the conference room. Kris
snatched her wrist loose.

Yvonne sprang up from a chair and wrapped
herself tighter in the fur. Her white corduroys and white suede
boots had escaped mud-splattering outside. She sent Kris a glacial
look, her wintry wardrobe emphasizing the temperature of her
disdain. "If this isn't straightened out right now, we'll discuss
it in court."

"There's been a misunderstanding," Kris said.
"I'm not trying to link you to anything. I met with Jared to gather
background information."

"Please! My father dealt with enough
reporters for me to see that you act sincere, and write a slanted
story anyway."

"Kris isn't a reporter," Jacqueline
interjected. "She's an editorial assistant who jumped into this
without running it by me. Please, sit down. I'm sure we can clear
this up."

Yvonne dropped back into her chair and
crossed her long legs. "My husband did not kill Diana Ferguson. If
the newspaper mentions Jared's name as a suspect, I swear to God,
we'll sue. I refuse to have my husband and daughter hurt by
this."

"Of course we won't use his name," Jacqueline
said. "Unless he's been arrested and charged with a crime, that
would be libelous."

"Tell that to your editorial assistant. My
husband didn't mention her visit until she called to speak with me
and dig for dirt." Yvonne scowled at Kris. "Did you think I'd
discuss such a hurtful period in my husband's life? He was in the
wrong place at the wrong time. End of story."

"I wanted to meet you as Diana's classmate,
not Jared's wife," Kris said. "I'm trying to understand her better,
but to do that, I need to talk with as many people as possible. I
know you were in a history club with Diana and that you both
enjoyed art. Your husband showed me the ocean painting you did. He
spoke highly of your work."

Confusion danced across Yvonne's face. "I
don't bother much with painting," she muttered. "Look, Ms. Langley.
Diana and I scarcely knew each other. I suspect she was killed by a
spurned lover -- and not my husband. Maybe Vince Rossi, maybe
someone else. She was a flirt in high school, and I'm sure she got
worse."

"What do you mean?"

"Diana Ferguson had an affair with our
teacher, Alex Thaddeus. Anyone could tell from the way they looked
at each other, their secret smiles. She was no innocent victim. She
was a slut." A flush deepened Yvonne's cheeks. "My husband didn't
date her long enough to realize that."

Kris's jaw went slack. "Diana Ferguson wasn't
a slut."

Yvonne rose. She slipped on her white gloves,
covering the twinkling facets of her acorn-sized diamond ring. The
lines in her forehead and at the corners of her mouth had smoothed.
"Believe what you want, but I knew her. You didn't."

She implored Jacqueline with her glance. "I'm
sorry I burst in here. I didn't mean to rant and rave, but I'm
worried about this tragedy coming back to haunt my family. My
husband has a heart condition, you know. I try to protect him from
unnecessary stress."

Jacqueline stood, too. "I assure you, there's
no need to worry. I'll handle this."

She accompanied Yvonne to the door, her hand
brushing against the fur coat. Apologizing again, Jacqueline
extended her business card.

"Thank you." Yvonne stepped into the
lobby.

Once she and Kris were alone, Jacqueline
counted off on her fingers. "One, you're not a reporter. Your
stories should be approved by me. Two, you shouldn't have used the
paper's name to investigate something so insane. And three, how
often do I have to tell you to inform me about what's happening in
my own newsroom?"

"I've been researching the story on my own
time. I didn't mention it because there might not be anything to
report." Skimping on the details, Kris explained about the article
and her agreement with Irene Ferguson.

Jacqueline's frosted pink lips pursed
tighter. "Surely, this poor woman doesn't think we're going to
solve her daughter's murder? How could you promise such a
thing?"

"I didn't. I said I'd try."

"You've got these people praying the paper
will give them a miracle."

"They're realistic about the odds." Kris shot
to her feet, tired of relinquishing the height advantage.

"You were hired as an editorial assistant.
You've only been here a month. You had no right to identify
yourself as a reporter. Do it again, and you'll find yourself out
of a job."

Kris swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth.
She wanted this job. She needed it. One more incident and it could
be gone.

Jacqueline gave a slight twist of her
ponytail, like a horse whinnying. "Anyway, Bruce is our police
reporter. Since I don't want to disappoint the family, I'll assign
him a feature on unsolved mysteries. Maybe someone will come
forward. Then the paper will be the hero."

Bruce wouldn't show Diana as a gifted artist
devastated by her father's death. He'd play up the bars and
boyfriends.

"I doubt the family will talk to Bruce," Kris
said. "They've already spent time with me."

"Then give him your information."

"He isn't the right person for the
assignment. This story requires sensitivity and a delicate touch.
He-"

"Bruce is a journalist. That makes him more
qualified than you are." Her nose upturned, Jacqueline walked
out.

Kris swore under her breath and kicked the
leg of a chair. She'd asked Eric Soares to trust her and assured
him she wouldn't hurt his family. Maybe he'd been right all along.
Maybe she should have left it alone.

Chapter 14

25 Years Ago Today

Fremont records the coldest day of the season
with 2 degrees at 7 a.m. at the Fremont Water Company.

"
I
don't believe
this," Eric said. "Your editor wants an article now?"

Kris gazed straight ahead at the red brick
police station. They sat in Eric's Camaro, parked behind the
downtown building. She pressed her cheek against the cool window.
"I'm sorry."

"And some other reporter is writing the
story?" Eric asked. "Why can't you?"

"I'm an editorial assistant. An obit writer.
My boss threatened to fire me if I tell anyone I'm a reporter."

"You're kidding. You're an obit writer?"

She glared at him.

"Sorry, I didn't know which to respond to
first. Hey, are you crying?" He studied her more closely.

Damn it. Kris rubbed a river of tears out of
her eyes. "I just feel badly that the paper's digging this up
again. I didn't mean for this to happen. I wanted to solve your
grandmother's problems, not make them worse. I haven't even warned
her yet. "

Sighing, Eric yanked a monogrammed
handkerchief out of his jeans pocket and passed it to her. "Don't
worry, I'll tell her. It's not your fault. How were you supposed to
know Yvonne Peyton would make a scene? I'm not too thrilled with
your editor, either."

"In her own way, Jacqueline's trying to help.
She's hoping someone will come forward."

"My grandmother will hope the same thing.
That's the problem. Who'll come out of the woodwork now? You all
right?"