Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (5 page)

"Blaming her made everyone feel better," her
father said. "They didn't have to worry about their own
children."

"I guess you're right."

Her dad knew worry. He'd made Kris and Holly
take self-defense classes in high school. He bought them pepper
spray for college. Kris still carried a canister attached to her
keychain. Every couple of years, he gave her a refill for
Christmas.

"They never solved that case, did they? After
the initial excitement, I don't recall hearing much about it." Her
father glanced at the television. "Hey, what a play. Did you see
that, R.J.?"

"I guess whoever killed her got away with
it," Kris said. "Unless someone digs up the trail twenty-five years
later."

At least Nicole's murderer had been punished
with life imprisonment.

But it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

Kris retreated into the kitchen and wiped her
welling eyes on a paper towel. The aroma of roast chicken drifted
from the oven. Her dad had prepared the main course while her mom
would contribute a store-bought cake to the meal.

She regarded the polished wood floor, oak
cabinets and breakfast bar with high-backed stools. Her parents had
remodeled the house last year and painted the white exterior a
shade of sky blue. Kris used to dread seeing the furniture and
decor leftover from her childhood, like the round table where she
and Nicole played Monopoly, or the couch they crawled behind for
Hide and Seek.

Although the remodeling made visiting the
house easier, driving into the neighborhood remained tough. Before
their divorce, Aunt Susan and Uncle Neal had moved to Cape Cod.
Their former house stood on the corner, unchanged by the new
owners, who weren't new anymore. Kris's chest tightened whenever
she passed the familiar yellow gambrel, once her second home.

Randolph Coltraine's old house was down an
adjoining side street that she hadn't traveled in years. Holly and
their mother enjoyed walking the neighborhood, but Kris refused to
accompany them. Hearing footsteps behind her, Kris opened the
refrigerator and hunted for a drink.

"Dinner should be ready soon," her mother
said.

"Mom, why don't you ever call Aunt Susan?
Don't you miss the way things were?" Kris uncapped a bottle of
apple juice. She hadn't planned to ask the question, but now it
hung between them.

Her mother pulled silverware out of a drawer.
Forks and spoons glinted in her fist. "Susan? Why on earth are you
thinking about her?"

"Holly mentioned her yesterday. She thinks
Aunt Susan's lonely. I might visit her sometime."

"If she's lonely, it's her own fault."

Kris bristled at her hostile tone. "What do
you mean?"

"Don't bother driving down there. She's not
the same person you remember. She's not even a relative."

"She was your sister-in-law. Your best
friend. How can you stop caring?"

Her mother piled silverware on the counter
and tugged the bottom of her blazer. "I forgot to tell Holly
something. Please set the dining room table."

Her mother disappeared back into the living
room and Kris braced her hand against the freezer. Two innocent
families changed forever.

Fate had ended the lives of Diana and
Nicole.

Fate had guided her to the microfilm.

Kris couldn't reassemble the shattered pieces
of her own family, but maybe she could help the Fergusons. If she
solved the case, she could provide answers. Closure. Perhaps
unraveling one murder could atone for the other. She had to
try.

Diana's survivors were waiting for her.

Chapter 4

25 Years Ago Today

Elizabeth Maxwell of Warren, a graduate of
the St. Agnes School of Nursing, passes her state board
exams
.

M
onday afternoon,
Kris showed up in the newsroom two hours early. Ignoring her
coworkers' odd glances, she searched the microfilm for Diana
Ferguson updates. The funeral had garnered another front page
story. A group of high school teachers were pictured at the
gravesite.

Had they come for Diana, or to support a
grieving faculty member, Cheryl Soares? A follow-up article
reported splinters in Diana's hair and that police believed the
murder weapon had been a heavy piece of wood. Stories dwindled to
an occasional "still no arrests" paragraph on page five; then to
nothing at all.

Uncle Neal called the police every night
after Nicole's death, demanding progress. Thanks to a witness who
placed Coltraine's car near the crime scene, the detectives took
only three weeks to collect enough evidence against Randolph
Coltraine, but for Uncle Neal, it had dragged on too long.

It must have hurt Diana's family after the
police gave up.

Kris started as Dex spoke from behind.
"What're you doing in before four?"

"I had to get some work done," she said.

He stared past her at the lit microfilm
image. "Diana Ferguson again, huh? Every once in awhile, we get a
big story like that. I remember another girl who was murdered,
younger. Awful tragedy. Nicole Jordan."

Dex leveled Kris with a steady gaze. "Your
cousin, wasn't she?"

Her heart flipped over. Chills shooting up
her spine, she faced the microfilm console. "How did you know?"

"I don't forget major stories. You and Nicole
were walking home together, then she decided she wanted ice cream.
You didn't go. She went off on her own and met up with a serial
killer. Lots of people in town said you were the one who got
away."

Kris blinked back tears, willing herself not
to break down. She spun the reel backwards, the film whirling so
fast it could slice her fingers. The tape clattered to a stop, its
clicking echoing in her head.

"That's why I moved to New York, to be
anonymous. I was tired of everyone looking at me funny, and
whispering when I walked by. Please don't mention this to anyone. I
don't like talking about it."

"It's no one's business. I wasn't gonna let
on that I knew. Then I figured your cousin's murder might explain
your interest in Diana Ferguson."

"I can relate to the pain her family
suffered."

"You were just a kid. Your cousin's death
must've been hard on you."

"Yeah." Kris didn't tell him she could no
longer tolerate ice cream. Its cold richness triggered abdominal
cramps that seared her insides like an appendix attack.

Dex hesitated and touched her shoulder.
"Maybe I shouldn't have brought it up. My wife says I talk too
much. You okay?"

"I'm fine. No problem." Kris plucked a tissue
out of her drawer. She gave him a weak smile.

"I came over to say you were right." He
handed her the latest edition of the
Fremont Daily News
. On
the front, Kris saw Bruce's piece about the stabbing victim. A
color photograph showed the teenage sister, her face bloated with
tears.

"The siblings were upset about the
photographer. They went along with it, though. If you look at it
this way, the picture brings home the kid’s senseless death.
Between you and me, the story could use work. Look at this." Dex
gestured to the lead.

"The family of Scott Miles, the teen stabbed
at a college party, has spoken out against his murderer," Kris read
aloud.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"It seems a little routine, I guess." She
didn't want to badmouth Bruce, but Dex nodded, encouraging her. "It
might have been better if he'd used imagery to convey their
emotions. Maybe he added that later?"

"He didn't. Bruce is a good newshound, but he
isn't sensitive enough to touch people."

"I wouldn't mind trying a story like that,"
Kris said. "Someday, when I'm ready to do it justice."

"We'll give you some features to get you
started." Dex shuffled his feet, his sneakers squeaking against the
bare floor.

Her heart reached out to Dex. Kris would miss
him after he retired. If Dex was inclined to mentor her in the
meantime, they'd both benefit.

"You've seen so much in your life," she said.
"There's probably tons of tragedies like Nicole and Diana. Car
accidents, fires. How come you're not jaded?"

Dex reddened. "I've got a wife who keeps me
laughing. She's a good woman, makes the best lemon poppyseed
muffins in town. There's a couple in my desk. I'll get you one, but
I need coffee first. Come on."

She followed him into the lounge, relieved
for an excuse to pull herself together. Dex ambled over to the
coffee pot and poured the liquid into a "Number One Grandpop" mug.
He bent over, his gray suit jacket riding up his back.

Dex was around the age her grandfather had
been when he'd died of a heart attack. Kris's grandfather, a
general practitioner, had worked days, nights and weekends, never
without his black bag. Growing up, her mother used to fling him the
bag as he hurried out the door, according to stories.

He'd died during Kris's junior year in high
school. She hadn't felt grief, just sadness that they had never
connected. Her mother immersed herself in the catering plans and
the tedious task of informing his patients, who knew Kris's
grandfather better than she and Holly did. She couldn't imagine
giving her grandfather a mug that read "Number One Grandpop."

Kris pressed her back against the counter.
"Dex, what advice would you give to a rookie investigative
reporter?"

He thought a moment as he drank a long
swallow. "First, make people trust you. If you've got a police beat
like Bruce, you should bring the courthouse people to lunch, or
bring the cops doughnuts." Grimacing, he tore open a packet of
sugar. "But don't pull what Bruce does, and bring back hundred
dollar expense accounts. I'll give the kid credit, though. He knows
how to build sources."

"What if you have to approach someone
cold?"

"Depends on the person. It's a good idea to
start out easy and save your tough questions for last. If you want
to play hardball, you might start with the sweet and innocent
routine. Then slam him."

Jacqueline entered the room, her scrunchie
matching the black silk pantsuit that had won her admiring stares
from the circulation department. Kris had overheard the guys say
that the woman editor was a bitch, but she sure was hot. Her
classiness looked out of place at midnight, though. Everyone else
on the late shift dressed casual. Kris fingered her own sweatshirt
and jeans.

Jacqueline raised a penciled eyebrow. "I see
you're in early. I hope you don't expect overtime pay."

"Of course not," Kris said. "I'm just eager
to learn the news business."

"Kris wants to do some stories for us," Dex
interjected.

"I've got a bunch of press releases that need
to be processed ASAP, before they’re outdated. Let's worry about
those first." Jacqueline opened the refrigerator, dismissing
further comment.

Dex rolled his eyes and motioned to Kris.
"Come on, I'll get you that muffin."

***

Kris crumpled the wrapper from her turkey
sandwich, listening to Bruce brag about his exploits. They had
driven down the street in his secondhand olive green Ford --
reporters didn't earn much more than editorial assistants -- and
ordered lunch at the deli counter. She made sure they paid
separately, in case he considered this a date.

At first, he'd used his journalistic tactics
on her, trying to find out how she spent her weekends. She had
switched the topic to tracking down people and ferreting out
information.

Bruce leaned across the booth so close that
Kris tasted his steak and onion breath. "Not just any reporter can
do a police and investigative beat," he said. "It takes a certain
flair."

"How do you find out things?"

"With public records and the Internet, you
can get anything on anybody. In the newsroom, there's a stack of
street directories for the towns we cover. You can find out
someone's address, year of birth, kind of job, who lives in the
same house and who their neighbors are." Bruce set down his sub,
his voice enthusiastic.

"What about information not on the public
record?"

"Remember that guy who went nuts last year
and shot his wife and kid? I called his neighbors and got the same
old 'he seemed perfectly normal' line until I found one lady that
told me how weird he was and how he'd kicked her dog for wandering
into his yard." Bruce grinned with pride. "That contact gave me the
name of other people with similar stories, so when my byline ran,
it was different from the other newspapers and news broadcasts.
Associated Press picked that one up."

He cocked his head. "What's with the
questions? You planning to go after my beat?"

"I'm curious about what you do."

"I'd hate your job, everyone dumping work on
your desk and funeral directors calling you every five minutes.
Hey, you busy this weekend?"

"Actually, I am," Kris lied. "It was nice
having lunch with you, though."

Bruce scooped his mirrored sunglasses out of
his jacket pocket and flashed a confident smile. "We'll do it
again."

Back at the office, delivery drivers piled
newspaper bundles into vans. Carriers waited in cars parked along
the sidewalk. Snow dusted the pavement and frosted the trees, the
sloping branches a tangle of bark and ice crystals. Kris hated
January and February, the purgatory after the holidays and before
spring.

Diana Ferguson died in the winter, her body
dumped in a garbage bag like trash and thrown against the frozen
ground.

Kris pulled off her jacket and headed
straight for the bookshelves. Within seconds, she had found the
street listings. According to the directory, Irene Ferguson was
retired. Her daughter, Cheryl Soares, lived in Fremont and was a
sole proprietor. So she had given up teaching. Michael Soares, a
sales rep, resided at the same address.