by Stacy Juba
Kris reached over and straightened the pile of obits and press releases on her desk, right beside the microfilm machine. She’d better finish up with her historical anecdotes and get back to the present. Ten obits had trickled in via e-mail. The 11 p.m. deadline would sneak up fast.
Dex hadn't exaggerated when he'd warned that the staff would consider her the newsroom slave, asking her to handle a five-page Department of Public Works announcement for the next edition, or answer their telephones if they went to the bathroom. She also hadn't expected such a demanding public. People complained about front-page stories, police logs and crossword puzzles that had wrong answers in the solution box.
Yet poor as the pay was, and despite her lowly status, Kris loved her new job. Her old one, as administrative assistant for a Manhattan investments firm, had exhausted her. She'd never slept well, but over the past six months it had gotten much worse. At night, Kris would bury her head in the pillow, unable to drown out the cars, yells and sirens outside her Morningside Heights apartment.
It was either be a zombie, or come home to quiet Fremont, Massachusetts.
"That was quite a scene you made." Bruce, the cop reporter, leaned against her desk and the obits slid to the floor.
He enjoyed the women in the front office raving about his "bedroom" eyes and russet gold hair, but Kris couldn't stomach his annoying cockiness. Besides, she’d bet a month’s salary that his vibrant blue eyes were courtesy of Bausch & Lomb.
Bruce made no effort to collect the papers. "I've never seen you talk to anyone like that." He winked. "In our short acquaintance, anyway. We'll know each other better soon."
"I was just expressing my opinion." She bent to gather the scattered sheets.
"You're a passionate gal."
Kris rose and blocked the microfilm reader with her back. She didn’t want Bruce getting wind of Diana Ferguson. He probably wouldn’t care anyway, but Kris felt protective of Diana somehow. She adjusted the heap of paperwork on her overburdened desk. "I hope this disagreement doesn't come back to haunt me with Jacqueline."
"Don't worry. If she's pissed at anyone, it's Dex. Is the old man driving you crazy yet?"
"I like him. He acts crusty, but if you look past that, he's a sweetheart."
"Sweetheart? Dex?" Bruce chuckled. "You're gonna find that dear old Dex is past his prime."
If Kris had to waste precious minutes talking to Bruce, she may as well fish for information. "What's the deal with Dex and Jacqueline? I don't get who's in charge. I thought he oversaw the day shift and Jacqueline the night, but I heard she's always here. Who has final control?"
"Jacqueline's top dog, although Dex tends to forget it. She and I worked together at a weekly on the South Shore. She came here six months ago and called me when a reporting job opened."
"I didn't know you two had worked together," Kris said.
That explained why Bruce and Jacqueline meshed. Other reporters griped about the managing editor. Tension drained out of the newsroom on Tuesdays, Jacqueline's night off.
"She was my editor," Bruce said. "Listen, don't take Jacqueline personally. She'd sleep in the newsroom if they let her, and expects everyone else to do the same. She was married to her job more than her husband. Now they're getting divorced."
"That's too bad. Do they have children?"
Bruce snorted. "Jacqueline? Never. She won't admit it, but she's stressed out about this job, too. A daily was a big step. Dex is another pain in her ass. Jacqueline has full editorial control, but the company allowed Dex to keep his title. Temporarily."
"What do you mean?"
"The publisher's pushing him to retire, and Dex said he'd consider it within the year. But the year's over. If the old man doesn't smarten up and leave on his own, they're gonna force him out."
Kris gazed at Dex's desk with its dogeared towers of Fremont Daily News issues. He'd told her that he had started as a paper boy. He lived and breathed the news business.
"That's awful," she said. "At least he has a chance to keep his dignity. I hope Dex takes it."
"Don't give management any credit. They're just bridging the transition. There's a bunch of senior citizens who read the paper and don't want to see changes."
"Poor Dex."
"Poor us. We've got to listen to his complaining. Want to blow this place and get something to eat? I have time before my police rounds."
Bruce flirted with every woman at the paper. No sense feeling flattered.
"I can't leave," Kris said. "Too many obits."
"How about lunch Monday before work?"
She hesitated.
"Come on, it's not a date," Bruce said. "I'll fill you in on everyone. I've got all kinds of gossip. What do you say?"
Kris knew she could use an introduction to the oddities of the staff. Already, he'd provided an eye-opener. "Okay, sounds good."
He watched her with amusement. "You'll be glad you said yes, darling."
Darling? Oh, please.
She waited till he left, then rewound the microfilm to a date shortly after Diana Ferguson had disappeared. The paper had run a description of Diana and a police telephone number. Kris turned off the machine.
The yearbook picture remained imprinted in her mind. She’d read many articles about murder victims over the years, but Diana Ferguson’s story affected her more than usual. She had a sense that Diana was misunderstood.
Kris knew that feeling well.
Chapter 2
25 Years Ago Today
Jennifer McGreggor wins the speech contest sponsored by the Fremont Women of Today.
Man, it was early. Kris gulped orange juice at Lucy's Lunchbox Diner, hoping the sugar would pep her up. Her older sister had talked her into meeting at the ungodly hour of 8 o’clock. As usual, Holly was fashionably late.
Heat whooshed from beneath the table, warming Kris’s frosty toes. Maybe she should eat on the floor near the vents. Holly did all the yakking, anyway. She probably wouldn’t even notice. Kris leafed through the laminated menu and squinted out the window. Hardly any traffic crawled down Main Street. Everyone must be sleeping in on this glorious Saturday. Lucky stiffs.
Her reverie ended when she spotted her sister by the entrance. Holly stomped slush off her boots and removed the wool hat that covered her shoulder-length honey blonde hair. Kris had the same deep amber shade. She wondered why her sister’s hair fell in perfect curls while her own mane would’ve made a decent nest for a robin.
Holly pulled out a chair, her diamond ring flashing under the fake Tiffany lamp suspended over the table. She unbuttoned her three-quarter length Anne Klein wool coat and slipped off her fleece gloves. "Hey, stranger."
"You look too damn good for 8 a.m.," Kris said.
"For now. I've got another twelve-hour shift in the ER, so I'll be dragging soon enough. How are you doing? Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been sleeping okay?"
Kris raised a skeptical brow. The question had flown off her sister's tongue too easily. "I get by with naps."
"You should avoid napping. It's important to establish a regular pattern at night." Holly spoke in her Dr. Know-It-All voice. She worked in the hospital where their physician mother oversaw the Women's Pavilion. Holly, also a MD, rode the helicopter to the site of bad accidents and stabilized victims until they reached the medical center. During transport situations from one facility to another, she went along in case of emergency.
In other words, that qualified her as an expert on every medical issue. Gritting her teeth, Kris scanned the list of specials. "A pattern is no good when you keep waking up."
"Have you cut down on caffeine?"
"Eliminated it."
"You don't exercise right before bed, do you?"
"I work out in the afternoon."
"How about warm milk?"
Kris rolled her eyes. "Try wine. Sometimes I even kick back with a few beers. Why don't you report that to Mom? She sent you to pump me, didn't she?"
Blushing, Holly opened her menu
and feigned interest in the selections. "I'm worried your new job will make sleeping harder. You must be wired when you get home. You're not taking sleeping pills again, are you?"
Ah, the underlying reason for the inquisition. Kris clenched a wadded napkin in her lap. Her senior year in college, she'd abused sleeping medication. Once the pills stopped working, she weaned herself off them. Occasionally she experimented, but the medication lost its effectiveness after a month.
"Not in a long time," she said. "They're useless."
Holly shot her a glance over the menu. "Mom's put you through every medical test and they've come out fine. Maybe you should see a therapist. It must be some type of anxiety disorder."
"Look, Holly, I don't need a counselor. All I needed was to work different hours. Thanks for your concern, but I've got everything under control." Kris appreciated the change in topic as the freckled teenage waitress arrived with a notepad.
Holly ordered a fruit cup and bagel without cream cheese. Kris pointed to the Lumberjack Special. "This comes with pancakes, bacon and eggs, right?"
Her sister’s eyes bulged. "You’re not really getting that, are you? Do you know how unhealthy that is?"
"Yeah, I may as well go all out. Could I have a side of hash browns, too? Thanks." Kris handed the menu to the waitress. Her sister would be salivating in the ER all afternoon. Despite her rabbit food dieting, Holly liked bacon and eggs as much as the common folk.
Shaking her head, Holly poured a packet of Sweet ‘N Low into her coffee. "Anyway, Mom wants us both to come for dinner tomorrow. You'll have guaranteed entertainment. R.J. and I got our wedding albums back two days ago, and she's already bugging us about grandchildren."
"If she wanted to invite me, why didn't she ask me herself?"
"She was busy and knew I'd see you."
Yeah, right. Kris tightened her grip around her glass. Her mother was avoiding her. What else was new? "It’s pretty short notice, isn’t it?"
Holly sipped from her steaming mug. "You don’t have a boyfriend. I guess she assumed you wouldn’t have plans. You need a man, Kris."
"Huh?"
"You're twenty-six years old. You spend too much time alone. No wonder you're depressed."
"I'm not depressed," Kris said. "I like my privacy."
"I'll say. You withdrew from your friends in high school. You spent college in the library. I thought moving to New York would be good for you, but you must've been a loner there, too. You've never mentioned anyone."
"Just because you drone about yourself doesn't mean we're all that way."
Holly flushed as the waitress delivered their orders. She glared into her miniscule fruit cup and sneaked a longing look at the Lumberjack Special.
Suppressing a smirk, Kris drizzled maple syrup over her mound of golden brown pancakes. She gestured to her crisp bacon strips as a peace offering. "Want some? I can’t eat all this."
"See, I knew you shouldn’t have ordered that." Holly grabbed two pieces and crunched one between her teeth.
"Listen, I'm sorry for snapping at you before," Kris said. "You were just pushing me too hard. If you want me to open up, ask me about my job. I love it."
"You love writing obits?" A smile hovered on Holly's lips. Kris hoped it was a bacon high and not amusement over her career choice.
"I do other things, like researching stories on the microfilm. Yesterday, I came across a twenty-five-year-old unsolved murder. A girl was found dead in the woods near Fremont State and they never caught her killer. She was twenty-one."
"No offense, but that sounds as depressing as obituaries. That reminds me, I heard from Aunt Susan the other night. She sounded lonely."
Frowning, Kris sliced into a pancake. She called Aunt Susan a few times per year and sent gifts for holidays. Her aunt never made the first move herself. Kris figured she probably didn’t want to be a burden. Why was she contacting Holly?
"She adopted another stray cat," Holly went on. "What is it now? Six? Seven?"
"Maybe she needs someone to take care of," Kris said.
Aunt Susan couldn't resist the skinny felines that wandered to her front step as if the scent of tuna had left a permanent imprint. Kris, too, liked having a furry companion snuggle on her bed. She had adopted a stray cat after moving into her new apartment. Her aunt, though, took it to the extreme.
"Yeah, but seven meowing someones?" Holly asked. "This one is even worse. She says it looks like Marmalade. Isn't that spooky?"
"If you were in Aunt Susan's boat, you might have a tough time adjusting, too. Nicole was her world."
"It's been fourteen years since Nicole died. Uncle Neal got on with his life. Aunt Susan should, too. I wish she and Mom would start talking again. They didn't even acknowledge each other at my wedding."
"You know Mom," Kris said. "She's judgmental."
"Aunt Susan's stubborn."
Holly moved onto another subject, her new home. Kris didn't bring up Nicole again. Maybe the dead had it easy. It was the living who went through hell.
***
Kris trudged down the hallway of her rambling 19th century apartment building. The Greek Revival-style house boasted a gabled roofline, wide columns fronting the porch and elongated windows. She unlocked her door, and Chipmunk scurried through the living room, a chocolate blur with a thick swishing tail. He spent most days shedding over the carpet and batting Tender Vittles across the kitchen floor, but Kris didn't mind. She liked the warm welcome. She could have used a cat in New York.
She carried the purring Chipmunk into her bedroom and sprawled onto the quilt for a nap. The room satisfied her eyes, filled with the furniture of her childhood, knickknacks and books.
Kris gazed at the silver-framed picture of Nicole on her bureau. Flaxen braids pressed against her cousin's ears, freckles dotted her cheeks. Nicole hadn't taken off her horn-rimmed glasses as she usually did for photos. How she'd hated those glasses, thick wide ones she insisted made her look like an owl.
Born three months apart, Kris and Nicole had grown up in the same neighborhood. Kris tried picturing the happy times, like kindergarten. She'd been shy back then and would whisper in Nicole's ear. Another cookie, more crayons, whatever she wanted, she counted on Nicole to be her voice.
After school, Aunt Susan would fix snacks as Kris, Holly and Nicole entertained themselves. They'd space kitchen chairs into rows and play Airline. Holly took the pilot seat while Kris and Nicole served each other baggies of peanuts.
Unbidden, the memories were replaced with the image of Nicole in her beige crepe casket, high-necked blue velvet dress covering the rope grooves.
Kris had stared at the mahogany coffin, numb, afraid there might have been a mistake. What if Nicole wasn't dead, but in a deep sleep. What if she were buried alive? Kris had stood against the Pepto-Bismol pink wall of the funeral home, praying Nicole would sit up in the casket. She promised God that she'd be a good person if only Nicole would awaken.
Her head had fogged at the sickly sweet perfume of orchids. Nicole would have hated the cloying scent. She couldn't pass a flower garden without triggering her allergies. Her nose would twitch and she'd give three muffled sneezes, quiet as a kitten.
But Nicole didn't sneeze. Allergies would never bother her again.
Kris had run out of the funeral parlor and hugged her knees on the front step. Her mother followed and crossed her arms over her black dress. "I told you not to come. I went to my mother's wake when I was four, and it was no place for a child."
Holly had stayed home for the calling hours. Kris begged her father to attend, and he convinced her mother. She needed to tell Nicole goodbye in person, to apologize for the secret she could never reveal, not even to her parents.
Kris shivered. The memory rolled toward her like an icy wave, numbing her insides. She couldn't hold it back. She could never hold it back.
***
Kris looked up at the gray stormclouds, hoping she and Nicole would make it home before the rain. The last bus pulled
out of the school parking lot and disappeared around the corner.
It would've been nice if she and Nicole lived on the bus route, but they had to walk three blocks, except for the times Aunt Susan took pity and played chauffeur in her station wagon. Aunt Susan had gone out with a friend, leaving her and Nicole to fend for themselves.
Meredith Ames crossed the road in her denim jacket and miniskirt. She sidled up to them on the sidewalk, her auburn curls bobbing. "Hi, Nikki."
Her Texas drawl reminded Kris of melted butter, smooth, the kind of voice that never stammered. Kris scuffed her sneakers in the dirt. She never knew what to say around Meredith, the most popular girl in seventh grade. Meredith had moved to town six months ago.
Beaming, Nicole shifted her bookbag to her other shoulder. "Hi, Meredith."
"I'm having a birthday party next Friday night. My mom's letting me have boys over. Can you come?"
Nicole's big hazel eyes magnified behind her glasses. "I'd love to. Thanks."
Kris's breathing quickened. Nicole must have forgotten the plan for next Friday, Chinese food with their parents, then a movie. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, her tongue dry as sandpaper.
"Cool," Meredith said. "Donnie Hastings will be there."
"Donnie Hastings? He's cute."
"I know. I'm gonna play music so we can dance." Meredith examined the braids that fell to Nicole's shoulders. "The girls are sleeping over afterwards. Could I curl your hair? I'll bet it would look good."
"That'd be great. I'm tired of braids."
Meredith clapped. "A makeover. How fun." She turned to Kris. "You're invited to my party, too."
Heat rushed to Kris's face. She couldn't dance with boys. She’d look like a female Pinocchio bouncing around with her strings pulled.
"I ... I can't make it," Kris mumbled.
"Oh, that's too bad. Well, I've got to get home, y'all. See you, Nicole." Meredith strolled in the opposite direction.
Nicole waited until she was out of earshot, then placed her hands on her hips. "Meredith must think you're a snob. Why would you say no?"
Kris stepped back, startled by her cousin's bitterness. "She didn’t seem upset."
