by Stacy Juba
"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.
"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."
He touched a round glass paperweight bursting with rainbow streaks of color. "I hate to see talent wasted. It's such a shame not to make the most of a God-given talent."
"I'm sure Diana appreciated your encouragement."
Jared tented his slender fingers. "I think she did. I hope so. What newspaper do you work for, Kris?"
"The Fremont Daily News."
"If you want to solve Diana's murder, let me give you advice. Do what the police didn't. Find the person who stalked Diana."
Chapter 8
25 Years Ago Today
Buyer resistance brings a 10 cent reduction in five-pound bags of sugar in Fremont area stores.
Dex assigned Kris a profile on a local yo-yo expert. She eagerly accepted, but as she Googled information on
yo-yo tricks, her thoughts soon drifted to her secret investigative story. Jared Peyton had seemed sincere. Was he for real, or just a good actor?
Kris pondered the question while she ate dinner alone in the lounge. Jacqueline strode in with a glass bowl and slid it into the microwave. She lurked beside the counter, dressed in a gray wool suit with square buttons. Silence overpowered the dull hum of the microwave. Kris waited for a dig about taking a break, and mentally prepared a retort. Maybe something like "Who’s going to write my obituary, Jacqueline, if I drop dead of starvation?"
"I started as an editorial assistant," Jacqueline said, her clear musical voice loud in the quiet. "Right out of college."
Kris glanced around to make sure no one else had entered the room. She balled up her napkin. Wow, small talk. May as well go with it. "How long did you do that?"
"A couple months. Then I got a reporting job."
"Where?"
The microwave dinged. Jacqueline stirred her chicken and rice on the counter, a diet portion that wouldn’t have satisfied Chipmunk even after a full can of Fancy Feast. She would bring dinner to her desk, Kris knew. Jacqueline never sat in the lounge with the underlings. "It was at a -"
"Jacqueline!" They both looked up as Walter Barnes, the stout balding publisher, breezed into the room. Kris had heard him arguing with Dex last week. She couldn't decide whether it was the daily deadlines or the mix of creative personalities, but she'd witnessed lots of flared tempers in the news business.
"Walter," Jacqueline said in a high-pitch. "Hello."
He clutched a rolled-up newspaper, the banner brushing against his silk designer tie, and tapped the opposite end against his wrist. "I just got back from a conference. This is the first chance I've had to look at today's edition. Why did you run a feature photo on page one and the bank shot on page seven? You know the bank is among our biggest advertisers."
Jacqueline's face mottled deep crimson. Kris slunk lower in her chair, wishing the publisher had chosen another time for criticism. She and her editor had been on the verge of a significant breakthrough rivaling the end of the Cold War.
"But you didn't tell me page one." Jacqueline connected her hands. She tucked one leg behind the other, hiding the run in her nylons.
