by Stacy Juba
Diana's survivors were waiting for her.
Chapter Four
25 Years Ago Today
Elizabeth Maxwell of Warren, a graduate of the St. Agnes School of Nursing, passes her state board exams.
Monday 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.
She would try Cheryl first, but Kris wouldn't mention Diana, not yet. She would do what Dex, Bruce and Jacqueline insisted was important.
She'd build a rapport with her source.
During a lull in the newsroom, Kris called the Chamber of Commerce and discovered that Cheryl owned the "Treasures in the Aisles" bookstore. She dialed the number.
"Treasures in the Aisles," said a soft mellow voice.
"Could I speak to Cheryl Soares, please?"
"This is Cheryl."
Kris's heart leapt to her throat. Blood drummed in her ears, drowning out the police scanner, Dex and Bruce arguing about a car accident, everything but ...
"This is Cheryl," the woman repeated.
She was talking to Diana Ferguson's sister. Kris blurted the cover story she had mentally rehearsed.
"My name is Kris Langley and I write for the Fremont Daily News. We're doing an article about small bookstores that compete with big chains. I was wondering if I could stop by sometime and talk to you about it."
"You mean for an interview?"
"Right. For the business page."
"Forgive me," Cheryl said. "You caught me off-guard. The local papers have printed my calendar items about events at the store, but no reporters have come out. Are you looking to do it this week?"
"Would Wednesday or Thursday be okay?" Kris asked.
They settled on Wednesday afternoon.
"Thanks for your interest," Cheryl said. "I'll look forward to it."
Kris hung up and raked a hand through her bangs. She was going to meet Diana Ferguson's sister. And interview her for a story that would require Jacqueline’s approval. She'd gotten herself into a mess, no question.
She'd take that risk. Cheryl Soares didn't know it yet, but her sister's case was about to be re-opened.
Chapter Five
25 Years Ago Today
A proposal is made to build a town swimming pool in Fremont.
Kris huddled in her parked Toyota, staring at the red brick building, a former mill with separate entrances for a florist and frame store. The faded paint looked like an eraser had swept across it, flaking off the crumbled chips.
She opened her narrow reporter notebook. If she wanted to investigate Diana, she had to carry out this charade. It was too late to switch strategies now.
A bell tinkled as Kris stepped inside the shop. She lingered near a metal stepladder resting against the plaster wall. Books lined aisles and aisles of wooden shelves. She inhaled their musty scent.
"Are you Kris?"
She hunted for the source of the voice. A slight woman crouched on an Oriental rug, pulling paperbacks out of a cardboard box.
"Yes. You must be Cheryl?"
Smiling, the woman wiped her fingers on a rag and straightened. She wore a checkered black and white blazer over a scoop-necked blouse and jeans. Wisps of brown hair strayed out of a gold clip at the base of her neck. Crow's feet bracketed her eyes, the only sign of middle age. Cheryl Soares held out her hand and Kris shook it.
"Would you like some coffee?" Cheryl asked.
"Sure, if you have decaf."
"No problem."
Kris followed her past low tables strewn with jigsaw puzzle pieces and children’s picture books. Flames burned in a brick fireplace, hissing over the logs. A dusty mirror hung above the mantel and silk roses poked out of a glass jar. She sank onto the secondhand sofa, draped with an Indian blanket of swirled ruby, tan and green. Cheryl carried over a tray of coffee and biscotti.
Twenty-five years ago, this woman's younger sister had been murdered. Dex had asked her for a statement and she'd said Diana was an artist. Before Cheryl Soares had been a name on the microfilm, but here she was in the flesh, urging Kris to try the biscotti.
"I can't resist the chocolate almond myself. Tell me about your story." Cheryl settled into an easy chair and tilted her head to one side.
Over the next half hour, Kris asked how Cheryl had entered the business, the difficulty of the competition and how she could afford selling books at low prices. Cheryl had been president of the Greater Fremont Area Women in Business organization for two years. Maybe she and Diana had been like Holly and Kris. One a joiner, the other a watcher.
Cheryl answered each question, slowing down as Kris jotted notes. "My husband was skeptical when I told him about my bookstore idea, but eight years later, I love what I'm doing. I'm still educating people by introducing them to new books and authors. My book discussion group analyzes literature and examines it from different perspectives."
"Did your family encourage reading while you were growing up?" Kris asked.
"Definitely. My parents took my sister and me to the library every Saturday."
"Does your sister still like to read?"
"She ... she did. She's dead now."
"I'm so sorry."
Cheryl hung her head. "Thank you. I have to admit, I feel more comfortable with you than I'd expected. In the past, reporters have let me down."
Dex? Too bad Cheryl didn't know that an editor, not the reporter, had betrayed her trust. But would it matter? Thousands of people had read the headline.
"How long have you worked for the paper?" Cheryl asked.
"Not long." Kris found herself relating how she had switched careers, bolstered by Cheryl's sympathetic nods.
"You did the right thing. Everyone said I was nuts to quit teaching English when I knew nothing about business, but I had to do it. I was burned out. My husband was nervous, but after a few months of running the store, he could see how happy I was. We both say it's the best decision that I ever made."
"Too bad my mother isn't as understanding as he was, or as you are. She thinks I'm crazy to work for a small paper, making peanuts."
"It's hard when you're afraid that your child is making a mistake, but sometimes it isn't a mistake. Your mom will have to realize that you know best." Cheryl laughed. "I'm one to talk. I don't know if my son, Eric, would call me understanding. And my own mother was uneasy about my endeavor, but that didn't stop her from taking a part-time job here."
Irene Ferguson helped out in the shop? Was she there now? Kris glanced around, but saw only a couple of customers in
the corner.
After the interview, Cheryl provided a tour of the aisles. Kris halted before a row of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books. A pang jabbed her heart. She and Nicole had loved those mysteries. Two young mothers greeted Cheryl, and they paused to discuss the book group’s latest selection. Kris waited by the broad mahogany sales counter.
Behind it hung a striking oil painting of a girl backing away from a large jar, arms raised above her face. Creatures charged past her, spiders and bats darting across a candlelit room. In the lower right-hand corner, the black ink stark, were the bold initials DMF.
Diana Marie Ferguson.
Kris covered her mouth to hold back a gasp. Cheryl joined her at the counter.
"What a fascinating painting," Kris said. "Do you know the artist?"
"My sister painted it the year before she died. Her name was Diana." Tears glimmered in Cheryl's blue eyes. "I'm sorry. Next week is the anniversary of her death. Anyway, the painting is based on the Greek myth of Pandora. She opened the jar and the plagues escaped, like envy and spite. I enjoy the story because Pandora closed the lid in time to keep hope intact."
"A jar? I always thought it was Pandora’s Box."
"Diana said that ‘box’ was a mistranslation that occurred when the tale was retold in Latin. I believe she used the old stories as a framework, but saw how they applied to all times. Even today. We need hope as much as ancient people did."
Had Diana clung to hope even as her murderer attacked her? Kris wanted to sympathize, to blurt out that she knew everything. The truth burned on her tongue, but the moment passed, sailing away like the plagues in the picture. Not yet. She patted Cheryl's hand, noticing a fresh pool of tears. "Are you okay?"
Cheryl shrugged, her smile forced. "So so. This is a tough time of year."
"Diana was lucky to have a sister who cared so much. I'm sure she wouldn't want you to be upset."
"Thank you. That's a nice thing to say." Cheryl steadied her voice. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Kris. When do you think the story will run?"
