by Stacy Juba
"Shit," she muttered.
"He was out of line," Kris said. "He should have specified where he wanted the picture."
"I can't believe he compared me to Dex. I work sixty-to-seventy hours per week. I've expanded this paper, introduced new sections. Circulation had its biggest jump in months."
"It'll blow over. He'll forget about it next time Dex pisses him off."
Jacqueline's forehead grooved and her eyes flashed. "This is none of your business. If I get wind that you shared this with anyone in the newsroom, your days here will be numbered. You just keep your mouth shut."
Kris felt a tic contracting. She should have suspected Jacqueline's civil facade wouldn't last. "Look, if you wanted me to keep quiet, all you had to do was ask. Why would I tell anyone, anyway?"
"I understand that a relative gave you a hard time about an obit. Why didn't I hear this from you?"
"I didn't know it was important. I don’t see what that has to do with-"
"I want to be appraised of problems. I am the managing editor." Jacqueline stuck her bowl in the refrigerator and walked out.
Kris hurled her trash in the wastebasket. The woman was a shrew, and Bruce was a scheming jerk. He must have opened his mouth about the Eric Soares confrontation. He was on assignment, so she couldn't question him. Lucky for Bruce.
Kris spent the next couple of hours typing obits and wedding announcements, the mindless tasks soothing her bruised psyche. At least the obits were on people in their late eighties and nineties. Anything younger than eighty depressed Kris. It wasn't a waste, as with a child or young adult, but it was a shame.
Fluorescent lights shone overhead, bouncing off the dark windows. A middle-aged female reporter banged out a last-minute story in the silence and a couple of composing room staff members worked out back. After deadline, press room employees would drift into the building to start the print run.
Irene Ferguson called around 8 p.m. While Jacqueline complained about ad layout problems to the composing supervisor, Kris clutched the receiver, glad she could speak freely without PMS Barbie overhearing.
"I'm not sure what to think of Jared," she said. "He was candid, but he claimed Diana lied about the phone calls."
Irene snorted. "Is he still using that story? Of course he made the calls."
"You've heard this?"
"About how he was the innocent victim? We'll have to compare notes. Maybe the louse slipped up after twenty-five years. I'm sorry, I just get upset. I'd like to invite you to Cheryl's house for dinner Saturday night. My son-in-law, Michael, wants to meet you. He was like Diana's big brother."
"I'd love to join you." Kris hesitated. She wouldn't let Eric Soares stop her, but she wanted fair warning of his presence. "Will your grandson be there? He paid me a visit and didn't seem happy with the investigation."
"I had a hunch he'd come by. Eric's my protector. He plays in a band, though, so he won't be around."
Thank God. She didn't feel like dealing with his glares and comments. Funny, Eric Soares didn't strike her as a musician. He seemed too narrow-minded to have a creative side.
"So we can expect you?" Irene asked.
"I'll look forward to it," Kris said.
***
Friday night after working the late shift, Kris made brownies for Cheryl's dinner party. Chipmunk lapped water from a heart-shaped bowl and rubbed his wet lips against her ankle. Kris stirred the chocolate batter into creamy folds, jolting when the phone rang. Her heart thundered, random thoughts darting through her mind.
Had her father suffered a heart attack? Had there been an accident?
She whipped the receiver from its cradle. "Hello," she said sharply.
"I knew you'd be awake," her sister said in a bright voice.
Kris's knees wobbled, her heart rhythm falling back into place. She always panicked when the phone rang after a certain hour. The police had located Nicole in the middle of the night.
She turned down the portable radio on the kitchen table and forced herself to sound normal. "It's 1 a.m. Why are you so chipper?"
"R.J. and I just got back from a friend's house," Holly said. "I figured if I called you in the morning, you'd be sleeping. Anyway, we're set for tomorrow. Dennis will be here at eight, so come over earlier."
Blinking, Kris scraped the sides of the bowl. "What?"
"The blind date, remember?"
Oh, crap. She dropped the spoon on the floor and stooped to retrieve it. "Holly, I'm sorry. I forgot. I have plans."
"I asked you to keep that night free."
"I know, it just came up. I feel terrible."
"What am I supposed to tell Dennis?"
Even over the phone, Kris sensed her sister's frigidity. She tossed the chocolate-tipped spoon into the overflowing pile of bowls in the sink. "Can't we make it another time?"
"He's a doctor. He has a busy schedule."
"And I don't? Until now, this doubledate was tentative. Anyway, my plans are work-related. I'm meeting with Diana Ferguson's family. This is important."
"What's with you lately?" Holly demanded. "You prefer the dead to the living. Mom says your job is making you morbid. She didn't even think I should fix you up with Dennis. She was afraid he'd tell everyone at the hospital that you were weird. Maybe she was right."
"You're so self-absorbed, both you and Mom," Kris said around the swelling in her throat. "You're too shallow to understand anyone but yourselves. I'm trying to establish a career."
"Some career. Did you even get paid for that bookstore article, or did they get it out of you for free?"
"Of course I got paid. At least I don't work with Mom at the same hospital, following her around like a puppy in a white lab coat. I can get hired on my own merit."
"Do you know how much schooling I've had? How much-"
"Spare me the boring details." Kris hung up.
Her sister was wrong.
It hurt, anyway. And damn it, Dex had better come through with some dough for that bookstore piece.
***
Kris smoothed the plastic wrap around her plate of brownies and rang the Soares' doorbell. Cheryl lived on the cul-de-sac of Brandywine Estates. A white picket fence separated the front yard from the back, its paint luminous in the early evening moonlight.
Cheryl held open the door, lovely in her apricot dress. "Kris, I'm glad you could come."
Kris handed her the brownies, grateful she had taken special care with her appearance. She'd tried on three outfits before choosing a teal sweater and suede skirt. "I hope you don't mind your mother inviting me." She removed her coat and Cheryl hung it in the closet.
"Don't be silly. Besides, she's cooking." In a loud whisper, Cheryl added, "My husband and I prefer eating at our house. Mom has a pet ferret. She soaks herself in perfume because the smell drives me crazy."
As if on cue, Irene waved from the kitchen, an apron tied around her narrow waist. "I heard that. My ferret's not too happy with your scent either. I'll be out soon, I'm just finishing up." She ducked back inside.
Irene seemed thrilled to entertain. She must get lonely like Aunt Susan. Kris pledged to visit her aunt soon. Maybe she could even introduce the two women. They had a lot in common.
Cheryl gestured to a tray of cheese and crackers on a glass coffee table with slender iron-welded legs. "Help yourself. Michael!" she called.
Taking a deep breath, Kris slathered a cracker with port wine cheese. She hoped Michael Soares was more pleasant than his son. She wandered to the piano in the corner and touched the shining maple surface.
A man in a V-neck cream pullover and khakis trekked down the staircase. His athletic build and golden hair combed straight back reminded her of a surfer. She found it hard to believe that Michael Soares was her father's age. Those golden streaks must come from a bottle, but still ...
After the introductions, Michael poured them each a glass of white wine. He stretched his arms to either side along the back of a couch adorned with loose pillows. His lean face
eased into a smile. "I noticed you admiring the piano. It belongs to our son."
"It's impressive," Kris said.
"Eric gets his musical talent from me. I was in a band before he was born. Too bad he couldn't take the piano, but he lives on the fifth floor of his apartment building. Neither of us is eager to move it."
Cheryl sighed. "I understand you met our son. I'm sorry about the circumstances. Eric is impulsive. He's concerned about his grandmother raising her hopes."
"You've accepted a challenging assignment," Michael said.
"I know," Kris said. "But I'm looking forward to it."
"Make sure you remember that the police have investigated this over and over again. Not that I'm trying to discourage you. It's just that if you get excited, Irene will, too. And that could make her life difficult."
Irene reappeared without her apron and hunkered beside Kris on the loveseat. "Has Michael told you about Diana? It was a blessing when he entered our lives. She was devastated after her father died. My husband had colon cancer and died seven months after he was diagnosed, the fall of Diana's senior year. It was a terrible time."
"Daddy deteriorated to a skeleton," Cheryl said. "He couldn't paint or sculpt. It was like his body died before his mind did."
Kris's heart ached for Diana's sorrow. It wasn't fair that some fathers saw their children become grandparents while others died young. Diana must have questioned why a thousand times.
"We all got a lift when Cheryl brought Michael home the next spring," Irene said. "Diana was thrilled after they got married and had Eric. She designated herself as his babysitter. She was so happy those first few months with the baby."
They moved into the adjoining dining room. Cheryl had set gold-rimmed fine china on the gleaming table. Floral drapes blended with the yellow walls, giving the room a warm inviting look. Kris drank a long swallow of wine from a crystal goblet, the moisture on the glass dampening her clammy hands.
Her gaze rested on each of them in turn. Michael and Cheryl sat at the ends of the table, Irene across from her.
"Would you mind going over the night Diana died?" Kris asked. "It might help to know what you were doing."
"I think she wants our alibis," Michael said.
"I didn't mean-"
"It's okay. It's standard procedure to interrogate the family."
"We went over our stories countless times with the police," Irene said. "It made me angry. They should have been finding evidence, not questioning us. But I suppose I understand. Let me think."
She wrinkled her brow. "A friend and I went to dinner straight from work. I hadn't seen Diana since morning. I got home around 7:30 and read in bed." She looked toward Cheryl. "I could never sleep until you and Diana were home safe. Remember?"
"I remember," Cheryl said.
"By 2 a.m., I was panicked," Irene went on. "I called Raquel, Diana's best friend and co-worker. She told me Diana had left the bar hours before. Then I called Cheryl and Michael. We decided to contact the police, but they told us she hadn't been missing long enough."
Cheryl nodded. "Mom woke Michael and me up. I had been here with Eric all night. I read him a couple of stories, and watched TV until Michael got home from work. Then we went to bed."
"I worked two jobs, went from one to the other," Michael said, passing the bread basket down the table. "We didn't live far from Reynold's Appliances, where my night job was, so I got back about 10:15. I was fast asleep until Irene called."
"None of you had heard from Diana?" Kris asked.
"No, that's why I was worried," Irene said. "In our house, if you were going to be late, you called."
The front door slammed and they all turned. Eric Soares strode into the dining room in a chambray shirt and jeans. "Room for one more?"
Kris's stomach lurched. Despite Irene's reassurances, she had half-expected his arrival. He had embarrassed her at work. He wouldn't humiliate her in front of his family. She wouldn't allow it.
"Eric, what are you doing here?" Cheryl hugged her son. Kris hadn't noticed their resemblance before, in mannerisms rather than physical appearance, the quick smiles contrasting with a subtle concern in their eyes. Nor had she noticed the broad lines of his chest, hinting at the muscle underneath.
"I've got time before the show, so I figured I'd stop by," Eric said. "It isn't every day I get Gram's cooking."
Irene waggled a finger. "You can join us, as long as you keep your mouth shut about the investigation. Kris is here on my request."
"Thanks for the welcome, Gram." Eric pulled out a seat and glanced at Kris. "We meet again."
"What a surprise," she said coolly.
As Cheryl served stuffed chicken, Kris summarized her visit with Jared. Stoic, Eric listened to every word. She had no doubt he'd come to throw her off balance, not for a home-cooked meal.
"Jared claims he never made the harassing calls to the bar," she concluded, relieved to finish her tale.
"That's bull," Michael said. "Why would Diana make that up?"
"Could she have been mistaken about Jared?" Kris asked. "Tell me more about these calls. Were they hang ups? A heavy breather?"
"It was no mistake. Her co-workers said she'd have actual conversations. Diana knew who she was dealing with."
Irene hadn't touched her food. She stared over her plate. "She probably didn't want to worry me. That's why she confided in her friends and not us."
"I don't know whether this Jared fits," Eric said. "It's dumb to murder a girl after everyone knows you've been harassing her."
"But it happens every day," Cheryl said. "You always hear about women killed by jealous boyfriends."
Michael reached for another helping of maple-glazed carrots. "Vince Rossi was no prize either. We tried to make Diana see what a bastard the guy was, but she kept going out with him."
"She was stubborn," Cheryl said. "Pressuring her might have made her more rebellious."
"Where did Vince Rossi wind up?" Kris asked. "Maybe I should talk to him, too."
"He's still in Fremont," Michael said. "Now and then I see his name in the police log for domestic assault and battery. He owns a bar, a dive from what I hear."
Irene bit her lip. "You shouldn't go there alone. Can your boyfriend take you?"
Kris thought fast. She wasn't about to admit her single status to Eric Soares. Let him believe she had a guy watching her back. "I'm sure he’d be glad to come."
"How about if Eric went with you instead? He might be an asset since he knows the whole story. What do you think?" Michael turned to his son.
"I'd like to see this Rossi," Eric agreed. "Your boyfriend won't mind if I take his place, will he?"
"No," Kris said. "But-"
"Good. How about Tuesday?"
Damn it. Kris arranged to meet him at a supermarket midway between their jobs. She fell silent as Cheryl brought out dessert. She didn't like this new twist one bit. Michael complimented her on the brownies as he polished off his second. Kris thanked him, knowing she'd lapsed into quiet.
She stirred sugar into her coffee. "Tell me about Diana's friend, Raquel."
"Raquel D'Angelo," Irene said. "They were friends since high school."
Cheryl chuckled. "I wonder what happened to her. I used to think she was a bad influence."
"Raquel was nice, but wild," Irene explained. "When she and Diana went out, you never knew where they'd wind up or who they'd meet."
"What my mother's tactfully trying to say is that Raquel picked up guys wherever she went," Cheryl said. "In high school, we thought she was good for Diana. My sister was quiet and it helped her to have an outgoing friend, but later, we regretted that she'd ever met Raquel. It seemed like Raquel started the trouble."
"She introduced Diana to Vince," Irene said. "That's how Diana got the bar job. It was bad enough that she was dating him, but then to take that awful job …"
"Do you know where Raquel is now?" Kris asked.
"I heard she moved away," Cheryl said.
; After dessert, Cheryl insisted on clearing the table herself. Eric and Kris fetched their coats from the closet at the same time. Convenient. Kris raised her chin a notch. Eric Soares wouldn't scare her off this case.
Kris caught his gaze riding up her nylons, to the skirt that hugged her waist and to her soft sweater. She thrust on her jacket and buttoned it to her neck.
"You'll have to come over to my apartment for tea," Irene told her. "I'll show you my photo albums."
"I'd love to see them," Kris said.
"Thank you for helping my daughter."
"Remember there's no guarantee, Gram," Eric interjected. "Kris means well, but she's not a miracle worker."
"She can do her best."
Kris thanked Cheryl for the lovely dinner and said goodnight. She followed Eric into the frigid night. Moonlight shone over the snow-blanketed lawn. She rooted in her purse for her car keys, goosebumps popping out under her nylons. "Look, your grandmother knows it's a longshot."
Shadows marked the hollows of Eric's cheeks and the sharp ridge of his nose. "It's easy for her to forget with you asking a hundred questions."
"I'm doing my job. How do you expect me to find Diana's killer if I don't ask questions?"
"Stop kidding yourself. Once you can't get your big headline, you'll walk away."
"Don't tell me what I will and won't do. You don't know anything about me."
Eric opened the door of his Camaro, his black leather jacket creaking. "I know your kind. Tuesday. Three o'clock."
"I know your kind, too. Pigheaded." Kris stalked to her car.
He didn't trust her. It shouldn't matter.
But it did.
Chapter Nine
25 Years Ago Today
Fremont's school drug education program is praised by the Department of Education for its "thoughtful and innovative" work.
Aunt Susan poured cocoa at the stove as a half-dozen cats circled her feet. Her baggy forest green tee-shirt mushroomed to the knees of her Spandex biker shorts, the outfit accenting her lanky figure. She'd been lifting weights to a Beach Boys CD when Kris surprised her with the doorbell. Her aunt drew a bag of marshmallows from the cabinet, and Kris admired her firm triceps. Aunt Susan hadn't mentioned an exercise program. Then again, Aunt Susan hadn’t mentioned much of anything. She seemed even quieter than usual.
