Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  Meowing, her aunt's newest cat Cantaloupe -- Cant for short -- bumped Kris's ankle. He walked under the kitchen table, turned and nosed her other leg. Kris cringed. The cat was a virtual clone of Nicole's beloved Marmalade with the same thick melon fur and light blue eyes. She could hardly believe Marmalade had been gone five years. When Nicole hadn't come home, he had camped out in her room. He slept on her sweatshirts until his death.

  Kidney failure made Marmalade so sick. It would have broken Nicole's heart. Aunt Susan had the cat put to sleep after he wouldn't even raise his head. She cried more than at Nicole's funeral, her final link to her daughter gone.

  Kris had last visited, with her sister, two years earlier. New lettuce green curtains decorated the window above the kitchen sink. Her aunt believed green was healing. She'd sprinkled it throughout her home, buying lime green carpets and couches with green stripes. Leafy plants bloomed on windowsills out of the cats' reach. Aunt Susan dressed in green on a regular basis, as if St. Patrick's Day came every week. She balked at black and blue, in her wardrobe and around the house.

  She said she'd been bruised enough.

  Kris missed Marmalade. And Uncle Neal, her mother's older brother. It wasn't the same without his teasing. He'd shocked everyone when he remarried a younger woman from his office and moved to Florida. Kris's mother pressured him to stay, but he wanted a fresh start. They met his daughter Tiffany during a rare visit from Neal a few years back. Tiffany, then eight, had played wiffle ball with her father and blew bubbles in the yard.

  Aunt Susan crouched and opened an aluminum can of tuna. At the whisk of the lid, cats clustered around plastic food bowls. She straightened and fingered the thick flaxen braid swinging against her back. "What brings you here?"

  "I haven't seen you since the wedding. I thought I'd pop in. Now that I'm in Massachusetts, we'll have to get together more often. How about a movie next Sunday?" Kris moved back as Aunt Susan slid a mug of cocoa and plate of microwaved cinnamon rolls in front of her.

  "You don't need to spend your time with a fifty-three-year-old woman."

  "I'd enjoy it."

  Her aunt clattered a pan into the sink. "I've been pretty busy. I have a group of church friends. We do things on weekends."

  But Holly said you were lonely. Kris didn't voice the words hammering inside her brain. She sipped the cocoa, her hurt rendering it tasteless. "Oh, well, let me know if you ever have a day free."

  Her aunt didn't want her. It couldn't have been plainer. Kris reflected back on their telephone conversations over the years. She'd done most of the talking. She hadn't thought much of it then. She did now.

  Aunt Susan looked around as if contemplating other chores. Frowning, she plumped into a chair and stirred the marshmallows in her cup into a creamy froth. "How are Holly and R.J.? She sounded happy the last time we talked."

  "They're fine."

  "They seem perfect for each other."

  "Yes."

  Neither spoke, the kitchen quiet except for the cats lapping tuna. Aunt Susan hefted Cant into her lap and petted his sleek fur. Kris tore a cinnamon roll in half and pushed a piece into her mouth.

  She wiped her sticky hands on a napkin. "I'd better head home. I'm busy working on a newspaper article. My job has been keeping me busy."

  "Are you sure? You haven't finished your cocoa."

  Kris downed another gulp. "Almost done. I've got a lot of work to do. I just came to say hi."

  "I'm glad the job is working out," Aunt Susan said. "Thanks for stopping by."

  Stopping by. It had been an hour drive. "Thanks for the snack."

  Aunt Susan walked her to the door, Cant pressed to her chest. Kris descended the steps to the lawn. At her car, she looked back.

  The door had closed.

  ***

  Kris brooded about Aunt Susan as she waited for Eric in the supermarket parking lot. She and Holly hadn't seen her much over the years. In hindsight, Kris could admit a disturbing truth. Aunt Susan was more comfortable with Holly.

  Maybe her aunt was one of the people who believed Kris had "gotten away" from a serial killer. Maybe she blamed her for not accompanying Nicole to the ice cream parlor. Aunt Susan might even suspect that the girls had argued. Kris gripped the steering wheel with gloved hands.

  She had to solve the Diana Ferguson case and do penance for Nicole, if only to stay sane.

  Eric's red Camaro pulled up alongside her. He unrolled the window and peered out. "Ready?"

  She rummaged through her purse, collecting herself. Finally, she joined him in the front seat.

  They drove in silence. Kris sneaked a look at his chiseled profile and the fine dark hair curling around his earlobes. She reached onto the dashboard and picked up a crumpled flyer advertising a band, Breakout. "Is that your group?"

  Eric nodded. "I should tell you, I still think this investigation is a bad idea."

  "Then why did you come? So you could spy on me?"

  He glanced at her sideways. "You haven't seen my grandmother's hopes come crashing down, or watched my mother cry at holidays. Diana was more than a story."

  "I know. Believe it or not, your family isn't the only one that's tragically lost someone."

  "I never said we were."

  They didn't talk for the rest of the ride. Eric parked in front of a gray shack on the town outskirts. Red neon glared in the octagonal window, spelling out "Rossi's Saloon." Cars and pickups clustered on the slushy hill.

  Her pulse fluttering, Kris walked ahead of Eric. She didn't need him leading the way. The interior was larger than she had expected with dim connecting rooms that reeked of beer and sweat. A loud Johnny Cash song twanged from the jukebox, the booming baseline throbbing in her ears.

  Some guy in greasy denim overalls and hiking boots leered at her from a stool, black stubble prickling his chin. Behind the bar, a yellowed girlie calendar hung taped to a dust-streaked Budweiser mirror.

  Charming.

  The bartender flattened his palms against the black-topped counter. Rattlesnake tattoos decorated his flabby forearms and the buttons of his threadbare shirt strained to keep his belly from hanging out. He grinned at Kris.

  "Hey, baby, what can I get you?" he yelled.

  "We're looking for Vince Rossi. And the name isn't 'baby.'" Kris shrugged out of her bulky winter coat and folded it over her arm.

  "Whatever. He'll be glad to see a honey like you. Hey, Vince! You've got visitors."

  A man strode out from the kitchen, his tight tee-shirt showing off a well-muscled build. White strands wove skunk-like through his slicked back dark ponytail. His leathery olive-skinned face and the whiskers of his goatee glistened with an oily sheen. He chewed on something as he regarded them coolly. "Who're you?"

  Kris opened her mouth to speak, but Eric beat her to it. He raised his voice over the music. "I'm Diana Ferguson's nephew. We're looking into her death and wanted to ask you a few questions."

  Vince Rossi stared at them for a few seconds, bent over and spat a wad of tobacco into the wastebasket. Dark slimy tobacco juice drooled down his lips. Kris shuddered in revulsion. Vince motioned her and Eric toward a shadowed room away from the jukebox. Wooden chairs hung off the edges of three round tables.

  Kris squinted at a framed photograph on the wall. Vince, twenty years younger, stood with his arm around a stooped older man, perhaps his father. The man had Vince's dark hair and coloring, but weariness filled his eyes and the flannel shirt hung off his rail thin body. His face sullen, Vince balanced a toddler on his shoulders. He'd been good-looking back then in his denim jacket and jeans. Some women would consider his light stubble sexy. Kris didn't.

  Vince rested his body against a table. "Diana Ferguson? You're a little late, aren't you? Besides, you're talking to the wrong person."

  Kris resisted the urge to back away from his cherry tobacco and beer breath. "Are we? I understand you knew Diana quite well. You must have a theory on who killed her."

  "And who are you, doll?" Vince R
ossi looked her up and down. His charcoal eyes glittered, lingering on her legs, then her breasts. He grinned. His gums pulled away from uneven yellowed teeth with black specks in the cracks. A couple guys stopped their pool game and elbowed each other.

  She swallowed her disgust. "A family friend. Come on, we want your opinion, Vince. Take Jared Peyton. What did you think of him?"

  "The guy was a psychopath." Smirking, he spoke to the breasts contained under Kris's turtleneck. "He'd call Di at the bar and threaten her."

  "Were you at the bar the night she died?" Eric asked.

  Vince's head shot up and his square jaw locked. "I've been through this with the cops. I was throwing a party."

  "But you must have your suspicions. Do you think Jared was obsessed with her?" Kris sidled closer, granting Vince a better view of her chest. Dex had never mentioned this aspect of investigative reporting. So much for the sweet and innocent routine.

  "You can bet your life on it, doll. He didn't treat her right. She'd get off the phone with him in tears."

  "Some people might think you were jealous of Jared," Eric said. "Didn't you guys get in a fight?"

  "I knew he was an asshole, so I clobbered him."

  "What about Diana?" Kris persisted. "Was she the type you'd expect to get into trouble?"

  "If you want the truth, we were a couple of kids. If she hadn't gotten herself killed, I would've forgotten her. I guess Aunt Di didn't make a lasting impression."

  Eric's hands balled into fists at his sides. "Listen, you-"

  "Let him talk," Kris murmured.

  "I wasn't gonna kill a girl in some jealous rage, when I didn't even care about her," Vince went on. "Now unless you're gonna order something, piss off. You've got no business on my property. Unless the doll here wants to stick around for awhile." He winked at Kris.

  "Tempting as that is, I've got to run," she said. "Are there any other people we could talk to from your father's bar?"

  "Good luck tracking them down."

  "What about Raquel D'Angelo?"

  "She's probably onto her fifth husband. Who knows where she is. Besides, I gave you everything you need. Jared Peyton killed Diana. Problem is, doll, you're twenty-five years too late to catch him."

  Eric and Kris headed back to the supermarket without talking. Kris frowned out the window. Why would a girl like Diana choose to work in a dive? She could have gone to college. Or art school. She had real talent. Why would she give a punk like Vince Rossi the time of day? She'd gone from Vince to a smooth art lover like Jared Peyton. It didn't make sense.

  Kris wanted Eric's opinion, but he glared straight ahead, fingers clenched around the steering wheel.

  "I don't believe a word that came out of Rossi's mouth." Eric pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. "He wouldn't remember her if she hadn't gotten killed? Bullshit."

  "He was trying to protect himself," Kris said.

  "Yeah, but even I remember Diana."

  Her head jutted up. "Really? What do you remember?"

  "Don't you want to take out your notebook?"

  "That's not fair."

  Eric paused, then answered, "You're right. I'm sorry. But what do you expect out of these interviews? A confession?"

  "Of course not. I'm just trying to meet the players." She waited a moment to cool down. "Look, Eric. You were two when you lost someone you loved. My cousin was murdered when I was twelve. She was like a sister to me. It ripped our family apart. Our only comfort was knowing that her killer is behind bars and will be for the rest of his life."

  "Look-"

  "I know what it feels like to have your family in unbearable pain," Kris interrupted. "I wish you'd trust me."

  She opened the car door and climbed out.

  Chapter Ten

  25 Years Ago Today

  Plans for a two-story, 80-bed nursing home at a 24-acre site are unveiled at a Fremont Zoning Board of Appeals hearing.

  Twenty-eight years ago, Raquel D'Angelo could have modeled with her lustrous raven hair, sultry dark eyes and high cheekbones. Kris turned to the senior biographies in back of the yearbook. Raquel had belonged to the prom court and History Club.

  The Fremont High School History Club.

  Kris frowned. It struck a familiar chord -- and not from Diana. She scribbled Raquel's address, then gathered her belongings from the library table. She had to get to the newspaper.

  Recognition flooded over her a few hours later at work. Kris leaned back in her seat, her shoulders stiffening. She'd read about the History Club on microfilm. She knew it.

  Kris scrolled through her computer files. There it was, an item she had typed for the "25 Years Ago" column a couple weeks earlier: Fremont High School History Club member Patricia Addison wins a state award for her Greek mythology essay.

  She'd associated the club with modern history. Not ancient history and beliefs, like the stories reflected in Diana’s paintings. Kris made a mental note to contact the adviser, Alex Thaddeus. Mr. T. Of course, when Patricia Addison had won the contest, Diana was long gone. Another adviser could have taken over, or Alex Thaddeus could have switched topics.

  She found the original article about the essay contest, but it told her nothing. Kris moved on to her next task, searching the telephone directory. Four D'Angelos, none at Raquel's old address.

  Kris scoped out the newsroom. All the reporters were out on assignment. Jacqueline flitted back and forth to the design department. Dex squinted at his computer screen. Neither editor would be in earshot if she told a few white lies.

  But not one of the D'Angelos had ever heard of Raquel. Kris skimmed the resident directories for Raquel's former neighborhood. She jotted names of older people, who may have lived there longer, and copied their numbers out of the phone book.

  On her first try, an elderly man demanded that she speak up. By her third attempt, Kris expected another "no" to echo in her ear. She grasped the receiver tighter as a woman told her, of course she remembered Raquel.

  Two minutes later, she had a phone number and address in Hyde Park, New York. Raquel D'Angelo Rivera answered on the second ring, her voice upbeat. It turned somber after Kris explained about the investigation.

  "I'd feel better if we could talk in person," Raquel said. "Could you come to Hyde Park this weekend, by any chance?"

  "I'd love to," Kris said.

  "No one's spoken Di's name to me in twenty years. I thought everyone gave up. I thought he got away with it."

  "Who?"

  Raquel sounded surprised. "Jared Peyton, of course."

  ***

  Kris bought a Greek mythology book at Treasures in the Aisles. Customers explored the shelves, nibbling butter yellow pound cake. So this was how used bookstores survived. Bribery. She cut herself a thin slice at the counter and poured a cup of ice water. She joined Cheryl on the couch, anxious for more discussion on Diana.

  Cheryl sipped her apple cinnamon tea and balanced a paper plate on her knees. "I'm glad you came. I needed a break. Why the interest in mythology?"

  "I thought it might help me understand Diana," Kris said. "Do you remember Alex Thaddeus?"

  "Boy, do I! What a hunk. All the girls were madly in love with him. When I started substituting, I couldn't wait to get a peek at him. Diana and Raquel worshipped him."

  Kris smiled at her enthusiasm. "Was he gorgeous?"

  "Definitely, but he had charisma, too. Alex would hold doors open for you, and if you complimented him on his History Club, he'd go on and on thanking you. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only woman in the room." Cheryl laughed. "I was married, so I was immune to his charms, but the other young female teachers would fall all over him."

  "Does he still teach?"

  Cheryl's face grew pensive and she shook her head. "I don't think so. Not at Fremont High, at least. Eric's never mentioned him."

  "Eric?"

  "My son teaches music at Fremont. I hope you didn't mind him joining you at the bar. He asked if I'd heard
from you."

  Eric Soares, a teacher? A dozen questions flew to Kris's lips, but she kept her tone brisk. "Of course I didn't mind. Tell me more about Diana's crush."

  "Her junior year, she'd tell us how Alex had helped her with her homework, or taken them on a field trip. Senior year, Diana didn't mention him much. After our father died, her world fell apart. I'll never forget the pain on her face after she told him goodbye. While he was on his deathbed, we took turns telling Daddy how much we loved him. He died at home, in his sleep. He was finally in peace."

  "I wish I'd had a chance to tell my cousin goodbye," Kris said.

  Sighing, Cheryl set the paper plate on the floor. "It's hard, isn't it? It hits me out of the blue. Tiny things will remind me of Dad or Diana, especially on holidays. I hated seeing all the cards for 'Mom and Dad.' I'd storm out of stores, cursing Hallmark. Now I make cards on the computer."

  A golf ball-sized lump lodged in Kris's throat. "I'll never understand why some people are spared and others die early. Is it bad luck? Some grand plan?"

  Cheryl knotted her hands in her lap. "I don't know. I've asked myself those same questions. We were struck twice in such a short time. Losing my dad was awful enough, but what happened to Diana was ...unreal. It took me a long time to accept her death. When the phone rang, for a fraction of a second, I'd wonder if it was her. Sometimes, I'd see a girl walking down the street with Diana's long dark hair and my heart would pound."

  Kris opened and closed her mouth, overcome by a strange urge to talk. She'd never felt this safe discussing Nicole. "Once, I was sitting alone in my room and thought I felt Nicole's presence. I called out to her and was terrified she'd answer. There was this empty silence, and it hit me that I'd never hear her voice again."

  Tears gushed down Cheryl's cheeks as her upper body trembled with a quiet burst of sobs. "Oh, Kris, I miss my family. I didn't spend enough time with my father. And Diana. She was depressed. I ... I should've helped her, tried to find out what was wrong."