by Stacy Juba
She examined a silver-framed picture of Diana on the vanity table in Irene's bedroom. Another photograph showed a middle-aged man with graying brown hair and a pleasant face. Both pictures were arranged on an antique swatch of white lace.
"Was this your husband?" Kris asked.
Her smile wistful, Irene nodded. "Wasn't he handsome?"
"Very."
"He looks like Eric. He would've loved to have a grandson."
Kris started with the artwork near the closet. With the uneven edges and smudged watercolors, a child had done the gentle scenes of bears, dogs and horses.
All had a crooked signature -- DMF.
Irene padded up behind Kris, her slippered feet tapping against the floor. "Diana was ten when she did those. Her father was proud that she had his artistic talent. Joe got Diana her own easel, brought it home on a whim. You would've thought it was Christmas, she was so excited."
She pointed to a row of lighthouses and mountains in textured acrylic strokes. "This is Joe's work. Cheryl has most of his paintings, but I wanted to keep a few."
"Did he sell his art?"
"A little, mostly to local restaurants and hotels, but with two kids, Joe didn't have much time. Diana was more serious. She dragged him to museums, saying how one day, her work would be up there."
"I didn't think Diana wanted to sell her paintings," Kris said. "I assumed it was personal, something just for her."
"Not at first. When she was younger, Diana planned to be a professional artist. After her father died, it became more like therapy. She had no ambition anymore, no interest in anything except losing herself in her art."
As Diana's style matured, oils replaced watercolors and the cuddly animals disappeared. Kris detected a subtle change as if the Muses had offered Diana her true inspiration.
She lingered near a scene with swirling yellow shafts. Ivory horses carried a golden chariot across the brilliant sky, past the white hot sun. They skimmed over a miniature village nestled in a sloping hollow. Shadows bathing his features, a yellow-haired rider cracked a whip in the chariot.
Apollo the sun god?
"When did Diana do this?" Kris asked.
"After high school. This was one of the nicer ones. She did disturbing work after her father died, bleak pictures of death. Cheryl has those in her basement."
Irene perched on the four-poster brass bed and looked up at a painting above the headboard. Kris studied it. Long dark hair streaming down her back, a young woman led a pack of boars, birds, deer and hounds. She aimed an arrow through the trees with her jaw clenched. A crescent moon hung in the background.
It must be the goddess Diana. She even had the bow and the appearance of the real Diana.
"Her father painted that, his last work before he died," Irene said, a slight tremble to her lips. "Diana treasured it. That's why I keep it over my bed."
"I can see why she loved it. What was her last painting?"
"I'm not sure. One weekend, she locked herself in her room except for work. She did that when she was engrossed in her art. I figured if she wanted to show it to me, she would." Irene's shoulders sagged forward. "A few weeks later, she was dead."
"You never found it?"
"No. All the other paintings I recognized." Irene started sobbing, her face caving into a pouch of wrinkles.
Kris watched helplessly, and then rushed to her side. Embracing her, she stroked Irene's soft gray hair.
"First Joe, then Diana. I lost half my family. When Joe died, my only comfort was my daughters. Colon cancer happens so fast. It was awful, Kris."
Kris winced. Her dad's biggest problem was high cholesterol, and even that worried her. "I can't imagine how difficult it must've been."
"When he was diagnosed, Cheryl and Diana took it hard. We put up a brave front around Joe, but when we were alone, we crumbled. Without Diana and Cheryl, I couldn't have gone on. When Eric was born, I couldn't believe that I had joy in my life again. But when Diana was ... was killed, I was left with a lifetime of hurt. After she didn't come home, I knew something terrible must have happened, but it was still a shock when the police knocked on the door."
Irene’s gaze was riveted to the painting above the bed. "I used to run a memorial ad in the paper on Diana's birthday. People looked at me as if I were crazy, but I wanted to get attention. Maybe Jared would feel guilty, or if his friends knew something, they'd come forward."
"Did you ever speak to an editor, or contact a TV station? Maybe they would've done an anniversary story."
"Cheryl didn't think it was a good idea, not after how the press treated Diana the first time. I've put Diana's picture on the Internet, since people are interested in unsolved murders, but nobody contacted me."
She gripped Kris's hands with cold fingers. "I hope you never suffer the death of a child. It's the cruelest thing that can happen to a parent. I'd pass a sweater at the mall and think how I should buy it for Diana's birthday. If something funny happened at work, I couldn't wait to tell Diana. Then I'd remember and the hurt would rush back. Do you know how awful it is to sit at your child's grave?"
Kris shook her head, although she could imagine the emptiness. After Nicole's death, Aunt Susan wore her nightgown around the house for months. Kris overheard Uncle Neal confide to her mother how alone he felt.
Puzzles bolted into the room, darting past Kris's feet. She gaped as the ferret hustled under the bed. "Does he always do that?"
Irene laughed. "He's got good timing. How about dessert? It's getting maudlin in here."
"Sounds good."
While Irene sliced Boston cream pie and poured coffee, Kris moved a mound of throw pillows further down the couch, making room for a stack of photo albums. She opened the first book and stared at a picture of Diana and her father grinning before a Christmas tree. They had the same dimples.
Joe Ferguson appeared in no further photographs. The next section showed Diana's high school graduation. Dressed in a white cap and gown, she held a red rose alongside Raquel. Diana's eyes were puffy, but Raquel beamed. Kris turned to the wedding of Cheryl and Michael. It seemed strange seeing them in their early twenties, younger than their son was now. Diana wore a coral bridesmaid's dress with sleek opera gloves, her face glowing.
Irene passed Kris a triangle of Boston cream pie. "I was so happy when Cheryl met Michael. It was a whirlwind courtship, but he was a good kid. They had Eric less than a year after they got married. Michael gave up his band to support his family."
She pointed to a picture of the couple hoisting boxes from a car trunk, their son's stroller in the background. "That was the day Cheryl and Michael moved into their house, not long before Diana ... died. They were the first home in the neighborhood. They got a little nervous when construction was delayed on the other houses. For awhile, it looked like they wouldn't have neighbors."
"Diana must've been crazy about Eric." Kris fingered a shot of Diana rocking her nephew.
"She was a godsend to Cheryl. She'd be available to babysit on a half hour's notice since you never know when you'll get called to substitute."
The photographs of Diana stopped. Kris closed the book.
How horrible for Irene. What a shock to learn her daughter had been murdered. Kris and Holly had found out about Nicole's recovered body after their parents roused them out of bed. Kris and her sister had stared at each other, and they both knew what was coming. Their father removed his glasses, fogged with tears. Their mother clutched his hand.
Kris jumped as the phone rang. Irene answered it, talked for a few minutes, and extended the receiver. "It's Eric."
Her fingernails digging into the couch, Kris brought the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
"My grandmother told me you'd be there," Eric said. "Did she cook everything in the cupboards?"
"Pretty much."
"She's a great cook. Gram mentioned you got hold of that cop. The appointment's set for tomorrow at 2:30?"
"Right. Can you get out of school that early? I have to
work at four." Kris swallowed hard, and turned away from Irene's knowing smile. A blush heated her neck. Damn Eric Soares for making her feel like a teenager.
"I wouldn't miss it," he said.
***
Kris arrived at the paper a couple hours ahead of schedule. She'd devoted so many hours to the Diana Ferguson investigation that she'd fallen behind on collecting "25 Years Ago Today" items and typing birth announcements. Jacqueline would never approve more feature stories if she lagged on her editorial assistant duties. Kris opened her thick folder of birth write-ups, submitted by families and local hospitals.
Around three o'clock, she was summoned to the front desk and thoughts of newborns faded. A woman in her mid-forties glowered from the other side of the counter. The pit of Kris's stomach sank. Not again. Not another angry visitor.
She managed a tight smile. "I'm Kris Langley. You were looking for me?"
Bracelets clanking down her wrist, the willowy blonde jabbed her ivory-tipped index finger into the air. She pressed her other hand on the waist-length white fur coat that engulfed her thin frame. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Speechless, Kris controlled her automatic instinct to shout back, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"I don't understand," she said. "Can I help you?"
The visitor's pointy chin tilted up. Diamond earrings glinted below her sleek ash blonde helmet of hair. "You'd better believe it. Give me the name of the newspaper's attorney so I can sue."
"Sue? What is this about?"
"You have some nerve trying to link my husband to murder. You're messing with the wrong family."
The woman had cut her flowing blonde locks, but suddenly Kris recognized her from the pictures in Jared's office. "Your husband? Are you Yvonne Peyton?"
"Yvonne Harper Peyton. My father was an influential town official for thirty years. My brother is selectman chairman. You've made a big mistake."
Her ponytail bobbing, Jacqueline hurried over to the counter. "I'm the managing editor. I couldn't help overhearing. Why don't we go into the conference room and discuss this. It's right over there."
‘Fine, I’d like to discuss how you manage your staff." Yvonne stalked ahead.
Jacqueline grabbed Kris's arm. "What have you done?"
"I'm…I’m investigating a twenty-five-year-old murder for a story," Kris stammered. "Her husband's a suspect, but I never accused him."
"Murder? Do you know who this woman is? Her family's a legacy in Fremont. Her brother feeds us half our news. Come with me." Jacqueline pulled her into the conference room. Kris snatched her wrist loose.
Yvonne sprang up from a chair and wrapped herself tighter in the fur. Her white corduroys and white suede boots had escaped mud-splattering outside. She sent Kris a glacial look, her wintry wardrobe emphasizing the temperature of her disdain. "If this isn't straightened out right now, we'll discuss it in court."
"There's been a misunderstanding," Kris said. "I'm not trying to link you to anything. I met with Jared to gather background information."
"Please! My father dealt with enough reporters for me to see that you act sincere, and write a slanted story anyway."
"Kris isn't a reporter," Jacqueline interjected. "She's an editorial assistant who jumped into this without running it by me. Please, sit down. I'm sure we can clear this up."
Yvonne dropped back into her chair and crossed her long legs. "My husband did not kill Diana Ferguson. If the newspaper mentions Jared's name as a suspect, I swear to God, we'll sue. I refuse to have my husband and daughter hurt by this."
"Of course we won't use his name," Jacqueline said. "Unless he's been arrested and charged with a crime, that would be libelous."
"Tell that to your editorial assistant. My husband didn't mention her visit until she called to speak with me and dig for dirt." Yvonne scowled at Kris. "Did you think I'd discuss such a hurtful period in my husband's life? He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. End of story."
"I wanted to meet you as Diana's classmate, not Jared's wife," Kris said. "I'm trying to understand her better, but to do that, I need to talk with as many people as possible. I know you were in a history club with Diana and that you both enjoyed art. Your husband showed me the ocean painting you did. He spoke highly of your work."
Confusion danced across Yvonne's face. "I don't bother much with painting," she muttered. "Look, Ms. Langley. Diana and I scarcely knew each other. I suspect she was killed by a spurned lover -- and not my husband. Maybe Vince Rossi, maybe someone else. She was a flirt in high school, and I'm sure she got worse."
"What do you mean?"
"Diana Ferguson had an affair with our teacher, Alex Thaddeus. Anyone could tell from the way they looked at each other, their secret smiles. She was no innocent victim. She was a slut." A flush deepened Yvonne's cheeks. "My husband didn't date her long enough to realize that."
Kris's jaw went slack. "Diana Ferguson wasn't a slut."
Yvonne rose. She slipped on her white gloves, covering the twinkling facets of her acorn-sized diamond ring. The lines in her forehead and at the corners of her mouth had smoothed. "Believe what you want, but I knew her. You didn't."
She implored Jacqueline with her glance. "I'm sorry I burst in here. I didn't mean to rant and rave, but I'm worried about this tragedy coming back to haunt my family. My husband has a heart condition, you know. I try to protect him from unnecessary stress."
Jacqueline stood, too. "I assure you, there's no need to worry. I'll handle this."
She accompanied Yvonne to the door, her hand brushing against the fur coat. Apologizing again, Jacqueline extended her business card.
"Thank you." Yvonne stepped into the lobby.
Once she and Kris were alone, Jacqueline counted off on her fingers. "One, you're not a reporter. Your stories should be approved by me. Two, you shouldn't have used the paper's name to investigate something so insane. And three, how often do I have to tell you to inform me about what's happening in my own newsroom?"
"I've been researching the story on my own time. I didn't mention it because there might not be anything to report." Skimping on the details, Kris explained about the article and her agreement with Irene Ferguson.
Jacqueline's frosted pink lips pursed tighter. "Surely, this poor woman doesn't think we're going to solve her daughter's murder? How could you promise such a thing?"
"I didn't. I said I'd try."
"You've got these people praying the paper will give them a miracle."
"They're realistic about the odds." Kris shot to her feet, tired of relinquishing the height advantage.
"You were hired as an editorial assistant. You've only been here a month. You had no right to identify yourself as a reporter. Do it again, and you'll find yourself out of a job."
Kris swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted this job. She needed it. One more incident and it could be gone.
Jacqueline gave a slight twist of her ponytail, like a horse whinnying. "Anyway, Bruce is our police reporter. Since I don't want to disappoint the family, I'll assign him a feature on unsolved mysteries. Maybe someone will come forward. Then the paper will be the hero."
Bruce wouldn't show Diana as a gifted artist devastated by her father's death. He'd play up the bars and boyfriends.
"I doubt the family will talk to Bruce," Kris said. "They've already spent time with me."
"Then give him your information."
"He isn't the right person for the assignment. This story requires sensitivity and a delicate touch. He-"
"Bruce is a journalist. That makes him more qualified than you are." Her nose upturned, Jacqueline walked out.
Kris swore under her breath and kicked the leg of a chair. She'd asked Eric Soares to trust her and assured him she wouldn't hurt his family. Maybe he'd been right all along. Maybe she should have left it alone.
Chapter Fourteen
25 Years Ago Today
Fremont records the coldest day of the season with 2 degrees at
7 a.m. at the Fremont Water Company.
"I don't believe this," Eric said. "Your editor wants an article now?"
Kris gazed straight ahead at the red brick police station. They sat in Eric's Camaro, parked behind the downtown building. She pressed her cheek against the cool window. "I'm sorry."
"And some other reporter is writing the story?" Eric asked. "Why can't you?"
"I'm an editorial assistant. An obit writer. My boss threatened to fire me if I tell anyone I'm a reporter."
"You're kidding. You're an obit writer?"
She glared at him.
"Sorry, I didn't know which to respond to first. Hey, are you crying?" He studied her more closely.
Damn it. Kris rubbed a river of tears out of her eyes. "I just feel badly that the paper's digging this up again. I didn't mean for this to happen. I wanted to solve your grandmother's problems, not make them worse. I haven't even warned her yet. "
Sighing, Eric yanked a monogrammed handkerchief out of his jeans pocket and passed it to her. "Don't worry, I'll tell her. It's not your fault. How were you supposed to know Yvonne Peyton would make a scene? I'm not too thrilled with your editor, either."
"In her own way, Jacqueline's trying to help. She's hoping someone will come forward."
"My grandmother will hope the same thing. That's the problem. Who'll come out of the woodwork now? You all right?"
Kris checked her puffy reflection in the rearview mirror. She’d better not wear this brand of makeup to the beach this summer. Waterproof, it was not. "I've been better, but let's go."
Eric spoke to the female dispatcher through a Plexiglas window in the lobby. A twenty-year-old bronze plaque on the wall listed members of the Fremont Police Station Building Committee. One name in particular caught Kris's attention.
Thomas H. Harper, Sr. Yvonne's father.
The dispatcher directed Kris and Eric down the corridor. They walked past the communications center of video monitors and computers, an officer drawing a diagram at a long counter and a row of recharging flashlights mounted on the wall.
