Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  "A lot of times, the murder is a mistake," Frank said.

  "Most are done in an irrational moment of anger, using a rock, brick, bottle, or whatever is handy. Often, the person is remorseful afterwards."

  Irene Ferguson hopes that the murderer is as haunted as she is. She describes her daughter, the younger of two girls, as a talented artist devoted to her family. Diana had still been devastated over the death of her father in high school.

  "When Diana was killed, I was left with a lifetime of pain," said Irene, now 75. "Losing a child is the cruelest thing that can happen to a parent. It's not supposed to work that way ... I kept waiting and waiting, and she never came home."

  Lieutenant Frank says that the Diana Ferguson case is still open, and that police would be happy to investigate new leads. Anyone with information may call the Police Hot Tip Line at 555-3232 and speak with an officer, or leave an anonymous message.

  "Nobody should get away with murder," Frank said.

  ***

  Eric called Kris between classes and thanked her for the story. She paced the living room on restless legs, gripping the phone to her ear. The rewritten article would enrage Jacqueline. Bruce would raise hell, too, once he saw how Kris had hacked apart his writing. "You've got a damn nerve talking about objectivity," he’d snapped the previous night. "I saw you through the window at the Soares' house. That guy wasn't a family member upset about an obit. He was Cheryl Soares' son. You've been lying all along."

  Kris tried to focus on Eric’s words, her stomach twisting. She and Dex could lose their jobs.

  "I guess we didn't have to worry about that Bruce guy after all," Eric was saying. "Did your editor give you more control than you thought?"

  "Something like that," Kris said.

  "My mother asked if you could come by before your shift. She wants to apologize. I'll come with you if you decide to go."

  Kris twined a lock of hair around her finger. If she saw Eric, he might sense something was wrong. She couldn't tell him about her risk, or he'd feel terrible. He might even show up at the paper and defend her honor, creating a bigger mess. "I don't know. Your mother was really upset. You didn't pressure her to forgive me, did you?"

  "I didn’t have to. She suggested this on her own. How about I meet you in front of my parents’ house around three? Come on, do it for me. I've been dying to kiss those tender lips all day."

  Despite her somber mood, Kris smiled. She missed Eric, too. His presence would make her feel better. Besides, smoothing over the awkwardness with Cheryl would be a welcome relief.

  "Boy, could I use a kiss," she said. "You don't know how badly."

  ***

  Irene answered the door that afternoon and wrapped Kris in a hug. "It was perfect, honey, just perfect," she whispered. "You really listened to me."

  Her happiness steeled Kris's resolve. She had made the right decision. She would handle whatever happened at work. "I'm glad you liked it."

  "Kris did a great job," Eric agreed.

  Beaming, Irene ushered them into the living room. "I'll bet someone calls the tip line. Maybe one of Jared's friends knows something."

  "That'd be nice, but don't be disappointed if it doesn't happen," Michael said from the recliner.

  "My birthday's almost here. Wouldn't that be perfect timing?"

  "Hey, Dad, what're you doing home?" Eric asked.

  Kris had wondered the same thing. She hadn't expected the entire family to gather in her honor.

  "I had a couple appointments on the road, so I cut out early after the last one. I heard your mom was making my favorite snacks. I just finished reading the article. Everyone's right, Kris, it's well done." Michael tapped the Fremont Daily News issue folded on his knees.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Kris, could you help me in the kitchen?" Cheryl stood framed in the doorway, wearing a ruby cowl-neck sweater and a pair of black jeans. Her lipstick shone bright on her pale face.

  Eric gave Kris's hand a reassuring squeeze. Squaring her shoulders, she followed his mother to the granite counter.

  Cheryl dumped ruffled potato chips into an earthenware bowl, stirred the homemade onion dip and turned around with a faltering smile. "I owe you a huge apology. I had no right to speak to you like that. I shouldn't have taken out my frustration on you. This whole thing has just been emotional for me."

  "I don't blame you," Kris said. "I would've reacted the same way. I never meant for my editors to find out. Not unless we solved the case."

  "It worked out fine, thanks to you, I'm sure. I told your editor how sensitive you've been. I don't know if it made a difference, but I tried."

  "I appreciate that."

  Cheryl patted her shoulder. "Let's put this behind us. By the way, I'm happy for you and Eric. He told us you're dating."

  "I, uh, didn't know how you'd feel about that."

  "I think it's great. I had a hunch you two might get together. I've seen the way he looks at you."

  "I'm glad you approve. That means a lot to me. Thanks for asking me over and for going to all this trouble." Kris reached into the potato chip bowl, hungry for the first time all day. A pleasant aroma emanated from the oven, making her stomach rumble. Solving one problem had restarted her juices.

  Eric popped his head into the room. "Everything okay in here?"

  His mother opened the oven and withdrew a cookie sheet of sausages and gooey cheese in fluted pastry shells. "We're fine. You two, sit down and relax. Ask your grandmother to come help me."

  They returned to the living room and sent Irene into the kitchen. Eric stroked Kris's hand on the couch. She slid closer to him. Her skin tingled, goosebumps prickling from the heat of his glance and the intense memories it invoked.

  Michael closed the sports section of the Fremont Daily News. "I didn't want to ask this around Irene, but now that you've got your story, are you continuing with the investigation?"

  Kris reeled herself back into the moment. "Of course."

  "I'm sure she'd understand if the paper doesn't want to devote more resources."

  "I've been mostly working on my own time, anyway."

  "We've come pretty far, Dad," Eric said. "We can't stop now."

  "Just wanted to make sure you were still up for theories. I was thinking about Yvonne Peyton. Her father was influential in town. Her brother still is. This is a stretch, but what if she killed Diana? What if she was jealous over Jared?"

  Kris stared at Michael Soares over the coffee table, his casual words triggering an avalanche in her mind.

  "Dad, that's nuts. Are you serious?"

  "That might not be such a crazy idea," Kris said.

  "What do you mean?" Eric asked. "You think it's possible, too?"

  "Don't forget, Yvonne had a crush on Alex Thaddeus, but Diana was one of his favorites." Or conquests, but Kris didn't dare say it out loud. "Maybe Yvonne resented that. She also envied the recognition Diana got for her art, at least according to Raquel. When Diana started dating Jared, it could have been the last straw. And there was no sexual assault, so the killer could've been a woman."

  It sounded farfetched, but wasn't that what had happened to the poor kid stabbed at a party? His murderer had been jealous over a girl. If the guy hadn't snapped in front of a dozen witnesses, maybe he would've gotten away with it, too. Especially if his father had served on the Police Station Building Committee.

  "It's an avenue no one considered, that's all," Michael said.

  "Yeah, but listen to this," Eric said. "Everyone was talking about the article in the teachers' lounge today. One of the longtime teachers told me she was taking a continuing education class at Fremont State the night Diana disappeared. It shook her up because she'd been close to where the killer dumped the body."

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then back at his father and Kris. "I don't want Gram to overhear this. Alex Thaddeus was in the class, too. He and Diana could have crossed paths that night."

  Chapter Eighteen
r />   25 Years Ago Today

  Reynolds Appliance Store in the old Westwood Plaza raffles off 10 television sets and a state-of-the-art stereo system in a special promotion.

  Jacqueline sat across the conference table from Kris, spine stiff, as if it had a ramrod shoved up it. Even her ponytail seemed rigid. "You’re fired," she said flatly.

  Air whooshed out of Kris’s lungs. She’d half-expected the news, but it still came as a shock. How would she explain this to her family? To Diana’s family? Breathing hard, she moistened her lips. "But the story was misleading. I put myself on the line because I believe in the truth. That shows dedication."

  "It shows blatant lack of respect for authority," Jacqueline said. "But I'm not firing you because of the story. Dex made that decision. I'm firing you because this relationship isn't working out. You were hired on a three-month probation. I don't see the point of postponing the inevitable."

  A burst of white hot anger flared in Kris's mind. "The inevitable? I've gone above and beyond my job responsibilities. You've had your own personal vendetta from the start. This paper had better pay me Unemployment."

  Jacqueline smiled. "Good luck. Dex, at least, will have a nice severance package. He'll officially announce his 'retirement' tomorrow. Walter Barnes is informing him as we speak."

  Kris bolted up from her chair and pressed her hands against the conference table. "Dex Wagner is the eyes and ears of this paper. You might know how to play up a big headline, but you'll never win the trust of this community like Dex did."

  Jacqueline's smile faded. Her shoulders curved, the movement barely perceptible. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "You're nothing without your staff. If you treat them like pond scum, you're going to lose talented people. You've just lost a damn good editor and a damn good reporter. Do you think your readers are blind? They'll notice how you're taking this newspaper downhill."

  Heart pounding, Kris paused at the door. "Good luck to you, Jacqueline. You'll need it."

  Kris strode out of the conference room and veered into the bathroom. She would not cry. Telling off Jacqueline had jolted her adrenaline, but it ebbed as Kris rubbed her flaming cheeks with a paper towel.

  She'd loved journalism. Listening to police reports on the scanner. Knowing front page stories before the public. Seeing her byline. Working late night hours. What would she do now? And poor Dex. If she hadn't accepted his help, he could have hung in longer.

  Once again, Kris had let down a friend. She'd been doomed to fail someone. If it hadn't been Dex, it would've been Irene. Maybe she was a messenger of destruction, sent to wreck people's lives.

  Her co-workers watched and murmured as she emptied her desk drawers of personal belongings. Dex trudged up to her.

  "Sorry you were pulled into the middle of this," he said in a strange voice, an old, tired voice that didn't sound like Dex. "I tried to persuade Barnes how valuable you are, but my opinion doesn't mean much anymore. I've been here fifty years. Used to follow reporters around like they were movie stars. This isn't the same paper."

  "I'm sorry, Dex," Kris said. "It isn't fair. They had their own agendas. You're a much better editor than Jacqueline."

  He looked at her through blue eyes that had lost their glimmer. "It's not me I'm worried about, Kid. I've been in this business too many years, but you're just starting out. I don't want you getting discouraged. You need to hit the pavement and apply to as many newspapers as you can. Freelance if you can't find a full-time job. Do something else to make ends meet."

  "What about you?"

  "My wife and I will drive down to Montana, visit Sadie and the grandkids. They've been after me to retire. Now I'll see what the hype is about."

  His casual tone didn't fool her. Kris followed Dex's gaze to his desk and a pang washed over her. Red circles brightened the front page of The Greater Remington Mirror.

  "Thanks, Dex. For everything."

  "You've got a real future, Kid. Did Diana's family like the article?"

  "They were thrilled. They expected a hatchet job."

  "Good. We didn't give them one. Stay in touch, you hear me?"

  "I will." Kris hugged him, a lump hardening in her throat.

  She ran into Bruce in the parking lot. He slid his aviator sunglasses halfway down his nose and peered over them. "Leaving so soon?"

  "Go to hell, Bruce." Kris opened her car door. She wouldn't waste her time exchanging insults with a moron.

  "Maybe if we'd been friends like I wanted, this wouldn't have happened," he said.

  "You mean if I'd gone on a date with you? Or, God forbid, if I'd gone to your apartment? I'd rather be fired."

  "Loser," he muttered.

  "You're the only loser here." Kris slammed the door.

  ***

  After a long sleepless night, Kris met her father for lunch near his work and related the whole story. He leaned back against the narrow booth and touched the earpiece of his bifocals. Wrapped hamburgers and warm fries sat on the table before them.

  "Oh, Kris. You shouldn't have stirred up trouble with your boss."

  "You don't understand, Dad. I had to. I've got to help this family."

  "At the risk of your job? You were so content there. You're letting this unsolved murder take over your life."

  "No, I'm not." She squeezed a packet of ketchup onto her fries, avoiding his concerned face.

  "Of course you are. You just met these people, didn't you? Why is this Diana Ferguson so important to you? I know you want to help the family, honey, but you can't take away twenty-five years of suffering. You shouldn't have put that burden on yourself. Are the Fergusons going to give you a job? I don't think so."

  She had disappointed her father, the person she respected most in the world. Years ago, Kris almost told him about Nicole. Her dad had tucked her into bed, as he had done for several months after Nicole was killed. Kris had gazed up at him and he gave her a loving smile. She kept quiet. She couldn't stand the pain that would flash into his eyes.

  He wouldn't have wanted the truth. Her father preferred denial. He even pretended the damaged relationship between her and her mother was normal. He should have suspected why Diana's murder impacted her. Some part of him should have connected it with Nicole. Kris adored her dad, but he viewed the world through blinders.

  She peeled the crinkly paper off her hamburger. "Let's tell Mom the paper was cutting back. I don't want to listen to her criticism."

  "She's your mother, Kris."

  "Come on, Dad. She'd rather believe I was laid off. After all, she can't tell her friends I was fired." A dry laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. Tears slipped down her lashes as her shoulders rocked with gales of chuckles.

  "I mean ... can you imagine the scandal?" she managed to blurt out.

  Silent, her father bit into his hamburger.

  ***

  Kris bundled herself in an afghan and stretched out on the sofa. She rested a cool compress on her tight forehead. She had the headache from hell. Chipmunk leaped up and pawed over her legs. "Sorry, Chip, I'm in no mood to play."

  She groaned as the phone jangled. It was probably a telemarketer. Then again, it could be Irene Ferguson with a tip. On the fourth ring, Kris dragged herself to the kitchen extension.

  "Yes?"

  Nothing.

  "Hello." More impatiently, "Hello?" She almost hung up. Until ...

  Breathing. And a husky voice. "Leave it alone."

  "What? Who is this?" she demanded.

  "Leave it alone."

  Coldness touched her back, like an icicle drawing a straight line. A crank call. It must be a prankster playing a sick joke. "Who is this? Leave what alone?"

  "What happened to Diana Ferguson can happen to you," the voice whispered.

  Chills slipped up to her collarbone. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Pray you don't find out. I'll be watching you."

  Kris slammed down the phone and drew the blinds shut. It could have been a crank cal
l. Any wiseguy could've seen her name in the newspaper.

  But the voice had sounded insistent. Not only that, it seemed muffled. Hoarse. Disguised. As if she might recognize it.

  Bruce. Maybe he was playing a game, retaliating after the scene in the parking lot.

  Or maybe it was Diana's murderer. She could have been talking to a killer. That meant she was getting close. Damn it, Kris didn't feel close. Over the past few days, she'd grown more perplexed. How was she supposed to know whether the caller was a crank, or legit?

  Cookies. She'd make chocolate chip cookies and clear her head. When in doubt, pig out on chocolate. So what if it had caffeine and kept her awake that night? She'd never fall asleep, anyway. For the next half hour, Kris concentrated on the exact measurements of sugar, flour and butter. In between stirs, she gulped red wine, a nice buzz lightening her head.

  A knock rapped on the door. She dropped the cookie sheet, and dough balls scattered the tiles. Kris squinted through the peephole and exhaled. Eric waited in the corridor.

  "What's going on?" he asked as she opened the door. "I called the paper. They told me you don't work there anymore."

  "I got fired."

  "Fired! What happened?"

  She brushed past him into the kitchen. Eric followed her and blinked at the mess.

  "You want to know what happened?" Kris snapped. "My bitchy editor decided we don't work well together, and my mentor was forced to retire because he let me rewrite Diana's story. Bad luck follows me like a dark cloud. Get away while you can."

  She bent down and slapped a clump of cookie dough onto the tray.

  Eric knelt beside her. "You rewrote the story? Why?"

  "Why do you think? It was slanted, implying that Diana asked for what happened to her. I didn't want to hurt Irene."

  "Kris, you didn't have to do that. You should've told me what was going on."

  She emptied the dough into the wastebasket, jerked on her oven mitt and yanked out the first tray.