Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  The ringing phone pierced through the silence.

  Eric rolled to face her, the mattress squeaking. His eyes blinked open. "Who can that be?"

  "I don't know." Kris propped herself on her side and snapped up the receiver. "Hello?"

  Heavy breathing.

  "Who is this?" she asked.

  Click.

  She hung up and stared into the darkness. "Maybe it was a wrong number."

  "Let's hope so," Eric said.

  The phone rang again.

  He sat up, fully alert. "This is ridiculous. Let me get it."

  "No, it's better if I answer." Hairs prickling on her neck, she scooped the phone off the hook. "Hello."

  Nothing at first. Then ...

  "Leave it alone," a voice whispered. "I'll be watching."

  Kris flinched at the dial tone. She shut off the ringer, trudged to the window in her bare feet and raised the shade. Streetlights twinkled like fireflies on the dark road. "It was him."

  "I knew it," Eric said.

  "I'm convinced it was a man."

  "I don't want you involved in this mess anymore."

  She turned from the window. "We’ve been through this. I won't let myself be intimidated. For all we know, it could be that idiot Bruce."

  Eric leaned against the headboard, the sheet covering his chest. "What if it's Diana's killer?"

  "If it is, he's won once, twenty-five years ago. I won’t let him win again."

  ***

  Before Eric left for school the next morning, he made Kris promise to call Lieutenant Frank. The dispatcher informed her that the lieutenant would be on duty later in the afternoon. With nothing left to do, she stayed in her pajamas and lounged in front of the TV.

  Kris thumbed through an outdated Fremont Daily News and stopped at the obit page. The reporters must be annoyed at the extra work, especially Bruce. Most of the staff treated typing obits and calendar listings as a personal insult. Would the new editorial assistant write stories?

  She snatched the remote control off the coffee table. Stop thinking of the paper. Think of Eric. They had held each other the rest of the night. Eric was so protective, first of his family, now of her. He would rather sacrifice the truth than jeopardize her safety. They had compromised. Eric would relax as long as he accompanied Kris on interviews and she didn't attempt anything foolhardy.

  She couldn’t wait to see him. They'd take a break from the case that weekend. Eric had invited her to Irene's birthday dinner, a movie and to see his band perform. That was the PG-rated version of their plans. They wouldn't manage an entire weekend without a tryst. Like last night. Kris shivered at the force of the memory.

  The phone jingled. To her mixed relief and disappointment, it was Holly, not the crank caller.

  "Dad told me you were laid off," her sister said. "I'm so sorry. Want to meet for lunch? You could come to the hospital. I'll bring sandwiches up to my office."

  Kris narrowed her eyes. "I don't know. Can you get through an entire lunch without insulting my choices?"

  "Look, sorry about what I said at the dinner party. It's great that this guy you’re interested in is a teacher and a musician. You’re right, I was being judgmental. Let's forget about it, okay?"

  Kris sighed. Her sister sounded apologetic, and she needed to escape the confinement of her apartment. "It's forgotten."

  "How did things go that night?"

  "Great. He's terrific, Holly. I've never met anyone like him." Kris grinned. She had to admit, shocking her sister with the love affair would be fun.

  "Then let's get ready for some old-fashioned girl talk," Holly said.

  ***

  Kris halted in the doorway of Holly’s office. Her mother and sister, both in white jackets, shared a small round table in the corner. Kris hoisted an eyebrow at her sister.

  "Sorry," Holly mouthed.

  "There she is. Holly mentioned you were coming, so I figured I'd join you. What's this about you getting laid off?" Their mother poured low-fat Italian dressing over her salad.

  Kris thought about fleeing, sighed and dropped into a chair. If she could challenge a killer, she could certainly handle her family. "Are you sure you want to talk about it in the hospital? Your friends and co-workers might overhear. If they find out your daughter is unemployed, they might kick you out of the country club."

  Her mother closed her manila folder of patient notes. "I don't appreciate your sarcasm. I was trying to be sympathetic."

  "You should taste this," Holly interrupted, pushing a chicken sandwich and Fritos toward Kris. "It's pretty good for cafeteria food."

  Kris stared past her at their mother. "Since when do you care about my feelings? You tramp all over them and never ask what I'm thinking. There were things I've needed to tell you for years, and I couldn't. You wouldn't have loved me anymore."

  Dead silence.

  Her mother leaned forward, gripping the side of the table. "What a horrible thing to say. All mothers love their children unconditionally."

  "Really? What would you say if I told you that it was my fault Nicole was walking alone? That I played a trick? I've been carrying that secret for fourteen years, torturing myself, all because you live your life in denial. You run from things, and pretend life is perfect. We've all lived by your rules, and I'm sick of it." Kris fidgeted in her seat and tugged the front of her jeans, her cheeks hot, but the rest of her body ice cold. She crossed her arms over her sweatshirt.

  She hadn't meant to mention Nicole. The confession had surged to her tongue, propelled by a force from within.

  Her sister gaped, then hopped up and closed the door to the corridor. She huddled in the corner, as if afraid to sit back down. "What kind of trick?" Holly whispered.

  Their mother paled. She pushed away her salad and rubbed her earlobes. "Don't you think I knew there was more to the story? You were the last person who saw Nicole alive. Aunt Susan never forgave you for letting your cousin go off alone. She suspected something had happened between you girls. She treated you differently from Holly and that infuriated me. You were too absorbed in your own world to notice. Why do you think she isn't in our lives anymore? I didn't want you around her."

  In her own pathetic way, her mother was protecting her. That news froze Kris’s tongue, but only for a few seconds.

  "Didn't you realize that you were treating me differently, too, and that it’s a whole lot worse when the rejection comes from your own mother? What is it, Mom? Did you blame me for the fall-out with Aunt Susan? For Uncle Neal moving to Florida? I was twelve."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," her mother said. "You're the one who's rebellious and difficult."

  "Difficult! My whole life has been difficult and you haven't cared. If Holly wasn't here, acting as a barrier, you wouldn't even be eating lunch with me."

  "That's not fair. This is what I mean, I can't even talk to you. You lash out, trying to hurt me. I should've known this lunch would be a disaster. Now let's end this conversation before we both say more things we don't mean." Her mother flipped through her folder and squinted over her handwritten notes.

  Kris staggered to her feet. "I meant every one of them. You did, too. If you want to discuss it further, let me know. I'm through pretending."

  Holly cleared her throat. "You're being hard on Mom. You shouldn't leave without apologizing."

  "I'm sorry about lots of things, Holly. This isn't one of them." Kris elbowed past her sister and strode down the gleaming white hall.

  She stopped near a gurney at the end of the corridor and caught her breath. After a couple minutes, she resumed her walk to the elevator.

  Her mother and sister hadn't come after her.

  What a surprise.

  ***

  Three messages blinked from Kris's machine when she got home. All from Irene. Kris wiped the film of tears from her cheeks and dialed the number. Between her work and family problems, thank God she had the Ferguson case to distract her.

  "I'm so glad you'r
e home," Irene said. "A woman called with a tip about Diana. Will you meet her with me? Today?"

  A tip? Was it real? Kris walked a few feet with the phone and turned at the living room end table. "Of course, but maybe I should check it out alone, or with Eric."

  "I've been waiting twenty-five years for a call like this."

  "I'll tell you everything. I promise."

  "How do I know she'd talk to you and Eric?" Irene asked. "She called me. I have to go. Diana was my daughter."

  Kris gave in. Eric would understand if she didn't wait. It wasn't as if she were meeting Vince Rossi in a dark alley. "Okay. I'll be right over."

  "Good. I want to judge this woman for myself. She sounded alert, but she's ... she's a patient at the Rutledge Nursing Home."

  "She's elderly?"

  "Not only that," Irene said. "The Rutledge Nursing Home is a center for Alzheimer's patients."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  25 Years Ago Today

  The Remington Country Club celebrates its 50th anniversary, making it the oldest club in the area.

  Kris and Irene followed a nurse's aide down a pristine white corridor. Strains of Big Band music echoed throughout the hall.

  The aide pushed a cart of ginger ale and cookies. "The group's probably exercising. Mae gets really into exercise."

  They entered a large room decked out for Valentine's Day. Red and white crepe paper scalloped the walls and cardboard Cupids dangled from the ceiling. Pastel candy hearts filled plastic bowls. Kris wondered what festivities were planned for the actual holiday, early next week.

  Elderly people sat in a circle, some in wheelchairs, others near walkers and canes, but all squeezed the handles of a rainbow parachute. Kris hadn't seen a parachute since first grade gym class. She would've thought senior citizens would find it degrading, yet most laughed as they tugged the edges, bobbing balloons into the air.

  "You can talk to Sandra, the recreation director." The aide gestured toward a table in the corner, where a thirtyish redhead in a blazer and skirt worked with an elderly lady. Sandra rolled a plastic ball back and forth across her patient's liver-spotted palm.

  Chipmunk had a ball like that, a small bell inside it. Kris hoped the patient wasn't Mae Schaffer. Fragile in her pink and white striped nightgown, the woman stared out the window.

  "That can't be her," Irene whispered. "She couldn't have called."

  "Sandra, these people are here to see Mae," the aide said, wheeling the cart toward the group.

  "Mae?" Sandra rose. "How nice. You're not relatives, are you? I didn't think Mae had family besides her brother."

  "She contacted us in response to a newspaper article," Kris said.

  "Oh, no. This isn't about the murder of that poor girl, is it?"

  "Yes," Irene said quickly. "You know about it?"

  "Mae was rambling about how she'd given a clue to the police a long time ago, but I thought it was harmless. She tracked you down and called you? Oh, God, you must be related to the girl."

  "I'm her mother."

  "You poor thing. I'm sorry Mae put you through this. She's very stubborn."

  "Then you don't think there's any truth to her story?" Kris asked.

  Sandra sighed. "I doubt it. I won't deny that she's one of my most alert patients. She's in the early stages of Alzheimer's, so she responds well to our recreation activities. Not like Dorothy here."

  She smiled wistfully at the woman gazing out the window. Kris breathed a little easier. So that vacant lady wasn’t Mae after all.

  "However, Mae has a tendency to exaggerate," Sandra went on, "and she's been slipping in and out of reality more often. She talks a lot about her childhood. Alzheimer's patients find it comforting to speak of their childhood as they remember it vividly. Their short-term memory is the first thing to go."

  "In this case, it's her long-term memory that's important, isn't it?" Kris said, for Irene's benefit. "Mae must be alert if she reads the newspaper."

  "One of our activities is current events, and we read aloud from newspapers and magazines." Sandra glanced at Irene. "I skipped over the story about your daughter, as we avoid depressing topics, but Mae skimmed through the paper on her own. When she said she knew something about the murder, I humored her, but Mae talks about these things a lot. Her brother says Mae bugged the police all the time, convinced her neighbors were drug dealers, kidnappers, even ax murderers."

  She shrugged. "That has nothing to do with Alzheimer's Disease. That's just Mae."

  "Can we at least meet her?" Irene asked, but hope had drained from her face.

  "Of course. I thought it was only fair to warn you. Just a minute." Sandra approached the circle and whispered to a birdlike woman in a wheelchair. She pushed the chair toward Irene and Kris.

  Kris recognized Mae Schaffer as one of the patients who had laughed during the parachute game. Mae dipped a peanut butter cookie into her ginger ale, wet crumbs sticking to the top of her flowered housedress. Blue veins spidered down her wrists like ink marks. She wore faded sneakers, her white anklets revealing pale matchstick legs. She gummed the cookie like a baby with an animal cracker.

  "Mae, these people have come to see you about that old murder," Sandra said. "I'm afraid I didn't get their names."

  "I'm Kris, and this is Irene Ferguson, the woman you called. We'd love to hear about your tip."

  Mae ogled them through thick glasses too large for her face. Thin gray hair fuzzed her scalp like a thatch of down. She had to be in her mid-eighties, at least. She whipped a gnarled finger at Kris. "You look like my older sister, Betsy. She moved to Italy when her husband was in the service. You ever been to Italy?"

  "Can't say that I have," Kris replied.

  "Betsy had breast cancer. She died when she was forty. Seems like yesterday when she told me the doctors couldn't do anything. You have to live every day to the fullest. I tell this nice girl that all the time." She turned to Irene. "You smell like animal pee."

  Irene stiffened. "What?"

  "Doesn't bother me none, but that perfume doesn't cover it up."

  Sandra coughed. "Mae, didn't you say you knew something about a murder? It would have been twenty-five years ago, in Fremont. The girl was named -"

  "Diana," Irene cut in.

  Mae wrinkled her brow. "I didn't know her name back then. I just recognized her from MacDougall's. She helped me to find shampoo."

  Shallow breaths whistled between Irene's chapped lips.

  "I wish I could go to MacDougall's right now," Mae was saying. "They don't make drugstores like that anymore. It was in Westwood Plaza. When it first opened, when I was a girl, it had a soda fountain. Chocolate floats. You haven't lived till you've had a MacDougall's chocolate float."

  "Tell us more about Diana," Kris said. "You mentioned to Irene that you had a tip. Did you see something unusual?"

  "The man in the parking lot. He wouldn't leave her alone. She was crying, but he kept bothering her."

  Irene trembled, her cheeks whiter than the nursing home walls. Sandra rushed to her side and eased her into a chair.

  "What man?" Irene asked.

  "It was at night," Mae said. "I had gone to fill my prescription. Have you ever had a urinary tract infection? They ain’t fun."

  "While you were in the parking lot, you noticed Diana with a man," Kris reminded her. "Had you ever seen him?"

  "Yeah, with the same girl. He'd bugged her by her car before, but she was more upset this time. I went to MacDougall's every day, you know. Even though they didn't have chocolate floats. They really should've brought back the soda fountain." Mae swished another cookie through her ginger ale. "You must think I'm rude. Would you like one, dear?" She extended the soggy cookie.

  "Uh, no thanks," Kris said. "Was anyone else around when this man was bothering Diana?"

  "I don't think so. It was late. She was getting ready to go home." Mae offered a gap-toothed grin. "I'm a night owl, you know. When I get bored, I go out. MacDougall's is right down the street fr
om my house. I have the most beautiful house. All my neighbors want to rob it."

  "What did this man look like, honey?" Sandra asked.

  "He was young and blond. A heartthrob, I believe you young girls would call him. He looked like my neighbor, who I suspect robbed a bank in Boston, except this man was taller. The day after the robbery was reported, my neighbor came home with a brand new Cadillac. What do you make of that? The police blew that one."

  "Getting back to Diana," Kris said. "Did you tell the police about this man you saw?"

  "Of course. After that poor child's picture was in the paper. I knew she was the girl who used to help me pick out shampoo, even though I hadn't seen her in awhile. I think she left the store because that man kept bothering her."

  "Do you know which officer you talked to?"

  "That nice boy, Detective Gerry Frank. I talked to him all the time. I told him about the kidnapping, too. The new people in my neighborhood had a little girl who looked nothing like them."

  "What made you call Mrs. Ferguson when you read the most recent article?" Sandra asked. "Why didn't you call the police?"

  "I don't remember a recent article. Are you sure I saw it?" Mae gawked out the window, craning her neck, as brittle as chicken bone. "Do you see a blue car? Betsy is supposed to visit."

  Betsy. Her dead sister. Kris didn't know who she felt sorrier for, Mae or Irene.

  Sandra gestured to the circle. "Maybe you should go over with the others. I think they're reading trivia cards. Won't that be fun, Mae?"

  "I asked Diana who the man was, you know," Mae said.

  Kris peered into Mae's bright blue eyes. "What did she say?"

  "That he was a mistake. Hey, has anyone seen Betsy? It's not like her to be late."

  "I think she's getting tired," Sandra said. "I hope this was at least somewhat helpful. Feel free to get your bearings, and have some cookies if you'd like." She wheeled Mae back to the group, and accepted a deck of Trivial Pursuit cards from her assistant.

  Irene held her head in her hands, as exhausted as Kris felt. Listening to Mae stumble in and out of the past had made Kris remember how little sleep she'd gotten after the late night phone calls.