by Stacy Juba
"She should have gotten life imprisonment," said Jill Hastings of Fremont, while sipping coffee at Dunkin' Donuts. "I mean, come on, she couldn't have felt too guilty if she went on with her life all these years."
Selectman Chairman Thomas Harper, Jr. shares her opinion. "A lot of innocent people were questioned while Cheryl and Michael Soares kept their mouths shut," he said, taking a break at his business, Tom's Diner. "What if a boyfriend had done it in a jealous rage? Would he be given a slap on the wrist? I don't think so."
Max Riley, a customer at Tom's Diner, also believes that Cheryl Soares got off too easily.
"It just goes to show you that our justice system has gone to hell," said Riley. "You hear about cases like this all the time, wives stabbing husbands with an icepick, then whining they didn't mean it. People get into arguments every day, but they don't kill each other over it."
The news also disturbed members of the Greater Fremont Area Women in Business Association. Cheryl Soares, who owns the Treasures in the Aisles secondhand bookstore, served as president of the organization until recently.
"I feel like we were all taken in by her," said new President Debbie Walker. "Our whole group is built on independent women making a success of themselves. If you find out your husband is cheating on you, get rid of him. To think that she was teaching the children in this town."
Candace Armstrong, a member of Soares' book discussion group, shares her views, but adds that she is glad Cheryl wasn't sentenced to prison.
"Cheryl is very needy, very fragile," said Armstrong, a psychologist. "Appearances are extremely important to her. She's got a beautiful house, a great business, and was always talking about her wonderful husband. Her life obviously wasn't perfect, but she wanted people to believe it was. I honestly don't think she would've survived in jail."
Dan Maguire of Fremont blames Michael Soares for the tragedy. "He pushed her to the edge. Her husband should be the one to suffer. Any one of us could have reacted the same way as Cheryl."
Teachers at Fremont High School, where the Soares' son Eric is a music teacher, would not comment on the case. Cheryl Soares' 75-year-old mother, Irene Ferguson, has also declined comment.
***
May 8
Woman Attempts Suicide Over Killing Sister
Associated Press
FREMONT - A woman sentenced for killing her sister 25-years ago tried to end her own life yesterday after taking an overdose of sleeping pills.
According to police, she was discovered unconscious by her husband, Michael Soares, in the basement of their Brandywine Estates home.
She was listed in stable condition this morning at Fremont Regional Hospital. Last month, Cheryl Soares was sentenced to 10 years probation for killing her sister, Diana Ferguson, in a jealous rage. In a plea bargaining agreement, the murder charges were dropped to involuntary manslaughter. Michael Soares, who allegedly helped her cover up the murder, will serve five years probation.
Michael Soares had come home from a job interview when he found his wife, said Lieutenant Gerald Frank. He had been employed for 10 years at Flex Fitness Products in Waltham. A spokesman confirmed that he is no longer with the company, but would not comment on whether Soares was terminated because of the murder case, which has garnered national network news coverage.
Cheryl Soares has reportedly sold her bookstore, Treasures in the Aisles, which she has owned for the past eight years. In February, Cheryl Soares confessed that she had bludgeoned her sister to death in the basement of her home.
She and her husband left the body in the woods behind Fremont State College. Police said that Soares grew enraged after Ferguson, a cocktail waitress at the former Rossi's Bar, admitted to an affair with Michael Soares.
Cheryl Soares confessed the crime after Kris Langley, formerly an editorial assistant for the Fremont Daily News, triggered an investigation into the case. Langley has declined all interviews.
***
Dear Irene,
I'm probably the last person you want to hear from, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I was to find out about Cheryl. I'm glad Michael came home in time to save her.
I've been reading up on mythology and found out that the Furies, those avenging goddesses that Diana painted, considered the murder of a blood relative the ultimate crime. After years of blocking it out and trying to pretend Diana's death happened another way, I think Cheryl is a prisoner of her own guilt.
I thought I knew what it was like to live with guilt, but I'm not so sure anymore. You, Cheryl and Eric helped me to feel free talking about my cousin Nicole. Thanks to your family, I've been able to forgive some guilt surrounding her death.
I feel great compassion for Cheryl. For both her and Diana. It's hard to change my mindset after all these years, but I've begun confronting my Furies. I hope Cheryl will do the same.
Last week, my former editor, Jacqueline, surprised me by offering my old job back at a higher salary -- under pressure from the publisher, I'm sure. Lieutenant Frank has been making it clear to the other news media that it was me, not Bruce, who worked on the investigation. I accepted the job with the stipulation that I could continue writing stories and be considered for the next reporting position.
If you ever need anything, please feel free to call. I know you're going through a difficult time.
Kris Langley
Epilogue
Memorial Day Weekend
A sense of peace hung in the air, the cemetery quiet except for chirping birds. Sunlight warmed the fragrant freshly mowed lawn. Kris smiled at Irene's geraniums, the red splashes bright against the polished black granite cross.
Diana Marie Ferguson, Beloved Daughter and Sister
Mopping sweat from her brow, Irene carried her trowel to her husband's headstone. A lump constricted in Kris's throat. Diana had been looking for her father the whole time. Painting must've connected her to him. Maybe that explained why she portrayed herself as Daphne, whose father had rescued her.
"I'm glad you came up with this idea," Irene said over her shoulder. "I get depressed coming here alone. Memorial Day weekend is especially hard."
"I figured you could use the company," Kris said. "So can I."
"It seems strange without Cheryl. We always plant our flowers together."
"Next year."
Forehead puckered, Irene glanced at her. She returned to shoveling dirt. "Yes. Next year."
Kris didn't know how the poor woman managed. Irene refused to see her son-in-law, but visited Cheryl in the psychiatric hospital every week. Soon, Cheryl would return home and need her mother even more. To raise Irene's spirits, Kris had suggested a day trip to Newport, R.I., visiting antique shops and mansions. They would leave for Rhode Island after the cemetery.
"Eric wanted me to ask if he could come see you," Irene said without looking up.
Shocked, Kris stared at her profile. "What? It's been months."
"A little time can make things clearer. All this has been hard on him. He misses you."
"It can't work between us, Irene. His father threatened me. I ruined his mother's life."
"Cheryl ruined her own life," Irene said. "You and I are friends. Why can't you be friends with Eric?"
Waving a hand, Kris walked past Diana’s geraniums. "It's different. More complicated. Eric pushed me away. I suspected him of using me. That doesn't say a lot about our relationship."
Irene gathered her gardening tools. "People make mistakes. Don't you believe in second chances?"
Kris reached down and picked up the trowel. "I ... I wouldn't know what to say to him."
"I'm sure he's confused, too. Why not talk it out? What harm is there in that?"
"Let me think about it. Can you tell him that?"
Straightening, Irene brushed grit off her slacks. She gestured toward the wrought iron gate. "You're going to hate me, but you can tell him yourself. I'll take a walk."
Kris whirled to see a red Camaro coasting up the winding path into the cemetery. Her h
eart hammered. Irene strolled down a gently sloping hill as her grandson drove past. He parked behind Kris's car.
She set the trowel on her hood, wishing she could dig a hole.
Eric stepped out in a black leather jacket, carrying a red rose. She'd hoped that if she faced him, her feelings would be gone, but they brimmed in her chest like a tidal wave, about to sweep her away.
She cleared her throat. "This is a surprise."
"I asked my grandmother not to tell you. I should have never let you walk out on me." He watched her with appraising eyes.
"What else were you supposed to do? It couldn't work between us."
"How do you know? Kris, I can't live without you. I've learned that the hard way."
"There are too many complications. Your parents ..."
"We'll figure it out as we go along. Please. It doesn't have to be over." He clasped her hand. "I’ve never connected with anyone the way I did with you. I don’t think I ever will."
She gazed down at their intertwined fingers. "How about you drive down to Newport with us and we'll take a walk on the beach. We've got a lot to discuss before we jump into anything."
"But we can talk it over?"
"I guess there’s no harm in talking."
Irene observed in the distance, a small figure among the rows of graves. Even from far away, Kris could describe her expression. Hopeful.
"I'm tired of thinking about the past," Kris said. "How about we take your grandmother antique shopping before we hit the beach?"
"Antique shopping?" Eric asked. "Isn't that about the past?"
Laughing, Kris accepted the rose. He leaned forward, hesitated and kissed her lips. Her laughter broke off as she kissed him back.
Maybe Pandora's Box wasn't empty after all. Maybe they had replaced the lid just in time.
THE END
###
SINK OR SWIM
By Stacy Juba
How do you change the channel when reality TV turns to murder? After starring on a hit game show set aboard a Tall Ship, personal trainer Cassidy Novak discovers that she has attracted a stalker. Can she trust Zach Gallagher, the gorgeous newspaper photographer assigned to follow her for a local series? As things heat up with the stalker and with Zach, soon Cassidy will need to call SOS for real.
Copyright 2011 by Stacy Juba
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter One
Cassidy Novak stared into the seething water. It couldn't end this way.
Gray waves buffeted against the 179-foot schooner and fog billowed through the spiderweb of rigging that snarled skyward. Heavy white sails furled, the Atlantic Devil's triple masts lumbered in formation like dead trees.
Gabriel stalked from the bow to mid-ship, his black turtleneck and slacks contrasting with his pale face. Cassidy’s pulse hammered in her throat as she searched his sober expression.
His full lips curled into what would have been a grin for most people. For Gabriel, the Grim Reaper, it mimicked a sneer.
He withdrew a saber from the metal sheath belted at his waist and gripped the hilt beneath the curve of the scoop-shaped hand-guard. Above the main mast, the black and white skull and crossbones flag thrashed in a wind dance.
Cassidy glanced at Reggie, the last surviving competitor besides herself. He rubbed the back of his shaved head and connected his fingers behind his neck. Her own posture locked tight. One of them would go home a millionaire.
The other ... she wouldn't reflect on that.
After three months isolated from society on the new reality show Sink or Swim, Cassidy wanted that prize money and the fame that accompanied it. Hope fortified her very bones. Maybe her days of scrambling to pay off debts and working a lousy job were over.
It’s yours. It has to be.
Just then, Gabriel caught her eye and gestured over his shoulder. Cassidy followed his index finger toward the gangway. To the plank.
Cassidy’s daredevil smile, practiced in the mirror before setting sail, faded like mist.
Her clever comebacks, which she’d imagined quoted at the water coolers of America, were not heard.
Her cascading red hair that she'd tossed like a drama queen – an invention strictly for TV – went taut around her finger.
She’d lost. The overall point tallies had come in, and she’d lost. Her dreams weren’t coming true after all.
"Game over. You lose. Close call though, Reggie beat you by five points." Gabriel dragged her across the deck by the arm and pushed her up onto the wooden board that projected over the water.
Cassidy winced, emptiness invading her body like a physical hurt. Five points. If only she hadn’t screwed up furling and unfurling sails during the first episode, or if she’d done a better job mopping the deck that time she had a cold. After all Cassidy had been through, two simple mistakes cost her the game.
She’d been five points away from a new life.
Under the show’s set-up, twelve contestants had competed in four teams. The crew awarded marks based on skill and neatness, with team members pooling their numbers to win privileges like movie nights or dinners in the officers’ mess. Every Monday, a low-scoring contestant walked the plank and went home on a rendezvous ship. Cassidy had lasted until the final cut.
Gabriel’s sword blade brushed her back. Not only were her dreams drowning, she was about to undergo torture. The humiliating kind.
Her breath rasping, she eyed the twenty-foot drop. The end of the plank seemed miles away, though it was only ten feet. Trying not to look down, Cassidy inched forward. At the verge, she halted and willed her gaze toward the dark cold water below.
Gabriel stepped up behind her and touched the cold sharp steel to the nape of her neck. "Time to sink or swim."
Don’t show emotion. You’ve got to lose with dignity. Cassidy said a silent prayer, folded her arms across her chest and vaulted off the plank. Ice cold waves pressed around her shoulders as she thundered underwater. Cassidy gulped a mouthful and shot back up into a straight line, desperate to break the surface.
Stinging water overflowed her eyes and Cassidy pawed her eyeballs with wet hands. She squeezed her clogged ears with her fingers, swallowed to ease her raw throbbing throat.
Treading water, Cassidy hiked down the sopping shorts that rode up her legs and adjusted her soaked tee-shirt. She swam over to the rope ladder dangling against the side of the ship and craned her neck. Dozens of faces gaped down at her.
She climbed the ladder, the rungs burning her hands and bare left foot. Her right canvas shoe slipped on each notch; Cassidy’s other shoe had floated away. Teeth chattering, Cassidy extended her leg over the railing and dropped onto the deck with a bang. A production assistant tossed her a Navy blanket. Muttering her thanks, Cassidy wrapped herself in the scratchy warmth.
She had to cheer up. Even though the amount was a mystery, the runner-up won a prize. Maybe it would be a hundred grand. Even $25,000 would help to eradicate her college loans and car payments.
But, it wouldn’t finance an affordable private health club where participants could work out with personal trainers, a pilot site that could have eventually blossomed into a full-blown franchise via all the endorsement money and popularity showered on savvy winners of Top Ten reality shows.
It wouldn’t propel her into an overnight success.
Cassidy turned her back from her shipmates, hoping the
production crew got the hint that she needed a few minutes. She didn’t like losing, whether it was a game of Trivial Pursuit or a reality TV show with million dollar stakes. Teachers had always called her a perfectionist who expected too much of herself. Cassidy never thought it was too much. She should have learned her lesson by now. The universe didn’t want to work in her favor.
Besides, she'd had enough of the cameras and microphones in her face every minute. The tallies were in. Somehow, Cassidy had to get over it before opening her mouth on national television. She snagged a towel off a deck chair and rubbed her limp red curls.
An assistant passed her a steaming mug of coffee. Cassidy cradled the mug between her fingers, whispers of heat curling into the air as rivulets dripped down her bangs.
Cassidy never drank coffee unless it was decaf, and even then she rarely accepted the stuff, but now she brought the cup to her lips. Black bitterness warmed her throat and she took another sip. They'd arrived in New York Harbor the one cold dreary day in August.
Clasping the mug in one hand, Cassidy wiped her eyes with a corner of the blanket. Here they came. Cameramen advanced from opposite directions, ready to zoom in and capture her disappointment. Technicians trudged behind them, hoisting portable studio lights. This would air tonight, the plank and all the other footage collected that morning interspersed during a special live broadcast/cast reunion. Cassidy’s stomach muscles clenched.
In less than ten hours, America would witness her making an idiot out of herself.
As the crew approached, host Gabriel Collins checked his fine black hair on a monitor and whisked a stray strand off his forehead. Cassidy had done the addition. He’d left the soap opera world fifteen years ago. He must be pushing fifty, but his hair stylist and plastic surgeons had chopped off a decade.
