Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (4 page)

But her mother would know Kris was lying.
They'd discussed Holly's science project, the brilliantly sculpted
clay model of a catfish with an accompanying report, at the
breakfast table.

Kris turned into her neighborhood. That weird
guy, Mr. Coltraine, waved as he unlocked his car door. Mr.
Coltraine had moved in a few months earlier. He had no wife or
kids, so she didn’t know why he needed such a big house. Mr.
Coltraine would show up at the park and bowling alley, watching
with a strange smile. He gave Kris the creeps.

***

Chipmunk meowed in Kris's lap, and she
jumped. She patted the cat, feeling the rise and fall of his gentle
purrs. Sharp pain throbbed between her eyebrows, signaling one of
her headaches.

It was her fault Randolph Coltraine lured
Nicole into his car and trapped her in his cellar for three days.
He dumped her body in a gully off the highway. Nicole’s glasses lay
cracked at her side. Police found a pail in Coltraine’s bedroom
brimming with "souvenirs": necklaces, bracelets, barrettes and
locks of hair. All belonged to his child victims, whom he had
killed in small towns throughout New England. From Nicole, he saved
her favorite ring, dull purple and pink stones on a silver
band.

Kris withdrew a Tylenol bottle from the
nightstand drawer, swallowed two pills without water and fought to
shake her nagging headache and her black mood. She couldn't.
Nightmares had plagued her on and off for years, disturbing visions
of Nicole in her casket. Nicole glaring. Nicole screaming. Kris
told her family she couldn't remember her dreams, but she recalled
every horrible detail.

She and her cousin had both been little girls
together, but the wrong one grew up.

Chapter 3

25 Years Ago Today

Mr. and Mrs. George R. Mann of Fremont are
honored with a surprise party for their 35th wedding
anniversary.

K
ris drank a glass of
red wine, the alcohol warming her insides and relaxing her groggy
brain. She shouldn't mix Tylenol and alcohol, but hell, maybe the
combination would doubly knock her out.

She drifted into a restless slumber at 10
a.m., thinking about Nicole, and awoke unrefreshed at 12:30 p.m.
from a dream of Diana Ferguson. The yearbook photograph stood out
as real in her mind as the picture of her cousin on the bureau. She
shuddered under the flannel blankets.

An age gap had separated Nicole and Diana,
the years that brought first dates, prom corsages and graduation
parties. Kris couldn't imagine Nicole as a college student;
couldn't picture her without the braids that hung straight down
like exclamation points; couldn't envision her as one of Holly's
bridesmaids, in a clinging teal sheath with off-the-shoulder straps
and a slit up the back that made R.J.'s grandmother arch her
eyebrows.

Kris munched an apple, half-heartedly swept
cat food off the floor and opened a true crime novel she'd been
meaning to read. Yet Diana continued to haunt her.

She grabbed her car keys. She knew a place to
learn more about Diana Ferguson.

Twenty minutes later, Kris scoured crowded
shelves in the Fremont Public Library’s local historical section.
She pulled out Diana's yearbook and a dusty film caked her
hand.

Flipping through the pages of teachers in the
chemistry lab and teenage girls in formal gowns, Kris looked for
Diana's dark hair and sober expression. She didn't spot Diana in
the prom court, nor on the pages that commemorated a class trip to
an amusement park, the senior banquet or graduation day.

Had Diana skipped those events? Dex said she
was quiet. Kris had attended private school, and had therefore
never walked the Fremont High halls, but she felt a kinship with
Diana. Neither of them had been part of the in-crowd. Kris hadn’t
belonged to any crowd, for that matter.

Although she had expected to run across it,
shock rippled through Kris when she found the photograph from the
newspaper. Underneath the caption, students could note their
nicknames. Diana had written "Di."

Die.

Kris pored through the remaining pages. An
unsmiling Diana appeared in a shot of the History Club. She stood
between the teacher and a classmate named Yvonne Harper. The
striking thing about the photo was the History Club adviser, a Brad
Pitt look-alike, hardly older than his students.

"Alex Thaddeus," Kris murmured. "Wow."

All that wavy blond hair and the profile of a
Greek god. That must be why the club attracted a dozen girls.

At the end of the book, Kris skimmed the
personal information about the graduates. Diana had belonged to the
National Honor Society. Kris flipped to review the photos again.
This girl seemed the type to attend college, or work in a
professional job.

Kris turned back to the information page,
where most seniors had included a paragraph acknowledging friends
or family. Diana wrote, "Thanks to Mom, Cheryl, Mr. T and most of
all, to my beloved father."

Cheryl. That was probably her sister, Cheryl
Soares. Maybe Alex Thaddeus was Mr. T. Kris jotted his name on a
pad with the other facts she had gleaned about Diana Ferguson.

Hoping to discover more, Kris examined the
yearbook from Diana's junior year. She identified Diana only once,
in the History Club photo. Even in black and white, Kris could tell
Diana's dark eyes had crinkled in the corners with a laugh. As a
junior, Diana looked like a different girl.

Kris slid the books back onto the shelf and
returned to the main library. She hesitated by a stack of telephone
directories, then picked up the Fremont area one. She riffled
through the white pages for Ferguson. And froze.

There it was, Irene Ferguson, Diana's mother.
Mrs. Ferguson had moved to nearby Remington. Kris added the phone
number to her notes. She looked up Soares, and found M & C
above six other listings with the same last name. Cheryl?

She left the library, her thoughts focused on
the dead girl she could never meet.

***

Kris sat cross-legged on the plush white
carpet, scanning her sister's wedding album. A gilded bridal
portrait of Holly alone graced the deep crimson wall of their
parents' living room. Rose bouquets brightened her sparkling train,
the flowers borrowed from her bridesmaids, and the velvet green
lawn rolled toward the gazebo. The portrait hung over the marble
fireplace, overlooking framed wedding day snapshots, graduation
photos and school pictures on the mantel.

Holly and her husband curled on the recliner,
sharing a wheat cracker smeared with cheddar cheese. In the
background, a football game played on the wide-screen TV. Kris had
expected her sister to marry an athlete or a fraternity guy, but
she'd picked R.J., a pediatrician not much taller than his
patients. He kissed Holly's cheek, and she giggled from his
lap.

Kris closed the photo album a little too
hard. She would never find love herself. She didn't deserve it.

Her mother closed the French doors to her
office, a medical textbook pressed against her red blazer. Crisp
gray locks fluffed around the gold studs in her ears. Hours of
swimming and tennis had made her trim in her pleated khakis. She
wore a line of copper lipstick, her only concession to makeup.

She passed the volume to Holly and ruffled
her hair. "Here you go, hon."

"Thanks, Mom. I'll keep it to read when
things are slow at work. Not that it’s slow very often." Holly
placed it aside and spread another cracker.

Their mother looked at Kris. "I'm afraid I
don't have reading material for you ... unless you'd like to see
the obits from my college alumni publication." Her tone made obits
sound as distasteful as curdled milk.

"Mom, do you know how important an obituary
is?" Kris asked. "It's a tribute, the last impression a person will
ever make. You can focus on the triumphs, or the notoriety."

"It's morbid. At this point in your life, you
should concentrate on settling down, not dead people. Everyone else
your age is getting married, or is at least in a relationship."

"How do you concentrate on settling down? Is
there a seminar?"

Holly snickered.

"Kris will be fine," her father said from the
camelback sofa. "I, on the other hand, could use a class on the
Psychology of Wives. For example, when a married couple goes out to
dinner, why does the wife insist on calling it a date? I thought I
had given up dating."

R.J. pushed down the brim of his Boston
Bruins cap. He wore baseball caps to hide his receding hairline.
"I'd like to know why my wife squeezes the toothpaste from the
middle," he said, hugging Holly's slim waist. "You'd think a doctor
could brush her teeth without making a mess."

Holly jabbed him in the ribs. "Don't talk to
me about bathroom etiquette. When was the last time you left the
toilet seat down?"

"Very funny," R.J. said. "Hey, Kris, will we
see your byline soon?"

"It might be awhile," Kris said. "I'm in a
new field, remember."

Her mother's lashes fluttered, reminding Kris
of her late grandfather. She sensed a dig coming. Her grandfather
would blink fast when displeased, a muscle in his jaw stirring.

An image filled Kris's mind, her grandfather
in the stiff brown suits he wore even on the rare days off from his
medical practice. He would loom over her and Nicole, despite his
rounded shoulders. On Easter, he'd press cellophane-wrapped popcorn
bunnies into their hands, but his penetrating blue eyes wouldn't
soften. Kris and Nicole would scurry into the other room and unwrap
the bunnies in private.

She had only seen his eyes tender in the
sepia wedding photograph they'd found after his death, tucked in
the sock drawer of his scarred walnut bureau. He'd had his arm
around his bride, Rosalie, a young small-boned woman with flowing
dark curls and a sheer veil. They'd been married seven years before
her death. Kris often wondered whether her mother would've been
different if she'd had a feminine influence growing up.

Her mother leaned against the bay window.
"How could we forget? You left a well-paying job, with growth
potential, in a New York high-rise. Now you're typing obits till
midnight, like some kid out of college, maybe even high school.
I've told my friends that you're a copyeditor. At least that sounds
better."

Kris stared at the gold-fixtured fan on the
cathedral ceiling. "I wouldn't spread that story too far. If I run
into any of your 'friends,' I'll tell them exactly what I do."

"Kristine, they wouldn't understand. Who
would? You're not a kid. You-"

"Hey, it never hurts to have a newspaper
contact," her father cut in. "I'm sure your pals will take
advantage of that. It'll be useful for us when we announce the
birth of our first grandchild."

"Oh, Daddy," Holly groaned.

Their mother turned the disapproving look on
him. He crossed his arms over the Michigan State sweatshirt that
concealed his soft paunch. After a few long seconds, she smiled.
"Always thinking, aren't you?"

"You should bring Kris to that outlet store
you and Holly found," Kris's father said. "She can get decorations
for her apartment."

Her mother lifted her glass off the window
ledge and pushed the lemon crescent deeper into the ice water.
"She's been on her own for years. She doesn't need anything."

"What about curtains, or-"

"They don't sell many curtains. I'm sure Kris
would be bored. R.J., how's that little boy with diabetes?" She
strolled over to her son-in-law, ice cubes clicking against the
sides of her glass.

Kris dumped the wedding album back into its
box. God forbid, her mother should spend time with her. The
shopping trip would've been hell, anyway. She joined her father on
the sofa. Gray dusted his sideburns, but as he joked behind Holly's
back, at least he had a heck of a lot more hair than R.J.

Her dad pulled off his bifocals. "Don't mind
your mom. We're thrilled to have you home. I missed you, Kid. I
worried about you in New York."

Kris felt a painful and unexpected jolt. How
empty her life would be if she lost her father. When she’d lived in
the city, they had e-mailed each other daily and spoken weekly. "I
missed you, too, Dad. I know you're glad to have me back, but I'm
not sure about Mom."

"She's your mother. Of course she's glad.
Mom's just concerned whether you made the right decision. As long
as you enjoy the newspaper, nothing else is important."

"It is interesting. A newsroom is a whole
different environment from an office. My editor, Dex, says if
reporters sit at their computers all day, they're not out finding
news."

Her father patted her shoulder. "Sounds
exciting. Maybe you've found your calling."

"I'll have to pay my dues, but that's okay.
The obit page is the most important section of the paper. One typo
can compound a family's grief. I do my best to make the obits
flawless. I'm in a unique position to protect the survivors." Kris
gnawed her lower lip. "That probably sounds strange."

"Strange? Do you know how proud I am of
you?"

"Thanks, Dad. That means a lot." Her mind
jumped to her library trip of the previous afternoon. "Hey, do you
remember reading about a girl who was murdered twenty-five years
ago? Diana Ferguson? I came across a story on the microfilm."

"Diana Ferguson," her father repeated. "Is
she the poor girl they found in the woods?"

"You do remember her?"

"Vaguely. What was she, a bartender?"

"Cocktail waitress."

"Right." Her father pondered a moment. "The
consensus was that she brought it on herself by working in a sleazy
place like that."

"You're kidding. That's ridiculous." Kris sat
up straighter. The pretty, sober face of Diana flashed through her
mind. "It's terrible to die so young, and disgusting that people
said she deserved it."