On the Street Where you Live (15 page)

T
HEY ARE BEING
simply magnificent, Emily thought. She and Will Stafford had just arrived at the Lawrence home, where an informal receiving line had formed in the spacious living room. Martha's grandparents, the senior Lawrences, silver-haired and straight-backed octogenarians; Martha's parents, George and Amanda Lawrence, a patrician couple in their late fifties; and their other daughter, Christine, a younger version of her mother, and Christine's husband, were standing together, greeting their guests and accepting condolences.

The dignity and serenity with which they had conducted themselves during the memorial Mass had filled Emily with admiration.

She and Will had been in a pew at a right angle to where the family was seated, and she had been able to see them clearly. Although tears had welled in their eyes, they had all sat composed and attentive throughout the service, Christine sitting next to her
parents, her new baby, Martha's namesake, in her arms.

When one of Martha's friends broke down weeping as she eulogized her, Emily had felt her own eyes fill with tears. At that point she saw Amanda Lawrence reach over and take the baby from Christine. She had held her close, the little baby's head tucked gently under her chin.

“I kissed her and she kissing back could not know, that my kiss was given to her sister folded close under deepening snow.”

The poignant lines from the James Russell Lowell poem had run through Emily's mind as she watched Amanda Lawrence taking comfort from her newborn granddaughter even as her murdered daughter was eulogized.

Will introduced her to them. They realized who she was immediately. “This happened in your own family four generations ago,” Martha's father said. “We only pray that whoever took our daughter's life will be brought to justice.”

“Ignoring the reincarnation nonsense, do you think that Martha's death may have been intended to copy what happened to Madeline Shapley?” Amanda Lawrence asked.

“Yes, I do,” Emily said. “And I even believe that a written confession or statement may exist that the present-day killer has found. I'm digging into old records and books, trying to piece together a picture of Madeline and her friends. I'm looking for any references to her, or maybe impressions that other people had of her at that time.”

George and Amanda Lawrence exchanged glances, then he turned to his parents. “Mother, don't you have quite a few photograph albums and other memorabilia from your grandmother's time?”

“Oh, yes, dear. All packed away in that cabinet in the attic. My maternal grandmother, Julia Gordon, was
very
meticulous. She wrote captions under all the pictures, listing the date, place, event, and the names of the people and she kept extensive diaries.” The senior Mrs. Lawrence looked inquiringly at Emily.

Julia Gordon's name had been sprinkled throughout the diary excerpts in the book
Reflections of a Girlhood.
She had been Madeline's contemporary.

“Would you consider letting me look through the contents of that cabinet?” Emily asked quietly. “You may think it farfetched, but I believe we may learn something from the past that will help now.”

Before his mother could answer, George Lawrence spoke firmly and without hesitation. “We will do
anything
that will help in any way to expose our daughter's killer.”

“Emily.” Will Stafford pressed her arm and indicated the people waiting behind them to speak to the Lawrences.

“I can't hold you any longer,” Emily said hastily. “May I call you tomorrow morning?”

“Will has the number. He'll give it to you.”

The buffet table was in the dining room. Tables and chairs had been set on the enclosed back porch, which extended the length of the house.

Plates in hand, they went out to the porch. “Over
here, Will,” a voice called. “We've saved a place for you.”

“That's Natalie Frieze,” Will said as they walked across the room.

“Join the other suspects,” Natalie said gaily when they reached the table. “We're trying to get our stories straight before Duggan gives us the third degree.”

Emily winced at the remark, agreeing with the stern-faced woman sitting opposite Natalie, who said sharply, “There are some things that ought not to be joked about, Natalie.”

The reproof did not seem to faze Natalie Frieze for a moment. “‘Brighten the corner where you are,' Rachel,” she quoted briskly. “That's all I'm trying to do. No offense intended.”

Dr. Wilcox was at the table and greeted her warmly. His wife, Rachel, was introduced, as were Bob and Natalie Frieze. A May and December romance, Emily thought. I wonder how long the lady will stay. That's one marriage that I wouldn't bet on lasting. On the other hand, you never know, she reminded herself. I certainly would have bet on mine hanging in for the long haul!

“Have you found any of the books helpful?” Dr. Wilcox was asking.

“Very much so.”

“I understand you're a criminal defense attorney, Emily,” Natalie Frieze said.

“Yes, I am.”

“I've been wondering—if someone in this room is indicted for Martha's murder, would you consider defending him?”

She likes to make waves, Emily thought, but she noticed that the atmosphere at the table changed instantly. Someone—or perhaps even everyone—is not finding that question amusing, she thought.

She tried to pass off the question lightly. “Well, I
am
a member of the New Jersey bar, but since I'm sure that won't happen, I don't think I'll look for a retainer here.”

As they were leaving, Will introduced her to a number of people, most of them year-round or summer residents of the town. Emily immediately felt comfortable with them, as if, like many of the others, her family had retained a place in Spring Lake for generations. The Lawrence home went back to the 1880s. Had the Shapleys been guests in this house? she wondered.

They chatted for a few minutes with John and Carolyn Taylor, Will's close friends, who asked if she played tennis.

A quick image of standing at Gary's side, accepting the tennis doubles cup at their club in Albany, flashed through Emily's mind. “Yes, I do.”

“We're members of the Bath and Tennis Club,” Carolyn Taylor said. “When it opens in May, join us for lunch there, and bring your racket.”

“I'd like that.”

In the general conversation she learned that Carolyn ran a nursery school in nearby Tinton Falls, while John was a surgeon in North Jersey Shore Hospital. She could tell immediately that they were people she would enjoy knowing better.

As they were about to leave, Carolyn Taylor hesitated, then said, “I hope you realize that everyone in
this room—make that everyone in this
community
—feels sorry that you've had so much on your plate these last few days. I just wanted to say that for
all
of us.”

Then she added, “We're fourth generation Spring Lake people. In fact, a distant cousin of mine, Phyllis Gates, wrote a book about life here in the 1880s and 1890s. She was very close to Madeline Shapley.”

Emily stared at her. “I read her book cover-to-cover last night,” she said.

“Phyllis died in the mid-1940s, when my mother was a teenager. Despite the age difference, they were very fond of each other. Phyllis used to take Mother on trips with her.”

“Did she ever talk to your mother about Madeline?”

“Yes, she did. In fact Mom and I were on the phone this morning. Naturally we've been discussing everything that has happened here these last few days. Mom said that Phyllis didn't want to put it in her book, but she was always sure that it was Douglas Carter who killed Madeline. Wasn't he the fiancé, or have I got that wrong?”

T
OMMY
D
UGGAN
attended the Mass at St. Catherine's with Pete Walsh. The entire time there he had been infuriated by the certainty that Martha's killer was somewhere in the church, though his expression remained
composed and suitably grave as he joined in the prayers being offered for her and raised his voice in the final hymn.

We shall dwell in the City of God

Where our tears shall be turned into dancing . . .

When I find
you,
I'll dry your crocodile tears for you, Tommy vowed, his mind on the murderer.

Following the Mass, he had planned to go to his office and stay there until it was time to meet the group at Will Stafford's house, but when he and Pete got back to the car and checked their messages, he learned about the death of Dr. Lillian Madden.

Fifteen minutes later he was at the crime scene, with Pete at his heels. The body was still there, the forensic team efficiently at work, the local police guarding the scene.

“They figure death occurred sometime between ten and eleven last night,” Frank Willette, the Belmar police chief told him. “It wasn't a burglary that went sour, I'll tell you that much. There's jewelry and money in the bedroom, so whoever did this was only interested in finding something here, in her office.”

“Did Dr. Madden keep drugs here?”

“No drugs. She was a psychologist, a Ph.D., not a medical doctor. Of course, the person who did it may not have known that, but . . .” He shrugged.

“The secretary, Joan Hodges, found her,” Willette continued. “Hodges ran outside and collapsed on the street. She's being treated in there.” He nodded toward
the open door that led to the living quarters on the other side of the vestibule. “Why don't you talk to her?”

“I intend to.”

Joan Hodges was propped up on pillows on the bed in the guest bedroom, a medic from the ambulance team at her side. A Belmar policeman standing at the foot of the bed was about to put away his notebook.

“I do
not
want to go to the hospital,” she was saying as Duggan and Walsh entered the room. “I'll be all right. It was just the shock of finding her . . .” Her voice trailed off, and tears began to run down her cheeks. “It's
so
awful,” she whispered. “Why would
anyone
do that to her?”

Tommy Duggan looked at the Belmar cop, whom he knew slightly. “I've already talked to Ms. Hodges,” the cop said. “I guess you have some questions for her too.”

“I do.” Tommy pulled up a chair, sat down by the bed, and introduced himself.

His voice sympathetic and understanding, he expressed sorrow and shock, then began to question Joan gently.

It was immediately clear that Joan Hodges had a very definite opinion about the reason for Lillian Madden's murder.

Her voice growing firmer as anger mingled with grief, Joan said, “There
is
a serial killer out there, and I'm beginning to think he
is
a reincarnation of the one who lived in the 1890s. The media kept calling Dr. Madden and asking her about that on Thursday and
all day yesterday. They all wanted her opinion about him.”

“Do you mean she might have
known
him?” Tommy Duggan asked.

“I don't know
what
I mean, frankly. Maybe she could have told them something that would have helped the police find him. I had a bad feeling about Dr. Madden going to her class last night. I told her I thought she ought to cancel it. Maybe somebody followed her home.”

Hodges had a point, Tommy thought. The killer could easily have attended the lecture.

“Joan, you saw the way the office records were thrown around. The killer was obviously looking for something, maybe even his own file. Can you think of any of the doctor's patients who might have threatened her? Or is one of them perhaps psychotic enough to have turned on her for some reason?”

Joan Hodges brushed back hair from her forehead. I was going to have it frosted, she thought. With all her being she wished that the clock could be turned back, that the day could unfold as it had been planned, that right now she was out shopping for the new dress she needed for her best friend's second wedding.

Dr. Madden, she thought. Her patients loved her. She was so kind, so understanding. Oh sure, there'd been a few who had stopped coming, but that happens with any psychologist. Dr. Madden used to say that some people just want reinforcement of their inappropriate behavior, not insight into how to change it.

“I don't know of a single patient who would ever have wanted to harm Dr. Madden,” she told Tom. “It's that serial killer. I
know
it is. He's afraid that she figured out something about him.”

That makes sense,
if
he'd been a patient of hers at some time, Tom thought. “Joan, where else would a patient's name appear, besides in his own file?”

“In the appointment book I keep, and in the computer.”

Tommy Duggan stood up. “Joan, we're going to find this guy. I promise you that. Your job is to start concentrating on the patients. I don't care how insignificant you may think it is, if anything at all odd about any one of them occurs to you, call me up right away, okay?”

He put his card on the night table beside the bed.

When he and Pete returned to the doctor's office, the body bag holding the remains of Lillian Madden was being carried out.

“We're finished here,” the head of the forensic team told him. “I doubt that we have anything useful for you guys. My guess is that this guy was smart enough to wear gloves.”

“Whatever he was looking for in the files, he probably found,” Chief Willette said. “The cabinets with the patients' files are in the doctor's private office, and the key was in the master lock. Either the guy found it in the top drawer of Dr. Madden's desk, or it was already in the lock.”

“Do you know if she often worked at night?” Pete Walsh asked.