On the Street Where you Live (23 page)

Pete and I both sensed Wilcox was lying to us the other day at Will Stafford's house, he told himself. Now it's time to sweat the truth out of him.

T
HEY HAVE BEGUN TO BELIEVE IN ME
, he realized. This morning the highlight of the
Today
show was an interview with Dr. Nehru Patel, prominent philosopher and writer on the subject of psychical research.
He
firmly believes that I am the reincarnation of the serial killer of the late nineteenth century!

What puzzles the good Dr. Patel, as he explained to the interviewer, Katie Couric, is that I am acting against the laws of karma.

Patel said that some may choose to return near to where they had lived in a previous lifetime because they need to meet again people whom they knew in a previous incarnation. They wish to repay the karmic debts they may owe to these people. On the other hand, these karmic actions are supposed to be good, not evil, which was very puzzling.

It is possible, he continued, that in a previous lifetime Martha Lawrence had been Madeline Shapeley, and Carla Harper had been Letitia Gregg.

That's not true, but it's an interesting concept.

Dr. Patel voiced the thought that by repeating the crimes of the nineteenth century, I am flying in the face of karma and will have much to atone for in my next incarnations.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Finally he was asked whether it is possible that Ellen Swain is now alive in a different body and that I have recognized her and will seek her out on Saturday.

Well, I have chosen my next victim. She is
not
Ellen, but she will sleep with Ellen.

And I have conceived of a novel plan to throw the police off the track.

It is quite
delicious
and pleases me very much.

W
HEN THE PHONE RANG AT
9:30, Clayton Wilcox was in his study with the door closed. Rachel had been intolerable at breakfast. A friend who had bought a copy of that sensationalist rag
The National Daily,
had phoned and warned her that it contained a lurid front-page story about her lost scarf.

He picked up the receiver, filled with dread, sure that it was the police wanting to question him again.

“Dr. Wilcox?” The voice was silky.

Even though it had been more than twelve years
since he had heard it, Clayton Wilcox recognized it immediately. “How are you, Gina?” he asked quietly.

“I'm fine, Doctor, but I've been reading a lot about Spring Lake and everything that's going on there. I was sorry to hear that it was your wife's scarf that was used to strangle that poor girl Martha Lawrence.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Reba Ashby's column this morning in
The National Daily.
Have you read it?”

“I have heard about it. It is rubbish. There is no official verification that it was my wife's scarf that was used by the killer.”

“In the column it says that your wife swears she gave it to you to put in your pocket.”

“Gina, what do you want?”

“Doctor, I've been feeling for a long time that it wasn't right for me to have settled for so little money, after what you did to me.”

Clayton Wilcox tried to swallow, but the muscles in his throat did not respond. “Gina what I ‘did to you,' as you put it, was to respond to your overture.”

“Doctor . . .”
The teasing note was still in her voice. Then it disappeared. “I could have sued both you and the college and gotten a very big settlement. Instead, I let you talk me into a paltry one hundred thousand dollars. I could use more money right now. What do you think Reba Ashby's tabloid would pay for
my
story?”

“You wouldn't do that!”

“Yes, I would. I have a seven-year-old child now. I'm divorced, and I think my marriage failed because I was still psychologically damaged by what happened
to me at Enoch. After all, I was only twenty years old then. I know it's too late to sue the college now.”

“How much do you want, Gina?”

“Oh, I think another hundred thousand will do it nicely.”

“I can't put my hands on that much money.”

“You could last time. You can this time. I'm planning to come to Spring Lake on Saturday, to see either you or the police. If you don't pay me, my next step is to find out how much
The National Daily
is willing to pay for a juicy story about the revered former president of Enoch College who just
happened
to lose his wife's scarf before it was used to kill a young woman. Remember, Doctor,
I
have long blond hair too.”

“At Enoch College, did you ever learn the meaning of the word ‘blackmail,' Gina?”

“Yes, but I also learned the meaning of some terms like ‘sexual harassment' and ‘unwanted personal overtures.' I'll call you Saturday morning. 'Bye, Doctor.”

N
ICK
T
ODD HAD PICKED UP
the phone a dozen times on both Monday and Tuesday, intending to call Emily, and each time he put it down. He knew that before leaving her on Sunday night he had overdone his insistence that she stay in her Manhattan apartment
until whoever was stalking her had been exposed and arrested.

She had finally shown a flash of anger and said, “Look, Nick, I know you mean well, but I'm staying here, and that's final. Let's talk about something else.”

Mean well,
Nick thought. Surely there is nothing worse than to be the kind of pain in the neck who “means well.”

It did not please his father, either, when he relayed the message that Emily had firmly refused to start work before May 1st—unless, of course, she solved the mystery of her ancestor's murder before then.

“Does she
really
think that she's going to solve a crime, or a series of crimes, that occurred in the 1890s?” Walter Todd had asked incredulously. “Maybe I should take a second look at hiring that young woman. That has to be the single flakiest proposition I've heard in the last fifty years.”

After that, Nick decided not to tell his father that either the stalker who had haunted Emily in Albany or a copycat was now shadowing her in Spring Lake. He knew his father's reaction would be exactly like his own:
Get out of that house. You're not safe there.

On Wednesday, after reading stories in the morning papers about the grisly discovery of two more victims, one from the present, one from the past, Nick was not surprised to see his father barge into his office, his face set in the angry and frustrated expression that sent chills down the spines of new associates in the firm.

“Nick,” he snapped, “there's a psycho on the loose down there, and if he knows that Emily Graham is
trying to establish a link between himself and the killer of the 1890s, she could be in danger.”

“That has occurred to me,” Nick replied calmly. “In fact I discussed it with Emily.”

“How did they know where to start digging for those remains yesterday?”

“The prosecutor would only say that it was an anonymous tip.”

“Emily had better be careful, that's all I can say. She's a smart woman. Maybe she's onto something with that link she's investigating. Nick, call her. Offer her a bodyguard. I have a couple of guys who'd watch out for her. Or maybe you want me to call her.”

“No, that's fine. I was planning to give her a ring.” As his father left the office, Nick thought of Lindy, the fashion editor he'd dated on and off for several years. Six months ago, when he was dropping her off at her home, he had said, “I'll give you a ring.”

She'd replied, “Good. I hope you mean the one I want.”

Seeing the startled look on his face, Lindy had laughed. “Nick, I think it's time for both of us to move on. As a couple, we're not going anywhere, and I'm not getting any younger. Ciao.”

I don't know whether Emily will want even a ring of the
telephone
from me, Nick thought as he dialed her number.

O
N
W
EDNESDAY MORNING
, Emily got up at six o'clock, and with the inevitable cup of coffee in her hand went straight into the dining room to work on her project.

The discovery of the skeleton and the skull on Ludlam Avenue had added fresh impetus to her search for a link that would tie together the two killers, old and new.

She had the same feeling that she experienced when she was working on a defense—the sense of being on the right path, the certain knowledge that somehow she would find what she needed to prove her theory.

She was also absolutely certain that, unless he was stopped, the copycat killer would take another life on Saturday, the 31st.

At nine o'clock, George Lawrence phoned. “Emily, my mother and I went through all those photograph albums and memorabilia that she has stashed away in the attic. We didn't want you to have to wade through any more of this stuff than necessary, so we culled anything that wasn't relevant. If it's all right with you, I'll drop off the rest of it in a half hour or so.”

“That would be wonderful.” Emily rushed upstairs to shower and had just finished dressing when the doorbell rang.

George Lawrence entered with two heavy boxes. He was wearing a windbreaker and slacks, and Emily's immediate impression was that he appeared far more vulnerable today than his composed exterior had suggested when she met him on Saturday.

He carried the boxes into the dining room and set them on the floor. “You can go through them at your convenience,” he said.

He looked around the dining room, taking in the piles of papers on the chairs, the drawing board on the table. “You look pretty busy. Don't feel rushed to return this stuff. Mother hasn't looked at it for at least twenty years. When you're ready, give her a call. The housekeeper's husband will pick it up.”

“That's perfect. Now let me show you what I'm trying to do here,” Emily offered.

George Lawrence bent attentively over the table as she showed how she was recreating the layout of the town in the 1890s.

“There were a lot fewer houses then, as you would know better than I,” Emily told him, “and the records aren't complete. I'm sure I'll learn something from your material that I don't have yet.”

“This is your home?” he asked, touching the top of one of the Monopoly houses.

“Yes.”

“And this is ours?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly are you trying to do?”

“Figure out how three young women could have vanished without a trace. I'm looking for a house of one of their friends—one of the young male friends,
perhaps—where they might have been enticed inside. For example, I met Carolyn Taylor at your luncheon the other day. She told me that her relative Phyllis Gates, who was a friend of my ancestor Madeline and your ancestor Julia Gordon, thought Madeline's fiancé Douglas Carter killed her.”

Emily pointed. “Think about this. Here's the Shapley house, and here, right across the street, is the Carter house. Supposedly, Douglas missed the early train home the day Madeline vanished. But did he?”

“Surely that was checked out at the time?”

“I've been promised a look at the police records. I'll be very interested to see what they show. Visualize that day. Madeline was sitting on the porch, waiting for Douglas. I don't think she would have just gotten up and gone for a walk without calling in to tell her mother. But suppose Douglas suddenly appeared, on his porch, and she ran down to greet him?”

“And he pulled her into the house, killed her, and hid her body until he could find a way to bury it in her own backyard?” George Lawrence looked skeptical. “What would his motive be?”

“I don't know, and admittedly it
is
a farfetched theory. On the other hand, I've found indications that his cousin Alan Carter was in love with Madeline as well. His family lived in the house on Ludlam Avenue where the bodies were found yesterday. Suppose
he
came by in a closed carriage and, perhaps, told Madeline that Douglas had been in an accident?”

“We heard about the discovery yesterday, of course. Now the Harper family has to face what we faced last week. They're from the Philadelphia area.
We don't know them personally, but we do have mutual friends.”

The stark pain George Lawrence was experiencing was evident to Emily as, in a tone that was both bitter and sad, he said, “Maybe the Harpers and Amanda and I will end up in the same support group.”

“How is Amanda doing?” Emily asked. “I admired her so much on Saturday. It must have been so terribly difficult for her, for all of you.”

“It was, and as you saw, Amanda was wonderful. Having the baby here was a big help. But Christine and Tom and the baby went home on Sunday. We visited the cemetery yesterday, and Amanda absolutely fell apart. I think that was probably good. She needed to let it out. Well, I'm on my way. We're starting home this afternoon. Mother said to call her if you have any questions.”

As she closed the door behind George Lawrence, the phone rang. It was Nick Todd.

Emily was somewhat chagrined to realize that her emotions on hearing his voice were mixed. On the one hand, she was glad that he called. On the other, she was disappointed that he had not bothered to phone since the weekend to ask if she had had any more problems with the stalker.

But then his shy explanation pleased her: “Emily, I realize I had a hell of a nerve to try to practically drag you out of your house the other night. It's just that I was terribly troubled when I realized that the stalker had left that photograph. I would have called before, but I didn't want to become a public nuisance to you.”