On the Street Where you Live (28 page)

“I stayed here last night and slept on the couch in my office. I thought after yesterday's scene, it might be a good idea to have a cooling-off period.”

Natalie shrugged. “Neutral territory. Cooling-off period. Listen, we're both saying the same thing. We're sick of each other, and quite frankly, I'm physically afraid of you.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“Is it?” She opened her purse and took out a cigarette.

“You can't smoke in here. You know that.”

“Then let's move to the bar where I can smoke; we'll have lunch there.”

“When did you start smoking again? You've been off cigarettes since right after we got married, and that's nearly five years ago.”

“To be precise, I promised you I'd give them up right after Labor Day that summer four and a half years ago. I've always missed them. No need to miss them now.”

As she ground out the cigarette in the serving plate, Natalie was seized with a sudden awareness.

That's what I've been trying to remember, she thought. The last time I smoked prior to yesterday was at that party the Lawrences gave for Martha. That was September 6th. I went out on the front porch because, of course, you weren't allowed to smoke in that house.

He had something in his hand and was walking to the car.

“What's the matter with you?” Bob snapped. “You look as though you've seen a ghost.”

“Let's skip lunch. I thought I owed it to you to tell you face to face that I'm leaving you. I'm going home to pack now. Connie's letting me use her apartment in the city until I find a place. I told you yesterday what I want for a settlement.”

“There's no way any judge will give you that ridiculous amount. Get real, Natalie.”

“
You
get real, Bobby,” she snapped. “You
find
a way to make it happen! And keep in mind that your income tax statements don't bear scrutiny, especially the one where you got the big payoff from the company when you retired. The IRS loves to reward whistle-blowers.”

She pushed her chair back and almost ran to the door.

The maître d' waited a tactful ten minutes before he approached the table. “Would you like to order now, sir?” he asked.

Bob Frieze looked up at him blankly. Then, without responding, he got up and walked out of the restaurant.

You'd swear he didn't know I was talking to him, the maître d' muttered to himself, as he hurried over to greet the rare and welcome party of six.

T
HE MAP
on the dining room table was dotted with a dozen more tiny houses. All roads lead to Rome, Emily thought, but it still doesn't make sense. There
has
to be another answer.

The photograph albums George Lawrence had brought over with the rest of the memorabilia were putting faces to many of the names. She found herself going back and forth between references to people and the pages of the album.

She had found one group picture with the names of the participants inscribed on the back. It was faded, and too small to see the faces clearly, so when the detectives came by later she planned to ask them if the police lab could make an enlarged copy, with the features enhanced.

It was a large group. All three victims, Madeline,
Letitia, and Ellen, were listed on the back of the photo as being present in it, as were both Douglas and Alan Carter and some of their parents, including Richard Carter.

The back of her house and the back of the house where Alan Carter had lived at the time of the murders faced each other. The holly tree that had sheltered the grave had been practically at the border of the two properties.

Douglas Carter had lived directly across Hayes Avenue.

In reviewing what she'd learned about Letitia Gregg, she decided that the young woman may well have been planning to have a swim when she disappeared. Her bathing dress was missing when she vanished. Her house had been on Hayes Avenue between Second and Third. She would have had to pass the homes of both Alan and Douglas Carter to get to the beach. Had she been waylaid along the way?

But Douglas Carter committed suicide
before
Letitia disappeared.

Alan Carter's family later bought the property where Letitia's body was buried. There seemed to be many connections.

Ellen Swain, however, did not fit into that scenario. She lived in one of the houses on the lake.

Emily was still pondering the street map when Detectives Duggan and Walsh arrived. She gave them the group picture, which they promised to take care of for her. “Our guys are good,” Tommy Duggan told Emily. “They'll be able to enlarge it and bring it up.”

Walsh was studying the cardboard map. “Nice job,”
he said admiringly. “You getting anywhere with this?”

“Maybe,” Emily said.

“Ms. Graham, can we help you out?” Tommy Duggan asked. “Or maybe let me put it another way. Can you help us out? Is there anything you're finding that may be useful in giving us something to work with?”

“No,” Emily said honestly. “Not yet. But thanks for bringing over the copies of the old records.”

“I don't think the boss was too pleased,” Pete told her, “so I hope they're useful. I have a feeling we're still going to get some flak about copying them for you.”

A
FTER THE DETECTIVES LEFT
, Emily made a sandwich and a cup of tea, put them on a tray and carried it to the study. She put the tray on the ottoman, settled her body into the comfortable chair and began to read the police reports, starting with the first page of the file on Madeline Shapley.

“Sept. 7, 1891: Alarmed phone call received from Mr. Louis Shapley, of 100 Hayes Avenue, Spring Lake, at 7:30
P.M.
, reporting that his nineteen-year-old daughter, Madeline, is missing. Miss Shapley had been on the porch of the family home, awaiting the arrival from New York City of her fiancé, Mr. Douglas Carter, of 101 Hayes Avenue.

“Sept. 8, 1891: Foul play is suspected in the mysterious disappearance . . . family questioned closely . . . mother and younger sister had been at home . . . under Mrs. Kathleen Shapley's supervision, eleven-year-old Catherine Shapley had been taking a piano lesson with teacher, Miss Johanna Story. Theorized that the sound of the piano may have kept any cry Miss
Madeline Shapley may have uttered from being heard.

“Sept. 22, 1891: Mr. Douglas Carter was questioned again in the disappearance of his fiancée, Miss Madeline Shapley, on Sept. 7 last. Mr. Carter continues to claim that he missed the train he had intended to take from Manhattan by moments, and was obliged to wait two hours for the next one.

“His response to the claim of a witness who says he spoke to him in the station just before the first train began to board is that he was in a somewhat nervous state because he intended to give an engagement ring to Miss Shapley that day and had felt suddenly nauseated. He said he rushed to the gentlemen's lavatory for a moment and emerged to find the train pulling out of the station.

“The later train was quite crowded, and Mr. Douglas states he did not recognize anyone on board. Neither the conductor on the early train nor on the later one remembers having punched his ticket.”

No wonder he was a suspect, Emily thought. Is it possible he was nervous because he didn't want to go through with the engagement? And here I had the idea it was a great love match!

For an instant she had a mental image of her own wedding reception and dancing the first dance with Gary. At the time,
he
had seemed very much in love as well.

And I thought I was, Emily told herself. Looking back, though, I always knew there was something lacking.

Like a husband who would forsake all others.

The ringing of the phone came as a welcome intrusion to these depressing thoughts. It was Will Stafford.

“I've been wanting to call you,” he said, “but it's been an awfully busy week. Look, this is absolutely no notice, but would you like to have dinner tonight? Whispers is a fine restaurant, right here in town.”

“I would love to,” Emily said sincerely. “I feel as if it's time to take a break and join the present world. I've been living in the 1890s all week.”

“How do you like it back there?”

“In a lot of ways, I'm enchanted by it.”

“I can envision you in a hoopskirt.”

“You're about forty years too late. The hoops were in style during the Civil War.”

“What do I know? I help people get—or get rid of—the roof that's over their heads. Seven o'clock good for you?”

“It's fine.”

“See you then.”

Emily hung up the phone, and then, realizing how stiff she felt from sitting so long, did a few quick stretches to limber up.

The camera noiselessly recorded her every move.

J
OAN
H
ODGES
had spent the last four days trying to put the patients' files back in order. For her, it was a labor of love. As far as she was able, she was determined to see that Dr. Madden's patients, already reeling
from the shock of her death, not suffer because their records were unavailable to her replacement.

It was a tedious task. The killer had done a thorough job of trashing the records—clinical information and Dr. Madden's observations and notes had been totally scattered and mixed. At times, Joan felt overwhelmed and was sure it was hopeless. When that happened, she took a walk along the boardwalk for half an hour, then went back to the task somewhat refreshed.

It had been arranged that Dr. Wallace Coleman, a colleague and close friend of Dr. Madden's, would take over her practice. Now he was spending as much time as he could spare from his appointments to help Joan with the task.

On Thursday a police technician came back with the rebuilt computer. “That guy did his best to wreck this one,” he said, “but you got lucky. He didn't get to the hard drive.”

“That means that all the records can be retrieved?” Joan asked.

“Yes, it does. Detective Duggan wants you to look for one name right away, Dr. Clayton Wilcox. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Isn't he the one I've been reading about? The one whose wife's scarf . . . ?”

“That's Wilcox.”

“That may be the reason his name rings a bell. I don't get to meet . . .” Joan paused. “I mean I didn't get to meet all of Doctor Madden's patients, the ones who came in when she had evening hours. She'd just leave the billing information on my desk.”

Joan was at the computer, her fingers flying. If the police were asking her to look up a name, it had to be because that person was a suspect. With every fiber of her being she wanted the person who had killed Dr. Madden to be found and punished. If only I could be on the jury when he goes to trial, she thought grimly.

Dr. Clayton Wilcox.

His file was on the screen. Joan began clicking the mouse to retrieve the file's contents. Then she reported triumphantly, “He was a patient for a brief time in September four and a half years ago, and again in August, two and a half years ago. He came in the evening, so I never met him.”

The police technician was on his cell phone. “I need to get in touch with Duggan right now,” he snapped. “I have some information he needs to have immediately.”

R
EBA
A
SHBY KNEW
that when her story appeared Friday morning in
The National Daily
all hell would break loose.
EYEWITNESS TO THEFT OF MURDER WEAPON SCARF HESITATES TO COME FORWARD
.

In the front-page story she was writing, Reba described her breakfast meeting at The Breakers Hotel on Ocean Avenue in Spring Lake with “Bernice Joyce, the elderly and fragile dowager who dismissed the missing scarf as ‘showy,' then confided to this writer
that she was having an ethical problem: ‘I am sure that I observed the scarf being taken from the table. I am almost certain that I did.'

“Police take note!

“Someone in attendance at the party in the Lawrence home that fatal night stole that scarf and the next day used it to snuff out the life of Martha Lawrence.

“Who is he?

“As Bernice Joyce described them, here are the possibilities:

“Several elderly couples who were neighbors of the Lawrences.

“Dr. Clayton Wilcox and his formidable wife, Rachel.
He's
a retired college president.
She's
the one who wore the scarf to the party. Rachel heads a lot of committees, gets things done, but isn't much liked. She says she asked her henpecked hubby to put the scarf in his pocket.

“Bob and Natalie Frieze. Bernice Joyce is very fond of Susan, the first Mrs. Frieze, but definitely does
not
care for the glamorous second one.

“Will Stafford, real estate lawyer. Good-looking, one of the few single men in Spring Lake. Watch out, Will—Bernice Joyce thinks you're a doll.”

That was as far as Reba had gone with the article. She wanted to get a look at Will Stafford herself and form her own impressions of him. After that she would go over to The Seasoner and see if Bob Frieze was around.

She located Will Stafford's office on Third Avenue, in the center of town. As Reba opened the door of the outer office, she spotted the receptionist and said a
silent prayer that Stafford was either out or busy.

He was out, Pat Glynn told her, but expected back soon. Would Miss Ashby care to wait?

You
bet
I would, baby, Reba thought.

She settled in the chair nearest the receptionist's desk and turned to Glynn, her manner warm and confiding. “Tell me about your boss, Will Stafford.”

The telltale blush on Glynn's cheeks and the sudden brightening of her eyes, told Reba what she'd half expected. The receptionist-secretary had a huge crush on the boss.