On the Street Where you Live (13 page)

And this book was published in 1938, Emily thought! I wonder what Phyllis Gates would think of
this
generation's courting manners and mores.

In the next pages, when the author reminisced about the summers of 1894 and 1895, and her growing romance with Henry Gates, she frequently mentioned the names of other young people.

Emily jotted all the names in her notebook. These would have been Madeline's contemporaries.

The final entry from the diary was written on April 4, 1896.

A most appalling tragedy. Last week Ellen Swain vanished in Spring Lake. She was walking home after visiting Mrs. Carter, whose always precarious health has alarmingly deteriorated since the suicide of Douglas, who was her only offspring. It is now believed that Letitia was not lost by drowning, but that all three of my friends met with foul play. Mother has canceled our lease on the cottage we usually rent for the season. She said she absolutely will
not
put me at risk. We are planning to go to Newport this summer. But I shall miss Spring Lake very much.

The author concluded.

The mystery of the disappearances gave rise over the years to many wild rumors. The remains of the body of a young woman washed ashore in Manasquan may have been that of Letitia Gregg. A cousin of the Mallards swore she saw Ellen Swain in New York on the arm of a handsome man. There was credence given to that story by some people, since Ellen did not enjoy a happy home life. Her parents were extremely demanding and critical. Those of us who were her confidants and knew of her affection for Edgar Newman never believed that she had run away with someone to New York.

Henry and I were married in 1896 and ten years later returned to Spring Lake with our three young
children to resume the gentle life of summer residents of the now ever-so-fashionable resort.

Emily closed the book and laid it on the ottoman. It's like taking a trip back through time, she thought. She stood up and stretched, aware suddenly of how long she had been sitting without moving. She was surprised to see it was nearly noon.

A breath of fresh air would wake me up, she thought. She went to the front door, opened it, and stepped out on the porch. The effects of the combination of the bright sun and mild breeze seemed to be showing already in the grass and shrubs. They seemed greener, fuller, ready to grow and spread. By the end of next month, I can put everything back on the porch, she thought. It will be great to sit out here.

Twenty-seven pieces of the original wicker furniture were packed away in the loft of the carriage house.

“They're sealed in plastic now,” the Kiernans had told her. “But they've been repaired and restored, and have new cushions covered with fabric that we believe is a replica of the original floral print.”

The set included couches, chaises, chairs, and tables. Probably some of them had been used for the festive luncheon celebrating Madeline's nineteenth and last birthday, Emily reflected. And Madeline might have been sitting on one of those chairs while she waited for Douglas Carter to bring her an engagement ring.

I feel so close to all of them, she thought. They come to life in that book.

Even from a block away the ocean air was pungent and compelling. Reluctantly she went back inside, then realized she was not ready to start another reading session.

A long walk on the boardwalk, she decided, then a sandwich in town on the way home.

Two hours later, when she returned home refreshed and feeling as though her head had cleared, there were two messages on the answering machine.

The first was from Will Stafford. “Give me a ring, will you, Emily? I've got something to tell you.”

The second was from Nicholas Todd. “I need to get together with you, Emily. Hope you can pencil me in for a visit sometime Saturday or Sunday. It's important I have a chance to go over some things with you. My direct line is 212-555-0857.”

Stafford was in his office. “I spoke to Mrs. Lawrence, Emily,” he said. “She'd like you to join them for the luncheon after the memorial Mass. I told her you planned to attend it.”

“That's very kind of her.”

“She wants to meet you. Why don't you let me pick you up and we'll go to the service and to the Lawrences' together? I can introduce you to some people from town.”

“I'd like that.”

“Fine. About twenty of eleven tomorow morning.”

“I'll be ready. Thanks.”

She dialed Nick Todd's number. I hope they haven't changed their minds about hiring me, she
thought apprehensively. The possibility gave her a sinking feeling.

Nick answered on the first ring. “We've been following the news. Not a very pleasant way for you to settle in. Hope it hasn't been too upsetting.”

She thought she detected a strain in his voice. “Sad, rather than upsetting,” she said. “You left word you needed to see me. Has your father changed his mind about hiring me?”

His laugh was both spontaneous and reassuring. “Nothing could be further from the truth. How's tomorrow lunch or dinner for you? Or is Sunday better?”

Emily considered. Tomorrow was the memorial Mass and then lunch at the Lawrence home. And I want to finish these books and get them back to Dr. Wilcox, she thought. “Sunday lunch would be better,” she said. “I'll find out where to go and make a reservation.”

At five-thirty a member of the forensic team rang the back doorbell. “We're finished, Ms. Graham. There's nothing else buried out there.”

Emily was surprised at how relieved she felt. She realized that she had been expecting the remains of Letitia Gregg and Ellen Swain to be unearthed.

The veteran police officer's face and hands and clothing were caked with mud. He looked tired and cold. “A nasty business, all this,” he said. “But now maybe some of this talk about a reincarnated serial killer will die down.”

“I certainly hope so.” But why do I have a feeling
it's only going to get worse? Emily thought, as she thanked the police officer, then closed and locked the door against the rapidly encroaching darkness.

A
SENSE OF DANGER
surrounds me. It is similiar to what I felt when Ellen Swain first began to link me to Letitia's death.

At that time I moved swiftly.

It was rash and foolish of me to have consulted Dr. Lillian Madden five years ago. What was I thinking? Of course I could not have allowed her to hypnotize me. Who knows what I might have divulged involuntarily when I opened my mind to her?

It was simply the enticing possibility of being placed directly into my previous incarnation that tempted me to visit her.

Will she remember that five years ago a client asked to be regressed to 1891?

It
is
possible, he decided, with a chill.

Would she consider a conversation that took place in her office, client to psychologist, to be privileged?

Maybe.

Or will she consider it her higher duty to make a telephone call to the police and say, “Five years ago I
was asked if I could regress a man from Spring Lake to the year 1891. He was very specific about the date. I explained to him that unless he had been incarnated at that time it would not be possible to bring him back to it.”

He could visualize Dr. Madden, her intelligent eyes looking directly at him. She had been challenged by him, but also curious.

Curiosity had been the reason Ellen Swain died, he reflected.

“Then,” Dr. Madden might tell the police, “I tried to put my patient into a hypnotic state. He became quite agitated and left my office abruptly. This may not be of great importance, but I felt I should pass this information on to you. His name is . . .”

Dr. Lillian Madden must
not
be allowed to make that call! It was a risk he could not afford to take.

Like Ellen Swain, she will soon learn that
any
knowledge of me is dangerous, he thought—even fatal.

“I
HAVE NEVER READ
such unbridled nonsense in my life.” Disdainfully, Rachel Wilcox placed the morning paper on the breakfast table and pushed it away from her. “A reincarnated serial killer! In the name of God, do these media people think we'll swallow anything?”

For many years Clayton and Rachel Wilcox had been having two copies of both
The Asbury Park Press
and
The New York Times
delivered daily.

Like her, he was reading
The Asbury Park Press.
“I think the newspaper is clearly saying that the question of a reincarnated serial killer was asked of the prosecutor Thursday. I do not read anywhere a suggestion that
The Asbury Park Press
gives credence to such a possibility.”

She did not answer him. Not surprising, Clayton thought. Rachel's mood had been absolutely foul since Detective Duggan had phoned Thursday afternoon. She had been on her way out, and he had been assembling books for Emily Graham. Rachel had been outraged at the suggestion that the people at the
Lawrence home the night before Martha disappeared were going to be brought together as a group, then questioned by the police. Again.

“The absolute
gall
of that man!” she had raged. “Does he think that suddenly one of you will blurt out a confession, or point a finger at someone else?”

It wryly amused Clayton Wilcox that it apparently did not occur to Rachel that anybody would ever consider
her
a possible suspect in Martha's death.

He was tempted to point that out to her and say, “Rachel, you're a very strong woman. You carry anger in you, and it's always waiting to be unleashed. You have an instinctive dislike for beautiful young women with long blond hair, and I don't have to tell you why.”

After twenty-seven years she still occasionally taunted him about that early affair with Helene. Rachel was right that at that time she alone had been responsible for saving his academic career. When the rumors started flying around the campus, he could have lost tenure. Rachel had tongue-lashed the teacher who started the rumor, and she lied to cover her husband when someone else claimed that she had seen him in a hotel with Helene.

He had enjoyed his academic career. He still published regularly in academic journals and savored the respect of the academic world.

Thank God neither Rachel nor anyone from Enoch College ever knew why he had taken early retirement from the presidency there.

Clayton pushed back his chair and rose. “I'm confident the Mass will be well attended,” he said. “I suggest
we leave by ten-thirty to be sure of getting seats.”

“I thought we agreed on that last night.”

“I suppose we did.” He turned to escape into his study but was stopped by the question she flung at him.

“Where did you
go
last night?” she asked.

He turned back to her slowly. “After we watched the news, I tried to work on my novel again, but I had a headache. I went for a long walk, which I'm sure you'll be glad to know did the trick. I came back to the house feeling much better.”

“You
do
seem to get these headaches at odd hours, don't you, Clayton?” Rachel asked as she opened her copy of
The New York Times.

W
ILL
S
TAFFORD
genuinely meant it when, upon awakening, he resolved to have oatmeal for breakfast instead of bacon and eggs, or sausages and waffles.

Why do I keep that stuff in the refrigerator? he asked himself an hour later, when after being on the bike and treadmill in his exercise room, he was now in his sweat suit in the kitchen, preparing scrambled eggs and sausages.

While he ate, he read the
New York Post.
Their writers had consulted a parapsychologist who taught at the New School about the possibility that a serial
killer from the late nineteenth century had been reincarnated.

The parapsychologist said that he did not believe that anyone came back with
exactly
the same personality—criminal or otherwise. Sometimes physical characteristics were carried through, he explained. Sometimes an inherent, almost mystical, full-blown talent arrives with the new person. Mozart, for example, was a musical genius at the age of three. Most certainly, emotional baggage from other incarnations may be the reason some people have to deal with seemingly inexplicable emotional problems or obsessions.

Another article raised the possibility that the murder of Madeline Shapley in 1891 might have been the deed of Jack the Ripper. The time frame was right. He had never been caught, but his brutal crimes had suddenly stopped in England, and there had always been a theory that he had migrated to New York.

A third article carefully reminded readers that although two other young women had disappeared from Spring Lake in the 1890s, there was no definite proof that either had been murdered.

Shaking his head, Will got up and, as second nature, carried his dishes to the sink and began to tidy the kitchen. He looked into the refrigerator and checked to be sure he had a good supply of cheese.

This afternoon, when Duggan got them all together here, it certainly wouldn't be a social event, he thought, but he'd put out some cheese and crackers, and offer everyone a glass of wine or a cup of coffee.

He debated about asking Emily Graham to have
dinner with him. Of course, he was escorting her to the church and to the Lawrences' for the luncheon, but he realized that he very much wanted to have some real one-on-one time with her.

A very interesting and attractive lady.

Maybe he would offer to cook dinner here. Show off, he thought with a half smile. Thursday, at lunch, Natalie joked that people around here begged for an invitation to his dinner table.