On the Street Where you Live (18 page)

Nick turned from the window. “Emily, whoever took the life of Martha Lawrence and then did something so bizarre as to put the finger bone of your relative
in her hand has a dangerous, twisted mind. I hope you're not telling people around here that you're trying to find out who the murderer is.”

That's exactly what I'm doing, Emily thought. Sensing Nick's disapproval, she chose her words carefully. “It's always been assumed that Madeline Shapley met with foul play, but until four days ago there was no way of proving it. It was suspected she was the victim of someone known to her, but for all they knew, she might have decided to take a short walk while she was waiting for her fiancé, then been dragged into a passing carriage by a perfect stranger.

“Nick, a stranger didn't bury her in her own backyard. Someone who
knew
Madeline, who was
close
to her, buried her there. I'm trying to put together the names of the people around her to see if I can establish a link between her killer and the man who was responsible for Martha Lawrence's death four and a half years ago. There has to be a written statement about it somewhere, maybe even a detailed confession. It might have been read by someone of this generation whose ancestor was Madeline's killer. It might have been found by someone going through old records. But there
is
a link, and I have the time and the will to dig for it.”

The disapproval in his expression softened and was replaced by something else. Concern? Emily thought, but that wasn't it. No, I swear he looks
disappointed.
Why?

“Let's finish the tour and head for the Old Mill,” she suggested. “I don't know about you, but I'm hungry.
And I'm tired of my own cooking.” She smiled and added, “Even though I am a fabulous cook.”

“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” Nick Todd suggested mildly as he followed her from the kitchen to the staircase.

T
HEIR TABLE AT THE
O
LD
M
ILL
overlooked a pond, where swans were sedately gliding through the water. When the bloody marys they'd ordered were served, the waitress offered menus. “We'll wait for a few minutes,” Nick told her.

In the three months since she had agreed to accept the position with the law firm, Emily had dined with Nick and Walter Todd, his father, three or four times in Manhattan, but never with Nick alone.

Her first impression of him had been mixed. He and Walter Todd had come up to Albany and stayed overnight to observe her defense of a prominent politician in a vehicular homicide.

She had gone to lunch with the Todds after the jury acquitted her client of criminally negligent homicide. Walter Todd had been lavish in his praise of the way she handled the case. Nick had been reticent, and the few compliments dragged out of him by his father had been perfunctory at best. She had wondered at the time if there was an insecurity in him, and thought perhaps he perceived her as a potential rival.

But that didn't jibe with the fact that since she had accepted the offer to join them, his attitude had been cordial and friendly.

Today he was sending mixed signals again. He seemed uncomfortable. Did it have anything to do with her, or was it a personal problem? She knew he wasn't married, but undoubtedly there was a girlfriend in the picture.

“I wish I could read your mind, Emily.” Nick's voice broke in on her reverie. “You're in what they used to call a ‘brown study.'”

“I don't think I've ever heard that one.”

“It means being deep in thought.”

She decided to be candid. “I'll gladly tell you what I was thinking. There's something about me that troubles you, and I wish you'd just lay it out on the table. Do you
want
me in the firm? Do you think I'm the right person for the job? Something's up. What is it?”

“You don't beat around the bush, do you?” Nick picked the celery stalk out of his glass and bit into it. “Do I want you in the firm? Absolutely! I wish you'd start tomorrow frankly. Which, incidentally, is why I'm here right now.” He put his glass down and began to tell her about his decision.

As he told her of his desire to leave the firm, Emily was surprised to realize how dismayed she was to learn Nick's plans. I was looking forward to working with him, she thought.

“Where will you apply for a job?” she asked.

“The U.S. Attorney's office. That's where I'd really like to go. Failing that, I'm pretty sure that I could go back to Boston. I worked as an assistant DA there. When I left, the DA told me I'd be welcome to come back if I didn't like private practice. I'd prefer to stay
in New York. But my guess is that I'm not going to be able to sweet-talk you into starting at the office next week, am I?”

“I'm afraid not. Will your father be very upset?”

“The cold, hard reality that I'm leaving is undoubtedly sinking in, and he's probably hanging me in effigy right now. When I report back to him that you'll be unavailable until May 1st, you'll be right there beside me.”

“‘We must all hang together or most assuredly . . .'” Emily smiled.

“‘We'll hang separately.' Exactly.” Nick Todd picked up the menu. “Business concluded,” he said. “What's your choice?”

I
T WAS NEARLY FOUR O'CLOCK
when he dropped her off at home. He walked her to the porch and waited while she put her key in the door. “You do have a good alarm system?” he asked.

“Absolutely. And tomorrow an old friend from Albany is going to install security cameras.”

Nick's eyebrows went up. “After that stalker you had in Albany, I can understand why you'd want them.”

She opened the door. They saw it at the same time. An envelope on the floor of the foyer, the flap side facing up.

“Looks as if someone left a note for you,” Nick said as he bent to pick it up.

“Pick it up by the corner. It may have fingerprints.” Emily did not recognize her own voice. It had come out as a strained whisper.

Nick looked at her sharply, but obeyed. As he stood up, the flap of the envelope flew open and a photograph fell out. It was of Emily in church at the memorial Mass.

Scrawled across the bottom were three words: “Pray for yourself.”

I
AM EAGERLY LOOKING FORWARD
to the activity that I know will ensue later today.

I am very pleased that I changed my mind and made Emily Graham the recipient of my message.

Her mail should be delivered soon.

As I expected, there were questions about the scarf, but I'm sure that no one can prove who finally took possession of it that night.

Martha admired it. I heard her tell Rachel that it was very pretty.

I remember that at that very moment, the thought ran through my head that Martha had just chosen the instrument of her own death.

After all, a scarf, I thought, is not unlike the sash that squeezed the breath from Madeline's throat.

At least I no longer have to be concerned about the psychologist. I do not even have to be concerned if they somehow manage to reconstruct her computer files.

When I consulted Dr. Madden it was in the evening, and the receptionist was not there, so no one else saw me.

And the name and address I gave her will mean nothing to them.

Because they do not—
will
not—ever understand that we are one.

There is only one person who, learning that name and address, might begin to suspect, but it won't matter.

For I have no fears on that score, either. Emily Graham is going to die on Saturday. She will sleep with Ellen Swain.

And after that, I shall live out the rest of my life as I have before, as a respectable and honored citizen of Spring Lake.

T
OMMY
D
UGGAN
had been about to leave the office on Sunday afternoon when the call came in from Emily Graham. He immediately rushed to Spring Lake and took the envelope and photograph from her.

On Monday morning, he and Pete Walsh were in the prosecutor's private office, filling their boss in on the events of the weekend. Osborne had been in Washington since Friday evening.

Tommy briefed him on the Madden murder and his interrogation at Will Stafford's home of the guests at that final Lawrence party.

“It's Mrs. Wilcox's scarf, and she was wearing it
that night. She claims she asked her husband to put it in his pocket. He claims she asked him to put it next to her pocketbook.”

“The Wilcoxes drove their car to the Lawrences that night, sir,” Walsh offered. “It was parked down the block. If Dr. Wilcox stuck the scarf in his pocket, it might have fallen out, either in the house or on the street; then anyone could have picked it up. And if he left it with her pocketbook, again, anyone could have taken it.”

Osborne tapped the top of his desk with his index finger. “From what was left of it, that scarf appeared to be fairly long. It would have been pretty bulky to fold up and put in the pocket of a summer jacket.”

Tommy nodded. “That's what I thought too. By the time it was used to strangle Martha, part of it had been cut off. But on the other hand, Wilcox lied to his wife about calling the Lawrences to ask if it had been found. His story is that by then everyone knew Martha was missing, and he wasn't going to bother them about a scarf.”

“He could have spoken to the housekeeper,” Osborne observed.

“Something else,” Tommy said. “We think that Wilcox was lying about not knowing Dr. Madden.”

“How much do we know about Wilcox? I mean
really
know about him?”

Tommy Duggan looked at Walsh. “Pete, you take over. You checked him out.”

Pete Walsh pulled out his notes. “Solid academic career. Ended up president of Enoch College. That's one of those places that are small, but snooty. Retired
twelve years ago. Used to come to Spring Lake summers when he was a kid, so settled here. Publishes regularly in academic journals. They don't pay enough to keep a sparrow in breadcrumbs, but it's considered hot stuff to be in them. Since he settled here, he's done a lot of historical writing about New Jersey, particularly Monmouth County. He's considered something of the town historian in Spring Lake.”

“Which ties in with Emily Graham's theory that Martha Lawrence's killer had access to records about the women who disappeared in the 1890s,” Tommy pointed out. “I swear that guy was lying when he said he didn't know Dr. Madden. I want to start digging a lot deeper with him. My bet is that there's dirt to be found.”

“Anything more about the Carla Harper case?” Osborne asked.

“The eyewitness is sticking to her story that she saw Carla at a rest stop in Pennsylvania. At the time, she gave interviews to everyone in the media who would talk to her. The cops in Pennsylvania admit they made a mistake in accepting the eyewitness's story, but when Carla's pocketbook was found near that rest stop a few days later, it gave the witness the credibility she needed. The killer was probably laughing when he tossed it out the window of his car. Now the trail is cold, especially since the Warren Hotel closed last year. That's where Carla Harper was staying the weekend before she disappeared.” He shrugged. It was a dead end.

Finally Tommy and Pete filled in Elliot Osborne on
the call they had received at 4:00
P.M.
on Sunday from Emily Graham.

“She has guts,” Tommy said. “White as a sheet, but composed when we got there. She thinks it's a copycat situation, and that's the way the Spring Lake cops are leaning too. I talked to Marty Browski, the guy who handled her stalking case in Albany.”

“What does Browski think?” Osborne asked.

“He thinks that the wrong guy is doing time on this one. He's reopened the investigation and says he has two possible suspects: Emily Graham's ex-husband, Gary White, and Joel Lake, a slime she got off on a murder rap.”

“What do you think?”

“Best possible scenario: copycat. A teenager or a couple of teenagers found out that Emily was being stalked in Albany and are playing sicko games with her now. Middle scenario: either Gary White or Joel Lake. Worst possible scenario: the guy who killed Martha Lawrence is toying with Graham.”

“Which scenario do you buy?”

“Copycat. Dr. Lillian Madden, the psychologist who was murdered in Belmar, was definitely tied to the Lawrence case. I'd stake everything that Martha's killer must have been Dr. Madden's patient and couldn't take a chance on her talking to us about him. But on the other hand, I don't think he would be so dumb as to risk being seen hanging around Emily Graham's house. He has too much at stake.”

“Have you any idea where the person who took that picture of Emily Graham in church might have been sitting?”

“Across the aisle. In a pew to the left.”

“Suppose Browski—that's the name, isn't it?—is right that Graham's original stalker is on the loose in Spring Lake? I'd say that if he's obsessed enough to come all the way down here from Albany, she's in extreme danger.”

“If the original stalker is the one doing this, yes, she's definitely in extreme danger,” Tommy Duggan agreed soberly.

Elliot Osborne's secretary's voice came over the intercom. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Emily Graham is on the phone. She insists she must speak to Detective Duggan at once.”

Tommy Duggan picked up the phone. “Duggan, Ms. Graham.”

The prosecutor and Pete Walsh watched as the lines deepened on Duggan's face. “We'll be right over, Ms. Graham.”

He hung up and looked at Osborne. “Emily Graham received a troubling postcard in the morning mail.”

“The stalker? Another picture of herself?”