On the Street Where you Live (35 page)

“Unless, of course, Natalie's murder was the result of a quarrel between husband and wife, disguised to look like one of the serial murders. That would point toward Bob Frieze as a suspect but would take it out of the serial killer loop.”

“Which also means that another young woman
may die in Spring Lake tonight. But who? I checked a short while ago—no one has been reported missing. Let's call it a day. It's getting late, and we can't accomplish anything more here,” Tommy said.

“Well,
something
was accomplished. While we were at the crime scene, Wilcox called and allowed our guys to wire him. We've got Gina Fielding on tape, trying to extort money from him.”

“And now his guilty secret will be featured in
The National Daily
the day after tomorrow. I still say he was trying to get one jump ahead of us by agreeing to implicate her. In a way, it makes him sympathetic. But I still don't trust him. And so far as I'm concerned, he's still very much in the running as a suspect.”

They started to leave when Pete said, “Wait a minute,” and pointed to an envelope on Tommy's desk. “We never did drop this enlarged photo at Emily Graham's like we promised.”

“Take it with you and run it over tomorrow morning.”

As Pete picked up the envelope, the telephone rang. It was the Spring Lake police, relaying the message that Emily Graham's stalker had been identified and was believed to be somewhere in town.

On hearing the news, Tommy said, “On second thought, maybe we'll drop that photo off tonight.”

E
MILY HAD HER CELL PHONE
in her pocket, a habit she had developed since the picture of her in church was slipped under the door last Sunday. She reached for it now, hoping that her grandmother hadn't turned in early and shut off the phone. She had been reading the final diary of Julia Gordon Lawrence that had been included in the material the Lawrences had loaned her, and she had a question about it she hoped her grandmother could help answer.

She had read earlier that Richard Carter's second wife gave birth to a baby girl in 1900. In relation to that, an entry in 1911 puzzled her. In it Julia had written: “I have heard from Lavinia. She writes that she is very happy to be home in Denver. After a year, her little daughter has quite recovered from the loss of her father and is flourishing. Lavinia herself confesses to being tremendously relieved. In fact she was rather astonishingly frank when she took pen to paper. She writes that Douglas had a deep well of coldness within him, and at times she was quite frightened of him. She feels that it was a blessing that his death released her from that marriage and has given her child a chance to grow up in a more congenial and warm atmosphere.”

Emily put down the diary and snapped open the cell phone. Her grandmother answered with a quick
hello, a sure sign that she was watching television and wasn't thrilled to get a call.

“Gran,” Emily said. “I have something I have to read to you because it simply doesn't make sense.”

“All right, dear.”

Emily explained the entry and read it to her. “Why would she refer to him as Douglas when his name was Richard?”

“Oh, I can tell you that. His name was Douglas Richard, but in those days it was common to call a man by his middle name if he had the same name as his father. Madeline's fiancé was actually Douglas Richard III. I understand the father was a very handsome man.”

“He was a handsome man, with an invalid wife, and she was the one who had the money. Gran, you've been a great help. I know you were watching television, so go back to it. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Emily clicked off the phone. “It
wasn't
young Douglas who was the killer,” she said aloud. “It wasn't his cousin Alan Carter either. It was his
father.
And when he died, his wife and daughter moved to Denver.”

Denver!
Suddenly she saw the connection.

“Will Stafford was
raised
in Denver! His mother
lived
in Denver!” she said aloud.

Emily suddenly felt a shadowy presence hovering over her and froze in stunned terror as she heard a voice whisper in her ear.

“That's right, Emily,” Will Stafford said. “I
was
raised in Denver.”

Before she could make a move, Emily felt her arms being pinned to her sides. She tried to struggle to her
feet, but a rope was quickly looped around her chest, holding her to the back of the chair.

Moving with lightning-swift efficiency, Stafford was on his knees before her, tying her feet and legs.

She forced herself not to scream. It would be useless, she realized, and he might decide to put tape over her mouth. Make him
talk
to you, an inner voice whispered, keep him talking! The police
do
have the house under surveillance. Maybe they'll ring the bell, she thought, and when they don't get an answer, they'll force their way in.

He stood up. Pulled the ski mask off his face. Unzipped his jacket. Stepped out of the baggy ski pants.

Underneath his outer layer of clothing, Will Stafford was wearing a very old-fashioned high-collared shirt and string tie. The wide lapels of his turn-of-the-century dark blue suit accentuated his stiffly starched white shirt. His hair was combed in an uncharacteristic side part and brushed tightly across the top of his head. It was also somewhat darker than his natural color, as were his eyebrows.

Then Emily noted with a start that he had painted a narrow mustache above his upper lip.

“May I introduce myself, Miss Graham?” he asked with a short, formal bow. “I am Douglas Richard Carter.”

Don't panic, Emily warned herself. It's all over if you panic. The longer you can stay alive, the better chance you have that the police will check on you.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” she said, struggling to mask her terror, managing to speak through lips almost too dry to form the words.

“You do know, of course, that you must die? Ellen Swain has been waiting for you to join her in her grave.”

His voice is different too, Emily thought. The words are more precise, clipped almost. It sounds as if he has a slight British accent.
Reason with him,
she ordered herself fiercely.

“But Natalie Frieze is with Ellen,” she managed to say. “The cycle is complete.”

“Natalie was never meant to be with Ellen.” His tone was impatient. “It was always you. Ellen is interred near the lake. The drawing I sent showing Natalie's tombstone next to Ellen's was meant to mislead. They are not together. But you will sleep with Ellen soon.”

He bent down and caressed Emily's cheeks. “You remind me of Madeline,” he whispered. “You, with your beauty and youth and vitality. Can you understand what it was like for me to look across the street and see my son with you and to know that I was condemned to live my life with an ailing woman whose beauty was gone, whose sole attraction was her wealth?”

“But surely you loved your son and wanted him to be happy?”

“Surely I would not allow someone as exquisite as Madeline to be in his arms while I sat at the bedside of a besotted invalid.”

There was a flash of light from a passing police cruiser. “Our police in Spring Lake do their best to secure our safety,” Will Stafford said as he reached in his pocket and brought out a piece of silvery material
edged with metal beading. “Since they have just checked this house, we will have at least a few minutes more. Is there anything more you would like me to explain to you?”

T
HE
S
PRING
L
AKE
P
OLICE SQUAD CAR
was cruising along Ocean Avenue. “There it is!” Officer Reap said, pointing to a dark blue van parked in one of the spots that faced the boardwalk.

They pulled into the space beside it and rapped on the front window. “There's light coming from the back,” Phil said. He rapped again, harder.

“Police, open up!” he called.

Inside, Eric was watching the screen in rapt fascination, and he had no intention of being interrupted. The key to the van was in his pocket. He pulled it out and pressed the remote button that unlocked the doors.

“Come in,” he said. “I'm right here. I've been expecting you. But please let me finish watching my show.”

Reap and his partner slid open the door and immediately saw the television screen. What does he think he's doing? This guy must be a nut, Reap thought, as he glanced at the screen. For an instant he thought he was watching a horror movie.

“He's going to kill her,” Eric said. “Be quiet, he's talking to her. Listen to what he has to say.”

The two officers stood immobile for a moment, transfixed by the shocking realization of what was unfolding in front of them and by the calmness of the voice that came through the speaker.

“In my current incarnation I had only expected to repeat the pattern of the past,” Will Stafford was saying, “but it was not to be. I thought Bernice Joyce was a threat that had to be eliminated. Her last words to me as she died were that she was mistaken. She thought she had seen someone else pick up the scarf. A pity. She did not have to die after all.”

“Why Natalie?” Emily asked, fighting for time.

“I am sorry about Natalie. The night of the Lawrence party, she had stepped onto the porch to have a final cigarette before she gave them up for good. From that vantage point, she may have seen me carrying the scarf to the car. When she started smoking again at our luncheon last Wednesday, I could sense that she was starting to remember. She had become a danger. I could not allow her to live. But don't worry. Her death was mercifully swift. It always has been that way. It will be for you too, Emily, I promise.”

Astounded, Officer Reap realized suddenly that he was about to see a murder committed.

“. . . when I was fourteen, my mother and I first came to Spring Lake. A sentimental journey for her. She never stopped loving my father. We walked past the house where her mother, my grandmother, had been born.”

“God Almighty, that's Will Stafford and Emily
Graham!” Reap snapped. “I was by her house last Sunday after that picture of her at the memorial Mass was pushed under her door. Stay here with him!” he shouted to the other officer, as he leapt out of the van and broke into a run.

“. . . The woman who lived in my great-grandfather's house invited us in. I became bored and started rummaging around on the second floor of the carriage house. I found his old diary. I was
meant
to find it, you see, because I am Douglas Richard Carter. I have returned to Spring Lake.”

Don't let me be too late, Phil Reap prayed as he got back in the squad car. As he raced to 100 Hayes Avenue, he radioed headquarters for backup.

N
ICK
T
ODD DECIDED
that for his own peace of mind, he would drive past Emily's house just to reassure himself that all was well inside. He was just approaching it when a police car came racing down the street from the other direction and pulled into the driveway.

With a sense of dread, Nick pulled in behind the police car and quickly jumped out. “Has anything happened to Emily?” he demanded. Please, God, please, don't let anything happen to her, he begged silently.

“We hope not,” Officer Reap said tersely. “Stay out of my way.”

*   *   *

T
HE POLICE WILL DRIVE BY AGAIN
, Emily promised herself. But then if they didn't see him come in, what good is that? she reasoned. He's managed to get away with the murders of Martha, Carla, Natalie, Mrs. Joyce, and probably others. I'm next. Oh, dear God,
I want to live!

“Tell me about the diaries,” she said. “You have kept a record of everything, haven't you? You must have written down every detail of the way everything happened, of your emotions at the time, of the reactions of the families of the girls?”

“Exactly.” He seemed pleased that she understood. “Emily, for a woman you are very intelligent, but your intelligence is limited by a woman's natural enemy—her generosity of spirit. With compassion visible in your eyes, you drank in my story about taking the blame for a friend who had been the real driver in an accident. I told you that because my receptionist admitted she had revealed too much to that gossip columnist, and I was afraid if something was printed, it would put you on your guard.”

“Whatever you did, the juvenile record would have remained sealed.”

“What I did was to follow my great-grandfather's example. I overpowered a young woman, but before I could complete my mission, her screams were heard. I spent three years in juvenile detention, not one as I told you.”

“It is time, Emily—time for you to join lovely
Madeline, time for you to rest with Ellen.”

Emily stared at the tattered shreds of cloth in his hands.
He's enjoying himself,
she thought. Make him keep answering questions. He wants to brag.

“When I am with Ellen, will it be over?” she asked.

He was behind her now, gently wrapping the remnant of scarf around her neck.

“I wish that could be true, but alas there is at least one more. Dr. Madden's secretary unfortunately caught a glimpse of me the night I visited Dr. Madden. In time, she might remember me. Like Bernice Joyce and Natalie Frieze, she poses an unacceptable risk.”

He leaned forward and brushed her cheek with his lips. “I kissed Madeline as I tightened her sash,” he whispered.

T
OMMY
D
UGGAN AND
P
ETE
W
ALSH
arrived at Emily's house just in time to see Officer Reap running up the steps to the porch, followed by another man.