Twenty-Five Years Ago Today (14 page)

"Sure, I've been meaning to see if you have
any of Diana's paintings," Kris said. "I'll stop by after I meet
her old teacher, Alex Thaddeus."

"Thank you, Kris. Except for Lieutenant
Frank, no one has ever been this determined to help me. You'll do
what no one else has done. I know it. Bye, honey."

Kris sank back into her pillows beside a
purring Chipmunk. Irene's hopes had been lifted higher than the
moon ruled over by the goddess Diana. Kris jammed her hands inside
the deep pockets of her robe. Her gaze lingered on the picture of
her cousin. She'd let down Nicole.

She wouldn't disappoint Irene Ferguson.

***

Kris climbed three flights of stairs, her
boots tracking slush marks over the wooden steps. Shivering, she
lingered in the dim stairwell of the history department. She had
arrived between mid-morning classes. A cold gust floated from the
first floor, where students streamed in and out of the main
entrance. Kris popped her head into a heated office and asked for
directions.

A secretary pointed down the corridor.
"Professor Thaddeus is with someone, but he shouldn't be long."

Kris waited on a bench near the window.
Outside, students trudged down slushy pathways, hoisting book bags.
White light glared from the long rectangle of snow.

A young blonde stepped out of Alex Thaddeus'
office. "You're great, Mr. T!"

She passed Kris, mouthing, "He's so
gorgeous."

Kris knocked on the open door. One quick look
around the room assured her that she had come to the right place. A
glassed-in oak case against the back wall held a bronze statuette
of Pan, the god of flocks and shepherds. She recognized him from
the half-man, half-goat body. Small marble busts flanked the
figurine.

Alex Thaddeus glanced up from a desk
organized with stacks of paper. A lock of hair the color of
sunlight on wheat tumbled across his forehead. His rugged face,
creased with pockets of lines, held deep masculinity. Kris could
see why his age didn't discourage younger women. Something in his
manner made him boyish and mature at the same time.

Alex flashed a half-grin, showing perfect
white teeth. His hazel eyes crinkled in the corners. "Sit down.
You're not my student, are you?"

"I'm Kris Langley," she said, pulling out a
chair. "I work for the local newspaper. I've come to talk with you
about Diana Ferguson."

A sandy eyebrow shot up. "Diana? You're
kidding."

Kris described the murder investigation and
how she had noticed his name in the yearbook. "Her friends and
family mentioned she was fond of you."

"What did they say, exactly?"

"That Diana respected you as a teacher. I was
hoping you could give me your impression of her."

Alex picked up a pencil and rolled it between
his fingers. He tapped the eraser against his crisp white shirt.
"I'd love to tell you about Diana, but if you're searching for
insight into her death, I didn't see her after she graduated. I did
attend her funeral with a delegation of teachers."

"That's okay. I want to know what she was
like in high school. Were you surprised she didn't go to
college?"

"I didn't expect her to immediately. She'd
had that horrible loss with her father. It made her feel life was
hopeless, and why bother making a place for yourself when you're
going to die. Those were her exact words when I encouraged her to
send out college applications."

"You thought she'd change her mind?"

"I knew it would take time," Alex said. "But
not that much time. When her sister started teaching, I was
surprised to learn Diana worked at a drugstore. I was even more
surprised to hear about Rossi's Bar."

Kris gestured toward the Greek artifacts
against the back wall. "I've been curious why Diana painted
mythology scenes."

Alex left his desk and approached the
bookcase. His blazer and faded pressed blue jeans clung to his slim
build. Kris had pictured him taller, but he was average height. Her
gaze wandered to a bulletin board behind his desk. Glossy
wallet-sized class photos of female students, and postcards
depicting the Colosseum, Trevi Fountain and the Acropolis, covered
every inch of cork. One card flipped to the back had the loopy
cursive of a young woman. "I finally made it to Europe, Mr. T," it
read. "Wish you were here!!"

Cheryl had told her that he had charisma.

"I'm of Greek descent, so my grandparents
were always telling stories that had been passed down for
generations," Alex said over his shoulder. "My passion is
mythology, much to the chagrin of my ex-wife. I used to drag her to
Greece and Italy so I could add to my collection. I keep the
originals at home, but I like to have reproductions on hand to show
my students."

"Diana became interested, too?" Kris joined
him near the window.

"Yes, especially once I started the History
Club. I could only focus on it a little in class, but in the club,
we'd spend a semester on myth and legend. I'd show slides and bring
the kids to the museum."

"Why do you think Diana liked mythology?"

"It was all about exiles, quarrels,
seductions and illegitimate births." Alex displayed his half-grin,
amusement sparkling in his eyes. "It was the forerunner of the
modern soap opera. Many cultures used folktales to explain the
workings of the universe, like why the seasons changed or why they
had a bad harvest, but Greek myths were the most enjoyable, in my
opinion."

Kris imagined him in class, his deep voice
gaining excitement. She would've had a crush on him, too. Alex and
Jared were opposites, yet they both had great creative passion. But
Vince Rossi ... what had Diana seen in him?

"Egyptian gods were a strange combination of
humans and animals," Alex went on. "Nordic gods looked human, but
were all good or all bad, which was unrealistic. The Greek gods had
human weaknesses so we can identify with them even today. I'm not
sure what Diana's reasons were, but that's why I'm enthralled."

"It seems like mythology inspired artists in
ancient times. I didn't realize that until I saw your
collection."

"They were incredible craftsmen. If you'd
like, I'll give you a quick tour of my office, but you may regret
getting me going."

"I'll take my chances."

Alex unlocked the glass case and drew out a
coin. He flipped it to both sides, cupping it in his callused hand.
"This has the head of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, on one side,
and an owl with an olive branch on the reverse. Those were her
symbols. All the gods were associated with symbols, for example,
Hera with the peacock and Zeus with the eagle."

He touched a glazed vase portraying a god in
a chariot, the figures red against a black background. "This
depicts Apollo, the god of the sun, music, prophecy and archery. He
was one of the few gods who kept his name in Roman mythology,
although they made him less masculine. The Romans respected war
more than artistic abilities. Apollo was the brother of Artemis,
the goddess of the moon."

"The Romans called her Diana, didn't
they?"

"Very good. Diana was the goddess of young
women, childbirth, nature, harvest and the hunt."

Kris inched toward an oil painting on the
wall. A young woman grasped a bow, feet poised as if running. Her
delicate hands and flowing brown hair were turning to leaves, her
ankles to branches. She looked terrified. Kris noticed the girl's
pursuer, a golden-haired man clutching a lyre. Two solemn stags
watched in the distance, near a thicket of trees.

How haunting.

She noticed the signature.

DMF.

Kris pivoted to face Alex Thaddeus. "Diana
Ferguson painted this. How did you get it?"

He didn't respond right away.

"She gave it to me for Christmas when she was
in high school," he finally said, leaning against the windowsill.
"It's of Apollo and Daphne, a mountain nymph. To get even with
Apollo, Cupid struck them both with arrows. Apollo's was to excite
love, and Daphne's to repel it. Apollo longed to obtain her, and
pursued Daphne against her will. As he gained on her, Daphne called
upon her father, the river god, to change her form. She was
transformed into a laurel tree. Apollo used her leaves to decorate
his crown, harp and quiver."

"You've kept the painting all this time?"

"It's beautiful, and it was my first
indication that I'd made a difference to a student. Diana used to
tell me that reading myths inspired her to paint, but I had no idea
of her talent."

Kris turned back to Daphne's horrified
face.

Diana had talent all right. She had an
amazing knack for human agony.

Chapter 13

25 Years Ago Today

Fremont Fire Chief Andrew Thayer proposes
seven-day-a-week coverage of the Center Fire Station to
selectmen
.

W
rinkling her nose,
Kris knelt beside the wire cage in Irene's living room. A sable
ferret scurried past a green-striped hammock, attached water bottle
and ratty old towel. Cheryl hadn’t been kidding about the musky
smell.

Irene lifted his long body into her arms.
"This is Puzzles. When my dog died, I didn't have the heart to get
another one. I thought I'd choose something different."

Kris patted the squirming animal on the head.
She preferred her cat, but Puzzles possessed a certain charm. He
sniffed her fingers, as if she were the one who stunk.

"Come on, I'll show you Diana's paintings."
Irene set the ferret onto the layers of Oriental rugs and led Kris
through the three-room apartment.

Paisley shawls draped the wicker chairs in
the living room and flowered chintz curtains framed the windows.
Porcelain plates etched with birds and vines cluttered the beige
kitchen walls. A warm savory scent punctuated the air. Kris had
expected tea, but Irene had made beef stew and heated a loaf of
Italian bread.

She examined a silver-framed picture of Diana
on the vanity table in Irene's bedroom. Another photograph showed a
middle-aged man with graying brown hair and a pleasant face. Both
pictures were arranged on an antique swatch of white lace.

"Was this your husband?" Kris asked.

Her smile wistful, Irene nodded. "Wasn't he
handsome?"

"Very."

"He looks like Eric. He would've loved to
have a grandson."

Kris started with the artwork near the
closet. With the uneven edges and smudged watercolors, a child had
done the gentle scenes of bears, dogs and horses.

All had a crooked signature -- DMF.

Irene padded up behind Kris, her slippered
feet tapping against the floor. "Diana was ten when she did those.
Her father was proud that she had his artistic talent. Joe got
Diana her own easel, brought it home on a whim. You would've
thought it was Christmas, she was so excited."

She pointed to a row of lighthouses and
mountains in textured acrylic strokes. "This is Joe's work. Cheryl
has most of his paintings, but I wanted to keep a few."

"Did he sell his art?"

"A little, mostly to local restaurants and
hotels, but with two kids, Joe didn't have much time. Diana was
more serious. She dragged him to museums, saying how one day, her
work would be up there."

"I didn't think Diana wanted to sell her
paintings," Kris said. "I assumed it was personal, something just
for her."

"Not at first. When she was younger, Diana
planned to be a professional artist. After her father died, it
became more like therapy. She had no ambition anymore, no interest
in anything except losing herself in her art."

As Diana's style matured, oils replaced
watercolors and the cuddly animals disappeared. Kris detected a
subtle change as if the Muses had offered Diana her true
inspiration.

She lingered near a scene with swirling
yellow shafts. Ivory horses carried a golden chariot across the
brilliant sky, past the white hot sun. They skimmed over a
miniature village nestled in a sloping hollow. Shadows bathing his
features, a yellow-haired rider cracked a whip in the chariot.

Apollo the sun god?

"When did Diana do this?" Kris asked.

"After high school. This was one of the nicer
ones. She did disturbing work after her father died, bleak pictures
of death. Cheryl has those in her basement."

Irene perched on the four-poster brass bed
and looked up at a painting above the headboard. Kris studied it.
Long dark hair streaming down her back, a young woman led a pack of
boars, birds, deer and hounds. She aimed an arrow through the trees
with her jaw clenched. A crescent moon hung in the background.

It must be the goddess Diana. She even had
the bow and the appearance of the real Diana.

"Her father painted that, his last work
before he died," Irene said, a slight tremble to her lips. "Diana
treasured it. That's why I keep it over my bed."

"I can see why she loved it. What was her
last painting?"

"I'm not sure. One weekend, she locked
herself in her room except for work. She did that when she was
engrossed in her art. I figured if she wanted to show it to me, she
would." Irene's shoulders sagged forward. "A few weeks later, she
was dead."

"You never found it?"

"No. All the other paintings I recognized."
Irene started sobbing, her face caving into a pouch of
wrinkles.

Kris watched helplessly, and then rushed to
her side. Embracing her, she stroked Irene's soft gray hair.

"First Joe, then Diana. I lost half my
family. When Joe died, my only comfort was my daughters. Colon
cancer happens so fast. It was awful, Kris."

Kris winced. Her dad's biggest problem was
high cholesterol, and even that worried her. "I can't imagine how
difficult it must've been."

"When he was diagnosed, Cheryl and Diana took
it hard. We put up a brave front around Joe, but when we were
alone, we crumbled. Without Diana and Cheryl, I couldn't have gone
on. When Eric was born, I couldn't believe that I had joy in my
life again. But when Diana was ... was killed, I was left with a
lifetime of hurt. After she didn't come home, I knew something
terrible must have happened, but it was still a shock when the
police knocked on the door."