She laid the letter down on her lap and sat quietly. Madeline and Martha, she thought, Letitia and Carla, Ellen and . . . ?
Unless something happened, there would be another victim on Saturday; she was now convinced of the inevitability of that. Oh, dear God, help us to find a way to stop him, she prayed.
She had intended to close off the dining room before Clayton Wilcox arrived, but she was so deeply absorbed in reading the letters that when the doorbell rang, she ran to answer it, forgetting either to turn off the light or close the door.
For a moment after she opened the front door, the sight of Dr. Clayton Wilcox’s hulking figure standing on the porch caused a sensation of pure fright to rush through her. What is happening to me? she asked herself, as she stepped aside to let him in and murmured a greeting.
She had been hoping that he would hand her the bag of books and leave, but instead Wilcox walked past her and stood well inside the foyer.
“It’s gotten quite chilly,” he said pointedly.
“Of course.” Emily knew she had no option but to close the door. She realized her palms were drenched with perspiration.
He was holding the bag of books and glancing around the foyer. The arched entrance to the living room was to the right, revealing a room already filled with shadows.
There was also an entrance to the dining room from the foyer, and in that room she had turned on the chandelier over the table, and it starkly illuminated the drawing board with the Monopoly houses. The table and dining room chairs piled with books and papers were plainly visible to Wilcox.
“I see you’re working in here,” he said. “Why don’t I put these books with the others?”
Before she could find a way to stop him, he was in the dining room, had placed the Enoch College book bag on the floor, and was carefully studying the drawing board.
“I could help you with this,” he offered. “I don’t know if I mentioned that I am attempting to write a novel set in Spring Lake during the last twenty-five years of the nineteenth century.” He pointed to the house at 15 Ludlam Avenue that she had labeled with Alan Carter’s name.
“You are correct,” he said. “This is where the Carter family lived for many years, beginning in 1893. Before that, this was their home.” He picked a house out of the box and placed it directly behind her own home.
“Alan lived right behind this house?” Emily said in shock.
“At that time the house was in the name of his maternal grandmother. The family lived with her. When she died, they sold her home and moved to Ludlam Avenue.”
“You have done a great deal of research on the town, Dr. Wilcox.” Emily’s mouth was dry.
“Yes, I have. For my book, of course. May I sit down, Emily? I have to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course.”
She quickly decided she would not invite him into the living room. She did not want to go into that darkened area with him walking behind her. Instead she deliberately took the chair nearest the door to the foyer. I can run if he tries anything, she told herself. I can get outside and scream for help . . .
He sat down and folded his arms. Even seated across the table he conveyed a powerful presence.
His next words stunned her.
“Emily, you are a criminal defense lawyer and from what I understand a very good one. I believe I have become the prime suspect in the deaths of Martha Lawrence and Carla Harper. I want you to represent me.”
“Have the police told you that you are a suspect, Dr. Wilcox?” Emily asked, playing for time. Was he toying with her? she wondered. Was he about to confess to her, and then . . . She tried not to complete the thought.
“Not yet, but they will be able to build a substantial case against me. Let me tell you why.”
“Please don’t, Dr. Wilcox,” Emily interrupted. “I must tell you that I absolutely could never represent you. I am a witness in any legal hearing involving Martha Lawrence. Don’t forget I was here when her body—or I should say, skeleton—was discovered. So please don’t tell me anything that I might be asked to repeat under oath. Since I can’t be your lawyer, there would be no attorney-client privilege.”
He nodded. “That had not occurred to me.” He got up slowly. “Then, of course, I won’t share with you any more of the great difficulty I am facing.” He looked down at the board. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Emily?” he asked.
“No, I do not.”
“You don’t think you might have had a previous life—as Madeline Shapley?”
The image of the finger bone with the sapphire ring flashed through Emily’s mind. “No, I don’t, Doctor.”
“With all that has been said and written about the subject of reincarnation this past week, I find myself beginning to wonder. Did I live here before in one of these houses? Did I choose to return here for that reason? What could I possibly have done in an earlier life that I have so many psychic debts to repay now?”
His face became suddenly haunted. “If only one could undo a moment of weakness,” he said quietly.
Emily felt that at that moment Dr. Wilcox was not even aware of her presence.
“I have to make a very hard decision,” he said, then sighed. “But it is one that must be made.”
She shrank back as he passed her. She did not follow him to the door, but stood ready to escape from the dining room to the porch if he turned on her.
To her relief, he went directly to the front door and opened it. Then he paused. “I think it would be a good idea if you lock and bolt the doors these next few nights, Emily,” he warned.
Thursday, March 29
fifty-six ________________
ONE CAN FEEL the increasing nervous apprehension of the residents of Spring Lake.
The police are grim-faced. Already they patrol the streets more frequently.
One seldom sees a woman walking alone, even in the daytime.
Each day the tabloids have become more sensational in their rush to feed the frantic curiosity of their readers.
“The Reincarnated Serial Killer of Spring Lake” has become national, even international, news.
The talk shows vie with each other to present differing views on regression and reincarnation.
This morning, on Good Morning America, yet another prominent scholar on the subject soberly explained that while many people believe reincarnation gives them countless new opportunities for continued life, others regard it as a great burden.
The Hindus, the scholar pointed out, are absolutely certain that they will be reincarnated. They desperately wish to break the cycle of birth and rebirth, to halt the process. For that reason they are willing to endure severe self-inflicted austerities and the most demanding kind of spiritual practices to achieve release.
Do I want release?
In two more days, my task will be finished. I shall again return to a normal state, and live out the remainder of my life in peace and tranquillity.
But I shall continue to write a detailed account of everything that is occurring. In it, as in the other diary, the “who” and “what” and “why” and “when” will be made clear.
Maybe someday a fourteen-year-old boy will again find the diary—the two diaries—and want to relive the cycle.
When that happens, I will know that I have returned to Spring Lake for the third time.
fifty-seven ________________
BERNICE JOYCE HAD DECIDED to spend the week in Spring Lake. “As you know, I flew up from Florida for the memorial Mass,” she explained to Reba Ashby, as they shared breakfast on Thursday morning.
“I had intended to fly back to Palm Beach Monday afternoon, but then realized that would be quite foolish since I’d be coming north next week. So instead, I extended my stay here.”
They were seated at a window table. Bernice glanced out. “It’s a real spring day, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice wistful. “I walked the boardwalk for over an hour yesterday. It brought back so many wonderful memories. Then I had dinner with t
he Lawrences at another old friend’s home. How we reminisced!”
Reba had not run into Mrs. Joyce at the hotel on either Tuesday or Wednesday and assumed she had checked out as planned. She was delighted to see her in the elevator this morning, both of them on the way to the dining room.
At their first meeting she had said she was a journalist with a national news magazine, careful to avoid mentioning the name of The National Daily. Even though I probably could have, she thought now, as she locked a sympathetic expression on her face while listening to an anecdote about Spring Lake in the 1930s. She was positive Bernice Joyce had never read The National Daily, if indeed she had ever heard of it.
“Let it not even be mentioned among you,” as St. Paul had counseled the Ephesians. Bernice Joyce undoubtedly felt that way about tabloids.
Reba wanted to get a line on the other people who had been at the party the night before Martha Lawrence vanished. She intended to continue to milk the Dr. Wilcox angle for all it was worth, but there was always the possibility that he was telling the truth, that he had placed the scarf with his wife’s pocketbook and someone else had taken it.
“Have you gotten together with any of the other people who were questioned by the police last Saturday, Mrs. Joyce?”
“Actually, I have compared notes with two couples who live near the Lawrences. Most of the others I know less well. For example, I am very fond of Robert Frieze’s first wife, Susan. His second wife, Natalie, I do not care for. Robert was there with Natalie. Then there was . . .”
By the end of her second cup of coffee, Reba had a list of names to work on. “I want to write a sensitive profile of Martha as people remember her,” she explained. “How better than to start with the people who were with her in the last hours of her life.”
She scanned the list. “Why don’t I read these names back to you and see if I have them all.”
As she listened, Bernice Joyce realized that she was visualizing the living room of the Lawrence home. She had been thinking of that night of the party so much this week that it seemed to be coming back to her in ever-sharpening focus.
The scarf was on that table in the foyer, she thought. I noticed Natalie Frieze walk down the foyer with her purse in her hand, and I assumed she was in the powder room. I was watching for her to return.
The face of another guest came into her mind. I am becoming increasingly certain that I saw him move Rachel’s pocketbook. The scarf was under it.
Should I discuss this with Detective Duggan? she wondered. Do I have the right to even mention a name in a police investigation if I am not absolutely sure that my impression was accurate?
She focused again on the woman seated across from her. Reba Ashby was such a nice person. She seemed like an old friend. And as a journalist, surely she understood ethical problems.
“Ms. Ashby,” Bernice Joyce began, “may I share with you a problem I’m having? It seems to me I may have observed that scarf being taken from the table that evening of the party. In fact I am almost certain that I did.”
“You may have what?” Reba Ashby was so shocked that for an instant she lost her professional you-can-trust-me-I’m-your-friend demeanor.
Bernice was again looking out the window at the ocean. If only I could be one thousand percent sure, she thought.
“Who did you see take the scarf that night, Bernice, I mean Mrs. Joyce?”
Bernice turned her head and looked at Reba Ashby. The woman’s eyes were glistening. Her body language suggested a tiger ready to spring.
Bernice suddenly realized that she had made a terrible mistake—Reba Ashby was not to be trusted.
“I think I’d best say no more about it,” she said firmly as she signaled the waiter to bring her check.
fifty-eight ________________
WHEN MARTY BROWSKI got to his office on Thursday morning, he saw that at seven o’clock on Wednesday evening Eric Bailey had returned his phone call in which he had requested an appointment.
“I love playing phone tag,” Marty said aloud, as he dialed Bailey’s number. When Bailey’s secretary answered, Marty was put through to him immediately.
“Sorry to have missed you yesterday,” Eric said pleasantly. “I played hookey. I took an afternoon off to brush up on my golf game.”
He readily agreed to a meeting. “This morning, if you want. I happen to be free at eleven o’clock.”
The office was located just outside the Albany city limits. As Marty drove there, he reflected that he had actually only met Bailey face to face once, and that had been in the courtroom where Ned Koehler was on trial for stalking Emily Graham. Bailey had testified about the cameras he had installed around her townhouse.
He had slumped in the witness stand, Marty remembered, twisting his hands nervously. His voice had been quiet and squeaky. The judge had repeatedly asked him to speak up.
Since then, Marty had seen Bailey’s picture in the newspapers from time to time. He was a local celebrity, Albany’s miniversion of Bill Gates.
It was grasping at straws to call on Bailey now to see if he could come up with any useful information that might help them find the stalker. Marty, however, knew that extreme measures were called for, even if it meant grasping at straws.
He was driving through an area where a number of company headquarters were located, all of them situated in parklike surroundings. None of the buildings was more than three stories high, he noticed.
Observing the descending street numbers, Marty slowed the car. The next turnoff had to be Bailey’s, he figured.
A long driveway led to a handsome two-story redbrick structure with floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Very nice, Marty thought, as he pulled into a visitors’ parking space.
Inside, the receptionist’s desk was in the center of the front-to-back lobby. Expensive red leather sofas and chairs trimmed with brass nail heads were placed around Persian carpets in defined seating areas. Paintings that looked to be of very fine quality were hanging in tasteful groupings on the walls. The overall effect was soothing, low key and expensive.
Browski was reminded of something he had read, a remark the theatrical producer George Abbott had made to playwright Moss Hart on viewing Hart’s Bucks County estate: “Shows what God could do if He only had money.”
The receptionist had been told to expect him. “Mr. Bailey’s suite is on the second floor. Turn right and go to the end,” she directed.
Ignoring the elevator, Browski climbed up the winding staircase. As he walked down the long corridor on the second floor, he glanced into the offices he was passing. Many of them seemed to be empty. He had heard rumors that Bailey’s dot-com was losing money hand over fist, and that the technology that had built the company and made it a hot stock had already been surpassed by others. He also heard that some experts were skeptical about Bailey’s claim that he was about to introduce a new kind of wireless transmitter.
The carved mahogany double doors at the end of the corridor signaled that he had arrived at Eric Bailey’s private domain.
Should I knock or yell yoo-hoo? Marty wondered, but settled instead for slowly pushing open the door.
“Come in, Mr. Browski,” a voice called. As he stepped inside, a sleek, stylish woman of about forty got up from behind her desk. Introducing herself as Louise Cauldwell, Mr. Bailey’s personal assistant, she ushered Marty into the private office.
Eric was standing at the front window and turned when he heard them approaching.
Browski had forgotten that Eric Bailey was so slight. It wasn’t that he was that short, he thought as he walked across the room to him. He was of average height, really. It was the way he carried himself. Bad posture, Marty decided, remembering how his father used to order him to “stand up straight, and don’t slouch!”
The problem was that because of his round-shouldered stance, the obviously expensive tan cashmere jacket and dark slacks that Bailey was wearing appeared to be too large and ill-fitting.
For all his money, Eric Bail
ey still looks kind of nerdy, Marty thought, as he extended his hand. To see this guy, you’d never guess he was a genius.
“Detective Browski. It’s good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, Mr. Bailey.”
Eric Bailey gestured toward the couch and chairs by the bank of windows overlooking the rear of the property. “It’s quite comfortable here,” he said. He looked expectantly at Louise Caldwell.
“I’ll send for coffee, right away, Mr. Bailey,” she said.
“Thank you, Louise.”
As he settled on the butter-soft leather couch, Marty compared this setup with his own office. He had a two-by-four unit with one small window overlooking the parking lot. Janey was convinced that his desk had been made with wood from Noah’s ark. His filing cabinet was practically bursting, and the overflow of files was stacked on his one extra chair, or heaped on the floor.
“This is a beautiful office in a beautiful building, Mr. Bailey,” he said sincerely.
A smile flickered across Eric’s lips, then disappeared. “Did you ever see my old office?” he asked. “It was the one next to Emily’s.”
“‘I saw Emily’s office a few times. Fairly small, but pleasant, I would say.”
“Envision one a third of that size and you have my former workplace.”
“Then you must have had my present digs before I inherited them, Mr. Bailey.”
This time Bailey’s smile seemed real. “Since I don’t believe you are here to give me a Miranda warning, and since we’re both friends of Emily, why don’t we drop the formalities. My name is Eric.”
“Marty.”
“I visited Emily in her new home on Monday. She may have told you I installed cameras there for her,” Eric began.
“Yes, she did tell me,” Marty said.
“I’m terribly concerned that this stalker seems to have followed her to Spring Lake. Or do you think he’s a copycat?”
“I don’t know,” Marty said frankly. “But I can tell you this. Any stalker is a potential time bomb. If this is the same guy who hounded her up here, he’s getting ready to put a match to the powder keg. She showed you some of the photographs he took of her in Albany?”