“Yes, she did. The same ones I believe she turned over to you.”
“Yes, and here’s what worries me: Most of the Albany pictures were shot when she was outside jogging or getting in or out of her car or going into a restaurant. The ones in Spring Lake are taking on a different character. Someone had to find out where she was staying that first night, then stand on the beach in cold, blustery weather hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
“Here’s a copy of the second one, which was taken four days later.”
Marty leaned over and handed Eric the photograph of Emily in St. Catherine’s church on Saturday morning. “That guy was nervy enough to follow Emily into the memorial Mass for the murder victim who had been found buried in Emily’s backyard.”
“I’ve been puzzling over that,” Eric said. “To me it suggests that the stalker is somebody she has never met. I mean even in a crowded church you can get a glimpse of a familiar face. I think that argues for a copycat stalker.”
“You may be right,” Marty admitted unwillingly. “But if you are, it means that we may be dealing with two stalkers, not one. The reason I wanted to see you, Eric, is to ask you to concentrate on the people in the building where you and Emily both had offices. Is there anyone who you think might have focused on her? It could be one of the maintenance staff, or a deliveryman, or it could be some nice, amiable, nondescript guy who has a wife and kids, and who looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”
“Don’t forget, I’ve been out of that building for three years,” Eric warned. “Emily closed her office there for good only last week. She insisted on completing all the cases she’d begun herself rather than give them to other lawyers.”
“She did that because that’s the kind of person she is, and none of us wants to think that anything might happen to her.” Marty picked up the pictures and put them back in his breast pocket.
“Eric, I hope you’ll rack your brain to think of anyone who might have become obsessed with Emily Graham.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
“Something else. Is there any device that you can install that will help to further insure Emily’s safety, at least when she’s alone in her home?”
“I wish there were. My only suggestions would be to have panic buttons installed in every room and tell her to carry Mace. I get the feeling that for all her brave front, Emily is terribly frightened, don’t you?”
“Frightened? She has to be. She’s human. And of course it’s wearing her down. I can hear it in her voice. Too bad she hasn’t got a boyfriend to help take care of her, preferably one who’s also a linebacker for the Giants.”
Marty expected Eric Bailey to agree with him. Then he saw the change in Bailey’s face and recognized it for what it was, an expression of pain and anger. This guy’s in love with Emily, he thought. Oh, brother.
Louise Cauldwell returned, followed by a maid carrying a tray.
Marty sipped his coffee quickly. “You’re a busy man, Eric. I am not going to take any more of your time,” he said, putting down the cup and standing.
But you’re going to start taking a lot of mine, he thought, as he said good-bye and started back down the long hallway to the staircase.
A little chat with the receptionist might be in order, he decided.
Joel Lake’s mocking words ran through his head. I thought old lady Koehler’s son was supposed to be the stalker . . . You were wrong about me, and you’re wrong about him.
I may be wrong again, Marty thought, but all of a sudden I think that Eric Bailey may be the guy we’re looking for.
You were wrong about me, and . . .
But wait a minute—surely Eric Bailey would never take a chance on going into the church last Saturday? Emily would have seen him.
Maybe I should take a course on how to be a detective, Marty thought with disgust, as he descended the staircase and passed the receptionist without stopping to chat with her.
fifty-nine ________________
“THERE IS NOTHING on Wilcox we can dig up at Enoch College,” Tommy Duggan snapped as he put down the phone. “Not a hint of any scandal. Nothing. The investigator who checked for us is smart. We’ve worked together before. He spoke to people who were on the board of trustees when Wilcox resigned. Every one of them was indignant at the suggestion that Wilcox had been forced out.”
“Then why did he resign so suddenly?” Pete Walsh asked practically. “Want to know what I think?”
“I’d be thrilled.”
“I think Wilcox might have faked a heart condition because he had something hanging over his head and didn’t want the college to be involved if it became public. The people there may not know the actual reason he resigned.”
They were in Tommy’s office, where they had been waiting for the call from their investigator in Cleveland. Now that it had come, they got up and headed for the car. They were going to stop at Emily Graham’s house with the copies of the 1890s police reports, then have another talk with Dr. Clayton Wilcox.
“You thought he might have had his hand in the till there,” Pete reminded Tommy. “Suppose it’s the other way round. Why don’t we try to get a look at his income tax records for the year he resigned from Enoch and see if he liquidated any assets?”
“It might be worth a try.” This big galoot is smarter than he looks, Tommy thought, as they walked through the parking lot to the car.
On the way to Emily Graham’s house, he placed another phone call to the investigator in Cleveland.
sixty ________________
“TO WHAT DO I OWE the pleasure of your visit?” Bob Frieze asked as he joined Natalie at his table at The Seasoner. He had been both surprised and displeased to receive a call from the maître d’, informing him that his wife had joined him for lunch.
“Neutral territory, Bobby,” Natalie said quietly. “You look terrible. After you did this to me”—she indicated her bruised wrist—“I slept in the guest room last night, with the door locked. I see you didn’t make it home at all. Maybe you were with Peggy.”
“I stayed here last night and slept on the couch in my office. I thought after yesterday’s scene, it might be a good idea to have a cooling-off period.”
Natalie shrugged. “Neutral territory. Cooling-off period. Listen, we’re both saying the same thing. We’re sick of each other, and quite frankly, I’m physically afraid of you.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?” She opened her purse and took out a cigarette.
“You can’t smoke in here. You know that.”
“Then let’s move to the bar where I can smoke; we’ll have lunch there.”
“When did you start smoking again? You’ve been off cigarettes since right after we got married, and that’s nearly five years ago.”
“To be precise, I promised you I’d give them up right after Labor Day that summer four and a half years ago. I’ve always missed them. No need to miss them now.”
As she ground out the cigarette in the serving plate, Natalie was seized with a sudden awareness.
That’s what I’ve been trying to remember, she thought. The last time I smoked prior to yesterday was at that party the Lawrences gave for Martha. That was September 6th. I went out on the front porch because, of course, you weren’t allowed to smoke in that house.
He had something in his hand and was walking to the car.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bob snapped. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Let’s skip lunch. I thought I owed it to you to tell you face to face that I’m leaving you. I’m going home to pack now. Connie’s letting me use her apartment in the city until I find a place. I told you yesterday what I want for a settlement.”
“There’s no way any judge will give you that ridiculous amount. Get real, Natalie.”
“You get real, Bobby,” she snapped. “You find a way to make it happen! And keep in mind that your income tax statements don’t bear scrutiny, especially the one where you
got the big payoff from the company when you retired. The IRS loves to reward whistle-blowers.”
She pushed her chair back and almost ran to the door.
The maître d’ waited a tactful ten minutes before he approached the table. “Would you like to order now, sir?” he asked.
Bob Frieze looked up at him blankly. Then, without responding, he got up and walked out of the restaurant.
You’d swear he didn’t know I was talking to him, the maître d’ muttered to himself, as he hurried over to greet the rare and welcome party of six.
sixty-one ________________
THE MAP on the dining room table was dotted with a dozen more tiny houses. All roads lead to Rome, Emily thought, but it still doesn’t make sense. There has to be another answer.
The photograph albums George Lawrence had brought over with the rest of the memorabilia were putting faces to many of the names. She found herself going back and forth between references to people and the pages of the album.
She had found one group picture with the names of the participants inscribed on the back. It was faded, and too small to see the faces clearly, so when the detectives came by later she planned to ask them if the police lab could make an enlarged copy, with the features enhanced.
It was a large group. All three victims, Madeline, Letitia, and Ellen, were listed on the back of the photo as being present in it, as were both Douglas and Alan Carter and some of their parents, including Richard Carter.
The back of her house and the back of the house where Alan Carter had lived at the time of the murders faced each other. The holly tree that had sheltered the grave had been practically at the border of the two properties.
Douglas Carter had lived directly across Hayes Avenue.
In reviewing what she’d learned about Letitia Gregg, she decided that the young woman may well have been planning to have a swim when she disappeared. Her bathing dress was missing when she vanished. Her house had been on Hayes Avenue between Second and Third. She would have had to pass the homes of both Alan and Douglas Carter to get to the beach. Had she been waylaid along the way?
But Douglas Carter committed suicide before Letitia disappeared.
Alan Carter’s family later bought the property where Letitia’s body was buried. There seemed to be many connections.
Ellen Swain, however, did not fit into that scenario. She lived in one of the houses on the lake.
Emily was still pondering the street map when Detectives Duggan and Walsh arrived. She gave them the group picture, which they promised to take care of for her. “Our guys are good,” Tommy Duggan told Emily. “They’ll be able to enlarge it and bring it up.”
Walsh was studying the cardboard map. “Nice job,” he said admiringly. “You getting anywhere with this?”
“Maybe,” Emily said.
“Ms. Graham, can we help you out?” Tommy Duggan asked. “Or maybe let me put it another way. Can you help us out? Is there anything you’re finding that may be useful in giving us something to work with?”
“No,” Emily said honestly. “Not yet. But thanks for bringing over the copies of the old records.”
“I don’t think the boss was too pleased,” Pete told her, “so I hope they’re useful. I have a feeling we’re still going to get some flak about copying them for you.”
AFTER THE DETECTIVES LEFT, Emily made a sandwich and a cup of tea, put them on a tray and carried it to the study. She put the tray on the ottoman, settled her body into the comfortable chair and began to read the police reports, starting with the first page of the file on Madeline Shapley.
“Sept. 7, 1891: Alarmed phone call received from Mr. Louis Shapley, of 100 Hayes Avenue, Spring Lake, at 7:30 P.M., reporting that his nineteen-year-old daughter, Madeline, is missing. Miss Shapley had been on the porch of the family home, awaiting the arrival from New York City of her fiancé, Mr. Douglas Carter, of 101 Hayes Avenue.
“Sept. 8, 1891: Foul play is suspected in the mysterious disappearance . . . family questioned closely . . . mother and younger sister had been at home . . . under Mrs. Kathleen Shapley’s supervision, eleven-year-old Catherine Shapley had been taking a piano lesson with teacher, Miss Johanna Story. Theorized that the sound of the piano may have kept any cry Miss Madeline Shapley may have uttered from being heard.
“Sept. 22, 1891: Mr. Douglas Carter was questioned again in the disappearance of his fiancée, Miss Madeline Shapley, on Sept. 7 last. Mr. Carter continues to claim that he missed the train he had intended to take from Manhattan by moments, and was obliged to wait two hours for the next one.
“His response to the claim of a witness who says he spoke to him in the station just before the first train began to board is that he was in a somewhat nervous state because he intended to give an engagement ring to Miss Shapley that day and had felt suddenly nauseated. He said he rushed to the gentlemen’s lavatory for a moment and emerged to find the train pulling out of the station.
“The later train was quite crowded, and Mr. Douglas states he did not recognize anyone on board. Neither the conductor on the early train nor on the later one remembers having punched his ticket.”
No wonder he was a suspect, Emily thought. Is it possible he was nervous because he didn’t want to go through with the engagement? And here I had the idea it was a great love match!
For an instant she had a mental image of her own wedding reception and dancing the first dance with Gary. At the time, he had seemed very much in love as well.
And I thought I was, Emily told herself. Looking back, though, I always knew there was something lacking.
Like a husband who would forsake all others.
The ringing of the phone came as a welcome intrusion to these depressing thoughts. It was Will Stafford.
“I’ve been wanting to call you,” he said, “but it’s been an awfully busy week. Look, this is absolutely no notice, but would you like to have dinner tonight? Whispers is a fine restaurant, right here in town.”
“I would love to,” Emily said sincerely. “I feel as if it’s time to take a break and join the present world. I’ve been living in the 1890s all week.”
“How do you like it back there?”
“In a lot of ways, I’m enchanted by it.”
“I can envision you in a hoopskirt.”
“You’re about forty years too late. The hoops were in style during the Civil War.”
“What do I know? I help people get—or get rid of—the roof that’s over their heads. Seven o’clock good for you?”
“It’s fine.”
“See you then.”
Emily hung up the phone, and then, realizing how stiff she felt from sitting so long, did a few quick stretches to limber up.
The camera noiselessly recorded her every move.
sixty-two ________________
JOAN HODGES had spent the last four days trying to put the patients’ files back in order. For her, it was a labor of love. As far as she was able, she was determined to see that Dr. Madden’s patients, already reeling from the shock of her death, not suffer because their records were unavailable to her replacement.
It was a tedious task. The killer had done a thorough job of trashing the records—clinical information and Dr. Madden’s observations and notes had been totally scattered and mixed. At times, Joan felt overwhelmed and was sure it was hopeless. When that happened, she took a walk along the boardwalk for half an hour, then went back to the task somewhat refreshed.
It had been arranged that Dr. Wallace Coleman, a colleague and close friend of Dr. Madden’s, would take over her practice. Now he was spending as much time as he could spare from his appointments to help Joan with the task.
On Thursday a police technician came back with the rebuilt computer. “That guy did his best to wreck this one,” he said, “but you got lucky. He didn’t get to the hard drive.”
“That means that all the records can be retrieved?” Joan asked.
“Yes, it does. Detective Duggan wants you to look
for one name right away, Dr. Clayton Wilcox. Does that sound familiar to you?”
“Isn’t he the one I’ve been reading about? The one whose wife’s scarf . . . ?”
“That’s Wilcox.”
“That may be the reason his name rings a bell. I don’t get to meet . . .” Joan paused. “I mean I didn’t get to meet all of Doctor Madden’s patients, the ones who came in when she had evening hours. She’d just leave the billing information on my desk.”
Joan was at the computer, her fingers flying. If the police were asking her to look up a name, it had to be because that person was a suspect. With every fiber of her being she wanted the person who had killed Dr. Madden to be found and punished. If only I could be on the jury when he goes to trial, she thought grimly.
Dr. Clayton Wilcox.
His file was on the screen. Joan began clicking the mouse to retrieve the file’s contents. Then she reported triumphantly, “He was a patient for a brief time in September four and a half years ago, and again in August, two and a half years ago. He came in the evening, so I never met him.”
The police technician was on his cell phone. “I need to get in touch with Duggan right now,” he snapped. “I have some information he needs to have immediately.”
sixty-three ________________
REBA ASHBY KNEW that when her story appeared Friday morning in The National Daily all hell would break loose. EYEWITNESS TO THEFT OF MURDER WEAPON SCARF HESITATES TO COME FORWARD.
In the front-page story she was writing, Reba described her breakfast meeting at The Breakers Hotel on Ocean Avenue in Spring Lake with “Bernice Joyce, the elderly and fragile dowager who dismissed the missing scarf as ‘showy,’ then confided to this writer that she was having an ethical problem: ‘I am sure that I observed the scarf being taken from the table. I am almost certain that I did.’