On the Street Where You Live

  Will’s eyes filled with sadness when he said, “My mother was absolutely heartbroken. She was never the same after that. He broke her spirit.”

  Then he had hesitated and said, “Emily, I’m going to tell you something no one in this town knows. It’s not a pretty story.”

  I tried to stop him, Emily remembered, but he wouldn’t listen. He told me that after his junior prom in Denver, he and a friend went joyriding. They’d both been drinking a lot of beer. There was an accident, and the car was smashed. The friend, who’d been driving, was eighteen and had begged Will to switch seats with him. “You’re not sixteen yet,” he’d argued. “They’ll go easy on you.”

  “Emily, I was so out of it I let it happen. What I didn’t know was that it hadn’t been a simple accident. In my own confused state, I hadn’t realized that he’d hit and killed a pedestrian, a fifteen-year-old girl. When I tried to tell the police what really happened, they wouldn’t believe me. My friend lied on the witness stand. My mother was a rock and stood by me. She knew I was telling the truth. My father washed his hands of me, though, and I spent a year in juvenile detention.”

  There was so much raw pain in his face when he talked of that time, Emily thought. But then he shrugged and said, “So there it is. There isn’t a soul in this town who knows what I’ve just told you. I laid it on the line now because I’m going to ask you out for dinner again in a week or two, and if that story upsets you, it’s better to know it right away. One thing I’m sure about: I can trust you not to talk about it to anyone.”

  I reassured him about that, Emily thought, but I also told him to wait awhile before he asks me out to dinner again. I don’t want to be perceived as going out regularly with anybody, either in Spring Lake or anywhere else.

  She started down the stairs, stopping to admire the way the sunlight was streaming through the stained-glass window at the landing.

  Next time I get serious about anyone—if there is a next time—I’m going to be very, very sure I’m not making another mistake.

  One good thing, she thought wryly, as she walked toward the kitchen, I don’t have to worry about falling in love as a junior in college anymore. Thank goodness that only happens once in a lifetime!

  But how it changed my life, she mused. By marrying Gary right after law school, I ended up living in Albany because he was going into the family business. If I hadn’t married him, I would have started out practicing law in Manhattan.

  But then if I hadn’t been living in Albany, I wouldn’t have defended Eric in that lawsuit, and I wouldn’t have made ten million dollars by selling the stock he gave me.

  And I certainly wouldn’t be here in this house, she thought as she stopped in the dining room to pick up a book from the Lawrence collection of memorabilia. It was a diary kept by Julia Gordon Lawrence after her marriage. Emily was eager to see what it might reveal. Over toast and a grapefruit, she opened it and began to read.

  In one of the early entries, Julia wrote, “Poor Mrs. Carter continues to decline. She will never recover from the loss of Douglas. We all visit her frequently and bring flowers to brighten her room, or a sweet to tempt her appetite, but nothing seems to help.

  “She talks constantly about Douglas. ‘My only son,’ she sobs when we try to console her.

  “Mother Lawrence and I talk about it and agree how very sad life has turned out for Mrs. Carter. She was blessed with great beauty and substantial wealth. But crippling rheumatism set in shortly after Douglas was born. She has been a semi-invalid for years, and now never leaves her bed.

  “Mother Lawrence feels that for a long time, in an attempt to alleviate her pain, the doctors have been prescribing daily doses of laudanum that are far too strong. Now Mrs. Carter is in a sedated state that gives her no opportunity to take an interest in life, and with the passage of time perhaps find some measure of surcease. Instead, the only outlet for her grief is to shed copious tears.”

  Emily closed the book after she had finished reading that entry and went into the dining room. Mrs. Carter was at home the day Madeline disappeared, she remembered. But suppose Douglas actually had been on the early train, arrived home, and Madeline had run across the street to greet him.

  If something had gone wrong between Madeline and Douglas, would Mrs. Carter, upstairs in her room, sedated by laudanum, be aware that a tragedy was unfolding downstairs?

  Or had Madeline perhaps left the porch and walked into her own backyard and found Alan Carter outside in his backyard. He was in love with her, and probably was aware that she was about to receive his cousin’s engagement ring. He might have made a pass at her, Emily reflected, and then became enraged when she rebuffed him.

  Either possibility was intriguing. I firmly believe, she thought, that Madeline died that afternoon, within sight of this house, and that either Douglas or Alan Carter was involved in her death.

  If Douglas was innocent of Madeline’s death, then Alan becomes the next most likely suspect, she thought.

  Geographically he lived close to Madeline. Letitia had to pass his house to get to the beach. In the diary, Julia had written that she and her friends regularly visited Douglas’s invalid mother. Had Ellen Swain been visiting Mrs. Carter the day she disappeared? The old police records might provide some information on that point.

  As Emily carefully returned the diary to the collection of Lawrence memorabilia, a new possibility occurred to her.

  Did Douglas Carter really commit suicide? Or was he murdered because he began to suspect the truth?

  sixty-eight ________________

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, Bob Frieze was woken by the jarring ring of the telephone on the night table beside his bed. He opened his eyes and groped for the phone. His greeting was raspy and gruff.

  “Bob, this is Connie. I expected Natalie to be here in time for dinner last night. She never called and she never showed up. Is she there? Is everything all right?”

  Bob Frieze pulled himself up. He was lying on top of the bed. Natalie, he thought, his mind still foggy. We were in the restaurant. She said she didn’t want lunch and practically ran out.

  “Bob, what’s going on?” Irritation was apparent in Connie’s voice, but he detected something else as well. There was fear.

  Fear? Natalie probably had told Connie all about their fight. He was sure of it. Had she told Connie about her bruised wrist too?

  He tried to think. Natalie told me she was leaving. She was going home to pack. She was going to stay at Connie’s apartment in New York. She never got there?

  It was morning now, and Connie told him that Natalie had been due there last night.

  I’ve lost almost a day, Bob Frieze thought. How long exactly have I been out?

  He held his hand over the speaker, cleared his throat and said, “Connie, I saw Natalie at the restaurant at lunchtime yesterday. She told me she was going home to pack and was planning to go to New York to your apartment. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Did she pack? Are her bags there? What about her car?”

  “Hang on.” Bob Frieze stumbled to his feet, realizing that he had a massive hangover. I don’t normally drink much, he thought. How did this happen?

  He had bought this house and moved into it while he was waiting for the divorce from Susan to be finalized. Natalie had taken an active interest in decorating it and had insisted on some renovation. In the process, the small bedroom next to theirs had been turned into two side-by-side walk-in closets. He opened hers.

  There was a single waist-height shelf at one end of the closet, for convenience in packing suitcases. Natalie’s largest suitcase was open on the shelf. Bob looked into it and saw that it was half filled.

  Afraid of what he might find, he stumbled into the guest bedroom, remembering that was where Natalie had told him she had spent the night. The bed was made, but when he looked into the bathroom, he saw that her cosmetics were all still on the vanity, unpacked.

  There was one more thing he had to do before he figured out what
to tell Connie. He ran downstairs into the kitchen and opened the door to the garage. Her car was parked inside.

  Where is she? he wondered. What had happened to her? Clearly something had happened, he was sure of it.

  But why was he sure of it?

  Back in the bedroom, he picked up the phone. “Looks like Natalie changed her mind, Connie. All her stuff is here.”

  “So where is Natalie?”

  “Look, I don’t know where she is. We had a disagreement Wednesday evening. She’s been sleeping in the guest room. I got home late last night, as I usually do, and went straight to bed. I didn’t check on her. I’m sure she’s fine. Natalie can be pretty careless about calling people when she makes a sudden change of plans.”

  The click in his ear told Bob that his wife’s best friend had hung up on him.

  She was going to call the police. That certainty hit him with the impact of a gun firing in his face. What should he do?

  Act normal, he decided. He pulled the spread off the bed, rumpled the blankets, and lay down between the sheets for a minute to give the impression of having slept there.

  Where have I been since yesterday noon? he asked himself, straining to remember. What have I been doing? His mind was a complete blank. He rubbed his hand across his face and felt a stubble of beard.

  Shower, he thought. Shave. Get dressed. When the police come, act normal. You and your wife had a disagreement. When you came home last night, you didn’t check on her. She obviously changed her mind about leaving for New York.

  When a police officer rang his doorbell thirty minutes later, Bob Frieze was prepared for him. He was calm, but explained he was becoming concerned. “With all that has been going on in town this last week, I am beginning to be deeply worried about my wife’s disappearance.” His face was set in a worried expression.

  Then he added, “I can’t bear the thought that anything might have happened to her.”

  Even to his own ears, that statement did not ring true.

  sixty-nine ________________

  PETE WALSH HAD GONE OUT to a convenience store for milk before he left for work at eight o’clock. At his wife’s insistence, he had picked up a copy of The National Daily for her as well. While he waited for his change, he glanced at the headline. Less than a minute later, he was on the phone with the Spring Lake police station.

  “Get someone over to The Breakers,” he said. “Tell him to stay with an elderly woman, Bernice Joyce, who’s a guest there. She’s been fingered as an eyewitness to the theft of the scarf in the Lawrence murder case. She may be in a life-threatening situation.”

  The milk forgotten, he ran out of the store to his car. On the way to the prosecutor’s office, he contacted Duggan, who was on his way to work.

  Ten minutes later they had piled into their specially equipped vehicle and were headed for Spring Lake.

  Tommy Duggan dialed the desk at The Breakers Hotel. Mrs. Joyce had been seen going out for a walk on the boardwalk, he was told. The police were already looking for her.

  DR. DERMOT O’HERLIHY walked to the post office, then decided to return home by way of the boardwalk. He was surprised to see Bernice Joyce still sitting on the bench. Her back was to him, so he could not see her face. She’s probably fallen asleep, he decided. But then something about the way her head was leaning forward on her chest made him quicken his step and hurry to check on her.

  He walked around to the front of the bench, looked down at her and saw the cord knotted tightly around her neck.

  He squatted in front of her, taking in the staring eyes, the open mouth, the flecks of blood on her lips.

  He had known Bernice Joyce for over fifty years, all the way back to when she and Charlie Joyce, and he and his wife, Mary, used to come every summer to Spring Lake, bringing their children.

  “Ah, Bernice, poor darling, who would do this to you?” he whispered.

  The sound of running feet made him look up. Chris Dowling, the newest cop on the town police force, came bounding across the boardwalk extension. In just moments he was at the bench, squatting beside Dermot, staring at the lifeless body.

  “You’re too late, lad,” Dermot told him as he straightened up. “She’s been gone for at least an hour.”

  seventy ________________

  ALTHOUGH HE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING TO HER, Pat Glynn knew that Mr. Stafford was angry at her. She could see it in his eyes and feel it in the way he came into the office on Friday morning and passed her desk with just a brief, unsmiling greeting.

  When he had returned to the office yesterday afternoon, she had told him that a Miss Ashby had stopped by.

  “Miss Ashby? The gossip columnist from that tabloid? I hope you didn’t let her pump you about me, Pat. That woman is vicious.”

  With a sinking heart, Pat had remembered every single word she had said to Ashby. “I just told her what a wonderful person you are, Mr. Stafford,” she said.

  “Pat, every word you said to her will be twisted and slanted. You will help me if you tell me absolutely everything you said. I won’t be angry, I promise, but I do need to be prepared. Do you read The National Daily?”

  She admitted that she sometimes read it.

  “Well, if you read it at all this week, you’ve seen what this Ashby woman has been doing to Dr. Wilcox. That’s what she’s going to do with me. So what kind of questions did she ask you, and what did you tell her?”

  * * *

  IT WAS HARD FOR PAT to concentrate on the work on her desk. She had to resist the impulse to go to Mr. Stafford’s office and tell him again how terribly sorry she was. But then a phone call from her mother shocked her out of her remorseful state.

  “Pat, there’s been another murder in town. An older woman, Bernice Joyce, one of the people who was at the party at the Lawrence house the night before Martha’s disappearance, has been found strangled on a bench on the boardwalk. She told that columnist from The National Daily that she thought she could identify the person who took that scarf that killed Martha, and the columnist printed it, and now Mrs. Joyce is dead. Can you believe it?”

  “I’ll call you back, Mom.” Pat hung up the phone, and, walking like a robot, went down the hall. Without knocking, she opened the door of Will Stafford’s office. “Mr. Stafford, Mrs. Joyce is dead. I know you knew her. She told that columnist that she thought she saw someone take the scarf at that party, and the columnist printed it. Mr. Stafford, I’m sure I didn’t tell Miss Ashby anything that would cause anyone to die.”

  Pat’s voice rose, quivered, and broke in a flood of tears. “I just feel so terrible.”

  Will got up and came around his desk. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Pat, it’s all right. Of course you didn’t tell Ashby anything that would cause someone’s death. Now, what are you talking about? What happened to Mrs. Joyce?”

  Pat was aware of the warm, strong hands on her shoulders. She calmed herself and relayed what her mother had just told her.

  “I am so very sorry,” Will said quietly. “Bernice Joyce was a kind and elegant lady.”

  We’re talking like friends again, Pat thought. Anxious to prolong the intimacy of the moment, she asked, “Mr. Stafford, do you think Dr. Wilcox might have done this to Mrs. Joyce? I mean, according to all the papers, his wife said she gave him the scarf to hold.”

  “I imagine they’re questioning him very closely,” Will said briskly.

  Pat caught the change of tone. The moment of intimacy was over. It was time for her to go back to her desk. “I’ll have all those letters ready for you to sign by noon,” she promised. “Will you be going out to lunch?”

  “No. You can order in for both of us.”

  She had to take the chance. “I’ll wait until later to order, just in case you change your mind. Mrs. Frieze might drop by like she did the other day.”

  “Mrs. Frieze is moving to New York, permanently.”

  Pat Glynn returned to her desk in a state of bliss.

  IN HIS OFFICE, Will Stafford was
on the phone with the employment agency that had sent him Pat Glynn two years ago. “And for God’s sake get me someone mature and sensible, who isn’t a gossip and isn’t looking for a husband,” he implored.

  “We have someone who just registered with us this morning. She’s winding up her old job. Her name is Joan Hodges and she was with that psychologist who was murdered last week. She’s efficient. She’s smart. She’s a nice person. I think you’d be very happy with her, Mr. Stafford.”

  “Send over her résumé, in a plain envelope. Mark it personal.”

  “Of course.”

  As Will replaced the receiver, Pat announced another call. This one was from Detective Duggan, requesting an appointment with him at his earliest possible convenience.

  seventy-one ________________

  ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, not wanting to run into Bernice Joyce again, Reba Ashby had checked out of The Breakers Hotel and moved to the Inn at the Shore in Belmar, a few miles away. She had expected a backlash when the tabloid with her headline about Joyce hit the stands on Friday morning, but was jolted to her soul when she learned from the radio of the woman’s death.

  Then her natural instinct for self-protection set in. Bernice should have gone to the police, Reba told herself. It was her own fault. God knows how many other people in addition to me she might have told about seeing someone pick up the scarf. Nobody tells just one person anything in confidence. Anyhow, if they can’t keep it to themselves, they shouldn’t expect others to keep it quiet.

  For all I know, Bernice might even have asked the killer if he’d picked up the scarf just to look at it, then put it down somewhere else. She was just naïve enough to do that.

  Still, Reba immediately called Alvaro Martinez-Fonts, her editor, to agree on how they would handle any flak from the police. Then she told him that she had gone to The Seasoner for dinner Thursday night, but that Bob Frieze hadn’t been around at all.