On the Street Where You Live

  “And don’t worry about the trial. You know you’ll win in court.”

  On the way down in the elevator from the 36th floor, Nick thought, That’s just it, Mom. We will win, on a technicality, and that scum will get off scot-free. Their client was a sleazy lawyer who had invaded the trust accounts of estate heirs, many of them people who desperately needed their inheritance.

  He decided to walk downtown and then take a subway to his co-op in SoHo. But even the crisp night air did not relieve the depression that was increasingly becoming part of his psyche. He passed through Times Square barely aware of its glittering marquees.

  You don’t have to be Lady Macbeth and kill someone to feel as if you have blood on your hands, he thought grimly.

  Thursday, March 22

  ten ________________

  EVER SINCE THEY BEGAN digging for the pool, he had known they might come across Martha’s remains. He could only hope that the finger bone was still intact within the plastic shroud. But even if it wasn’t, they were bound to find the ring. All the reports said that every inch of the excavation area was being sifted by hand.

  Of course it was too much to expect the medical examiner to realize that Martha and Madeline had died exactly the same way. Martha with the scarf tightened around her neck, Madeline with the starched white linen sash torn from around her waist as she tried to flee.

  He could recite that passage from the diary from memory.

  It is curious to realize that without a single gesture on my part, Madeline knew she had made a mistake in coming into the house. There was a nervous plucking at her skirt with those long, slender fingers, even though her facial expression did not change.

  She watched as I locked the door.

  “Why are you doing that?” she asked.

  She must have seen something in my eyes, because her hand flew to her mouth. I watched the muscles in her neck move as she vainly tried to scream. She was too frightened to do anything but whisper, “Please.”

  She tried to run past me to the window, but I grabbed her sash and pulled it from her, then grasped it in two hands and wrapped it around her neck. At that, with remarkable strength, she tried to punch and kick me. No longer a trembling lamb, she became a tigress fighting for her life.

  Later, I bathed and changed and called on her parents, who by then were deeply concerned as to her whereabouts.

  Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

  There was a front page picture of Martha in all the papers, even the Times. Why not? It was newsworthy when the body of a beautiful young woman was found, especially when she was from a privileged family in an upscale and picturesque community. How much more newsworthy it would be if they announced they had found a finger bone with a ring inside the plastic. If they had found it, he hoped they would realize that he had closed Martha’s hand over it.

  Her hand had been still warm and pliable.

  Sisters in death, one hundred and ten years apart.

  It had been announced that the prosecutor was holding a news conference at eleven. It was five of eleven now.

  He reached over and turned on the television set, then leaned back and chuckled in anticipation.

  eleven ________________

  FIFTEEN MINUTES before his scheduled news conference, Elliot Osborne briefed his top aides on what he would and would not tell the press.

  He would report the findings of the autopsy, and that the cause of death was strangulation. He would not, repeat not, tell them a scarf had been the murder weapon or about the metallic beading that had edged it. He would say that the victim’s body had been wrapped in thick layers of plastic that, though separating and crumbling, had kept the skeletal remains intact.

  “Are you going to talk about the finger bone, sir? That’s gonna really stir up a hornet’s nest.”

  Pete Walsh had just been promoted to the rank of detective. He was smart and he was young. He also couldn’t wait to get his two cents in, Tommy Duggan thought sourly. It gave him a small measure of satisfaction to hear the boss tell Walsh to let him finish, although he felt like a louse as Walsh’s face turned beet red.

  He and Osborne had been back here at dawn. They had gone over every detail of O’Brien’s completed autopsy report and rehashed every detail of the case.

  They didn’t need Pete Walsh to tell them the media would have a field day with this one.

  Osborne continued: “In my statement I will say that we never expected to find Martha Lawrence alive; that it is not unusual for the remains of a victim to be found buried near the place where death had occurred.”

  He cleared his throat. “I will have to reveal that, for some bizarre and twisted reason, Martha Lawrence was buried in contact with other human remains, and those remains are over a century old.

  “As you know, four and a half years ago, when Martha disappeared, The Asbury Park Press dug up the old story about the disappearance of nineteen-year-old Madeline Shapley in 1891. It is very likely that the media will jump to the conclusion that the finger bone found with Martha belonged to Madeline Shapley, particularly since the remains are on the Shapley property.”

  “Is it true that the new owner of that property is a descendant of the Shapleys?”

  “That is true, yes.”

  “Then can’t you check her DNA against the finger bone?”

  “If Ms. Graham is willing, we can certainly do that. However, last night I ordered that all available records of Madeline Shapley’s disappearance be examined and a search be made for any other cases of missing women in Spring Lake around that time.”

  It was just a blind stab, Duggan thought, but we hit the jackpot.

  “Our researchers found that two other young women had been listed as missing at around that same time” Osborne continued. “Madeline Shapley had last been seen on the porch of the family home on Hayes Avenue when she disappeared on September 7, 1891.

  “Letitia Gregg of Tuttle Avenue disappeared on August 5, 1893. According to the police file, her parents feared that she might have gone swimming alone, which was why that case was never classified as suspicious.

  “Three years later, on March 31, 1896, Letita’s devoted friend Ellen Swain disappeared. She had been observed leaving a friend’s home as dusk was settling in.”

  And that’s when the media starts screaming about a turn-of-the-century serial killer in Spring Lake, Tommy thought. Just what we need.

  Osborne glanced at his watch. “It’s one minute of eleven. Let’s go.”

  The briefing room was packed. The questions thrown at Osborne were rapid and hard-hitting. There was no way he could argue with the New York Post reporter who said that the finding of the two skeletal remains on the same site could not be a bizarre coincidence.

  “I agree,” Osborne said. “The finger bone with the ring was deliberately placed inside the plastic with Martha’s body.”

  “Where inside the plastic?” the ABC crime reporter asked.

  “Within Martha’s hand.”

  “Do you think it was a coincidence that the killer found the other remains when he dug Martha’s grave, or could he possibly have chosen that spot because he knew it had been used as a burial ground?” Ralph Penza, a senior reporter from NBC, asked quietly.

  “It would be ridiculous if I were to suggest that someone anxious to bury his victim and avoid possible detection would happen upon the bones of another victim and make the snap decision to place a finger bone within the shroud he was creating.”

  Osborne held up a photograph. “This is an enlarged aerial shot of the crime site.” He pointed to the excavation pit in the backyard. “Martha’s killer dug a relatively shallow grave, but it might never have been found except for the pool excavation. Until a year ago a very large holly tree totally blocked that section of the backyard from the view of anyone in the house or on the street.”

  In response to another question, he verified that Emily Graham, the new owner of the property, was a descendant of the original owners, and that, yes, if
she were willing, DNA testing would establish whether or not the remains found with Martha’s were those of Ms. Graham’s great-great-grandaunt.

  The question that Tommy Duggan knew was inevitable came: “Are you suggesting that this perhaps was a serial killing, tied into a murder in Spring Lake one hundred and ten years ago?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing.”

  “But both Martha Lawrence and Madeline Shapley disappeared on September 7th. How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Do you think Martha’s killer is a reincarnation?” Reba Ashby from The National Daily asked eagerly.

  The prosecutor frowned. “Absolutely not! No more questions.”

  Osborne caught Tommy’s eye as he exited the room. Tommy knew they were sharing the same thought. Martha Lawrence’s death had just become a juicy headline story, and the only way to stop it was to find the killer.

  The remnants of a scarf with metallic edging was the only clue they had with which to begin the search.

  That, and the fact that whoever the killer was, he—and for now they were assuming it was a “he”—knew about a grave that had been dug on the Shapley property secretly over one hundred years ago.

  twelve ________________

  AT NINE O’CLOCK Emily awoke from the uneasy sleep she’d fallen into after she closed the windows and blocked out the sounds from the backyard.

  A long shower helped to diffuse the sense of heaviness that was gripping her.

  The body of the missing girl in the backyard . . .

  The snapshot slipped under the door . . .

  Will Stafford had cautioned her that she was being too impulsive in buying this house. But I wanted it, she thought, as she tightened the belt of her terry-cloth robe around her waist. I still want it.

  She stuffed her feet into slippers and went downstairs to make coffee. Ever since her college days it had been her routine to shower, make coffee, then dress, with a cup of coffee nearby. She had always sworn she could feel lights go on in different sections of her brain as she sipped.

  Even without looking outside she could see that it was going to be a beautiful day. Rays of sunshine were streaming through the stained-glass window at the landing of the staircase. When she passed the living room, she paused to admire the decorative fireplace screen and andirons she’d put in place yesterday. “I’m almost positive they were bought for the Spring Lake house when it was built in 1875,” her grandmother had told her.

  They looked as if they belonged there. And I feel as if I belong here, Emily thought.

  In the dining room she saw the oak sideboard with boxwood panels, another piece that the movers had brought down from Albany. That sideboard had definitely been purchased for this house. Years ago her grandmother had found the receipt for it.

  While she waited for the coffee to brew, Emily stood at the window and watched the police squad carefully sifting the dirt at the excavation site. What kind of evidence would they find four and a half years after Martha’s death? she wondered.

  And why the dogs this morning? Did they seriously believe that someone else was buried here?

  When the coffee was ready she poured a cup and took it upstairs, then turned on the radio as she dressed. The lead story was the discovery of Martha Lawrence’s body, of course. Emily winced as she heard her own name on the news, and that “The new owner of the property where Martha Lawrence’s remains were found is the great-great-grandniece of another young woman who mysteriously disappeared over one hundred years ago.”

  She snapped off the radio as her cell phone rang. It’s going to be Mom, she thought. Hugh and Beth Graham, her father and mother, both pediatricians, had been at a medical seminar in California. She knew they had been due back in Chicago the night before.

  Her mother had not been comfortable with the idea of her buying the house in Spring Lake. She’s not going to like what I have to tell her, Emily thought. But there’s no way I can avoid it.

  Dr. Beth Graham was clearly distressed at what had occurred. “Good God, Em, I remember as a child hearing the story of Madeline and how her mother had lived her whole life still hoping that one day Madeline would walk through the door. You mean to say that another young girl in Spring Lake was missing and her remains were found on the property?”

  She did not give Emily a chance to answer before continuing. “I’m so sorry for her family, but for the love of heaven the one thing I hoped was that you’d at least be safe there. After that stalker was arrested, I breathed easy for the first time in a year.”

  Emily could picture her mother in her office, standing small but ramrod straight at her desk, her pretty face creased with worry. She shouldn’t be worrying about me, she thought. I’m sure right now the waiting room is filled with babies.

  Her parents shared a medical practice. Though in their early sixties, neither one of them even considered retirement. Growing up, her mother had often told her and her brothers, “If you want to be happy for a year, win the lottery. If you want to be happy for life, love what you do.”

  Her mother and father loved every one of their little patients.

  “Mom, look at it this way. At least the Lawrence family will have closure, and there’s no reason to worry about me.”

  “l suppose not,” her mother admitted reluctantly. “There’s no chance they’d let that stalker out, is there?”

  “Not a chance,” Emily said heartily. “Now go take care of your babies. Give my love to Dad.”

  When she pushed the OFF button of the cell phone it was with the quiet resolve that there was no way her parents were going to hear about the copycat stalker. She also was glad she had made the decision to report the snapshot pushed under the door to the Spring Lake police, just in case her parents ever did get to hear of it.

  She had dressed in jeans and a sweater. As much as possible, she wanted this day to go ahead as she had planned. The Kiernans had taken the furniture from the small bedroom next to the master suite, and that space would make a perfect office. Her desk and files and bookcases were in it now. She needed to set up her computer and fax and unpack the books. The phone company was coming this morning to install new telephone lines, one of which would be computer dedicated.

  She wanted to place family pictures throughout the house. As she twisted her hair into a knot and caught it up with a comb, Emily thought of the pictures she had weeded out before the move to the Manhattan apartment.

  All the pictures with Gary were gone.

  Also all the college pictures with Barb in them. Her best friend. Her best buddy. Emily and Barbara. Where you find one, you find the other.

  Uh-huh, Emily thought as the familiar stab of pure pain shot through her. Meet my ex-husband. Meet my used-to-be best friend.

  I wonder if they’re still seeing each other? I always knew Barb had a yen for Gary, but I never dreamed it was reciprocated.

  After three years there was no question. The residual pain was caused by the enormity of the betrayal, although on the personal level, both of them had lost their ability to cause her sorrow.

  She made the bed, pulling the sheets tight, tucking them in. The cream-colored coverlet complemented the sparkling green-and-rose print of the bed skirt and the window treatments. She would eventually trade the chaise lounge for a pair of comfortable chairs at the bay window. But for now, it matched the decor and would do.

  The firm ring of the doorbell meant one of two things, either the telephone service was there or the media. She glanced out the window and was relieved to see the panel truck with the familiar Verizon logo on it.

  By five of eleven the technicians from the phone company were gone. She went into the study and turned on the television to catch the news.

  “. . . century-old finger bone with a ring . . .”

  When the program ended, Emily turned off the TV and sat quietly. As the screen went black she continued to stare at it, her mind a kaleidoscope of childhood memories.

  Gran telling the sto
ries about Madeline over and over again. I always wanted to hear about her, Emily thought. Even when I was little I found her fascinating.

  Gran’s eyes would get a faraway look as she talked about her. “Madeline was my grandmother’s older sister. . . . My grandmother always looked so sad when she talked about her. Madeline was her big sister, and she worshiped her. She would tell me how beautiful she was. Half the young men in Spring Lake were in love with her.

  “They all made it their business to walk past the house, hoping to see her sitting on the porch. That last day she was so excited. Her beau, Douglas Carter, had spoken to her father and received permission to propose to her. She expected him to bring her an engagement ring. It was late afternoon. She was wearing a white linen dress. Madeline showed my grandmother how she had changed her sixteenth birthday ring from her left to her right hand so that she wouldn’t have to take it off when Douglas came . . .”

  Two years after Madeline disappeared, Douglas Carter had killed himself, Emily remembered.

  She got up. How much more could her grandmother recall of the events she had been told about as a child?

  Her eyesight was failing, but she was still in remarkably good health. And, like many very elderly people, her long-term memory had strengthened with age.

  She and a couple of her old friends had moved at the same time to an assisted-living facility in Albany. Emily dialed the number and heard the phone picked up on the first ring.

  “Tell me about the house,” her grandmother ordered after a quick greeting.

  There was no easy way to tell her what had happened. “A young woman who disappeared has been found there? Oh, Emily, how could that happen?”

  “I don’t know, but I want to find out. Gran, remember you told me that Madeline had had a ring on the day she disappeared?”

  “She was expecting that Douglas Carter would bring her an engagement ring.”

  “Didn’t you say something about her wearing a ring that had been her sixteenth-birthday present?”