“I believe you did.” Tommy itched to tell Frieze off, to say, “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Frieze. You have been the most uncooperative person in this room. What have you got to hide?”
Instead he said, “I will be happy to speak to you first, Mr. Frieze.” Then he paused and added, “I cannot order anyone to stay, but it is very important to our investigation that everyone remains until all interviews have taken place. We may want to call different people back in after we have initially spoken to everyone.”
The first hour went slowly. Everyone stuck to the stories they’d told for the past four and a half years.
Nobody knew anything about a scarf . . . Martha hadn’t mentioned any plans she had for the next day . . . Nobody had seen her use a cell phone.
Then Rachel Wilcox came in, every inch of her formidable body conveying her outrage and distaste for the entire matter. Her answers to their questions were brusque and dismissive.
“I spoke to Martha about graduate school since I knew she was planning to attend. Martha did mention that she was having second thoughts about her master’s program in business. She had worked as a hostess in Chillingsworth, a very fine restaurant on Cape Cod, and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. She told me she wondered if she should not step back and review her choice.”
“You never mentioned that to me before, Mrs. Wilcox,” Tommy said.
“If every word that people exchanged at social events were weighed and measured, the world would drown in trivia,” Rachel Wilcox told him, and then added, “Is there anything more you require of me?”
“Just one more question. Do you know if anyone was wearing a silvery-gray chiffon scarf with metallic beading that night?”
“I was wearing it. Has it been found?”
Tommy felt his palms begin to sweat. Clayton Wilcox, he thought. Was he stupid enough to use his wife’s scarf to kill Martha?
“You ask if the scarf was found, Mrs. Wilcox. When were you aware that it was missing?”
“It was rather warm that evening, so I took it off. I asked my husband to put it in his pocket and thought no more about it until the next afternoon, when I asked him to give it to me. He did not have it. Has it been found?”
“It’s been mentioned that a scarf had been lost,” Tommy said evasively. “Did you or Dr. Wilcox look for it?”
“My husband had understood me to say that I wanted him to put the scarf with my pocketbook. He phoned the Lawrences to ask about it, but it wasn’t there.”
“I see.” Leave it alone, Tommy told himself. Let’s get his version. Banking on the probability that the news of the murder in Belmar had not yet reached the ears of these people who had left the Lawrence home to come directly to this meeting, he asked, “Mrs. Wilcox, do you know a Dr. Lillian Madden?”
“The name is familiar.”
“She is a psychologist who lives in Belmar.”
“She teaches a course on reincarnation at Monmouth County Community College, does she not?”
“Yes, she does.”
“I cannot imagine a greater waste of time.”
When she left the study, Tommy Duggan and Pete Walsh exchanged glances. ‘’Get Wilcox in here before she has a chance to talk to him,” Duggan said.
“I’m already on my way.” Pete disappeared into the foyer that led to the living room.
The demeanor of Dr. Clayton Wilcox, by all outward appearances, was measured and calm, but Tommy wondered if he was at last sniffing the scent he’d been trying to catch all day. Fear. It had its own pungent aroma that had nothing to do with the sweat glands. Clayton Wilcox was not only afraid, he was close to outright panic.
“Sit down, Dr. Wilcox. I just have to go over a few of the bases I want to touch with you.”
The old ploy, Tommy thought. Leave them stewing in the hot seat, asking themselves the questions they’re afraid you’ll ask them. Then when you start in on them, their guts are already churned up.
They asked Wilcox about any conversation he might have had with Martha Lawrence at the party.
“We had the usual exchange one has at that sort of affair. She knew my career was in academia, and she asked me if I was friendly with anyone at Tulane University Graduate School of Business in New Orleans, which is where she was enrolled.” He paused. “I am sure you and I have discussed this before, Mr. Duggan.”
“We did, Dr. Wilcox, more or less. And the next morning you went for a long walk but did not go on the boardwalk, nor did you run into Martha at any point?”
“I think I have answered that question repeatedly.”
“Dr. Wilcox, did your wife lose a silk scarf the night of the party?”
“Yes, she did.”
Tommy Duggan watched as beads of perspiration formed on the forehead of Dr. Clayton Wilcox. “Did your wife ask you to hold that scarf for her?”
Wilcox waited, then said deliberately, “My wife’s recollection is that she asked me to put the scarf in my pocket. My recollection is that she asked me to put it with her pocketbook, which was on a table in the foyer. That is exactly what I did, and I thought no more of it.”
“Then, the next afternoon when you both realized it was missing, did you call the Lawrence home to inquire about it?”
“No, I did not.”
Direct contradiction of his wife’s statement, Tommy thought. “Wouldn’t it have been appropriate to have asked the Lawrences if the scarf was still in their home?”
“Mr. Duggan, by the time we realized the scarf was missing, we all knew that Martha had disappeared. Do you seriously believe I would ask that distraught family about a scarf at that time?”
“Did you tell your wife you inquired about it?”
“For the sake of peace I did tell her that, yes.”
“One last question. Dr. Wilcox, did you personally know Dr. Lillian Madden?”
“No, I did not.”
“Were you ever a patient of hers, or did you ever consult her or have any type of contact with her?”
Wilcox seemed to hesitate. Then, the tension apparent in his voice, he said, “No, I was never a patient, and I don’t recall ever having met her.”
He’s lying, Tommy thought.
Sunday, March 25
thirty-five ________________
NICHOLAS TODD PHONED EMILY at 9:15 A.M. on Sunday. “Are we still on for today, I hope?” he asked.
“Absolutely. The Old Mill serves a fabulous brunch, I’m told. I made a reservation for one o’clock.”
“Great. I’ll be at your house by about 12:30 if that’s okay. Incidentally, I hope this wasn’t too early to call. Did I wake you up?”
“I’ve already walked to church and back, and it’s over a mile away. Does that answer your question?”
“You’re showing off. Now run through the directions to your place for me.”
AFTER SHE RANG OFF FROM NICK, Emily decided to treat herself to a leisurely hour or two with the morning newspapers. The day before, when Will Stafford had driven her home after the Lawrence luncheon, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening with the books Dr. Wilcox had loaned her. She wanted to get them back to him as soon as possible.
The fact that he had given her the Enoch College bag and suggested she keep his books together in it suggested to Emily that Dr. Wilcox would be uneasy if she did not return them promptly.
Besides, she acknowledged to herself, she wanted to let the information she had accumulated settle down into some kind of orderly pattern. Yesterday she had been told that Phyllis Gates, the author of Reflections of a Girlhood, had believed that Douglas Carter was Madeline’s murderer.
That had to be wrong, she decided. Douglas Carter committed suicide before Letitia Gregg and Ellen Swain disappeared. Had Carolyn Taylor, Phyllis Gates’s distant relation, meant to say instead that Phyllis was suspicious of Alan Carter? He was the cousin, who “was very smitten with Madeline despite the fact that she was about to become engaged to Douglas.”
Smitten enough to ki
ll her, rather than lose her to his cousin? Emily wondered.
Leave it alone this morning, she told herself, as she brought coffee into the study, which was fast becoming her favorite room. It was flooded with sunshine in the morning, and in the evening, with the shades drawn and the gas fire on, it had a cozy, intimate quality.
Settling in the big chair, she opened The Asbury Park Press and saw the headline: PSYCHOLOGIST MURDERED IN BELMAR.
The word “reincarnation” in the first paragraph of the article riveted Emily’s attention.
“Dr. Lillian Madden, a longtime resident of Belmar and a prominent lecturer on the subject of reincarnation, was found brutally strangled in her office . . .”
With mounting horror she read the rest of the story. The final sentence was: “Police are investigating the possibility of a connection between Dr. Madden’s death and the person who has been dubbed ‘the reincarnated serial killer of Spring Lake.’”
Emily put down the paper, thinking back to the parapsychology class she had visited at the New School while she was a law student at NYU. The professor had regressed one of his students, a shy twenty-year-old woman, to a former lifetime.
The subject clearly had been in a state of deep hypnosis. The professor took her back past her birth and into “a warm tunnel,” assuring her that it would be a pleasant journey.
He was trying to place the young woman in another time, Emily remembered. He had said to her, “It is May 1960. Does a picture form in your mind?”
The young woman had whispered, “No,” in a soft, almost inaudible voice.
The regression had made such a vivid impact on Emily that, sitting in the chair, the paper on her lap, the murdered doctor’s picture looking up at her, she was able to remember clearly every detail of the event.
The professor had continued the questioning. “It is December 1952. Does a picture form in your mind?”
“No.”
“It is September 1941. Does a picture form in your mind?”
And then we were all shocked, Emily thought, when a clear, authoritative male voice anwered, “Yes!”
In the same voice, the subject had given his name and described what he was wearing. “I am Lieutenant David Richards, United States Navy. I am wearing my naval uniform, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“Near Sioux City, Iowa.”
“Sioux City?”
“Near Sioux City, sir.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, sir.”
“Why are you there?”
“We believe there may be a war with Japan.”
“It is six months later. Where are you, Lieutenant?”
The arrogance was gone from his voice, Emily remembered. He described being in San Francisco. His ship was there for repairs. The war had started.
Lieutenant David Richards then clearly described his life at war for the next three years—and his death when a Japanese destroyer rammed his PT boat.
“Oh God, they’ve seen us,” he had shouted. “They’re turning. They’re going to ram us.”
“Lieutenant, it is the next day,” the professor had interrupted. “Tell me where you are.”
The voice was different, Emily thought. Quiet. Resigned. She remembered the answer: “It’s dark and gray and cold. I’m in the water. There’s wreckage all around me. I’m dead.”
Was it possible that during regression in Dr. Madden’s office, someone had experienced a total recall of having lived in Spring Lake in the 1890s? Had a hypnosis session been the source of someone’s knowledge of the events that took place in that time period?
Was it possible that Lillian Madden’s death was necessary to prevent her from going to the police with the record of a hypnosis session, and the patient’s name?
Emily threw down the paper and got up.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Nobody ever tuned in to the mind of a killer who lived over one hundred years ago.
PROMPTLY AT 12:30 her doorbell rang. When Emily opened the door, she realized that since Nick’s call on Friday, she had been looking forward to his visit. His smile was warm, his handclasp firm as he stepped inside. She was glad to see that he was casually dressed in a jacket, slacks, and turtleneck sweater.
As she greeted him, she told him that. “I promised myself that unless it was a case of dire necessity, I wasn’t going to put on a skirt or heels until I have to report for work,” she explained. She was wearing tan jeans, a tan sweater and a brown tweed jacket that had been a favorite for so long it felt like a second skin.
She had started to twist her hair up, then decided to leave it loose around her collar.
“The casual look is extremely becoming,” Nick said. “But bring your I.D. The restaurant may want proof of age before they’ll serve you wine. It’s good to see you, Emily. It’s been at least a month.”
“Yes, it has. The last few weeks in Albany were really round-the-clock sessions, trying to wrap up everything. I was so weary for the last seventy miles of the drive here Tuesday evening that I could hardly keep my eyes open.”
“And you certainly haven’t had a restful time since you took over this house.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Want to take a quick look around? We have enough time.”
“Sure, but I have to tell you I’m already impressed. It’s a wonderful house.”
In the kitchen, Nick walked to the window and looked out. “Where did they find the remains?” he asked.
She pointed to the right-hand section of the backyard. “Over there.”
“You were excavating for a pool?”
“It had already been started. It kind of scares me to think that I was within an inch of having it canceled and paying off the contractor.”
“Do you wish you had?”
“No. If I had done that, the remains wouldn’t have been found. It’s good for the Lawrence family to have closure. And now that I know my ancestor was murdered, I’m going to find out who did it and what his connection might be to Martha Lawrence’s killer.”
Nick turned from the window. “Emily, whoever took the life of Martha Lawrence and then did something so bizarre as to put the finger bone of your relative in her hand has a dangerous, twisted mind. I hope you’re not telling people around here that you’re trying to find out who the murderer is.”
That’s exactly what I’m doing, Emily thought. Sensing Nick’s disapproval, she chose her words carefully. “It’s always been assumed that Madeline Shapley met with foul play, but until four days ago there was no way of proving it. It was suspected she was the victim of someone known to her, but for all they knew, she might have decided to take a short walk while she was waiting for her fiancé, then been dragged into a passing carriage by a perfect stranger.
“Nick, a stranger didn’t bury her in her own backyard. Someone who knew Madeline, who was close to her, buried her there. I’m trying to put together the names of the people around her to see if I can establish a link between her killer and the man who was responsible for Martha Lawrence’s death four and a half years ago. There has to be a written statement about it somewhere, maybe even a detailed confession. It might have been read by someone of this generation whose ancestor was Madeline’s killer. It might have been found by someone going through old records. But there is a link, and I have the time and the will to dig for it.”
The disapproval in his expression softened and was replaced by something else. Concern? Emily thought, but that wasn’t it. No, I swear he looks disappointed. Why?
“Let’s finish the tour and head for the Old Mill,” she suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. And I’m tired of my own cooking.” She smiled and added, “Even though I am a fabulous cook.”
“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” Nick Todd suggested mildly as he followed her from the kitchen to the staircase.
THEIR TABLE AT THE OLD MILL overlooked a pond, where swans were sedately gliding through the w
ater. When the bloody marys they’d ordered were served, the waitress offered menus. “We’ll wait for a few minutes,” Nick told her.
In the three months since she had agreed to accept the position with the law firm, Emily had dined with Nick and Walter Todd, his father, three or four times in Manhattan, but never with Nick alone.
Her first impression of him had been mixed. He and Walter Todd had come up to Albany and stayed overnight to observe her defense of a prominent politician in a vehicular homicide.
She had gone to lunch with the Todds after the jury acquitted her client of criminally negligent homicide. Walter Todd had been lavish in his praise of the way she handled the case. Nick had been reticent, and the few compliments dragged out of him by his father had been perfunctory at best. She had wondered at the time if there was an insecurity in him, and thought perhaps he perceived her as a potential rival.
But that didn’t jibe with the fact that since she had accepted the offer to join them, his attitude had been cordial and friendly.
Today he was sending mixed signals again. He seemed uncomfortable. Did it have anything to do with her, or was it a personal problem? She knew he wasn’t married, but undoubtedly there was a girlfriend in the picture.
“I wish I could read your mind, Emily.” Nick’s voice broke in on her reverie. “You’re in what they used to call a ‘brown study.’”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.”
“It means being deep in thought.”
She decided to be candid. “I’ll gladly tell you what I was thinking. There’s something about me that troubles you, and I wish you’d just lay it out on the table. Do you want me in the firm? Do you think I’m the right person for the job? Something’s up. What is it?”
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Nick picked the celery stalk out of his glass and bit into it. “Do I want you in the firm? Absolutely! I wish you’d start tomorrow frankly. Which, incidentally, is why I’m here right now.” He put his glass down and began to tell her about his decision.