On the Street Where you Live by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

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?”
    â€œI’m suggesting nothing.”
    â€œBut both Martha Lawrence and Madeline Shapley disappeared on September 7th. How do you explain that?”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œDo 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 ________________
    A T 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, thendress, 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