On the Street Where You Live Read online

  Acclaim for the

  Queen of Suspense

  MARY HIGGINS CLARK

  ON THE STREET WHERE YOU LIVE

  “Is a reincarnated serial killer at work in a New Jersey resort town more than a century after he first drew blood? That’s the catchy premise that supports Clark’s 24th book. . . . This is a plot-driven novel, with Clark’s story mechanics at their peak of complexity, clever and tricky.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Like all of Clark’s novels, this one is a suspenseful page-turner that will delight her many fans.”

  —Booklist

  “The cleverly complex plot gallops along at a great clip, the little background details are au courant, and the identities of both murderers come as an enjoyable surprise. ON THE STREET WHERE YOU LIVE just may be Clark’s best in years.”

  —Amazon.com

  BEFORE I SAY GOOD-BYE

  “Mary Higgins Clark knows what she’s doing. . . . This savvy author always comes up with something unexpected. . . . A hold-your-breath ending.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Romantic suspense has no more reliable champion than Mary Higgins Clark. Her characters are . . . breezy and fun, and so is this confection of a book.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “For someone who loves plot, Mary Higgins Clark’s Before I Say Good-Bye should be like manna from heaven. . . . [The] ‘Queen of Suspense’ clearly knows what her readers want. Here she provides it, in spades.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “A smooth and easy read.”

  —New York Post

  “The storytelling skills of the newest grandmaster of mystery writing have never been better.”

  —The Hartford Courant (CT)

  “Clark holds the reins the whole way through this tale of mischief and secrets, allowing us to unwind her labyrinth of hidden clues only as she wants them to unfold.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “Characters so interesting the reader can identify with them in an instant.”

  —Lexington Herald-Leader (KY)

  WE’LL MEET AGAIN

  “Everyone knows about the monster in the closet and the bogeyman under the bed, but Mary Higgins Clark is shrewd enough to spot another universal fear—that our doctors are quacks and our hospitals are death mills.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “The bestselling author returns with a knuckle-biting mystery about murder, suicide, revenge, and other low deeds among the swells of Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  —People

  “Mary Higgins Clark does not traffic in mundane murders. Her victims tend to be dispatched with imagination and dramatic flair. . . . The author may surprise even those who fancy themselves amateur sleuths.”

  —Minneapolis Star-Tribune

  “A fast, fun read. . . . You’ll be reading late into the night as you have with previous Mary Higgins Clark bestsellers.”

  —The Florida Times-Union

  “When it comes to suspense, there’s no writer today more capable of keeping the reader completely absorbed than Mary Higgins Clark. She does it again in We’ll Meet Again.”

  —Abilene Reporter-News (TX)

  Thank you for purchasing this Simon & Schuster eBook.

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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Tuesday, March 20

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday, March 21

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Thursday, March 22

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Friday, March 23

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Saturday, March 24

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sunday, March 25

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Monday, March 26

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Tuesday, March 27

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Wednesday, March 28

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Thursday, March 29

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Friday, March 30

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Saturday, March 31

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Sunday, April 1

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  For my nearest and dearest—

  John Conheeney—Spouse Extraordinaire

  The Clark offspring—

  Marilyn, Warren and Sharon, David, Carol and Pat

  The Clark grandchildren—

  Liz, Andrew, Courtney, David, Justin and Jerry

  The Conheeney children—

  John and Debby, Barbara and Glenn, Trish, Nancy & David

  The Conheeney grandchildren—

  Robert, Ashley, Lauren, Megan, David, Kelly, Courtney, Johnny and Thomas

  You’re a grand bunch and I love you all.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again it is time to say a thousand thanks to everyone who
has been so much a part of the journey of this book.

  My gratitude is endless to my longtime editor, Michael Korda. It is hard to believe that twenty-six years have passed since we first started putting our heads together with Where Are the Children? It is a joy to work with him and for the last ten years his associate, senior editor, Chuck Adams. They are marvelous friends and advisors along the way.

  Lisl Cade, my publicist, is truly my right hand—encouraging, perceptive, helpful in ways too numerous to mention. Love you, Lisl.

  My gratitude continues to my agents Eugene Winick and Sam Pinkus. Truly friends for all seasons.

  Associate Director of Copyediting Gypsy da Silva and I have once again shared an exciting journey. Many, many thanks Gypsy.

  Thank you also to copyeditor Carol Catt, scanner Michael Mitchell, and proofreader Steve Friedeman for your careful work.

  John Kaye, Prosecutor of Monmouth County, has been kind enough to answer this writer’s questions about the role of the prosecutor’s office as this book was being written. I am most grateful, and if any way I have misinterpreted, I plead guilty.

  Sgt. Steven Marron and Detective Richard Murphy, Ret., NYPD, New York County District Attorney’s Office, have continued to advise me on how the real world investigators respond to the situations depicted within these pages. I am so grateful for all the help.

  Again and always thanks and blessings to my assistants and friends Agnes Newton and Nadine Petry and reader-in-progress, my sister-in-law, Irene Clark.

  Judith Kelman, author and friend, has always responded instantly when I needed a difficult question answered. She is a master at research and a master at friendship. Bless you, Judith.

  My daughter, fellow author Carol Higgins Clark, has been in the throes of writing her book as I write mine. This time our paths are parallel but separate but not our ability to communicate the highs and lows of creativity.

  I have studied the writings of specialists in the fields of reincarnation and regression and with gratitude acknowledge the contributions I have gleaned from their writing. They are: Robert G. Jarmon, M.D., Ian Stevenson and Karlis Osis.

  For Fr. Stephen Fichter, many thanks for a last minute biblical confirmation.

  I close with my thanks to my husband, John, and our wonderful combined families, children and grandchildren, who are named in the dedication.

  And now my readers, past, present, and future, thank you for selecting this book. I truly hope you enjoy.

  Tuesday, March 20

  one ________________

  HE TURNED ONTO THE BOARDWALK and felt the full impact of the stinging blast from the ocean. Observing the shifting clouds, he decided it wouldn’t be surprising if they had a snow flurry later on, even though tomorrow was the first day of spring. It had been a long winter, and everyone said how much they were looking forward to the warm weather ahead. He wasn’t.

  He enjoyed Spring Lake best once late autumn set in. By then the summer people had closed their houses, not appearing even for weekends.

  He was chagrined, though, that with each passing year more and more people were selling their winter homes and settling here permanently. They had decided it was worth the seventy-mile commute into New York so that they could begin and end the day in this quietly beautiful New Jersey seaside community.

  Spring Lake, with its Victorian houses that appeared unchanged from the way they had been in the 1890s, was worth the inconvenience of the trip, they explained.

  Spring Lake, with the fresh, bracing scent of the ocean always present, revived the soul, they agreed.

  Spring Lake, with its two-mile boardwalk, where one could revel in the silvery magnificence of the Atlantic, was a treasure, they pointed out.

  All of these people shared so much—the summer visitors, the permanent dwellers—but none of them shared his secrets. He could stroll down Hayes Avenue and visualize Madeline Shapley as she had been in late afternoon on September 7, 1891, seated on the wicker sofa on the wraparound porch of her home, her wide-brimmed bonnet beside her. She had been nineteen years old then, brown-eyed, with dark brown hair, sedately beautiful in her starched white linen dress.

  Only he knew why she had had to die an hour later.

  St. Hilda Avenue, shaded with heavy oaks that had been mere saplings on August 5, 1893, when eighteen-year-old Letitia Gregg had failed to return home, brought other visions. She had been so frightened. Unlike Madeline, who had fought for her life, Letitia had begged for mercy.

  The last one of the trio had been Ellen Swain, small and quiet, but far too inquisitive, far too anxious to document the last hours of Letitia’s life.

  And because of her curiosity, on March 31, 1896, she had followed her friend to the grave.

  He knew every detail, every nuance of what had happened to her and to the others.

  He had found the diary during one of those cold, rainy spells that sometimes occur in summer. Bored, he’d wandered into the old carriage house, which served as a garage.

  He climbed the rickety steps to the stuffy, dusty loft, and for lack of something better to do, began rummaging through the boxes he found there.

  The first one was filled with utterly useless odds and ends: rusty old lamps; faded, outdated clothing; pots and pans and a scrub board; chipped vanity sets, the glass on the mirrors cracked or blurred. They all were the sorts of items one shoves out of sight with the intention of fixing or giving away, and then forgets altogether.

  Another box held thick albums, the pages crumbling, filled with pictures of stiffly posed, stern-faced people refusing to share their emotions with the camera.

  A third contained books, dusty, swollen from humidity, the type faded. He’d always been a reader, but even though only fourteen at the time, he could glance through these titles and dismiss them. No hidden masterpieces in the lot.

  A dozen more boxes proved to be filled with equally worthless junk.

  In the process of throwing everything back into the boxes, he came across a rotted leather binder that had been hidden in what looked like another photo album. He opened it and found it stuffed with pages, every one of them covered with writing.

  The first entry was dated, September 7, 1891. It began with the words “Madeline is dead by my hand.”

  He had taken the diary and told no one about it. Over the years, he’d read from it almost daily, until it became an integral part of his own memory. Along the way, he realized he had become one with the author, sharing his sense of supremacy over his victims, chuckling at his playacting as he grieved with the grieving.

  What began as a fascination gradually grew to an absolute obsession, a need to relive the diary writer’s journey of death on his own. Vicarious sharing was no longer enough.

  Four and a half years ago he had taken the first life.

  It was twenty-one-year-old Martha’s fate that she had been present at the annual end-of-summer party her grandparents gave. The Lawrences were a prominent, long-established Spring Lake family. He was at the festive gathering and met her there. The next day, September 7th, she left for an early morning jog on the boardwalk. She never returned home.

  Now, over four years later, the investigation into her disappearance was still ongoing. At a recent gathering, the prosecutor of Monmouth County had vowed there would be no diminution in the effort to learn the truth about what had happened to Martha Lawrence. Listening to the empty vows, he chuckled at the thought.

  How he enjoyed participating in the somber discussions about Martha that came up from time to time over the dinner table.

  I could tell you all about it, every detail, he said to himself, and I could tell you about Carla Harper too. Two years ago he had been strolling past the Warren Hotel and noticed her coming down the steps. Like Madeline, as described in the diary, she had been wearing a white dress, although hers was barely a slip, sleeveless, clinging, revealing every inch of her slender young body. He began following her.

  When she disappeared three days later, everyone beli
eved Carla had been accosted on the trip home to Philadelphia. Not even the prosecutor, so determined to solve the mystery of Martha’s disappearance, suspected that Carla had never left Spring Lake.

  Relishing the thought of his omniscience, he had lightheartedly joined the late afternoon strollers on the boardwalk and exchanged pleasantries with several good friends he met along the way, agreeing that winter was insisting on giving them one more blast on its way out.

  But even as he bantered with them, he could feel the need stirring within him, the need to complete his trio of present-day victims. The final anniversary was coming up, and he had yet to choose her.

  The word in town was that Emily Graham, the purchaser of the Shapley house, as it was still known, was a descendant of the original owners.

  He had looked her up on the Internet. Thirty-two years old, divorced, a criminal defense attorney. She had come into money after she was given stock by the grateful owner of a fledgling wireless company whom she’d successfully defended pro bono. When the stock went public and she was able to sell it, she made a fortune.

  He learned that Graham had been stalked by the son of a murder victim after she won an acquittal for the accused killer. The son, protesting his innocence, was now in a psychiatric facility. Interesting.

  More interesting still, Emily bore a striking resemblance to the picture he’d seen of her great-great-grandaunt, Madeline Shapley. She had the same wide brown eyes and long, full eyelashes. The same midnight-brown hair with hints of auburn. The same lovely mouth. The same tall, slender body.

  There were differences, of course. Madeline had been innocent, trusting, unworldly, a romantic. Emily Graham was obviously a sophisticated and smart woman. She would be more of a challenge than the others, but then again, that made her so much more interesting. Maybe she was the one destined to complete his special trio?

  There was an orderliness, a rightness to the prospect that sent a shiver of pleasure through him.

  two ________________

  EMILY GAVE A SIGH OF RELIEF as she passed the sign indicating she was now in Spring Lake. “Made it!” she said aloud. “Hallelujah.”

  The drive from Albany had taken nearly eight hours. She had left in what was supposed to have been “periods of light to moderate snow,” but which had turned into a near blizzard that only tapered off as she exited Rockland County. Along the way the number of fender benders on the New York State Thruway reminded her of the bumper cars she had loved as a child.