Chris ran his hand over the mahogany surface. “Yes, it is. You know your antiques. Are you in the business?”
Darcy thought of the Roentgen in the library of the Bel-Air house. Her mother loved to tell the story of how Marie Antoinette had sent it to Vienna as a gift to her mother, the Empress, which was why it had escaped being sold during the French Revolution. This one had obviously been shipped out of France as well.
“Are you in the business?” Chris repeated.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Darcy smiled, thinking of the hotel she was refurbishing with garage sale trappings. “In a way you could say that.”
Chris raised his eyebrows but did not ask for an explanation. “Down this way.” A wide foyer led to a double-doored room. Inside, a protective cloth covered a Georgian banquet table. Albums, yearbooks, framed pictures, snapshots, and carousels of slides were neatly placed rowlike on the table.
“Don’t forget, these were all taken somewhere between fifteen and eighteen years ago,” Sheridan warned.
“I know.” Darcy considered the mass of material “How much do you use this room?”
“Not that often.”
“Then would it be possible to leave everything here and let me come in and out? The thing is, when I’m in the office I’m always busy. My apartment isn’t large, and anyhow I’m not there very much.”
Chris knew it was none of his business but could not stop himself. “Agent D’Ambrosio told me you were answering personal ads.” He watched the withdrawal in Darcy Scott’s expression.
“Erin didn’t want to answer those ads,” Darcy said “I persuaded her. The only way I can possibly atone for that is to try to help find her killer. Is it all right if I come back and forth? I promise I won’t bother you or your staff.”
Chris realized what Vince D’Ambrosio had meant when he said that Darcy Scott was going to do what she wanted about the personal ads. “You won’t be any bother. One of the secretaries is always here by eight. The cleaning staff is around until ten at night. I’ll leave word for them to let you in. Better yet, let me give you a key.”
Darcy smiled. “I promise not to make off with a Sèvres. Is it okay if I stay for a while now? I have a few hours free.”
“Of course. And remember, I know many of those people. Try me if you want a name.”
* * *
At three-thirty Sheridan returned, followed by a maid carrying a tea tray. “I thought you might need a break. I’ll join you if I may.”
“That would be fine.” Darcy realized she had a vague headache and remembered she had skipped lunch. She accepted a cup of tea, poured a few drops of milk from the delicate Limoges pitcher, and tried not to look too anxious as she reached for a sugar cookie. She waited until the maid left, then commented, “I know how hard it must have been for you to put all this together. Memory Lane is pretty shattering.
“My mother did most of it. She surprises me. She fainted when that package of shoes arrived, but now, whatever she can do to track down Nan’s killer and to stop him from harming anyone else is all she cares about.”
“And you?”
“Nan was six minutes older than I. She never let me forget it. Called me ‘little brother.’ She was outgoing. I was shy. We kind of balanced each other. Long ago I gave up the hope of seeing her killer in court. Now that hope is within reach again.” He looked at the stack of pictures she had separated. “Anyone you know?”
Darcy shook her head. “Not so far.”
* * *
At quarter of five, she poked her head in his office. “I’m running along now.”
Chris jumped up. “Here’s the key. I meant to give it to you when I came down.”
Darcy pocketed it. “I’ll probably come back early in the morning.”
Chris could not resist. “Have you got one of those dates now? I’m sorry. I have no right to ask. I’m only concerned because I think it’s so dangerous.”
This time he was glad to see Darcy Scott did not stiffen. She simply said, “I’ll be fine,” and with a half-wave left him.
He stared after her, remembering the one time he had gone hunting. The doe had been drinking water from a stream. Sensing danger, it had lifted its head, listening, poised for flight. An instant later it sank to the ground. He had not joined in the exultant cheers the others in the party accorded the marksman. His instinct had been to shout a warning to the deer. That same instinct was crying out to him now.
How’s the program going?” Vince asked Nona as he tried to find a comfortable spot on the green love seat in her office.
“It is and it isn’t.” Nona sighed. Wearily, she ran a hand through her hair. “The hardest thing is to find a balance. When you wrote and asked me to include a segment about the possible dangers of answering those ads, I had no idea what the next week would bring. I still think my original concept is right. I want to give an overall picture and then end with a warning.” She smiled at him. “I’m glad you called and suggested pasta.”
It had been a long day. At four-thirty, Vince had had a brainstorm. He’d had a list made of the dates the eight young women had disappeared and ordered researchers to start collecting personal ads from New York area newspapers and magazines that had appeared three months previous to those dates.
A sense of accomplishment at the new possible lead had made him realize that he was gut-level tired. The thought of going back to the apartment and finding some food in the neglected refrigerator had been depressing. Instead, almost inadvertently, he’d reached for the phone and dialed Nona.
Now it was seven o’clock. He’d just arrived at her office and Nona was ready to pack it in.
The phone rang. Nona raised her eyes to heaven, reached for it, and identified herself. Vince watched as her expression changed.
“You’re right, Matt. Always a safe bet that you’ll find me here. What can I do for you?” She listened. “Matt, get it straight. I’m not in the market to buy you out. Not today. Not tomorrow. If you’ll remember, last year when we had a buyer you didn’t think it was enough. The usual. Now I can wait. You can wait. What the heck is the rush? Does Jeanie need braces or something?”
Nona laughed as she hung up. “That was the man I promised to love, honor, and cherish all the days of my life. Trouble is, he forgot to remember.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
They went to Pasta Lovers on West Fifty-eighth Street. “I duck in here a lot when I’m by myself,” Nona told him. “Wait till you taste the pasta. It would drive anyone’s blues away.”
A glass of red wine. The salad. Warm bread. “It’s the connection,” Vince heard himself saying. “There’s got to be a connection between one man and all those girls.”
“I thought you were convinced that except for Nan Sheridan the connection is the personal ads.”
“It is. But don’t you see? He can’t just happen to have the right-sized slipper for each one of them. Granted, he could have bought the slippers after he killed the girls, but he certainly had the one he left on Nan Sheridan’s foot with him when he attacked her This type of killer usually follows a pattern.”
“So you’re talking about someone who met these girls, somehow managed to learn their shoe size without any of them getting bad vibes, and then was able to get them in a situation where they disappeared without a trace.”
“You’ve got it.” Over linguine with clam sauce, he told her about his plan to analyze personal ads that had been placed in the New York area in the three months before each of the women disappeared, to see if the same one showed up. “And of course that could be another dead end,” he acknowledged. “For all we know, the same guy is placing a dozen different ads.”
They both ordered decaf cappuccino. Nona began talking about the documentary. “I still haven’t settled on a psychiatrist,” she said. “I certainly don’t want to get one of those professional showbiz experts who pop up whenever you turn the dial.”
Vince told her about Michael Nash. “Very articulate guy
. Writing a book about personal ads. He’d met Erin.”
“Darcy told me about him. A very good idea, Agent D’Ambrosio.”
* * *
Vince took Nona home in a cab, and had it wait while he saw her inside her building. “I have a hunch we’re both pretty beat,” he said in answer to her suggestion of a nightcap. “But please give me a raincheck.”
“You’ve got it.” Nona grinned. “I am tired, and anyhow, my cleaning woman hasn’t been around since last Friday. I don’t think you’re ready for the real me.
It was all Vince could do to remember that he was technically on the job. That did not stop him from wondering how it would feel to hold Nona Roberts in his arms.
* * *
Back at his apartment, there was a message on his answering machine. Ernie, his assistant. “No emergency, but I thought you’d be interested in hearing this, Vince. We have the roster of students from Brown for the time Nan Sheridan was there. Guess who was a returning student and in some of her classes? None other than our friend the jeweler, Jay Stratton.”
Darcy’s five-thirty date was to meet Box 4307, Cal Griffin, in the bar at Tavern on the Green. He’s not in his early thirties, was her first impression. Griffin was closer to fifty. A beefy man who combed his hair across the top of his head to conceal his bald spot, he was expensively and conservatively dressed. He was from Milwaukee, but, as he explained, got into New York regularly.
A suggestive wink followed. Don’t get him wrong, he was a happily married man, but when he came in on business it would sure be good to have a friend. Another wink. Believe you me, he knew how to treat a woman. What show haven’t you seen? He knew how to get house seats. What’s your favorite restaurant? Lutèce? Expensive, but worth every penny.
Darcy managed to ask him the last time he’d been in New York.
Too long. Last month he’d taken the wife and kids—great teenagers but you know teenagers—skiing in Vail. They had a house there. They were building a bigger place. Money’s no object. Anyhow, the kids brought their friends and it was bedlam. That rock and roll stuff. Drive you crazy, wouldn’t it? They had a great stereo system in the house.
Darcy had ordered a Perrier. Halfway through it, she made a business of glancing at her watch. “My boss was real mad at me for leaving,” she said. “I’m going to have to cut this short.”
“Forget him,” Griffin ordered. “You and I are going to have a nice night.”
They were sitting at a banquette. A beefy arm went around her. A moist kiss was planted on her ear.
Darcy did not want to make a scene. “Oh, my God,” she said, pointing to a nearby table where a man was sitting alone, his back to them. “That’s my husband. I’ve got to get out of here.”
The arm disappeared from around her waist. Griffin looked shaken. “I don’t want trouble.”
“I’ll just slip away,” Darcy whispered.
On the way home in the cab, she tried not to laugh out loud. Well, one thing’s for sure—it’s not that one.
* * *
The phone was ringing as she turned her key in the lock. It was Doug Fields. “Hi, Darcy. Why are you so unforgettable? I know you said you were busy tonight, but my plans changed and I decided to take a chance. How about a hamburger at P.J. Clarke’s or something?”
Darcy realized that she had forgotten to tell Vince D’Ambrosio about Doug Fields. A nice guy. Attractive. An illustrator. The kind Erin might easily have been interested in. “That sounds great,” she answered. “What time?”
How stupid does Doug think I am? Susan wondered as she sat at the kitchen table with Donny and went over his geometry homework. The guidance counseler had phoned her this afternoon. Was there a problem at home? Donny, always a good student, was slipping in all his subjects. He seemed distracted and depressed.
“Well, that’s it,” she said cheerfully. “As my geometry teacher used to say, ‘It shows what you can do, Miss Frawley, when you put your mind to it.’ ”
Donny smiled and gathered up his books. “Mom . . . ” He hesitated.
“Donny, you’ve always been able to talk to me. What is it?”
He looked around.
“The little kids are in bed. Beth is taking one of her thirty-minute showers. We can talk,” Susan assured him.
“And Dad is in one of his meetings,” Donny said bitterly.
He suspects, Susan thought. There was no use trying to protect him. This was as good a time as any to be straight with him. “Donny, Dad isn’t in a meeting.”
“You know?” Relief flooded the troubled face.
“Yes, I do. But how did you find out?”
He looked down. “Patrick Driscoll, one of the guys on the team, was in New York Friday night when we were visiting Grandpa. Dad was in a restaurant with some woman. They were holding hands and kissing. Patrick said it was gross. His mother wants to tell you. His dad won’t let her.”
“Donny, I’m planning to divorce your father. It’s not something I want, but living like this isn’t great for any of us. This way we won’t always be waiting for him to come home, always putting up with his lies. I hope he makes it his business to see you kids, but I can’t guarantee it. I’m sorry. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.” She realized she was crying.
Donny patted her shoulder. “Mom, he doesn’t deserve you. I promise I’ll help with the other kids. I swear I’ll do a better job than he did with us.”
Donny may look like Doug, but thank God, Susan thought, he’s got enough of my genes in him that he’ll never act like his father. She kissed Donny’s cheek. “Let’s keep this between us for now. Okay.”
Susan went to bed at eleven o’clock. Doug was still not home. She turned on the late news and watched horrified as the anchorman updated the story of the missing young women and the packages of mismatched shoes that were being returned to their families.
The announcer was saying, “Although the FBI refuses to comment, inside sources tell us that the latest shoes to be returned are the mates of the ones Erin Kelley was wearing when her body was found. If true, she is probably linked to the disappearance of two young women originally from Lancaster and White Plains, who had been living in Manhattan, and the long-unsolved murder of Nan Sheridan.”
Nan Sheridan. Erin Kelley.
“Oh my God,” Susan moaned. Her hands clenched in fists, she stared at the screen.
Pictures of Claire Barnes, Erin Kelley, Janine Wetzl and Nan Sheridan were flashed on the screen.
The announcer was saying, “The trail of death seems to have begun on that cold March morning, fifteen years ago next week, when Nan Sheridan was strangled on the jogging path near her home.”
Susan felt her own throat close. Fifteen years ago she had lied for Doug when he was questioned about Nan’s death. If she hadn’t, would these other young women not have disappeared? That night almost two weeks ago when the announcement came about Erin Kelley’s death, Doug had had a nightmare. Called out Erin in his sleep.
“. . . The FBI is cooperating with the New York Police Department in an attempt to trace the evening shoes back to the purchaser. The file on Nan Sheridan’s death has been reopened . . . ”
Suppose they questioned Doug again? Suppose they question me, Susan thought. Did she have a duty to tell the police she had lied fifteen years ago?
Donny. Beth. Trish. Conner. What would their lives be like if they grew up as the children of a serial killer?
The police commissioner of New York was being interviewed. “We believe we’re dealing with a vicious serial killer.”
Vicious.
“What shall I do?” Susan whispered to herself. Her father’s words rang in her ears. “Vicious streak
Two years ago when she challenged him about his relationship with the au pair, his face had contorted with rage. The fear she had experienced at that moment swept through her again. As the news ended, Susan finally faced the fact she had never allowed herself to consider. “I thought he was going to hurt me that night.”<
br />
Shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance? On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?. . . Shall we still be together with our arms around each other, shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?
Charley laughed aloud at the sheer exultation of the music. Whirling and stepping in synch with Yul Brynner, he stamped his foot, twisted, twirled an imaginary Darcy in his arms. They’d dance to this next week! Then Astaire! What joy! What joy! It was only seven days away: Nan’s fifteenth anniversary!
On the clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen, shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?
The music stopped. He reached for the remote control and snapped off the video. If only he could spend the night. But that would be foolish. Do what he had come to do.
The basement stairs creaked and he frowned. Must take care of that. Annette had fled down these stairs. Listening to the frantic tapping of the heels on the bare wood had enthralled him. If Darcy tried to escape him that same way, he didn’t want a creaking noise to interfere with the sound of her slippers on their futile flight.
Darcy. How hard it had been to sit across the table from her. He had wanted to say “Come with me” and bring her here. Like the Phantom of the Opera inviting his beloved to the netherworld.
The shoe boxes. Five of them now. Marie and Sheila and Leslie and Annette and Tina. Suddenly he realized he wanted to send them all back at once. Be finished with it. And then there would be only one.
Only Darcy’s package would be here next week. Maybe he’d never return it.
He opened the latch of the freezer, lifted the heavy door, and stared down into the empty space. Awaiting a new ice maiden, Charley thought. This one he wouldn’t give back.
XVI
THURSDAY
March 7
How well did you know Nan Sheridan?” Vince snapped. He and a detective from the Midtown North precinct were taking turns questioning Jay Stratton.
Stratton remained unruffled. “She was a student at Brown when I was there.”