* * *
From there she went to the nursing home and sat by Billy’s bed for an hour. He did not open his eyes, but she held his hand and kept up a steady stream of small talk. “Bertolini’s is crazy about the necklace Erin designed. They want her to do a lot more work for them.”
She talked about her own business. “Honestly, Billy, if you saw Erin and me rummaging through attics looking for goodies, you’d think we were crazy. She has a great eye and has picked out some furniture that I would have missed.”
As she left, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. “God bless, Billy.”
There was a faint pressure on her hand. He does know I’m here, she thought. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised.
* * *
Her car was a Buick station wagon with a cellular built-in phone. The traffic was slow heading south, and at five o’clock she called the Sheridan home in Darien. Chris answered. “I’m running later than I expected,” she explained. “I don’t want to interfere with your mother’s plans—or your plans, for that matter.”
“No plans,” he assured her. “Just come along.”
* * *
She pulled into the Sheridan property at quarter of six. It was almost dark, but outside lights illuminated the handsome Tudor mansion. The long driveway had a roundabout at the main entrance. Darcy parked just past the bend.
It was obvious that Chris Sheridan had been watching for her. The front door opened and he came out to greet her. “You made good time at that,” he said. “It’s nice to see you, Darcy.”
He was wearing an oxford cloth shirt, corduroy pants, and loafers. As he extended his hand to assist her from the car, she was again aware of the breadth of his shoulders. She was also glad to see that he was not in a jacket and tie. On the way down it had occurred to her that she was arriving at dinnertime and her own corduroy pants and wool sweater might not be suitable garb.
The interior of the house had the charming combination of lived-in comfort and exquisite taste. Persian carpets were scattered in the high-ceilinged foyer. A Waterford chandelier and matching sconces enhanced the magnificent carving on the curving staircase. Paintings Darcy longed to study covered the stairway wall.
“Like most people, my mother uses the den more than any other room,” Chris told her. “Through here.”
Darcy glanced at the living room as they passed. Chris noticed and said, “The whole house is done in American antiques. Anywhere from early Colonial to Greek Revival. My grandmother was hooked on antiques and I guess we learned by osmosis.”
* * *
Greta Sheridan was sitting in a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. The New York Times was scattered around her. The Sunday magazine section was open to the puzzle page and she was studying a crossword dictionary. She got up gracefully. “You must be Darcy Scott.” She took Darcy’s hand. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”
Darcy nodded. What a beautiful woman, she thought. Many of the film stars who were her mother’s intimates would enjoy Greta Sheridan’s high cheekbones, patrician features, slender frame. She was wearing pale blue wool slacks, a matching cowl neck sweater, diamond earrings, and a diamond pin in the shape of a horseshoe.
To the manner born, Darcy thought.
Chris poured sherry. A platter of cheese and crackers was on the coffee table. He poked at the fire. “By the end of the day, you know it’s still March.”
Greta Sheridan asked about the trip. “You have more courage than I to go up in the morning to Massachusetts and back a few hours later.”
“I’m in the car a lot.”
“Darcy, we’ve known each other for five days,” Chris commented. “Will you please tell me exactly what you do?” He turned to Greta. “The first time I took Darcy through the main floor of the gallery, she spotted the Roentgen writing desk out of the corner of her eye. Then she told me she was ‘sort of in the business.’ ”
Darcy laughed. “You won’t believe, but here goes.”
Greta Sheridan was fascinated. “What a sensational idea. If you’re interested, I’ll be a scout for you. You’d be amazed at the wonderful furnishings people discard or sell for next to nothing in this area.”
At six-thirty, Chris said, “I’m the chef. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Darcy. We’re having steaks, baked potato, salad. Gourmet delight time.”
“I’m not a vegetarian. It sounds wonderful.”
* * *
When he had left, Greta Sheridan began to talk about her daughter and the reenactment of her murder on the True Crimes television series. “When I received that letter telling me a dancing girl was going to die in New York in Nan’s honor, I thought I would go mad. There’s nothing worse than not being able to prevent a tragedy you know is going to happen.”
“Except to feel you had a hand in causing it,” Darcy said. “I know that the only way I can make up to Erin for urging her to answer those cursed ads is to stop her killer from hurting anyone else. You obviously feel the same way. I understand how it must be tearing you apart to go through Nan’s letters and pictures, and I’m grateful.”
“I’ve found some others. They’re here.” Greta pointed to a stack of small albums on the raised hearth. “These were on a high shelf of the library and missed getting put away.” She reached for the top one. Darcy pulled up a chair beside her and together they bent over it. “Nan got interested in photography that last year,” Greta said. “We gave her a Canon for Christmas, so these were all taken between late December and early March.”
The salad days, Darcy thought. She had albums like this of the Mount Holyoke crowd. The only difference was Mount Holyoke was a women’s college. In these pictures there were as many guys as coeds. They began to go through them.
* * *
Chris appeared in the doorway. “Five-minute warning.
* * *
“You’re a good cook,” Darcy said approvingly as she ate the last bite of steak.
They began talking about Nan’s reference to someone named Charley who had liked girls to wear spike heels. “That’s what I was trying to remember,” Greta said. “On the program and in the newspapers they were talking about high-heeled slippers. It was the letter from Nan about spike heels that was gnawing at me. Unfortunately, it really hasn’t helped much, has it?”
“Not yet,” Chris said.
* * *
Chris carried a tray with coffee into the study.
“You make a marvelous butler,” his mother said affectionately.
“Since you refuse to have live-in help, I’ve had to learn.”
Darcy thought of the Bel-Air mansion with its permanent staff of three live-ins.
When she finished the coffee, she got up to go. “I hate to break this up, but it will be over an hour before I get home and if I relax too much, I’ll end up falling asleep at the wheel.” She hesitated. “Can I just look at that first book again?”
In that first album, on the next to the last page, there was a group scene. “The tall fellow in the school sweater,” Darcy said. “The one with his face turned from the camera. There’s something about him.” She shrugged. “I just have a feeling I may have met him somewhere.”
Greta and Chris Sheridan studied the picture. “I can pick out some of the kids,” Greta said, “but not that one. How about you, Chris?”
“No. But look, Janet is in it. She was one of Nan’s big buddies,” he explained to Darcy. “She lives in Westport.” He turned to his mother. “She loves to visit you. Why not ask her to drop in soon?”
“She’s so busy with the children. I could drive down there.”
As Darcy said good-bye, Greta Sheridan smiled and said, “Darcy, I’ve been studying you all night. Except for the color of your hair, has anyone ever told you that you have a striking resemblance to Barbara Thorne?”
“Never,” Darcy said honestly. It was not the moment to say that Barbara Thorne was her mother. She smiled back. “But I have to tell you, Mrs. Sheridan, that’s a very nice thing
to say.”
* * *
Chris walked her to the car. “You’re not too tired to drive?”
“Oh no. You should see the long treks I take when I’m out on one of my hunts for furniture.”
“We really are in the same business.”
“Yes, but you take the high road . . . ”
“Will you be coming to the gallery tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there. Good night, Chris.”
* * *
Greta Sheridan was waiting at the door. “She’s a lovely girl, Chris. Lovely.”
Chris shrugged. “I think so too.” He remembered how Darcy had blushed when he’d asked her about coming up yesterday.
“But don’t start matchmaking, Mother. I’ve got a hunch she’s taken.”
Over the weekend Doug had been everything any woman could ask of a devoted husband and father. Even knowing his behavior was all a sham, Susan managed to assuage her fear that Doug might be a serial killer.
He went to Donny’s basketball practice, then got together a scrimmage in the outdoor court with the kids who could stay. He took everyone out to Burger King for lunch. “Nothing like health food,” he’d joked.
The place was full of young families. This is the sort of togetherness we’ve been lacking, Susan thought. But now it’s too late. She looked across the table at Donny, who had hardly said a word.
Back home, Doug played with the baby, helping him build a castle of interlocking blocks. “Let’s put the little prince inside.” Conner squealed with delight.
He took Trish for a ride on her scooter. “We can beat anyone on the block, can’t we, toots?”
He had a friendly father-daughter conversation with Beth. “My little girl is getting prettier every day. I’m going to have to build a fence around this house to keep away all the boys who’ll be coming after you.”
While she was getting dinner, he nuzzled Susan’s neck. “We should go dancing some night, honey. Remember how we used to dance in college?”
Like a cold wind, that ended the fantasy that maybe she had been ridiculous in suspecting him of anything stronger than womanizing. Dancing shoes found on dead bodies.
* * *
Later, in bed, Doug reached for her. “Susan, have I ever told you how much I love you?”
“Many times, but one stands out in my mind.” When I lied for you after Nan Sheridan died.
Doug pulled up on one elbow, stared down at her in the dark. “Now when was that?” he asked teasingly.
Don’t let him know what you’re thinking. “The day we were married, of course.” She laughed nervously. “Oh, Doug, no. Please, I’m really tired.” She could not bear his touch. She realized she was afraid of him.
“Susan, what the hell is the matter with you? You’re trembling.”
* * *
Sunday was more of the same. Family togetherness. But Susan could spot the wary expression in Doug’s eyes, the lines of worry around his mouth. Do I have an obligation to report my suspicions to the police? And if I admit that I lied for him fifteen years ago, could I go to prison too? And if that happened, what would become of the children? And if he suspected I was going to tell the police that I lied for him about the morning Nan died, how would he try to stop me?
XX
MONDAY
March 11
On Monday morning, Vince called Nona. “I’ve got a shrink for your program. Dr. Martin Weiss. A nice guy. Sensible. A member of AAPL and very knowledgeable. He says it straight and he’s willing to do the show. Want to take down his number?”
“Absolutely.” Nona repeated it, then added, “I like Hank, Vince. He’s terrific.”
“He wants to know if you’d like to see him pitch when baseball starts.”
“I’ll bring the Cracker Jacks.”
* * *
Nona phoned Dr. Weiss. He agreed to come to the studio at four o’clock on Wednesday. “We tape at five. It will be aired Thursday night at eight.”
Darcy spent a good part of Monday in the warehouse tagging furniture for the hotel. At four o’clock she arrived at Sheridan Galleries. An auction was taking place. She saw Chris standing on the side of the first row, his back to her. She slipped down the corridor to the conference room. Many of the snapshots were dated. She wanted to find others in that same time frame. Maybe she’d come across another picture of the student who had seemed vaguely familiar.
At six-thirty she was still at it. Chris came in. She looked up, smiling. “The bidding out there sounded hot and heavy. Was it a good day?”
“Very. No one told me you were here. I noticed the light was on.”
“I’m glad you did. Chris, does this fellow look like the one I pointed out yesterday?”
He studied it. “Yes, it does. My mother left a message a few minutes ago. She saw Janet today. That guy was one of the many questioned in Nan’s death. He had a crush on her, I gather. His name was Doug Fox.” At Darcy’s shocked expression he asked, “You know him then?”
“As Doug Fields. Through a personal ad.”
Honey, they called an emergency meeting. I can’t talk, but a company we’ve recommended to our biggest client is going under.”
Somehow Susan got through the evening. She gave the baby and Trish a bath and helped Donny and Beth with their homework.
At last she was able to turn out the lights and go to bed. For hours she lay sleepless. He’d managed to stay home for a weekend. Now he was on the loose again. And if he was responsible for the deaths of those girls, she was equally guilty.
It would be so easy if she could only run away. Bundle the kids in the car and drive as far as they could go.
But it didn’t work like that.
* * *
The next afternoon when she’d seen Trish off on the school bus and put Conner down for his nap, Susan picked up the phone and asked information for the number of the FBI headquarters in Manhattan.
She dialed and waited. A voice said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
It was not too late to disconnect. Susan shut her eyes, forced her voice above a whisper. “I want to talk to someone about the dancing-shoe murders. I may have some information.”
On Monday evening, Darcy met Nona for dinner at Neary’s and filled her in about Doug Fox. “Vince was out when I tried to reach him,” she said. “I left word with his assistant.” She broke off a piece of roll and lightly buttered it. “Nona, Doug Fox, or Doug Fields as he introduced himself to me, is exactly the kind of guy Erin would have enjoyed and trusted. He’s good-looking, bright, artistic, and he’s got one of those boyish faces that would appeal to a nurturer like Erin.”
Nona looked grave. “It’s pretty scary that he was questioned in Nan Sheridan’s death. You’d better not see him again. Of course, Vince did say that a lot of guys don’t give their right names when they answer these ads.”
“But how many others were questioned in Nan Sheridan’s death?”
“Just don’t get your hopes up. So far, it isn’t really more of a lead than the fact that Jay Stratton also went to Brown or that Erin’s superintendent worked near Nan Sheridan’s home fifteen years ago.”
“I just want it to be over,” Darcy sighed.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore. You’ve been eating and breathing it. How’s work going?”
“Oh, I’ve been neglecting it, of course. But I did have a nice call today about a room I did for a sixteen-year-old girl who had a terrible accident. I used some of Erin’s things to furnish it. The mother wanted me to know that her daughter Lisa came home from the hospital Saturday and loves the room. And you know what the mother said really got Lisa excited?”
“What?”
“Remember the poster Erin had on the wall opposite her bed? The one of the Egret painting?”
“Sure I do. ‘Loves Music, Loves to Dance.’
“They hadn’t noticed that Jimmy Neary had come up to their table. “That’s it,” he said vehemently. “By heaven, that’s it. That’s the way th
e ad began that fell out of Erin’s pocket, right here on this very spot.”
XXI
TUESDAY
March 12
Susan hired a babysitter on Tuesday and took the train down to New York. Vince had asked her to come in. “I can understand how difficult this is for you, Mrs. Fox,” he’d said carefully. He did not tell her that they already had a connection to her husband. “We’ll do everything to keep our investigation from the media, but the more we know, the easier that will be.”
At eleven o’clock, Susan was in FBI headquarters. “You can contact the Harkness Agency,” she told Vince. “They’ve been trailing Doug. I would like to think he’s just a philanderer, but if it’s more than that, I can’t let it go on.”
Vince saw the agony in the face of the pretty young woman opposite him. “No, you can’t let it go on,” he said quietly. “However, it’s a long jump from knowing your husband is playing around to thinking that he might be a serial killer. How did you make that jump?”
“I was only twenty and I was so in love with him.” It was as though Susan was talking to herself.
“How long ago was that?”
“Fifteen years.”
Vince kept his face impassive. “What happened at that time, Mrs. Fox?”
Her eyes fixed somewhere on the wall behind him, Susan told Vince about lying for Doug when Nan Sheridan died and how Doug had called out Erin’s name in his sleep the night her body was discovered.
* * *
When she was finished, Vince said, “The Harkness Agency knows where his apartment is?”
“Yes.” After she revealed everything she knew or suspected, Susan felt a vast weariness. Now all she had to do was live with herself for the rest of her life.
“Mrs. Fox, this is one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do. We need to check with the Harkness Agency. The fact that they were following your husband could be of great value. Can you act normally with him for the next day or two? Don’t forget, our investigation may clear him.”