“The real Charles North didn’t place any personal ads, did he?”
“No. I met him at that benefit too. He kept talking about himself and I asked him for his business card. I never use my own name when I call people who answer the special ad. You made it easy. You called me.”
Yes, she had called him.
“You say Erin liked you when you met her the first time. Weren’t you afraid she’d recognize your voice when you called and said you were Charles North?”
“I phoned from Penn Station, where there’s a lot of noise. I told her I was running to catch a train to Philadelphia. I lowered my voice and spoke faster than usual. Just like this afternoon when I talked to your secretary.” The timbre of his voice changed, became high-pitched. “Don’t I sound like a woman now?”
“Suppose I hadn’t been able to go to that bar tonight? What would you have done?”
“You told me you didn’t have any plans for this evening. I knew you’d do anything to find the man Erin met the night she disappeared. And I was right.”
“Yes, Charley, you were right.”
He nuzzled her neck.
Step. Step. Glide.
“I’m so glad you both answered my special ad. You know what it is, don’t you? It begins, ‘Loves Music, Loves to Dance.’ ”
“Because what is dancing but making love set to music playing?” Sinatra continued.
‘That’s one of my favorite songs,” Michael whispered. He twirled her, never relaxing his grip on her hand. When he drew her back in, his tone became confidential, even regretful. “It was Nan’s fault that I started killing girls.”
“Nan Sheridan?” Chris Sheridan’s face filled Darcy’s mind. The sadness in his eyes when he talked about his sister. The authority and presence he had in the gallery. The way his staff obviously loved him. His mother. The easy relationship between them. She could hear him saying, “I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Darcy. Gourmet delight time.”
His concern that she was answering these ads. How right he’d been. I wish I’d had a chance to get to know you, Chris. I wish I’d had a chance to tell my mother and father I loved them.
“Yes, Nan Sheridan. After I graduated from Stanford, I spent a year in Boston before I started med school. I used to drive down to Brown a lot. That’s where I met Nan. She was a wonderful dancer. You’re good, but she was wonderful.”
The familiar opening bars of “Good Night, Sweetheart.”
No, Darcy thought. No.
Backstep. Sidestep. Glide.
“Michael, something else I meant to ask you about my mother,” she began.
He pushed her head down on his shoulder. “I told you to call me Charley. Don’t talk anymore,” he said firmly. “We’ll just dance.”
“Time will heal your sorrow,” floated through the room. Darcy didn’t recognize the singer’s voice.
“Good night, sweetheart, good night.” The last notes faded into the air.
Michael dropped his arms and smiled at Darcy. “It’s time,” he said in a friendly voice, although his expression was blankly terrifying. “I’ll give you to the count of ten to try to get away. Isn’t that fair?”
They were back on the road. “The signal is coming from the left. Wait a minute, we’re going too far,” the Bridgewater cop said. “There must be a side road here somewhere.” The wheels screeched as they made a U-turn.
The sense of impending disaster had grown in Chris to the explosive point. He opened the car window. “There, for God’s sake, there’s a driveway.”
The squad car ground to a halt, backed up, turned sharply right, raced along the rutted ground.
Darcy slipped and slid on the polished floor. The high-heeled slippers were her enemies as she ran for the door. She took a precious instant to stop and try to yank the shoes off, but she couldn’t. The double knots on the straps were too tight.
“One,” Charley called from behind her.
She reached the door and tugged at the bolt. It did not release. She twisted the knob. It did not turn.
“Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. I’m counting, Darcy.”
The panic button. She jammed her finger against it.
Hahahahahahaha. . . . A hollow, mocking laugh echoed through the room. Hahahaha. . . . The sound was coming from the panic button.
With a shriek, Darcy jumped back. Now Charley was laughing too.
“Seven. Eight. Nine . . . ”
She turned, saw the stairway, began to run to it.
“Ten!”
Charley was rushing toward her, his hands outstretched, his fingers bent, his thumbs rigid.
“No! No!” Darcy tried to reach the staircase, skidded. Her ankle turned. Sharp, stabbing pain. Moaning, she hobbled onto the first step and felt herself pulled back.
She didn’t know she was screaming.
There’s the Mercedes,” Vince cried. The squad car slammed to a stop behind it.
He sprang out of the car, Chris and the cop with him. “Stay back,” Vince shouted to Nona.
“Listen.” Chris held up his hand. “Someone’s screaming. It’s Darcy.” He and Vince threw themselves against the thick oak door. It didn’t budge.
The cop pulled out his gun and pumped six bullets into the lock.
This time when Chris and Vince attacked the door, it opened.
Darcy tried to kick Charley with the sharp stiletto heels. He spun her around, seeming not to feel the heels stabbing at his legs. His hands were around her neck. She tried to claw them away. Erin, Erin, is this the way it was for you? She couldn’t scream anymore. She opened her mouth, frantic to gulp in air, and could find none. Were those moans coming from her? She tried to keep fighting but couldn’t raise her arms again.
Vaguely, she heard loud staccato sounds. Was someone trying to help her? It’s . . . too . . . late . . . she thought as she felt herself fall into darkness.
* * *
Chris got through the doorway first. Darcy was dangling like a rag doll, her arms drooping at her sides, her legs buckled under her. Long, powerful fingers were squeezing her throat. Her screams had stopped.
With a cry of rage, Chris flew across the room and tackled Nash, who sagged and fell, pulling Darcy with him. His hands convulsed, then tightened their grip around her neck.
Vince threw himself next to Nash, snapped his arm around Nash’s neck, forcing his head back. The Bridgewater cop grabbed Nash’s thrashing feet.
Charley’s hands seemed to have a life of their own. Chris could not pry his fingers loose from Darcy’s throat. Nash seemed to be possessed of superhuman strength and impervious to pain. Desperately Chris sank his teeth into the right hand of the man who was snuffing out Darcy’s life.
With a howl of pain Charley yanked back his right hand and relaxed the left one.
Vince and the cop twisted his arms behind him and snapped handcuffs on his wrists as Chris grabbed Darcy.
* * *
Nona had been watching from the doorway. Now she rushed into the house and dropped to her knees at Darcy’s feet. Darcy’s eyes were not focusing. There were ugly red bruises on her slender throat.
Chris covered Darcy’s mouth with his own, pinched her nostrils closed, forced breath into her lungs.
Vince looked at Darcy’s staring eyes and began to pound her chest.
The Bridgewater cop was guarding Michael Nash, who was handcuffed to the banister. Nash began to recite in a singsong voice, “Eeney, meeney, miney, mo, Catch a dancer by the toe . . . ”
* * *
She’s not responding, Nona thought frantically. She grasped Darcy’s ankles and for the first time realized Darcy was wearing dancing slippers. I can’t stand it, Nona thought, I can’t stand it. Almost unaware of what she was doing, Nona began to struggle with the knots on the ankle straps.
“One little piggy went to market. One little piggy stayed home. Sing it again, Mama. I have ten piggy toes.”
We may be too late, Vince thought furiously as he searched for some response fr
om Darcy, but if we are, you lousy bastard, you’d better not think that spouting nursery rhymes now will help you prove insanity.
Chris raised his head as he gulped in air and for a split second stared at Darcy’s face. The same look as Nan when he found her that morning. The bruised throat. The blue-white tone to her skin. No! I won’t let it happen. Darcy, breathe.
Nona, weeping now, had finally untied one of the ankle straps. She pushed it back and began to pull the high-heeled slipper from Darcy’s foot.
She felt something. Was she wrong? No.
“Her foot is moving!” she cried. “She’s trying to get it out of the shoe.”
At the same instant, Vince saw a pulse begin to beat in Darcy’s throat and Chris heard a long, drawn-out sigh come from her lips.
XXIII
THURSDAY
March 14
The next morning, Vince phoned Susan. “Mrs. Fox, your husband may be a philanderer but he’s not a criminal. We have the serial killer in custody and we have absolute proof that he is solely responsible for the dancing-shoe deaths starting with Nan Sheridan.”
“Thank you. I guess you can understand what this means to me.”
“Who was that?” Doug had stayed home from work. He felt lousy. Not sick, just lousy.
Susan told him.
He stared at her. “You mean you told the FBI you thought I was a murderer! You actually thought I killed Nan Sheridan and all those other women!” His face darkened in incredulous rage.
Susan stared back at him. “I thought that was a possibility, and that by lying for you fifteen years ago I might also be responsible for those other deaths.”
“I swore to you that I never went near Nan the morning she died.”
“Obviously you didn’t. Then where were you, Doug? At least level with me now.”
The anger faded from his face. He looked away, then turned back with a cajoling smile. “Susan, I told you then. I repeat it. The car broke down that morning.”
“I want the truth. You owe it to me.”
Doug hesitated, then said slowly, “I was with Penny Knowles. Susan, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know because I was afraid of losing you.”
“You mean Penny Knowles was about to get engaged to Bob Carver and didn’t want to take a chance on losing out on the Carver money. She’d have let you be accused of murder before she’d speak up for you.”
“Susan, I know I played around a lot then . . . ”
“Then?” Susan’s laugh was harsh. “You played around then? Listen to me, Doug. All these years my father has never gotten over the fact that I perjured myself for you. Go pack your clothes. Move into your bachelor apartment. I’m filing for divorce.”
All day he begged for another chance. “Susan, I promise.”
“Get out.”
He would not leave before Donny and Beth came home from school. “I’ll see a lot of you kids, I promise.” When he walked down the driveway, Trish ran after him and grabbed his knees. He carried her back and handed her to Susan. “Susan, please.”
“Good-bye, Doug.”
They watched him drive away. Donny was crying. “Mom, last weekend. I mean, if he was like that all the time . . . ”
Susan tried to blink back her own tears. “Never say never, Donny. Your father has a lot of growing up to do. Let’s see if he can handle it.”
Are you going to watch your program?” Vince asked Nona when he phoned Thursday afternoon.
“Absolutely not. We prepared a special wrap. I wrote it. I lived it.”
“What do you feel like eating tonight?”
“A steak.”
“Me too. What are you doing over the weekend?”
“It’s supposed to be mild. I thought I’d drive out to the Hamptons. After the last few weeks, I must go down to the sea again.”
“You have a house there.”
“Yes. I think I’m changing my mind about buying Matt out. I love my place and he really is very forgettable. Want to come along for the ride?”
“I’d love to.”
Chris brought an antique cane for Darcy to use while her sprained ankle mended.
“It’s very grand,” she told him.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Are you all set? Where are your things?”
“Just that bag.” Greta had phoned insisting that Chris bring Darcy to Darien for a long weekend.
The phone rang. “I’ll skip it,” Darcy said. “No, wait. I tried to reach my folks in Australia. Maybe the operator finally caught up with them.”
It was both her mother and father on the line. “I’m absolutely fine. I just wanted to say . . . ” She hesitated. “. . . that I really miss you guys. I . . . I love you. . . . ” Darcy laughed. “What do you mean, I must have met somebody?”
She winked at Chris. “As a matter of fact, I have met a nice young man. His name is Chris Sheridan. You’ll approve. He’s in my business, only upscale. He has an antiques gallery. He’s good-looking, nice, and has away of showing up when you need him. . . . How did I meet him?”
Only Erin, she thought, could really appreciate the irony of her answer. “Believe it or not, I met him through the personal ads.”
She looked up at Chris and their eyes met. He smiled. I’m wrong, she thought. Chris understands too.
An Exclusive Interview With
MARY
HIGGINS
CLARK
The “Queen of Suspense” Talks About Her Life and Work
What prompted you to choose the world of personal ads as a background for Loves Music, Loves to Dance?
People in all walks of life are turning to personal ads to find romance or companionship. Personal ads, however, are risky. In the search for that “someone,” people are throwing caution to the winds. Meeting strangers on an anonymous basis is dangerous, especially for women. Women can fall prey to sexual harrassment, rape, even murder. Yet, personal ads are a growing trend. With the pace of modern living, there is less and less opportunity to meet others through traditional channels—family, friends, community. That is why personal ads are an integral part of newspapers and magazines in the largest city or the smallest hamlet. They have become big business in America. The scary aspect is that you are taking on faith what a stranger tells you—his name, his job, his marital status, his background.
Three years ago, when I was Chairman of the International Crime Writers Congress, I was dashing from panel to panel to make sure that all was going well. When I stopped in the auditorium where an FBI agent was speaking, I stayed for the whole lecture. He was talking about a serial killer who had enticed his victims through personal ads. The words “loves music, loves to dance” walked through my mind and I knew the seed for another book had been planted.
How did you come into contact with the FBI for your research?
The speaker that day was Robert Ressler, Director of Behavioral Forensic Services, who has since retired from the FBI. As the FBI’s top criminologist and Serial Murder and Violent Crime expert, he had conducted original research in violent criminal behavior and interviewed some of the most notorious criminals, such as David Berkowitz, the “Son of Sam Killer”; Ted Bundy, killer of over 35 women; Richard T. Chase, the “Vampire Killer”; John Wayne Gacy, Chicago killer of 33 boys; and Charles Manson. Robert Ressler acted as my consultant on Loves Music, Loves to Dance.
What are some cases of women murdered through personal ads?
The first serial killer to be recognized in criminology to use the technique of personal ads to lure his victims was Harvey Glatman, who placed ads for both dates and models. Glatman killed seven young women. In each case, he performed a ritual. Before strangling them, he would photograph them, with their hands and mouths taped. I saw the photographs he had taken of these terrified young women. Harvey Glatman, who was executed for his murders, is considered a classic case. Since then, the FBI has become aware of other cases of homicide which have occurred as a result of women answering personal ads. Men who perpetrated
such murders have managed to go unsuspected for years. They are often extremely intelligent and personable—just the kind of guy a mother would like her daughter to bring home.
Where do you get the inspiration for your plots?
From real life. I attend criminal trials regularly. The amount of coincidence in crime is staggering. For example, a young nurse in New Jersey was on her way to work and someone got into her car at a red light. A few minutes later she was dead. She was going to work. She wasn’t doing anything foolish. She is typical of characters in my books—people to whom things happen, who are not looking for trouble.
What kind of people do you write about?
Nice people whose lives are invaded by evil. They are people with whom we can identify—leading ordinary lives and going about their business. My heroines are strong women who take a major role in solving their own problems. A man may come in to help at the end, but the woman herself basically copes with the menacing situation.
You introduce us to widely differing worlds in your writings. How do you achieve the sense of authenticity that characterizes your novels?
New settings provide a springboard for fresh and different characters. Backgrounds for my novels include medicine, law, government, fashion, social trends such as the personal ads phenomenon in Loves Music, Loves to Dance. For all my books, I do substantial research to give them a flavor of authenticity.
What is the basis of your first bestseller, Where Are the Children?
In New York, there was a sensational case in which a beautiful young mother was on trial for murdering her two small children. I didn’t write about that case but imagined: Suppose your children disappear and you are accused of killing them—and then it happens again.
Where Are the Children? is about a woman whose past holds a terrible secret. Nancy Harmon had been found guilty of murdering her two children but was released from prison on a legal technicality. She abandons her old life, changes her appearance and leaves San Francisco to seek tranquillity in Cape Cod. Now she has married again, has two more lovely children and a life filled with happiness . . . until the morning when she looks for her children, finds only a tattered mitten and knows that the nightmare is beginning again.