Loves Music, Loves to Dance

by Mary Higgins Clark

  The answering machine showed only hangups.

  Juice and coffee at the table by the window. Staring down into the lifeless garden. At eight o’clock the phone rang. Not Len Parker, please. Her “hello” was guarded.

  “Darcy, I hope it’s not too early to call. I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed being with you last night.”

  She exhaled, a relieved sigh. “Oh, Michael, I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed being with you too.”

  “Something happened. What was it?”

  The concern in his voice was comforting. She told him about Len Parker, the episode on the steps, the phone call.

  “I blame myself that I didn’t see you upstairs.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Darcy, call that FBI agent and report this Parker character, and can I implore you to stop answering those ads?”

  “I’m afraid not. But I will call Vince D’Ambrosio right away.”

  When she said good-bye, she hung up feeling oddly consoled.

  * * *

  She called Vince from the office. A wide-eyed Bev stood by her desk as she spoke to another agent. Vince had flown to Lancaster. The other agent took the information. “We’re working with the police department. We’ll get right onto that character. Thanks, miss.”

  Nona phoned and told her why Vince had gone to Lancaster. “Darce, this is so scary. It’s one thing if someone saw that True Crimes episode and was perverted enough to repeat it, but this means someone may have been doing this for a long time. Claire Barnes has been missing for two years. She and Erin were so alike. She was just about to get her first big break in a Broadway musical. Erin had just gotten her first big break with Bertolini’s.”

  Her first big break with Bertolini’s. The words rippled through Darcy’s mind as she made and received phone calls, went through Connecticut and New Jersey papers for notices of estate and moving sales, made a quick trip to the rental apartment she was furnishing, and finally stopped for a sandwich and coffee at a lunch counter.

  That was where she realized what had been bothering her. Her first big break with Bertolini’s. Erin had told her she was to receive twenty thousand dollars for designing and executing the necklace. In the rush of events, she forgot about the strange message on Erin’s answering machine. She’d call them as soon as she got back to the office to confirm.

  * * *

  Aldo Marco came to the phone. Was this a family member making inquiries?

  “I’m executor of Erin Kelley’s estate.” The words sounded appalling to her ears.

  Payment had already been made to Miss Kelley’s manager, Jay Stratton. Was there a problem?

  “I’m sure there isn’t.” So Stratton presumed to act as Erin’s manager.

  He was not home. The message she left was brusque. Please call her immediately about Erin’s check.

  Jay Stratton phoned just before five o’clock. “I’m sorry. Of course I should have gotten to you sooner. I’ve been away. How shall I make out the check?” He told Darcy that while he was out of town he’d thought of nothing but Erin. “That beautiful, talented girl. I firmly believe that someone knew about that jewelry, killed her for it, and then tried to make it look like a copycat murder.”

  You of all people knew about the jewelry. It was an effort to listen to Stratton, to respond pleasantly to his sympathetic comments. He would be out of town again for a few days. She agreed to meet him Monday evening.

  For minutes after she said good-bye to him, Darcy stared straight ahead, lost in thought, then said aloud, “After all, as you say, Mr. Stratton, two of Erin’s closest friends really ought to know each other better.” She sighed. She’d better get some work done before it was time to dress for her date with Box 1527.

  Vince flew to Lancaster on the earliest flight Friday morning. He had urged Claire Barnes’s father not to tell anyone outside the family about the package of shoes. But when he arrived at the airport the local paper had the story in headlines. He phoned the Barnes’s home and learned from the maid that Mrs. Barnes had been rushed to the hospital last night.

  Lawrence Barnes was a heavy-set executive type who, Vince decided, in other circumstances would have a commanding presence. Seated at the bedside, a young woman next to him, he was anxiously looking down at his heavily sedated wife. Vince showed him his card and was followed out into the corridor.

  Barnes introduced the young woman as his other daughter, Karen. “A reporter happened to be in the emergency room when we got here,” Barnes said tonelessly. “He heard Emma screaming about the package and that Claire was dead.”

  “Where are the shoes now?”

  “At home.”

  * * *

  Karen Barnes drove him to get them. A corporate lawyer in Pittsburgh, she had never shared her parents’ hope that one day Claire would suddenly show up. “There was no way, if she were alive, she would have given up the chance to be in Tommy Tune’s show.”

  The Barnes’s home was a large Colonial in an impressive neighborhood. Zoning at least an acre, Vince thought. There was a television mobile unit on the street. Karen drove quickly past it, into the driveway, and around to the back of the house. A policeman prevented the reporter from stopping her.

  * * *

  The living room was filled with framed family pictures, many of them showing Karen and Claire in their growing-up years. Karen picked one of them off the piano. “I took this one of Claire the last time I saw her. We were in Central Park just a few weeks before she disappeared.”

  Slender. Pretty. Blond. Mid-twenties. Joyous smile. You can pick ‘em, Buster, Vince thought bitterly. “May I take this? I’ll make copies and get the original right back to you.”

  The package was on the foyer table. Ordinary brown wrapper, address label you could buy anywhere, block printing. Postmarked New York City. The box had no markings except for a delicately drawn sketch of a high-heeled slipper on the lid. The mismatched shoes. One a white Bruno Magli sandal, the other a gold slingback with an open toe and narrow high heel. They were the same size, six narrow.

  “You’re sure this sandal is hers?”

  “Yes. I have an identical pair. We bought them together that last day in New York.”

  “How long had your sister been responding to personal ads?”

  “About six months. The police checked out anyone whose ad she had answered, at least anyone they could find.”

  “Did she ever place any?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Where did she live in New York?”

  “On West 63rd Street. An apartment in a brownstone. My father paid the rent for nearly a year after she disappeared, then gave it up.”

  “Where did you put her belongings?”

  “The furniture wasn’t worth shipping. Her clothes and books and whatever are upstairs in her old room.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  * * *

  There was a cardboard file box on a shelf in the closet. “I packed that,” Karen told him. “Her address book, date book, stationery, some mail, that sort of thing. When we reported her missing, the New York police went through all her personal papers.”

  Vince lifted down the box and opened it. A date book now two years old was on top. He skimmed through it. From January till August the pages were filled with appointments. Claire Barnes had not been seen after August fourth.

  “What makes it hard is that Claire had her own kind of shorthand.” Karen Barnes’s voice quavered. “You see where it says ‘Jim.’ That meant Jim Haworth’s studio, where she took dancing lessons. See, August fifth, Tommy.’ That meant rehearsal for the Tommy Tune show, Grand Hotel. She’d just been hired.”

  Vince turned the pages back. On July fifteenth at five o’clock he saw “Charley.”

  Charley!

  In a noncommittal tone he pointed to the entry. “Do you know who this one is?”

  “No. Although she did mention a Charley who took her dancing once. I don’t believe the police wer
e able to locate him.” Karen Barnes’s face paled. “That slipper. It’s the sort of thing you’d wear to a dance.”

  “Exactly. Miss Barnes, keep that name between the two of us, please. By the way, how long had your sister lived in her apartment?”

  “Just about a year. Before that she had a place in the Village.”

  “Where?”

  “Christopher Street. At 101 Christopher Street.”

  At quarter of five, Darcy handed Bev the last of the bills to be paid, and on impulse phoned the mother of the recuperating teenager. The girl was coming home at the end of next week. The painter Darcy hired, a cheerful moonlighting security guard, was already on the job. “We’ll have the room all set by Wednesday,” Darcy assured the woman.

  Thank heaven I had the brains to bring some clothes with me this morning, she thought as she changed from her sweater and jeans to an oval-necked, long-sleeved black silk blouse, a calf-length Italian silk skirt in tones of green and gold, a matching stole. Gold chain, a narrow gold bracelet, gold earrings—the jewelry all designed by Erin. In a crazy way she felt as though she was donning Erin’s coat of arms as she rode into battle.

  She released her hair from the clip and brushed it loose around her face.

  Bev came back just as she finished applying eye shadow. “You look fabulous, Darcy.” Bev hesitated. “I mean, it always seemed to me that you kind of tried to play down your looks and now, I mean, oh God, I’m not saying it right. I’m sorry.”

  “Erin pretty much said the same thing,” Darcy reassured her. “She was always bullying me to use more makeup or wear some of the fancy duds my mother sends me.”

  Bev was wearing a skirt and sweater Darcy had seen on her frequently. “By the way, how do Erin’s clothes fit?”

  “Perfect. I’m so glad to get them. The tuition just jumped again and I swear, with today’s prices, I was getting ready to do a Scarlett O’Hara and make a dress out of curtains.”

  Darcy laughed. “That’s still my favorite scene in Gone With the Wind. Look, I know I asked you to avoid wearing Erin’s things to the office, but she’d be the first to say enjoy them. So feel free.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Darcy reached past the faithful leather jacket for her cashmere cape. “Of course I’m sure.”

  * * *

  She was meeting Box Number 1527, David Weld, at the grill at Smith and Wollensky’s at five-thirty. He’d said he’d be at the last seat at the bar, “or standing near it.” Brown hair. Brown eyes. About six feet tall. Wearing a dark suit.

  It was easy to pick him out.

  A pleasant guy, Darcy decided fifteen minutes later as they sat across from each other at one of the small tables. Born and raised in Boston. Worked for Holden’s, the department store chain. Had been coming back and forth for the last few years as they expanded into the Tri-State Area.

  She judged him to be in his mid-thirties, then wondered if there was something about that age that sent unattached singles scurrying to the personal ads.

  It was easy to direct the conversation. He’d gone to Northeastern. His father and grandfather had been executives with Holden’s. He’d worked there from the time he was a kid. After school. Saturdays. Summer vacations. “Never occurred to me to do anything else,” he confided. “Retailing runs in the family.”

  He had never met Erin. He’d read about her death. “That’s what makes you feel funny placing these ads. I mean, all I want is to meet some nice people.” Pause. “You’re nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d be very pleased to have dinner with you if you can stay.” He looked hopeful but the request was made with dignity.

  No ego problem here, Darcy thought. “I honestly can’t, but I bet you’ve met some nice people answering these ads, haven’t you?”

  He smiled. “A couple of very nice ones. One of them, if you can believe it, just started to work for Holden’s in the Paramus, New Jersey, store. She’s a buyer. Same kind of job I had before I went into the mangement end.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “I was shoe buyer for our New England stores.”

  Vince got back to his office at Federal Plaza at three o’clock Friday afternoon. There was an urgent message for him to call Police Chief Moore in Darien. From him, Vince learned about the package that had arrived at the Sheridan home.

  “You’re sure they’re the mates of the ones Nan Sheridan was wearing?”

  “We’ve compared them. We have both sets now.”

  “Has the press gotten hold of this?”

  “Not so far. We’re trying to keep it quiet, but no guarantees. You’ve met Chris Sheridan. That was his first concern.”

  “It’s mine, too,” Vince said quickly. “What we now know is that this killer started fifteen years ago, if not sooner. He has to have a reason for sending those shoes back at this time. I want to talk to one of our psychiatrists to get his opinion. But if anyone questioned about Nan Sheridan’s death also can be linked to Claire Barnes, we’ve got something positive to go on.”

  “How about Erin Kelley? Don’t you include her?”

  “I’m still keeping an open mind. Her death may have been connected to the missing jewelry and made to look like a copycat murder.” Vince arranged to pick up the shoes the next day and hung up.

  His assistant, Ernie Cizek, a new young agent from Colorado, briefed him on Darcy’s call about Len Parker.

  “This guy’s a weirdo,” Cizek said. “Works in maintenance at NYU. An electrical whiz. Can fix anything. Loner. Paranoid about money. But get this! The family is loaded. Parker’s got a hefty income. A trustee banks an allowance for him. He only made one large withdrawal, some years ago. The trustee thinks he bought property. Seems to live on his maintenance salary in a cheap walkup on Ninth Avenue. Has an old station wagon. No garage. He parks it on the street.”

  “Police record?”

  “Same sort of thing that the Scott girl complained about. Following girls home. Shouting at them. Banging on doors. He’s a great one for placing personal ads. Everybody brushes him off. So far no physical attacks. Restraining orders but no convictions.”

  “Bring him in now.”

  “I’ve talked to his shrink. He says he’s harmless.”

  “Sure he’s harmless. Just like Peeping Toms supposedly never act out their fantasies. We both know better, don’t we?”

  Susan’s announcement that she was planning to take the children to visit her father in Guilford, Connecticut, for the weekend was received with eager agreement by her husband. Doug had made the date to go dancing with the divorced real estate broker and was wondering if he should break it. He had been late two nights this week and even though Susan had seemed to enjoy their New York dinner on Monday night, there was something about her attitude that he could not put his finger on.

  Susan’s visiting her father with the kids till Sunday gave him two nights off. He did not offer to go with her. It would have been an empty gesture. Susan’s father had never liked him, always made cracks about how important Doug must be that he worked so many nights. “Funny, with all that hard work, you needed to borrow so much from me to buy the house, Doug. I’d be glad to go over your budget with you and see where the problem is.”

  Sure you would.

  “Have a good time, honey,” Doug told Susan when he was leaving on Friday morning. “And give my best to your Dad.”

  That afternoon, while the baby slept, Susan phoned the investigative agency for a report. Calmly she took down the information they gave her. The meeting with the woman in the SoHo bar. The date they’d made to go dancing. The apartment in London Terrace under the name Douglas Fields. “Carter Fields is his old buddy,” she told the investigator. “They’re two of a kind. Don’t bother to follow him again. I don’t want to hear any more.”

  * * *

  Her father lived year-round in the pre-Revolutionary house that had been their summer home. Several heart attacks had left him with a permanent pallor tha
t tore at Susan’s heart. But there was nothing fragile about his demeanor or voice. After dinner, Beth and Donny went next door to visit friends. Susan put Trish and the baby to bed, then fixed demitasse and brought it into the library.

  She knew her father was studying her as she prepared his cup with sweetener and a lemon peel.

  “Exactly when do I hear the reason for this unexpected, although most welcome, visit?”

  Susan smiled. “Now, I guess. I’m going to divorce Doug.”

  Her father waited.

  Promise not to say “I told you so,” Susan prayed silently, then went on, “I’ve had an investigative agency following him. He has a sublet in New York under the name Douglas Fields. Calls himself a freelance illustrator. Doug does sketch very well as you know. Has plenty of dates. In the meantime, he rants on to me about how hard he works, ‘all those night meetings.’ Donny can see through his lies and is angry and contemptuous. He’ll be better off to expect nothing from his father than to keep on hoping that it will change.”

  “Would you like to move in here, Susan? There’s plenty of room.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile. “You’d go crazy in a week. No. The Scarsdale house is too large. Doug insisted we buy it to impress the people at the club. We couldn’t afford it then, and I’m beginning to understand why we can’t afford it now. I’ll sell it, get a smaller place, put the baby in a day care center next year—there’s a terrific one in town. Then I’ll get a job.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “It’ll be a lot better than it is now.”

  “Susan, I’m trying not to say, ‘I told you so,’ but there it is. That fellow is a born womanizer and he’s got a vicious streak. Remember your eighteenth birthday? That night he was so drunk when he brought you home that I threw him out? The next morning every window in my car was broken.”

  “You still can’t be sure it was Doug.”

  “Come on, Susan. If you’re going to start facing facts, face them all. And tell me this. Weren’t you covering for him when he was questioned in that girl’s death?”