Mary Higgins Clark

by Manhattan Mayhem: New Crime Stories From Mystery Writers of America

  She handed back the book. “I’m … Jane.”

  He grinned. “Nice to meet you, Jane.” Opening the cover, he flipped pages until he reached an illustration of the Cheshire Cat. “He’s my favorite character.”

  “He would be.”

  Mark chuckled. “You see there? We’ve known each other for ten minutes and already we can share a joke. I’m not so terrible, am I?”

  Jane didn’t answer. The father and two toddlers were gone, as were the photo-happy tourists. They’d been replaced by a dozen kids, all about five years old, who climbed and shouted and raced while two women in matching day-care-emblazoned sweatshirts supervised. On the bench directly opposite, three twenty-something professionals chatted, then raised paper coffee cups in an animated toast that was lost to the wind.

  “May I?” Mark asked.

  It took Jane a second to realize he was reaching for her book. She slammed both hands down. “Don’t touch it.”

  “Sorry.” He shrugged as though it made no difference. “I thought I’d compare copyright dates. See which one is older. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “They’re exactly the same. Anyone can see that.”

  At that moment an old, bearded man shuffled past. Wearing an overcoat with a frayed collar, he carried a grubby cup and a fragment of creased cardboard. He approached the day-care workers first, earning twin evil-eyed glares before getting shooed away. Unfazed, he turned and made his unsteady way toward Jane and Mark.

  He shook his paper cup of change in front of her. The clumsily lettered cardboard sign he held read: Please share. Below that: In pain. Jane turned her head and murmured, “No, thank you.”

  Mark pulled a wallet from the messenger bag, drew out a couple of singles, and stuffed them into the beggar’s cup. The old guy grunted, then shuffled away to take a seat behind the statue.

  “You realize he’ll probably drink that donation,” Jane said.

  Mark shrugged. He pushed up his glasses and resumed paging through his book, stopping to spend an extra second or two at each illustration. When he lifted his head again, he asked, “Why here?” He gestured at the bronze Alice sitting atop a giant mushroom, her cat Dinah in her lap. “And why the book? Any special significance?”

  She bunched her sweater’s neckline. “Why do you care?”

  “Sorry.” He lifted both hands. “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve. Again. Two adults, same time, same place, same book. Seems like one heck of a coincidence. I know why I’m here. I was curious about you.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Birthday, if you must know,” he said with a grin. “I took the day off from work to do something special for myself.”

  “Happy birthday,” she said with little warmth.

  He nodded.

  “Is sitting in Central Park with Alice the best ‘something special’ you could come up with?” she asked.

  “This year, it is.” He turned a few more pages. “I’m making myself a gift of good memories.”

  “So you’re here to recapture your childhood?”

  “Something like that. Can’t help thinking about my dad today. He didn’t always know how to connect with his children. But, man, give him a book to read aloud, and the guy turned into a Shakespearean actor with a deep baritone voice. Of course, as a kid, I didn’t know what a Shakespearean actor was or what baritone meant—but I can still hear him now.” He lifted his copy of Alice. “This book was his favorite.” Jane smoothed her pixie cut as though tucking it behind an ear. “Is your father … gone?”

  “Late last year,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mark lifted his chin toward the statue where the day-care kids clambered and crawled. “He used to bring us here when we were kids. And read to us. I can’t help but associate this place with him.”

  Jane remained quiet.

  Still staring at the kids, Mark said, “This is the first birthday since—” He gave himself a quick shake. “Enough of my melancholy reflections. Tell me what brings you here. I hope your reason is happier than mine.”

  Jane took her time before answering. “I don’t know why I’m here. Not really.” She glanced down at the book in her lap, then up at the statue, then at Mark. “I guess the best explanation I can give you is that I came here today for closure.”

  “That doesn’t sound happy.”

  She looked away. “You know how you always hear about criminals returning to the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come you never hear about the victims? Nobody talks about their pain—their need to return.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said in a breath. “I’m sorry to hear it. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened? Sometimes talking to a stranger can help.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t strange.”

  “Good catch.” He smiled. “So, maybe I lied about my pickup lines.”

  “Not going to work on me, sorry.”

  “Fair enough. Forget all that. No silly games. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can talk your ear off. But I’m a good listener, too.”

  Four times Jane smoothed the side of her pixie, tucking nonexistent hair behind her ear. She bit her lip.

  Mark cleared his throat. “Central Park is pretty safe most of the time, and this spot tends to be busy with kids and tourists.” He waited a beat. “But obviously it isn’t safe enough. Not if you were injured … or hurt … here.”

  “Not me.” She shook her head and ran her fingers up and down the book’s edges. “Do you remember the young woman who was murdered in the park a year ago?”

  “Someone was murdered?” His brows came together. “Here?”

  Jane pulled in a shuddering breath. “This is hard for me.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t remember. The story got massive coverage because her father was some bigwig in the police department.”

  “Oh, wait,” he said. “I do recall hearing about that. That was a particularly brutal crime, wasn’t it?”

  Jane nodded.

  “They never caught the guy, did they?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “I take it you knew her?” Mark asked. “Was she a friend? She wasn’t your sister, was she?”

  Taking another hard breath, Jane clenched her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she whispered, “I loved her.”

  “Oh,” Mark said. He stroked his beard, glancing from side to side. “You mean—”

  “Yeah, I mean what you think I mean. I was in love with her.”

  “I don’t remember her name,” Mark said. “I’m sorry.”

  Jane’s body drew in on itself. “Samantha.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mark swallowed, looking around again. “How long were you and Samantha together?”

  “We weren’t,” Jane said. “I never got the chance to tell her how I felt.”

  A group of teenagers arrived in a collection of flailing legs, arms, and shouted profanities. They swarmed the statue, displacing the five-year-olds, who whined their resentment. When one of the young men swigged from a flask, the day-care workers gathered their charges and hustled them away.

  Mark drummed his fingers against his messenger bag. “I’m very sorry,” he said again. “You said it happened about a year ago?”

  “Today,” Jane said. “One year ago today.”

  Mark gave a low whistle. “Now I understand. This is a vigil for your friend. And I interrupted you.” He waited a moment and then said, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be—I mean, hard to return to the place where she was murdered.”

  “It didn’t happen here. It was deeper in the park,” Jane said, “in an area the police said has a sketchy reputation.”

  “Not the Ramble?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” she said. “I guess it’s popular with bird-watchers and for quick hookups. I’ve never gone in there myself.”

  “There’s a stretch of the Rambl
e near the lake that’s seen a few assaults in recent years. Is that where it happened?”

  She held up both hands. “No idea.”

  Mark scratched his head. “Seems like a pretty bold move on the killer’s part. How did he do it?”

  Jane made air quotes. “Blunt force trauma, according to the police. They found a tree branch nearby with her blood on it.”

  “Blunt force. A less grisly way of saying she was bludgeoned to death. I’m very, very sorry this happened to her.” Shaking his head, Mark leaned back. “I’ve watched enough TV cop shows to know that murder is a messy business. The guy who killed her is either some kind of evil genius, or he got lucky.”

  “Got lucky, I imagine.” Jane shivered. She sat up a little straighter. “It does help to talk. You were right.”

  “Tell me about Samantha.”

  A nearby shout interrupted them. A policewoman with a determined expression started up the steps, bellowing at the boozing teenagers. The paperback-reading woman didn’t flinch—didn’t even seem to notice—as the cop strode past.

  The teens bounded away before the officer reached the top of the plaza. Two vaulted the low stone wall to the east while the rest scattered north, disappearing into the park.

  Jane followed the action. “Cops never catch anybody anymore, do they?”

  “I don’t think she tried very hard,” Mark said.

  “That’s what I mean. They don’t really try.”

  Tranquility restored, the officer took her time surveying the whimsical haven. She made a slow circuit around Alice, reaching out to skim the Mad Hatter’s brim.

  Jane drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “I met Samantha only a couple of weeks before she was murdered. She worked at the yogurt place next to my office. You know how it is when you just click with someone?”

  “I do.” Mark smiled. “I feel like that today.” He raised both hands. “I’m not flirting. I swear.”

  Still gazing at the statue, Jane went on, “Anyway, what I felt for Samantha came on in a rush. Exactly like in a romance novel, where a character’s life shatters completely, and she knows she’ll never be whole again. Not without that other person. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “After Samantha and I talked a few times, I really thought she felt something for me, too. But she was so amazing, it scared me. What if I misread her? I was afraid that if I spoke up, I might ruin everything.”

  “Go on.”

  “I started stopping by the shop more often. I could tell she wanted to have a real conversation as much as I did, but every time we came close, customers would swarm in.” Jane rested a hand against her chest. “She had the sweetest White Rabbit necklace I’ve ever seen.”

  “Was that her favorite character?” Mark asked. “Or was Samantha chronically late?”

  “Oh, no. Samantha was conscientious and considerate.” Jane smiled. “I knew she liked to come here on nice days. Always with a book. I think it was her favorite place in the city.”

  “It helps to talk about her, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s so strange … you being here today … with that book. It’s like a sign, you know? And you really are a good listener.” Jane started to run her fingers through her hair but stopped abruptly. She frowned. “I’m still not used to this. I got it done this morning.”

  Mark placed a hand on the slice of bench between them and leaned in. “You got your hair cut today?” he repeated. “On the anniversary of your friend’s murder? Wait, don’t tell me: Samantha wore her hair like that, didn’t she?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.” Mark straightened, regarding her closely. “Beautiful, but I have to ask: why?”

  Jane tugged at her sweater. “It’s a way for me to feel close to her again.” She stared down. “I keep thinking that if I’d only been braver and spoken up, everything would have been different.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s how I feel.” Jane’s jaw tightened. “I’d do anything for a chance to go back and make things right.”

  Mark squinted into the wind. “I have an idea that may help,” he said. “Would you like to hear it?”

  Jane shrugged, then nodded.

  He rubbed the side of his beard. “When you were a kid, did you ever burn secret notes?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a thing people did for a while. Maybe they still do. A cleansing, empowering ritual. Sound familiar?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay, here goes.” Mark sat back on the bench, stretched out his legs, and crossed his ankles. Elbows out, he laced his fingers atop his head and began, “At summer camp, when I was fifteen, the counselors handed out small strips of paper and told us to write down either our greatest fear or something we wanted to change about ourselves. No talking. No sharing. Totally secret. Then, in a solemn ceremony involving lots of positive affirmation, we took turns tossing our scribbles into a bonfire, watching as each one blazed up into nothingness. It felt pretty hokey when the other kids did it, but …”

  He lifted both hands to the air, then replaced them atop his head and resumed talking. “Anyway, you get the idea. Identifying our deepest fears and then—symbolically—destroying them reminded us that we had power over ourselves. That we controlled our impulses, rather than the other way around.”

  “Did it work?”

  Dropping his hands to his lap, he sat forward. “It did. That’s probably why I remember the experience so vividly, even to this day. What an exhilarating sense of freedom. Now, as an adult, I look back and realize that what I really learned was how to compartmentalize. Although I may not be able to incinerate my negative behaviors so easily, I can control when and how I deal with them.” He waited a beat before adding, “Maybe you should consider a similar symbolic gesture. You know, to deal with your grief.”

  The area was the quietest it had been all afternoon. Two kids played and giggled. The old panhandler approached their parents and was rewarded with a handful of change.

  Jane glanced around. “I don’t believe a bonfire would go over well here.”

  Mark laughed. “Ya think? But there’s got to be something we can do. Any ideas?”

  “No.”

  Two squirrels scampered by.

  “I’ve got it,” Mark said. “A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”

  “What is it?”

  “What if you tell Samantha how you felt? I mean, poured your heart out to her? Wouldn’t that give you closure?” Before she could answer, he continued. “Something brought us both here right now for a reason. I think that ‘something’ wants you to have peace.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “What if …” Mark leaned close. “What if you visit her grave? You can speak from the heart there, for as long as you like.”

  Jane played with the neckline of her sweater. “She was cremated.”

  “Oh.” Mark fell silent again. A moment later, he said, “Then, what about a quiet place in the park?”

  “Here?”

  “Not in this very spot, no. But she died in the park, so that makes this a sacred space. Let’s find a quiet knoll, a pretty meadow.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “Do you know where Cedar Hill is?” Again, before she could answer, he went on, “By the Glade Arch. It’s not that far, and once we settle on a location, I promise to give you privacy. Come on.” He stood, offering her his hand.

  Jane leaned back. “I don’t think so.”

  His face fell. “You don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You can’t go back in time, Jane, but I promise you can find closure.”

  She remained seated.

  “I think you should do this,” he said softly. “I believe Samantha would want you to.”


  He looked down at her for a few moments before starting around the statue toward the path that lay beyond. She remained frozen for a solid count of thirty. When she finally stood, she hugged her book and whispered, “Closure.”

  The old man in the overcoat perked up as she drew near. He made a feeble attempt to beg, jangling his cup of coins. She didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge him.

  Mark waited for her at the path’s opening. “Good girl.”

  She stopped and stared up at him. “I can do this.”

  They’d walked no more than a hundred yards when she whispered, “Is that beggar following us?”

  Mark turned. “Probably hoping I’ll cough up another couple bucks.”

  “I guess,” she said. “Doesn’t it seem like he’s moving quicker than before?”

  He laughed. “I can take him.”

  “I don’t know. He makes me nervous.”

  Mark veered left to cross East Drive, where he abandoned the walking path for the cover of the trees.

  “Where are we going?” Jane asked. “I thought we were heading toward Cedar Hill.”

  “Shortcut.”

  She followed, hurrying to keep up. “Why are you walking so fast?”

  “You want to lose that beggar, don’t you?”

  They picked their way along the uneven terrain, sidestepping tree roots that rose from the ground like giant knuckles. Twice Jane came close to losing her footing while navigating a rocky patch. “We passed the Boathouse parking lot back there.” She jerked a thumb over her left shoulder. “Are you sure we’re going the right direction?”

  “This way,” he said, leading them deeper into the trees. The ground was soft, covered in shifting layers of red and gold. Crisp-edged leaves somersaulted through patches of vivid brilliance where breaks in the canopy allowed the sun’s illumination to pass through.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, keeping pace.

  Rather than answer, he continued to shush and crunch through the quiet piles. “Watch out.” He indicated a fallen log, nearly obscured by the leaves in her path.

  Skirting it, she tried again. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”

  Mark turned. “Smell that,” he said lifting his chin high, drawing a noisy breath. “Decay and deliverance. There’s nothing sweeter.”