Darcy hung up feeling somehow comforted. At least I’ll get some use out of the Rodeo Drive clothes, she thought, and realized that instinctively she was making a mental note to call Erin and tell her that.
She got up and massaged the back of her neck. A dull headache made her realize she hadn’t eaten since noon. It was now quarter of eight. A quick, hot shower, she decided. Then I’ll heat some soup and watch that program.
* * *
The soup, appetizing enough when piping hot, slumped into a thick concoction of bits of vegetables swimming in tomato stock as Darcy stared at the screen. The photograph of the dead nineteen-year-old, her one foot in a scuffed Nike, the other in a sequined black satin pump, was horrifying. Was that the way Erin had looked when she’d been found? Hands folded on her waist, the tips of the mismatched shoes pointing in the air? What kind of sick brain could see that picture and want to duplicate it? The program closed with a reference to the fact that a copycat murderer might be responsible for the death of Erin Kelley.
When it was over, she snapped off the set and buried her face in her hands. Maybe the FBI was right about the copycat murder. It could not have been sheer coincidence that a few weeks after that program was shown, Erin had died in the same way.
But why Erin? And did the slipper she was wearing fit? If it did, how did her killer know her size? Maybe I’m crazy, she thought. Maybe I should back off and leave this to people who know what they’re doing.
The phone rang. She was tempted not to answer it. Suddenly she felt too tired to talk to anyone. But it might be news about Billy. The nursing home had her number to call for emergencies. She picked up the receiver. “Darcy Scott.”
“In person. Well, at last. I’ve been trying you every few days. I’m Box 2721. Doug Fields.”
IX
THURSDAY
February 28
On Thursday morning, Nona, working with her assistant producer, Liz Kroll, completed the planning of the documentary. Liz, a thin-faced, sharp-featured young woman, had interviewed the potential guests, culling the duds as she put it.
“We’ve got a nice mix,” she assured Nona. “Two couples who ended up married. The Cairones fell in love at first sight and are mushy enough to satisfy the romantic slobs. The Quinlans answered each other’s ads and are pretty funny telling how their letters crossed in the mail. We’ve got someone who looks like young Abe Lincoln confiding how shy he is and that he’s still hunting for the perfect girl. We’ve got a gal whose ad mistakenly read that she was a wealthy divorcée. She got seven hundred answers and has dated fifty-two of them so far. We’ve got a woman who had dinner with her date and at the end he picked a fight with her, stalked off, and stuck her with the check. The next guy practically attacked her when he drove her home. Now he hangs around her house. She woke up one morning and saw him looking in her bedroom window. If your friend Erin Kelley had actually met her date that night, we’d have a heck of a terrific wrap-up.”
“Wouldn’t we ever,” Nona said quietly, and realized that she had never liked Liz.
Kroll did not seem to notice. “That FBI agent, Vince D’Ambrosio, is cute. I talked to him yesterday. He’s going to show pictures of those missing girls on the program and warn people that they all answered personal ads. Then he’ll ask if anybody has any information, that kind of thing. That worries me a little. We don’t want to sound like True Crimes, but what can you do?” She got up to go. “One more thing. You know that Barnes woman from Lancaster whose daughter Claire has been missing for two years? I had a brainstorm yesterday. What about having her on the show? Just a brief segment. I bumped into Hamilton and he thought it was a great idea but said to check with you.”
“Nobody bumps into Austin Hamilton.” Nona felt anger cut through the dull lethargy that had been encompassing her with each passing day. Not for a single minute could she get Erin out of her mind. That face, always ready to break into a smile, that slender, graceful body. Like the others in the waltz class where they’d met, Nona was a pretty good dancer, but both Erin and Darcy were outstanding. Particularly Erin. Everyone else stopped to watch when she waltzed with the instructor. And I got friendly with them and told them about this great idea I had for a personal ad documentary. If only Vince D’Ambrosio were right. He believed Erin had been the random victim of a copycat murderer. Please God, let it be that, Nona prayed. Let it be that.
But if Erin had died because she’d answered personal ads, let this program help to save someone else. “I’ll call Mrs. Barnes in Lancaster,” she told Kroll, her tone a clear dismissal.
Darcy sat on the windowsill of the bedroom she was redecorating for the teenager who would soon be coming home from the hospital. Erin’s pewter and brass bed would be perfect. The charming turn-of-the-century lady’s vanity that she’d picked up in Old Tappan last week had deep drawers. It really was like a small dresser and wouldn’t crowd the room. The present double dresser, a battered mahogany veneer object, was a horror. More overhead shelves in the closet would take care of bulky items like sweaters.
She was aware that the girl’s mother, a weary look on her pleasant face, was studying her anxiously. “Lisa’s been in a dreary room in the hospital for such a long time that I thought having her room done over might give her a lift. She’s in for so much therapy, but she’s spunky. She told the doctors she’ll be back in dancing class in another couple of years. Ever since she could toddle, the minute she heard music she’d start to dance.”
Lisa had been run over by a messenger on a bike who’d been cycling at top speed against the traffic on a one-way street. He’d smashed into her, breaking her legs, ankles, and foot bones. “She loves to dance,” her mother added wistfully.
“Loves music, loves to dance.” Darcy smiled, thinking of the framed poster with that title that had been in Erin’s bedroom. Erin always said that it was the first thing she saw in the morning and it brightened her day. She firmly squelched the instinctive desire to keep it as a memoir. “I have just the thing for that wall,” she said, and felt the constant pain ease a little. It was almost as though Erin was nodding in approval.
The Harkness Agency on East Forty-fifth Street was the discreet investigative firm Susan Fox retained to probe into the nocturnal wanderings of her husband, Douglas. The retainer of fifteen hundred dollars had seemed symbolic to her. That was just what she had squirreled away in a personal account, saving for Doug’s August birthday. She’d smiled sadly as she wrote the check.
On Wednesday she had called Carol Harkness. “My husband has one of his famous nonmeetings tonight.”
“We’ll have Joe Pabst, one of our best people, following him,” she was assured.
On Thursday, Pabst, jovial-featured, heavy-set, reported to his boss. “This guy’s a piece of work. He leaves his office, cabs up to London Terrace. He’s got an apartment there; been subletting from the owner, an engineer named Carter Fields, for two years. He’s registered as Douglas Fields. Pretty neat. That way, nobody questions an illegal sublet and he don’t run into anyone tracking him down at work or at home. Same initials, too. That’s lucky. Don’t have to worry about his monogrammed cuff links.”
Pabst shook his head in reluctant admiration. “The neighbors think he’s an illustrator. Super tells me he’s got a lot of signed pen-and-ink stuff framed in the apartment. I gave the super the garbage about him being up for a government assignment. Slipped the usual twenty bucks to keep the mouth shut.”
At thirty-eight, Carol Harkness looked like one of the women executives in the AT&T commercials. Her well-cut black suit was brightened only by a gold lapel pin. Her ash-blond hair was shoulder length. Her hazel eyes had a cool, impersonal expression. The daughter of a New York City detective, the love of police work was in her blood.
“Did he stay there or go out?” she asked.
“Went out. About seven o’clock. You should have seen the difference in him. Hair combed so it looked real curly. Turtleneck sweater. Jeans. Leather jacket. Don’t get me wrong,
not cheap-looking. Kind of the way the arty types with money dress. He met some gal in a bar in SoHo. Attractive. Thirty or so. Classy. I got the table behind them. They had a coupla drinks, then she said she had to leave.”
“Anxious to dump him?” Harkness asked quickly.
“No way. She had big eyes for him. He’s a good-looking guy and can turn on the charm. They have a date Friday night. They’re going dancing at some nightclub downtown.”
His forehead creased in concentration, Vince D’Ambrosio studied the autopsy report on Erin Kelley. It stated that she had eaten approximately an hour before she died. Her body showed no sign of decomposition. Her clothing had been soaked through. These facts were initially attributed to the sleet and cold the day she was found. The autopsy revealed that her organs were partially thawed. The medical examiner concluded that her body had been frozen immediately after her death.
Frozen! Why? Because it was too dangerous for the killer to dispose of the body immediately? Where had she been kept? Had she died on Tuesday night? Or was it possible that she had been held captive somewhere and died as late as Thursday?
Had she been planning to put the pouch of diamonds in the security vault? From all accounts, Erin Kelley was a levelheaded young woman. Certainly, she didn’t seem like the kind who would confide to a stranger that she was carrying a fortune in jewels in her purse.
Or would she?
They’d been running down the identity of the people who’d placed some of the ads they believed Erin answered. So far they’d all been like that lawyer, North. Absolute proof of where they’d been Tuesday night. Some of them picked up their own mail at the magazines or newspapers where they’d run the ads. Three of the forwarding addresses for the others turned out to be mail drops. Probably married guys who didn’t want to take any chance of their wives opening the mail.
It was nearly five when Vince received a call from Darcy Scott. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day, but I’ve been out of the office on jobs,” she explained.
Best thing for her, Vince thought. He liked Darcy Scott. After Kelley’s body was found, he’d asked Nona Roberts about Scott’s family and had been astonished to learn that she was the offspring of two superstars. Nothing Hollywood about that girl. Genuine. It was amazing some guy hadn’t snapped her up yet. He asked her how it was going.
“It’s going okay,” Darcy said.
Vince tried to analyze what he was hearing in her voice. The first time he met her in Nona’s office her low, strained tone suggested acute worry. At the morgue, until she’d broken down, she’d spoken in the emotionless monotone of a person in shock. Now there was a certain briskness. Determination. Vince knew instantly that Darcy Scott was still convinced that Erin’s death was the result of answering personal ads.
He was about to talk to her about that when she asked, “Vince, something has been bothering me. Did that high-heeled shoe Erin was wearing fit? I mean, was it her size?”
“It was the same size as her boot, seven and a half narrow.”
“Then how did whoever put it on her happen to have a shoe exactly her size?”
Smart girl, Vince thought. Carefully, he weighed his words. “Miss Scott, that’s something we’re working on now. We’re trying to trace that shoe through the manufacturer to learn where it was purchased. It’s not cheap, in fact the pair probably cost several hundred dollars. That narrows considerably the number of outlets in the New York area that might carry it. I promise I’ll keep you posted on developments.” He hesitated, then added, “I hope you’ve given up the idea of following up any personal ads Erin Kelley answered for you.”
“As a matter of fact,” Darcy told him, “I have my first date with one of them in an hour.”
Len Parker at six. They were meeting at McMullen’s on Seventy-sixth and Third. A trendy place, Darcy thought, and certainly safe. A favorite with the New York “in” crowd. She’d been there on dates a few times and liked the owner, Jim McMullen. She was only going to have a glass of wine with Parker. He’d told her he was meeting some friends at the Athletic Club to play basketball.
She had told Michael Nash that she would be wearing a blue wool dress with a white collar. Now that she had it on, she felt overdressed. Erin always teased her about the clothes her mother showered on her. “When you get around to wearing them, you make the rest of us look as though we shop in John’s Bargain Store.”
Not true, Darcy thought as she applied another smidgen of midnight-gray eye shadow. Erin always looked great, even in college when she had so little money to buy clothes.
She decided to wear the silver and azurite pin Erin had given her for her birthday. “Funky but fun,” Erin had pronounced it. The pin was shaped like a bar of music. The notes were lined in azurite, exactly the sea-blue shade of the dress. Silver bracelets and earrings and narrow suede boots completed the outfit.
Carefully, Darcy appraised herself in the mirror. On the trip to California, her mother had bullied her into going to her personal hairdresser. He’d changed her part, cut off a few inches, then accentuated the natural blond highlights in her hair. She had to admit that she liked the results. She shrugged. Okay, I look good enough that Len Parker probably won’t walk out on me when I show up.
* * *
Parker was tall, bone-thin, but not unattractive. A college teacher, he told her he had recently moved to New York from Wichita, Kansas, and didn’t know many people. Over a glass of wine he confided that a friend had suggested he place a personal ad. “They’re really expensive. You’d be surprised. It makes a lot more sense to answer other people’s ads, but I’m sure glad you answered mine.” His eyes were light brown but large and expressive. He stared at Darcy. “I really have to say this. You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you.” Why was it that something about him made her uncomfortable? Was he really a teacher, or was he like the one date she’d had before she went to California? That guy had claimed to be an advertising executive and didn’t know the first thing about the agencies she brought up with him.
Parker fidgeted on the bar stool, rocking it slightly. His voice was low and with the hubbub of conversation from the people nearby, Darcy had to lean over to hear him.
“Very pretty,” he emphasized. “You know, not all the girls I’ve met are pretty. When you read the letters they send, you’d think they were Miss Universe. And who shows up? Olive Oyl.”
He signaled for another glass of wine. “You?”
“I’m fine.” Carefully, she chose her words. “Surely all of them weren’t that bad. I bet you’ve met some really pretty girls.”
He shook his head emphatically. “Not like you. No way.”
It was a long hour. Darcy heard about Parker’s trouble finding an apartment. The prices, wow. Some girls think you should take them out for fancy dinners. Come on. Who can keep that up?
Finally, Darcy was able to get Erin’s name in. “I know. My friend and I both met some strange people through these ads. Her name was Erin Kelley. Did you meet her by any chance?”
“Erin Kelley?” Parker swallowed convulsively. “Wasn’t that the girl who got murdered last week? No, I never met her. And she was your friend? Gee, I’m sorry. That’s lousy. Did they find the killer yet?”
She did not want to discuss Erin’s death. There was no way, even if Erin met this man once, that she’d have gone out with him a second time. She looked at her watch. “I have to run. And you’ll be late for your basketball game.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll skip it. Stay for dinner. They have good hamburgers here. Expensive, but good.”
“I really can’t. I’m meeting someone.”
Parker frowned. “Tomorrow night? I mean, I know I’m not much to look at and teachers are famous for not making much money, but I’d really like to see you again.”
Darcy slipped her arms into her coat. “I really can’t. Thank you.”
Parker stood up and punched the bar. “Well, you can pay for the drinks. You think you�
�re too good for me. I’m too good for you.”
She was relieved to see him stalk out of the restaurant. When the bartender came with the check, he said, “Miss, don’t bother with that nut. Did he pull his college-professor stuff? He’s on the maintenance staff at NYU. He gets more free drinks and meals through those ads he places. You got off cheap.”
Darcy laughed. “I think I did, too.” A thought struck her. She reached in her purse for Erin’s picture. “By any chance, did he ever show up with this girl?”
The bartender, who looked as though he might be an actor, studied the picture carefully, then nodded. “He sure did. Around two weeks ago. She was a knockout. She walked out on him.”
At six o’clock, Nona was surprised and pleased to receive a call from Vince D’Ambrosio. “You’re obviously another one who doesn’t keep regular hours,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you about your program. Are you free for dinner in about an hour?”
She was.
“Okay, make a reservation at a good steak place in your neighborhood.”
Smiling, she hung up. D’Ambrosio was clearly a meat-and-potatoes man, but she’d bet her bottom dollar that his cholesterol level was fine. She realized that she was unreasonably glad that she’d worn her new Donna Karan jumpsuit today. The cranberry shade suited her and the gold belt with the clasped hands accentuated her small waist. Nona knew that her waistline was her one vanity. Then she had a flash of overwhelming sadness. Erin had made that belt for her for Christmas.
Shaking her head as though to negate the reality of Erin’s death, she got up and walked around her desk, rotating her shoulders. She’d spent the entire day working on the documentary and felt as though her body was a mass of knots. At three o’clock, Gary Finch, the Hudson Cable anchorman, had reviewed it with her. At the end of the session, Finch, a notorious perfectionist, smiled and said, “It’s going to be great.”
Loves Music, Loves to Dance Page 11
