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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Epilogue

  About Mary Higgins Clark

  For John

  And our Clark and Conheeney children and grandchildren

  With love

  Acknowledgments

  And so it has come to pass that Daddy’s Gone A Hunting has been tucked away in its own little bunting. It seems like a long nine months since I sent the first chapter to my forever editor, Michael Korda, with a cover sheet on which I scrawled, “Here we go again.”

  As always the journey can sometimes be smooth. Other days as I stare at the computer I ask myself, “Whatever made you think you could write another book?”

  But whether the words are flowing or reluctantly dripping, the fact is that I love the journey, and it is time to thank the people who helped me make it.

  Michael Korda suggested the DNA of the plot for this story. At first I had some doubts, but as usual I was drawn to the suggestion as a moth is to a lightbulb. Again and always, thank you, Michael. My dear friend, as our fortieth anniversary of working together looms, I can only say, it is and has been grand.

  Almost three years ago, I requested that Kathy Sagan become my in-house editor. We had worked together on the Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine, and I knew how absolutely special she is, and how she can balance a thousand details in her head as she receives the book chapter by chapter. Thank you, Kathy.

  It’s easy to set a fire. But when you write about it, you have to know who would be leading the investigation. For that information and guidance, I am so grateful to Fire Marshal Randy Wilson and retired Fire Marshal Richard Ruggiero. If I’ve done anything wrong, it’s because I misunderstood what you told me, but many thanks for the kindness with which you patiently answered my questions.

  Anthony Orlando, Esq., an avid tuna fisherman, was my expert about an interesting way to have an accident on a boat in the Atlantic. Many thanks, Anthony.

  The behind-the-scenes production and copyediting people are vital in turning a manuscript into a book. My thanks to copy editor Gypsy da Silva, and to art director Jackie Seow for her always intriguing covers.

  My readers along the way are still in place, rooting me on. Thanks to Nadine Petry, Agnes Newton, and Irene Clark. It’s always good news when they tell me they’re looking forward to the next chapter and ask how soon I’ll have it.

  And of course there is Himself, John Conheeney, spouse extraordinaire, who patiently abides with me as I pound the computer for hours on end as the deadline approaches. Not everyone gets a chance at having a second soul mate, and I’m grateful I’m one of the lucky few.

  And now to ponder Michael’s suggestion for the next book. After laying out the broad outline of a plot, he said, “I think I’ll Be Seeing You would be a good title.” I hesitated, “Michael, I think I used that title already.” We both had to look it up. Yes, I did. So it won’t have that title, but I love the suggestion of the plot.

  But before I start I will once again follow the advice of the ancient parchment. “The book is finished. Let the writer rejoice.”

  Trust me, I do!

  Cheers and blessings,

  Mary

  Prologue

  Sometimes Kate dreamed about that night, even though it wasn’t a dream. It had really happened. She was three years old and had been curled up on the bed watching Mommy getting dressed. Mommy looked like a princess. She was wearing a beautiful red evening gown and the red satin high heels that Kate loved to try on. Then Daddy came into the bedroom and he picked Kate up and danced her and Mommy onto the balcony even though it was beginning to snow.

  I begged him to sing my song and he did, Kate remembered.

  Bye baby bunting,

  Daddy’s gone a-hunting,

  A rosy wisp of cloud to win,

  To wrap his baby bunting in.

  The next night Mommy died in the accident, and Daddy never sang that song to her again.

  1

  Thursday, November 14

  At four o’clock in the morning, Gus Schmidt dressed silently in the bedroom of his modest home on Long Island, hoping not to disturb his wife of fifty-five years. He was not successful.

  Lottie Schmidt’s hand shot out to fumble for the lamp on the night table. Blinking to clear eyes that were heavy with sleep, she noticed that Gus was wearing a heavy jacket, and demanded to know where he was going.

  “Lottie, I’m just going over to the plant. Something came up.”

  “Is that why Kate called you yesterday?”

  Kate was the daughter of Douglas Connelly, the owner of Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions, the furniture complex in nearby Long Island City where Gus had worked until his retirement five years earlier.

  Lottie, a slight seventy-five-year-old with thinning w
hite hair, slipped on her glasses and glanced at the clock. “Gus, are you crazy? Do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s four o’clock and Kate asked me to meet her there at four thirty. She must have had her reasons and that’s why I’m going.”

  Lottie could see that he was clearly upset.

  Lottie knew better than to ask the question that was on both their minds. “Gus, I’ve had a bad feeling lately. I know you don’t want to hear me talk like this, but I sense something dark is going to happen. I don’t want you to go.”

  In the shadowy 60-watt light of the night table lamp they glared at each other. Even as Gus spoke, he knew deep down he was frightened. Lottie’s claim to be psychic both irritated and scared him. “Lottie, go back to sleep,” he said angrily. “No matter what the problem is, I’ll be back for breakfast.”

  Gus was not a demonstrative man but some instinct made him walk over to the bed, lean down, kiss his wife’s forehead, and run his hand over her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said firmly.

  They were the last words she would ever hear him say.

  2

  Kate Connelly hoped that she would be able to hide the restless anxiety she felt about her predawn appointment with Gus in the museum of the furniture complex. She had dinner with her father and his newest girlfriend in Zone, the fashionably new café in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Over cocktails she made the usual small talk that rolled easily off her tongue when she chatted with his “flavor of the moment.”

  This one was Sandra Starling, a platinum blond beauty in her midtwenties with wide-set hazel eyes, who earnestly explained that she had been a runner-up in a Miss Universe contest but became vague as to exactly how far she had been from winning the crown.

  Her ambition, she confided, was to have a career in the movies and then dedicate herself to world peace. This one is even dumber than most of the others, Kate thought sardonically. Doug, as she had been instructed to call her father, was his genial and charming self, although he seemed to be drinking more heavily than usual.

  Throughout the dinner, Kate realized that she was appraising her father as if she were a judge on America’s Got Talent or Dancing with the Stars. He’s a handsome man in his late fifties, she thought, a look-alike for legendary film star Gregory Peck. Then she reminded herself that most people her age wouldn’t have any real appreciation of that comparison. Unless, like me, they’re devotees of classic movies, she thought.

  Was she making a mistake to bring Gus in on this? she wondered.

  “Kate, I was telling Sandra that you’re the brains of the family,” her father said.

  “I hardly think of myself as that,” Kate answered with a forced smile.

  “Don’t be modest,” Doug Connelly chided. “Kate is a certified public accountant, Sandra. Works for Wayne & Cruthers, one of the biggest accounting firms in the country.” He laughed. “Only problem is, she’s always telling me how to run the family business.” He paused. “My business,” he added. “She forgets that.”

  “Dad, I mean Doug,” Kate said quietly, even as she felt her anger building. “Sandra doesn’t need to hear about it.”

  “Sandra, look at my daughter. Thirty years old and a tall, gorgeous blonde. She takes after her mother. Her sister, Hannah, looks like me. She has my charcoal brown hair and blue eyes, but unlike me she came in a small package. Not more than five foot two. Isn’t that right, Kate?”

  Dad’s been drinking before he got here, Kate thought. He can get nasty when he gets an edge on. She tried to steer the subject away from the family business. “My sister is in fashion, Sandra,” she explained. “She’s three years younger than I am. When we were growing up, she was always making dresses for her dolls while I was pretending to make money by answering the questions on Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune.”

  Oh God, what do I do if Gus agrees with me? she asked herself as the waiter brought their entrées.

  Fortunately the band, which had been on a break, came back into the crowded dining room and the earsplitting music kept conversation to a minimum.

  She and Sandra passed on dessert, but then, to her dismay, Kate heard her father order a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu.

  She began to protest. “Dad, we don’t need—”

  “Kate, spare me your penny-pinching.” Doug Connelly’s voice rose enough to get the notice of the people at the next table.

  Her cheeks burning, Kate said quietly, “Dad, I’m meeting someone for a drink. I’ll let you and Sandra enjoy the champagne together.”

  Sandra’s eyes were scanning the room in search of celebrities. Then she smiled brilliantly at a man who was raising his glass to her. “That’s Majestic. His album is climbing the charts,” she said breathlessly. As an afterthought she murmured, “Nice to meet you, Kate. Maybe, if I make it big, you can handle my money for me.”

  Doug Connelly laughed. “What a great idea. Then maybe she’ll leave me alone.” He added a little too hastily, “Just kidding. I’m proud of my brainy little girl.”

  If you only knew what your brainy little girl is up to, Kate thought. Torn between anger and concern, she retrieved her coat at the cloakroom, went outside into the cold and windy November evening, and signaled a passing cab.

  Her apartment was on the Upper West Side, a condominium she had bought a year earlier. It was a roomy two-bedroom, with a bird’s-eye view of the Hudson River. She both loved it and regretted that the previous owner, Justin Kramer, a wealth investment advisor in his early thirties, had been forced to sell it at a bargain price after losing his job. At the closing Justin had smiled gamely and presented her with a bromeliad plant similar to the one she had admired when she saw the apartment for the first time.

  “Robby told me you admired my plant,” he had said, indicating the real estate agent sitting next to him. “I took that one with me, but this one is a housewarming present for you. Leave it in that same spot over the kitchen window and it will grow like a weed.”

  Kate was thinking about that thoughtful gift, as she sometimes did when she walked into her cheery apartment and turned on the light. The furniture in the living room was all modern. The sofa, golden beige with deep cushions, invited napping. The matching chairs in the same upholstery had been built for comfort, with wide arms and headrests. Pillows that picked up the colors in the geometric patterns on the carpet added splashes of brightness to the décor.

  Kate remembered how Hannah had laughed when she came to inspect the apartment after the new furniture was delivered. “My God, Kate,” she had said. “You’ve grown up hearing Dad explain how everything in our house was a Connelly fine reproduction—and you have gone hog wild the other way.”

  I agreed, Kate thought. I was sick of Dad’s spiel about perfect reproductions. Maybe someday I’ll change my mind, but in the meantime I’m happy.

  Perfect reproductions. Just thinking the words made her mouth go dry.

  3

  Mark Sloane knew that his farewell dinner with his mother might be difficult and tearful. It was close to the twenty-eighth anniversary of his sister’s disappearance, and he was moving to New York for a new job. Since his graduation from law school thirteen years earlier he had been practicing corporate real estate law in Chicago. It was ninety miles from Kewanee, the small Illinois town where he had been raised.

  In the years he had been living in Chicago, he had made the two-hour drive at least once every few weeks to have dinner with his mother. He had been eight years old when his twenty-year-old sister, Tracey, quit the local college and moved to New York to try to break into musical comedy. After all these years he still remembered her as if she were standing in front of him. She had auburn hair that cascaded around her shoulders, and blue eyes that were usually filled with fun but could turn stormy when she was angry. His mother and Tracey had always clashed over her grades at college and the way she dressed. Then one day when he went down for breakfast, he found his mother sitting at the kitchen table and crying. “She’s gone, Ma
rk, she’s gone. She left a note. She’s going to New York to become a famous singer. Mark, she’s so young. She’s so headstrong. She’ll get in trouble. I know it.”

  Mark remembered putting his arms around his mother and trying to hold back his own tears. He had adored Tracey. She would pitch balls to him when he was beginning in Little League. She would take him to the movies. She would help him with his homework and tell stories of famous actors and actresses. “Do you know how many of them came from little towns like this one?” she would ask.

  That morning he had warned his mother. “In her letter Tracey said she would send you her address. Mama, don’t try to make her come back, because she won’t. Write and tell her it’s okay and how happy you’ll be when she’s a big star.”

  It had been the right move. Tracey had written regularly and called every few weeks. She had gotten a job in a restaurant. “I’m a good waitress and the tips are great. I’m taking singing lessons. I was in an off-Broadway musical. It only ran for four performances, but it was so wonderful to be onstage.” She had flown back home three times for a long weekend.

  Then, after Tracey had lived in New York for two years, his mother received a call one day from the police. Tracey had disappeared.

  When she did not show up for work for two days and did not answer her phone, her concerned boss, Tom King, who owned the restaurant, had gone to her apartment. Everything was in order there. Her date book showed that she had an audition scheduled for the day after she had disappeared, and had another scheduled at the end of the week. “She didn’t show up for the first one,” King told the police. “If she doesn’t show up for the other one, then something’s happened to her.”

  The New York police listed Tracey as a missing person all those years ago. As in “just another missing person,” Mark thought as he drove up to the Cape Cod–style house where he had been raised. With its charcoal shingles, white trim, and bright red door, it was a cheery and welcoming sight. He pulled into the driveway and parked. The overhead lamp at the door shed light on the front steps. He knew his mother would leave it on all night as she had for nearly twenty-eight years, just in case Tracey came home.