Loves Music, Loves to Dance Read online

  “You dropped out of Brown and came back the year she was a sophomore?”

  “That’s right. I wasn’t much of a student my freshman year. My uncle, who was my guardian, thought it would do me a lot of good to mature a bit. I went into the Peace Corps for two years.”

  “I repeat: How well did you know Nan Sheridan?”

  How well indeed, Stratton thought. Lovely Nan. To dance with her was to feel a will-o’-the-wisp in your arms.

  D’Ambrosio’s eyes narrowed. He had seen something in Stratton’s face. “You haven’t answered me.”

  Stratton shrugged. “There’s no answer to give. Certainly I remember her. I was there when the whole student body was talking endlessly about the tragedy.”

  “Were you invited to her birthday party?”

  “No, I was not. Nan Sheridan and I happened to be in several classes together. Period.”

  “Let’s talk about Erin Kelley. You were in an awfully big hurry to report those missing diamonds to the insurance company.”

  “As Miss Scott can certainly verify, my first response when I spoke with her was irritation. I really didn’t know Erin well. It was her work I knew. When she didn’t keep the appointment to turn over the necklace to Bertolini, I convinced myself that she simply lost track of time. The moment I met Darcy Scott I realized how foolish that was. Her terrible concern made me see the situation clearly.”

  “Do you often mix up valuable gemstones?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Vince tried another tack. “You didn’t know Nan Sheridan well, but did you know anyone who had a crush on her? Besides you, of course,” he added deliberately.

  XVII

  FRIDAY

  March 8

  On Friday afternoon, Darcy went to the West Side apartment where she’d redecorated the room for Lisa, the recuperating teenager. She brought with her plants for the windowsill, some throw pillows, a porcelain vanity set that she’d picked up at a house sale. And Erin’s much-loved poster.

  The large pieces were already in; the pewter and brass bed, the dresser, the night table, the rocker. The Indian rug that had been in Erin’s living room was perfect in this space. Candy-striped wallpaper gave the room a feeling of movement. Almost like a carousel, Darcy thought. The tieback curtains and spread were the same candy stripe as the paper. A starched white cotton dust ruffle picked up the glistening white of the ceiling and trim.

  Carefully, Darcy positioned the poster. It depicted an Egret painting, one of his early, lesser known works: a young dancer soaring through the air, her arms extended, her toes pointed. He’d called it, “Loves Music, Loves to Dance.”

  She drove picture hooks into the wall, thinking of all the dance classes she and Erin had taken. “Why jog in the freezing rain when you can get just as much exercise dancing?” Erin would ask. “There’s an old slogan, ‘To put a little fun in your life, try dancing.’ ”

  Darcy stepped back to be sure the poster was hanging straight. It was. Then what was gnawing at her? The personal ads. But why now? Shrugging, she closed her toolbox.

  * * *

  She went directly to Sheridan Galleries. So far, all the poring over the pictures had proven useless. She had come across Jay Stratton’s picture, but Vince D’Ambrosio had already picked his name from the student roster. Yesterday, Chris Sheridan had pointed out that she probably had a better chance of winning the lottery than of having a familiar face jump out at her.

  She’d been afraid that he might have regretted his decision to let her use his conference room, but that wasn’t the case. “You look wiped out,” he’d said to her late yesterday afternoon. “I understand you’ve been here since eight o’clock this morning.”

  “I was able to rearrange some appointments. This seems more important.”

  * * *

  Last night had been Box 3823, Owen Larkin, an internist from New York Hospital. He’d been pretty full of himself. “Trouble with being an unattached doctor is that all the nurses keep offering to have you over for a home-cooked meal.” He was from Tulsa and hated New York. “The minute I finish my residency I’m on my way back to God’s country. You can keep these crowded cities.”

  Casually, she’d brought up Erin’s name. His tone confidential, he’d told her, “I didn’t meet her, but one of my friends at the hospital who answers these ads did. Just once. He’s keeping his fingers crossed that she didn’t keep records. The last thing he needs is to be questioned in a murder investigation.”

  “When did he see her?”

  “Early February.”

  “I wonder if I’ve ever met him.”

  “Not unless you met him around that time. He’d broken up with his girlfriend and they got back together.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Brad Whalen. Say, is this some kind of inquisition? Let’s talk about you and me.”

  Brad Whalen. Another name for Vince D’Ambrosio to check out.

  * * *

  Chris was standing at his office window when he saw the cab pull up and Darcy get out of it. He shoved his hands in his pockets. It was windy and he watched as Darcy closed the door of the cab and turned to the building. She pulled her jacket around her neck and bent forward slightly as she crossed the sidewalk.

  Yesterday had been busy. He had some important Japanese clients examining the silver from the von Wallens estate to be auctioned next week. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon with them.

  Mrs. Vail, the housekeeper for the gallery, had made sure that morning coffee, a light lunch, and tea were brought to Darcy Scott. “That poor girl is going to ruin her eyes, Mr. Sheridan,” Vail had fussed.

  At four-thirty, Chris had gone to the conference room. He’d realized what a blunder he’d made when he suggested the task was hopeless. He hadn’t meant it to come out like that. It was just that when you analyzed it, the chances of Darcy Scott’s meeting someone who had known Nan, and recognizing him in a picture fifteen years old, were, to say the least, very slim.

  Yesterday she’d asked him if Nan had ever dated anyone named Charles North.

  Not to his knowledge. When he came to Darien, Vince D’Ambrosio had asked him and his mother the same question.

  Chris realized that he wanted to go downstairs now and talk to Darcy. He wondered if she would get the feeling again that he was anxious to be rid of her.

  The phone rang. He let his secretary pick it up. A moment later she buzzed through. “It’s your mother, Chris.”

  Greta came directly to the point. “Chris, you know that business about someone named Charles. As long as we had to get all those pictures down, I decided to go through the rest of Nan’s things. No use leaving the job to you someday. I reread her letters. There’s one from the September before . . . before we lost her. She’d just started the fall semester. She wrote about dancing with a fellow named Charley who teased her about wearing Capezios.

  “Here’s exactly the way she put it: ‘Can you believe that a guy in my generation thinks girls should wear spike heels?’ ”

  I was finished with my patients at three o’clock and thought it would be a lot easier to come over and talk with you than discuss this on the phone.” Michael Nash shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position on the green love seat in Nona’s office. He could not help analyzing why an obviously bright and outgoing person like Nona Roberts would submit her visitors to this torturous object.

  “Doctor, I’m sorry.” Nona yanked files from the one comfortable chair next to her desk. “Please.”

  Nash moved willingly.

  “I really should get rid of that thing,” Nona apologized. “It’s just I never get around to it. There’s always something more interesting to do than fool around with arranging furniture.” Her smile was guilty. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t tell Darcy that.”

  He returned the smile. “In my profession, I’m sworn to secrecy. Now, how can I help you?”

  A really attractive man, Nona thought. Late thirties. A m
aturity that probably comes with the territory of being a psychiatrist. Darcy had told her about the visit to his place in New Jersey. Don’t marry for money, as Nona’s old aunts used to say, but it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one. Not, God knows, that Darcy needed to marry money. Her folks had been making millions since before she was born. But Nona had always sensed a loneliness in Darcy, a little girl lost. Without Erin, that was bound to get worse. It would be wonderful if she met the right guy now.

  She realized that Dr. Michael Nash was looking at her with an amused expression. “Will I pass?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” She fished for the documentary file. “Darcy probably told you why she and Erin got into answering personal ads.”

  Nash nodded.

  “We’ve got the program pretty much together, but I want to have a psychiatrist do an overall viewpoint about the kind of people who place or answer ads and what motivates them. Maybe it would be possible to give some hints as to what kind of behavior should raise warning signals. Am I saying it right?”

  “You’re saying it very explicitly. I gather that the FBI agent will concentrate on the serial killer aspect.”

  Nona felt herself tense. “Yes.”

  “Ms. Roberts, Nona, if I may, I wish you could see the expression on your face right now. You and Darcy are alike. You must stop torturing yourselves. You are no more responsible for Erin Kelley’s death than the mother who takes her child for a walk and sees it crushed by an out-of-control car. Some things must be considered acts of fate. Grieve for your friend. Do anything you can to alert others that there is a madman out there. But don’t try to play God.”

  Nona tried to keep her voice steady. “I wish I could hear that about five times a day. If it’s bad for me, it’s ten times worse for Darcy. I hope you’ve told her that.”

  Michael Nash’s smile reached his eyes. “My housekeeper has called three times this week with suggested menus if I’ll only bring Darcy back. She’s going to drive to Wellesley to see Erin’s father on Sunday, but she will have dinner with me on Saturday.”

  “Good! And now how about the program. We tape next Wednesday. It will be aired Thursday night.”

  “I usually shy away from this sort of thing. Too many of my colleagues rush to be on television panels or in the witness box at criminal trials. But maybe I can contribute something here. Count me in.”

  “Terrific.” They stood up together. Nona waved her hand at the desks in the open area outside her office. “I understand you’re writing a book about personal ads. If you need any more research, most of the uncommitted people out there have been playing the game.”

  “Thanks, but my own file is pretty thick. I’ll be turning my book in by the end of the month.”

  Nona watched Nash’s long, easy stride as he made his way to the elevator. She closed the door of her office and dialed Darcy’s apartment.

  When the answering machine came on, she said, “I know you’re not home yet, but I had to tell you. I just met Michael Nash and he’s a doll.”

  Doug’s warning antenna was signaling him. When he phoned Susan this morning, saying he didn’t want to wake her up by calling when he knew he couldn’t get home last night, she’d been warm and pleasant.

  “That was sweet of you, Doug. I did get to bed early.”

  The warning signal had come after he’d hung up and realized that she didn’t ask him if he’d be on time tonight. Up till a couple of weeks ago, she’d always pulled that martyred, anxious routine. “Doug, those people have to realize you have a family. It’s not fair to expect you to stay for meetings night after night.”

  She’d seemed pretty happy when she’d met him for dinner in New York. Maybe he should call back and suggest she meet him again tonight.

  Or maybe he’d better get home early, make a fuss over the kids. They had been away last weekend.

  If Susan ever got mad, really mad, especially with the way the personal ad murders were getting played up and all the interest in Nan . . . !

  Doug’s office was on the forty-fourth floor of the World Trade Center. Unseeingly, he stared down at Lady Liberty.

  It was time to play the role of devoted husband and father.

  Something else. He’d better stop using the apartment for a while. His clothes. His sketches. The ads. When he got a chance next week, he’d bring them up to the cottage.

  Maybe he’d better think about leaving the station wagon there too.

  Was it possible? Darcy blinked and reached for the magnifying glass. This five-by-seven snapshot of Nan Sheridan and her friends on the beach. The maintenance man in the background. Did he look familiar or was she crazy?

  She did not hear Chris Sheridan come in. His quiet greeting, “I don’t want to interrupt you, Darcy,” made her jump.

  Chris rushed to apologize. “I knocked. You didn’t hear me. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Darcy rubbed her eyes. “You shouldn’t have to knock. It’s your place. I guess I’m getting jumpy.”

  He looked at the magnifying glass in her hand. “Do you think you’ve come across something?”

  “I can’t be sure. It’s just this guy . . . ” She pointed to the figure behind the cluster of girls, “looks a little like someone I know. Do you remember where this picture was taken?”

  Chris studied it. “On Belle Island. That’s a few miles from Darien. One of Nan’s best friends has a summer home there.”

  “May I take this?”

  “Of course.” Concerned, Chris watched as Darcy slipped the snapshot into her carrying case and began to stack the pictures she had perused into orderly piles. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical, as though she were terribly tired.

  “Darcy, do you have one of your dates tonight?”

  She nodded.

  “Drinks, dinner?”

  “I try to keep them to a glass of wine. By then, I think I can get a handle on whether or not they either met Erin or sound funny if they deny knowing her.”

  “You don’t drive off with them or go to their homes?”

  “Lord, no.”

  “That’s good. You look as though you wouldn’t have much strength to fight back if someone made a pass at you.” Chris hesitated. “Believe it or not, I’m not here to ask questions about something that isn’t my business. I just wanted you to know that my mother came across a letter from Nan, written six months before she died. In it she refers to a Charley who thought girls ought to wear spike heels.”

  Darcy looked up at him. “Have you told Vince D’Ambrosio?”

  “Not yet. I will, of course. But I’m wondering if it would be a good idea for you to talk to my mother. It was digging out all these pictures that made her go through Nan’s letters. No one had asked her to do that. I just think that if there is anything my mother knows, it might come to the surface faster if she talks to another woman who understands the kind of pain she’s been living with all these years.”

  Nan was six minutes older than I. She never let me forget it. She was outgoing. I was shy.

  Chris Sheridan and his mother had probably come to terms with Nan Sheridan’s death, Darcy thought. The True Crimes program, Erin’s murder, the returned shoes, and now me. They’ve been forced to rip open whatever scars had healed. For them as well as me, there’ll be no peace until this is over.

  The distress in Chris Sheridan’s face for the moment robbed it of the aura of sophistication and executive confidence that had been so noticeable a few days ago.

  “I’d like to meet your mother,” Darcy said. “She lives in Darien, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes. I’ll drive you.”

  “I’m going up to Wellesley early Sunday morning to visit Erin Kelley’s father. If it’s all right, I’ll stop late Sunday afternoon on my way home.”

  “Sounds like a long day for you. Tomorrow wouldn’t be better?”

  Darcy thought it was ridiculous at her age to blush. “I have plans for tomorrow.”

  She got up to go. Robert Kruse w
as meeting her at Mickey Mantle’s at five-thirty. As of now, no one else had called. She had run out of personal ad dates.

  Next week she’d start writing to the ads Erin had circled.

  Len Parker had been angry at work. A maintenance man at NYU, there was nothing he couldn’t fix. Not that he’d studied much. It was just the feel of wires in his hands, the feel of a lock and key, doorjambs, switches. He was supposed to do only routine maintenance, but often when he saw something wrong, he’d fix it without talking about it. It was the one thing that gave him peace.

  But today, his thoughts had been confused. He’d yelled at his trustee for hinting that he might have a house somewhere. Whose business? Whose?

  His family? What about them? His brothers and sisters. Never even invited him to visit. Glad to wash their hands of him.

  That girl, Darcy. Maybe he’d been mean to her, but she didn’t realize how cold it had been standing waiting outside that fancy restaurant to apologize to her.

  He’d told Mr. Doran, the trustee, about that. Mr. Doran said, “Lenny, if you’d only understand that you have enough money to eat in Le Cirque or anywhere else every night of your life.”

  Mr. Doran just didn’t understand.

  Lenny could remember his mother yelling at his father all the time. “You’ll put your children in the streets with your crazy investments.” Lenny used to cower in bed. He hated to think of being out in the cold.

  Was that when he started going outside in his pajamas so he’d be used to it when it really happened? No one knew he did that. By the time his father made all that money, he was used to being in the cold.

  It was hard to remember. He got so confused. Sometimes he imagined things that didn’t happen.

  Like Erin Kelley. He’d looked up her address. She’d told him she lived in Greenwich Village and there she was: Erin Kelley, 101 Christopher Street.

  One night he’d followed her, hadn’t he?

  Was he wrong?