stones. The solitaire and baguettes in the center, banded on either side by alternating diamonds and emeralds. We’ll use the diamonds in your wedding ring and I can get some fine quality emeralds for you at a very reasonable price.” Over a quiet dinner at the Water Club, he pondered the pleasure of substituting a cubic zirconia for the solitaire in Armstrong’s ring. Some of them were so good even a jeweler’s naked eye could be fooled. But of course he’d have the new ring appraised for her with the solitaire still in place. Amazing how single women fell for that. “How thoughtful of you to take care of the appraisal for me. I’ll take it right to my insurance company.”
He lingered at the bar of the Water Club after dinner. Good to relax. The business of being attentive and charming with these old girls was exhausting even though the results were lucrative.
It was nine-thirty when he walked the few blocks from the restaurant back to his apartment. At ten he was wearing pajamas and a robe newly purchased at Armani’s. He settled on the couch with a bourbon on the rocks and turned on the news. The glass shook in Stratton’s trembling hands and liquor spilled unheeded on his robe as he stared at the screen and learned of the discovery of the body of Erin Kelley.
Michael Nash wondered ruefully if he should offer free analysis to Anne Thayer, the blonde who so unfortunately had bought the apartment next to his. When he left the office at ten of six on Friday afternoon, she was at the desk in the lobby, speaking to the concierge. As soon as she saw him, she dashed to stand beside him and wait for the elevator. On the way up, she chatted nonstop, as though she was on a countdown to ensnare him before they reached the twentieth floor.
“I went over to Zabar’s today and got the most marvelous salmon. Fixed a platter of hors d’oeuvres. My girlfriend was supposed to come over but can’t make it. Can’t bear to see them go to waste. I was wondering…” Nash cut her off. “Zabar’s salmon is great. Put it away. It’ll keep for a few days.” He was aware of the commiserating glance of the elevator operator. “Ramon, I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’m on my way out.” He said a firm good night to the crestfallen Miss Thayer and disappeared into his own apartment. He was going out, but not for an hour or so. And if he bumped into her then, maybe she’d start to get the message to leave him alone. “Dependent personality, probably neurotic, could get vicious when crossed,” he said aloud, then laughed. Hey, I’m off work. Forget it. He was spending the weekend in Bridgewater. There was a dinner party at the Balderstons’ tomorrow night. They always had interesting guests. More important, he intended to use the better part of the next two days working on his book. Nash acknowledged to himself that he’d become so interested in the project that he was becoming impatient with distractions.
Just before he left, he tried Erin Kelley’s number. He half-smiled as he heard the message in her lilting voice: “This is Erin. Sorry to miss your call. Please leave a message.”
“This is Michael Nash. I’m sorry to miss you, too, Erin. Tried you the other day. Guess you’re away. Hope there isn’t a problem with your father.” He left his office and home number again.
The drive to Bridgewater on Friday night was as usual a traffic-clogged nuisance. It was only when he passed Paterson on Route 80 that it began to let up. Then with each mile the terrain became more countrylike. Nash felt himself begin to relax. By the time he had driven through the gate of Scotshays, he had a total sense of well- being.
His father had bought the estate when Michael was eleven. Four hundred acres of gardens, woods, and fields. Swimming pool, tennis courts, stable. The house copied from a manor in Brittany. Stone walls, red-tiled roof, green shutters, white portico. Twenty-two rooms in all. Half of them Michael hadn’t bothered with in years. Irma and John Hughes, the housekeeping couple, ran the place for him.
Irma had dinner waiting. She served it in the study. Michael settled in his favorite old leather armchair to study the notes he would use tomorrow when he wrote the next chapter of his book. That chapter would concentrate on the psychological problems of people who, when they answered personal ads, sent in pictures of themselves that had been taken twenty-five years ago. He would concentrate on what factors made them try that ploy and how they explained themselves when the date showed up.
That sort of thing had happened to a number of the girls he had interviewed. A couple of them had been indignant. Some had been downright funny describing the encounter.
At quarter of ten, Michael turned the television on in anticipation of the news, then went back to his notes. The name Erin Kelley made him look up, startled. He grabbed the remote control and pressed the volume frantically, causing the announcer’s voice to shout through the room.
When the segment was finished, Michael flipped off the set and stared at the dark screen.
“ Erin,” he said aloud, “who could do that to you?”
Doug Fox stopped for a drink at Harry’s Bar on Friday evening before heading home to Scarsdale. It was a watering hole for the Wall Street crowd. As usual the bar was four deep and the news on the television set was ignored. Doug did not see the bulletin about the body that had been found on the pier. If she was sure he was coming home, Susan usually fed the kids first, then waited to eat with him, but tonight, when he arrived at eight, Susan was in the den reading. She barely raised her eyes when he came into the room and turned away from the kiss he tried to press on her forehead. Donny and Beth had gone to the movies with the Goodwyns, she explained. Trish and the baby were asleep. She did not offer to prepare anything for him. Her eyes went back to her book.
For a moment Doug stood uncertainly over her, then turned and went into the kitchen. She had to pull this attitude act the one night I’m hungry, he thought bitterly. She’s just sore because I didn’t get home for a couple of nights and was so late last night. He opened the door of the refrigerator. The one thing Susan could do was cook. With mounting anger he decided that when he was able to make it home, the least she could do was to have something ready for him. He yanked out packets of ham and cheese and went to the bread box. The weekly community newspaper was on the kitchen table. Doug made a sandwich, poured a beer, and began to skim the paper as he ate. The sports page caught his eye. Scarsdale had unexpectedly defeated Dobbs Ferry in the midschool tournament. The sudden-death winning basket had been sunk by second-stringer Donald Fox. Donny! Why didn’t anyone tell him?
Doug felt his palms begin to sweat. Had Susan tried to phone him Tuesday night? Donny had been disappointed and sullen when Doug told him he couldn’t make the game. It would be just like Susan to suggest they call with the news. Tuesday night. Wednesday night.
The new telephone operator at the hotel. She wasn’t like the young kids who willingly accepted the hundred bucks he slipped them from time to time. “Remember, any calls come in for me when I’m not here, I’m in a meeting. If it’s real late, I left a do-not-disturb.”
The new operator looked like she posed for a moral majority ad. He’d been still trying to figure out how to snow her into lying for him. He hadn’t worried too much, however. He’d trained Susan not to phone him when he stayed in “for meetings.”
But she had tried him Tuesday night. He was sure of it. Otherwise, she’d have had Donny phone him at the office Wednesday afternoon. And that dumb operator had probably told her there was no meeting and no one was staying in the company suite.
Doug looked around the kitchen. It was surprisingly neat. They’d had the whole house renovated when they bought it eight years ago. The kitchen was a chef’s dream. Center island with sink and chopping board. Plenty of counter space. Latest appliances. Skylight.
Susan’s old man had lent them the money for the renovation. He’d also lent them most of the down payment. Lent. Not given.
If Susan got really sore…
Doug tossed the rest of the sandwich in the compactor and brought his beer into the den.
Susan watched him enter the room. My handsome husband, she thought. She’d deliberately left the newspaper on the table, knowing Doug would probably read it. Now he’s sweating bullets. He figured I probably called the hotel to let Donny give him the news. Funny, when you finally faced reality, it was amazing how clearly you could see things.
Doug sat on the couch opposite her. He’s afraid to give me an opening, she decided. Tucking her book under her arm, she got up. “The kids will be back about half past ten,” she told him. “I’m going to read in bed.” “I’ll wait for them, honey.”
Honey! He must be worried.
