He’d of course been older than the other students. They’d all looked like babyfaced kids, even the ones who were obviously rich. Except for one.
The phone rang. It was Enid Armstrong. Enid Armstrong? Of course, the teary-eyed widow.
She sounded excited. “I talked to my sister about your suggestion of what I should do to my ring and she said, ‘ Enid, if that will give you a lift, do it. You deserve to pamper yourself.’”
On the channel 4 six o’clock news, reporter John Miller had an ongoing report about Erin Kelley. It had been learned that a quarter of a million dollars in diamonds was missing from her safe. Lloyd’s of London had posted a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for their return. The police still believed that she had been the victim of a copycat murderer who might not have known that she was carrying valuables. The report ended with a reminder that the True Crimes dramatization of Nan Sheridan’s death was being repeated at eight o’clock. Darcy snapped the off button on the remote control. “It had nothing to do with a robbery,” she said aloud. “It had nothing to do with a copycat murder. No matter what they say, it had everything to do with a personal ad.” Vince D’Ambrosio would undoubtedly learn the identity of some of the people Erin had dated. But Erin had been meeting for the first time the man who called himself Charles North, and he hadn’t shown up. Suppose he’d been just coming into the bar and met her at the door? Suppose he’d been one of the ones to whom she’d sent a picture? Suppose he’d said, “Erin Kelley, I’m Charles North. I got stuck in traffic. This place looks crowded. Let’s go somewhere else.” It makes sense, Darcy thought. If there is a serial killer out there and if he’s been responsible for other deaths, he won’t stop now. If only she knew which ads Erin had actually answered, which ads she’d answered for both of them. It was seven o’clock, a good time to try returning the calls that had been left on her machine. In the next forty minutes she reached three people, left messages for the other four. Now she had a date for drinks with Len Parker at McMullen’s on Thursday, drinks with David Weld at Smith and Wollensky’s Grill on Friday, and brunch with Albert Booth at the Victory Cafe on Saturday. What about the guys who had left messages on Erin ’s machine? A couple of them had given phone numbers that she’d taken down. Maybe she’d call them back, tell them about Erin in case they didn’t already know, and try to get a date with them. If they were meeting a lot of girls, they might have heard someone talk about a date who turned out to be weird.
The first two didn’t answer. The next one picked up immediately. “Michael Nash.” “Michael, I’m Darcy Scott, a good friend of Erin Kelley’s. I imagine you know what happened to her.”
“Darcy Scott.” The pleasant voice deepened with concern. “ Erin told me about you. I’m so terribly sorry. I spoke with an FBI agent yesterday and assured him I’d like to help in any way I can. Erin was a lovely girl.” Darcy realized her eyes were filling with tears. “Yes, she was.”
Obviously, he caught the catch in her voice. “This is terribly rough for you.
Can I take you out for dinner some night soon? Talking about it may help.”
“I’d like that.”
“Tomorrow?”
Darcy thought swiftly. She was meeting Len at six. “If eight o’clock is all right with you.”
“It’s fine. I’ll make a reservation at Le Cirque. Incidentally, how will I know you?”
“Medium brown hair, five eight. I’ll wear a blue wool dress with a white collar.”
“I’ll be the most average-looking guy in the place. I’ll be waiting at the bar.” 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 divorcee. 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.
