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.”
“Approbation from Sir Hubert is praise indeed.” Nona stretched and tried to decide whether or not to call Emma Barnes in Lancaster again. She’d already tried three or four times. Admittedly, Liz was smart to suggest having Barnes appear on the program to talk about her missing daughter who had answered personal ads. Liz was bright and imaginative. But she was trying to skunk me when she discussed Barnes with Hamilton, Nona decided. She wants my job. Let her try.
She gave one last, long stretch, sat at her desk, and dialed the Lancaster number. Once more the Barnes household did not answer.
Vince arrived promptly at seven. He was wearing a well-cut gray pinstriped suit accompanied by a brown and beige tie. It’s for sure no woman picks out his ties, Nona thought, remembering how fussy Matt had been about what tie went with which shirt and what suit.
The restaurant was on Broadway, a few blocks from Nona’s apartment. “Let’s save the serious stuff for dessert,” Vince suggested. Over salads they briefly sketched their personal lives. “If you were placing a personal ad, what would you say about yourself?” he asked.
Nona reflected. “Divorced White Female, age 41, cable television producer.”
He sipped his scotch. “Go on.”
“ Manhattan born and bred. Think anyone who lives anywhere else is mentally ill.”
He laughed. She noticed that caused friendly creases in the corners of his eyes. Nona sipped her wine. “This is terrific burgundy,” she commented. “I hope you’re planning to have some when the steak comes.”
“I am. Finish your ad, please.”
“Barnard graduate. I didn’t even leave Manhattan for college, you see. I did have a year abroad, and I do like to travel as long as I’m not gone more than three weeks.”
“Your ad’s getting expensive.”
“I’ll wind it up. Clean but not particularly tidy. You’ve noticed my office. Do not have green thumb. Good cook but hate fussy food. Love jazz. And oh, yes, I’m a good dancer.”
“That’s how you got friendly with Erin Kelley and Darcy Scott, in a dance class,” D’Ambrosio commented, and then watched as pain darkened Nona’s eyes. Hurriedly he added, “My ad’s a little shorter. I work for the government. Divorced White Male, 43 years old, FBI agent, brought up in Waldwick, New Jersey, graduated from NYU. Can’t dance without tripping over my own feet. Like to travel as long as it isn’t Vietnam. Three years there was enough. And last, but certainly not least, I have a fifteen-year-old son, Hank, who’s a swell kid.”
As she had promised, the steaks were superb. Over coffee they talked about the program. “We’re taping it in two weeks,” Nona said. “I’d like to save you for last so people are left with a sobering warning about the potential danger of answering these ads. You’re going to show the pictures of the missing girls, aren’t you?”
“Yes. There’s always the chance a viewer may have information about one of them.”
It was biting cold when they left the restaurant. A frosty winter wind made Nona gasp. Vince took her arm as they crossed the street. He did not remove it the rest of the way to her apartment.
He accepted her invitation to come up for a night-cap. Nona remembered happily that her cleaning lady, Lola, had been in. The place would look presentable. The seven-room apartment was in a prewar building. She could see D’Ambrosio’s eyebrows raise as he took in the large foyer, the high ceilings, the long windows on Central Park West, the paintings in the living room, the massive Jacobean furniture. “Very nice,” he commented.
“My folks gave it to me as is when they moved to Florida. I’m an only child, and this way when they come up to New York, my father feels comfortable. He hates hotels.” She went to the bar. “What’ll it be?”
She poured Sambuca for both of them, then paused. “It’s only quarter past nine. Do you mind if I take a minute to phone someone?” She reached in her purse. As she looked up the Barnes’s number, she explained why she was calling them. This time the phone was picked up immediately. Nona froze as she realized the sound she was hearing was a woman screaming. A man’s voice gave a distracted greeting. In shocked bewilderment he said, “Whoever this is, please get off the phone. I must call the police immediately. We’ve been away all day and just opened the mail. There was a package addressed to my wife.” The screams were now a shrieking crescendo. Nona motioned to Vince to pick up the portable telephone on the table beside him.
“Our daughter,” the bewildered voice went on. “She’s been missing for two years. That package has one of Claire’s own shoes and a high-heeled satin slipper in it.” He began to shout, “Who sent this? Why did they send it? Does this mean Claire is dead?”
