Darcy was handed out of the cab by the doorman, entered Le Cirque, and felt herself begin to unwind. She had not realized how much energy she had put into the meeting with Len Parker. Her head was still buzzing with the realization that he had met Erin. Why had he denied it? Erin had walked out on him. Certainly, she’d never dated him again. Was it simply that he didn’t want to be questioned and have to admit the lies about his background? Every time her mother and father were in New York they dined at Le Cirque. It was a wonderful restaurant. Darcy found herself wondering why she didn’t come here more often. How ever did two such stunning people manage to produce that mousy-looking child? And how could one sentence remain so imbedded in memory? The bar was to the left. Small and charming, it was not a hangout but a place to wait for a guest or a table. A young couple was standing near it, chatting animatedly. A single man was at the end. The most ordinary- looking person you’ll see.
Michael Nash had not been kind to himself. Dark blond hair, a face that was saved from being conventionally handsome by a rather sharp chin, a long, trim body, dark blue suit with faint pinstripes, silver and blue tie. As he looked at her with obvious recognition and pleasure, Darcy was aware that Michael Nash’s eyes were an unusual shade, somewhere between sapphire and midnight blue. “Darcy Scott.” It was a statement, not a question. He signaled to the maitre d’ and put his hand under her elbow.
They were seated at a prime table in full view of the entrance. Michael Nash must be a frequent and valued customer of Le Cirque. “A drink? Wine?”
“White wine, please. And a glass of water.”
He ordered a bottle of Pellegrino with the Chardonnay, then smiled. “Now that for the moment we’ve taken care of the necessaries, as an old friend puts it, Darcy, it’s good to meet you.”
For the next half hour, she realized that he was deliberately steering the conversation away from Erin. It was only after she had begun to sip the wine and pick at a roll that he said, “ Mission accomplished. I think you are finally starting to feel safe.”
Darcy stared at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that I was watching for you. I saw the way you hurried in. Everything about you suggested a high level of tension. What happened?” “Nothing. I’d really like to talk about Erin.”
“I would too. But Darcy…” He stopped. “Look, I can’t get out of the business of doing what I do all day. I’m a psychiatrist.” His smile was apologetic.
She felt herself at last begin to relax. “I’m the one who should apologize. You’re absolutely right. I did feel pretty tense coming here.” She told him about Len Parker.
He listened attentively, his head slightly tilted. “You’ll of course report this man to the police.”
“The FBI, actually.”
“Vincent D’Ambrosio? As I told you when you called, he came to my office on Tuesday. Unfortunately, I could tell him very little. I met Erin for a drink several weeks ago. I had the immediate feeling that a girl like her had no need to answer personal ads. I challenged her with that and she told me about the program her friend is putting together. She mentioned you. Said her best friend was answering ads with her.”
Darcy nodded, hoping that her eyes were not going to fill with tears. “I don’t usually explain that the reason I’m going this route is because of a book I’m working on, but I did tell Erin. We exchanged some stories about our various dates. I’ve tried to remember everything she said, but she didn’t give any names and they were funny stories. Certainly, I had no hint that anyone worried her.”
“’Close encounters of the worst kind,’ she used to call them.” Nash laughed. “She told me that. I asked if we could plan dinner soon, and she agreed. I was trying to wrap up my book and she was completing a necklace she had designed. I said I’d get back to her. When I tried, there was no answer. From what Vincent D’Ambrosio said, it was already too late.” “That was the night she thought she was meeting someone named Charles North. I still think that even though he didn’t show up, her death has to do with a personal ad she answered.”
“Thinking that, why are you answering personal ads now?”
“Because I’m going to find that man.”
He looked troubled but did not comment. They studied the menu, both selecting the Dover sole. As they ate, Nash seemed to be deliberately trying to keep her mind off Erin ’s death. He told her about himself. “My father made his money in plastics. Literally lived out that famous line from The Graduate. Then bought a rather garishly ornate mansion in Bridgewater. He was a decent, fine man, and every time I wonder why three of us needed twenty-two rooms, I remember how happy he was showing them off.”
He touched on his divorce. “I married the week after I graduated from college. Terrible mistake for both of us. It wasn’t a financial problem, but medical school, especially when it involves the continuing study of psychoanalysis, is a long, hard road. We didn’t have time for each other. By the end of four years, she’d had enough. Sheryl lives in Chicago now and has three children.” It was Darcy’s turn. Carefully, she steered around giving the names of her famous parents, jumping quickly to leaving the advertising agency and setting up her budget decorating business. “Somebody once told me I’m a new version of Sanford and Son, and I guess it’s true, but I love it.” She thought of the room she was decorating for the recuperating sixteen-year-old. If he noticed gaps in the background, he did not comment. The salads arrived just as a producer friend of her parents stopped at the table. “Darcy!” A warm kiss, a hug. He introduced himself to Michael Nash. “Harry Curtis.” He turned back to Darcy. “You get prettier every day. I hear your parents are touring in Australia. How’s it going?”
“They just got there.”
“Well, give them my love.” Another hug and Curtis left for his own table. Nash’s eyes did not signal curiosity. That’s the way it works with shrinks, Darcy thought. They wait for you to tell them. She did not offer an explanation of what Curtis had said.
It was a pleasant dinner. Nash confessed to two passions, riding and tennis. “They’re what keep me in Bridgewater.” Over espresso, he returned to the subject of Erin ’s death. “Darcy, I don’t usually offer advice to people, even free advice, but I wish you’d drop the idea of answering these ads. That FBI fellow seemed perfectly competent to me and if I’m any judge, he’s not going to rest until whoever murdered Erin is paying the price.”
“He told me that in so many words. I guess we all do what we have to do.” She managed a smile. “The last time I spoke to Erin, she said she’d met one nice guy and wouldn’t you know it, he hadn’t called back. I’d bet my bottom dollar it was you.”
He took her home in a cab, told the driver to wait, and walked her to the door. The wind was sharp and he turned so that he was protecting her from its full blast as she turned the key. “May I call you again?” “I’d like that.” For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her cheek, but he simply pressed her hand and went back to the waiting cab. The wind pulled at the door, causing it to close slowly. As the lock clicked, the sound of footsteps made her turn. Through the glass she could see the figure of a man rushing up the steps. An instant sooner and he would have been in the vestibule with her. As she stared at him, her mouth too dry to scream, Len Parker pounded at the door, kicked it, then turned and ran down the block.
X FRIDAY March 1
Greta Sheridan debated between getting up or trying to sleep for another hour. A gusty March wind was rattling the windowpanes and she remembered that Chris had been after her to have these windows replaced.
The early-morning light filtered through the drawn draperies. She loved a cold room for sleeping. The quilt and blankets were warm and the blue and white moire canopy gave the bed a comforting enclosed feeling. She had been dreaming of Nan. The anniversary of her death, March thirteenth, was two weeks away. Nan had turned nineteen the day before. This year she would have been celebrating her thirty-fourth birthday.
Would have been.
Impatiently, Greta tossed back the covers, reached for her velour robe, and got up. Pulling on her slippers, she went into the hallway and down the winding staircase to the main floor. She understood why Chris was concerned. It was a large house and it was generally known that she lived alone. “You don’t know how easy it is for a professional to disarm a security system,” he had warned several times.
“I love this house.” Every room held so many happy memories. Somehow, Greta felt that to leave this place would be to leave them as well. And, she thought with an unconscious smile, if Chris would finally settle down one
