her date with Box 1527.
Vince flew to Lancaster on the earliest flight Friday morning. He had urged Claire Barnes’s father not to tell anyone outside the family about the package of shoes. But when he arrived at the airport the local paper had the story in headlines. He phoned the Barnes’s home and learned from the maid that Mrs. Barnes had been rushed to the hospital last night.
Lawrence Barnes was a heavy-set executive type who, Vince decided, in other circumstances would have a commanding presence. Seated at the bedside, a young woman next to him, he was anxiously looking down at his heavily sedated wife. Vince showed him his card and was followed out into the corridor. Barnes introduced the young woman as his other daughter, Karen. “A reporter happened to be in the emergency room when we got here,” Barnes said tonelessly. “He heard Emma screaming about the package and that Claire was dead.”
“Where are the shoes now?”
“At home.”
Karen Barnes drove him to get them. A corporate lawyer in Pittsburgh, she had never shared her parents’ hope that one day Claire would suddenly show up. “There was no way, if she were alive, she would have given up the chance to be in Tommy Tune’s show.”
The Barnes’s home was a large Colonial in an impressive neighborhood. Zoning at least an acre, Vince thought. There was a television mobile unit on the street. Karen drove quickly past it, into the driveway, and around to the back of the house. A policeman prevented the reporter from stopping her.
The living room was filled with framed family pictures, many of them showing Karen and Claire in their growing-up years. Karen picked one of them off the piano. “I took this one of Claire the last time I saw her. We were in Central Park just a few weeks before she disappeared.”
Slender. Pretty. Blond. Mid-twenties. Joyous smile. You can pick ‘em, Buster, Vince thought bitterly. “May I take this? I’ll make copies and get the original right back to you.”
The package was on the foyer table. Ordinary brown wrapper, address label you could buy anywhere, block printing. Postmarked New York City. The box had no markings except for a delicately drawn sketch of a high- heeled slipper on the lid. The mismatched shoes. One a white Bruno Magli sandal, the other a gold slingback with an open toe and narrow high heel. They were the same size, six narrow.
“You’re sure this sandal is hers?”
“Yes. I have an identical pair. We bought them together that last day in New York.”
“How long had your sister been responding to personal ads?” “About six months. The police checked out anyone whose ad she had answered, at least anyone they could find.”
“Did she ever place any?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Where did she live in New York?”
“On West 63rd Street. An apartment in a brownstone. My father paid the rent for nearly a year after she disappeared, then gave it up.” “Where did you put her belongings?”
“The furniture wasn’t worth shipping. Her clothes and books and whatever are upstairs in her old room.”
“I’d like to see them.”
There was a cardboard file box on a shelf in the closet. “I packed that,” Karen told him. “Her address book, date book, stationery, some mail, that sort of thing. When we reported her missing, the New York police went through all her personal papers.”
Vince lifted down the box and opened it. A date book now two years old was on top. He skimmed through it. From January till August the pages were filled with appointments. Claire Barnes had not been seen after August fourth. “What makes it hard is that Claire had her own kind of shorthand.” Karen Barnes’s voice quavered. “You see where it says ‘Jim.’ That meant Jim Haworth’s studio, where she took dancing lessons. See, August fifth, ‘Tommy.’ That meant rehearsal for the Tommy Tune show, Grand Hotel. She’d just been hired.” Vince turned the pages back. On July fifteenth at five o’clock he saw “Charley.”
Charley!
In a noncommittal tone he pointed to the entry. “Do you know who this one is?” “No. Although she did mention a Charley who took her dancing once. I don’t believe the police were able to locate him.” Karen Barnes’s face paled. “That slipper. It’s the sort of thing you’d wear to a dance.” “Exactly. Miss Barnes, keep that name between the two of us, please. By the way, how long had your sister lived in her apartment?”
“Just about a year. Before that she had a place in the Village.”
“Where?”
“ Christopher Street. At 101 Christopher Street.”
At quarter of five, Darcy handed Bev the last of the bills to be paid, and on impulse phoned the mother of the recuperating teenager. The girl was coming home at the end of next week. The painter Darcy hired, a cheerful moonlighting security guard, was already on the job. “We’ll have the room all set by Wednesday,” Darcy assured the woman.
Thank heaven I had the brains to bring some clothes with me this morning, she thought as she changed from her sweater and jeans to an ovalnecked, long-sleeved black silk blouse, a calf-length Italian silk skirt in tones of green and gold, a matching stole. Gold chain, a narrow gold bracelet, gold earrings-the jewelry all designed by Erin. In a crazy way she felt as though she was donning Erin ’s coat of arms as she rode into battle.
She released her hair from the clip and brushed it loose around her face. Bev came back just as she finished applying eye-shadow. “You look fabulous, Darcy.” Bev hesitated. “I mean, it always seemed to me that you kind of tried to play down your looks and now, I mean, oh God, I’m not saying it right. I’m sorry.”
“ Erin pretty much said the same thing,” Darcy reassured her. “She was always bullying me to use more makeup or wear some of the fancy duds my mother sends me.”
Bev was wearing a skirt and sweater Darcy had seen on her frequently. “By the way, how do Erin ’s clothes fit?”
“Perfect. I’m so glad to get them. The tuition just jumped again and I swear, with today’s prices, I was getting ready to do a Scarlett O’Hara and make a dress out of curtains.”
Darcy laughed. “That’s still my favorite scene in Gone With the Wind. Look, I know I asked you to avoid wearing Erin ’s things to the office, but she’d be the first to say enjoy them. So feel free.”
“Are you sure?”
Darcy reached past the faithful leather jacket for her cashmere cape. “Of course I’m sure.”
She was meeting Box Number 1527, David Weld, at the grill at Smith and Wollensky’s at five-thirty. He’d said he’d be at the last seat at the bar, “or standing near it.” Brown hair. Brown eyes. About six feet tall. Wearing a dark suit.
It was easy to pick him out.
A pleasant guy, Darcy decided fifteen minutes later as they sat across from each other at one of the small tables. Born and raised in Boston. Worked for Holden’s, the department store chain. Had been coming back and forth for the last few years as they expanded into the Tri-State Area. She judged him to be in his mid-thirties, then wondered if there was something about that age that sent unattached singles scurrying to the personal ads. It was easy to direct the conversation. He’d gone to Northeastern. His father and grandfather had been executives with Holden’s. He’d worked there from the time he was a kid. After school. Saturdays. Summer vacations. “Never occurred to me to do anything else,” he confided. “Retailing runs in the family.” He had never met Erin. He’d read about her death. “That’s what makes you feel funny placing these ads. I mean, all I want is to meet some nice people.” Pause. “You’re nice.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d be very pleased to have dinner with you if you can stay.” He looked hopeful but the request was made with dignity.
No ego problem here, Darcy thought. “I honestly can’t, but I bet you’ve met some nice people answering these
