She pulled her jacket around her neck and bent forward slightly as she crossed the sidewalk. Yesterday had been busy. He had some important Japanese clients examining the silver from the von Wallens estate to be auctioned next week. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon with them.
Mrs. Vail, the housekeeper for the gallery, had made sure that morning coffee, a light lunch, and tea were brought to Darcy Scott. “That poor girl is going to ruin her eyes, Mr. Sheridan,” Vail had fussed.
At four-thirty, Chris had gone to the conference room. He’d realized what a blunder he’d made when he suggested the task was hopeless. He hadn’t meant it to come out like that. It was just that when you analyzed it, the chances of Darcy Scott’s meeting someone who had known Nan, and recognizing him in a picture fifteen years old, were, to say the least, very slim.
Yesterday she’d asked him if Nan had ever dated anyone named Charles North. Not to his knowledge. When he came to Darien, Vince D’Ambrosio had asked him and his mother the same question.
Chris realized that he wanted to go downstairs now and talk to Darcy. He wondered if she would get the feeling again that he was anxious to be rid of her.
The phone rang. He let his secretary pick it up. A moment later she buzzed through. “It’s your mother, Chris.”
Greta came directly to the point. “Chris, you know that business about someone named Charles. As long as we had to get all those pictures down, I decided to go through the rest of Nan ’s things. No use leaving the job to you someday. I reread her letters. There’s one from the September before… before we lost her. She’d just started the fall semester. She wrote about dancing with a fellow named Charley who teased her about wearing Capezios. “Here’s exactly the way she put it: ‘Can you believe that a guy in my generation thinks girls should wear spike heels?’”
I was finished with my patients at three o’clock and thought it would be a lot easier to come over and talk with you than discuss this on the phone.” Michael Nash shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position on the green love seat in Nona’s office. He could not help analyzing why an obviously bright and outgoing person like Nona Roberts would submit her visitors to this torturous object.
“Doctor, I’m sorry.” Nona yanked files from the one comfortable chair next to her desk. “Please.”
Nash moved willingly.
“I really should get rid of that thing,” Nona apologized. “It’s just I never get around to it. There’s always something more interesting to do than fool around with arranging furniture.” Her smile was guilty. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t tell Darcy that.”
He returned the smile. “In my profession, I’m sworn to secrecy. Now, how can I help you?”
A really attractive man, Nona thought. Late thirties. A maturity that probably comes with the territory of being a psychiatrist. Darcy had told her about the visit to his place in New Jersey. Don’t marry for money, as Nona’s old aunts used to say, but it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one. Not, God knows, that Darcy needed to marry money. Her folks had been making millions since before she was born. But Nona had always sensed a loneliness in Darcy, a little girl lost. Without Erin, that was bound to get worse. It would be wonderful if she met the right guy now.
She realized that Dr. Michael Nash was looking at her with an amused expression.
“Will I pass?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” She fished for the documentary file. “Darcy probably told you why she and Erin got into answering personal ads.”
Nash nodded.
“We’ve got the program pretty much together, but I want to have a psychiatrist do an overall viewpoint about the kind of people who place or answer ads and what motivates them. Maybe it would be possible to give some hints as to what kind of behavior should raise warning signals. Am I saying it right?” “You’re saying it very explicitly. I gather that the FBI agent will concentrate on the serial killer aspect.”
Nona felt herself tense. “Yes.”
“Ms. Roberts, Nona, if I may, I wish you could see the expression on your face right now. You and Darcy are alike. You must stop torturing yourselves. You are no more responsible for Erin Kelley’s death than the mother who takes her child for a walk and sees it crushed by an out-of-control car. Some things must be considered acts of fate. Grieve for your friend. Do anything you can to alert others that there is a madman out there. But don’t try to play God.” Nona tried to keep her voice steady. “I wish I could hear that about five times a day. If it’s bad for me, it’s ten times worse for Darcy. I hope you’ve told her that.”
Michael Nash’s smile reached his eyes. “My housekeeper has called three times this week with suggested menus if I’ll only bring Darcy back. She’s going to drive to Wellesley to see Erin ’s father on Sunday, but she will have dinner with me on Saturday.”
“Good! And now how about the program. We tape next Wednesday. It will be aired Thursday night.”
“I usually shy away from this sort of thing. Too many of my colleagues rush to be on television panels or in the witness box at criminal trials. But maybe I can contribute something here. Count me in.”
“Terrific.” They stood up together. Nona waved her hand at the desks in the open area outside her office. “I understand you’re writing a book about personal ads. If you need any more research, most of the uncommitted people out there have been playing the game.”
“Thanks, but my own file is pretty thick. I’ll be turning my book in by the end of the month.”
Nona watched Nash’s long, easy stride as he made his way to the elevator. She closed the door of her office and dialed Darcy’s apartment. When the answering machine came on, she said, “I know you’re not home yet, but I had to tell you. I just met Michael Nash and he’s a doll.”
Doug’s warning antenna was signaling him. When he phoned Susan this morning, saying he didn’t want to wake her up by calling when he knew he couldn’t get home last night, she’d been warm and pleasant.
“That was sweet of you, Doug. I did get to bed early.” The warning signal had come after he’d hung up and realized that she didn’t ask him if he’d be on time tonight. Up till a couple of weeks ago, she’d always pulled that martyred, anxious routine. “Doug, those people have to realize you have a family. It’s not fair to expect you to stay for meetings night after night.”
She’d seemed pretty happy when she’d met him for dinner in New York. Maybe he should call back and suggest she meet him again tonight. Or maybe he’d better get home early, make a fuss over the kids. They had been away last weekend.
If Susan ever got mad, really mad, especially with the way the personal ad murders were getting played up and all the interest in Nan…! Doug’s office was on the forty-fourth floor of the World Trade Center.
Unseeingly, he stared down at Lady Liberty.
It was time to play the role of devoted husband and father.
Something else. He’d better stop using the apartment for a while. His clothes. His sketches. The ads. When he got a chance next week, he’d bring them up to the cottage.
Maybe he’d better think about leaving the station wagon there too.
Was it possible? Darcy blinked and reached for the magnifying glass. This five-by-seven snapshot of Nan Sheridan and her friends on the beach. The maintenance man in the background. Did he look familiar or was she crazy? She did not hear Chris Sheridan come in. His quiet greeting, “I don’t want to interrupt you, Darcy,” made her jump.
Chris rushed to apologize. “I knocked. You didn’t hear me. I’m terribly sorry.” Darcy rubbed her eyes. “You shouldn’t have to knock. It’s your place. I guess I’m getting jumpy.”
He looked at the magnifying glass in her hand. “Do you think you’ve come across something?”
“I can’t be sure. It’s just this guy…” She pointed to the figure behind the cluster of girls, “looks a little like someone I know. Do you remember where this picture was taken?”
Chris studied it. “On Belle Island. That’s a few miles from Darien. One of Nan ’s best friends has a summer home there.”
“May I take this?”
“Of course.” Concerned, Chris watched as Darcy slipped the snapshot into her carrying case and began to stack the pictures she had perused into orderly piles. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical, as though
