greet her. “You made good time at that,” he said. “It’s nice to see you, Darcy.”
He was wearing an oxford cloth shirt, corduroy pants, and loafers. As he extended his hand to assist her from the car, she was again aware of the breadth of his shoulders. She was also glad to see that he was not in a jacket and tie. On the way down it had occurred to her that she was arriving at dinnertime and her own corduroy pants and wool sweater might not be suitable garb. The interior of the house had the charming combination of lived-in comfort and exquisite taste. Persian carpets were scattered in the high-ceilinged foyer. A Waterford chandelier and matching sconces enhanced the magnificent carving on the curving staircase. Paintings Darcy longed to study covered the stairway wall.
“Like most people, my mother uses the den more than any other room,” Chris told her. “Through here.”
Darcy glanced at the living room as they passed. Chris noticed and said, “The whole house is done in American antiques. Anywhere from early Colonial to Greek Revival. My grandmother was hooked on antiques and I guess we learned by osmosis.”
Greta Sheridan was sitting in a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. The New York Times was scattered around her. The Sunday magazine section was open to the puzzle page and she was studying a crossword dictionary. She got up gracefully. “You must be Darcy Scott.” She took Darcy’s hand. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”
Darcy nodded. What a beautiful woman, she thought. Many of the film stars who were her mother’s intimates would enjoy Greta Sheridan’s high cheek-bones, patrician features, slender frame. She was wearing pale blue wool slacks, a matching cowl neck sweater, diamond earrings, and a diamond pin in the shape of a horseshoe.
To the manner born, Darcy thought.
Chris poured sherry. A platter of cheese and crackers was on the coffee table.
He poked at the fire. “By the end of the day, you know it’s still March.” Greta Sheridan asked about the trip. “You have more courage than I to go up in the morning to Massachusetts and back a few hours later.” “I’m in the car a lot.”
“Darcy, we’ve known each other for five days,” Chris commented. “Will you please tell me exactly what you do?” He turned to Greta. “The first time I took Darcy through the main floor of the gallery, she spotted the Roentgen writing desk out of the corner of her eye. Then she told me she was ‘sort of in the business.’” Darcy laughed. “You won’t believe, but here goes.” Greta Sheridan was fascinated. “What a sensational idea. If you’re interested, I’ll be a scout for you. You’d be amazed at the wonderful furnishings people discard or sell for next to nothing in this area.”
At six-thirty, Chris said, “I’m the chef. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Darcy.
We’re having steaks, baked potato, salad. Gourmet delight time.”
“I’m not a vegetarian. It sounds wonderful.”
When he had left, Greta Sheridan began to talk about her daughter and the reenactment of her murder on the True Crimes television series. “When I received that letter telling me a dancing girl was going to die in New York in Nan ’s honor, I thought I would go mad. There’s nothing worse than not being able to prevent a tragedy you know is going to happen.”
“Except to feel you had a hand in causing it,” Darcy said. “I know that the only way I can make up to Erin for urging her to answer those cursed ads is to stop her killer from hurting anyone else. You obviously feel the same way. I understand how it must be tearing you apart to go through Nan ’s letters and pictures, and I’m grateful.”
“I’ve found some others. They’re here.” Greta pointed to a stack of small albums on the raised hearth. “These were on a high shelf of the library and missed getting put away.” She reached for the top one. Darcy pulled up a chair beside her and together they bent over it. “ Nan got interested in photography that last year,” Greta said. “We gave her a Canon for Christmas, so these were all taken between late December and early March.”
The salad days, Darcy thought. She had albums like this of the Mount Holyoke crowd. The only difference was Mount Holyoke was a women’s college. In these pictures there were as many guys as coeds. They began to go through them.
Chris appeared in the doorway. “Five-minute warning.”
“You’re a good cook,” Darcy said approvingly as she ate the last bite of steak. They began talking about Nan ’s reference to someone named Charley who had liked girls to wear spike heels. “That’s what I was trying to remember,” Greta said. “On the program and in the newspapers they were talking about high-heeled slippers. It was the letter from Nan about spike heels that was gnawing at me. Unfortunately, it really hasn’t helped much, has it?”
“Not yet,” Chris said.
Chris carried a tray with coffee into the study.
“You make a marvelous butler,” his mother said affectionately.
“Since you refuse to have live-in help, I’ve had to learn.”
Darcy thought of the Bel-Air mansion with its permanent staff of three live-ins. When she finished the coffee, she got up to go. “I hate to break this up, but it will be over an hour before I get home and if I relax too much, I’ll end up falling asleep at the wheel.” She hesitated. “Can I just look at that first book again?”
In that first album, on the next to the last page, there was a group scene. “The tall fellow in the school sweater,” Darcy said. “The one with his face turned from the camera. There’s something about him.” She shrugged. “I just have a feeling I may have met him somewhere.”
Greta and Chris Sheridan studied the picture. “I can pick out some of the kids,” Greta said, “but not that one. How about you, Chris?” “No. But look, Janet is in it. She was one of Nan ’s big buddies,” he explained to Darcy. “She lives in Westport.” He turned to his mother. “She loves to visit you. Why not ask her to drop in soon?”
“She’s so busy with the children. I could drive down there.” As Darcy said good-bye, Greta Sheridan smiled and said, “Darcy, I’ve been studying you all night. Except for the color of your hair, has anyone ever told you that you have a striking resemblance to Barbara Thorne?” “Never,” Darcy said honestly. It was not the moment to say that Barbara Thorne was her mother. She smiled back. “But I have to tell you, Mrs. Sheridan, that’s a very nice thing to say.”
Chris walked her to the car. “You’re not too tired to drive?”
“Oh no. You should see the long treks I take when I’m out on one of my hunts for furniture.”
“We really are in the same business.”
“Yes, but you take the high road…”
“Will you be coming to the gallery tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there. Good night, Chris.”
Greta Sheridan was waiting at the door. “She’s a lovely girl, Chris. Lovely.” Chris shrugged. “I think so too.” He remembered how Darcy had blushed when he’d asked her about coming up yesterday.
“But don’t start matchmaking, Mother. I’ve got a hunch she’s taken.”
Over the weekend Doug had been everything any woman could ask of a devoted husband and father. Even knowing his behavior was all a sham, Susan managed to assuage her fear that Doug might be a serial killer.
He went to Donny’s basketball practice, then got together a scrimmage in the outdoor court with the kids who could stay. He took everyone out to Burger King for lunch. “Nothing like health food,” he’d joked.
The place was full of young families. This is the sort of togetherness we’ve been lacking, Susan thought. But now it’s too late. She looked across the table at Donny, who had hardly said a word.
Back home, Doug played with the baby, helping him build a castle of interlocking blocks. “Let’s put the little prince inside.” Conner squealed with delight. He took Trish for a ride on her scooter. “We can beat anyone on the block, can’t we, toots?”
