• Your novel You Belong to Me, has an intriguing topic. Tell us about it.
“Women traveling alone are receptive to romance. Even sophisticated women can be gullible and lured into dubious, sometimes even fatal, relationships by men who prey on them.
“Regina Clausen, a very successful, forty-three-year-old investment banker, had been traveling alone on a segment of the world cruise of the luxury liner Gabrielle. She had disembarked in Hong Kong, saying she would rejoin the ship when it docked in Japan. Her departure aroused no suspicion. Regina Clausen, however, did not return to the ship and was never seen again.
“Her case is discussed, three years later, during a radio program about vanished women on the New York–based, syndicated call-in show Ask Dr. Susan, hosted by psychologist Susan Chandler. A smart, attractive woman in her early thirties, she had been a district attorney before changing careers. Realizing that her program on vanished women has triggered off a series of murders, she starts to investigate the case of Regina Clausen’s disappearance . . . and becomes a target for the killer.”
• In your novel We’ll Meet Again medical issues are central to the plot. What are these?
“The inner workings of an HMO, in which patients’ needs are secondary to financial considerations, the choice of ending or prolonging life and risky medical experiments are themes in the novel.
“The novel begins with the murder of Dr. Gary Lasch—prominent Greenwich, Connecticut, doctor and founder of an HMO, Remington Health Management—who is found dead in his study at home, his skull crushed by a blow with a heavy bronze sculpture and his wife, Molly, found in bed covered with blood. Molly claims to have no memory of events the night of the crime. Based on the housekeeper’s testimony incriminating her, Molly is charged with his murder. As a conviction seems inevitable, her lawyer plea-bargains the charge down to manslaughter.
“Released on parole from prison six years later, Molly asserts her innocence. She asks an old schoolmate, Fran Simmons, an investigative reporter and anchor for a true-crime series, to research and produce a program on Gary Lasch’s death. In probing into the private life of Gary Lasch and the affairs of Remington Health Management, they become enmeshed in a web of intrigue and themselves targets for murder.”
• What is your next novel?
“Titled The Street Where You Live, it is set in Spring Lake, New Jersey, where I recently bought a Victorian house.
“Following the acrimonious breakup of her marriage and the searing experience of being pursued by an obsessed stalker, criminal defense attorney Emily Graham accepts an offer to leave Albany and work in a major law firm in Manhattan.
“Feeling a need for roots, she buys her ancestral home, an old Victorian house in the historic New Jersey seaside resort town of Spring Lake. Her family had sold the house in 1892, after one of Emily’s forebears, Madeline Shapley, then still a young girl, disappeared.
“Now, more than a century later, as the house is being renovated and the backyard excavated for a pool, the skeleton of a young woman is found. She is identified as Martha Lawrence, who had disappeared only four years earlier in Spring Lake. Within her skeletal hand is another woman’s finger bone with a ring still on it—a Shapley family heirloom.
“In seeking to find the link between her family’s past and the recent murder, Emily becomes a threat to a devious and seductive killer, who has chosen her as his next victim.”
• Having reached the pinnacle of success, could you visualize a life of leisure?
“No—never. Somebody once said, ‘If you want to be happy for a year, win the lottery. If you want to be happy for a lifetime, love what you do.’ That’s the way it is for me.”
Turn the page to read an excerpt from
Daddy’s Gone A Hunting
Prologue
Sometimes Kate dreamed about that night, even though it wasn’t a dream. It had really happened. She was three years old and had been curled up on the bed watching Mommy getting dressed. Mommy looked like a princess. She was wearing a beautiful red evening gown and the red satin high heels that Kate loved to try on. Then Daddy came into the bedroom and he picked Kate up and danced her and Mommy onto the balcony even though it was beginning to snow.
I begged him to sing my song and he did, Kate remembered.
Bye baby bunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting,
A rosy wisp of cloud to win,
To wrap his baby bunting in.
The next night Mommy died in the accident, and Daddy never sang that song to her again.
1
Thursday, November 14
At four o’clock in the morning, Gus Schmidt dressed silently in the bedroom of his modest home on Long Island, hoping not to disturb his wife of fifty-five years. He was not successful.
Lottie Schmidt’s hand shot out to fumble for the lamp on the night table. Blinking to clear eyes that were heavy with sleep, she noticed that Gus was wearing a heavy jacket, and demanded to know where he was going.
“Lottie, I’m just going over to the plant. Something came up.”
“Is that why Kate called you yesterday?”
Kate was the daughter of Douglas Connelly, the owner of Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions, the furniture complex in nearby Long Island City where Gus had worked until his retirement five years earlier.
Lottie, a slight seventy-five-year-old with thinning white hair, slipped on her glasses and glanced at the clock. “Gus, are you crazy? Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s four o’clock and Kate asked me to meet her there at four thirty. She must have had her reasons and that’s why I’m going.”
Lottie could see that he was clearly upset.
Lottie knew better than to ask the question that was on both their minds. “Gus, I’ve had a bad feeling lately. I know you don’t want to hear me talk like this, but I sense something dark is going to happen. I don’t want you to go.”
In the shadowy 60-watt light of the night table lamp they glared at each other. Even as Gus spoke, he knew deep down he was frightened. Lottie’s claim to be psychic both irritated and scared him. “Lottie, go back to sleep,” he said angrily. “No matter what the problem is, I’ll be back for breakfast.”
Gus was not a demonstrative man but some instinct made him walk over to the bed, lean down, kiss his wife’s forehead, and run his hand over her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said firmly.
They were the last words she would ever hear him say.
2
Kate Connelly hoped that she would be able to hide the restless anxiety she felt about her predawn appointment with Gus in the museum of the furniture complex. She had dinner with her father and his newest girlfriend in Zone, the fashionably new café in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Over cocktails she made the usual small talk that rolled easily off her tongue when she chatted with his “flavor of the moment.”
This one was Sandra Starling, a platinum blond beauty in her midtwenties with wide-set hazel eyes, who earnestly explained that she had been a runner-up in a Miss Universe contest but became vague as to exactly how far she had been from winning the crown.
Her ambition, she confided, was to have a career in the movies and then dedicate herself to world peace. This one is even dumber than most of the others, Kate thought sardonically. Doug, as she had been instructed to call her father, was his genial and charming self, although he seemed to be drinking more heavily than usual.
Throughout the dinner, Kate realized that she was appraising her father as if she were a judge on America’s Got Talent or Dancing with the Stars. He’s a handsome man in his late fifties, she thought, a look-alike for legendary film star Gregory Peck. Then she reminded herself that most people her age wouldn’t have any real appreciation of that comparison. Unless, like me, they’re devotees of classic movies, she thought.
Was she making a mistake to bring Gus in on this? she wondered.
“Kate, I was telling Sandra that you’re the brains of the family,” her father s
aid.
“I hardly think of myself as that,” Kate answered with a forced smile.
“Don’t be modest,” Doug Connelly chided. “Kate is a certified public accountant, Sandra. Works for Wayne & Cruthers, one of the biggest accounting firms in the country.” He laughed. “Only problem is, she’s always telling me how to run the family business.” He paused. “My business,” he added. “She forgets that.”
“Dad, I mean Doug,” Kate said quietly, even as she felt her anger building. “Sandra doesn’t need to hear about it.”
“Sandra, look at my daughter. Thirty years old and a tall, gorgeous blonde. She takes after her mother. Her sister, Hannah, looks like me. She has my charcoal brown hair and blue eyes, but unlike me she came in a small package. Not more than five foot two. Isn’t that right, Kate?”
Dad’s been drinking before he got here, Kate thought. He can get nasty when he gets an edge on. She tried to steer the subject away from the family business. “My sister is in fashion, Sandra,” she explained. “She’s three years younger than I am. When we were growing up, she was always making dresses for her dolls while I was pretending to make money by answering the questions on Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune.”
Oh God, what do I do if Gus agrees with me? she asked herself as the waiter brought their entrées.
Fortunately the band, which had been on a break, came back into the crowded dining room and the earsplitting music kept conversation to a minimum.
She and Sandra passed on dessert, but then, to her dismay, Kate heard her father order a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu.
She began to protest. “Dad, we don’t need’”
“Kate, spare me your penny-pinching.” Doug Connelly’s voice rose enough to get the notice of the people at the next table.
Her cheeks burning, Kate said quietly, “Dad, I’m meeting someone for a drink. I’ll let you and Sandra enjoy the champagne together.”
Sandra’s eyes were scanning the room in search of celebrities. Then she smiled brilliantly at a man who was raising his glass to her. “That’s Majestic. His album is climbing the charts,” she said breathlessly. As an afterthought she murmured, “Nice to meet you, Kate. Maybe, if I make it big, you can handle my money for me.”
Doug Connelly laughed. “What a great idea. Then maybe she’ll leave me alone.” He added a little too hastily, “Just kidding. I’m proud of my brainy little girl.”
If you only knew what your brainy little girl is up to, Kate thought. Torn between anger and concern, she retrieved her coat at the cloakroom, went outside into the cold and windy November evening, and signaled a passing cab.
Her apartment was on the Upper West Side, a condominium she had bought a year earlier. It was a roomy two-bedroom, with a bird’s-eye view of the Hudson River. She both loved it and regretted that the previous owner, Justin Kramer, a wealth investment advisor in his early thirties, had been forced to sell it at a bargain price after losing his job. At the closing Justin had smiled gamely and presented her with a bromeliad plant similar to the one she had admired when she saw the apartment for the first time.
“Robby told me you admired my plant,” he had said, indicating the real estate agent sitting next to him. “I took that one with me, but this one is a housewarming present for you. Leave it in that same spot over the kitchen window and it will grow like a weed.”
Kate was thinking about that thoughtful gift, as she sometimes did when she walked into her cheery apartment and turned on the light. The furniture in the living room was all modern. The sofa, golden beige with deep cushions, invited napping. The matching chairs in the same upholstery had been built for comfort, with wide arms and headrests. Pillows that picked up the colors in the geometric patterns on the carpet added splashes of brightness to the décor.
Kate remembered how Hannah had laughed when she came to inspect the apartment after the new furniture was delivered. “My God, Kate,” she had said. “You’ve grown up hearing Dad explain how everything in our house was a Connelly fine reproduction’and you have gone hog wild the other way.”
I agreed, Kate thought. I was sick of Dad’s spiel about perfect reproductions. Maybe someday I’ll change my mind, but in the meantime I’m happy.
Perfect reproductions. Just thinking the words made her mouth go dry.
3
Mark Sloane knew that his farewell dinner with his mother might be difficult and tearful. It was close to the twenty-eighth anniversary of his sister’s disappearance, and he was moving to New York for a new job. Since his graduation from law school thirteen years earlier he had been practicing corporate real estate law in Chicago. It was ninety miles from Kewanee, the small Illinois town where he had been raised.
In the years he had been living in Chicago, he had made the two-hour drive at least once every few weeks to have dinner with his mother. He had been eight years old when his twenty-year-old sister, Tracey, quit the local college and moved to New York to try to break into musical comedy. After all these years he still remembered her as if she were standing in front of him. She had auburn hair that cascaded around her shoulders, and blue eyes that were usually filled with fun but could turn stormy when she was angry. His mother and Tracey had always clashed over her grades at college and the way she dressed. Then one day when he went down for breakfast, he found his mother sitting at the kitchen table and crying. “She’s gone, Mark, she’s gone. She left a note. She’s going to New York to become a famous singer. Mark, she’s so young. She’s so headstrong. She’ll get in trouble. I know it.”
Mark remembered putting his arms around his mother and trying to hold back his own tears. He had adored Tracey. She would pitch balls to him when he was beginning in Little League. She would take him to the movies. She would help him with his homework and tell stories of famous actors and actresses. “Do you know how many of them came from little towns like this one?” she would ask.
That morning he had warned his mother. “In her letter Tracey said she would send you her address. Mama, don’t try to make her come back, because she won’t. Write and tell her it’s okay and how happy you’ll be when she’s a big star.”
It had been the right move. Tracey had written regularly and called every few weeks. She had gotten a job in a restaurant. “I’m a good waitress and the tips are great. I’m taking singing lessons. I was in an off-Broadway musical. It only ran for four performances, but it was so wonderful to be onstage.” She had flown back home three times for a long weekend.
Then, after Tracey had lived in New York for two years, his mother received a call one day from the police. Tracey had disappeared.
When she did not show up for work for two days and did not answer her phone, her concerned boss, Tom King, who owned the restaurant, had gone to her apartment. Everything was in order there. Her date book showed that she had an audition scheduled for the day after she had disappeared, and had another scheduled at the end of the week. “She didn’t show up for the first one,” King told the police. “If she doesn’t show up for the other one, then something’s happened to her.”
The New York police listed Tracey as a missing person all those years ago. As in “just another missing person,” Mark thought as he drove up to the Cape Cod–style house where he had been raised. With its charcoal shingles, white trim, and bright red door, it was a cheery and welcoming sight. He pulled into the driveway and parked. The overhead lamp at the door shed light on the front steps. He knew his mother would leave it on all night as she had for nearly twenty-eight years, just in case Tracey came home.
Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and asparagus had been his response to his mother’s request for what to prepare for his farewell dinner. The minute he opened the door, the heartwarming scent of the roasting beef told him that as usual she had made exactly what he wanted.
Martha Sloane came hurrying out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Seventy-four years old, her once-slender figure now a solid size fourteen, her white hair with its n
atural wave framing her even features, she threw her arms around her son and hugged him.
“You’ve grown another inch,” she accused him.
“God forbid,” Mark said fervently. “It’s hard enough for me to get in and out of cabs as it is.” He was six feet six. He glanced over her head to the dining room table and saw that it was set with the sterling silver and good china. “Hey, this really is a send-off.”
“Well, that stuff never does get used enough,” his mother said. “Make yourself a drink. On second thought, make one for me, too.”
His mother seldom had a cocktail. With a stab of pain, Mark realized that she was determined not to let the upcoming anniversary of Tracey’s disappearance cloud the last dinner they would have for at least a few months. Martha Sloane had been a court stenographer and understood the long hours he would probably face in his challenging new corporate job.
It was only over coffee that she talked about Tracey. “We both know what date is coming up,” she said quietly. “Mark, I watch that Cold Case File program on television all the time,” she said quietly. “When you’re in New York, do you think you could get the police to reopen the investigation into Tracey’s disappearance? They have so many more ways to trace what happened to missing people these days, even people who disappeared years ago. But it’s much more likely they’ll do that if someone like you starts asking questions.”
She hesitated, then went on. “Mark, I know I have had to give up hoping that Tracey lost her memory or was in trouble and had to hide. I believe in my heart that she is dead. But if I could just bring her body back and bury her next to Dad, it would give me so much peace. Let’s face it. I probably have another eight or ten years if I’m lucky. I’d like to know that when my time comes, Tracey will be there with Dad.” She blinked to try to keep her eyes from tearing. “You know how it is. I always was a sucker for ‘Danny Boy.’ I want to be able to kneel and say a prayer over Tracey’s grave.”