Over a quiet dinner at the Water Club, he pondered the pleasure of substituting a cubic zirconia for the solitaire in Armstrong’s ring. Some of them were so good even a jeweler’s naked eye could be fooled. But of course he’d have the new ring appraised for her with the solitaire still in place. Amazing how single women fell for that. “How thoughtful of you to take care of the appraisal for me. I’ll take it right to my insurance company.”
He lingered at the bar of the Water Club after dinner. Good to relax. The business of being attentive and charming with these old girls was exhausting even though the results were lucrative.
It was nine-thirty when he walked the few blocks from the restaurant back to his apartment. At ten he was wearing pajamas and a robe newly purchased at Armani’s. He settled on the couch with a bourbon on the rocks and turned on the news.
The glass shook in Stratton’s trembling hands and liquor spilled unheeded on his robe as he stared at the screen and learned of the discovery of the body of Erin Kelley.
Michael Nash wondered ruefully if he should offer free analysis to Anne Thayer, the blonde who so unfortunately had bought the apartment next to his. When he left the office at ten of six on Friday afternoon, she was at the desk in the lobby, speaking to the concierge. As soon as she saw him, she dashed to stand beside him and wait for the elevator. On the way up, she chatted nonstop, as though she was on a countdown to ensnare him before they reached the twentieth floor.
“I went over to Zabar’s today and got the most marvelous salmon. Fixed a platter of hors d’oeuvres. My girlfriend was supposed to come over but can’t make it. Can’t bear to see them go to waste. I was wondering . . . ”
Nash cut her off. “Zabar’s salmon is great. Put it away. It’ll keep for a few days.” He was aware of the commiserating glance of the elevator operator. “Ramon, I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’m on my way out.”
He said a firm good night to the crestfallen Miss Thayer and disappeared into his own apartment. He was going out, but not for an hour or so. And if he bumped into her then, maybe she’d start to get the message to leave him alone. “Dependent personality, probably neurotic, could get vicious when crossed,” he said aloud, then laughed. Hey, I’m off work. Forget it.
He was spending the weekend in Bridgewater. There was a dinner party at the Balderstons’ tomorrow night. They always had interesting guests. More important, he intended to use the better part of the next two days working on his book. Nash acknowledged to himself that he’d become so interested in the project that he was becoming impatient with distractions.
Just before he left, he tried Erin Kelley’s number. He half-smiled as he heard the message in her lilting voice: “This is Erin. Sorry to miss your call. Please leave a message.”
“This is Michael Nash. I’m sorry to miss you, too, Erin. Tried you the other day. Guess you’re away. Hope there isn’t a problem with your father.” He left his office and home number again.
The drive to Bridgewater on Friday night was as usual a traffic-clogged nuisance. It was only when he passed Paterson on Route 80 that it began to let up. Then with each mile the terrain became more country like. Nash felt himself begin to relax. By the time he had driven through the gate of Scotshays, he had a total sense of well-being.
His father had bought the estate when Michael was eleven. Four hundred acres of gardens, woods, and fields. Swimming pool, tennis courts, stable. The house copied from a manor in Brittany. Stone walls, red-tiled roof, green shutters, white portico. Twenty-two rooms in all. Half of them Michael hadn’t bothered with in years. Irma and John Hughes, the housekeeping couple, ran the place for him.
Irma had dinner waiting. She served it in the study. Michael settled in his favorite old leather armchair to study the notes he would use tomorrow when he wrote the next chapter of his book. That chapter would concentrate on the psychological problems of people who, when they answered personal ads, sent in pictures of themselves that had been taken twenty-five years ago. He would concentrate on what factors made them try that ploy and how they explained themselves when the date showed up.
That sort of thing had happened to a number of the girls he had interviewed. A couple of them had been indignant. Some had been downright funny describing the encounter.
At quarter of ten, Michael turned the television on in anticipation of the news, then went back to his notes. The name Erin Kelley made him look up, startled. He grabbed the remote control and pressed the volume frantically, causing the announcer’s voice to shout through the room.
When the segment was finished, Michael flipped off the set and stared at the dark screen.
“Erin,” he said aloud, “who could do that to you?”
Doug Fox stopped for a drink at Harry’s Bar on Friday evening before heading home to Scarsdale. It was a watering hole for the Wall Street crowd. As usual the bar was four deep and the news on the television set was ignored. Doug did not see the bulletin about the body that had been found on the pier.
If she was sure he was coming home, Susan usually fed the kids first, then waited to eat with him, but tonight, when he arrived at eight, Susan was in the den reading. She barely raised her eyes when he came into the room and turned away from the kiss he tried to press on her forehead.
Donny and Beth had gone to the movies with the Goodwyns, she explained. Trish and the baby were asleep. She did not offer to prepare anything for him. Her eyes went back to her book.
For a moment Doug stood uncertainly over her, then turned and went into the kitchen. She had to pull this attitude act the one night I’m hungry, he thought bitterly. She’s just sore because I didn’t get home for a couple of nights and was so late last night. He opened the door of the refrigerator. The one thing Susan could do was cook. With mounting anger he decided that when he was able to make it home, the least she could do was to have something ready for him.
He yanked out packets of ham and cheese and went to the bread box. The weekly community newspaper was on the kitchen table. Doug made a sandwich, poured a beer, and began to skim the paper as he ate. The sports page caught his eye. Scarsdale had unexpectedly defeated Dobbs Ferry in the midschool tournament. The sudden-death winning basket had been sunk by second-stringer Donald Fox.
Donny! Why didn’t anyone tell him?
Doug felt his palms begin to sweat. Had Susan tried to phone him Tuesday night? Donny had been disappointed and sullen when Doug told him he couldn’t make the game. It would be just like Susan to suggest they call with the news.
Tuesday night. Wednesday night.
The new telephone operator at the hotel. She wasn’t like the young kids who willingly accepted the hundred bucks he slipped them from time to time. “Remember, any calls come in for me when I’m not here, I’m in a meeting. If it’s real late, I left a do-not-disturb.”
The new operator looked like she posed for a moral majority ad. He’d been still trying to figure out how to snow her into lying for him. He hadn’t worried too much, however. He’d trained Susan not to phone him when he stayed in “for meetings.”
But she had tried him Tuesday night. He was sure of it. Otherwise, she’d have had Donny phone him at the office Wednesday afternoon. And that dumb operator had probably told her there was no meeting and no one was staying in the company suite.
Doug looked around the kitchen. It was surprisingly neat. They’d had the whole house renovated when they bought it eight years ago. The kitchen was a chef’s dream. Center island with sink and chopping board. Plenty of counter space. Latest appliances. Skylight.
Susan’s old man had lent them the money for the renovation. He’d also lent them most of the down payment. Lent. Not given.
If Susan got really sore . . .
Doug tossed the rest of the sandwich in the compactor and brought his beer into the den.
* * *
Susan watched him enter the room. My handsome husband, she thought. She’d deliberately left the newspaper on the table, knowing Doug would probably read
it. Now he’s sweating bullets. He figured I probably called the hotel to let Donny give him the news. Funny, when you finally faced reality, it was amazing how clearly you could see things.
Doug sat on the couch opposite her. He’s afraid to give me an opening, she decided. Tucking her book under her arm, she got up. “The kids will be back about half past ten,” she told him. “I’m going to read in bed.”
“I’ll wait for them, honey.”
Honey! He must be worried.
Susan settled in bed with the book. Then, knowing she was not able to focus on the print, she laid it down and turned on the television.
Doug came into the bedroom just as the ten o’clock news began. “It’s too lonesome out there.” He sat on the bed and reached for her hand. “How’s my girl?”
“Good question,” Susan said. “How is she?”
He attempted to pass it off as a joke. Tilting her chin, he said, “She looks pretty good to me.”
They both turned to watch the screen as the anchorman gave the headline news. “Erin Kelley, a prize-winning young jewelry designer, was found strangled on the West Fifty-sixth Street pier. More after this.”
A commercial.
Susan glanced at Doug. He was staring at the screen, his pallor a ghastly white. “Doug, what is it?”
He did not seem to have heard her.
“. . . Police are searching for Petey Potters, a drifter who was known to have been living in this shack and may have observed the body when it was abandoned on this cold, debris-strewn pier.”
When the segment was completed, Doug turned to Susan. As though he had just heard her question, he snapped, “Nothing’s the matter. Nothing.” Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead.
* * *
At three in the morning, Susan was awakened from her own uneasy sleep by Doug thrashing beside her. He was mumbling something. A name? “. . . no, can’t. . . ” The name again. Susan propped herself up on one arm and listened intently.
Erin. That was it. The name of the young woman who’d been found murdered.
She was about to shake Doug awake when he suddenly quieted. With growing horror, Susan realized why the newscast had so upset him. Undoubtedly, he’d linked it to that terrible time in college when he was one of the students questioned about the girl who had been strangled.
VI
SATURDAY
February 23
On Saturday morning, Charley read the New York Post with intense fascination. COPYCAT MURDER was the banner-sized headline.
The similarity of Erin Kelley’s death to the True Crimes program about Nan Sheridan was the focus of the story on the inside pages.
Someone had tipped an investigative reporter from the Post about the letter to Nan Sheridan’s mother warning that a young woman from New York would be murdered on Tuesday night. The reporter, quoting an unidentified source, wrote that the FBI was on the trail of a possible serial killer. In the past two years, seven young women from Manhattan had disappeared after answering personal ads. Erin Kelley had been answering personal ads.
The circumstances of Nan Sheridan’s death were rehashed in full.
Erin Kelley’s background; interviews with colleagues in the jewelry business. Their responses identical. Erin was a warm, lovely person, immensely talented. The picture the Post used was the one Erin had sent Charley. That delighted him.
The network was going to repeat the True Crimes episode about Nan’s death Wednesday night. That would be so interesting to watch. Of course he’d taped it last month, but even so, to see it again, knowing that hundreds of thousands of people would be playing amateur detective. Who did it? Who was smart enough to get away with it?
Charley frowned. Copycat.
Copycat meant they thought someone else was imitating him. Anger rushed through him, stark, raging anger. They had no right not to credit him. Just as Nan had had no right not to invite him to her party fifteen years ago.
He’d go back to the secret place in the next few days. He needed to be there. He’d turn on the video and dance in step with Astaire. It wouldn’t be Ginger, or Leslie, or Ann Miller in his arms.
His heart began beating faster. This time it wouldn’t even be Nan. It would be Darcy.
He picked up Darcy’s picture. The soft brown hair, the slender body, the wide, inquiring eyes. How much lovelier would that body be when he held it, rigid and cold in his arms?
Copycat.
Again he frowned. The anger was pounding at his temples, causing one of the terrible headaches to begin. It is I, Charley, alone who has the power of life and death over these women. I, Charley, broke through the prison of the other soul and now dominate him at will.
He would take Darcy and crush the life from her as he had crushed it from the others. And he would confound the authorities with his genius, confuse and bewilder their tiresome minds.
Copycat.
The people who wrote that should see the shoe boxes in the basement. Then they’d know. Those boxes that contained one shoe and one dancing slipper from the foot of each of the dead girls beginning with Nan.
Of course.
There was a way to prove he wasn’t a copycat. His body shook with silent, mirthless laughter.
Oh yes, indeed. There was a way.
VII
SATURDAY
February 23
THROUGH
TUESDAY
February 26
The next week for Darcy passed as though she was a robot who had been wound up and programmed to perform specific tasks.
Accompanied by Vince D’Ambrosio and a detective from the local precinct, she went to Erin’s apartment on Saturday. There were three more calls that had been received after she’d been in the apartment on Friday morning. Darcy rewound the answering machine. One was from the manager at Bertolini’s. “Miss Kelley, we gave your check to your manager, Mr. Stratton. We cannot tell you how pleased we are with the necklace.”
Darcy raised her eyebrows. “I never heard Erin refer to Stratton as her manager.”
The second call was from someone who identified himself as Box 2695. “Erin, it’s Milton. We went out last month. I’ve been away. I’d like to see you again. My phone number is 555-3681. And listen, I’m sorry if I came on a little too strong last time.”
The third call was from Michael Nash. “He left a message the other night,” Darcy said.
Vince copied the names and numbers. “We’ll leave the tape on for the next few days.”
Vince had told Darcy that forensics experts from the NYPD would arrive shortly to go over Erin’s apartment for possible evidence. She had asked Vince if she could come with him and get Erin’s private papers. “My name is on her bank account and insurance policies as trustee for her father. She told me the papers were in her file under his name.”
Erin’s instructions were simple and explicit. If anything happened to Erin, as agreed, Darcy would use her insurance to pay nursing home expenses. She had contracted with a funeral director in Wellesley that when the time came he would handle her father’s arrangements. Everything in her apartment, all her personal jewelry and clothing, were left to Darcy Scott.
There was a brief note for Darcy: “Darce, this is surely a just-in-case. But I know you’ll keep your promise to look after Dad if I’m not around. And if that ever should happen, thanks for all the great times we had together, and have fun for both of us.”
Dry-eyed, Darcy looked at the familiar signature.
“I hope you’ll follow her advice,” Vince said quietly.
“I will someday,” Darcy told him. “But not yet. Would you make a copy for me of that personal ads file I gave you?”
“Sure,” Vince said, “but why? We’re going to look up the people who placed the ads she circled.”
“But you’re not going to date them. She answered some ads for both of us. Maybe I’ll get calls from people who took her out.”
Darcy left as the forensics crew arrived. She went directly home a
nd began to make phone calls. The funeral director in Wellesley. Sympathy, then practicality. He would send a hearse to the morgue when Erin’s body was released. What about clothing? Open casket?
Darcy thought about the bruises on Erin’s throat. Undoubtedly, there’d be media at the funeral parlor. “Closed casket. I’ll bring up clothing for her.” Visitation on Monday. Funeral mass on Tuesday at St. Paul’s.
St. Paul’s. When she’d stayed with Erin and Billy, she had gone to St. Paul’s with them.
She went back to Erin’s apartment. Vince D’Ambrosio was still there. He accompanied her into the bedroom and watched as she opened the closet door.
“Erin had so much style,” Darcy said unsteadily as she searched for the dress she had in mind. “She used to tell me that she felt so out of it when I walked in the room with my folks that first day at college. I was wearing a designer suit and Italian boots my mother had forced on me. I thought she looked smashing in chinos and a sweater and marvelous jewelry. Even then she was designing her own pieces.”
Vince was a good listener. Abstractly, Darcy was aware that she was glad he was letting her talk. “No one’s going to see her,” she said, “except maybe I will, just for a minute. But I want to feel that she’d be pleased with what I chose for her. . . . Erin urged me to be more daring about clothes. I taught her to trust her own instincts. She had impeccable taste.”
She pulled out a two-piece cocktail dress: pale pink fitted jacket, delicate silver buttons, flowing pink and silver chiffon skirt. “Erin just bought this to wear to a benefit, a dinner dance. She was a wonderful ballroom dancer. That was something else we shared. Nona too. We met Nona in a ballroom dancing class at our health club.”
Vince remembered Nona had told him that. “From what you tell me, this dress sounds like something Erin would want to wear now.”
He didn’t like the fact that Darcy’s pupils were so enlarged. He wished he could call Nona Roberts. She had told him she absolutely had to be on a shoot in Nanuet today. Darcy Scott ought not to be alone too much.