Loves Music, Loves To Dance

XXII WEDNESDAY March 13

D-day, Nona thought as she slipped off her cape and tossed it on the love seat. It was not quite eight A.M. She was grateful to see that Connie was already there and the coffee brewing.

Connie followed her in. “It’s going to be a great program, Nona.” She was carrying freshly washed mugs.

“I think Cecil B. DeMille did one of his epics faster than I handled this one,” Nona said wryly.

“You’ve been doing all your regular shows while putting this together,” Connie pointed out.

“I suppose. Let’s be sure to reconfirm all the guests by phone. You did send them a follow-up letter?”

“Of course.” Connie looked astonished that she’d ask. Nona grinned. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Hamilton has been such a pain about this program, and Liz is determined to take the credit for what’s good in it and leave me holding the bag if there are any snafus…” “I know.”

“Sometimes I wonder who runs this office, Connie, you or me. There’s only one area where I wish we weren’t alike.”

Connie waited.

“I wish you talked to plants. You’re like me. You never even see them.” She pointed to the plant on the windowsill. “That poor thing is gasping. Pour something liquid on it, will you?”

Len Parker was tired Wednesday morning. Yesterday he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Darcy Scott. When he left work he’d hung around her apartment building and seen her step out of a cab around six-thirty or seven. He’d waited until ten, but she hadn’t come out. He really wanted to talk to her. Other times he was mad at her for being so mean to him. There was something he had thought about the other day that had been important, but now it was gone. He wondered if he’d remember again.

He put on his maintenance uniform. Nice thing about wearing a uniform, it didn’t cost you anything for work clothes.

Vince’s secretary had taken a message from Darcy Scott before he got to the office on Wednesday morning. She’d be out all day on different jobs but wanted him to know that Erin had probably answered an ad that began “Loves Music, Loves to Dance.” That certainly sounded like the kind of ad those missing girls would have answered too, Vince thought.

Following up on the personal ads was a grueling job. Anyone who didn’t want his real identity known could fake a few ID’s, open a checking account, and rent a private box where magazines and newspapers could forward the responses to the nameless ads. No home address to trace. The people who ran those private box services were in the business of offering secrecy to their clients. It was going to be a long haul. But this ad had a ring to it. He got on the phone to the researchers. They were closing in on Doug Fox, also known as Doug Fields. The Harkness Agency’s file on him was an FBI investigator’s dream. Fields had been subletting the apartment for two years, starting just about the time Claire Barnes disappeared.

Joe Pabst, the Harkness man, had sat near Fox in the SoHo restaurant. It was clear he had met the woman through a personal ad. He’d made a date to take her dancing.

He had a station wagon.

Pabst was sure that Fox had some sort of hideout. He’d overheard him telling the real estate broker in SoHo that he had a retreat he’d love to have her visit. He was passing himself off as an illustrator. The super of the London Terrace building had been in and out of Fields’s apartment and said that there were sketches lying around that were really good.

And he had been questioned in Nan Sheridan’s death. But it was all circumstantial, Vince reminded himself. Did Fox place ads, or answer them, or both? Would it be better to tap his London Terrace phone for a while, see what that turned up?

Should they bring him in for questioning? It was a tough one to call. Well, at least Darcy Scott was already alerted to the possibility that Fox was the one. She wouldn’t let herself get painted into a corner by him. And wouldn’t it be a bonus if it turned out that Fox had placed the ad they knew Erin Kelley had been carrying around? “Loves Music, Loves to Dance.”

At noon, Vince got a VICAP alert from headquarters in Quantico. Calls had come in from police departments all over the country. Vermont. Washington, D.C. Ohio. Georgia. California. Five more packages of mismatched shoes had been returned. All of them contained a shoe or boot and a high-heeled slipper. All of them were sent to families of the young women who had turned up in the VICAP file, the young women who had lived in New York and been reported missing in the last two years.

At three-thirty, Vince was ready to leave his office for Hudson Cable Network.

His secretary stopped him as he passed her desk and handed him the phone. “Mr.

Charles North. He says it’s important.”

Vince felt his eyebrows go up. Don’t tell me that stuffy ambulance chaser is starting to cooperate, he thought. “D’Ambrosio,” he said crisply. “Mr. D’Ambrosio, I have been doing a great deal of thinking.”

Vince waited.

“There is only one possible explanation I can come up with to account for how my plans may have fallen on the wrong ears.”

Vince felt a stir of interest.

“When I came to New York in early February to make final living arrangements, I attended a benefit at the Plaza as the guest of my senior partner. The 21^st Century Playwrights’ Festival Benefit. It was quite a glittery crowd. Helen Hayes, Tony Randall, Martin Charnin, Lee Grant, Lucille Lortel. I was introduced to a great many people during the cocktail hour. The senior partner at my firm was anxious that I become known. I spoke to a group of four or five people right before dinner was announced. One of them asked me for my card, but I can’t think of his name.”

“What did he look like?”

“You’re speaking to someone with a very poor]memory for both faces and names, which I am sure must be puzzling to someone in your profession. I’m vague about him. About six feet. Late thirties or early forties. Late thirties, I would think. Well-spoken.”

“Do you think that if we got a roster of the people who attended that benefit it might stir your memory?”

“I don’t know. It might.”

“Okay, Mr. North. I’m grateful for this. We’ll get the list and perhaps you can ask your senior partner if he recognizes the names of any of the people you spent time with.”

North sounded alarmed. “And how would I explain the need for that information?” The faint stirring of gratitude that Vince had felt for the man’s attempt to be helpful disappeared. “Mr. North,” he snapped, “you’re a lawyer. You should be used to getting information without giving it.” He hung up and yelled for Ernie. “I need the guest list for the 21^st Century Playwrights’ Benefit at the Plaza in early February,” he said. “Shouldn’t be hard to get. You know where I’ll be.”

It was March thirteenth, Nan ’s anniversary. Yesterday had been their thirty-fourth birthday.

Long ago Chris had started to celebrate his on the twenty-fourth, Greta’s birthday. It was easier for both of them. His mother had phoned yesterday before he left for work. “Chris, I thank my stars every day that I have you. Happy birthday, dear.”

This morning he’d phoned her. “The tough day, Mother.”

“I guess it always will be. Are you sure you want to be on that program?” “Want to? No. But I think if it does anything to help solve this case, it’s worth it. Maybe someone watching it will remember something about Nan.” “I hope so.” Greta sighed. Her tone changed. “How’s Darcy? Chris, she is so dear.”

“I think this whole business is wearing her down.”

“Will she be on the program as well?”

“No. And she doesn’t want to watch it being taped.”

It was a quiet day at the gallery. Chris had a chance to catch up on paperwork. He’d left instructions that if Darcy came in he was to be notified. But there was no sign of her. Maybe she wasn’t well. At two he phoned her office. Her secretary said she was working on some outside job all day and then planned to go directly home.

At three-thirty, Chris was hailing a cab to go to Hudson Cable.

Let’s get this over with, he thought grimly.

The guests for the program gathered in the green-room. Nona introduced them. The Corras, a couple in their mid-forties. They’d separated. Each had placed a personal ad. They’d answered each other’s ad. That had been the catalyst that brought them back together.

The Daleys, a serious-looking couple in their fifties. Neither had ever married. They’d both been embarrassed about placing and answering ads. They’d met three years ago. “It was good from the very beginning,” Mrs. Daley said. “I’ve always been much too reticent. I was able to put on paper what I couldn’t say to anyone.” She was a research scientist. He was a college professor. Adrian Greenfield, the vivacious divorcée in her late forties. “I’m having more fun,” she told the others. “Actually, they made a printing error. They were supposed to say that I was well-liked. Instead, they put down that I was wealthy. I swear, you need a U-Haul for the mail I’ve gotten.” Wayne Harsh, the shy president of a toy manufacturing company. In his late twenties. Every mother’s dream of the kind of guy her daughter will bring home, Vince decided. Harsh was enjoying his dates. In his ad he’d written that it frustrated him to see the toys he manufactured being enjoyed by kids all over the world while he is childless. Anxious to meet sweet, bright woman in her twenties who wants a nice guy who’ll be home on time and won’t drop his laundry on the floor.

The lovebirds, the Cairones. They fell in love on their first personal ad date. At the end of the evening he had gone over to the piano at the bar where they met and played “Get Me to the Church on Time.” They were married a month later. “Until they came along, I was worried that we didn’t have any young couples,” Nona had confided to Vince when he arrived. “Those two make you believe in romance.”

Vince saw the psychiatrist, Dr. Martin Weiss, come in and got up to greet him. Weiss was a man in his late sixties with a strong face, a good head of silver hair, penetrating blue eyes. They went over to the coffeepot. “Thank you for doing this on short notice, Doctor,” Vince said.

“Hello, Vince.”

Vince turned as Chris came up to them. He remembered that this was the anniversary of Nan Sheridan’s death. “Not the best day for you,” he said.

At quarter of five, Darcy leaned back in the cab, her eyes closed. At least today she’d made up for lost time. The painters would start next Monday at the hotel. This morning she’d brought down a brochure from the Pelham Hotel in London. “This is an absolutely elegant and intimate hotel. It’s like your place in the sense that the rooms aren’t large, the reception area is small, the parlor off it is perfect for receiving visitors. Notice the little bar in the corner. You can have the same thing. And study the rooms. We’re not going to be nearly that grand, of course, but we can give it the effect.” It was obvious they were delighted.

Now, Darcy thought, I’ve got to get in touch with the window designer at Wilston’s. She’d been shocked to realize that when a window display was taken down, the fabrics were often sold for peanuts. Yards and yards of top-quality goods.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge a nagging headache. I don’t know whether I’m getting a bug or if I just ache, but it’s another early night for me. The cab was pulling up to her building.

In the apartment her answering machine was blinking. Bev had left a message.

“Darcy, you got the craziest call about twenty minutes ago. Call me right away.”

Quickly, Darcy dialed her office. “Bev, what’s the message?” “It was some woman. Spoke real low. I could hardly hear her. She wanted to know where she could get in touch with you. I didn’t want to give your home number so I said I’d give you a message. She said she was in the bar the night Erin disappeared, afraid to admit it because her date wasn’t her husband. She saw Erin meet someone who was coming in just as Erin was leaving. They walked away together. She got a good look at him.”

“How can I get back to her?”

“You can’t. She wouldn’t leave her name. She wants you to meet her at that bar. It’s Eddie’s Aurora on West Fourth Street off Washington Square. She said to come alone and sit at the bar. She’ll be there by six unless she can’t get away. Don’t wait any longer than that. She’ll call tomorrow if you don’t get together tonight.”

“Thanks, Bev.”

“Listen, Darcy, I’m going to stay late. I have an exam to study for and there’s no peace and quiet in my apartment with my roommate’s friends always hanging around. Call me back, won’t you? I’d just like to know that you’re okay.” “I’ll be fine. But yes, I’ll call you back.”

Darcy forgot that she was tired. It was five of five. She had just time to freshen her face, brush her hair, and change from her dusty jeans to a skirt and sweater. Oh, Erin, she thought. Maybe it’s ending.

Nona watched the credits roll as the guests chatted quietly, still on-camera but off-mike. “Amen,” she said as the screen went dark. She jumped up and ran down the steps to the set. “You were wonderful,” she said. “Every one of you. I can’t thank you enough.”

A relaxed smile from some of the participants Chris, Vince, and Dr. Weiss got up together.

“I’m glad it’s over,” Chris said.

“Understandable,” Martin Weiss said. “From what I’ve heard today, both you and your mother have shown remarkable strength through all this.” “You do what you have to do, Doctor.”

Nona came up to them. “The others are leaving, but I wish you people would come back to my office for a cocktail. You’ve certainly earned it.” “Oh, I don’t think…” Weiss shook his head, then hesitated. “I must check in with my office. If I can do it from there?”

“Of course.”

Chris debated. He realized how low he was feeling. Darcy’s secretary had said she was going straight home. He wondered if he could talk her into a quick dinner. “Can I get on line for the phone too?”

“Dial away.”

The beeper went off on Vince’s belt. “I hope you have a lot of phones around here, Nona.”

Vince dialed from the secretary’s desk and received a message to call Ernie at the 21^st Century Play-wrights’ Festival office. When he reached him, Ernie was brimming with news.

“I’ve got the guest list. Guess who was there that night?”

“Who?”

“Erin Kelley and Jay Stratton.”

“Holy smoke.” He thought of the description North had given him of the man who had taken his card. Tall. Late thirties or early forties. Well-spoken. But Erin Kelley! That afternoon in Kelley’s apartment Darcy had selected a pink and silver dress for Erin to be buried in. Darcy had told him Erin bought it to wear to a benefit. Then when he’d picked up the package of shoes that had been mailed to Darcy’s apartment, she’d said that the evening slipper in the package went better with Erin’s pink and silver dress than the ones Erin had bought herself. He suddenly knew why the shoes went so well with it. Her killer had been at the benefit and seen her wearing that dress. “Meet me in Nona Roberts’s office,” he told Ernie. “We might as well go downtown together.”

In the office Dr. Weiss seemed more relaxed. “No problems. I was concerned that one patient might need to see me tonight. Ms. Roberts, I’m going to take advantage of your kindness. My youngest son is a communications major and will be graduating from college in June. How does he get a foothold in this business?”

Chris Sheridan had moved the phone from Nona’s desk to the windowsill. Absently, he fingered the dusty plant. Darcy wasn’t home. When he’d called her office, her secretary had been evasive. Something about expecting to hear from her later. “A very important meeting had come up.”

His intuition was pounding at him. Something was wrong.

He knew it.

Darcy wasn’t supposed to wait any longer than six o’clock. She stayed until six-thirty, then decided to give up for tonight. Obviously the woman who called hadn’t been able to meet her. She paid for the Perrier and left. She stepped out onto the street. The wind had stirred up again and seemed to cut through her body. I hope I can get a cab, she said to herself. “Darcy. I’m so glad I caught you. Your secretary said you’d be here. Hop in.”

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver. What luck.”

Len Parker huddled in a doorway across the street and watched the vanishing taillights. It was just like last time when Erin Kelley came out and someone called her from that station wagon.

Suppose this was the same person who had killed Erin Kelley? Should he call that FBI agent? His name was D’Ambrosio. Len had his card. Would they think he was crazy?

Erin Kelley had walked out on him and Darcy Scott had refused to have dinner with him.

But he’d been mean to them.

Maybe he should call.

He’d spent a lot of money on cabs following Darcy Scott these last couple of days.

And the phone call would only cost a quarter.

Chris turned from the window. He had to ask. Vince D’Ambrosio had just come back into the room. “Do you know if Darcy is answering another one of those damn ads tonight?” he demanded.

Vince saw the concern on Sheridan ’s face and ignored the belligerent tone. He knew it was not directed at him. “I understood from Nona that Darcy was planning an early night.”

“She was.” The smile vanished from Nona’s face. “When I called her office, her secretary said she was going straight home from that hotel she’s redoing.” “Well, something changed her mind,” Chris retorted. “Her secretary sounds very mysterious.”

“What’s her office number?” Vince grabbed the phone. When Bev answered, he identified himself. “I’m concerned about Miss Scott’s plans. If you know what they are, I want to hear them.”

“I’d really rather let her get back to you-“ Bev began, but was interrupted. “Listen, miss, I have no intention of interfering with her private life, but if this has to do with a personal ad, I want to know. We’re getting very close to solving this case but no one is in custody.”

“Well, promise not to interfere-“

“Where is Darcy Scott?”

Bev told him. Vince gave her Nona’s number. “Ask Miss Scott to call me immediately when you hear from her.” He hung up. “She’s meeting a woman who claims she saw Erin Kelley leave Eddie’s Aurora in the Village the night she disappeared, and can describe the man she met outside. This woman hasn’t come forward because she was with a guy who wasn’t her husband.” “Do you believe it?” Nona asked.

“I don’t like the sound of it. But if Darcy meets her in that bar, it should be okay. What time is it?”

“Six-thirty,” Dr. Weiss said.

“Then Darcy should be phoning her office any minute. She was only supposed to wait until six for that caller to show up.”

“Didn’t the same thing happen to Erin Kelley?” Chris demanded. “As I understand it, she went to Eddie’s Aurora, was stood up, left, and disappeared.” Vince felt the skin on the back of his neck start to crawl. “I’ll phone there.” When he reached the bar, he fired rapid questions, listened, then slammed down the receiver. “The bartender says a young woman answering Darcy’s description walked out a few minutes ago. Nobody showed up to meet her.” Chris swore under his breath. The moment when he’d found Nan ’s body fifteen years ago today filled his mind with sickening clarity. An escort from reception tapped on the half-open door. “Mr. Cizek from the FBI says you’re expecting him,” she told Nona.

Nona nodded. “Show him in.”

Cizek was pulling the thick guest list for the Play-wrights’ gala from a bulging manila envelope as he came through the door. It was stuck. When he tried to yank it out, the clip fell off and the pages scattered. Nona and Dr. Weiss helped to retrieve them.

Chris was clenching and unclenching his fists, Vince noticed. “We have two strong suspects,” he told Chris, “and we have a tail on both of them.” Dr. Weiss was examining one of the pages he picked up. As though he was thinking aloud he commented, “I’d have thought he was too busy with his personal ads to go to parties.”

Vince looked up quickly. “Who are you talking about?” Weiss seemed embarrassed. “Dr. Michael Nash. Forgive me. That was an unprofessional comment.”

“Nothing is unprofessional at this point,” Vince said sharply. “It could be very important that Dr. Nash was at the benefit. You sound as if you don’t like him. Why?”

All eyes were on Martin Weiss. He seemed to be debating with himself, then said slowly, “This must go no farther than this room. One of Nash’s former patients, who now consults with me, noticed him in a restaurant with a young woman she knew. The next time she saw that young woman she teased her about it.” Vince felt his nerves tingling the way they always did when he sensed a break in the case. “Go on, Doctor.”

Weiss looked uncomfortable. “My patient’s young friend said that she had met the man when she answered his personal ad and wasn’t surprised to learn that he had lied about his name and background. She felt distinctly uneasy with him.” Vince sensed that Dr. Weiss was deliberately choosing his words. “Doctor,” he said, “you know what we’re up against. You’ve got to level with me. What is your candid opinion of Dr. Michael Nash?”

“I consider it unethical for him to do research for a professional book under false pretenses,” Weiss said cautiously.

“You’re hedging,” Vince told him. “If you were on the witness stand, how would you describe him?”

Weiss looked away. “Loner,” he said flatly. “Repressed. Pleasant on the surface but basically antisocial. Probably has deep-rooted problems that began to manifest themselves in childhood. However, he’s a natural dissembler and could fool most professionals.”

Chris felt blood pounding in his temples. “Has Darcy been seeing this guy?”

“Yes,” Nona whispered.

“Doctor,” Vince continued rapidly, “I want to get in touch with that young woman immediately and find out what ad he placed.”

“My patient brought it in to show me,” Weiss said. “I have it in my office.”

“Would you remember if it began ‘Loves Music, Loves to Dance’?” Vince asked. As Weiss said, “Why yes, that’s right,” Vince’s beeper went off. He grabbed the phone, dialed, and barked his name. Nona, Chris, Dr. Weiss, and Ernie waited in absolute silence as they saw the lines on Vince D’Ambrosio’s forehead deepen. Still holding the receiver he told them, “That Len Parker looney just phoned in. He was following Darcy. She came out of that bar and got into the same station wagon Erin Kelley drove off in the night she disappeared.” He paused, then said tersely, “It’s a black Mercedes registered to Dr. Michael Nash of Bridgewater, New Jersey.”

You have a different car.”

“I mostly use this one in the country.”

“You got back early from the convention.”

“The speaker I was to replace felt well enough to come after all.”

“I see. Michael, you’re sweet, but I think I’d just as soon go home tonight.”

“What’d you have for dinner last night?” Darcy smiled. “A can of soup.” “You lean your head back and rest. Sleep if you can. Mrs. Hughes is going to have a fire blazing, a terrific dinner, and then you can sleep all the way home.” He reached over and gently stroked her hair. “Doctor’s orders, Darcy. You know I like taking care of you.”

“It’s nice to be taken care of. Oh!” She reached for the car phone. “Is it all right if I call my secretary? I promised to check in with her.” He placed his hand over hers and squeezed it. “I’m afraid it will have to wait until we get to the house. The phone is broken. Now you just relax.” Darcy knew Bev would be there at least a few more hours. She closed her eyes and began to drift off. She was asleep by the time they went through the Lincoln Tunnel.

We’ll have Nash’s apartment checked,” Vince said. “But he’d never take her there or to his office. The doorman would see them.”

“Darcy told me his place in Bridgewater is a four-hundred-acre estate. She’s been there a couple of times.” Nona was gripping the sides of the desk to steady herself.

“Then if he suggested going there with him tonight, she wouldn’t be suspicious.”

Vince felt growing anger at himself.

Ernie returned from the next office. “I’ve checked surveillance. Doug Fox is home in Scarsdale. Jay Stratton is at the Park Lane with some old broad.” “That lets them out.” It makes sense, Vince thought furiously. Nash left word on Erin ’s answering machine to call him at his apartment the night he drove off with her. I never thought to check that out. He leaves a phony message with Darcy’s secretary and probably acts as though the secretary told him where to find Darcy. We know Darcy trusts him. Sure, she gets into his car. And if that weirdo Parker hadn’t been trailing her, she’d have vanished into thin air too. “How are we going to find Darcy?” Chris asked desperately. Agonizing fear that made it hard to breathe was crushing his chest. He knew that sometime in this past week, he had fallen hard for Darcy Scott.

Vince was on the line snapping orders to headquarters. “Alert the Bridgewater police,” he was saying. “Have them meet us there.” “Be careful, Vince,” Ernie warned. “We have absolutely no proof of anything, and the only witness is certifiably nuts.”

Chris spun on him. “You be careful.” He felt Weiss grip his arm. “Get directions to Nash’s place,” Vince was saying. “And have a chopper at the Thirtieth Street pad in ten minutes.”

Five minutes later, they were in a patrol car, lights flashing, sirens screaming, racing down Ninth Avenue. Vince was in the front seat with the driver, Nona, Chris, and Ernie Cizek in the back. Chris had flatly declared that he was going with Vince. Nona had looked at Vince, her eyes begging. Vince did not share the chilling information received from the Bridgewater police. Nash’s estate had a number of outer buildings scattered over the four hundred acres, including some in wooded areas. A search could take a long time. And every minute we lose, the clock is running out for Darcy, he thought.

We’re here, sweetheart.”

Darcy stirred. “I did fall asleep, didn’t I?” She yawned. “Forgive me for being such boring company.”

“I was glad you were sleeping. Rest heals the spirit as well as the body.”

Darcy looked out. “Where are we?”

“Only ten miles from the house. I have a little retreat where I get my writing done and I forgot my manuscript the other day. You don’t mind if we stop for it? As a matter of fact, we can have a glass of sherry here.”

“As long as we don’t stay too long. I do want to get home early, Michael.”

“You will. I promise. Come on in. Sorry it’s so dark.” His hand was under her arm. “How did you ever find this place?” Darcy asked as he opened the door.

“Pure luck. I know it doesn’t look like much outside, but the interior is quite nice.”

He pushed the door open and reached for the light switch. Beneath it, Darcy noticed a button marked “Panic.”

She looked around the large room. “Oh, this is handsome,” she said, taking in the seating area by the fireplace, the open kitchen, the polished floors. Then she noticed the big-screen television and elaborate stereo speakers. “That’s magnificent equipment. Isn’t it wasted in a writing retreat?” “No, it isn’t.” He was removing her coat. Darcy shivered even though the room was comfortably warm. There was a bottle of wine in a silver holder on the coffee table by the sofa.

“Does Mrs. Hughes take care of this place?”

“No. She doesn’t know it exists.” He walked the length of the room and switched on the stereo.

The opening bars of “Till There Was You” sounded from the wall speakers. “Come here, Darcy.” He poured sherry into a glass and handed it to her. “On a cold night this tastes wonderful, doesn’t it?”

He was smiling at her affectionately. Then what was wrong? Why did she suddenly sense something different? His voice seemed slightly blurred, almost as though he’d been drinking. His eyes. That was it. There was something about his eyes. Her instinct was to run for the door, but that was ridiculous. She searched frantically for something to say. Her eyes rested on the staircase. “How many rooms do you have upstairs?” To her own ears the question sounded abrupt. He didn’t seem to notice. “Just a smallish bedroom and bath. This is one of those really old-fashioned cottages.”

The smile was still there, but his eyes were changing, the pupils widening. Where were his computer and printer and books and all the usual trappings of a writer? Darcy felt perspiration form on her forehead. What was the matter with her? Was she going crazy suspecting… what? It was just nerves. This was Michael. Holding his sherry, he settled in the large chair opposite the sofa and stretched out his legs. His eyes never left her face.

“Let me look around.” She walked aimlessly through the room, pausing as though to examine one of the few pieces of bric-a-brac, running her hand over the countertop that separated the kitchen area from the rest of the room. “What beautiful cabinets.”

“I had them made, but I installed them myself.”

“You did!”

His voice was genial but a hard edge came into it. “I told you my father was a self-made man. He wanted me to be able to turn my hand to anything.” “He did a good job teaching you.” There was no way she could stand here any longer. She turned, walked toward the sofa, and stepped on something solid that was almost covered by the fringe of the rug in the seating area. Ignoring it, Darcy sat down quickly. Her knees were shaking so much she felt as though they would buckle under her. What was the matter? Why was she so afraid? This was Michael, kind, considerate Michael. She did not want to think about Erin now, but Erin ’s face was looming in her mind. She took a quick sip of sherry to relieve the dryness in her mouth.

The music stopped. Michael looked annoyed, got up and went to the stereo. From the shelf above it, he took a pile of cassettes and began to examine them. “I didn’t realize that tape was so close to the end.”

It was as though he was talking to himself. Darcy gripped the stem of the glass. Now her hands were trembling. A few drops of sherry spilled on the floor. She grabbed the cocktail napkin and bent to pat it dry.

As she began to straighten up, she noticed that something was actually caught in the fringe of the rug, something that glinted in the light from the lamp beside the sofa. That’s what she must have stepped on. It was probably a button. She reached for it. The tips of her thumb and index finger slipped into hollow space and met. It wasn’t a button, it was a ring. Darcy picked it up and stared unbelieving.

A gold E on an onyx background in an oval setting. Erin ’s ring.

Erin had been in this house. Erin had answered Michael Nash’s personal ad. Sheer horror washed over Darcy. Michael had lied when he claimed he’d only met Erin once for a drink at the Pierre.

The stereo suddenly started to blare. “Sorry,” Michael said. His back was still to her.

“Change Partners and Dance.” He was humming the opening bars with the orchestra as he lowered the volume and turned to her.

Help me, Darcy prayed. Help me. He must not see the ring. He was staring at her. She clasped her hands together, managed to slip the ring on her finger as Michael came to her, his arms outstretched.

“We’ve never danced together, Darcy. I’m good, and I know you are.” Erin ’s body had been found with a dancing slipper on her foot. Had she danced with him here in this room? Had she died in this room? Darcy leaned back on the sofa. “I didn’t think you cared about dancing, Michael. When I talked about the classes Nona and Erin and I took together, I didn’t think you were very interested.”

He dropped his arms, reached for his glass of sherry. He perched on the chair this time, so much on the edge that it seemed as though his legs, planted on the floor, were preventing him from falling.

Almost as though any moment he might spring at her. “I love dancing,” he said. “I didn’t think it would be healthy for you to be thinking about the fun you had taking those classes with Erin.” Darcy tilted her head as though considering his answer. “You don’t stop riding in cars because someone you cared about was in an automobile accident, do you?” She did not wait for a response, but tried to change the subject. She examined the stem of the glass. “Lovely glassware,” she commented. “I bought a set of these in Vienna,” he said. “I swear they make the sherry taste even better.”

She smiled with him. Now he sounded like the Michael she knew. The strange look in his eye vanished for an instant. Keep him like that, her intuition warned. Talk to him. Make him talk to you.

“Michael.” She made her voice hesitant, confidential. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He looked interested.

“The other day, I think you were suggesting that I’ve been making my parents pay for that remark that hurt me so much when I was a kid. Can I possibly be that selfish?”

During the twenty-minute helicopter ride, no one spoke. His mind racing, Vince had gone over every detail of the investigation. Michael Nash. I sat in his office, thinking he sounded like one of the few shrinks who make sense. Was this a wild-goose chase? What was to say that someone with Nash’s money hadn’t some sort of retreat in Connecticut or upstate New York? Maybe he did, but with all his property, the odds were that he would bring his victims here. Over the whir of the propeller Vince could hear in his head the names of serial killers who buried their victims in the attics or basements of their own homes.

The chopper circled over the country road. “There!” Vince pointed to the right where twin high beams were gleaming upward, making paths through the darkness. “The Bridgewater police said they’d park right outside Nash’s place. Put it down.”

The mansion was outwardly tranquil. There were lights shining from several windows on the main floor. Vince insisted that Nona stay outside with the pilot. Ernie and Chris at his heels, he ran from the side lawn up the long driveway and rang the bell. “Leave the talking to me.”

A woman answered, using the intercom. “Who is it?” Vince clenched his teeth. If Nash was in there, they were giving him plenty of warning. “FBI agent Vincent D’Ambrosio, ma’am. I must speak to Dr. Nash.” A moment later the door opened slightly. The security chain was still in place. “May I see your identification, sir?” The courteous tone of a trained servant, this time a man.

Vince passed it through.

“Hurry them,” Chris urged.

The security chain was released, the door opened. Housekeeping couple, Vince thought. They had that look. He asked them to identify themselves. “We’re John and Irma Hughes. We work for Dr. Nash.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, he is,” Mrs. Hughes answered. “He’s been in all evening. He’s completing his book and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

Darcy, you really have great introspection,” Michael said. “I told you that last week. You’re feeling a little guilty about your attitude toward your parents, aren’t you?”

“I think I am.” Darcy could see that his pupils were closer to normal size. The blue-gray color was visible in his eyes.

The next song on the tape began to play. “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.” Michael’s right foot began to move in synch with the music.

“Should I feel guilty?” she asked quickly.

Where is Dr. Nash’s room?” Vince demanded. “I’ll take responsibility for disturbing him.”

“He always locks the door when he wants privacy, and won’t answer. He’s very firm about not being interrupted when he’s in his room. We haven’t even seen him since we got home from shopping late this afternoon, but his car is in the driveway.”

Chris had had enough. “He’s not upstairs. He’s driving around in a station wagon doing God knows what.” Chris started for the staircase. “Where the hell is his room?”

Mrs. Hughes looked pleadingly at her husband, then led them up the stairs. Her repeated knocking brought no response.

“Have you a key?” Vince demanded.

“Doctor has forbidden me to use it when he leaves his door locked.”

“Get it.”

As Vince had expected, the massive bedroom was empty. “Mrs. Hughes, we have a witness who saw Darcy Scott get into the doctor’s station wagon tonight. We believe she is in imminent danger. Does Dr. Nash have a studio or a cottage on this property or some other place he might have taken her?” “You must be mistaken,” the woman protested. “He’s brought Miss Scott here twice. They’re great friends.”

“Mrs. Hughes, you haven’t answered my question.”

“On this estate there are barns and a stable and some storage facilities. There’s no other building where he’d bring a young lady. He also has an apartment and office in New York.”

Her husband was nodding in agreement. Vince could see they were telling the truth.

“Sir,” Mrs. Hughes said timidly, “we’ve worked for Dr. Nash for fourteen years.

If Miss Scott is with him, I can assure you, you have nothing to worry about. Dr.

Nash wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

How long had they been talking? Darcy didn’t know. The music was soft in the background. “Begin the Beguine” was playing. How often had she seen her mother and father dance to this music?

“Mother and Daddy were the ones who really taught me to dance,” she told Nash. “Sometimes they’d just put on records and fox-trot or waltz. They’re really good.”

His eyes were still kind. They were the eyes she’d seen the other times she’d been with him. As long as he didn’t suspect that she knew about him, maybe he would leave with her, take her to the house for dinner. I’ve got to make him want to keep talking to me.

Mother had always said, “Darcy, you have a real talent for acting. Why do you keep resisting it?”

If I have it, let me prove it now, she prayed.

All her life she’d heard her mother and father discussing how a scene should be played. She must have learned something.

I can’t let him see how scared I am, Darcy thought. Channel my nervousness into the performance. How would her mother play this scene, a woman trapped in the home of a serial killer? Mother would stop thinking about Erin ’s ring on her finger and do exactly what Darcy was trying to pull off. She’d play it as though Michael Nash was a psychiatrist and she was a patient confiding in him. What was Michael saying?

“Have you noticed, Darcy, that when you let yourself talk about your parents you become animated? I think you enjoyed your childhood much more than you realized.”

People always clustered around them. Remember the time the crowd was so great that she lost her mother’s hand?

“Tell me, Darcy, what are you thinking? Say it. Let it out.”

“I was so frightened. I couldn’t see them. I knew that moment that I hated..

.”

“What did you hate?”

“The crowds. Being torn from them…”

“It wasn’t their fault.”

“If they weren’t so famous…”

“You’ve resented that fame…”

“No.” It was working. His voice was his own. I don’t want to talk about this, she thought, but I must. I’ve got to be honest with him. It’s my only chance. Mother. Daddy. Help me. Be here for me. “They’re so far away.” She didn’t know she’d said it aloud.

“Who are?”

“My mother and father.”

“You mean now?”

“Yes. They’re touring in Australia with their play.”

“You sound so forlorn, frightened even. Are you frightened, Darcy?” Don’t let him think that. “No, I’m just sorry that I won’t see them for six months.”

“Do you think the time you were separated from them that day was the first time you felt abandoned?”

She wanted to shout, “I feel abandoned now.” Instead, she turned her mind to the past. “Yes.”

“You hesitated. Why?”

“There was another time, when I was six. I was in the hospital and they didn’t think I was going to live…” She tried not to look at him. She was so afraid the eyes would become empty and dark again.

She was reminded of the character in “One Thousand and One Nights” who had told stories to stay alive.

Chris was engulfed with a sense of helplessness. Darcy had been in this house a few days ago with the man who had killed Nan and Erin Kelley and all those other girls, and she was going to be his next victim.

They were in the kitchen, where Vince had an open line on one phone to the Bureau, a second one to the state police. More ‘copters were on the way. Nona was standing near Vince, looking as though she was about to pass out. The Hugheses, their expressions bewildered and frightened, were sitting, shoulders touching, at the long refectory table. A local cop was talking to them, questioning them about Nash’s activities. Ernie Cizek was in the chopper, which was flying low over the grounds. Chris could hear the sound of the engine through the closed window. They were looking for Michael Nash’s black Mercedes station wagon. Local squad cars were fanning out across the property checking the outer buildings.

Grimly, Chris remembered how lucky he’d been when he bought a Mercedes station wagon last year. The salesman had talked him into having the Lojack system installed. “It’s built right into the wiring,” he’d explained. “If your car is ever stolen, it can be located within minutes. You phone in your Lojack code number to the police, it’s fed into a computer, and a transmitter activates the system in your vehicle. Many police cars are equipped to follow the signal.” Chris had owned the station wagon only one week before it was stolen outside the gallery with a one hundred thousand dollar painting in the back. He’d dashed back inside his office for his briefcase, and when he came out the car was gone. He’d phoned to report the theft, and within fifteen minutes the station wagon had been traced and recovered.

If only Nash had picked up Darcy in a stolen car that could be traced. “Oh my God! “Chris ran across the room and grabbed Mrs. Hughes’s arm. “Does Nash keep his personal files here or in New York?”

She looked startled. “Here. In a room off the library.”

“I want to see them.”

Vince said, “Hold it,” into the phone. “What have you got, Chris?”

Chris didn’t answer. “How long has the doctor owned the station wagon?”

“About six months,” John Hughes replied. “He trades in regularly.”

“Then I’ll bet he has it.”

The files were contained in a row of handsome mahogany cabinets. Mrs. Hughes knew where the key was hidden.

The Mercedes file was easy to find. Chris grabbed it. His exultant cry brought the others running. From the folder he pulled the Lojack pamphlet. The code number for Nash’s black Mercedes was listed.

The Bridgewater cop realized what Chris had found. “Give me that,” he said.

“I’ll phone it in. Our squad cars have the system.”

You were in the hospital, Darcy.” Michael’s voice was calm. Her mouth was so dry. She wanted a glass of water, but she didn’t dare distract him. “Yes, I had spinal meningitis. I remember feeling so sick. I thought I was going to die. My parents were at the bedside. I heard the doctor say he didn’t think I’d make it.”

“How did your mother and father react?”

“They were hugging each other. My father said, ‘Barbara, we have each other.’”

“And that hurt you, didn’t it?”

“I knew they didn’t need me,” she whispered.

“Oh, Darcy, don’t you know that when you think you’re going to lose someone you love, the instinctive reaction is to look for someone or something to hang on to? They were trying to cope, or more accurately, preparing to cope. Believe it or not, that’s healthy. And ever since then, you’ve been trying to shut them out, haven’t you?”

Had she? Always resisting the clothes her mother bought for her, the gifts they showered on her, scorning their lifestyle, something they’d worked all their lives to achieve. Even her job. Was that one-upmanship to prove something? “No, it isn’t.”

“What isn’t?”

“My job. I really do love what I do.”

“Love what I do.” Michael repeated the words slowly, in cadence. A new song had begun on the tape. “Save the Last Dance for Me.” He stood up. “And I love to dance. Now, Darcy. But first I have a present for you.” Horrified, she watched as he got up and reached behind the chair. He turned to her, a shoe box in his hand. “I bought you pretty slippers to dance in, Darcy.” He knelt in front of the sofa and pulled off her boots. Every instinct warned Darcy not to protest. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. Erin ’s ring had turned and she could feel the impression of the raised E against her skin.

Michael was opening the shoe box and parting the tissue. He took one shoe out and held it up for her to admire. It was an open-toed, high-heeled satin slipper. Gossamer ankle straps were almost transparent bands of gold and silver. Michael took Darcy’s right foot in his hand and eased it into the shoe, double-knotting the long straps. He reached into the box, removed the other slipper, and caressed her ankle as he guided her foot along the insole. When she had both shoes on, he looked up and smiled. “Do you feel like Cinderella?” he asked.

She could not answer.

The radar indicates the wagon is parked about ten miles away in a northwest direction,” the Bridgewater cop said tersely as the squad car raced down the country road. Vince, Chris, and Nona were with him.

“The signal’s getting stronger,” he said a few minutes later. “We’re getting closer.”

“Until we’re there, we’re not close enough,” Chris exploded. “Can’t you go faster?”

They rounded a curve. The driver slammed on the brakes. The squad car skidded, then straightened. “Oh hell!”

“What’s the matter?” Vince snapped.

“They’re digging up the road down here. We can’t get through. And the damn detour will waste time.”

Music filled the room but could not drown out his maniacal laugh. Darcy’s footsteps were flying in synch with his. “I don’t often do a Viennese waltz,” he shouted, “but tonight it was what I planned for you.” Twirling, bobbing, turning. Darcy’s hair flew around her face. She was gasping but he seemed not to notice.

The waltz ended. He did not remove his arms from around her. His eyes were glittering, dark, empty holes again.

“Can’t Get Started with You.” Easily, he slipped into a graceful fox-trot. Effortlessly, she followed him. He was holding her tightly, crushing her. She couldn’t breathe. Is this what he did to the others? Got them to trust him. Brought them to this desolate house. Where were their bodies? Buried around here somewhere?

What chance did she have to get away from him? He’d catch her before she could get to the door. When they came in, she’d noticed the panic button. Was it hooked up to a security system? Knowing that someone was on the way, he might not kill her.

Now there was a growing urgency about Michael. His arm was like steel as he glided and stepped in perfect time to the music. “Do you want to know my secret?” he whispered. “This isn’t my house. It’s Charley’s house.” “Charley?”

Backstep. Glide. Turn.

“Yes, that’s my real name. Edward and Janice Nash were my aunt and uncle. They adopted me when I was a year old and changed my name from Charley to Michael.” He was staring down at her. Darcy could not bear to look into those eyes.

Backstep. Sidestep. Glide.

“What happened to your real parents?”

“My father killed my mother. They electrocuted him. Whenever my uncle was mad at me, he said I was getting just like him. My aunt was nice to me when I was little, but then she stopped loving me. She said they’d been crazy to adopt me. She said bad blood shows.”

A new song. Frank Sinatra crooning, “Hey there, Cutes, put on your dancing boots and come dance with me.”

Step. Step. Glide.

“I’m glad you’re telling me this, Michael. It helps to talk, doesn’t it?”

“I want you to call me Charley.”

“All right.” She tried not to sound tentative. He mustn’t see her fear. “Don’t you want to know what happened to my mother and father? I mean, the people who raised me?”

“Yes, I do.” Darcy thought of how tired her legs were. She was not used to the spike heels. She felt as though the tight ankle straps were cutting off her circulation.

Sidestep. Turn.

Sinatra urged, “Romance with me on a crowded floor…”

“When I was twenty-one, they were in a boating accident. The boat blew up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I rigged the boat. I am just like my real father. You’re getting tired, Darcy.”

“No. No. I’m fine. I enjoy dancing with you.” Stay calm… stay calm.

“You can rest soon. Were you surprised when you got Erin ’s shoes back?”

“Yes, very surprised.”

“She was so pretty. She liked me. On our date I told her about my book and she talked about the program and about how you and she were answering personal ads. That was really funny. I’d already decided you’d be next after her.”

Next after her.

“Why did you choose us?”

“And while the rhythm pings, what coo-coo things I’ll be saying,” Sinatra sang. “You both answered the special ad. All the girls I brought here did. But Erin wrote to one of my other ads too, the one I showed the FBI agent.” “You’re very clever, Charley.”

“Do you like the spike heels I bought for Erin? They match her dress.”

“I know they do.”

“I was at the Playwrights’ Benefit too. I recognized Erin from the picture she sent me and I looked up her name on the seating list to make sure I was right. She was sitting four tables away. It was fate that I already had a date to meet her the very next night.”

Step. Step. Glide. Turn.

“How did you know Erin ’s shoe size? My size?”

“It was so easy. I bought Erin ’s shoes in different sizes. I wanted just that pair for her. Remember last week when you had a pebble in your boot and I helped you take it out? I saw your size then.”

“And the others?”

“Girls like to be flattered. I’d say, ‘You have such pretty feet. What size are you?’ Sometimes I bought shoes specially. Other times I’d take them from the ones I already had.”

“The real Charles North didn’t place any personal ads, did he?” “No. I met him at that benefit too. He kept talking about himself and I asked him for his business card. I never use my own name when I call people who answer the special ad. You made it easy. You called me.”

Yes, she had called him.

“You say Erin liked you when you met her the first time. Weren’t you afraid she’d recognize your voice when you called and said you were Charles North?” “I phoned from Penn Station, where there’s a lot of noise. I told her I was running to catch a train to Philadelphia. I lowered my voice and spoke faster than usual. Just like this afternoon when I talked to your secretary.” The timbre of his voice changed, became high-pitched. “Don’t I sound like a woman now?”

“Suppose I hadn’t been able to go to that bar tonight? What would you have done?”

“You told me you didn’t have any plans for this evening. I knew you’d do anything to find the man Erin met the night she disappeared. And I was right.” “Yes, Charley, you were right.”

He nuzzled her neck.

Step. Step. Glide.

“I’m so glad you both answered my special ad. You know what it is, don’t you? It begins, ‘Loves Music, Loves to Dance.’”

“Because what is dancing but making love set to music playing?” Sinatra continued.

“That’s one of my favorite songs,” Michael whispered. He twirled her, never relaxing his grip on her hand. When he drew her back in, his tone became confidential, even regretful. “It was Nan ’s fault that I started killing girls.” “Nan Sheridan?” Chris Sheridan’s face filled Darcy’s mind. The sadness in his eyes when he talked about his sister. The authority and presence he had in the gallery. The way his staff obviously loved him. His mother. The easy relationship between them. She could hear him saying, “I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Darcy. Gourmet delight time.”

His concern that she was answering these ads. How right he’d been. I wish I’d had a chance to get to know you, Chris. I wish I’d had a chance to tell my mother and father I loved them.

“Yes, Nan Sheridan. After I graduated from Stanford, I spent a year in Boston before I started med school. I used to drive down to Brown a lot. That’s where I met Nan. She was a wonderful dancer. You’re good, but she was wonderful.” The familiar opening bars of “Good Night, Sweetheart.”

No, Darcy thought. No.

Backstep. Sidestep. Glide.

“Michael, something else I meant to ask you about my mother,” she began. He pushed her head down on his shoulder. “I told you to call me Charley. Don’t talk anymore,” he said firmly. “We’ll just dance.”

“Time will heal your sorrow,” floated through the room. Darcy didn’t recognize the singer’s voice.

“Good night, sweetheart, good night.” The last notes faded into the air. Michael dropped his arms and smiled at Darcy. “It’s time,” he said in a friendly voice, although his expression was blankly terrifying. “I’ll give you to the count of ten to try to get away. Isn’t that fair?”

They were back on the road. “The signal is coming from the left. Wait a minute, we’re going too far,” the Bridgewater cop said. “There must be a side road here somewhere.” The wheels screeched as they made a U-turn. The sense of impending disaster had grown in Chris to the explosive point. He opened the car window. “There, for God’s sake, there’s a driveway.” The squad car ground to a halt, backed up, turned sharply right, raced along the rutted ground.

Darcy slipped and slid on the polished floor. The high-heeled slippers were her enemies as she ran for the door. She took a precious instant to stop and try to yank the shoes off, but she couldn’t. The double knots on the straps were too tight.

“One,” Charley called from behind her.

She reached the door and tugged at the bolt. It did not release. She twisted the knob. It did not turn.

“Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. I’m counting, Darcy.”

The panic button. She jammed her finger against it.

Hahahahahahaha… A hollow, mocking laugh echoed through the room. Hahahaha.

… The sound was coming from the panic button.

With a shriek, Darcy jumped back. Now Charley was laughing too.

“Seven. Eight. Nine…”

She turned, saw the stairway, began to run to it.

“Ten!”

Charley was rushing toward her, his hands outstretched, his fingers bent, his thumbs rigid.

“No! No!” Darcy tried to reach the staircase, skidded. Her ankle turned. Sharp, stabbing pain. Moaning, she hobbled onto the first step and felt herself pulled back.

She didn’t know she was screaming.

There’s the Mercedes,” Vince cried. The squad car slammed to a stop behind it. He sprang out of the car, Chris and the cop with him. “Stay back,” Vince shouted to Nona.

“Listen.” Chris held up his hand. “Someone’s screaming. It’s Darcy.” He and Vince threw themselves against the thick oak door. It didn’t budge. The cop pulled out his gun and pumped six bullets into the lock.

This time when Chris and Vince attacked the door, it opened.

Darcy tried to kick Charley with the sharp stiletto heels. He spun her around, seeming not to feel the heels stabbing at his legs. His hands were around her neck. She tried to claw them away. Erin, Erin, is this the way it was for you? She couldn’t scream anymore. She opened her mouth, frantic to gulp in air, and could find none. Were those moans coming from her? She tried to keep fighting but couldn’t raise her arms again.

Vaguely, she heard loud staccato sounds. Was someone trying to help her? It’s.

.. too… late… she thought as she felt herself fall into darkness.

Chris got through the doorway first. Darcy was dangling like a rag doll, her arms drooping at her sides, her legs buckled under her. Long, powerful fingers were squeezing her throat. Her screams had stopped. With a cry of rage, Chris flew across the room and tackled Nash, who sagged and fell, pulling Darcy with him. His hands convulsed, then tightened their grip around her neck.

Vince threw himself next to Nash, snapped his arm around Nash’s neck, forcing his head back. The Bridgewater cop grabbed Nash’s thrashing feet. Charley’s hands seemed to have a life of their own. Chris could not pry his fingers loose from Darcy’s throat. Nash seemed to be possessed of superhuman strength and impervious to pain. Desperately Chris sank his teeth into the right hand of the man who was snuffing out Darcy’s life. With a howl of pain Charley yanked back his right hand and relaxed the left one. Vince and the cop twisted his arms behind him and snapped handcuffs on his wrists as Chris grabbed Darcy.

Nona had been watching from the doorway. Now she rushed into the house and dropped to her knees at Darcy’s feet. Darcy’s eyes were not focusing. There were ugly red bruises on her slender throat.

Chris covered Darcy’s mouth with his own, pinched her nostrils closed, forced breath into her lungs.

Vince looked at Darcy’s staring eyes and began to pound her chest. The Bridgewater cop was guarding Michael Nash, who was handcuffed to the banister. Nash began to recite in a singsong voice, “Eeney, meeney, miney, mo, Catch a dancer by the toe…”

She’s not responding, Nona thought frantically. She grasped Darcy’s ankles and for the first time realized Darcy was wearing dancing slippers. I can’t stand it, Nona thought, I can’t stand it. Almost unaware of what she was doing, Nona began to struggle with the knots on the ankle straps. “One little piggy went to market. One little piggy stayed home. Sing it again, Mama. I have ten piggy toes.”

We may be too late, Vince thought furiously as he searched for some response from Darcy, but if we are, you lousy bastard, you’d better not think that spouting nursery rhymes now will help you prove insanity. Chris raised his head as he gulped in air and for a split second stared at Darcy’s face. The same look as Nan when he found her that morning. The bruised throat. The blue-white tone to her skin. No! I won’t let it happen. Darcy, breathe. Nona, weeping now, had finally untied one of the ankle straps. She pushed it back and began to pull the high-heeled slipper from Darcy’s foot. She felt something. Was she wrong? No.

“Her foot is moving!” she cried. “She’s trying to get it out of the shoe.” At the same instant, Vince saw a pulse begin to beat in Darcy’s throat and Chris heard a long, drawn-out sigh come from her lips.