Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

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 stCentury 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 stCentury 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.”