Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

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.”