Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

You write it down.”

Darcy hesitated, then realized it was a sensible suggestion. He was the jeweler.

His arm was brushing against hers. Instinctively, she moved aside. Stratton looked over his shoulder. An irritated-looking Boxer was lighting a cigarette and glancing around the room, probably searching for an ashtray. It was Stratton’s only chance. “I think that velvet case is the one Erin kept the necklace in.” Reaching for it, he deliberately knocked a small box onto the floor.

Darcy jumped as she saw the glitter of stones scattering around her and scrambled to collect them. An instant later Stratton was beside her, cursing his carelessness. They searched the area thoroughly. “I’m sure we got them all,” he said. “These are semiprecious, suitable for good costume jewelry. But more important…” He opened the velvet case. “Here’s the Bertolini.” Darcy stared down at the exquisite necklace. Emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, moonstones, opals, and rubies were set in an elaborate design that reminded her of the medieval jewelry she’d seen in portraits at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Stratton asked. “You can understand why the manager at Bertolini’s was so upset at the prospect of something happening to it. Erin is remarkably gifted. She not only managed to create a setting that made those stones look ten times their own considerable value, but she did it in the Byzantine style. The family who commissioned the necklace was originally from Russia. These gems were the only valuable possessions they were able to take when they fled in 1917.”

Darcy could visualize Erin sitting at this worktable, her ankles around the rungs of the chair, the way she used to sit when she was studying in college. The sense of impending disaster was overwhelming. Where would Erin willingly go without delivering this necklace on time?

No where willingly, she decided.

Biting her lip to keep it from quivering, she picked up the pen. “Will you describe this for me and I think we should identify every precious stone in it so there’s no question that any are missing.”

As Stratton removed other pouches, velvet cases, and boxes from the safe, she noticed that he was becoming increasingly more agitated. Finally he said, “I’m going to open the rest all at once, then we’ll list them.” He looked directly at her. “The Bertolini necklace is here, but a pouch I gave Erin with a quarter of a million dollars worth of diamonds is gone.”

Darcy left the apartment with Stratton. “I’m going to the police station to file a missing-person report,” she told him.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I’ll take care of getting the necklace to Bertolini’s immediately and if we haven’t heard from Erin in a week, I’ll contact the insurance company about the diamonds.” It was exactly noon when Darcy entered the Sixth Precinct on Charles Street. At her insistence that something was terribly wrong, a detective came out to see her. A tall black man in his mid-forties with military bearing, he introduced himself as Dean Thompson and listened sympathetically as he tried to allay her fears.

“We really can’t file a missing-person report for an adult woman simply because no one has heard from her for a day or two,” he explained. “It violates freedom of movement. What I will do if you give me her description is check it against accident reports.”

Anxiously, Darcy gave the information. Five feet seven, one hundred and twenty pounds, auburn hair, blue eyes, twenty-eight years old. “Wait, I have her picture in my wallet.”

Thompson studied it, then handed it back. “A very attractive woman.” He gave her his card and asked for hers. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Susan Frawley Fox hugged five-year-old Trish and guided her reluctant feet to the waiting school bus that would take her to the afternoon session of kindergarten. Trish’s woebegone face was on the verge of crumbling into tears. The baby, firmly held under Susan’s other arm, reached down and pulled Trish’s hair. It gave the needed excuse. Trish began to wail. Susan bit her lip, torn between annoyance and sympathy. “He didn’t hurt you and you’re not staying home.”

The bus driver, a matronly woman with a warm smile, said coaxingly, “Come on, Trish. You sit right up here near me.”

Susan waved vigorously and sighed with relief as the bus pulled away. Shifting the baby’s weight, she hurried from the corner back to their rambling brick and stucco home. Patches of snow still covered isolated sections of the lawn. The trees seemed stark and bloodless against the gray sky. In a few months the property would be lush with flowering hedges and the willows would be heavily laden with cascades of leaves. Even as a small child Susan had studied the willows for the first hint of spring.

She shoved the side door open, heated a bottle for the baby, brought him to his room, changed him, and put him down for a nap. Her quiet time had begun: the hour and a half before he woke up. She knew she should get busy. The beds weren’t made. The kitchen was a mess. This morning Trish had wanted to make cupcakes, and spilled batter was still lumped on the table. Susan glanced at the baking pan on the countertop and half-smiled. The cupcakes looked delicious. If only Trish wouldn’t carry on so about kindergarten. It’s almost March, Susan worried. What’s it going to be like when she’s in the first grade and has to be gone all day?

Doug blamed Susan for Trish’s reluctance to go to school. “If you’d go out more yourself, have lunch at the club, volunteer for some committees, Trish would be used to being minded by other people.”

Susan put the kettle on, sponged the table, and fixed a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich. There is a God, she thought gratefully as she reveled in the blessed silence.

Over a second cup of tea, she permitted herself to face the anger that was burning inside her. Doug hadn’t come home again last night. When he stayed in for late meetings he used the company suite at the Gateway Hotel near his office in the World Trade Center. He got furious when she called him there. “Damn it, Susan, unless there’s an earth-shattering emergency, give me a break. I can’t be called out of meetings and by the time they’re over it’s usually well past midnight.”

Taking the tea with her, Susan got up and walked down the long hall to the master bedroom. The antique full-length standing mirror was in the right-hand corner opposite the wall of closets. Deliberately, she stood in front of it and appraised herself.

Thanks to the baby’s exploring fingers, her short, curly brown hair was disheveled. She seldom bothered with makeup during the day but really didn’t need it. Her skin was clear and unlined, her complexion fresh. At five feet four she could certainly afford to lose fifteen pounds. She’d been one hundred and five when she and Doug were married fourteen years ago. Sweats and sneakers had become her daily wardrobe, especially since Trish and Conner were born. I am thirty-five years old, Susan told herself. I could lose some weight, but contrary to what my husband thinks, I am not fat. I’m not a great housekeeper, but I know I’m a good mother. A good cook, too. I don’t want to spend my time outside the house when I have young children who need me. Especially since their father won’t give them the time of day.

She swallowed the rest of the tea, her anger building. Tuesday night when Donny came home from the basketball game, he had been in the never-never land between ecstasy and misery. He had sunk the winning shot. “Everybody stood up and cheered for me, Mom!” Then he added, “Dad was practically the only father who wasn’t there.”

Susan’s heart had wrenched at the pain in her son’s eyes. The babysitter had canceled at the last minute, which was why she hadn’t been able to be at the game either. “This is an earth-shattering event,” she’d said firmly. “Let’s see if we can reach Dad and tell him all about it.”