Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

Douglas Fox was not registered at the hotel. There was no conference room in use. The suite kept for personnel of Keldon Equities was not being occupied. “Probably some dumb new operator,” Susan had told Donny, trying to keep her tone even.

“Sure, that’s it, Mom.” But Donny wasn’t fooled. At dawn, Susan had awakened to the sound of muffled sobs. She’d stood outside Donny’s door, knowing that he wouldn’t want her to see him crying.

My husband doesn’t love me or his children, Susan told her reflected image. He lies to us. He stays in New York a couple of nights a week. He’s bullied me into almost never calling him. He’s made me feel like a fat, frowsy, dull, useless clod. And I’m sick of it.

She turned from the mirror and analyzed the cluttered bedroom. I could be a lot more organized, she acknowledged. I used to be. When did I give up? When did I become so damn discouraged that it wasn’t worth trying to please him? Not hard to answer. Nearly two years ago, when she was pregnant with the baby. They’d had a Swedish au pair, and Susan was sure that Doug had had an affair with her.

Why didn’t I face it then? she wondered as she began to make the bed. Because I was still in love with him? Because I hated to admit my father was right about him?

She and Doug had been married a week after she was graduated from Bryn Mawr. Her father offered her a trip around the world if she’d change her mind. “Under that schoolboy charm, there’s a foul-tempered sneak,” he had warned her. I went into it with my eyes open, Susan acknowledged, as she returned to the kitchen. If Dad had known the half of it, he’d have had a stroke, she thought. There was a pile of magazines on the wall desk in the kitchen. She riffled through them until she found the one she was looking for. An issue of People with an article about a female private investigator in Manhattan. Professional women hired her to check out the men they were considering marrying. She also handled divorce cases.

Susan got the phone number from information and dialed it. When she reached the investigator, she was able to make an appointment for the following Monday, February 25 th. “I believe my husband is seeing other women,” she explained quietly. “I am thinking of divorce, and I want to know all about his activities.”

When she hung up she resisted the temptation to simply sit and continue to think things through. Instead, she attacked the kitchen vigorously. Time to shape up this place. By summer, with any luck, it would be on the market. It wouldn’t be easy raising four children alone. Susan knew that Doug would pay little if any attention to the kids after the divorce. He was a splashy spender but cheap in hundreds of little ways. He’d balk at adequate child support. But it would be a lot easier to live on a tight budget than to go on with this farce.

The telephone rang. It was Doug, complaining again about the damn late meetings these last two nights. He was exhausted today and they still hadn’t settled everything. He’d be home tonight, but late. Real late. “Don’t worry, dear,” Susan said soothingly. “I understand perfectly.”

The country road was narrow, winding, and dark. Charley didn’t pass a single other car. His driveway was almost hidden by brush at the point where it intersected the road. A secret and quiet place, removed from curious eyes. He’d bought it six years ago. An estate sale. Estate giveaway was more like it. The place had been owned by an eccentric bachelor who as a hobby renovated it himself.

Built in 1902, the exterior was unpretentious. Inside, the renovation had consisted of turning the entire first floor into one open room, complete with a kitchen area and fireplace. Wide plank oak flooring shone with a satiny finish. The furniture was Pennsylvania Dutch, austere, handsome. Charley had added a long upholstered couch covered in maroon tapestry, a matching chair, an area rug between the couch and fireplace. The second floor was exactly as he’d found it. Two small rooms made into one decent-sized bedroom. Shaker furniture, a carved headboard bed and tall chest. Both made of pine. The original tub, free-standing on claw feet, had been left in the modernized bath Only the basement was different. The eight-foot freezer that no longer held an ounce of food, the freezer where, when necessary, he left the bodies of the girls. Here, ice maidens, they’d waited for their graves to be dug under the warming rays of the spring sun. There was a worktable in the basement as well, the worktable with a stack of ten cardboard shoe boxes. There was only one left to decorate.

A charming house nestled in the woods. He’d never brought anyone here until two years ago when he’d begun to dream about Nan. Before that, owning the house had been enough. When he wanted to escape, this was his retreat. The aloneness. The ability to pretend that he was dancing with beautiful girls. He’d play old movies on the VCR, movies in which he became Fred Astaire and danced with Ginger Rogers and Rita Hayworth and Leslie Caron. He’d follow Astaire’s graceful movements until he could step with his every step, mimic the way Astaire would turn his body. Always he sensed Ginger and Rita and Leslie and Fred’s other partners in his arms, their eyes worshipful, loving the music, loving the dance. Then one day, two years ago, it was over. In the middle of the dance, Ginger drifted away and Nan was in Charley’s arms again. Just like the moments after he killed her, waltzing on the jogging path, her light, svelte body so easy to hold, her head lolling on his shoulder.

When that memory came back, he’d run to the basement and taken the mates of the sequined dancing slipper and the Nike that he’d left on her feet from the shoe box and cradled them in his arms while he swayed to the music on the stereo. It was like being with Nan again, and he’d known what he had to do. First he’d set up a hidden video camera so he could relive every single moment of what was to happen. Then he’d begun to bring the girls here one by one. Erin was the eighth to die here. But Erin would not join the others in the wooded fields that surrounded the house. Tonight he would move Erin ’s body. He had decided exactly where he would leave her.

The station wagon moved silently down the driveway, around to the back of the house. He stopped at the metal doors that led to the basement. Charley’s breath began to come in short, excited gasps. He reached for the handle to open the back door of the wagon, then stood irresolutely. Every instinct warned him not to delay. He must lift Erin ’s body from the freezer, carry it to the car, drive back to the city, leave it on the abandoned Fifty-sixth Street dock bordering the West Side Highway. But the thought of watching the video of Erin, of dancing with her just one more time, was irresistible.

Charley hurried around the house to the front door, let himself in, snapped on the light, and without bothering to remove his overcoat ran across the room to the VCR. Erin ’s tape was on top of the others on the cabinet. He popped it in and sat back on the couch, smiling in anticipation.

The tape began to play.

Erin, so pretty, smiling, coming in the door, exclaiming with delight over the house. “I envy you this haven.” He fixing a drink for them. She sitting curled on the couch. He sitting across from her in the easychair, getting up and setting a match to the kindling in the fireplace.

“Don’t bother to light a fire,” she’d told him. “I really must get back.” “Even for half an hour it’s worth it,” he’d assured her. Then he’d turned on the stereo, muted, soft, and pleasant, the songs of the forties. “Our next date is going to be at the Rainbow Room,” he said. “You enjoydancing as much as I do.” Erin had laughed. The lamp beside her accentuated the glints of red in her auburn hair. “As I wrote when I answered your ad, I love to dance.” He’d stood up, held out his arms. “How about now?” Then, as though struck by a thought, said, “Wait a minute. Let’s do this right. What shoe size are you? Seven? Seven and a half? Eight?”