Loves Music, Loves to Dance (1991) by Clark Mary Higgins

Author:Clark, Mary Higgins [Higgins, Clark, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-12-19T00:39:52.468000+00:00

1527.

Vince flew to Lancaster on the earliest flight Friday morning. He had urged Claire Barnes's father not to tell anyone outside the family about the package of shoes. But when he arrived at the airport the local paper had the story in headlines. He phoned the Barnes's home and learned from the maid that Mrs.

Barnes had been rushed to the hospital last night.

Lawrence Barnes was a heavy-set executive type who, Vince decided, in other circumstances would have a commanding presence. Seated at the bedside, a young woman next to him, he was anxiously looking down at his heavily sedated wife.

Vince showed him his card and was followed out into the corridor.

Barnes introduced the young woman as his other daughter, Karen. "A reporter happened to be in the emergency room when we got here," Barnes said tonelessly.

"He heard Emma screaming about the package and that Claire was dead."

"Where are the shoes now?"

"At home."

Karen Barnes drove him to get them. A corporate lawyer in Pittsburgh, she had never shared her parents' hope that one day Claire would suddenly show up.

"There was no way, if she were alive, she would have given up the chance to be in Tommy Tune's show."

The Barnes's home was a large Colonial in an impressive neighborhood. Zoning at least an acre, Vince thought. There was a television mobile unit on the street.

Karen drove quickly past it, into the driveway, and around to the back of the house. A policeman prevented the reporter from stopping her.

The living room was filled with framed family pictures, many of them showing Karen and Claire in their growing-up years. Karen picked one of them off the piano. "I took this one of Claire the last time I saw her. We were in Central Park just a few weeks before she disappeared."

Slender. Pretty. Blond. Mid-twenties. Joyous smile. You can pick 'em, Buster, Vince thought bitterly. "May I take this? I'll make copies and get the original right back to you."

The package was on the foyer table. Ordinary brown wrapper, address label you could buy anywhere, block printing. Postmarked New York City. The box had no markings except for a delicately drawn sketch of a high-heeled slipper on the lid. The mismatched shoes. One a white Bruno Magli sandal, the other a gold slingback with an open toe and narrow high heel. They were the same size, six narrow.

"You're sure this sandal is hers?"

"Yes. I have an identical pair. We bought them together that last day in New York."

"How long had your sister been responding to personal ads?"

"About six months. The police checked out anyone whose ad she had answered, at least anyone they could find."

"Did she ever place any?"

"Not that I know of."

"Where did she live in New York?"

"On West 63rd Street. An apartment in a brownstone. My father paid the rent for nearly a year after she disappeared, then gave it up."

"Where did you put her belongings?"

"The furniture wasn't worth shipping. Her clothes and books and whatever are upstairs in her old room."

"I'd like to see them.

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