While My Pretty One Sleeps

  Praise for Mary Higgins Clark’s

  Newest Blockbuster,

  WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS

  “Fans of bestselling mystery author Mary Higgins Clark are in for another thrilling, fast-paced read. . . . Clark weaves a series of fast-moving subplots into an exciting and surprising climax.”

  —Associated Press

  “Mary Higgins Clark enhances her well-deserved reputation for writing taut page-turners. WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS injects murder and mystery into the world of high fashion, and the resulting tale is a rousing good one.”

  —Chattanooga Times

  “Mary Higgins Clark has done it again! . . . If you can’t stand the suspense and have to know how this one turns out ahead of time, you’ll have to cheat or read all the way through to the climax—you are not going to figure it out before that. WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS is bound to keep you wide awake and on the edge of your seat long into the night.”

  —Rave Reviews

  “Clark specializes in crosscurrents of terror, and WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS. . . offers at least three mysteries for the price of one. Not a bad desk for her fans or anyone else who might choose to spend a . . . night scared silly.”

  —New York Daily News

  A LITERARY GUILD MAIN SELECTION

  “Mary Higgins Clark’s latest suspense novel begins with a bang. . . . Clark keeps the murder weapon pointing from one player to the next. . . . A nicely complicated mystery.”

  —Milwaukee Journal

  “The fashion talk is fun, and there is a rich roll call of suspicious characters. Ms. Clark renders each of these characters with the lights and shadows of reality. . . . Red herrings are in plentiful supply. . . .”

  —Atlanta Journal and Constitution

  “A high-quality, superbly written novel . . . Clark uses descriptions as an artist might use paint. . . . WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS is a surprisingly superior novel.”

  —Wichita Falls Times Record News

  “Gripping . . . There are enough subplots, suspects and supporting characters to keep the story moving at a brisk pace. Miss Clark is also deft at creating atmosphere. . . . Absorbing.”

  —Commercial Appeal (Memphis, TN)

  “Cliff-hanging suspense . . . The reader would do well to be suspicious of everybody. There are subtle clues that will tip off those paying close attention to details—but you’ll have to find them for yourself!”

  —Sunday Advocate (Baton Rouge, LA)

  “Right from the start, we know who is murdered and we think we know who did it. But hold on, we won’t really know who dunnit until almost the very last page of Clark’s fine and suspenseful deserved and totally lived up to in WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS.”

  —West Coast Review of Books

  “Creating an unusual milieu, and making it intrinsic to the plot, is a device that has well-served many a suspense author. It does so again, with special effectiveness, in WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS, Mary Higgins Clark’s seventh and best novel.”

  —Buffalo News

  “Her most exciting novel in years, and one that will no doubt delight her fans . . .”

  —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  “Richly peopled with fascinating, varied characters from many walks of life, WHILE MY PRETTY ONE SLEEPS has the pace, the excitement, the high-charged suspense, the romance, and the glamorous background that have made Mary Higgins Clark one of America’s most popular writers.”

  —Mystery News

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  FOR MY NEWEST GRANDCHILDREN,

  COURTNEY MARILYN CLARK

  AND

  DAVID FREDERICK CLARK,

  WITH CONTINUING LOVE, AMUSEMENT AND DELIGHT.

  1|

  He drove cautiously up the Thruway toward Morrison State Park. The thirty-five-mile trip from Manhattan to Rockland County had been a nightmare. Even though it was six o’clock, there was no sense of approaching dawn. The snow that had begun during the night had steadily increased until now it was beating relentlessly against the windshield. The overhead clouds, heavy and gray, were like enormous balloons pumped to the breaking point. The forecast had been for two inches, with “precipitation tapering off after mid-night.” As usual the weatherman had been wrong.

  But he was near the entrance to the park, and, with the storm, there probably wouldn’t be anyone hiking or jogging. He’d passed a State Trooper ten miles back, but the car had rushed past him, lights flashing, probably on the way to an accident somewhere. Certainly the cops had no reason to even think about the contents of his trunk, no reason to suspect that under a pile of luggage a plastic bag containing the body of a prominent sixty-one-year-old writer, Ethel Lambston, was wedged in a space-defying squeeze against the spare tire.

  He turned off the Thruway and drove the short distance to the parking lot. As he had hoped, it was nearly empty. Only a few cars were scattered around and they were coated with snow. Some damn fools camping out, he supposed. The trick was not to bump into them.

  He glanced around carefully as he left the car. No one. The snow was piling in drifts. It would cover the tracks when he left, cover any signs of where he was going to put her. With any luck, by the time she was discovered there wouldn’t be much left to find.

  First he made his way to the spot alone. His hearing was keen. Now he tried to maximize it, to force it to filter past the sighing of the wind and the creaking of the already heavy branches. Down this way there was a steep path. Past it and on a sharp incline was a pile of rocks layered by heavy loose stones. Very few people bothered to climb there. It was off-limits for riders—the stable didn’t want the suburban housewives who were its main customers breaking their necks.

  A year ago he had happened to be curious enough to make that climb, and had rested on a boulder-sized rock. His hand had slid across the rock and he’d felt the opening behind it. Not a cave entrance, but a natural formation like the mouth of a cave. Even then, the thought had passed his mind that it would be a great place to hide something.

  It was exhausting to reach with the snow turning icy, but, slipping and sliding, he made the climb. The space was still there, a little smaller than he remembered, but he could force the body in. The next step was the worst. Going back to the car, he would have to take infinite caution to avoid any chance of being observed. He’d parked at an angle so that no one who happened to drive in would have a direct view of what he was removing from the trunk, and anyhow a black plastic bag in itself wasn’t suspicious.

  In life Ethel had been deceptively slim. But as he picked up the plastic-shrouded body he reflected that those expensive outfits had concealed a heavy-boned frame. He tried to heave the bag over his shoulder, but, perverse in death as she had been in life, Ethel must have begun the process of rigor mortis. Her body refused to slide into manageable lines. In the end, he half carried, half dragged the bag as far as the incline, then sheer adrenaline gave him the strength to haul her up the sloping, slippery rocks to the spot.

  His original plan had been to leave her in the bag. But at the last minute he changed his mind. Forensics units wer
e getting too damn smart. They could find evidence on anything, fibers from clothes or carpets or human hair that no eye would notice.

  Ignoring the cold as the gusting wind seared his forehead and the pellets of snow turned his cheeks and chin into a chunk of ice, he placed the bag in position over the cave and began to rip. It would not give. Two-ply, he thought grimly, remembering all the commercials. Savagely he tugged at it and then grimaced as the bag gave and Ethel’s body came into view.

  The white wool suit was stained with blood. The collar of her blouse was caught in the gaping hole in her throat. One eye was slightly open. In the gathering dawn it seemed less sightless than contemplative. The mouth that never knew repose in Ethel’s life was pursed as though about to start another one of her interminable sentences. The last one she ever got to spit out had been her fatal mistake, he told himself with grim satisfaction.

  Even with gloves on, he hated touching her. She’d been dead nearly fourteen hours. It seemed to him there was a faint, sweet odor coming from her body. With sudden disgust he shoved her corpse down and began wedging stones on top of it. The opening was deeper than he’d realized, and the stones dropped neatly in place over her. A casual climber wouldn’t dislodge them.

  The job was finished. The blowing snow had already covered up his footsteps. Ten minutes after he got out of here, all trace of him and the presence of the car would be obliterated.

  He crushed the shredded plastic into a wadded ball and began hurrying toward the car. Now he was frantic to leave, to be far from this exposure to discovery. At the border of the parking lot, he waited. The same cars were there, still untouched. There were no fresh tracks in the lot.

  Five minutes later, he was back on the Thruway, the bloodied, torn bag that had been Ethel’s shroud jammed under the spare tire. Now there was plenty of room for her suitcases and carry-on and purse.

  The roadway was icy now, the commuter traffic beginning, but in a few hours he’d be back in New York, back to sanity and reality. He made his final stop, a lake he remembered not far from the Thruway, that was too polluted now for fishing. It was a good place to dump Ethel’s purse and luggage. All four pieces were heavy. The lake was deep, and he knew they’d sink and get caught in the mass of junk that rested on the bottom. People even dumped old cars here.

  He tossed Ethel’s belongings as far as he could heave them and watched as they disappeared under the dark-gray water. Now the only thing left to do was to get rid of the torn, bloodstained wad of plastic. He decided to stop at a garbage bin when he got off the West Side Highway. It would be lost in the mountain of trash carted off tomorrow morning.

  It took three hours to get back into the city. The driving became more treacherous and he tried to keep his distance from other cars. He didn’t need a fender bender. Months from now no one would have any reason to know that he’d been out of the city today.

  It worked according to plan. He stopped for a split second on Ninth Avenue and got rid of the plastic bag.

  At eight o’clock he was delivering the car back to the gas station on Tenth Avenue that rented old cars as a sideline. Cash only. He knew they didn’t keep records.

  At ten o’clock, freshly showered and changed, he was in his place, gulping straight bourbon and trying to shake the sudden chilling attack of nerves. His mind went over every instant of the time that had elapsed since he’d stood in Ethel’s apartment yesterday and listened to her sarcasm, her ridicule, her threats.

  Then she’d known. The antique dagger from her desk in his hand. Her face filled with fear and she’d started to back away.

  The exhilaration of slashing that throat, of watching her stumble backward through the archway to the kitchen and collapse onto the ceramic-tile floor.

  He still was amazed at how calm he’d been. He’d bolted the door so that by some crazy trick of fate the superintendent or a friend with a key couldn’t walk in. Everyone knew how eccentric Ethel could be. If someone with a key found that the door was bolted, they’d assume she didn’t want to be bothered answering.

  Then he had stripped his clothes off down to his underwear and put on his gloves. Ethel had been planning to go away to write a book. If he could get her out of here, people would think she’d left on her own. She wouldn’t be missed for weeks, even months.

  Now, gulping a mouthful of bourbon, he thought about how he had selected clothes from her closet, changing her from the blood-soaked caftan, pulling her pantyhose on, slipping her arms into the blouse and the jacket, buttoning the skirt, taking off her jewelry, forcing her feet into pumps. He winced as he remembered the way he’d held her up so that blood spurted over the blouse and the suit. But it was necessary. When she was found, if she was found, they had to think she’d died in that outfit.

  He had remembered to cut out the labels that would have meant immediate identification. He had found the long plastic bag in the closet, probably returned by a cleaner on an evening gown. He had forced her into it, then cleaned the bloodstains that had spattered on the Oriental throw rug, washed the kitchen tile with Clorox, packed the suitcases with clothes and accessories, all the while working frantically against time. . . .

  He refilled the glass to the brim with bourbon, remembering when the phone had rung. The answering machine had come on and the sound of Ethel’s rapid speech pattern. “Leave a message. I’ll get back when and if I feel like it.” It had made his nerves scream. The caller broke the connection and he’d turned off the machine. He didn’t want a record of people calling, and perhaps remembering broken appointments later.

  Ethel had the ground-floor apartment of a four-story brownstone. Her private entrance was to the left of the stoop that led to the main entry. In effect her door was shielded from the view of anyone walking along the street. The only period of vulnerability was the dozen steps from her door to the curb.

  In the apartment, he’d felt relatively safe. The hardest part had come when, after he hid Ethel’s tightly wrapped body and luggage under her bed, he opened the front door. The air had been raw and damp, the snow obviously about to begin falling. The wind had cut a sharp path into the apartment. He’d closed the door immediately. It was only a few minutes past six. The streets were busy with people coming home from work. He’d waited nearly two hours more, then slipped out, double-locked the door and gone to the cheap car rental. He’d driven back to Ethel’s apartment. Luck was with him. He was able to park almost directly in front of the brownstone. It was dark and the street was deserted.

  In two trips he had the luggage in the trunk. The third trip was the worst. He’d pulled his coat collar up, put on an old cap he’d found on the floor of the rented car and carried the plastic bag with Ethel’s body out of the apartment. The moment when he slammed the trunk down had brought the first sense that he’d surely make it to safety.

  It had been hell to go back into the apartment, to make certain that there was no trace of blood, no sign that he’d been there. Every nerve shrieked at him to get to the state park, to dump the body, but he knew that was crazy. The police might notice someone trying to get into the park at night. Instead he left the car on the street six blocks away, followed his normal routine and at 5 A.M. set out with the very early commuters. . . .

  It was all right now, he told himself. He was safe!

  It was just as he was draining the last warming sip of bourbon that he realized the one ghastly mistake he had made, and knew exactly who would almost inevitably detect it.

  Neeve Kearny.

  2|

  The radio went on at six-thirty. Neeve reached out her right hand, groping for the button to tune out the insistently cheery voice of the newscaster, then stopped as the import of what he was saying sifted into her consciousness. Eight inches of snow had fallen on the city during the night. Do not drive unless absolutely necessary. Alternate-side-of-the-street parking suspended. School closings to be announced. Forecast was for the snow to continue until late afternoon.

  Terrific, Neeve thought as she
leaned back and pulled the comforter around her face. She hated missing her usual morning jog. Then she winced, thinking of the alterations that had to be completed today. Two of the seamstresses lived in New Jersey and might not get in. Which meant she’d better get to the shop early and see how she could juggle the schedule of Betty, the only other fitter. Betty lived at Eighty-second and Second and would walk the six blocks to the shop no matter how bad the weather.

  Hating the moment she abandoned the cozy warmth of the bed, she threw back the covers, hurried across the room and reached into her closet for the ancient terrycloth robe that her father, Myles, insisted was a relic of the Crusades. “If any of the women who spent those fancy prices buying your dresses could see you in that rag, they’d go back to shopping in Klein’s.”

  “Klein’s closed twenty years ago, and anyhow if they saw me in this rag they’d think I’m eccentric,” she’d told him. “That would add to the mystique.”

  She tied the belt around her waist, experiencing the usual fleeting wish that she had inherited her mother’s pencil-thin frame instead of the square-shouldered, rangy body of her Celtic forebears, then brushed back the curly coal-black hair that was a trademark of the Rossetti family. She also had the Rossetti eyes, sherry-colored irises, darker at the edges so they blazed against the whites, wide and questioning under sooty lashes. But her skin tone was the milk white of the Celts, with a dotting of freckles against the straight nose. The generous mouth and strong teeth were those of Myles Kearny.

  Six years ago when she graduated from college and persuaded Myles that she had no intention of moving out, he’d insisted she redo her bedroom. By haunting Sotheby’s and Christie’s, she’d assembled an eclectic assortment of a brass bed, an antique armoire and a Bombay chest, a Victorian chaise and an old Persian rug that glowed like Joseph’s coat. Now the quilt and the pillows and the dust ruffle were stark white; the reupholstered chaise was covered in turquoise velvet, the same turquoise tone that ribboned through the rug; the stark-white walls were a background for the fine paintings and prints that had come from her mother’s family. Women’s Wear Daily had photographed her in the room, calling it cheerfully elegant, with the peerless Neeve Kearny touch.