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The desk drawers were cluttered with five years’ accumulation, and it was with great satisfaction that I finished clearing them out. Not a single paper clip remained. Old lipsticks, half-finished short stories, stale chocolate bars, torn and tattered snapshots: All had been disposed of now, and the drawers were beautifully empty, ready for the next aspiring young career girl who was willing to work under horrendous stress for starvation wages. I pulled the cover over the battered old typewriter and took a last look at the office with its flaking plaster walls and dusty gray file cabinets. I hoped my replacement had a sense of humor. She’d need it. She’d also need nerves of steel and Herculean stamina.

Five years is a long time. There should have been tears and sad farewells, nostalgia and a sense of loss. There wasn’t. I was elated to be leaving. There would be no more gossipy articles about Lady Cynthia’s swank garden parties, no more chatty features about new dress lengths and revolutionary eye make-up, no more interviews with zany eccentrics who raised pet ocelots or planned to swim the Channel at eighty-five. Nor would I be faced with shattering deadlines and rampaging editors with volatile tempers and astounding vocabularies. I was on my own now, and in my purse was a perfectly lovely contract and an even lovelier check signed by Philip Ashton-Croft himself. The Sunday Supplement would have to do without me. Someone else could cover the next axe murder from “the woman’s point of view.”

At twenty-six, Lynn Morgan was retiring from the newspaper world, moving on to bigger and better things at long last. Fleet Street would survive the loss, I thought, smiling to myself. Any bright young thing with a fair education and a way with words could do as well, so long as she didn’t take herself too seriously. One needed a sense of proportion. I had known all along that the job was a stopgap, providing bread and butter—the latter in very small quantities. Now I could say good-bye to it all without even the tiniest regret.

It had all come about in quite a remarkable way. History was my first love, and in my spare time I had written a series of articles on the Court of Louis XIV—character studies, really, filled with spicy anecdotes and loving period details. There was absolutely no demand for them, but after dozens of rejection slips they had finally been accepted and published by a totally obscure historical quarterly whose circulation was practically nonexistent. So far as the world was concerned, their publication remained a deep, dark secret, which had made, the message from Philip Ashton-Croft which had arrived three weeks ago all the more startling.

Philip Ashton-Croft was one of the most prestigious publishers in London—frightfully distinguished, formidably intelligent. The books he published were the very last word in scholarship and impeccable taste. He wanted to meet me, the message read, and I went to the interview nervous and on edge. I was astounded to learn that not only had he read the articles, he thought they were “glorious.” He felt they could be expanded into a highly readable book, and was offering me a contract forthwith—including a more-than-generous advance upon signing.

That had been three weeks ago. All details had been settled. I had lunched with my new publisher today, and after a staggeringly elaborate meal he had presented me with my copy of the contract and the beautiful check. It’s impossible to walk on air, of course, but as I left the restaurant I understood what the expression means. I’d handed in my resignation at the paper immediately after that first interview, and all that remained was clearing out the cluttered, dusty cubbyhole I’d called an office for five years. I made a final check. I was leaving behind the plants I’d nourished so tenderly over the years. Their leafy green strands spread over the walls in dark profusion. My successor would inherit them, just as I had inherited those horrible gray and blue etchings that hung in fake silver frames. Gathering up purse and tote bag, I left the office, closing the door with its frosted pane behind me. MISS LYNN MORGAN in bold black letters would be scratched away within the hour, I suspected.

Typewriters were clattering loudly in the vast main newsroom. Voices rose and fell, shrill, excited, angry, morose. Clerks dashed around waving reams of copy, fetching scissors, paste, cups of coffee, and from the distance came the ominous rumble of the presses. The chaos was perpetual, confusion constant, with only an occasional lull after the last story had been filed, the last copy read and ready to go to press. There were very few farewells. As feature writer for the Sunday Supplement, I had had little to do with the daily paper. Though I had been on friendly terms with everyone, I had not been close to the rowdy, boisterous, frantic types that generally inhabit the newspaper world. A few of the secretaries flocked around, gushing appropriately, wishing me well, and in a matter of minutes I was outside. The clamor within was mild compared to the screech of brakes, the blast of horns, the shouts of newsboys heaving fresh bundles of newsprint off the curb and into the backs of vans.

I went to my bank immediately, deposited the check, and withdrew a tidy sum, stuffing the bills into my purse with pure elation. I’d never had so much money before, and I thoroughly intended to splurge today. There would be an absolute orgy of shopping: books I couldn’t afford before, new shoes and dresses, that gorgeous black number Mandy had eyed so longingly in the window of one of the boutiques. For the next three hours I was in heaven. I was much too realistic to believe in fairy tales, had worked too long and struggled too hard, losing all the standard illusions along the way, but today I felt exactly like Cinderella on her way to the ball. Gloriously exhausted, surrounded by parcels, I had tea in the restaurant of one of the department stores and thought about my incredible good fortune.

I’d done rather well for myself, I decided. I had been on my own for such a long time. My mother died when I was five, and Daddy and I went to live with Aunt Daphne in her big, rambling house in Devon, a preposterous Victorian mansion completely surrounded by dense woods. Shortly thereafter, Bill Morgan departed for Australia, leaving me with Daphne, a testy, eccentric old spinster with a great fondness for gin, lawsuits, blood sports, and vociferous quarrels with servants, neighbors, local authorities, and anyone else who happened to come within range. Although Daddy sent a letter once a month, I never saw him again, and when I was thirteen we received word of his death. I was immediately packed off to boarding school, heartbroken at my loss but secretly glad to be getting away from my colorful but decidedly unlovable aunt. I had seen the cantankerous old lady only a few times since, enduring each occasion with remarkable patience. For all purposes, I had been on my own since I was thirteen years old, and I had come a long way.

The waitress brought more tea and a platter of tiny frosted cakes. I smiled at her, intending to leave a generous tip. I’d worked as a waitress myself in the old days, before the position with the Supplement, and I knew the grueling hours and strenuous work involved. I remembered that crowded, noisy tea shop, popular with plump matrons and brawling children. That’s where I had met Mandy, who worked there too. Soon we were rooming together, the struggling actress and the aspiring author. We had gone through some rough times together and were closer than sisters, our life styles complementary instead of clashing. Mandy was going to be elated when I told her about the book, for I hadn’t mentioned it to her, wanting to be certain of the contract before springing the news.

I smiled again, thinking of Lloyd Raymond. If I was Cinderella, Lloyd was definitely Prince Charming. I had met him three months earlier, at the opening-night party for one of Mandy’s plays. The play was an unmitigated disaster, but the party was riotous, a merry wake with champagne in profusion, dozens and dozens of people crowded on stage, laughing, drinking, making new connections. Mandy was surrounded by a bevy of males, as always, and I was left alone. I detest noisy crowds, and this had to be the noisiest crowd on record, so after a while I slipped out into the back alley, standing on the rusty fire escape, thankful for the solitude and fresh night air. I’d been there for only a minute or so when the door opened behind me and Lloyd stepped out, looking as relieved as I had felt.

He was a lawyer, I discovered, connected with a very prominent firm, and had been dragged to the party against his will. He was thirty years old and six foot two, dressed in a silky black suit that fit his athletic body to perfection. He had clean-cut, virile features, dark brown eyes, and brick-red hair clipped unfashionably short. His heavy black-rimmed glasses only emphasized his stern, manly good looks. His manner was grave and polite, and he spoke in a beautifully modulated voice. Quiet, reserved, he nevertheless radiated strength and vitality. One had the impression of great energy carefully channeled, of force under tight control. We talked for two hours there on the flimsy iron fire escape, and then he took me to an all-night restaurant. Later, when he drove me home, we sat in his car for another two hours, talking, watching the sky lighten from black to gray to a misty violet. After years of trying to match me up with one or another of her scores of admirers, Mandy was delighted that I had finally found one of my own. “And such a beautiful specimen,” she added, in her blithe, carefree manner.

Lloyd and I had been seeing each other three or four times a week ever since. He was wonderful to be with—thoughtful and considerate, perhaps a bit too stern and reserved, yet wonderful just the same. If he was rather dictatorial at times, that was merely part of his nature, the strong, silent male. Although he was only four years my senior, he seemed much older, and when I was with him I felt very secure. I was very fond of Lloyd Raymond, very fond indeed, but I was too inexperienced to know if that feeling was love. I wondered what my answer would be when he asked me to marry him, for I knew it was only a matter of time until that question came up. Lloyd had some rather old-fashioned ideas about a woman’s place, a man’s role, and I wondered if I would be willing to give up my independence.

Gathering up my parcels and placing a large tip on the table, I left the tea room, excitement still like a heady wine, wonderfully inebriating. An enormous red bus rattled past outside, discharging noxious fumes. The din of rush-hour traffic was deafening. Taxi horns blared loudly. Tires squealed at the intersection. An irate driver leaned out the window of his Bentley to shout an obscenity at a long-haired youth who zoomed past on a motorcycle. Shops and stores disgorged crowds of flushed, irritable clerks and secretaries who stampeded for the nearest Underground entrance. I might feel madly reckless, but not enough so to throw away money on a taxi, and at this hour the buses would be better suited for sardines than people. I decided to walk. Smiling, filled with a sense of well-being, I turned a corner and, a short while later, found myself in the peaceful little cul-de-sac where weathered, ancient fiats overlooked a tiny square with leafy green trees behind a wrought-iron fence. The building where Mandy and I lived was the most dilapidated of the lot, tall and narrow, painted a dingy blue, crowded between a dusty brownstone and a Victorian relic that looked like a soot-stained marble wedding cake.

I was relieved to find Mrs. Wellington temporarily away from her post. Once she caught you in the foyer she was good for thirty minutes, rattling away interminably about her health, her cats, the state of the nation and the scandalous cost of pork. Mrs. Wellington, our landlady, was a plump, fussy, insatiably curious old dear given to horoscopes, scandal magazines, and other people’s business. Her flat was on the ground floor, the door always open so she could see anyone who stepped into the building, and little escaped her eagle eye. She frequently informed Mandy that she ran a respectable house and refused to tolerate all these men trooping up and down the stairs at all hours, but in truth she tolerated everything but unpaid rent. As Mandy and I always paid promptly, we could have entertained gypsies all night without risking anything more than a severe tongue-lashing. Mrs. W. adored us, said we gave the place “class.” That was hardly a compliment, considering some of the other tenants.

Mrs. Wellington was so cheap she could hardly draw breath without being tipped for it, and she certainly didn’t intend to waste good money on electricity before nightfall. The stairs were dark, and the place reeked of corned beef and cabbage and stale beer. We lived on the top floor, and by the time I reached our landing I was genuinely exhausted. Shifting the parcels, I took out my key and opened the door. I dropped the parcels on the living-room table and sighed with relief.

We occupied the entire top floor, and the flat was large and roomy, perfect for Mandy’s parties. It was furnished with wildly mismatched furniture, littered with books and magazines and various feminine paraphernalia, and, always, dusty, as neither Mandy nor I was domestic. The wallpaper was hideous, faded green roses against a faded blue background, and the dismal gray carpet was threadbare. There was a constant draft from a window that refused to shut, the kitchen was gloomy, with dark brown linoleum and shockingly outdated appliances, the bathroom plumbing was madly unpredictable, but the place was homey and, best of all, quite inexpensive.

“I’ve been home for hours, pet. I need a six-letter word for mysterious. Four down is prey. That makes the second letter r.”

“A, r, c—that’s it! You’re a wonder, luv. There! I’m finished with the silly thing. I don’t know why I bother.”

If Mandy wasn’t experimenting with cosmetics or trying on clothes, she was reading or doing crossword puzzles. The closet shelves were piled high with hundreds of thrillers. I had received free review copies at the office and brought them to her by the dozen. Mandy devoured them with relish. She had once gone with a handsome inspector from Scotland Yard, and crime had fascinated her ever since—the bloodier the better.

“What about the play?” I called, slipping out of my shoes and moving over to the mirror to brush back a wave of long, glossy brown hair. “Did you get the part?”

“The afternoon was sheer disaster, luv. The producer, I use the word loosely, wanted … well, he took me out for a nice cozy drink and suggested a nice cozy arrangement. Poor man, he looked rather silly sitting there with Scotch dripping all over his bald head …”

“The waiter was scandalized. It was a very proper bar. I didn’t really want the part, anyway. I’m no good in heavy drama. Light, frothy farce is my thing. If only Noel Coward were still alive …”

Amanda Hunt was tall and lanky, with enormous brown eyes and dark tawny gold hair that swirled around her shoulders in disorderly locks. Not really beautiful, she had a dry, sophisticated style that was distinctly her own. Men found her fascinating, and with her powerful magnetism and individuality she could have been quite successful had she really tried. Mandy was singularly unambitious—rather lazy, in fact, far more interested in being amused than in having a career. Her chief claim to fame thus far was her appearances on the telly as Maisie the Milkmaid in a series of commercials for Delicious Dairy Milk. Flippant, lighthearted, invariably cheerful, she was also shrewdly intelligent—something few of her merry companions ever suspected.

“Lynn!” she cried, seeing the parcels for the first time. “Have you gone berserk? The rent’s due next Friday, we’re both flat, and you buy out half the shops in London! I knew you’d crack one of these days, luv. Years of necessary penny-pinching have finally driven you over the edge—”

“You’ve robbed a bank. I’ll be a character witness, darling. We’ll get you out of this some way—”

Smiling, I told her about Philip Ashton-Croft, about the book and the advance I’d already deposited. Mandy was very cool about the whole thing, taking the contract from me, carefully going over the fine print I’d merely skimmed myself.

“It seems like a fairly decent contract,” she said, handing it back to me, “although I’m not too sure about that clause concerning foreign rights. Don’t expect me to seem surprised, pet. Didn’t I tell you those articles were as good as anything Nancy Mitford ever wrote? I knew something would come of them.”

Mandy was my biggest fan. She felt my work for the Supplement was unworthy of my abilities, and had been after me for years to write a thriller. She was constantly giving me plot ideas—smashingly clever ones, too—but fiction was not my metier.

I nodded, sitting down on the lumpy green sofa. “It’s going to be a big job, expanding those articles into a book-length manuscript. I’ll have to do tons more research, reorganize everything. I’m thinking of doing a whole section on Louise de La Valliere—”

“More about Madame de Thianges, too,” Mandy said. “I’ve always thought she got shortchanged by history, overshadowed by her sister. She’s a fascinating woman.” Mandy had read all the books I brought home for research, had gone to the library on her own, and knew almost as much about the period as I did myself. “Darling, it’s going to be fun! I’ll help you with your notes and—”

Mandy chattered blithely, working up more and more enthusiasm for the project, and then we opened the parcels. She was elated with the sexy black dress, and tried it on immediately. The bodice fit like a glove, and her back was virtually bare. I wouldn’t have dared wear such a dress, but on Mandy it looked sensational. She whirled around, her dark-gold locks flying in all directions.

“No, luv, that’s Craig. George is that darling croupier I brought up last week, the one who had the bit part in the Fellini film.”

Mandy had so many beaux it was almost impossible to keep them straight in one’s mind. They ranged from a Member of Parliament to a handsome young stevedore, and she treated them all with a casual, merry disdain. They loved it. Mandy was always entertaining, always fun to be with, never demanding. With her, even a simple excursion like walking in the park took on the aspects of a madcap adventure. Though she frequently pretended to be bored by all this male attention, it was as necessary to her as air.

An hour later, surrounded by empty boxes and sacks and clouds of tissue paper, we were contemplating dinner. Lloyd was working late, and Mandy had turned down several invitations, planning to stay in and read the newest thriller. Although she adored pub-crawling and parties and the theater, she could be just as happy in housecoat and slippers, knocking around the flat. We had just decided to open some tins and heat up some leftovers when the telephone rang. Mandy tensed, giving me a nervous glance.

“There’s no need to look so worried,” I said lightly. “It’s probably one of your friends.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, after several seconds, a low, hoarse voice began to whisper.

I hung up immediately. Mandy, standing beside me now, her cheeks a bit pale, said, “It was him.”

I nodded, not at all alarmed. The phone calls were irritating, and in very poor taste, but I refused to let them bother me. Someone with a sick sense of humor was playing a prank. That was all it amounted to. Mandy, however, found the calls terribly distressing, certain that they had some deep significance.

“No, just the same old thing. ‘This is Daddy.’ The chap hasn’t much imagination, I’m afraid.”

“Lynn, it’s—well, obscene phone calls I could understand, but this is spooky!”

“He’s been calling for over two months now, and it’s always the same, like … like a voice from the grave.”

I smiled, moving over to the table and beginning to gather up the tissue paper. “My father died in Australia in 1959, I assure you. Besides, ghosts are hardly likely to utilize the London Telephone Exchange. I wish you’d forget about it, Mandy.”

“I wish I could. It gives me the shivers! Lynn, who could it possibly be?”

“I used a by-line on all my stories in the Supplement. He probably saw my name over one of them and looked me up in the telephone directory.”

“But our number’s unlisted,” she protested. “We had it changed after the first couple of calls.”

We’d been over this several times before, and I knew it would be useless to argue with her about it. Addicted to thrillers, her mind cluttered with ideas for more, Mandy obstinately maintained that the calls were part of some intricate plot. I believe she actually expected me to end up on some dark street in Soho with my throat slit. At her insistence, I had informed the police, who, bored and wearily tolerant, suggested we get an unlisted number. We had, but somehow or other my caller had discovered it. There had been no threats, no mysterious warnings in the mail, no sinister-looking men in dark glasses who followed me on the street. The prankster would grow tired eventually and find another victim. Until then, I would continue to ignore the calls.

We were in the kitchen now. The oven crackled ominously as part of a leftover casserole heated, and eggs boiled noisily on the ancient gas burner. As I set the table, Mandy tried to open a tin—for her a highly dangerous process which might well result in a surprise appendectomy. Still wearing the sexy black dress, looking as out of place in the kitchen as a duchess, she gouged at the tin, apprehensive but determined. Finally succeeding without bloodshed, she dumped the herring onto a plate, gave a sigh of exhaustion, and leaned against the scarred zinc drainboard.

“—when you were thirteen years old. He’d been away from England for years. You didn’t actually see the body, and—”

“Lynn, I just know those phone calls mean something. I don’t see how you can be so casual about them.”

“Go ahead, make fun of me, but he could still be alive. He probably discovered a gold mine in Australia, or … or maybe he was involved in some nefarious scheme, innocently involved, of course, and found it necessary to disappear—”

Mandy cut herself short as great clouds of black smoke began to billow from the oven. There was a noise like machine-gun fire. She dashed to open the window. Grabbing a pair of tattered pot holders, I flung open the oven door and pulled out the charred remains of the casserole. As I dumped it into the trash bin, the eggs exploded, geysers of hot water spewing over the stove. I turned off the burner, feeling terribly frustrated. When the smoke cleared, Mandy shrugged her shoulders philosophically.

Stepping over to the icebox, she pulled out a tall, slender bottle with gold foil around the cap and then fetched two mismatched glasses from the cabinet over the sink.

“Stevie brought it along last night, the lamb. I knew it would come in handy. Let’s celebrate the contract, luv. In fact, let’s get gloriously plastered!”

The restaurant was charming. Sitting at a table on the patio, we could look beyond the graceful stone balustrade at the park, trees in full leaf now, in early April. Daffodils bloomed riotously in untidy beds, and farther away, through a partial screen of clipped yews, part of the pond was revealed. Noisy little boys sailed toy boats along the edge of the water. A week had passed, and, as he would be unable to see me tonight, Lloyd had arranged to meet me here for lunch. Rays of sunlight spilled down, gleaming on silver and china, making bright yellow pools all around us. Waiters moved around with hushed efficiency, discreet and rather formidable.

I shook my head, watching a group of young people who were sitting on blankets spread over a sloping bank. One of them was playing a guitar, and the music wafted toward us with gentle melancholy. I was in a pensive mood, satisfied with life, enjoying the fresh air, the music, a sense of well-being. Lloyd was preoccupied, a serious look on his stern, handsome face. Behind the heavy black glasses, his eyes looked grave.

Lloyd signaled for our waiter, scrutinized the bill closely, and then placed several bills on the tray. As he stood up, I marveled again at his tall, muscular frame. Today he wore a leaf-brown suit, spotless white shirt, and carefully knotted rust-colored tie. He looked the successful young lawyer, all right, needing only a black leather briefcase to complete the picture. Several women at nearby tables turned to glance at him. They always did, for Lloyd had that subtle magnetism that is far more interesting than overt sexiness. I felt a glow of pleasure as he took my arm, leading me down the low white marble steps and into the park.

Although far more conventionally dressed than most of the other people sauntering through the park, we must have made an attractive pair nevertheless. I wore a white cotton dress printed with tiny brown and green leaves. While not beautiful, I was at least arresting, with high, sculptured cheekbones, dark blue eyes, and long brown hair gleaming with chestnut highlights. Men looked twice, had done so for several years now, and Lloyd seemed pleased to have me walking beside him. I held on to his arm, matching my stride to his.

“Creaking. I spent the whole afternoon in the library yesterday, hunting down an obscure reference to Scarron, Madame de Maintenon’s bizarre invalid husband. I’m doing a chapter on their marriage, including a bit about their rather unusual sex life.”

“How well I know. I’m happy about the book, luv. I’m glad you have something to amuse yourself with.”

Lloyd smiled, the corners of his wide mouth turning up. “No need to take offense,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m glad you’ve got brains.”

“I know, luv. You’re a fiercely independent, thoroughly liberated woman, sharp, shrewd, and, incidentally, gorgeous in that dress. Do you want to argue about equal rights or would you rather neck?”

Lloyd chuckled, dropping his arm around my shoulder. We walked to the pond and stopped beside a mound of huge gray boulders at the edge of the water. Sunlight danced in shimmering silver threads over the surface. Above thick green treetops, we could see brown and gray buildings rising, pigeons fluttering about window ledges. London was touched with a springtime magic today, as charming and exhilarating as the poets claimed. Watching the pond’s waves lapping, I felt Lloyd beside me, strong and silent and very male.

Pulling me into his arms, Lloyd kissed me for a long time, his mouth caressing mine with expert skill. Then, arms resting heavily on my shoulders, he stared down at me, a faint smile curling on his lips and a touch of amusement in his dark brown eyes. He was in an unusually affable mood, I thought, some of his earlier preoccupation gone. I studied his clean-cut, chiseled features, his face so close that I could see the tiny pink scar at the corner of his mouth where he had cut himself shaving. The heavy black-rimmed glasses set off his good looks, I thought, adding character and maturity and saving him from being merely conventionally handsome. I touched his lean cheek, mollified. He kissed me again, lightly this time.

“You’re an enchanting creature, Lynn, far too enchanting to be turned loose on mankind. What am I going to do with you?”

“That’s one thing you don’t need any more of. I’m sorry about tonight, Lynn. I know we’d planned to go to the new Tom Stoppard play, but something came up—”

“You always understand. That’s another thing I like about you. I’ve exchanged the tickets. We’re scheduled to see it next Thursday night. That all right with you?”

“After the play, we’ll go to the Garden for dining. I’ve made reservations. Then I thought we’d pop over to Sybilla’s for a couple of drinks. Everything’s set.”

Everything was set. Everything was neatly arranged, down to the last detail. It always was. Lloyd sighed, stepping back and staring across the pond. He was preoccupied again. Having filed me away in a neat little compartment, he was thinking of something else—some lawsuit, perhaps, or some new will he had to draft. I stared at his handsome profile. Lloyd was so thoroughly in control of every situation. I often wished he weren’t quite so efficient and predictable. Life with Lloyd would be very stable, very well-organized, even the lovemaking. There would be no crises, but neither would there be any surprises. Perhaps I was being too hard on him, I thought, rather ashamed of myself. Dashing, mercurial heroes are all very well in books, but I imagined they would be extremely taxing in real life. Lloyd Raymond was everything a woman could hope for, and it was a wonder some predatory female hadn’t snapped him up already.

“Lynn,” he said abruptly, turning to me. “Have there been any more phone calls?”

“Why—” The question took me by surprise. “Yes. There was one last week, the day I got my contract, and another one on Wednesday. Why do you ask?”

“I’m not so sure,” he said grimly. “There’re a lot of freaks running loose in this city. Those calls have bothered me from the very first, particularly after you changed your number and he kept right on calling. Have you any idea who it could be?”

“Not the foggiest. It’s really not worth discussing, Lloyd. I’m not worried. I don’t see why you and Mandy should—”

His voice was firm, his tone clearly indicating that he intended to brook no argument. I sighed, accepting the inevitable. When Lloyd wanted to discuss something, it was discussed.

“I don’t remember very much about him,” I said, trying to recall that vague presence who had been there in the early years of my life. “We moved to Devon when I was five, and he left just a few months later. I couldn’t have been more than six years old. He was a large man, and gruff, with dark black hair and a flushed face. He loved me dearly. I was heartbroken when he went away—”

“Yes. I have no idea why he left England. Daphne never told me. He sent me a letter once a month, regular as clockwork, and then he died. I was thirteen at the time.”

Lloyd frowned, thrusting his square jaw out. He looked very much the lawyer on a case. We might have been in a courtroom instead of in the park. I resented his attitude. I wasn’t on trial, and I had already told him everything I knew about my father a long time ago, after the first call. He folded his arms across his chest, head tilted to one side.

“Look, Lynn, I know you think I’m being unreasonable, and maybe I am, but I want to get to the bottom of this thing. The phone calls could be the work of a prankster, as you say. They very likely are, but if there’s the least possibility …” He hesitated, his brown eyes grave. “It’s just that I’m concerned about your welfare,” he added.

“I appreciate that, Lloyd, but I can assure you it’s entirely unnecessary. You and Mandy have blown this thing all out of proportion.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “You’re probably right. Nevertheless, if you remember anything pertaining to your father, anything at all, I want you to tell me about it.”

As he peered at me through the glasses, I realized that his concern was genuine. I should have been flattered. Lloyd did mean well, even if his manner was sometimes overbearing. Standing there with his arms folded, his hair a sleek copper-red cap, he looked like a stern parent, all sober dignity. I found that suddenly humorous and utterly endearing. That lighthearted glow came back, and I smiled, touching his jaw with my fingertips.

“I guess we’d better start back. I have an appointment at two. Sorry if I was rough on you, luv. I guess I spend too much time in the courtroom. Am I forgiven?”

He took my hand, and we followed one of the shady walkways that led to the street.

“I wish so, too, luv. There’s nothing I’d like better than to spend the whole afternoon with you.”

“Of course I do. I’m not the most gallant suitor on earth, but that doesn’t mean … I’m no good at romantic dialogue, Lynn. Let’s just say meeting you is about the best thing that ever happened to me. Will that do?”