Pretend You Don't See Her by Mary Higgins Clark

at St. Olaf’s, the
church named for the warrior king of Norway, then ate
at the Northstar Hotel.
                 At
Mass when the choir sang “ Adeste Fidelis ”
tears had sprung to her eyes as she thought of the last Christmas her father
was alive. They had gone to midnight Mass together at St. Malachy’s in Manhattan’s theater district. Her mother had always said that Jack Farrell
could have made it big if he had chosen to try for a career as a singer rather
than as a musician. He really did have a good voice. Lacey remembered how that
night she had stopped singing herself, just to listen to the clarity of tone
and warmth of feeling he put into the carol.
                 When
it was over, he had whispered, “Ah, Lace, there’s something grand about the
Latin, isn’t there?”
                 At
her solitary meal, her tears had welled up again as she thought about her
mother and Kit and Jay and the children. She and her mother always went to
Kit’s house on Christmas, arriving with the presents for the kids that “Santa
had dropped off” at their houses.
                 At
ten, Andy, like Todd at that age, was still a believer. At four, Bonnie was
already savvy. Lacey had sent gifts to everyone through secure channels this
year, but that didn’t hold a candle to being there, of course.
                 As
she had tried to pretend she was enjoying the food she had ordered at the Northstar , she found herself thinking of Kit’s festive
holiday table with the Waterford chandelier sparkling, its lights reflected off
the Venetian glassware.
                 Knock
it off! Lacey warned herself as she dropped the envelope into a drawer, where
it would await Deputy Marshal Svenson’s pickup.
                 For
lack of something else to do, she reached into the bottom drawer of her desk
and pulled out the copy she had made of Heather Landi’s journal.
                 What
could Isabelle possibly have wanted me to see in it? she asked herself for the hundredth time. She had read it so often she felt as
though she could quote it word for word.
                 Some
of the entries were in a close sequence, daily and sometimes several times a
day. Others were spaced a week, a month, or as much as six weeks apart. In all,
the journal spanned the four years Heather had spent in New York. She wrote in
detail about looking for an apartment, about her father insisting she live in a
safe building on the East Side. Heather clearly had preferred Manhattan’s West
Side; as she put it, “It isn’t stuffy and has life.”
                 She
wrote about singing lessons, about auditioning and getting her first part in a
New York production—an Equity showcase revival of The Boy Friend. That entry
had made Lacey smile. Heather had ended it by writing “Julie Andrews, move
over. Heather Landi is on her way.”
                 She
wrote in detail about the plays she had attended, and her analysis of them and
of the actors’ performances was thoughtful and mature. She wrote interestingly
as well about some of the more glamorous parties she attended, many of them
apparently through her father’s connections. But some of the gushing about her
boyfriends was surprisingly immature. Lacey got the clear impression that
Heather had been pretty much held down by both her mother and father until,
after two years of college, she opted to come to New York and try for a career
in the theater.
                 It
was obvious that she had been close to both parents. All the references to them
were warm and loving, even though several times she had complained about the
need to please her father.
                 There
was one entry that had intrigued Lacey from the first time she read it:
                 Dad
exploded at one of the waiters today. I have never seen him that angry before.
The poor waiter was almost crying. I see