Stillwatch (20 page)

BOOK: Stillwatch

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Well-hidden in the shadows of the trees and shrubs, Arthur observedPat and Lila through the patio doors. He had been bitterly disappointedto see the lighted house, the car in the driveway. Maybe he wouldn’tbe able to search for the doll tonight. And he desperately wantedGlory to have it in time for Christmas. He tried to hear what thewomen were saying but could not catch more than an occasionalword. They were both dressed up. Could they be going out? Hedecided to wait. Avidly he studied Patricia Traymore’s face. She wasso serious, her expression so troubled. Had she begun to heed hiswarnings? For her sake he hoped so.He had been watching only a few minutes when they stood up.They
were
going out. Silently he crept along the side of the houseand in a moment heard the sound of the front door opening. They didnot take the car. They could not be going too far, maybe to a neighbor ’shouse or a nearby restaurant. He would have to hurry.Quickly he made his way back to the patio. Patricia Traymore hadleft the living-room lights on and he could see the strong new lockson the French doors. Even if he cut a pane he would not be able to getin. He had anticipated that and had planned what he would do. Therewas an elm tree next to the patio, one that would be easy to climb. Athick branch ran just under an upstairs window.The night he left the doll he’d noticed that window was notcompletely closed at the top. It sagged as though it didn’t hangproperly. It would be easy to force it open.A few minutes later he was stepping over the sill onto the floor.He listened intently. The room had a hollow feeling. Cautiously heturned on his flashlight. The room was empty and he opened the doorto the hallway. He was sure he was alone in the house. Where shouldhe begin searching?

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He’d gone to so much trouble because of the doll. He’d almostbeen caught taking the vial of blood from the lab in the nursing home.He’d forgotten how much Glory loved her doll, how when he’d tiptoeinto her room just to see if she was sleeping peacefully, she’d alwayshad the doll clutched in her arms.It was incredible to him that for the second time in a week he wasinside this house again. The memory of that long ago morning wasstill so vivid: the ambulance, lights flashing, sirens blazing, tiresscreeching in the driveway. The sidewalk crowded with people,neighbors with coats thrown over expensive bathrobes; police carsbarricading N Street; cops everywhere. A woman screaming. She wasthe housekeeper who’d found the bodies.He and his fellow ambulance attendant from Georgetown Hospitalhad rushed into the house. A young cop was on guard at the door.“Don’t hurry. They don’t need you.”The man lying on his back, the bullet in his temple, must havedied instantly. The gun was between him and the woman. She hadpitched forward and the blood from the chest wound stained the rugaround her. Her eyes were still open, staring, unfocused, as thoughshe’d wondered what had happened, how it had happened. Shecouldn’t have been more than thirty. Her dark hair was scattered overher shoulders. Her thin face had delicate nostrils and high cheekbones.A yellow silk robe billowed around her like an evening gown.He’d been the first to bend over the little girl. Her red hair was somatted with dried blood it had turned auburn; her right leg was juttingfrom the flowered nightdress, the bone sticking up in a pyramid.He’d bent closer. “Alive,” he’d whispered. Bedlam. I.V. hookedup. They’d hung a bottle of O negative; clamped an oxygen mask onthe small, still face; splinted the shattered leg. He’d helped swathethe head, his fingers soothing her forehead, her hair curling aroundhis fingers. Someone said her name was Kerry. “If it is God’s will I’llsave you, Kerry,” he’d whispered.“She can’t make it,” the intern told him roughly, and pushed himout of the way. The police photographers snapped pictures of thelittle girl; of the corpses. Chalk marks on the carpet outlined thepositions of the bodies.Even then he’d felt the house was a place of sin and evil, a place

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where two innocent flowers, a young woman and her little girl, hadbeen willfully violated. He’d pointed out the house to Glory onceand told her all about that morning.Little Kerry had remained in an intensive-care unit at GeorgetownHospital for two months. He’d looked in on her as often as he could.She never woke up, just lay there, a sleeping doll. He had come tounderstand that she was not supposed to live and had tried to find away to deliver her to the Lord. But before he could act, she was movedto a long-term-care facility near Boston, and after a while he readthat she’d died.
His sister had had a doll “Let me help take care of it,” he’d pleaded“We’ll pretend it’s sick and I’ll make it well.” His father ’s heavy,caused hand had slammed his face. Blood had gushed from his nose.“Make
that
well, you sissy.”
He began to search for Glory’s doll in Patricia Traymore’s bedroom.Opening the closet, he examined the shelves and the floor, but itwasn’t there. With sullen anger he observed the many expensiveclothes. Silk blouses, and negligées, and gowns, and the kind of suitsyou see in magazine ads. Glory wore jeans and sweaters most of thetime, and she bought them at K-Mart. The people in the nursing homewere usually in flannel nightgowns and oversized robes that swaddledtheir shapeless bodies. One of Patricia Traymore’s robes startled him.It was a brown wool tunic with a corded belt. It reminded him of amonk’s habit. He took it out of the closet and held it against him.Next he investigated the deep bottom drawers of the dresser. Thedoll wasn’t there either. If the doll was still in the house it was not inher bedroom. He couldn’t waste so much time. He glanced into theclosets of the empty bedrooms and went downstairs.Patricia Traymore had left the vestibule light on, as well as a lampin the library and others in the living room—she had even left on thelights on the Christmas tree. She was sinfully wasteful, he thoughtangrily. It was unfair to use so much energy, when old people couldn’teven afford to heat their own homes. And the tree was already dry.
Ifa flame touched it, it would ignite and the branches would crackleand the ornaments melt.
One of the ornaments had fallen from the tree. He picked it up andreplaced it. There was really no hiding place in the living room.

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The library was the last room he searched. The files were locked—that’s where she had probably put it. Then he noticed the cartonjammed far back under the library table. And somehow he
knew.
Hehad to tug hard to get the carton out but when he opened it his heartbeat joyfully. There was Glory’s precious doll.The apron was gone, but he couldn’t waste time looking for it. Hewalked through all the rooms, carefully examining them for signs ofhis presence. He hadn’t turned a light on or off or touched a door. Hehad plenty of experience from his work in the nursing home. Of courseif Patricia Traymore looked for the doll, she’d know that someonehad come in. But that carton was pushed far under the table. Maybeshe wouldn’t miss the doll for a while.He would go out the same way he’d come in—from the secondstory bedroom window. Patricia Traymore didn’t use that bedroom;she probably didn’t even glance in it for days at a time.He had entered the house at five-fifteen. The chimes of the churchnear the college tolled six as he slid down the tree, made his furtiveway through the yard and disappeared into the night.

The Ambassador’s house was immense. Stark white walls provideda vivid backdrop for his magnificent art collection. Comfortable, richlyupholstered couches and antique Georgian tables caught Pat’s eye. Ahuge Christmas tree decorated with silver ornaments stood in frontof the patio doors.The dining room table was set with an elaborate buffet: caviar andsturgeon, a Virginia ham, turkey en gelée, hot biscuits and salads.Two waiters discreetly refilled the guests’ champagne glasses.Ambassador Cardell, small, trim and whitehaired, welcomed Patwith courtly grace and introduced her to his sister Rowena Van Cleef,who now lived with him. “His baby sister,” Mrs. Van Cleef told Pat,her eyes twinkling. “I’m only seventy-four; Edward is eighty-two.”There were some forty other people present.
Sotto voce,
Lilapointed out the most celebrated to Pat. “The British Ambassador andhis wife, Sir John and Lady Clemens . . . the French Ambassador . . .Donald Arlen—he’s about to be appointed head of the World Bank .. . General Wilkins is the tall man by the mantel—he’s taking overthe NATO command . . . Senator White lock—that’s
not
his wifewith him . . .”

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She introduced Pat to the neighborhood people. Pat was surprisedto discover she was the center of attention. Was there any indicationof who might have been responsible for the break-in? Didn’t it seemas though the President was going to appoint Senator JenningsVice President? Was the Senator easy to work with? Did they tapethe entire program in advance?Gina Butterfield, the columnist from
The Washigton Tribune,
haddrifted over and was listening avidly to what Pat was saying.“It’s so extraordinary that someone broke into your house and lefta threatening note,” the columnist observed. “Obviously you didn’ttake it seriously.”Pat tried to sound offhand. “We all feel it was the work of a crank.I’m sorry so much was made of it. It really is unfair to the Senator.”The columnist smiled. “My dear, this is Washington. Surely youdon’t believe that anything this newsy can be ignored. You seem verysanguine, but if I were in your shoes I’d be quite upset to find myhome broken into and my life threatened.”“Especially in that house,” another volunteered. “Were you toldabout the Adams murder-suicide there?”Pat stared at the bubbles in her champagne glass. “Yes, I’d heardthe story. But it was so long ago, wasn’t it?”“Must we discuss that subject?” Lila broke in. “It is Christmas Eve.”“Wait a minute, ” Gina Butterfield said quickly. “
Adams.Congressman Adams.
Do you mean that Pat is living in the housewhere he killed himself? How did the press miss that?”“What possible connection does it have to the break-in?” Lila snapped.Pat felt the older woman touch her arm in a warning gesture. Washer expression revealing too much?The Ambassador stopped at their group. “Please, help yourselvesto some supper,” he urged.Pat turned to follow him, but the columnist’s question to anotherguest stopped her.“You were living here in Georgetown at the time of the deaths?”“Yes, indeed,” the woman answered. “Just two houses down fromthem. My mother was alive then. We knew the Adams couple quite well.”

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“That was before I came to Washington,” Gina Butterfieldexplained, “but of course I heard all the rumors. Is it true there was alot more to the case than came out?”“Of course it’s true.” The neighbor ’s lips parted in a crafty smile.“Renée’s mother, Mrs. Schuyler, played the
grande dame
in Boston.She told the press that Renée had realized her marriage was a mistakeand planned to divorce Dean Adams.”“Pat, shall we get something to eat?” Lila’s arm urged her away.“Wasn’t she getting the divorce?” Gina asked.“I doubt it,” the other snapped. “She was insane about Dean, crazyjealous of him, resentful of his work. A real dud at parties. Never openedher mouth. And the way she’d practice that damn piano eight hours aday. In warm weather we all went wild listening to it. And believe me,she was no Myra Hess. Her playing was altogether pedestrian.”I won’t believe this, Pat thought. I don’t want to believe it. Whatwas the columnist asking now? Something about Dean Adams havinga reputation as a womanizer?“He was so attractive that women always made a play for him.” Theneighbor shrugged her shoulders, “I was only twenty-three then, and Ihad a huge crush on him. He used to walk with little Kerry in the evening.I made it my business to bump into them regularly, but it didn’t do meany good. I think we’d better get on that buffet line. I’m starved.”“Was Congressman Adams visibly unstable?” Gina asked.“Of course not. Renée’s mother started that talk. She knew whatshe was doing. Remember, both their fingerprints were on the gun.My mother and I always thought that Renée was probably the onewho flipped and shot up the place. And as far as what happened toKerry . . . Listen, those bony pianist’s hands were mighty powerful! Iwouldn’t have put it past her to have hit that poor child that night.”

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