Daddy's Gone a Hunting
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Contents
For John
And our Clark and Conheeney children and grandchildren
With love
Acknowledgments
A
nd so it has come to pass that
Daddy’s Gone A Hunting
has been tucked away in its own little bunting. It seems like a long nine months since I sent the first chapter to my forever editor, Michael Korda, with a cover sheet on which I scrawled, “Here we go again.”
As always the journey can sometimes be smooth. Other days as I stare at the computer I ask myself, “Whatever made you think you could write another book?”
But whether the words are flowing or reluctantly dripping, the fact is that I love the journey, and it is time to thank the people who helped me make it.
Michael Korda suggested the DNA of the plot for this story. At first I had some doubts, but as usual I was drawn to the suggestion as a moth is to a lightbulb. Again and always, thank you, Michael. My dear friend, as our fortieth anniversary of working together looms, I can only say, it is and has been grand.
Almost three years ago, I requested that Kathy Sagan become my in-house editor. We had worked together on the
Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine,
and I knew how absolutely special she is, and how she can balance a thousand details in her head as she receives the book chapter by chapter. Thank you, Kathy.
It’s easy to set a fire. But when you write about it, you have to know who would be leading the investigation. For that information
and guidance, I am so grateful to Fire Marshal Randy Wilson and retired Fire Marshal Richard Ruggiero. If I’ve done anything wrong, it’s because I misunderstood what you told me, but many thanks for the kindness with which you patiently answered my questions.
Anthony Orlando, Esq., an avid tuna fisherman, was my expert about an interesting way to have an accident on a boat in the Atlantic. Many thanks, Anthony.
The behind-the-scenes production and copyediting people are vital in turning a manuscript into a book. My thanks to copy editor Gypsy da Silva, and to art director Jackie Seow for her always intriguing covers.
My readers along the way are still in place, rooting me on. Thanks to Nadine Petry, Agnes Newton, and Irene Clark. It’s always good news when they tell me they’re looking forward to the
next
chapter and ask how soon I’ll have it.
And of course there is Himself, John Conheeney, spouse extraordinaire, who patiently abides with me as I pound the computer for hours on end as the deadline approaches. Not everyone gets a chance at having a second soul mate, and I’m grateful I’m one of the lucky few.
And now to ponder Michael’s suggestion for the next book. After laying out the broad outline of a plot, he said, “I think
I’ll Be Seeing You
would be a good title.” I hesitated, “Michael, I think I used that title already.” We both had to look it up. Yes, I did. So it won’t have that title, but I love the suggestion of the plot.
But before I start I will once again follow the advice of the ancient parchment. “The book is finished. Let the writer rejoice.”
Trust me, I do!
Cheers and blessings,
Mary
Prologue
S
ometimes Kate dreamed about that night, even though it wasn’t a dream. It had really happened. She was three years old and had been curled up on the bed watching Mommy getting dressed. Mommy looked like a princess. She was wearing a beautiful red evening gown and the red satin high heels that Kate loved to try on. Then Daddy came into the bedroom and he picked Kate up and danced her and Mommy onto the balcony even though it was beginning to snow.
I begged him to sing my song and he did, Kate remembered.
Bye baby bunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting,
A rosy wisp of cloud to win,
To wrap his baby bunting in.
The next night Mommy died in the accident, and Daddy never sang that song to her again.
1
Thursday, November 14
A
t four o’clock in the morning, Gus Schmidt dressed silently in the bedroom of his modest home on Long Island, hoping not to disturb his wife of fifty-five years. He was not successful.
Lottie Schmidt’s hand shot out to fumble for the lamp on the night table. Blinking to clear eyes that were heavy with sleep, she noticed that Gus was wearing a heavy jacket, and demanded to know where he was going.
“Lottie, I’m just going over to the plant. Something came up.”
“Is that why Kate called you yesterday?”
Kate was the daughter of Douglas Connelly, the owner of Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions, the furniture complex in nearby Long Island City where Gus had worked until his retirement five years earlier.
Lottie, a slight seventy-five-year-old with thinning white hair, slipped on her glasses and glanced at the clock. “Gus, are you crazy? Do you know what time it is?”