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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors)

Stillwatch (33 page)

BOOK: Stillwatch
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he
had a roving eye.”There were persistent rumors that Renée, not Dean, had fired thegun. At the inquest, Renée’s mother had attempted to squelch thatspeculation. “It is not a mystery,” she said, “it is a tragedy. Only a fewdays before she was murdered, my daughter told me she was cominghome with Kerry and would file for divorce and custody. I believethat her decision triggered his violence.”She could have been right, Pat thought. I remember tripping overa body. Why am I sure it was Mother ’s, not his?
She wasn’t sure.
She studied the informal snapshots that covered most of the secondpage. Willard Jennings was so scholarly-looking. Catherine Graneyhad said that he wanted to give up Congress and accept a collegepresidency. And Abigail had been an absolutely beautiful young

 

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woman. There was one rather blurred snapshot sandwiched in amongthe others. Pat glanced at it several times, then moved the paper sothat the light shone directly on it.It was a candid shot that had been taken on the beach. Her father,her mother and Abigail were in a group with two other people. Hermother was absorbed in a book. The two strangers were lying onblankets, their eyes closed. The camera had caught her father and Abigaillooking at each other. There was no mistaking the air of intimacy.There was a magnifying glass in the desk. Pat found it and held itover the picture. Magnified, Abigail’s expression became rapturous.Her father’s eyes were tender as they looked down at her. Their handswere touching.Pat folded the newspaper. What did the pictures mean? A casualflirtation? Her father had been attractive to women, probablyencouraged their attention. Abigail had been a beautiful young widow.Maybe that was all it amounted to.As always when she was troubled, Pat turned to music. In theliving room she plugged in the Christmas-tree lights and impulsivelyswitched off the chandelier. At the piano she let her fingers rove overthe keys until she found the soft notes of Beethoven’s
Pathétique
.Sam had been himself again today, the way she’d rememberedhim, strong and confident. He needed time. Of course he did. So didshe. Two years ago they’d felt so torn and guilty about theirrelationship. Now it could be different.Her father and Abigail Jennings. Had they been involved? Had shejust been one in a string of casual affairs? Her father might have beena ladies’ man. Why not? He was certainly attractive, and it was thestyle among rising young politicians then—look at the Kennedys. . . .Eleanor Brown. Had the lawyer been able to arrange bail for her?Sam hadn’t phoned. Eleanor is innocent, Pat told herself—I am sureof it.Liszt’s
Liebestraum.
That was what she was playing now. And theBeethoven. She had unconsciously chosen both those pieces the othernight as well. Had her mother played them here? The mood of bothof them was the same, plaintive and lonely.

 

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“Renée, listen to me. Stop playing and listen to me.” “I can’t. Letme alone.” The voices—his troubled and urgent, hers despairing.
They quarreled so much, Pat thought. After the quarrels she wouldplay for hours. But sometimes, when she was happy, she’d put me onthe bench next to her.
“No, Kerry, this way. Put your fingers here . .. She can pick out the notes when I hum them. She’s a natural.”
Pat felt her hands beginning the opening notes of Mendelsohn’s
Opus 30, Number 3,
another piece that suggested pain. She stood up.There were too many ghosts in this room.Sam phoned just as she was starting up the stairs again. “Theywon’t release Eleanor Brown. They’re afraid she’ll jump bail. It seemsthe man she’s living with is a suspect in some nursing-home deaths.”“Sam, I can’t stand thinking of that girl in a cell.”“Frank Crowley, the lawyer I sent, thinks she’s telling the truth.He’s getting a transcript of her trial in the morning. We’ll do what wecan for her, Pat. It may not be much, I’m afraid. . . . How are you?”“Just about to turn in.”“The place locked up?”“Bolted tight.”“Good. Pat, it may be all over but the shouting. Quite a few of ushave been invited to the White House tomorrow night. The President’smaking an important announcement. Your name is on the media list.I checked.”“Sam, do you think . . .?”“I just don’t know. The money’s on Abigail, but the President isreally playing it close. None of the possible appointees has been givenSecret Service protection yet. That’s always a tip-off. I guess thePresident wants to keep everyone guessing until the last minute. Butno matter who gets it, you and I will go out and celebrate.”“Suppose you don’t agree with his choice?”“At this point I don’t give a damn whom he chooses. I’ve gotother things in mind. I want to celebrate just being with you. I wantto catch up on the last two years. After we stopped seeing each other,the only way I could get over missing you was to tell myself why itwouldn’t have worked even if I was free. After a while, I guess Istarted to believe my own lies.”Pat’s laugh was shaky. She blinked back the sudden moisture inher eyes. “Apology accepted.”

 

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“Then I want to talk about not wasting any more of our lives.”“I thought you needed more time. . . .”“Neither of us does.” Even his voice was different—confident,strong, the way she had remembered it all those nights she had lainawake thinking about him. “Pat, I fell hopelessly in love with youthat day on Cape Cod. Nothing will ever change that. I’m so damngrateful you waited for me.”“I had no choice. Oh, God, Sam, it’s going to be marvelous. I loveyou so.”For minutes after they said goodbye, Pat stood with her hand restingon the telephone as though by touching it, she could hear again everysingle word Sam had uttered. Finally, still smiling softly, she startedup the stairs. A sudden creaking sound overhead startled her. Sheknew what it was. That one board on the upstairs landing which alwaysmoved when she stepped on it.Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself.The hallway was poorly lit by flame-shaped bulbs in wall sconces.She started to go into her bedroom, then impulsively turned and walkedtoward the back of the house. Deliberately she stepped on the looseboard and listened as it responded with a distinct creaking. I’d swearthat’s the sound I heard. She went into her old bedroom. Her footstepsechoed on the uncarpeted floor. The room was stuffy and hot.The door of the guest bedroom was not quite closed. It was muchcooler in there. She felt a draft and walked over to the window. Thewindow was open from the top. She tried to close it, then realized thesash cord was broken. That’s what it is, she thought; there’s probablyenough draft to make the door sway. Even so, she opened the closetand glanced at the shelves of bedding and linen.In her room she undressed quickly and got into bed. It wasridiculous to still feel so jittery. Think about Sam; think about the lifethat they would have together.Her last impression before she began to doze was the strangefeeling that she was not alone. It didn’t make sense, but she was tootired to think about it.

 

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With a sigh of relief, Catherine Graney reversed the sign on theshop door from “OPEN” to “CLOSED.” For the day after Christmas,business had been unexpectedly brisk. A buyer from Texas had boughtthe pair of Rudolstadt figure candelabra, the marquetry game tablesand the Stouk carpet. It had been a most impressive sale.Catherine turned off the lights in her shop and went upstairs to herapartment, Sligo at her heels. She had laid a fire that morning. Nowshe touched a match to the paper under the kindling. Sligo settled inhis favorite spot.Going into the kitchen, she began to fix dinner. Next week whenyoung George was here she’d enjoy cooking big meals. But a chopand a salad were all she wanted now.George had called her the day before to wish her a merry Christmasand to tell her the news. He’d been promoted to major. “Twenty-seven years old and an oak leaf already” she’d exclaimed. “By God,would your Dad be proud.”Catherine put her chop under the broiler. One more good reasonnot to let Abigail Jennings smear George senior ’s name any longer.She wondered what Abigail had thought of the letter. She had workedand reworked it before mailing it Christmas Eve.

 

I must insist you take the opportunity on the upcomingprogram to publicly acknowledge that there has neverbeen a shred of proof to indicate that pilot error causedyour husband’s fatal accident. It is not enough to nolonger smear George Graney’s reputation: you mustset the record straight. If you do not, I will sue you forlibel and reveal your true relationship with WillardJennings.

 

At eleven o’clock she watched the news. At eleven-thirty Sligonuzzled her hand. “I know,” she groaned. “Okay, get your leash.”The evening was dark. Earlier there’d been some stars, but nowthe sky was clouded over. The breeze was raw, and Catherine pulledup the collar of her coat. “This is going to be one quick walk,” shetold Sligo.There was a path through the woods near her house. Usually sheand Sligo cut through there and then walked back around the block.

 

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Now he strained at the leash, rushing her through the path to hisfavorite bushes and trees. Then he stopped abruptly and a low growlcame from his throat.“Come on,” Catherine said impatiently. All that she’d need wouldbe for him to go after a skunk.Sligo leaped forward. Bewildered, Catherine watched as a handshot out and grabbed the old animal in a lock around the neck. Therewas a sickening cracking sound, and Sligo’s limp body dropped ontothe hardened snow.Catherine tried to scream, but no sound came. The hand that hadsnapped Sligo’s neck was raised over her head, and in the instantbefore she died, Catherine Graney finally understood what hadhappened that long-ago day.

 

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37

 

 

 

On the morning of December 27, Sam got up at seven, reread the transcriptof the CAA investigation into the crash that had killed CongressmanWillard Jennings, underlined a particular sentence and phoned JackCarlson. “How are you coming with that report on Toby Gorgone?”“I’ll have it by eleven.”“Are you free for lunch? I have something to show you.” It wasthe sentence from the transcript:
“Congressman Jennings’ chauffeur,Toby Gorgone, placed his luggage on the plane.”
Sam wanted toread the report on Toby before discussing it.They agreed to meet at the Gangplank Restaurant at noon.Next Sam phoned Frank Crowley, the attorney he’d hired torepresent Eleanor Brown, and invited him to the same lunch. “Canyou have the transcript of Eleanor Brown’s trial with you?”“I’ll make sure I have it, Sam.”The coffee was perking. Sam poured a cup and turned on thekitchen radio. Most of the nine-o ’clock news was over. Theweatherman was now promising a partly sunny day. The temperaturewould be in the low thirties. And then the headlines were recapped,including the fact that the body of a prominent antiques dealer, Mrs.Catherine Graney of Richmond, had been found in a wooded areanear her home. Her dog’s neck had been broken. Police believed theanimal had died trying to defend her.Catherine Graney dead! Just as she’d been about to blow open apotential scandal involving Abigail. “I don’t believe in coincidence,”Sam said aloud. “I just don’t believe in it.”For the rest of the morning he agonized over his suspicions. Several

 

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times he reached for the phone to call the White House. Each time hewithdrew his hand. He had absolutely no proof that Toby Gorgonewas anything but what he appeared to be, a devoted bodyguard-chauffeur for Abigail. Even if Toby was guilty of the crime, he hadabsolutely no proof that Abigail was aware of his activities.The President would announce the appointment of Abigail thatnight. Sam was sure of it. But the confirmation hearings were severalweeks away. There would be time to launch a thorough investigation.And this time I’ll make sure there’s no whitewash, he thought grimly.Somehow Sam was sure that Toby was responsible for the threatsto Pat. If he had anything to hide, he wouldn’t want her digging intothe past.If he turned out to be the one who had threatened her . . .Sam clenched his hands into fists. He was no longer thinking ofhimself as a grandfather-to-be.Abigail twisted her hands nervously. “We should have left earlier,”she said, “we’re in all the traffic. Step on it.”“Don’t worry, Senator,” Toby said soothingly. “They can’t starttaping without you. How did you sleep?”“I kept waking up. All I could think of was ‘I am going to be VicePresident of the United States.’ Turn on the radio. Let’s see whatthey’re saying about me. . . .”The eight-thirty CBS news was just beginning. “Rumors persistthat the reason the President has called a news conference for thisevening is to announce his choice of either Senator Abigail Jenningsor Senator Claire Lawrence as Vice President of the United States,the first woman to be so honored.” And then: “In a tragic coincidence,it has been learned that Mrs. Catherine Graney, the Richmond antiquesdealer found murdered while walking her dog, is the widow of thepilot who died twenty-seven years ago in a plane crash withCongressman Willard Jennings. Abigail Jennings began her politicalcareer when she was appointed to complete her husband’s term. . . .”“Toby!”He glanced into the rearview mirror. Abigail looked shocked.“Toby, how awful.”“Yeah, it’s lousy.” He watched as Abigail’s expression hardened.
BOOK: Stillwatch
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