Stillwatch (10 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch

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This
was proof? Pat thought. She looked up, and her eyes metMargaret Langley’s hopeful gaze. “Don’t you see?” Margaret said.“Eleanor wrote to me the very night of the supposed theft. Why wouldshe make up that story?”Pat could find no way to soften what she had to say. “She couldhave been setting up an alibi for herself.”“If you’re trying to give yourself an alibi, you don’t write tosomeone who may not get the letter for months,” she said spiritedly.Then she sighed. “Well, I tried. I just hope you’ll have the goodnessnot to rake up that misery again. Eleanor apparently is trying to makesome sort of life for herself and deserves to be let alone.”Pat looked at the other letter Margaret was holding. “She wroteyou after she disappeared?”“Yes. Six years ago this came.”Pat took the letter. The typeface was worn, the paper cheap. Thenote read:

Dear Miss Langley. Please understand that it is betterif I have no contact with anyone from the past. If I amfound, I will have to go back to prison. I swear to you

I never touched that money. I have been very ill butam trying to rebuild my life. Some days are good Ican almost believe it is possible to become well again.Other times I am so frightened, so afraid that someonewill recognize me. I think of you often. I love and missyou.

Eleanor ’s signature was wavering, the letters uneven—a starkcontrast to the firm and graceful penmanship of the earlier letter.It took all Pat’s persuasive powers to coax Margaret Langley to lether take the letters. “We are planning to include the case in thisprogram,” she said, “but even if Eleanor is recognized and someoneturns her in, perhaps we can have her parole reinstated. Then shewouldn’t have to hide for the rest of her life.”“I would love to see her again,” Margaret whispered. Now tearsbrightened her eyes. “She’s the nearest thing I ever had to a child ofmy own. Wait—let me show you her picture.”On the bottom shelf of the bookcase were stacks of yearbooks. “Ihave one for every year I was in school,” she explained. “But I keepEleanor ’s on top.” She riffled through the pages. “She graduatedseventeen years ago. Isn’t she sweet-looking?”The girl in the photo had fine, mousy hair; soft, innocent eyes.The caption read:

Eleanor Brown —Hobby: painting. Ambition:secretary.Activities: choir. Sport: roller skating.Prediction: right-handgal for executive, marry young,two kids. Favorite thing: Eveningin Paris perfume.

“My God,” Pat said, “how cruel.”“Exactly. That’s why I wanted her to leave here.”Pat shook her head, and her glance caught the other yearbooks.“Wait a minute,” she said, “by any chance do you have the bookSenator Jennings is in?”“Of course. Let’s see—that would be over here somewhere.”The second book Margaret Langley checked was the right one. Inthis photo Abigail’s hair was in a pageboy on her shoulders. Her lipswere parted slightly as though she had obediently followed thephotographer’s direction to smile. Her eyes, wide and thicklashed,were calm and inscrutable. The caption read:

Abigail Foster (“Abby”)—Hobby: attending statelegislature. Ambition: politics. Activities: debating.Prediction: will become state assemblywoman fromApple Junction. Favorite thing: any book in the library.

“State assemblywoman,” Pat exclaimed; “that’s great!”A half-hour later she left, the Senator ’s yearbook under her arm.As she got into the car, she decided that she’d send a camera crew toget some background footage of the town, including Main Street, theSaunders home, the high school and the highway with the bus toAlbany. Under the footage she’d have Senator Jennings speak brieflyabout growing up there and her early interest in politics. They’d closethat segment with the picture of the Senator as Miss New York State,then her yearbook picture and her explanation that going on toRadcliffe instead of Atlantic City was the most important decision ofher life.With the unfamiliar and disquieting feeling that somehow she wasglossing over the full story, Pat drove around town for an hour andmarked locations for the camera crew. Then she checked out of theApple Motel, drove to Albany, turned in the rental car and with reliefgot on the plane back to Washington.

Washington is beautiful, Pat thought, from any view, at any hour. Bynight the spotlights on the Capitol and monuments seem to impart asense of tranquil agelessness. She’d been gone from here only thirtyhours, yet felt as though days had passed since she’d left. The planelanded with a slight bump and taxied smoothly across the field.As she opened the door to her house, Pat heard the phone ringingand scrambled to answer it. It was Luther Pelham. He sounded edgy.“Pat, I’m glad I’ve reached you. You never did let me know whereyou were staying in Apple Junction. When I finally tracked you down,you had checked out.”“I’m sorry. I should have phoned you this morning.”“Abigail is making a major speech before the final vote on thebudget tomorrow. She suggested you spend the entire day at her office.She gets in at six-thirty.”“I’ll be there.”“How did you do in the hometown?”“Interesting. We can get some sympathetic footage that won’t raisethe Senator ’s hackles.”“I’d like to hear about it. I’ve just finished dinner at the JockeyClub and can be at your place in ten minutes.” The phone clicked inher ear.She had barely time to change into slacks and a sweater before hearrived. The library was cluttered with the Senator ’s material. Patbrought him back to the living room and offered him a drink. Whenshe returned with it, he was studying the candelabrum on the mantel.“Beautiful example of Sheffield,” he told her. “Everything in the roomis beautiful.”In Boston, she had had a studio apartment similar to those of other

young professionals. It had not occurred to her that the costlyfurnishings and accessories in this house might arouse comment.She tried to sound casual. “My folks are planning to move into acondominium soon. We have an attic full of family stuff and Mothertold me it’s now or never if I want it.”Luther settled on the couch and reached for the glass she placed infront of him. “All I know is that at your age I was living at the Y.” Hepatted the cushion beside him. “Sit here and tell me all about Our Town.”Oh, no, she thought. There’ll be no passes tonight, Luther Pelham.Ignoring the suggestion, she sat on the chair across the table from thecouch and proceeded to give Luther an accounting of what she hadlearned in Apple Junction. It was not edifying.“Abigail may have been the prettiest girl in those parts,” sheconcluded, “but she certainly wasn’t the most popular. I can understandnow why she’s nervous about stirring things up there. Jeremy Saunderswill bad-mouth her till the day he dies. She’s right to be afraid thatcalling attention to her being Miss New York State will get the old-timers again talking about how they contributed their two bucks todress her up for Atlantic City and then she bugged out. Miss AppleJunction! Here, let me show you the picture.”Luther whistled when he saw it. “Hard to believe that blimp couldbe Abigail’s mother.” He thought better of the remark. “All right.She has a valid reason for wanting to forget Apple Junction andeveryone in it. I thought you told me you could salvage some human-interest stuff.”“We’ll cut it to the bone. Background shots of the town, the school,the house where she grew up; then interview the school principal,Margaret Langley, about how Abigail used to go to Albany to sit inon the legislature. Wind up with her school picture in the yearbook.It’s not much, but it’s something. The Senator ’s got to be made tounderstand she’s not a UFO who landed on earth at age twenty-one.Anyhow, she agreed to cooperate in this documentary. We didn’t giveher creative control of it, I hope.”“Certainly not creative control, but some veto power. Don’t forget,Pat. We’re not just doing this
about
her; we’re doing it
with
her, andher cooperation in letting us use her personal memorabilia is essential.”

He stood up. “Since you insist on keeping that table between us . . .”He walked around it, and came over to her, put his hands on hers.Quickly she jumped to her feet, but she was not fast enough. Hepulled her against him. “You’re a beautiful girl, Pat.” He lifted herchin. His lips pressed down on hers. His tongue was insistent.She tried to pull away, but his grip was viselike. Finally shemanaged to dig her elbows into his chest. “Let go of me.”He smiled. “Pat, why don’t you show me the rest of the house?”There was no mistaking his meaning. “It’s pretty late,” she said,“but on the way out you can poke your head into the library anddining room. I do sort of wish you’d wait until I’ve had a chance toget pictures hung and whatever.”“Where’s your bedroom?”“Upstairs.”“I’d like to see it.”“As a matter of fact, even when it’s fixed up, I’d like you to thinkof the second floor of this house the way you had to think about thesecond floor of the Barbizon for Women in your salad days in NewYork: off limits for gentlemen callers.”“I’d rather you didn’t joke, Pat.”“I’d rather we treat this conversation as a joke. Otherwise I canput it another way. I don’t sleep on the job nor do I sleep off the job.Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not next year.”“I see.”She preceded him down the hall. In the foyer she handed him hiscoat.As he put it on, he gave her an acid smile. “Sometimes peoplewho have your kind of insomnia problem find it impossible to handletheir responsibilities,” he said. “They often discover they’re happierat some backwoods station than in the big time. Does Apple Junctionhave a cable station? You might want to check it out, Pat.”

Promptly at ten to six, Toby let himself in the back door of Abigail’shouse in McLean, Virginia. The large kitchen was filled with gourmet

equipment. Abigail’s idea of relaxing was to spend an eveningcooking. Depending on her mood, she’d prepare six or seven differentkinds of hors d’oeuvre or fish and meat casseroles. Other nights she’dmake a half-dozen different sauces, or biscuits and cakes that wouldmelt in your mouth. Then she’d pop everything into the freezer. Butwhen she gave a party she never admitted that she’d preparedeverything herself. She hated any association with the word “cook.”Abigail herself ate very little. Toby knew she was haunted by thememory of her mother, poor old Francey, that groaning tub of a womanwhose trunk like legs settled into fat ankles and feet so wide it washard to find shoes to fit them.Toby had an apartment over the garage. Nearly every morninghe’d come in and start the coffeepot and squeeze fresh juice. Lateron, after he had Abby settled in her office, he’d have a big breakfast,and if she wasn’t going to need him, he’d find a poker game.Abigail came into the kitchen, still fastening a crescent-shapedgold pin on her lapel. She was wearing a purple suit that brought outthe blueness of her eyes.“You look great, Abby,” he pronounced.Her smile was quick and instantly gone. Whenever Abby had abig speech planned in the Senate she was like this—nervous as a catbefore it, ready to be irritated at anything that went wrong. “Let’s notwaste time on coffee,” she snapped.“You’ve got plenty of time,” Toby assured her. “I’ll have you there bysix-thirty. Drink your coffee. You know how crabby you get without it.”Later he left both cups in the sink, knowing Abby would be irritatedif he took time to rinse them out.The car was at the front entrance. When Abby went to get her coatand briefcase, he hurried outside and turned on the heater.By six-ten they were on the parkway. Even for a day when shewas making a speech, Abby was unusually tense. She’d gone to bedearly the night before. He wondered if she’d been able to sleep.He heard Abby sigh and snap her briefcase closed. “If I don’t knowwhat I’m going to say by now I might as well forget it,” shecommented. “If this damn budget doesn’t get voted on soon, we’ll

still be in session on Christmas Day. But I
won’t
let them ax any moreof the entitlement programs.”Toby watched in the rearview mirror as she poured some coffeefrom a thermos. From her attitude he knew she was ready to talk.“Did you get a good rest last night, Senator?” Once in a while,even when they were alone, he threw in the “Senator.” It remindedher that no matter what, he knew his place.“No, I didn’t. I started thinking about this program. I was stupid tolet myself get talked into it. It’s going to backfire. I feel it in my bones.”Toby frowned. He had a healthy respect for Abby’s bones. He still hadn’ttold Abby that Pat Traymore lived in the Dean Adams house. She’d getreal superstitious about that. This wasn’t the time for her to lose her cool.Still, at some point she’d have to know. It was bound to come out. Tobywas starting to get a lousy feeling about the program himself.

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