Stillwatch (20 page)
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors)
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?
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.
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.
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 . . .”
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.”
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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