Stillwatch (13 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch

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to think of the dark outside. But at least the police were on the lookoutfor a prowler. She tried to force herself to be calm. Lila had beggedRenée to leave. If her mother had listened, had heeded the warning,could the tragedy have been averted? Should she take Lila’s advicenow and go to a hotel or rent an apartment? “I can’t,” she said aloud.“I simply can’t.” She had so little time to prepare the documentary. Itwould be unthinkable to waste any of that time relocating. The factthat, as a psychic, Lila Thatcher
sensed
trouble did not mean shecould
prevent
it. Pat thought, If Mother had gone to Boston, Daddywould probably have followed her. If someone is determined to findme, he’ll manage it. I’d have to be just as careful in an apartment ashere. And I
will
be careful.Somehow the thought that Lila might have guessed her identitywas comforting. She cared about my mother and father. She knewme well when I was little. After the program is finished I can talk toher, probe her memory. Maybe she can help me piece it all together.But now it was absolutely essential to begin reviewing the Senator ’spersonal files and select some for the program.The spools of film were jumbled together in one of the cartonsToby had brought in. Fortunately, they were all labeled. She began tosort them. Some were of political activities, campaign events,speeches. Finally she found the personal ones she was most interestedin seeing. She started with the film labeled WILLARD ANDABIGAIL—HILLCREST WEDDING RECEPTION.She knew they had eloped before his graduation from HarvardLaw School. Abby had just finished her junior year at Radcliffe.Willard had run for Congress a few months after their wedding. She’dhelped him campaign, then completed college at the University ofRichmond. Apparently there had been a reception when he broughther to Virginia.The film opened on the panorama of a festive garden party.Colorful umbrella-covered tables were arranged against the tree-shaded background. Servants moved among the clusters ofguests—women in summer gowns and picture hats, men in darkjackets and white flannel trousers.In the reception line on the terrace, a breathtaking young Abigailwearing a white silk tunic-style gown stood next to a scholarly-looking

young man. An older woman, obviously Willard Jennings’ mother,was to Abigail’s right. Her aristocratic face was set in taut, angrylines. As the guests moved slowly past her, she introduced them toAbigail. Never once did she look directly at Abigail.What was it the Senator had said? “My mother-in-law alwaysconsidered me the Yankee who stole her son.” Clearly, Abigail hadnot exaggerated.Pat studied Willard Jennings. He was only slightly taller thanAbigail, with sandy hair and a thin, gentle face. There was somethingrather endearingly shy about him, a diffidence in his manner as heshook hands or kissed cheeks.Of the three, only Abigail seemed totally at ease. She smiledconstantly, bent her head forward as if carefully committing namesto memory, reached out her hand to show her rings.If there were only a sound track, Pat thought.The last person had been greeted. Pat watched as Abigail andWillard turned to each other. Willard’s mother stared straight ahead.Now her face seemed less angry than thoughtful.And then she smiled warmly. A tall auburn-haired man approached.He hugged Mrs. Jennings, released her, hugged her again, then turnedto greet the newlyweds. Pat leaned forward. As the man’s face cameinto full view, she stopped the projector.The late arrival was her father, Dean Adams. He looks so young!she thought. He can’t be more than thirty! She tried to swallow overthe lump in her throat. Did she have a vague memory of him lookinglike this? His broad shoulders filled the screen. He was like ahandsome young god, she thought, towering over Willard, exudingmagnetic energy.Feature by feature she studied the face, frozen on the screen,unwavering, open to minute examination. She wondered where hermother was, then realized that when this film was taken, her motherhad still been a student at the Boston Conservatory, still planning acareer in music.Dean Adams was then a freshman Congressman from Wisconsin.He still had the healthy, open look of the Midwest in him, a larger-than-life outdoorsy aura.She pushed the button and the figures sprang to life—Dean Adams

joking with Willard Jennings, Abigail extending her hand to him. Heignored it and kissed her cheek. Whatever he said to Willard, they allbegan to laugh.The camera followed them as they walked down the flagstonesteps of the terrace and began to circulate among the guests. DeanAdams had his hand under the arm of the older Mrs. Jennings. Shewas talking to him animatedly. Clearly they were very fond of eachother.When the film ended, Pat reran it, marking off segments that mightbe used in the program. Willard and Abigail cutting the cake, toastingeach other, dancing the first dance. She couldn’t use any of the footagefrom the reception line—the displeasure on the face of the seniorMrs. Jennings was too obvious. And of course there was no questionof using the film that involved Dean Adams.What had Abigail felt that afternoon? she wondered. That beautifulwhitewashed brick mansion, that gathering of Virginia gentry andshe only a few years removed from the service apartment of theSaunders house in Apple Junction.The Saunders house. Abigail’s mother, Francey Foster. Where wasshe that day? Had she declined to be at her daughter ’s weddingreception, feeling she would seem out of place among these people?Or had Abigail made that decision for her?One by one Pat began to view the other reels, steeling herselfagainst the shock of watching her father regularly appear in thosewhich had been taken on the estate.Even without the dates, it would have been possible to arrange thefilms in a time sequence.The first campaign: professional newsreels of Abigail and Willardhand in hand walking down the street, greeting passersby . . . Abigailand Willard inspecting a new housing development. The announcer ’svoice . . .” As Willard Jennings campaigned this afternoon for theseat to be made vacant by the retirement of his uncle, CongressmanPorter Jennings, he pledged to continue the family tradition of serviceto the constituency.”There was an interview with Abigail. “How does it feel to spendyour honeymoon campaigning?”Abigail’s reply: “I can’t think of a better way than being at myhusband’s side helping him begin his career in public life.”

There was a soft lilt in Abigail’s voice, the unmistakable trace of aSouthern accent. Pat did a rapid calculation. At that point Abigailhad been in Virginia less than three months. She marked that segmentfor the program.There were clips of five campaigns in all. As they progressed,Abigail increasingly played a major role in reelection efforts. Oftenher speech would begin “My husband is in Washington doing a jobfor you. Unlike many others, he is not taking time from the importantwork of the Congress to campaign for himself. I’m glad to be able totell you just a few of his accomplishments.”The films of social events at the estate were hardest to watch.WILLARD’S 35TH BIRTHDAY.Two young couples posing withAbigail and Willard—Jack and Jackie Kennedy and Dean and RenéeAdams . . . both recent newlyweds . . .It was the first time Pat had seen a film of her mother. Renée waswearing a pale green gown; her dark hair fell loosely on her shoulders.There was a hesitancy about her, but when she smiled up at herhusband, her expression was adoring. Pat found she could not bear todwell on it. She was glad to let the film unwind. A few frames later,just the Kennedys and Jennings were posing together. She made anote on her pad. That will be a wonderful clip for the program, shethought bitterly. The pre-Camelot days minus the embarrassment ofCongressman Dean Adams and the wife he murdered.The last film she viewed was of Willard Jennings’ funeral. In itwas a newsreel clip that opened outside the National Cathedral. Theannouncer’s voice was subdued. “The funeral cortege of CongressmanWillard Jennings has just arrived. The great and the near great aregathered inside to bid a final farewell to the Virginia legislator whodied when his chartered plane crashed en route to a speakingengagement. Congressman Jennings and the pilot, George Graney,were killed instantly.“The young widow is being escorted by Senator John FitzgeraldKennedy of Massachusetts. Congressman Jennings’ mother, Mrs.Stuart Jennings, is escorted by Congressman Dean Adams ofWisconsin. Senator Kennedy and Congressman Adams were WillardJennings’ closest friends.”

Pat watched as Abigail emerged from the first car, her facecomposed, a black veil covering her blond hair. She wore a simplycut black silk suit and a string of pearls. The handsome young Senatorfrom Massachusetts gravely offered her his arm.The Congressman’s mother was obviously grief stricken. Whenshe was assisted from the limousine, her eyes fell on the flag-drapedcasket. She clasped her hands together and shook her head slightly ina gesture of agonized rejection. As Pat watched, her father slid hisarm under Mrs. Jennings’ elbow and clasped her hand in his. Slowlythe procession moved into the cathedral.She had seen as much as she could absorb in one evening. Clearlythe human interest material she had been seeking was amply presentin the old film clips. She turned out the lights in the library and wentinto the hall.The hall was drafty. There had been no windows open in the library.She checked the dining room, kitchen and foyer. Everything wasclosed and locked.But there was a draft.A sense of apprehension made Pat’s breath come faster. The door tothe living room was closed. She put her hand on it. The space betweenthe door and the frame was icy cold. Slowly she opened the door. Ablast of cold air assaulted her. She reached for the chandelier switch.The French doors to the patio were open. A pane of glass that hadbeen cut from its frame was lying on the carpet.And then she saw it.Lolling against the fireplace, the right leg twisted under it, thewhite apron soaked with blood, was a Raggedy Ann doll. Sinking toher knees, Pat stared at it. A clever hand had painted downward curveson the stitched mouth, added tears to the cheeks and drawn lines onthe forehead so that the typical Raggedy Ann smiling face had beentransformed to a pain-filled weeping image.She held her hand to her mouth to force back a shriek. Who hadbeen here? Why? Half-hidden by the soiled apron was a sheet of paperpinned to the doll’s dress. She reached for it; her fingers recoiling atthe touch of the crusted blood. The same kind of cheap typing paper as

the other note; the same small, slanted printing.
This is your lastwarning. There must not be a program glorifying Abigail Jennings.
A creaking sound. One of the patio doors was moving. Wassomeone there? Pat jumped up. But it was the wind that was pushingthe door back and forth. She ran across the room, yanked the doorstogether and turned the lock. But that was useless. The hand that hadcut out the pane could reach through the empty frame, unlock thedoors again. Maybe the intruder was still there, still hiding in thegarden behind the evergreens.Her hands shook as she dialed the police emergency number. Theofficer’s voice was reassuring. “We’ll send a squad car right away.”As she waited, Pat reread the note. This was the fourth time she’dbeen warned away from the program. Suddenly suspicious, shewondered if the threats were valid. Was it possible this was somekind of “dirty tricks” campaign to make the Senator ’s documentary asubject of gossip, to smear it with outlandish, distracting publicity?What about the doll? Shocking to her because of the memory itevoked, but basically a Raggedy Ann with a garishly painted face.On closer examination, it seemed bizarre rather than frightening. Eventhe bloodied apron might be a crude attempt to horrify. If I were areporter covering this story, I’d have a picture of that thing on thefront page of tomorrow’s newspaper, she thought.The wail of the police siren decided her. Quickly she unpinnedthe note and left it on the mantelpiece. Rushing into the library, shedragged the carton from under the table and dropped the doll into it.The grisly apron sickened her. The doorbell was ringing—a steady,persistent peal. Impulsively she untied the apron, pulled it off andburied it deep in the carton. Without it the doll resembled a hurt child.She shoved the carton back under the table and hurried to admitthe policemen.

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