Stillwatch (15 page)

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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch
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Senator in the office.
That’s
against the law. So what the big shotdoes is visit the Senator, let him or her know he’s planning to make abig donation, and then takes a walk with the Senator ’s aide on theCapitol grounds and turns over the money there. The Senator nevertouches it, but
knows
about it. It’s put right in the campaign funds.But because it’s in cash, if the competition gets elected it isn’t soobvious. You know what I mean?”“I see.”“Don’t get me wrong. It’s legal. But Phil had taken some bigdonations for Abigail, and of course Eleanor knew about them. Maybeshe had some boyfriend who wanted to make a killing and onlyborrowed the money. Then when they looked for it so fast, she had tocome up with an excuse.”“She just doesn’t seem that sophisticated to me,” Pat observed,thinking of the high school yearbook picture.“Well, like the prosecutor said, still water runs deep. I hate to rushyou, Pat, but the Senator will be needing me.”“There are just one or two more questions.”The phone rang. “I’ll make this fast.” Pat picked it up. “Pat Traymore.”“How are you, my dear?” She instantly recognized the precise,overly cultivated voice.“Hello, Mr. Saunders.” Too late she remembered that Toby knewJeremy Saunders. Toby’s head jerked up. Would he associate the nameSaunders with the Jeremy Saunders he’d known in Apple Junction?“I tried to get you several times early last evening,” Saunderspurred. He was not drunk this time. She was sure of it.“You didn’t leave your name.”“Recorded messages can be heard by the wrong ears. Don’t youagree?”“Just a moment, please.” Pat looked at Toby. He was smoking hiscigar thoughtfully arid seemed indifferent to the call. Maybe he hadn’tput together the name Saunders with a man he hadn’t seen in thirty-five years.“Toby, this is a private call. I wonder if . . .”He stood up quickly before she could finish. “Want me towait outside? ”

 

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“No, Toby. Just hang up when I get to the kitchen extension?”Deliberately she spoke his name again so that Jeremy would hearand not begin talking until he was sure only Pat was on the line.Toby accepted the receiver casually, but he was certain it wasJeremy Saunders. Why was he calling Pat Traymore? Had she beenin touch with him? Abigail would hit the ceiling. From the other endof the phone he heard the faint sound of breathing. That stinkingphony, he thought. If he tries to smear Abby . . .!Pat’s voice came on. “Toby, would you mind hanging up?”“Sure, Pat.” He made his voice hearty. He hung up the receiver witha definite click and didn’t dare to try to ease it off the hook again.“
Toby,
” Jeremy Saunders said, his voice incredulous. “Don’t tellme you’re hobnobbing with Toby Gorgone.”“He’s helping me with some of the background material on theprogram,” Pat replied. She kept her voice low.“Of course. He’s been there every step of the way with ourstateswoman, hasn’t he? Pat, I wanted to call because I realize thatthe combination of vodka and your sympathy made me ratherindiscreet. I do insist that our conversation remain totally confidential.My wife and daughter would not enjoy having the shabby little taleof my involvement with Abigail aired on national television.”“I have no intention of quoting anything you told me,” Pat replied.“The
Mirror
might be interested in gossipy personal material, but Iassure you, I’m not.”“Very good. I’m greatly relieved.” Saunders’ voice became friendlier.“I saw Edwin Shepherd at the club. He tells me he gave you a copy ofthe newspaper showing Abby as the beauty queen. I’d forgotten aboutthat. I do hope you plan to use the picture of Miss Apple Junction withher adoring mother. That one’s worth a thousand words”“I really don’t think so,” Pat said coldly. His presumption hadturned her off. “I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to work, Mr. Saunders.”She hung up and went back into the library. Toby was sitting inthe chair where she’d left him, but there was something differentabout him. The genial manner was gone. He seemed distracted andleft almost immediately.

 

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After he had gone, she flung open the window to get rid of thecigar smell. But the odor hung in the room. She realized that onceagain she felt acutely uneasy and jumped at every sound.

 

Back at the office, Toby went directly to Philip. “How’s it going?”Philip raised his eyes heavenward. “The Senator is in a state aboutthe story. She just gave Luther Pelham hell for ever talking her intothat documentary. She’d kill it in a minute if the publicity weren’talready out. How did it go with Pat Traymore?”Toby wasn’t ready to talk about Apple Junction, but he did askPhilip to look into the question of the rental of the Adams house,which was also on his mind.He knocked on the door of Abigail’s office. She was quiet now—too quiet. That meant she was worried. She had the afternoon editionof the paper. “Look at this,” she told him.A famous Washington gossip column’s lead item began:

 

Wags on Capitol Hill are placing bets on the identityof the person who threatened Patricia Traymore’s lifeif she goes ahead with the documentary on SenatorJennings. Seems everyone has a candidate. Thebeautiful senior Senator from Virginia has a reputationamong her colleagues as an abrasive perfectionist.

 

As Toby watched, Abigail Jennings, her face savage with fury,crumpled the paper in her hand and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.

 

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Sam Kingsley snapped the last stud in his dress shirt and twisted his tieinto a bow. He glanced at the clock on the mantel over his bedroom fireplaceand decided he had more than enough time for a Scotch and soda.His Watergate apartment commanded a sweeping view of the Potomac.From the side window of the living room he looked down at the KennedyCenter. Some evenings when he arrived late from the office, he’d go inand catch the second and third acts of a favorite opera.After Janice died, there’d been no reason to keep the big house inChevy Chase. Karen was living in San Francisco, and she and herhusband spent their holidays with her in-laws in Palm Springs. Samhad given Karen her choice of dishes, silver, bric-a-brac and furnitureand sold most of the rest. He had wanted to start with a clean slate inthe hope that his pervading sense of weariness might subside.Sam carried his glass to the window. The Potomac was shimmeringfrom the lights of the apartment building and the floodlights ofKennedy Center. Potomac fever. He had it. So did most of the peoplewho came here. Would Pat catch it as well? he wondered.He was damn worried about her. His FBI friend Jack Carlson hadflatly told him: “First she gets a phone call, then a note under thedoor, then another phone call and finally a break-in with a warningnote left in her home. You figure out what might happen next time.“You’ve got a full-blown psycho who’s about to explode. Thatslanted printing is a dead giveaway-and compare these notes. They’rewritten only a few days apart. Some of the letters on the second one arepractically illegible. His stress is building to a breaking point. And oneway or another, that stress seems to be directed at your Pat Traymore.”

 

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His
Pat Traymore. In those last months before Janice died, he’dmanaged to keep Pat from his thoughts. He’d always be grateful forthat. He and Janice had managed to recapture something of their earlycloseness. She had died secure in his love.Afterward, he had felt drained, exhausted, lifeless,
old
. Too oldfor a twenty-seven-year-old girl and all that a life with her wouldinvolve. He simply wanted peace.Then he’d read that Pat was coming to work in Washington and he’ddecided to phone and invite her to dinner. There was no way he couldavoid her, or want to avoid her, and he did not intend their first meetingto be constrained by the presence of others. So he’d asked her out.He had soon realized that whatever was between them hadn’t goneaway, but was still simmering, waiting to blaze up—and that waswhat she wanted.But what did
he
want?“I don’t know,” Sam said aloud. Jack’s warning rang in his ears:Suppose something happened to Pat?The house phone rang. “Your car is here, Congressman,” thedoorman announced.“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”Sam put his half-empty glass on the bar and went into the bedroomto get his jacket and coat. His movements were brisk. In a few minuteshe’d be with Pat.

 

Pat decided to wear an emerald satin gown with a beaded top to theWhite House dinner. It was an Oscar de la Renta that Veronica had insistedshe purchase for the Boston Symphony Ball. Now she was glad she’dbeen talked into it. With it she wore her grandmother’s emeralds.“You don’t look the part of the girl reporter,” Sam commentedwhen he picked her up.“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment.” Sam waswearing a navy blue cashmere coat and white silk scarf over his dinnerjacket. What was it Abigail had called him? One of the most eligiblebachelors in Washington?“It was intended as one. No more phone calls or notes?” he asked.

 

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“No.” She had not yet told him about the doll and didn’t want tobring it up now.“Good. I’ll feel better when that program is finished.”“
You’ll
feel better.”In the limousine on the way to the White House, he asked herabout her activities.“Work,” she said promptly. “Luther agreed with the film clips Iselected and we’ve completed the storyboard. He’s adamant aboutnot crossing the Senator by including her early life. He’s turning what’ssupposed to be a documentary into a paean of praise that’s going tobe journalistically unsound.”“And you can’t do anything about it?”“I could quit. But I didn’t come down here to quit after the firstweek—not if I can help it.”They were at Eighteenth Street and PennsylvaniaAvenue.“Sam, was there ever a hotel on that corner?”“Yes, the old Roger Smith. They tore it down about ten years ago.”
When I was little I went to a Christmas party there. I wore a redvelvet dress and white tights and black patent leather slippers. Ispiledchocolate ice cream on the dress and cried and Daddy said, “It’s notyour fault, Kerry.”
The limousine was drawing up to the northwest gate of the WhiteHouse. They waited in line as each car stopped for the security check.When it was their turn, a respectful guard confirmed their names onthe guest list.Inside, the mansion was festive with holiday decorations. TheMarine Band was playing in the marble foyer. Waiters were offeringchampagne. Pat recognized familiar faces among the assembledguests: film stars, Senators, Cabinet members, socialites, a grandedame of the theater.“Have you ever been here before?” Sam asked.“On a school trip when I was sixteen. We took the tour and theytold us that Abigail Adams used to hang her wash in what is now theEast Room.”“You won’t find any laundry there now. Come on. If you’re goingto have a career in Washington, you’d better get to know some people.”

 

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A moment later he was introducing her to the President’s presssecretary.Brian Salem was an amiable, rotund man. “Are you trying to pushus off the front page, Miss Traymore?” he asked, smiling.So even in the Oval Office the break-in had been discussed.“Have the police any leads?”“I’m not sure, but we all think it was just some sort of crank.”Penny Salem was a sharp-eyed, wiry woman in her early forties.“God knows Brian sees enough crank letters addressed to the President.”“I sure do,” her husband agreed easily. “Anyone in public office isbound to step on toes. The more powerful you are, the maddersomebody or some group gets at you. And Abigail Jennings takespositive stands on some mighty volatile issues. Oh, say, there’s thelady now.” He suddenly grinned. “Doesn’t she look great?”Abigail had just entered the East Room. This was one night shehad not chosen to underplay her beauty. She was wearing an apricotsatin gown with a bodice covered in pearls. A belied skirtcomplimented her small waist and slender frame. Her hair was looselydrawn back into a chignon. Soft waves framed her flawless features.Pale blue shadow accentuated the extraordinary eyes, and rose blushhighlighted her cheekbones. A deeper apricot shade outlined herperfectly shaped lips.This was a different Abigail, laughing softly, laying a hand forjust an extra moment on the arm of an octogenarian ambassador,accepting the tributes to her appearance as her due. Pat wondered ifevery other woman in the room felt as she did—suddenly colorlessand insignificant.Abigail had timed her arrival well. An instant later, the music fromthe Marine Band shifted to a stirring “Hail to the Chief.” The Presidentand First Lady were descending from their private quarters. Withthem were the new Prime Minister of Canada and his wife. As thelast notes of “Hail to the Chief” died out, the opening chords of theCanadian national anthem began.A receiving line was formed. When Pat and Sam approached thePresident and First Lady, Pat realized that her heart was pounding.The First Lady was far more attractive in person than in her pictures.

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