Stillwatch (18 page)

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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch
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Pat went to the phone and dialed the number. It rang many times.She was about to hang up when she heard a hurried hello. It wasCatherine Graney. The background was noisy, as though a crowd ofpeople were there. Pat tried to make an appointment. “It will have tobe tomorrow,” the woman told her. “I run an antiques shop, and I’mhaving a sale today.”

 

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They agreed on a time, and she hurriedly gave Pat directions.That afternoon Pat went shopping. Her first stop was an art shop.She left for reframing one of the old sailing prints that had comefrom her father ’s office. It would be her Christmas present to Sam.“Have it for you in a week, Miss. That’s a fine print. Worth somemoney if you ever want to sell it.”“I don’t want to sell it.”She stopped in the specialty market near the house and orderedgroceries, including a small turkey. At the florist’s she bought twopoinsettias and a garland of evergreen for the mantel. She found aChristmas tree that stood as high as her shoulders. The pick of thetrees was gone, but this one was well enough shaped and the pineneedles had a luxurious sheen.By early evening she had finished decorating. The tree was setnear the patio doors. The mantel was draped with evergreen. Onepoinsettia was on the low round table next to the couch, the other onthe cocktail table in front of the love seat.She had hung all the paintings. She had had to guess at placingthem, but even so, the living room was now complete. A fire, shethought. There was always a fire.She laid one, ignited the papers and kindling, and positioned thescreen. Then she fixed an omelette and salad and brought the tray tothe living room. Tonight she would simply watch television and relax.She felt she had been pushing too hard, that she should let memoryunfold in its own way. She had expected this room to be repugnant toher, but despite the terror of that last night, she found it warm andpeaceful. Did it harbor happy memories as well?She turned on the set. The President and First Lady flashed on thescreen. They were boarding
Air Force One
en route to their familyhome for Christmas. Once again the President was being badgeredabout his choice. “I’ll tell you who she or he is by the New Year,” hecalled. “Merry Christmas.”
She.
Had that been a deliberate slip? Of course not.Sam phoned a few minutes later. “Pat, how is it going?”She wished her mouth would not go dry at the sound of his voice.“Fine. Did you see the President on TV just now?”“Yes, I did. Well, we’re surely down to two people. He’s committed

 

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himself to selecting a woman. I’m going to give Abigail a call. Shemust be chewing her nails.”Pat raised her eyebrows. “I would be, in her place.” She twistedthe tassel of her belt. “How’s the weather?”“It’s hot as hell. Frankly, I prefer Christmas in a winter setting.”“Then you shouldn’t have left. I was trooping around buying aChristmas tree and it was cold enough.”“What are your plans for Christmas Day? Will you be at Abigail’sfor the supper party?”“Yes. I’m surprised you weren’t invited.”“I was. Pat, it’s good to be with Karen and Tom, but—well, this isKaren’s family now, not mine. I had to bite my tongue at lunch not totell off some pompous ass who had a laundry list of all the mistakesthis Administration has made.”Pat couldn’t resist. “Isn’t Tom’s mother fixing you up with heravailable friends or cousins or whatever?”Sam laughed. “I’m afraid so. I’m not staying till New Year ’s. I’llbe back a few days after Christmas. You haven’t had any more threats,have you?”“Not even one breathless phone call. I miss you, Sam,” she added deliberately.There was a pause. She could imagine his expression—worried,trying to find the right phrase You care every bit as much about me asyou did two years ago, she thought.“Sam?”His voice was constrained. “I miss you, too, Pat. You’re veryimportant to me.”What a fantastic way to put it. “And you’re one of my very dearest friends.”Without waiting for his response, she hung up.

 

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“Father, have you seen my Raggedy Ann doll?”He smiled at Glory, hoping he didn’t look nervous. “No, of courseI haven’t seen it. Didn’t you have it in the closet in your bedroom?”“Yes. I can’t imagine . . . Father, are you sure you didn’t throw it away?”“Why would I throw it away?”“I don’t know.” She got up from the table. “I’m going to do a littleChristmas shopping. I won’t be late.” She looked worried, then asked,“Father, are you starting to feel sick again? You’ve been talking in yoursleep the last few nights. I could hear you from my room. Is anythingworrying you? You’re not hearing those voices again, are you?”He saw the fear in her eyes. He never should have told Glory aboutthe voices. She hadn’t understood. Worse, she had started to benervous around him. “Oh, no. I was joking when I told you aboutthem.” He was sure she didn’t believe him.She put her hand on his arm. “You kept saying Mrs. Gillespie’s namein your sleep. Isn’t she the woman who just died in the nursing home?”After Glory went out, Arthur sat at the kitchen table, his thin legswound around the rungs of the chair, thinking. Nurse Sheehan andthe doctors had questioned him about Mrs. Gillespie: had he lookedin on her?“Yes,” he’d admitted. “I just wanted to see if she was comfortable.”“How many times did you look in on her?”“Once. She was asleep. She was fine.”“Mrs. Harnick and Mrs. Drury both thought they saw you. ButMrs. Drury said it was at five after three, and Mrs. Harnick was sureit was later.”

 

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“Mrs. Harnick is wrong. I only stopped in once.”They had to believe him. Half the time Mrs. Harnick was almostsenile.
But the rest of the time she was very sharp.
He suddenly picked up the newspaper again. He’d taken the Metrohome. An old woman carrying a shopping bag and leaning on a canehad been on the platform. He’d been about to go over and offer tohelp her with her bag when the express roared into the station. Thecrowd had surged forward and a young fellow, his arms filled withschoolbooks, had nearly knocked the old lady over as he rushed toget a seat.He recalled how he had helped her into the train just before thedoors closed. “Are you all right?” he had asked.“Oh, yes. My, I was afraid I’d fall. Young people are so careless.Not like in my day.”“They are cruel,” he said softly.The young man got off at Dupont Circle and crossed the platform.He had followed him, managed to get next to him as he stood at thefront of the crowd, right at the edge of the platform. As the trainapproached he had stepped behind him and jostled his arm so thatone of the books began to slip. The young man grabbed for it. Off-balance as he was, it was easy to push him forward. The book and theyoung man landed on the tracks together.The newspaper. Yes, here it was on page three: NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD STUDENT KILLED BY METRO.The account calledthe death an accident. A bystander had seen a book slip from thestudent’s arm. He had bent forward to retrieve it and lost his balance.The coffee cup in Arthur’s hands had grown cold. He would makea fresh cup, then get to work.There were so many helpless old people in the nursing homewaiting for his attention. His mind had been on Patricia Traymore.That was why he hadn’t been more careful about Mrs. Gillespie.Tomorrow he’d tell Glory he had to work late and he’d go back toPatricia Traymore’s house.He had to get in again.Glory wanted her doll back.

 

At ten o’clock on the twenty-fourth Pat set off for Richmond. The

 

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sun had come out strong and golden, but the air was still very cold. Itwould be a frosty Christmas.After leaving the highway she took three wrong turns and becamethoroughly exasperated with herself. At last she found Balsam Place.It was a street of comfortable medium-sized Tudor-style houses.Number 22 was larger than its neighbors and had a carved signANTIQUES on the lawn.Catherine Graney was waiting in the doorway. She was about fifty,with a square face, deep-set blue eyes and a sturdy, slim body. Hergraying hair was straight and blunt-cut. She shook Pat’s hand warmly.“I feel as though I know you. I go on buying trips to New Englandfairly often, and whenever I got the chance I watched your program.”The downstairs was used as a showroom. Chairs, couches, vases,lamps, paintings, Oriental carpets, china and fine glassware were allmarked with tags. A Queen Anne breakfront held delicate figurines.A sleepy Irish setter, his dark red hair generously sprinkled with gray,was asleep in front of it.“I live upstairs,” Mrs. Graney explained. “Technically the shop isdosed, but someone phoned and asked if she could stop in for a last-minute gift. You will have coffee, won’t you?”Pat took off her coat. She looked around, studying the contents ofthe room. “You have beautiful things.”“I like to think so.” Mrs. Graney looked pleased. “I love searchingout antiques and restoring them. My workshop is in the garage.” Shepoured coffee from a Sheffield pot and handed a cup to Pat. “And Ihave the pleasure of being surrounded by beautiful things. With thatauburn hair and gold blouse, you look as though you belong on thatChippendale couch.”“Thank you.” Pat realized she liked this outspoken woman. Therewas something direct and honest about her. It made it possible to getright to the point of the visit. “Mrs. Graney, you can understand thatyour letter was quite startling. But will you tell me why you didn’tcontact the network directly, instead of writing to me?”Catherine Graney took a sip of coffee. “As I told you, I’ve seen anumber of your documentaries. I sense integrity in your work, and Ididn’t think you would willingly help to perpetuate a lie. That’s whyI’m appealing to you to make sure that George Graney’s name is not

 

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mentioned on the Jennings program, and that Abigail Jennings doesnot refer to ‘pilot error ’ in connection with Willard’s death. Myhusband could fly anything that had wings.”Pat thought of the already-edited segments for the program. TheSenator had denounced the pilot—but had she actually mentionedhis name? Pat wasn’t sure. But she did remember some of the detailsof the accident. “Didn’t the investigation findings indicate that yourhusband was flying too low?” she asked.“The
plane
was flying too low and went into the mountain. WhenAbigail Jennings started using that crash as a means for getting hername in the paper as a spokesperson for airline safety regulations, Ishould have objected immediately.”Pat watched as the Irish setter, seeming to sense the tension in hismistress’ voice, got up, stretched, ambled across the room and settledat her feet. Catherine leaned over and patted him.“Why
didn’t
you speak up immediately?”“Many reasons. I had a baby a few weeks after the accident. AndI suppose I wanted to be considerate of Willard’s mother.”“Willard’s mother?”“Yes. You see, George used to fly Willard Jennings quite often.They became good friends. Old Mrs. Jennings knew that, and shecame to me after the crash had been sighted—to
me
, not to herdaughter-in-law—and we sat together and waited for the final word.She put a very generous sum of money in trust for my son’s education.I didn’t want to make her unhappy by using the weapon I could haveused against Abigail Jennings. We both had our suspicions, but toher, scandal was anathema.”Three grandfather clocks simultaneously chimed the hour. It wasone o’clock. The sun streamed into the room. Pat noticed thatCatherine Graney twisted her gold wedding band as she spoke.Apparently, she had never remarried. “What weapon could you haveused?” she asked.“I could have destroyed Abigail’s credibility. Willard was miserablyunhappy with her and with politics. The day he died he was planningto announce that he was not seeking reelection and that he wasaccepting the presidency of a college. He wanted the academic life.The last morning he and Abigail had a terrible fight at the airport.

 

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She pleaded with him not to announce his resignation. And he toldher, right in front of George and me—’Abigail, it won’t make a damnbit of difference to you. We’re finished.’”“Abigail and Willard Jennings were on the verge of
divorce
?”“This ‘noble widow’ business has always been a posture. My son,George Graney, Junior, is an Air Force pilot now. He never knew hisdad. But I’m not going to have him embarrassed by any more of herlies. And whether I win the suit or not, I’ll make the whole worldrealize what a phony she’s always been.”Pat tried to choose her words carefully. “Mrs. Graney, I willcertainly do what I can to see that your husband isn’t referred to in aderogatory way. But I must tell you, I’ve been going through theSenator ’s private files and everything I see suggests that Abigail andWillard Jennings were very much in love.”Catherine Graney looked scornful. “I’d like to see the expressionon old Mrs. Jennings’ face if she ever heard

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