Stillwatch (26 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch

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Arthur ’s night had been filled with dreams of Mrs. Gillespie’s eyesas they’d started to glaze over. In the morning he was heavy-eyed andtired. He got up and made coffee and would have gone out for rolls,but Glory asked him not to. “I won’t have any, and after I go to work,you should get some rest. You didn’t sleep well, did you?”“How did you know?” He sat across from her at the table, watchingas she perched at the edge of her chair.“You kept calling out. Did Mrs. Gillespie’s death worry you somuch, Father? I know how often you used to talk about her.”A chill of fear went through him. Suppose they asked Glory abouthim? What would she say? Nothing ever to hurt him, but how wouldshe know? He tried to choose his words carefully.“It’s just I’m so sad she didn’t get to see her daughter before shedied. We both wanted that.”Glory gulped her coffee and got up from the table. “Father, I wish youwould take some time off and rest. I think you’re working too hard.”“I’m fine, Glory. What was I saying in my sleep?”“You kept telling Mrs. Gillespie to close her eyes. What were youdreaming about her?”Glory was looking at him as if she were almost frightened of him,he thought. What did she know, or guess? After she had gone, hestared into his cup, worried and suddenly tired. He was restless anddecided to go out for a walk. It didn’t help. After a few blocks heturned back.He had reached the corner of his street when he noticed theexcitement. A police car was stopped in front of his home. Instinctivelyhe ducked into the doorway of a vacant house and watched from thefoyer. Whom did they want? Glory? Himself?

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He would have to warn her. He’d tell her to meet him somewhereand they’d go away again. He had the $300 in cash, and he had $622in Baltimore in a savings account under a different name. They couldmake that last until he had a new job. It was easy to get work in anursing home. They were all desperate for orderlies.He slipped along the side of the house, cut through the adjacentyard, hurried to the corner and phoned Glory’s office.She was on another line. “Get her,” he told the girl angrily. “It’simportant. Tell her Father says it’s important.”When Glory got on the phone, she sounded impatient. “Father,what
is
it?”He told her. He thought she’d cry or get upset, but there was nothingfrom her—just silence. “Glory . . .?”“Yes, Father.” Her voice was quiet, lifeless.“Leave right now, don’t say anything, act like you’re going to theladies’ room. Meet me at Metro Central, the Twelfth and G exit. We’llbe gone before they have a chance to put out an alert. We’ll pick upthe money at the bank in Baltimore and then go South.”“No, Father.” Now Glory’s voice sounded strong, sure. “I’m notrunning anymore. Thank you, Father. You don’t have to run anymorefor me. I’m going to the police.”“Glory. No. Wait. Maybe it will be all right. Promise me.
Not yet
.”A police car was cruising slowly down the block. He could notlose another minute. As she whispered, “I promise,” he hung up thephone and ducked into a doorway. When the squad car had passed,he shoved his hands into his pockets and with his stiff, unyieldinggait made his way to the Metro station.

It was a subdued Abigail who returned to the car at ten-thirty. Tobystarted to speak, but something told him to keep his mouth shut. LetAbby be the one to decide if she wanted to get things off her chest.“Toby, I don’t feel like going home yet,” Abigail said suddenly,“Take me over to Watergate. I can get a late breakfast there.”“Sure, Senator.” He made his voice hearty, as though the requestwere not unusual. He knew why Abby had selected that place. SamKingsley lived in the same building as the restaurant. The next thing,

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she’d probably phone upstairs and if Sam was in, ask him to join herfor coffee.Fine, but that hadn’t been a casual chat in the den between Kingsleyand Pat Traymore last night. There was something between thosetwo. He didn’t want to see Abby get hurt again. He wondered if heshould tip her off.Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that Abigail was checkingher makeup in her hand mirror. “You look fantastic, Senator,” he said.At the Watergate complex the doorman opened the car door, andToby noticed the extra-large smile and respectful bow. Hell, therewere one hundred Senators in Washington but only one Vice President.I want it for you, Abby, he thought. Nothing will stand in your way ifI have anything to say about it.He steered the car to where the other drivers were parked and got outto say hello. Today the talk was all about Abigail. He overheard a Cabinetmember’s driver say, “It’s practically all sewed up for Senator Jennings.”
Abby, you’re almost there, girl,
he thought exultantly.Abby was gone more than an hour, so he had plenty of time toread the newspaper. Finally he opened the Style section to glance atthe columns. Sometimes he could pick up useful tidbits to pass on toAbby. She was usually too busy to read gossip.Gina Butterfield was the columnist everyone in Washington read.Today her column had a headline that ran across the two center pagesof the section. Toby read it, then read it again, trying to deny what hewas seeing. The headline was ADAMS DEATH HOUSE SCENEOF THREATS. SENATOR ABIGAIL JENNINGS INVOLVED. Thefirst couple of paragraphs of the story were in extra-large type:

Pat Traymore, the fast-rising young televisionnewswoman hired by Potomac Cable to produce adocumentary about Senator Jennings, has beenharassed by letters, phone calls and a break-inthreatening her life if she continues to work on theprogram.

A guest at the exclusive Christmas Eve supper ofAmbassador Cardell, winsome Pat revealed that the

167

house she is renting was the scene of the Adamsmurder-suicide twenty-four years ago. Pat claims notto be disturbed by the sinister history of the house,but other guests, long-time residents of the area, werenot so complacent. . . .

The rest of the column was devoted to details of the Adams murder.On the pages were blown-up file photos of Dean and Renée Adams,the garish picture of the sacks in which their bodies were bundled, aclose-up of their small daughter being carried out swathed in bloodybandages. “ SIX MONTHS LATER KERRY ADAMS LOST HERVALIANT FIGHT FOR LIFE “ was the caption under that picture.The article hinted at a whitewash in the murder-suicide verdict:

Aristocratic Patricia Remington Schuyler, mother ofthe dead woman, insisted that Congressman Adamswas unstable and about to be divorced by his socialitewife. But many old-timers in Washington think DeanAdams may have been given a bum rap, that it wasRenée Adams who held the gun that night. “She wasclearly besotted by him,” one friend told me, “and hehad a roving eye.” Did her jealousy reach the breakingpoint that night?
Who
may have triggered that tragicoutburst? Twenty-four years later, Washington stillspeculates.

Abigail’s picture in her Miss Apple Junction crown was prominent.The copy under it read:

Most specials profiling celebrities are ho-hummaterial, rehashes of the old Ed Murrow format. Butthe upcoming program on Senator Abigail Jenningswill probably win the Nielsen ratings for the week.After all, the Senator may become our first womanVice President. The smart money is on her. Noweveryone’s hoping that the footage will include morepictures of the distinguished senior Senator fromVirginia in the rhinestone crown she picked up as abeauty queen along the way. And on the serious side,

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no one can agree on who hates Abigail Jenningsenough to threaten the life of the newswoman whoconceived the idea of the program.

Half of the right-hand page was subcaptioned THE PRE-CAMELOT YEARS. It was filled with photographs, most of theminformal snapshots.

The accompanying text read:

In a bizarre coincidence, Senator Abigail Jennings wasat one time a frequent guest at the Adams house. Sheand her late husband, Congressman Willard Jennings,were close friends of Dean and Renée Adams and theJohn Kennedys. The three stunning young couplescould not have guessed that the dark shadow of fatewas hovering over that house and all their lives.

There were pictures of the six together and in mixed groups in thegarden of the Georgetown house, on the Jennings estate in Virginiaand at the Hyannis Port compound. And there were a half-dozenphotos of Abigail alone in the group after Willard’s death.Toby uttered a savage, angry growl. He started to crumple thepaper between his hands, willing the sickening pages to disintegrateunder his sheer physical strength, but it was no use. It wouldn’t goaway.He would have to show this to Abby as soon as he got her home.God only knew what her reaction would be. She
had
to keep hercool. Everything depended on that.When Toby pulled the car up to the curb, Abigail was there, SamKingsley at her side. He started to get out, but Kingsley quickly openedthe door for Abigail and helped her into the car. “Thanks for holding myhand, Sam,” she said. “I feel a lot better. I’m sorry you can’t make dinner.”“You promised me a rain check.”Toby drove quickly, frantic to get Abigail home, as though heneeded to insulate her from public view until he could nurse herthrough the first reaction to the article.“Sam is special,” Abby said suddenly, ending the heavy silence.

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“You know how it’s been with me all these years—but Toby, in acrazy way he reminds me of Billy. I have this feeling—just a feeling,mind you—that there could be something developing between Samand me. It would be like having a second chance.”It was the first time she’d ever talked like this. Toby looked intothe rearview mirror. Abigail was leaning against the seat, her bodyrelaxed, her face soft and with a half-smile.And he was the son-of-a-bitch who was going to have to destroythat hope and confidence.“Toby, did you buy the paper?”There was no use lying. “Yes, I did, Senator.”“Let me see it, please.”He handed back the first section.“No, I don’t feel like the news. Where’s the section with the columns?”“Not now, Senator.” The traffic was light; they were over ChainBridge. In a few minutes, they’d be home.“What do you mean,
not now?
”He didn’t answer, and there was a long pause. Then Abigail said,her tone cold and brittle, “Something bad in one of the columns . . .something that could hurt me?”“Something you won’t like, Senator.”They drove the rest of the way in silence.

170

Over the Christmas holiday official Washington was a ghost town.The President was in his private vacation residence in the Southwest;Congress was in recess; the universities were closed for vacation.Washington became a sleepy city, a city waiting for the burst of activitythat signaled the return of its Chief Executive, lawmakers and students.Pat drove home through the light traffic. She wasn’t hungry. Afew nibbles of turkey and a cup of tea were as much as she wanted.She wondered how Luther was making out in Apple Junction. Hadhe turned on the courtly charm he had once used to woo her? All ofthat seemed long ago.Apropos of Apple Junction, she wondered if Eleanor Brown hadever called Miss Langley back.
Eleanor Brown.
The girl was a pivotalfigure in Pat’s growing doubt about the integrity of the televisionprogram. What were the facts? It was Eleanor ’s word against Toby’s.
Had
he phoned and requested her to go to the campaign office tolook for the Senator ’s ring? The Senator supported Toby’s claim thathe had been driving her at the time of the supposed call. And part ofthe money had been found in Eleanor ’s storage area. How had sheexpected to get away with such a flimsy alibi?I wish I had a transcript of the trial, she thought.She opened her pad and studied the sentences she had writtendown the night before. They still didn’t add up. On the next page shewrote
Eleanor Brown.
What had Margaret Langley said about thegirl? Tapping her pen on the desk and frowning in concentration, shebegan to jot her impressions of their conversation:

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