Stillwatch (7 page)

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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch
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Pat felt the sidelong glances of the people in the newsroom as she leftPelham’s office. Deliberately she set her face in a half-smile and madeher step brisk. He’d been very cordial; he had risked Senator Jennings’anger by letting her go to Apple Junction. He had expressed his faith inher ability to put the program together on a breakneck schedule.Then what’s the matter? she wondered. I should feel great.Outside, it was a cold, bright day. The streets were clear, and shedecided to walk home. It was a couple of miles, but she wanted theexercise. Why not admit it? she thought. It’s what Pelham just saidabout the Dean Adams mess; it’s what Toby said yesterday. It’s thefeeling of everyone stepping back when Dean Adams’ name ismentioned, of no one wanting to admit having known him. What hadLuther said about her? Oh, yes—he thought the child had died, and itwas better that way; she was probably brain-damaged.I’m not brain-damaged, Pat thought as she tried to avoid a sprayof dirty slush. But I
am
damaged. My leg is the least of it. I hate myfather for what he did. He killed my mother and he tried to kill me.She had come here thinking she only wanted to understand whathad caused him to crack up. Now she knew better. She had to facethe anger she had been denying all these years.It was a quarter to one when she got home. It seemed to her thatthe house was taking on a certain comfortable aura. The antique marbletable and Serapi rug in the foyer made the faded paint seeminsignificant. The kitchen counters were cheerful now with canisters;the oval wrought-iron table and matching soda-parlor chairs fittedexactly into the area beneath the windows and made it easy to ignorethe worn spots on the aging tiles.Quickly she fixed a sandwich and tea while phoning for a plane

 

36

 

reservation. She was fully seven minutes on “hold” listening to aparticularly poor selection of canned music before a clerk finally cameon the line. She arranged for a four-forty flight to Albany and a rental car.She decided to use the few hours before flight time to begin goingthrough her father ’s effects.Slowly she pulled aside the flaps of the first box and found herselfstaring down at the dust-covered picture of a tall, laughing man witha child on one shoulder. The child’s eyes were wide with delight; hermouth half-open and smiling. Her palms were facing each other asthough she might have just clapped them. Both man and child werein swimsuits by the water ’s edge. A wave was crashing behind them.It was late afternoon. Their shadows on the sand were elongated.Daddy’s little girl, Pat thought bitterly. She had seen children ontheir fathers’ shoulders, hanging on to their necks or even twiningtheir fingers in their hair. Fear of falling was a basic instinct. But thechild in this picture, the child she had been, clearly had trusted theman holding her, trusted him not to let her fall. She laid the pictureon the floor and continued emptying the box.When she had finished, the carpet was covered with memorabiliafrom the private office of Congressman Dean Adams. A formal portraitof her mother at the piano. She was beautiful, Pat thought—I resemblehim more. There was a collage of snapshots of Pat as a baby andtoddler that must have hung on his office wall; his appointment diary,dark green leather with his initials in gold; his silver desk set, now soterribly tarnished; the framed diploma from the University ofWisconsin, a B.A. in English with high honors; his law-school degreefrom the University of Michigan, proclaiming him an LL.B; a citationfrom the Episcopal Bishops’ Conference for generous and unstintingwork for minorities; a Man of the Year plaque from the Madison,Wisconsin, Rotary Club. He must have been fond of seascapes. Therewere several excellent old prints of sailing vessels, billowing overturbulent waters.She opened the appointment book. He had been a doodler; almostevery page contained swirls and geometric figures. So that’s where Igot the habit, Pat thought.Her eyes kept returning to the picture of herself and her father.

 

37

 

She looked so blissfully happy. Her father was looking up at her withso much love. His grip on her arm was so firm.The telephone broke the spell. She scrambled to her feet, alarmedto realize that it was getting late, that she’d have to put all this awayand pack a few things in a bag.“Pat.”It was Sam.“Hi.” She bit her lip.“Pat, I’m on the run as usual. I’ve got a committee meeting in fiveminutes. There’s a dinner at the White House Friday night honoringthe new Canadian Prime Minister. Would you like to go with me? I’llhave to phone your name in to the White House.”“The White House! That would be wonderful. I’d love to go.” Sheswallowed fiercely, trying to suppress the quiver in her voice.Sam’s tone changed. “Pat, is anything wrong? You sound upset.You’re not crying, are you?”At last she could control the tremor in her voice. “Oh, no. Not atall. I guess I’m just getting a cold.”

 

38

 

7

 

 

 

At the Albany airport, Pat picked up her rental car, pored over a roadmap with the Hertz attendant and worked out the best route to AppleJunction, twenty-seven miles away.“Better get going, Miss,” the clerk warned. “We’re supposed tohave a foot of snow tonight.”“Can you suggest the best place to stay?”“If you want to be right in town, the Apple Motel is it.” He smirked.“But it’s nothing fancy like you’d find in the
Big
Apple. Don’t worryabout phoning ahead for a reservation.”Pat picked up the car key and her bag. It didn’t sound promising,but she thanked the clerk all the same.The first flakes were falling as she pulled into the driveway of thedreary building with the flickering neon sign APPLE MOTEL. Asthe Hertz attendant had predicted, the VACANCY sign was on.The clerk in the tiny, cluttered office was in his seventies. Wire-framedglasses drooped on his narrow nose. Deep lines creased his cheeks.Clumps of gray-white hair sprouted from his skull. His eyes, rheumyand faded, brightened in surprise when Pat pushed open the door.“Do you have a single for the next night or two?” she asked.His smile revealed a worn, tobacco-stained dental plate. “Long asyou want, Miss; you can have a single, a double, even the Presidentialsuite.” A braying laugh followed.Pat smiled politely and reached for the registration card. Deliberatelyshe omitted filling the blank spot after PLACE OF BUSINESS. Shewanted to have as much chance as possible to look around for herselfbefore the reason for her presence here became known.

 

39

 

The clerk studied the card, his curiosity disappointed. “I’ll putyou in the first unit,” he said. “That way you’ll be near the office herein case the snow gets real heavy. We have a kind of dinette.” Hegestured toward three small tables against the rear wall. “Alwayshave juice and coffee and toast to get you started in the morning.” Helooked at her shrewdly. “What brings you here, anyway?”“Business,” Pat said, then added quickly, “I haven’t had dinneryet. I’ll just drop my bag in my room and maybe you can tell mewhere I can find a restaurant.”He squinted at the clock. “You better hurry. The Lamplighter closesat nine and it’s near eight now. Just go out the drive, turn left and gotwo blocks, then turn left again on Main. It’s on the right. Can’t miss it.Here’s your key.” He consulted the registration card. “Miss Traymore,”he concluded, “I’m Travis Blodgett. I own the place.” Pride and apologyblended in his voice. A slight wheeze suggested emphysema.Except for a dimly lit movie marquee, the Lamplighter was theonly establishment open in the two blocks embracing the businessdistrict of Apple Junction. A greasy, handprinted menu posted on thefront door announced the day’s special, sauerbraten and red cabbagefor $3.95. Faded linoleum lay underfoot just inside. Most of thecheckered cloths on the dozen or so tables were partially coveredwith unpressed napkins—probably, she guessed, to hide stains causedby earlier diners. An elderly couple were munching on dark-lookingmeat from overfilled plates. But she had to admit the smell wastantalizing, and she realized she was very hungry.The sole waitress was a woman in her mid-fifties.Under a fairly clean apron, a thick orange sweater and shapelessslacks mercilessly revealed layers of bulging flesh. But her smilewas quick and pleasant. “You alone?”“Yes.”The waitress looked uncertainly around, then led Pat to a tablenear the window. “That way you can look out and enjoy the view.”Pat felt her lips twitch. The view! A rented car on a dingy street!Then she was ashamed of herself. That was exactly the reaction shewould expect of Luther Pelham.

 

40

 

“Would you care for a drink? We have beer or wine. And I guessI’d better take your order. It’s getting late.”Pat requested wine and asked for a menu.“Oh, don’t bother with a menu,” the waitress urged. “Try thesauerbraten. It’s really good.”Pat glanced across the room. Obviously that was what the oldcouple were eating. “If you’ll give me about half much as . . .”The waitress smiled, revealing large, even white teeth.“Oh, sure.” She lowered her voice. “I always fill those two up.They can only afford to eat out once a week, so I like to get a decentmeal into them.”The wine was a New York State red jug wine, but it was pleasant.A few minutes later the waitress came out of the kitchen carrying aplate of steaming food and a basket of homemade biscuits.The food was delicious. The meat had been marinated in winesand herbs; the gravy was rich and tangy; the cabbage pungent; thebutter melted into the still warm biscuits.My God, if I ate like this every night, I’d be the size of a house,Pat thought. But she felt her spirits begin to lift.When Pat had finished, the waitress took her plate and came overwith the coffeepot. “I’ve been looking and looking at you,” the womansaid. “Don’t I know you? Haven’t I seen you on television?”Pat nodded. So much for poking around on my own, she thought.“Sure,” the waitress continued. “You’re Patricia Traymore. I saw youon TV when I visited my cousin in Boston.
I know why you’re here!
You’re doing a program on Abby Foster—I mean Senator Jennings.”“You knew her?” Pat asked quickly.“Knew her! I should say I did. Why don’t I just have coffee withyou?” It was a rhetorical question. Reaching over to the next tablefor an empty cup, she sank heavily into the chair opposite Pat. “Myhusband does the cooking, he can take care of closing up. It waspretty quiet tonight, but my feet hurt anyhow. All this standing . . .”Pat made appropriate sympathetic sounds.“Abigail Jennings, huh. Ab-by-gail Jennings,” the waitress mused.“You gonna put folks from Apple Junction in the program?”

 

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“I’m not sure,” Pat said honestly. “Did you know the Senator well?”“Not well, exactly. We were in the same class at school. But Abbywas always so quiet; you could never figure what she was thinking. Girlsusually tell each other everything and have best friends and run in cliques.Not Abby. I can’t remember her having even one close friend.”“What did the other girls think about her?” Pat asked.“Well, you know how it is. When someone is as pretty as Abbywas, the other kids are kind of jealous. Then everybody got the feelingshe thought she was too good for the rest of us, so that didn’t makeher any too popular either.”Pat considered her for a moment. “Did
you
feel that way abouther, Mrs. . . .?”“Stubbins. Ethel Stubbins. In a way I guess I did, but I kind ofunderstood. Abby just wanted to grow up and get out of here. Thedebating club was the only activity she joined in school. She didn’teven dress like the rest of us. When everyone else was going aroundin sloppy joe sweaters and penny loafers, she wore a starched blouseand heels to school. Her mother was the cook at the Saunders house.I think that bothered Abby a lot.”“I understood her mother was the housekeeper,”Pat said.“The
cook,
” Ethel repeated emphatically. “She and Abby had alittle apartment off the kitchen. My mother used to go to the Saundersplace every week to clean, so I know.”It was a fine distinction: saying your mother had been thehousekeeper rather than the cook. Pat shrugged mentally. What couldbe more harmless than Senator Jennings’ upgrading her mother ’s joba notch? She debated. Sometimes taking notes or using a recorderhad the immediate effect of causing an interviewee to freeze. Shedecided to take the chance.“Do you mind if I record you?” she asked.“Not at all. Should I talk louder?”“No, you’re fine.” Pat pulled out her recorder and placed it on thetable between them. “Just talk about Abigail as you remember her.You say it bothered her that her mother was a cook?” She had a mental

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