Stillwatch (8 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch

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image of how Sam would react to that question. He would consider itunnecessary prying.Ethel leaned her heavy elbows on the table. “Did it ever! Mamaused to tell me how nervy Abby was. If anyone was coming downthe street, she used to walk up the path to the front steps just asthough she owned the place and then when no one was looking,she’d scoot around to the back. Her mother used to holler at her,but it didn’t do any good.”“Ethel. It’s nine o’clock.”Pat looked up. A squat man with pale hazel eyes set in a cheerfulround face was standing at the table, untying a long white apron. Hiseyes lingered on the recorder.Ethel explained what was happening and introduced Pat. “This ismy husband, Ernie.”Clearly Ernie was intrigued by the prospect of contributing to theinterview. “Tell how Mrs. Saunders caught Abby coming in the frontdoor and told her to know her place,” he suggested. “Remember, shemade her walk back to the sidewalk and come up the driveway andgo around to the back door.”“Oh, yeah,” Ethel said. “That was lousy, wasn’t it?Mama said she felt sorry for Abby until she saw the look on herface. Enough to freeze your blood, Mama said.”Pat tried to imagine a young Abigail forced to walk to the servants’entrance to show that she “knew her place.” Again she had the feelingof intruding on the Senator ’s privacy. She wouldn’t pursue that topic.Refusing Ernie’s offer of more wine, she suggested, “Abby—I meanthe Senator—must have been a very good student to get a scholarshipto Radcliffe. Was she at the head of her class?”“Oh, she was terrific in English and history and languages,” Ethel said,“but a real birdbrain in math and science. She hardly got by in them.”“Sounds like me,” Pat smiled. “Let’s talk about the beauty contest.”Ethel laughed heartily. “There were four finalists for Miss AppleJunction. Yours truly was one of them. Believe it or not, I weighedone hundred eighteen pounds then, and I was darn cute.”Pat waited for the inevitable. Ernie did not disappoint her. “You’restill darn cute, honey.”

“Abby won hands down,” Ethel continued. “Then she got into thecontest for Miss New York State. You could have knocked everyoneover with a feather when she won
that!
You know how it is. Sure, weknew she was beautiful, but we were all so used to seeing her. Wasthis town ever excited!”Ethel chuckled. “I must say Abby kept this town supplied withgossip all that summer. The big social event around here was thecountry-club dance in August. All the rich kids from miles aroundwent to it. None of us, of course. But that year Abby Foster wasthere. From what I hear, she looked like an angel in a white marquisettegown edged with layers of black Chantilly lace. And guess who tookher? Jeremy Saunders! Just home after graduating from Yale. And hewas practically engaged to Evelyn Clinton! He and Abby held handsall night and he kept kissing her when they danced.“The next day the whole town was buzzing. Mama said Mrs.Saunders must have been spitting nails; her only son falling for thecook’s daughter. And then”—Ethel shrugged—”it just ended. Abbyresigned her Miss New York State crown and took off for college.Said she knew she’d never become Miss America, that she couldn’tsing or dance or act for the talent part and there was no way shewanted to parade around in Atlantic City and come back a loser. A lotof people had chipped in for a wardrobe for her to wear to the MissAmerica contest. They felt pretty bad.”“Remember Toby threw a punch at a couple of guys who saidAbby let the folks around here down?” Ernie prompted Ethel.“Toby Gorgone?” Pat asked quickly.“The same,” Ernie said. “He was always nuts about Abby. Youknow how kids talk in locker rooms. If any guy said anything freshabout Abby in front of Toby, he was sorry fast.”“He works for her now,” Pat said.“No kidding?” Ernie shook his head. “Say hello to him for me.Ask him if he’s still losing money on the horses.”

It was eleven o’clock before Pat got back to the Apple Motel, andby then Unit One was chilly. She quickly unpacked—there was nocloset, only a hook on the door—undressed, showered, brushed her

hair and, propping up the narrow pillows, got into bed with hernotebook. As usual, her leg was throbbing—a faint ache that beganin her hip and shot down her calf.She glanced over the notes she had taken during the evening.According to Ethel, Mrs. Foster had left the Saunders home rightafter the country-club dance and gone to work as a cook in the countyhospital. Nobody ever did know whether she’d quit or been fired.But the new job must have been hard on her. She was a big woman—”You think
I’m
heavy,” Ethel had said, “you should’ve seen FranceyFoster.” Francey had died a long time ago and no one had seen Abigailafter that. Indeed, few had seen her for years before that.Ethel had waxed eloquent on the subject of Jeremy Saunders—”Abigail was lucky she didn’t marry him. He never amounted to ahill of beans. Lucky for him he had the family money: otherwise he’dprobably have starved. They say his father tied up everything in trusts,even made Evelyn the executor of his will. Jeremy was a bigdisappointment to him. He always looked like a diplomat or an Englishlord and he’s just a bag of wind.”Ethel had insinuated that Jeremy was a drinker, but suggested thatPat call him: “He’d probably love company. Evelyn spends most ofher time with their married daughter in Westchester.”Pat turned out the light. Tomorrow morning she would try to visitthe retired principal who’d asked Abigail to give Eleanor Brown ajob, and she’d attempt to make an appointment with Jeremy Saunders.

It snowed during the night, some four or five inches, but the plowsand sanders had already been through by the time Pat had coffee withthe proprietor of the Apple Motel.Driving around Apple Junction was a depressing experience. Thetown was a particularly shabby and unattractive one. Half the storeswere closed and had fallen into disrepair. A single strand of Christmaslights dangled across Main Street. On the side streets, houses werejammed together, their paint peeling. Most of the cars parked in thestreet were old. There seemed to be no new building of any kind,residential or business. There were few people out; a sense ofemptiness pervaded the atmosphere. Did most of the young people

flee like Abigail as soon as they were grown? she wondered. Whocould blame them?She saw a sign reading THE APPLE JUNCTION WEEKLY andon impulse parked and went inside. There were two people working,a young woman who seemed to be taking a want ad over the phoneand a sixtyish man who was making an enormous clatter on a manualtypewriter. The latter, it developed, was Edwin Shepherd, the editor-owner of the paper and perfectly happy to talk to Pat.He could add very little to what she already knew about Abigail.However, he willingly went to the files to hunt up issues that mightrefer to the two contests, local and state, that Abigail had won.In her research Pat had already found the picture of Abigail in herMiss New York State sash and crown. But the full-length shot of Abigailwith the banner Miss APPLE JUNCTION was new and unsettling.Abigail was standing on a platform at the county fair, the three otherfinalists around her. The crown on her head was clearly papier-mâché.The other girls had pleased, fluttery smiles—Pat realized that the girlon the end was the youthful Ethel Stubbins—but Abigail’s smile wascold, almost cynical. She seemed totally out of place.“There’s a shot of her and her maw inside,” Shepherd volunteered,and turned the page.Pat gasped. Could Abigail Jennings, delicate-featured and bone-slender, possibly be the offspring of this squat, obese woman? Thecaption read: PROUD MOTHER GREETS APPLE JUNCTIONBEAUTY QUEEN.“Why not take those issues?” Edwin Shepherd asked. “I’ve gotmore copies. Just remember to give us credit if you use anything onyour program.”It would be awkward to refuse the offer, Pat realized. I can just seeusing
that
picture, she thought as she thanked the editor and quickly left.A half-mile down Main Street, the town changed dramatically.The roads became wider, the homes stately, the grounds large andwell tended.The Saunders house was pale yellow with black shutters. It was

on a corner, and a long driveway curved to the porch steps. Gracefulpillars reminded Pat of the architecture of Mount Vernon. Trees linedthe driveway. A small sign directed deliveries to the service entrancein the rear.She parked and went up the steps, noticing. that on closer inspectionthe paint was beginning to chip and the aluminum storm windowswere corroded. She pushed the button and from somewhere far insidecould hear the faint sound of chimes. A thin woman with graying hairwearing a half-apron over a dark dress answered the door. “Mr.Saunders is expecting you. He’s in the library.”Jeremy Saunders, wearing a maroon velvet jacket, was settled ina high-backed wing chair by the fire. His legs were crossed, and finedark blue silk hose showed below the cuffs of his midnight-bluetrousers. He had exceptionally even features and handsome wavywhite hair. A thickened waistline and puffy eyes alone betrayed apredilection for drink.He stood up and steadied himself against the arm of the chair.“Miss Traymore!” His voice was so pointedly well bred as to suggestclasses in elocution. “You didn’t tell me on the phone that you were
the
Patricia Traymore.”“Whatever that means,” Pat said, smiling.“Don’t be modest. You’re the young lady who’s doing a programon Abigail.” He waved her to the chair opposite his. “You
will
have aBloody Mary?”“Thank you.” The pitcher was already half-empty.The maid took her coat.“Thank you, Anna. That will be all for now. Perhaps a little laterMiss Traymore will join me in a light lunch. “Jeremy Saunders’ tonebecame even more fatuous when he spoke to the servant, who silentlyleft the room. “You can close the door if you will, Anna!” he called.“Thank you, my dear.”Saunders waited until the latch clicked, then sighed. “Good helpis impossible to find these days. Not as it was when Francey Fosterwas presiding over the kitchen and Abby was serving the table.” Heseemed to relish the thought.Pat did not reply. There was a gossipy kind of cruelty about the

man. She sat down, accepted the drink and waited. He raised oneeyebrow. “Don’t you have a tape recorder?”“Yes, I do. But if you prefer I won’t use it.”“Not at all. I prefer that every word I say be immortalized. Perhapssomeday there’ll be an Abby Foster—forgive me, a
Senator AbigailJennings
—Library. People will be able to push a button and hear metell of her rather chaotic coming of age.”Silently Pat reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out therecorder and her notebook. She was suddenly quite sure that whatshe was about to hear would be unusable.“You’ve followed the Senator’s career,” she suggested.“Breathlessly! I have the utmost admiration for Abby. From thetime she was seventeen and began offering to help her mother withhousehold duties, she had won my utmost respect. She’s ingenious.”“Is it ingenious to help your mother?” Pat asked quietly.“Of course not. If you
want
to
help
your mother. On the otherhand, if you offer to serve only because the handsome young scion ofthe Saunders family is home from Yale, it does color the picture,doesn’t it?”“Meaning you?” Pat smiled reluctantly. Jeremy Saunders had acertain sardonic, self-deprecating quality that was not unattractive.“You’ve guessed it. I see pictures of her from time to time, butyou can never trust pictures, can you? Abby always photographedvery well. How does she look in person?”“She’s absolutely beautiful,” Pat said.Saunders seemed disappointed. He’d love to hear that the Senatorneeds a face lift, Pat reflected. Somehow she could not believe thateven as a very young girl Abigail would have been impressed by Jeremy.“How about Toby Gorgone?” Saunders asked. “Is he still playinghis chosen role as bodyguard and slave to Abby?”“Toby works for the Senator,” Pat replied. “He’s obviously devotedto her, and she seems to count on him very much.”
Bodyguard andslave,
she thought. It was a good way to describe Toby’s relationshipto Abigail Jennings.“I suppose they’re still pulling each other’s chestnuts out of the fire.”

“What do you mean by that?”Jeremy raised his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Nothing, really.He probably told you how he saved Abby from the jaws of the attackdog our eccentric neighbor kept.”“Yes, he did.”“And did he tell you that Abigail was his alibi the night he mayhave gone joyriding in a stolen car?”“No, he didn’t, but joyriding doesn’t seem to be a very serious offense.”“It is when the police car chasing the ‘borrowed’ vehicle goes outof control and mows down a young mother and her two children.Someone who looked like him had been observed hanging aroundthe car. But Abigail swore that she had been tutoring Toby in English,right here in this house. It was Abigail’s word against an uncertainwitness. No charge was brought and the joyrider was never caught.Many people found the possible involvement of Toby Gorgone quitecredible. He’s always been obsessed with machinery, and that was anew sports car. It makes sense he’d want to give it a spin.”“Then you’re suggesting the Senator may have lied for him?”“I’m suggesting nothing. However, people around here have longmemories, and Abigail’s fervent deposition—taken under oath, ofcourse—is a matter of record. Actually, nothing much could havehappened to Toby even if he had been in the car. He was still a juvenile,under sixteen. Abigail, however, was eighteen and if she had perjuredherself would have been criminally culpable. Oh, well, Toby mayvery well have spent that evening diligently drilling on participles.Has his grammar improved?”“It sounded all right to me.”“You couldn’t have spoken to him very long. Now, fill me in onAbigail. The endless fascination she evokes in men. With whom isshe involved now?”“She’s not involved with anyone,” Pat said. “From what she tellsme, her husband was the great love of her life.”“Perhaps.” Jeremy Saunders finished the last of his drink. “Andwhen you consider that she had absolutely no background—a fatherwho drank himself to death when she was six, a mother content amongthe pots and pans . . .”

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