Stillwatch (9 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

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

BOOK: Stillwatch

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Pat decided to try another tack to get some sort of usable material.“Tell me about this house,” she suggested. “After all, Abigail grewup here. Was it built by your family?”Jeremy Saunders was dearly proud of both house and family. Forthe next hour, pausing only to refill his glass and then to mix a newpitcher of drinks, he traced the history of the Saunderses from “notquite the
Mayflower
—a Saunders was supposed to be on that historicvoyage, but fell ill and did not arrive till two years later”—to the present.“And so,” he concluded, “I sadly relate that I am the last to bear theSaunders name.” He smiled. “You are a most appreciative listener, mydear. I hope I haven’t been too long-winded in my recitation.”Pat returned the smile. “No, indeed. My mother ’s family wereearly settlers and I’m very proud of them.”“You must let me hear about
your
family,” Jeremy said gallantly.“You will stay for lunch.”“I’d be delighted.”“I prefer having a tray right here. So much cozier than the diningroom. Would that do?”And so much nearer the bar, Pat thought. She hoped she couldsoon steer the subject back to Abigail.Her opportunity came as she made a pretense of sipping the wineJeremy insisted they have with the indifferently served chicken salad.“It helps to wash it down, my dear,” he told her. “I’m afraid whenmy wife is away, Anna doesn’t put her best foot forward. Not likeAbby’s mother. Francey Foster took pride in everything she prepared.The breads, the cakes, the soufflés . . . Does Abby cook?”“I don’t know,” Pat said. Her voice became confidential. “Mr.Saunders, I can’t help feeling that you are angry at Senator Jennings.Am I wrong? I had the impression that at one time you two cared agreat deal about each other.”“Angry at her? Angry?” His voice was thick, his words slurred.“Wouldn’t
you
be angry at someone who set out to make a fool ofyou—and succeeded magnificently?”It was happening now—the moment that came in so many of herinterviews when people let down their guard and began to reveal themselves.

She studied Jeremy Saunders. This sleekly overfed, drunken manin his ridiculous formal getup was mulling a distasteful memory. Therewas pain as well as anger in the guileless eyes, the too soft mouth,the weak, puffy chin.“Abigail,” he said, his tone calmer, “United States Senator fromVirginia.” He bowed elaborately. “My dear Patricia Traymore, youhave the distinction of addressing her former fiancé.”Pat tried unsuccessfully to hide her surprise. “You were
engaged
to Abigail?”“That last summer she was here. Very briefly, of course. Just longenough for her overall scheme. She’d won the state beauty contest butwas smart enough to know she wouldn’t go any further in Atlantic City.She’d tried to get a scholarship to Radcliffe, but her math and sciencemarks weren’t scholarship level. Of course, Abby had no intention ofday-hopping to the local college. It was a terrible dilemma for her, and Istill wonder if Toby didn’t have a hand in planning the solution.“I had just been graduated from Yale and was due to go into myfather’s business—a prospect which did not intrigue me; I was aboutto become engaged to the daughter of my father ’s best friend—aprospect which did not excite me. And here was Abigail right in myown home, telling me what I could become with her at my side,slipping into my bed in the dark of the night, while poor, tired FranceyFoster snored away in their service apartment. The upshot was that Ibought Abigail a beautiful gown, escorted her to the country-clubdance and proposed to her.“When we came home we woke our parents to announce the joyousnews. Can you imagine the scene? My mother, who delighted inordering Abigail to use the back door, watching all her plans for heronly son dissolving. Twenty-four hours later, Abigail left town with acertified check from my father for ten thousand dollars and her bagsfilled with the wardrobe the town people had donated. She was alreadyaccepted by Radcliffe, you see. She only lacked the money to attendthat splendid institution.“I followed her there. She was quite explicit in letting me knowthat everything my father was saying about her was accurate. My

father to his dying day never let me forget what a fool I’d made ofmyself. In thirty-five years of married life, whenever Evelyn hearsAbigail’s name she becomes quite shrewish. As for my mother, theonly satisfaction she could get was to order Francey Foster out of thehouse—and that was cutting off her nose to spite her face. We neverhad a decent cook after that.”When Pat tiptoed out of the room, Jeremy Saunders was asleep,his head bobbing on his chest.It was nearly a quarter to two. The day was clouding up again, asthough more snow might be in the offing. As she drove toward herappointment with Margaret Langley, the retired school principal, shewondered how accurate Jeremy Saunders’ version of Abigail FosterJennings’ behavior as a young woman had been. Manipulator?Schemer? Liar?Whatever, it didn’t jibe with the reputation for absolute integritythat was the cornerstone of Senator Abigail Jennings’ public career.

At a quarter of two, Margaret Langley took the unusual step of makinga fresh pot of coffee, knowing full well that the burning discomfortof gastritis might plague her later.As always when she was upset, she walked into her study, seekingcomfort in the velvety green leaves of the plants hanging by the picturewindow. She’d been in the midst of rereading the Shakespeare sonnetswith her after-breakfast coffee when Patricia Traymore phoned askingpermission to visit.Margaret shook her head nervously. She was a slightly stoopedwoman of seventy-three. Her gray hair was finger waved around herhead, with a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her long, rather horseyface was saved from homeliness by an expression of good-humoredwisdom. On her blouse she wore the pin the school had given herwhen she retired—a gold laurel wreath entwined around the number45 to signify the years she’d served as teacher and principal.At ten minutes past two she was beginning to hope that PatriciaTraymore had changed her mind about stopping in when she saw asmall car coming slowly down the road. The driver paused at themailbox, probably checking the house number. Reluctantly Margaretwent to the front door.Pat apologized for being late. “I took a wrong turn somewhere,”she said, gladly accepting the offer of coffee.Margaret felt her anxiety begin to subside. There was somethingvery thoughtful about this young woman, the way she so carefullyscraped her boots before stepping onto the polished floor. She was sopretty, with that auburn hair and those rich brown eyes. SomehowMargaret had expected her to be terribly aggressive. When sheexplained about Eleanor, maybe Patricia Traymore would listen. Asshe poured the coffee she said as much.

“You see,” Margaret began, and to her own ears her voice soundedhigh-pitched and nervous, “the problem at the time the moneydisappeared in Washington was that everyone talked about Eleanoras though she were a hardened thief. Miss Traymore, did you everhear the value of the object she supposedly stole when she was a highschool senior?”“No, I don’t think so,” Pat answered.“
Six dollars.
Her life was ruined because of a sixdollar bottle ofperfume! Miss Traymore, haven’t you ever started to walk out of astore and realized you were holding something you meant to buy?”“A few times,” Pat agreed. “But surely no one is convicted ofshoplifting for being absentminded about a six-dollar item.”“You are if there’s been a wave of shoplifting in town. Theshopkeepers were up in arms, and the district attorney had vowed tomake an example of the next person caught.”“And Eleanor was the next person?”“Yes. ” Fine beads of perspiration accentuated the lines inMargaret’s forehead. Alarmed, Pat noticed that her complexion wasbecoming a sickly gray.“Miss Langley, don’t you feel well? May I get you a glass of water?”The older woman shook her head. “No, it will pass. Just give mea minute.” They sat silently as the color began to return to MissLangley’s face. “That’s better. I guess just talking about Eleanor upsetsme. You see, Miss Traymore, the judge made an example of Eleanor;sent her to the juvenile home for thirty days. After that she waschanged. Different. Some people can’t take that kind of humiliation.You see, nobody believed her except me. I know young people. Shewasn’t daring. She was the kind who never chewed gum in class ortalked when the teacher was out of the room or cheated on a test. Shewasn’t only good. She was
timid.
”Margaret Langley was holding something back. Pat could senseit. She leaned forward, her voice gentle. “Miss Langley, there’s alittle more to the story than you’re telling.”The woman’s lip quivered. “Eleanor didn’t have enough moneyto pay for the perfume. She explained that she was going to ask themto wrap it and put it aside. She was going to a birthday party thatnight. The judge didn’t believe her.”

Neither do I, Pat thought. She was saddened she couldn’t acceptthe explanation that Margaret Langley so passionately believed. Shewatched as the former principal put her hand on her throat as thoughto calm a rapid pulsebeat. “That sweet girl came here so manyevenings,” Margaret Langley continued sadly, “because she knew Iwas the one person who absolutely believed her. When she wasgraduated from our school, I wrote and asked Abigail if she couldfind a job for her in her office.”“Isn’t it true that the Senator gave Eleanor that chance, trustedher, and then Eleanor stole campaign funds?” Pat asked.Margaret’s face became very tired. The tone of her voice flattened.“I was on a year ’s sabbatical when all that happened. I was travelingin Europe. By the time I got home, it was all over. Eleanor had beenconvicted and sent to prison and had a nervous breakdown. She wasin the psychiatric ward of the prison hospital. I wrote to her regularly,but she never answered. Then, from what I understand, she wasparoled for reasons of poor health, but only on condition she attend aclinic as an outpatient twice a week. One day she just disappeared.That was nine years ago.”“And you never heard from her again?”“I . . . No . . . uh . . .” Margaret stood up. “I’m sorry—wouldn’t youlike a little more coffee? There’s plenty in the pot. I’m going to havesome. I shouldn’t, but I will.” With an attempt at a smile Margaret walkedinto the kitchen. Pat snapped off the recorder. She
has
heard from Eleanor,she thought, and can’t bring herself to lie. When Miss Langley returned,Pat asked softly, “What do you know about Eleanor now?”Margaret Langley set down the coffeepot on the table and walkedover to the window. Would she hurt Eleanor by trusting Pat Traymore?Would she in effect point out a trail that might lead to Eleanor?A lone sparrow fluttered past the window and settled forlornly onthe icy branch of an elm tree near the driveway. Margaret made upher mind. She would trust Patricia Traymore, show her the letters,tell her what she believed. She turned and met Pat’s gaze and saw theconcern in her eyes. “I want to show you something,” she said abruptly.When Margaret Langley returned to the room, she held in eachhand a folded sheet of notepaper. “I’ve heard from Eleanor twice,”

she said. “This letter”—she extended her right hand—”was written thevery day of the supposed theft. Read it, Miss Traymore; just read it.”The cream stationery was deeply creased as though it had beenhandled many times. Pat glanced at the date. The letter was elevenyears old. Pat skimmed the contents quickly. Eleanor hoped that MissLangley was enjoying her year in Europe; Eleanor had received apromotion and loved her job. She was taking painting classes atGeorge Washington University and they were going very well. Shehad just returned from an afternoon in Baltimore. She’d had anassignment to sketch a water scene and decided on Chesapeake Bay.Miss Langley had underlined one paragraph. It read:

I almost didn’t get there. I had to run an errand forSenator Jennings. She’d left her diamond ring in thecampaign office and thought it had been locked in thesafe for her. But it wasn’t there, and I just made mybus.

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