The Shadow of Your Smile (28 page)

The couple who owned it were both writers who worked at home. The reason they liked to have their apartment cleaned on Saturday afternoon was because by noon they were on their way to their country home in Washington, Connecticut.

Sophie continued at the job for only one reason; they paid her double to give up her Saturdays, and with fifteen grandchildren that money made it possible for her to do all the little extras for them their parents couldn’t afford.

Even so, it gets harder and harder to work here, Sophie thought, as at one o’clock promptly, she put her key in the door of the apartment. Those two are nothing like Ms. Morrow, she told herself, not for the first time. A few minutes later she started to empty overflowing wastebaskets, pick heaps of damp towels off the bathroom floor, and clear the refrigerator of half-empty cartons of Chinese food. There’s a word for them, she sighed: slobs.

At six o’clock, when she left, the apartment was spotless. The dishwasher had been emptied, the laundry folded in the linen closet, the shades drawn exactly halfway down in all five rooms. They tell me how nice it is to come home on Monday and find it like this, Sophie thought. Why don’t they try
keeping
it like this?

Ms. Morrow’s apartment, she sighed. People would be going through it. It’s such a nice one, a lot of people will want to buy it. Ms. Morrow had told her that Dr. Hadley would take care of everything.

As Sophie pressed the button for the elevator, a thought occurred to her. If Ms. Morrow had bled on the pillow when she bit her lip, the soiled pillowcase would be in the laundry bag. And what about the bed? When they took away poor Ms. Morrow’s body, I bet nobody bothered to make the bed. I don’t want strangers to go into her home
and see it with an unmade bed and a soiled pillowcase in the laundry bag, she thought.

The elevator came. She pushed the button to go up to the fourteenth floor. I have a key to her apartment, she thought. I’m going to do the last thing I can ever do for the poor soul—change her sheets. Take that soiled pillowcase home, launder it, make her bed and put the spread on, so that whoever goes into her apartment can appreciate what it looked like when she lived in it.

Comforted at the thought that she could offer one final service to a lady who had been very kind to her, Sophie got off on the fourteenth floor, took out her key, and opened the door of Olivia Morrow’s apartment.

54
 

With mixed emotions, but believing that she was genuinely concerned, Monica took Susan Gannon to Sally’s crib. Sally’s eyes were open, and she was holding a nearly full bottle of water. The oxygen mask had been replaced by tubes in her nostrils. At the sight of Monica she struggled to her feet and raised her arms. “Monny, Monny.” But when Monica picked her up, she began to punch at her with her small fists.

“Oh, come on, Sally,” Monica said, soothingly. “I know you’re mad at me, but I couldn’t help hurting you with those needles. I had to make you get better.”

The intensive care nurse held the chart for her. “As I told you when you phoned, Doctor, Sally had a pretty good night. She hates the IV of course, and fought it until she fell asleep. She did drink her bottle this morning and ate a little fruit.”

Susan had been standing a few feet away. “Does she still have pneumonia?” she asked quietly.

“There’s still some fluid in her lungs,” Monica said. “But thank God, she’s off the critical list. When the babysitter brought her in on Thursday morning, I was afraid we were going to lose this little girl. We couldn’t let that happen, could we, Sally?”

Sally’s fists stopped flailing and she laid her head on Monica’s shoulder.

“She’s the image of her father,” Susan said softly. “How long will she be in the hospital?”

“For another week at least,” Monica said.

“Then what?” Susan asked.

“Unless some relative comes to claim her, she’ll be put into a foster home, at least temporarily.”

“I see. Thank you, Doctor.” Abruptly Susan Gannon turned and walked quickly down the corridor. It was clear to Monica that she was becoming very emotional and was eager to get away.

After Monica examined Sally and put her back in the crib, wailing in protest, she reconnected the IV, and then checked her two other young patients. One of them was a six-year-old boy who had a bad strep throat. He was surrounded by his parents, big brothers, and grandmother. Books and games were piled on the windowsill. “I think I should keep you here for a couple of more days, Bobby, so you can read all those books,” she told him, as she signed his discharge papers.

At his alarmed look, she said, “Just kidding. You’re out of here.”

Four-year-old Rachel, who had been admitted with bronchitis, was her other patient. She, too, was recovered enough to go home. “And you two had both better get some rest,” Monica told the weary-looking parents. She knew that neither one of them had left Rachel’s side since she’d been brought to the hospital four days ago. Bobby and Rachel were never really in danger, she thought. Hospitalizing them was only a precaution. But Sally almost didn’t make it. The other kids have families who haven’t left them alone for one single minute. Sally’s only visitors have been her babysitter, who knew her for only a week, and the ex-wife of her father, who is now suspected of murdering Sally’s mother.

In the hospital lobby, Monica bought the
Post
and the
News,
and on the way home in the cab, she read the stories behind the headlines about Peter Gannon. The large gift bag Gannon claimed he had given
Renée Carter had been found crumpled in his wastebasket. One hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills, the money that had been in the gift bag, was hidden in the false bottom in his desk drawer.

He’s guilty as sin, Monica thought. No one in that family will ever want Renée Carter’s baby. According to these stories, Peter Gannon has never even laid eyes on her. Oh, God, with all the people who yearn for a child, why did Sally have to be born to these people?

But Sally would not be Sally if she were not the offspring of Peter Gannon and Renée Carter. No matter what kind of people they are, or were, she is a beautiful, sweet little girl.

“We’re here, Miss,” the cabby said.

Monica looked up, startled. “Oh, of course.” She paid the fare, tipped generously, and went up the steps, key in hand. She opened the outer door, used the key for the inner door to the vestibule, and walked down the hallway to her apartment. It was only when she was inside, and had dropped her shoulder bag and the newspapers on the chair, that the events of the past few days flooded through her mind.

She stared at the worn shoulder bag she had been using in place of the new one that had been crushed by the bus. She felt the panic of that awful moment again when the bus was rushing at her. Then she thought of her intense disappointment that Olivia Morrow had died only hours before they were to meet, of her futile attempt to find a possible confidante of Morrow’s at the funeral Mass, and finally of the emotional pain of learning that Ryan was involved with another woman. A feeling of intense sadness enveloped her.

Close to tears, she went into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and looked in the refrigerator for salad makings. I’m more banged up than I realized, she thought. My back and shoulders are sore and aching.

There’s something else, she told herself. What is it? It has to do with Sally. Something I said this morning. What was it?

Let it go, she thought. If it’s important, it will come back.

There’s something I
do
know is important, she mused, as she opened a can of crabmeat. The meeting at the Gannon Foundation has been set for Tuesday. I wonder if they’ll try to cancel it, with all this going on. We need the fifteen million dollars they promised us for the addition to the hospital. We need that new pediatric wing that’s going to be part of it. Isn’t it incredible that one of the Gannons is Sally’s father?

The salad and two cups of tea made Monica feel a bit better. She knew that her land phone was backed up with calls from her friends who had heard about the bus incident. With a pad in hand, she listened to the messages. They all ran in a similar vein, how concerned and shocked they were at her narrow escape from the bus, and was there any truth to that old lady’s story that she had been pushed? Three of her callers wanted her to stay at their apartments, in case she was being stalked.

Monica began to return the calls. She reached six of her friends and left messages for the others, and she declined several invitations to join them for dinner, even though she had no plans for the evening. When she was finished, she went into the bathroom, undressed, and got into the Jacuzzi. For forty-five minutes she relaxed in the soothing warm water and began to feel the strain ease from her bruised body.

She had planned to put on comfortable slacks and a sweater and take a long walk, but the almost sleepless night was taking its toll on her. Instead, she lay down on the bed, pulled the comforter over her, and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again the slanting shadows told her it was late afternoon. For a few minutes she stayed wrapped in the comforter, feeling more in focus. I’m glad I don’t have plans, she thought. I haven’t seen a good movie in ages—I’ll find one, go to an early show by myself, and grab something to eat on the way back.
I really don’t feel like taking a walk anymore. But I do want to get some fresh air . . .

She pushed her feet into chenille slippers, walked from the bedroom to the kitchen, opened the back door to the small patio, and stepped outside. It was chilly, and the robe that had felt so comfortable was no match for the outside temperature.

A couple of deep breaths, she thought, and that’s it. Then as she glanced around, her eyes focused on the decorative water can that stood to the left of the door.

It had been moved.

She was sure of it.

She always left it placed on the one patio stone that was badly cracked. It was heavy enough so that even a strong wind wouldn’t move it. Now it was halfway onto the next stone.

But it hadn’t been like that yesterday.

Before I left for the funeral Mass, I came out on the patio, she thought. I’d slept so badly I felt groggy and wanted fresh air. I’m sure I remember looking at the can and thinking that I should get around to replacing the broken stone. Or, maybe Lucy moved it, if she swept the patio when she was here yesterday?

Suddenly shivering, Monica went back into the kitchen, pulled the door closed behind her, and slid the bolt into the lock position.

I always mean to leave the bolt fastened, she thought, nervously, but it hadn’t been fastened just now. Sometimes, like yesterday, when I go outside for a few minutes I forget to slide the bolt. I must have done that yesterday. After I finally fell asleep last night, I woke up so suddenly. Was it because I heard a sound that startled me awake? If I had been in a sound sleep and hadn’t turned on the light, would someone have tried to come in? Had someone been out there?

The incongruous thought ran through her mind that the reason she hadn’t slept well had a name.

It was Ryan Jenner.

55
 

Sammy Barber worked as a bouncer at the Ruff-Stuff Bar from nine p.m. till closing. The so-called nightclub was basically a strip joint, and Sammy’s job was to make sure none of the drunks got out of hand. He also had to protect the D-list celebrities and their hangers-on from being bothered by jerks who tried to get too close to their tables and slobber over them.

It was a job that had lousy pay, but it kept his profile low. It also meant that he could sleep late, unless he had been hired to do a hit job and had to tail someone until he got his chance to make that target disappear.

On Saturday evening Sammy was in a foul mood. The first bungled attempt to kill Farrell had left him unsure of himself for the first time in years. And the fact that the old crow had seen him push Farrell and could describe him was scary. In the last couple of years, he had bumped two people onto train tracks without anyone suspecting they hadn’t fallen accidentally. Then, yesterday afternoon, from the alleyway behind her house, using a long-distance lens, he had taken a picture of Farrell’s back door. When he developed it, he could see that the top half of the door consisted of squares of glass covered by a metal grille. The grille was a laugh. He could see that it would be easy to cut out the pane nearest the lock and reach his hand in to turn
the knob. If there was a security bolt he’d just have to cut another pane to get to it. Simple stuff.