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Books by Mary Higgins Clark
Before I Say Good-ByeWe’ll Meet AgainAll Through The NightYou Belong To MePretend You Don’t See HerMy Gal SundayMoonlight Becomes YouSilent NightLet Me Call You SweetheartThe Lottery WinnerRemember MeI’ll Be Seeing YouAll Around The TownLoves Music, Loves To DanceThe Anastasia Syndrome And Other StoriesWhile My Pretty Ones SleepsWeep No More, My LadyStillwatchA Cry In The NightThe Cradle Will FallA Stranger Is WatchingWhere Are The Children?
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents areproducts of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resem-blance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coin-cidental.
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Copyright © 1984 by Mary Higgins Clark
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To Pat Myrer, my agentandMichael V. Korda, my editor
For their inestimable expertise, support,help and encouragement I joyfully offer“ the still small voice of gratitude. ”

Table of Contents
Chapter 01Chapter 02 Chapter 03 Chapter 04Chapter 05Chapter 06Chapter 07Chapter 08Chapter 09Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28 Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33

Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43

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Pat drove slowly, her eyes scanning the narrow Georgetown streets.The cloud-filled sky was dark; streetlights blended with the carriagelamps that flanked doorways; Christmas decorations gleamed againstice-crusted snow. The effect was one of Early American tranquillity.She turned onto N Street, drove one more block, still searching forhouse numbers, and crossed the intersection. That must be it, shethought—the corner house. Home Sweet Home.She sat for a while at the curb, studying the house. It was the onlyone on the street that was unlighted, and its graceful lines were barelydiscernible. The long front windows were half-hidden by shrubberythat had been allowed to grow.After the nine-hour drive from Concord her body ached every timeshe moved, but she found herself putting off the moment when sheopened the front door and went inside. It’s that damn phone call, shethought. I’ve let it get to me.A few days before she’d left her job at the cable station in Boston,the switchboard operator had buzzed her. “Some kind of weirdo insistson talking to you. Do you want me to stay on the line?”“Yes.” She had picked up the receiver, identified herself and listenedas a soft but distinctly masculine voice murmured, “Patricia Traymore,you must not come to Washington. You must not produce a programglorifying Senator Jennings. And you must not live in that house.”She had heard the audible gasp of the operator. “Who is this?” sheasked sharply.The answer, delivered in the same syrupy murmur, made her handsunpleasantly moist. “I am an angel of mercy, of deliverance—and ofvengeance.”Pat had tried to dismiss the event as one of the many crank callsreceived at television stations, but it was impossible not to be troubled.
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The announcement of her move to Potomac Cable Network to do aseries called Women in Government had appeared in many television-news columns. She had read all of them to see if there was any mentionof the address where she would live, but there had been none. The Washington Tribune had carried the most detailed story:“Auburn-haired Patricia Traymore, with her husky voice andsympathetic brown eyes, will be an attractive addition to PotomacCable Network. Her profiles of celebrities on Boston Cable have twicebeen nominated for Emmys. Pat has the magical gift of getting peopleto reveal themselves with remarkable candor. Her first subject willbe Abigail Jennings, the very private senior Senator from Virginia.According to Luther Pelham, news director and anchorman ofPotomac Cable, the program will include highlights of the Senator ’sprivate and public life. Washington is breathlessly waiting to see ifPat Traymore can penetrate the beautiful Senator ’s icy reserve.”The thought of the call nagged at Pat. It was the cadence of thevoice, the way he had said “ that house.”Who was it who knew about the house?The car was cold. Pat realized the engine had been off for minutes.A man with a briefcase hurried past, paused when he observed hersitting there, then went on his way. I’d better get moving before hecalls the cops and reports a loiterer, she thought.The iron gates in front of the driveway were open. She stoppedthe car at the stone path that led to the front door and fumbled throughher purse for the house key.She paused at the doorstep, trying to analyze her feelings. She’danticipated a momentous reaction. Instead, she simply wanted to getinside, lug the suitcases from the car, fix coffee and a sandwich. Sheturned the key, pushed the door open, found the light switch.The house seemed very clean. The smooth brick floor of the foyerhad a soft patina; the chandelier was sparkling. A second glanceshowed fading paint and scuff marks near the baseboards. Most ofthe furniture would probably need to be discarded or refinished. Thegood pieces stored in the attic of the Concord house would be deliveredtomorrow.She walked slowly through the first floor. The formal dining room,large and pleasant, was on the left. When she was sixteen and on aschool trip to Washington, she had walked past this house but hadn’t
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realized how spacious the rooms were. From the outside the houseseemed narrow.The table was scarred, the sideboard badly marked, as if hot servingdishes had been laid directly on the wood. But she knew the handsome,elaborately carved Jacobean set was family furniture and worthwhatever it would cost to restore.She glanced into the kitchen and library but deliberately keptwalking. All the news stories had described the layout of the house inminute detail. The living room was the last room on the right. Shefelt her throat tighten as she approached it. Was she crazy to be doingthis—returning here, trying to recapture a memory best forgotten?The living-room door was closed. She put her hand on the knoband turned it hesitantly. The door swung open. She fumbled and foundthe wall switch. The room was large and beautiful, with a high ceiling,a delicate mantel above the white brick fireplace, a recessed windowseat. It was empty except for a concert grand piano, a massive expanseof dark mahogany in the alcove to the right of the fireplace.The fireplace.She started to walk toward it.Her arms and legs began to tremble. Perspiration started from herforehead and palms. She could not swallow. The room was movingaround her. She rushed to the French doors at the far end of the leftwall, fumbled with the lock, yanked both doors open and stumbledonto the snow-banked patio.The frosty air seared her lungs as she gulped in short, nervousbreaths. A violent shudder made her hug her arms around her body.She began to sway and needed to lean against the house to keep fromfalling. Light-headedness made the dark outlines of the leafless treesseem to sway with her.The snow was ankle-deep. She could feel the wetness seep throughher boots, but she would not go back in until the dizziness receded.Minutes passed before she could trust herself to return to the room.Carefully she closed and double-locked the doors, hesitated and thendeliberately turned around and with slow, reluctant steps walked tothe fireplace. Tentatively she ran her hand down the roughwhitewashed brick.For a long time now, bits and pieces of memory had intruded on
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her like wreckage from a ship. In the past year she had persistentlydreamed of being a small child again in this house. Invariably shewould awaken in an agony of fear, trying to scream, unable to utter asound. But coupled with the fear was a pervading sense of loss. Thetruth is in this house, she thought.
It was here that it had happened. The lurid headlines, gleaned fromnewspaper archives, flashed through her mind. “WISCONSINCONGRESSMAN DEAN ADAMS MURDERS BEAUTIFULSOCIALITE WIFE AND KILLS SELF. THREE-YEAR-OLDDAUGHTER FIGHTS FOR LIFE.”She had read the stories so many times, she knew them by heart.“A sorrowful Senator John F. Kennedy commented, ‘I simply don’tunderstand. Dean was one of my best friends. Nothing about himever suggested pent-up violence.’”What had driven the popular Congressman to murder and suicide?There had been rumors that he and his wife were on the verge ofdivorce. Had Dean Adams snapped when his wife made an irrevocabledecision to leave him? They must have wrestled for the gun. Boththeir fingerprints, smudged and overlapping, were found on it. Theirthree-year-old daughter had been found lying against the fireplace,her skull fractured, her right leg shattered.Veronica and Charles Traymore had told her that she was adopted.Not until she was in high school and wanted to trace her ancestry hadshe been given the whole truth. Shocked, she learned that her motherwas Veronica’s sister. “You were in a coma for a year and not expectedto live,” Veronica told her. “When you finally did regain consciousnessyou were like an infant and had to be taught everything. Mother—your grandmother—actually sent an obituary notice to the newspapers.That’s how determined she was that the scandal wouldn’t follow youall your life. Charles and I were living in England then. We adoptedyou and our friends were told you were from an English family.”Pat recalled how furious Veronica had been when Pat insisted ontaking over the Georgetown house. “Pat, it’s wrong to go back there,”she’d said. “We should have sold that place for you instead of rentingit all these years. You’re making a name for yourself in television—
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don’t risk it by raking up the past! You’ll be meeting people whoknew you as a child. Somebody might put two and two together.”Veronica’s thin lips tightened when Pat insisted.“We did everything humanly possible to give you a fresh start. Goahead, if you insist, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”In the end they had hugged each other, both shaken and upset.“Come on,” Pat pleaded. “My job is digging for the truth. If I hunt forthe good and bad in other people’s lives, how can I ever have anypeace if I don’t do it in my own?”
Now she went into the kitchen and picked up the telephone. Evenas a child she had referred to Veronica and Charles by their first names,and in the past few years had virtually stopped calling them Motherand Dad. But she suspected that that annoyed and hurt them.Veronica answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mother.I’m here safe and sound; the traffic was light all the way.”“Where is here? ”“At the house in Georgetown.” Veronica had wanted her to stay ata hotel until the furniture arrived. Without giving her a chance toremonstrate, Pat rushed on. “It’s really better this way. I’ll have achance to set up my equipment in the library and get my head togetherfor my interview with Senator Jennings tomorrow.”“You’re not nervous there?”“Not at all.” She could visualize Veronica’s thin, worried face.“Forget about me and get ready for your cruise. Are you all packed?”“Of course. Pat, I don’t like your being alone for Christmas.”“I’ll be too busy getting this program together even to think aboutit. Anyway, we had a wonderful early Christmas together. Look, I’dbetter unload the car. Love to both of you. Pretend you’re on a secondhoneymoon and let Charles make mad love to you.”“ Pat! ” Disapproval and amusement mingled in her voice. But shemanaged one more piece of advice before hanging up. “Keep thedouble locks on!”Buttoning her jacket, Pat ventured out into the chilly evening, andfor the next ten minutes she tugged and hauled the luggage and cartons.The box of linens and blankets was heavy and ungainly; she had torest every few steps on the way to the second floor. Whenever she
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tried to carry anything heavy her right leg felt as though it might giveway. The carton with dishes and pans and groceries had to be hoistedup to the kitchen counter. I should have trusted the movers to arrivetomorrow on time, she thought—but she had learned to be skepticalof “firm” delivery dates. She had just finished hanging up her clothesand making coffee when the phone rang.The sound seemed to explode in the quiet of the house. Pat jumpedand winced as a few drops of coffee touched her hand. Quickly sheput the cup on the counter and reached for the phone. “Pat Traymore.”“Hello, Pat.”She clutched the receiver, willing her voice to sound only friendly.“Hello, Sam.”Samuel Kingsley, Congressman from the 26th District ofPennsylvania, the man she loved with all her heart—the other reasonshe had decided to come to Washington.
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Forty minutes later Pat was struggling with the clasp of her necklacewhen the peal of the door chimes announced Sam’s arrival. She hadchanged to a hunter green wool dress with satin braiding. Sam hadonce told her that green brought out the red in her hair.The doorbell rang again. Her fingers were trembling too much tofasten the catch. Grabbing her purse, she dropped the necklace intoit. As she hurried down the stairs she tried to force herself to be calm.She reminded herself that during the eight months since Sam’s wife,Janice, had died Sam hadn’t called once.On the last step she realized that she was again favoring her rightleg. It was Sam’s insistence that she consult a specialist about thelimp that had finally forced her to tell him the truth about the injury.She hesitated momentarily in the foyer, then slowly opened the door.Sam nearly filled the doorway. The outside light caught the silverstrands in his dark brown hair. Under unruly brows, his hazel eyeslooked wary and quizzical. There were unfamiliar lines around them.But the smile when he looked at her was the same, warm and all-embracing.They stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to make thefirst move, to set the tone for the reunion. Sam was carrying a broom.Solemnly he handed it to her. “The Amish people are in my district.One of their customs is to carry a new broom and salt into a newhome.” He reached into his pocket for a salt cellar. “Courtesy of theHouse dining room.” Stepping inside, he put his hands on hershoulders and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Welcome to our town,Pat. It’s good to have you here.”So this is the greeting, Pat thought. Old friends getting together.Washington is too small a town to try to duck someone from the past,
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so meet her head on and establish the rules. Not on your life, shethought. It’s a whole new ball game, Sam, and this time I plan to win.She kissed him, deliberately, leaving her lips against his just longenough to sense the intensity gathering in him, then stepped backand smiled easily.“How did you know I was here?” she asked. “Have you got theplace bugged?”“Not quite. Abigail told me you were going to be in her officetomorrow. I called Potomac Cable for your phone number.”“I see.” There was something intimate in the way Sam soundedwhen he mentioned Senator Jennings. Pat felt her heart give a queertwist and looked down, not wanting Sam to see the expression on herface. She made a business of fishing in her purse for her necklace.“This thing has a clasp that Houdini couldn’t figure out. Will you?”She handed it to him.He slipped it around her neck and she felt the warmth of his fingersas he fastened it. For a moment his fingers lingered against her skin.Then he said, “Okay, that should stay put. Do I get the Cook’sTour of the house?”“There’s nothing to see yet. The moving van delivers tomorrow.This place will have a whole new look in a few days. Besides, I’mstarving.”“As I remember, you always were.” Now Sam’s eyes betrayedgenuine amusement. “How a little thing like you can put away hot-fudge sundaes and buttered biscuits and still not put on an ounce . . .”Very smooth, Sam, Pat thought as she reached into the closet forher coat. You’ve managed to ticket me as a little thing with a bigappetite. “Where are we going?” she asked.“I made a reservation at Maison Blanche. It’s always good.”She handed him her jacket. “Do they have a children’s menu?”she asked sweetly.“ What? Oh, I see. Sorry —I thought I was paying you acompliment.”Sam had parked in the driveway behind her car.They walked down the path, his hand lightly under her arm. “Pat,are you favoring your right leg again?” There was concern in his tone.
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“Just a touch. I’m stiff from the drive.”“Stop me if I’m wrong. But isn’t this the house you own?”She had told him about her parents the one night they had spenttogether. Now she nodded distractedly. She had often relived thatnight in the Ebb Tide Motel on Cape Cod. All she needed was thescent of the ocean, or the sight of two people in a restaurant, theirfingers linked across the table, smiling the secret smile of lovers.And that one night had ended their relationship. In the morning, quietand sad at breakfast, on their way to separate planes, they had talkedit out and agreed they had no right to each other. Sam’s wife, alreadyconfined to a wheelchair with multiple sclerosis, didn’t deserve theadded pain of sensing that her husband was involved with anotherwoman. “And she’d know,” Sam had said.Pat forced herself back to the present and tried to change thesubject. “Isn’t this a great street? It reminds me of a painting on aChristmas card.”“Almost any street in Georgetown looks like a Christmas card atthis time of year,” Sam rejoined. “It’s a lousy idea for you to try todredge up the past, Pat. Let go of it.”They were at the car. He opened the door and she slipped in. Shewaited until he was in the driver ’s seat and pulling away before shesaid, “I can’t. There’s something that keeps nagging me, Sam. I’mnot going to have any peace until I know what it is.”Sam slowed for the stop sign at the end of the block. “Pat, don’tyou know what you’re trying to do? You want to rewrite history,remember that night and decide it was all a terrible accident, thatyour father didn’t mean to hurt you or kill your mother. You’re justmaking it harder for yourself.”She glanced over and studied his profile. His features, a shade toostrong, a hairbreadth too irregular for classic good looks, wereimmensely endearing. She had to conquer the impulse to slide overand feel the fine wool of his overcoat against her cheek.“Sam, have you ever been seasick?” she asked.“Once or twice. I’m usually a pretty good sailor.”“So am I. But I remember coming back on the QE 2 with Veronicaand Charles one summer. We hit a storm and for some reason I lostmy sea legs. I don’t ever remember being so miserable. I kept wishing
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I could be sick and have done with it. And you see, that’s the way it’sgetting to be for me now. Things keep coming back to me.”He turned the car onto Pennsylvania Avenue. “What things?”“Sounds . . . impressions . . . sometimes so vague; other times,especially when I’m just waking up, remarkably clear—and yet theyfade before I can get hold of them. I actually tried hypnosis last year,but it didn’t work. Then I read that some adults can remember accuratelythings that happened when they were as young as two. One study saidthe best way to recapture the memory is to reproduce the environment.Fortunately or unfortunately, that’s something I can do.”“I still think it’s a lousy idea.”Pat gazed out the car window. She had studied street maps to geta sense of the city and now tried to test herself on the accuracy of herimpressions. But the car was moving too swiftly, and it was too darkto be sure of anything. They didn’t speak.The maître d’ at Maison Blanche greeted Sam warmly and escortedthem to a banquette“The usual?” Sam asked after they were seated.Pat nodded, acutely aware of Sam’s nearness. Was this his favoritetable? How many other women had he brought here?“Two Chivas Regals on the rocks with a splash of soda and a twistof lemon, please,” Sam requested. He waited until the maître d’ wasout of earshot, then said, “All right—tell me about the last few years.Don’t leave anything out.”“That’s a tall order. Give me a minute to think.” She would eliminatethose first few months after they had agreed not to see each other,when she’d gotten through the day in a fog of sheer, hopeless misery.She could and did talk about her job, about getting an Emmy nominationfor her program on the newly elected woman mayor of Boston, abouther growing obsession to do a program about Senator Jennings.“Why Abigail?” Sam asked.“Because I think it’s high time a woman was nominated forPresident. In two years there’ll be a national election and AbigailJennings should lead the ticket. Just look at her record: ten years inthe House; in her third term in the Senate; member of the Foreign
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Relations Committee; the Budget Committee; first woman to beAssistant Majority Leader. Isn’t it a fact that Congress is still in sessionbecause the President is counting on her to get the budget throughthe way he wants it?”“Yes, it’s true—and what’s more, she’ll do it.”“What do you think of her?”Sam shrugged. “She’s good. She’s damn good, as a matter of fact.But she’s stepped on a lot of important toes, Pat. When Abigail getsupset, she doesn’t care who she blasts, and where and how she does it.”“I assume that’s also true of the majority of the men on the Hill.”“Probably.”“Exactly.”The waiter came with menus. They ordered, deciding to share aCaesar salad. And that was another memory. That last day togetherPat had made a picnic lunch and asked Sam what salad she shouldbring. “Caesar,” he’d said promptly, “and lots of anchovies, please.”“How can you eat those things?” she’d demanded. “How can younot? It’s an acquired taste, but once you have it, you’ll never lose it.”She’d tried them that day and decided they were good.He remembered too. As they handed back the menus, hecommented, “I’m glad you didn’t give up on the anchovies.” Hesmiled. “Getting back to Abigail, I’m amazed she agreed to go alongwith the documentary.”“Frankly, I’m still amazed myself. I wrote to her about three monthsago. I’d done a lot of research on her and was absolutely fascinated bywhat I uncovered. Sam, how much do you know about her background?”“She’s from Virginia. She took her husband’s seat in Congresswhen he died. She’s a workaholic.”“Exactly. That’s the way everyone sees her. The truth is that AbigailJennings comes from Upstate New York, not Virginia. She won theMiss New York State beauty contest but refused to go to AtlanticCity for the Miss America pageant because she had a scholarship toRadcliffe and didn’t want to risk wasting a year. She was only thirty-one when she was widowed. She was so in love with her husbandthat twenty-five years later she still hasn’t remarried.”
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“She hasn’t remarried, but she hasn’t lived in a cloister either.”“I wouldn’t know about that, but judging from the information I’vegathered, the vast majority of her days and nights are strictly work.”“That’s true.”“Anyhow, in my letter I wrote that I’d like to do a program thatwould give viewers the feeling of knowing her on a personal level. Ioutlined what I had in mind and got back about the frostiest rejectionI’ve ever read. Then a couple of weeks ago Luther Pelham phoned.He was coming to Boston specifically to take me to lunch and wantedto talk about my coming to work for him. Over lunch he told me theSenator had showed him my letter; he’d already been mulling overthe idea of a series called Women in Government. He knew and likedmy work and felt I was right for the job. He also said that he wantedto make me a regular part of his seven-o’clock news program.“You can imagine how I felt. Pelham is probably the most importantcommentator in the business; the network is as big as Turner ’s; themoney’s terrific. I’m to kick off the series with a documentary onSenator Jennings and he wants it as fast as possible. But I still don’tknow why the Senator changed her mind.”“I can tell you why. The Vice President may be on the verge ofresigning. He’s much sicker than people realize.”Pat laid down her fork and stared at him. “Sam, do you mean . . .?”“I mean the President has less than two years left in his secondterm. How better to make every woman in the country happy than byappointing the first woman Vice President?”“But that means . . . if Senator Jennings is Vice President, theyalmost couldn’t deny her the nomination for President next time.”“Hold on, Pat. You’re going too fast. All I’ve said is that if theVice President resigns, there’s a damn good chance he’ll be replacedby either Abigail Jennings or Claire Lawrence. Claire is practicallythe Erma Bombeck of the Senate—very popular, very witty, a first-rate legislator. She’d do an excellent job. But Abigail’s been therelonger. The President and Claire are both from the Midwest, andpolitically that isn’t good. He’d rather appoint Abigail, but he can’tignore the fact that Abigail really isn’t well known nationally. Andshe’s made some powerful enemies in Congress.”
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“Then you believe Luther Pelham wants the documentary to letpeople see Abigail in a warmer, more personal way?”“From what you’ve just told me, that’s my guess. I think he wantsto generate popular support for her. They were pretty cozy for a longtime, and I’m sure he’d like to have his dear friend in the VicePresident’s chair.”They ate silently as Pat mulled the implications of what Sam hadtold her. Of course it explained the sudden job offer, the need for haste.“Hey, remember me?” Sam finally said. “You haven’t asked mewhat I’ve been doing these past two years.”“I’ve been following your career,” she told him. “I toasted youwhen you were reelected—not that I was surprised. I wrote and toreup a dozen notes to you when Janice died. I’m supposed to have away with words, but nothing sounded right. . . . It must have beenvery bad for you.”“It was. When it was obvious Janice didn’t have much time, I cutmy schedule to the bone and spent every possible minute with her. Ithink it helped.”“I’m sure it did.” She had to ask: “Sam, why did you wait so longto call me? In fact, would you ever have called me if I hadn’t come toWashington?”The background sounds of the other diners’ voices and the faintclinking of glasses, the tempting aromas of the food, the paneledwalls and frosted-glass partitions of the attractive room faded as shewaited for his answer.“I did call you,” he said, “a number of times, but I had the guts tobreak the connection before your phone rang. Pat, when I met you,you were about to become engaged. I spoiled that for you.”“With or without you it wouldn’t have happened. Rob is a niceguy, but that’s not enough.”“He’s a bright young lawyer with an excellent future. You’d bemarried to him now if it weren’t for me. Pat, I’m forty-eight yearsold. You’re twenty-seven. I’m going to be a grandfather in threemonths. You know you would want to have children, and I simplydon’t have the energy to raise a new family.”“I see. Can I ask you something, Sam?”
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“Of course.”“Do you love me, or have you talked yourself out of that too?”“I love you enough to give you a chance to meet someone yourown age again.”“And have you met someone your own age yet?”“I’m not seeing anyone specifically.”“I see.” She managed a smile. “Well, now that we have everythingout in the open, why don’t you buy me that nice gooey dessert I’msupposed to crave?”He looked relieved. Had he expected her to badger him? shewondered. He seemed so tired. Where was all the enthusiasm he’dhad a few years ago?An hour later when he was dropping her at home, Pat rememberedwhat she’d been meaning to discuss. “Sam, I had a crazy phone callat the office last week.” She told him about it. “Do people in Congressget much hate mail or calls?”He didn’t seem especially concerned. “Not that many, and noneof us takes them very seriously.” He kissed her cheek and chuckled.“I was just thinking. Maybe I’d better talk to Claire Lawrence andsee if she’s been trying to scare off Abigail.”Pat watched him drive away, then closed and latched the door.The house reinforced her feeling of emptiness. The furniture willmake a difference, she promised herself.Something on the floor caught her eye: a plain white envelope. Itmust have been slipped under the door while she was out. Her namewas printed in heavy black lettering that was sharply slanted fromleft to right. Probably someone from the realtor ’s office, she tried totell herself. But the usual business name and address were missingfrom the upper left-hand corner, and the envelope was of the cheapestdime-store sort.Slowly she ripped it open and pulled out the single sheet of paper.It read: “I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME.”
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The next morning the alarm went off at six. Pat slipped willingly outof bed. The lumpy mattress had not been conducive to sleep, and shehad kept waking, aware of the creaking, settling sounds in the houseand the thumping activity of the oil burner as it snapped off and on.Try as she would, she could not dismiss the note as the work of aharmless eccentric. Somebody was observing her.The movers had promised to arrive by eight. She planned to movethe files stored in the basement up to the library.The basement was dingy, with cement walls and floor. Gardenfurniture was stacked neatly in the center. The storage room was tothe right of the furnace room. A heavy padlock on its door was grimywith the accumulated soot of years.When Charles had given her the key, he’d warned, “I don’t knowexactly what you’ll find, Pat. Your grandmother instructed Dean’soffice to send all his personal effects to the house. We never did getaround to sorting them.”For a moment it seemed as though the key would not work. Thebasement was damp, with a vague smell of mildew. She wondered ifthe lock had rusted. She moved the key back and forth slowly andthen felt it turn. She tugged at the door.Inside the storeroom, a stronger smell of mildew assailed her. Twolegal-size filing cabinets were so covered with dust and cobwebs shecould barely determine their color. Several heavy cartons, haphazardlypiled, stood next to them. With her thumb she rubbed at the grimeuntil the labels appeared: CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS,BOOKS. CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS, PERSONALEFFECTS. CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS,MEMORABILIA.The inserts on the file drawers read the same:CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS, PERSONAL.“Congressman Dean W. Adams,” Pat said aloud.
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She repeated the name carefully. Funny, she thought, I really don’tthink of him as a Congressman. I only place him here in this house.What kind of Representative was he?Except for the formal picture the newspapers used at the time ofthe deaths, she’d never seen even a snapshot of him. Veronica hadshown her albums filled with pictures of Renée as a child, as a youngwoman at her debut, at her first professional concert, with Pat in herarms. It hadn’t been hard to guess why Veronica had kept no reminderof Dean Adams around.The key to the files was on the ring Charles had given her. Shewas about to unlock the first one when she began to sneeze. Shedecided it was crazy to try to examine anything in that cellar. Alreadyher eyes were itching from the dust. I’ll wait until it’s all in the library,she thought. But first she would wash the outside of the cabinets andget the worst of the dust off the cartons.It turned out to be a messy, exhausting job. There was no sink inthe basement, and she trudged repeatedly upstairs to the kitchen,bringing down a pail of sudsy hot water and returning a few minuteslater with both water and sponge blackened.On the last trip she brought down a knife and carefully scrapedthe identifying labels from the cartons. Finally she removed the insertsfrom the fronts of the file drawers. Satisfied, she surveyed her work.The cabinets were olive green and still in decent condition. Theywould fit along the east wall of the library. The cartons could gothere too. No one would have any reason to think they hadn’t comefrom Boston. Veronica’s influence again, she thought wryly. “Don’ttell anyone, Pat. Think ahead, Pat. When you marry, do you wantyour children to know that the reason you limp was that your fathertried to kill you?”She had barely time to wash her hands and face before the moversarrived. The three men on the truck hauled in the furniture, unrolledcarpets, unpacked china and crystal, brought up the contents of the storageroom. By noon they had gone, manifestly pleased with their tip.Alone again, Pat went directly to the living room. Thetransformation was dramatic. The fourteen-by-twenty-four-footOriental carpet with its brilliant designs of apricot, green, lemon andcranberry against a black background dominated the room. The greenvelvet love seat stood against the short wall at a right angle to the
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long apricot satin sofa. The matching high-backed wing chairs flankedthe fireplace; the Bombay chest was to the left of the patio doors.The room was well nigh a restoration of its former self. She walkedthrough it, touching the tops of the tables, adjusting the angle of achair or lamp, running her hands over the fabric of the upholsteredpieces. What was she feeling? She couldn’t be sure. Not fear exactly—though she had to force herself to pass the fireplace. What then?Nostalgia? But for what? Was it possible that some of those blurredimpressions were memories of happy times spent in this room? If so,what else could she do to retrieve them?
At five minutes to three she stepped out of a cab in front of theRussell Senate Office Building. The temperature had dropped sharplyin the last several hours and she was glad to enter the heated foyer.The security guards passed her through the metal detector and directedher to the elevator. A few minutes later she was giving her name toAbigail Jennings’ receptionist.“Senator Jennings is running a little behind,” the young womanexplained. “She has several constituents who stopped in to see her. Itwon’t be long.”“I don’t mind waiting.” Pat selected a straight-backed chair andlooked around. Abigail Jennings clearly had one of the most desirableof the senatorial offices. It was a corner unit and had a feeling ofairiness and space that she knew was in short supply in theovercrowded building. A low railing separated the waiting area fromthe receptionist’s desk. A corridor to the right led to a row of privateoffices. The walls were covered with framed news photos of theSenator. The small table by the leather couch held pamphletsexplaining Senator Jennings’ positions on pending legislation.She heard the familiar voice, softly modulated by the faintest touchof a Southern accent, easing visitors out of an inner office. “I’mdelighted you were able to stop by. I only wish we had more time. . .. The visitors were a well-dressed sixtyish couple, effusive in theirthanks. “Well, at the fund-raiser you did say to stop in anytime, and Isaid, ‘Violet, we’re in Washington, let’s just do it.’”“You’re sure you’re not free for dinner?” the woman visitorinterjected anxiously.“I only wish I were.”
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Pat watched as the Senator steered her guests to the outer door,opened it and slowly closed it, forcing them out. Well done, shethought. She felt her adrenaline rise.Abigail turned and paused, giving Pat an opportunity to study herclosely. Pat had forgotten how tall the Senator was—about five feetnine, with a graceful, erect carriage. Her gray tweed suit followed thelines of her body; broad shoulders accentuated a taut waistline; angularhips ended in slender legs. Her ash blond hair was cut short aroundthe thin face dominated by extraordinary china-blue eyes. Her nosewas shiny, her lips pale and undefined. She seemed to use absolutelyno makeup, as though trying deliberately to understate her remarkablebeauty. Except for the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, she lookedthe same as she had six years earlier.Pat watched as the Senator ’s glance came to rest on her.“Hello,” the Senator said, moving quickly toward her. With areproachful glance at the receptionist she said, “Cindy, you shouldhave told me that Miss Traymore was here.” Her chiding expressionturned rueful. “Well, no harm done. Come inside, please, MissTraymore. May I call you Pat? Luther has recommended you so highlyI feel I know you. And I’ve seen some of the specials you’ve done inBoston. Luther ran them for me. They’re splendid. And as youmentioned in your letter, we did meet some years ago. It was when Ispoke at Wellesley, wasn’t it?”“Yes, it was.” Pat followed the Senator into the inner office andlooked around. “How lovely!” she exclaimed.A long walnut console desk held a delicately painted Japaneselamp, an obviously valuable figurine of an Egyptian cat, a gold penin a holder. The crimson leather chair, wide and comfortable witharched arms and intricate nailheads, was probably seventeenth-centuryEnglish. An Oriental carpet had predominant tones of crimson andblue. The flags of the United States and the Commonwealth of Virginiawere on the wall behind the desk. Blue silk tieback draperies softenedthe bleakness of the cloudy winter day beyond the windows. Onewall was covered with mahogany bookshelves. Pat chose a chairnearest the Senator ’s desk.The Senator seemed pleased at Pat’s reaction to the office. “Someof my colleagues feel that the shabbier and more cluttered their offices
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appear, the busier and more down-to-earth their constituents will thinkthey are. I simply can’t work in confusion. Harmony is very importantto me. I get a lot more accomplished in this atmosphere.”She paused. “There’s a vote coming up on the floor within thehour, so I guess we’d better get down to business. Has Luther toldyou that I really hate the idea of this special?”Pat felt on safe ground. Many people resisted programs aboutthemselves. “Yes, he has,” she said, “but I honestly believe you’ll bepleased with the result.”“That’s the only way I’d even consider this. I’ll be perfectly honest:I prefer to work with Luther and you rather than have another networkdecide to produce an unauthorized story. But even so, I wish the goodold days were here when a politician could simply say ‘I stand on myrecord.’”“They’re gone. At least, they are for the people who count.”Abigail reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a cigarettecase. “I never smoke in public anymore,” she observed. “Just once— once, mind you—a paper printed a picture of me with a cigarette inmy hand. I was in the House then, and I got dozens of irate lettersfrom parents in my district saying I was setting a bad example.” Shereached across the desk. “Do you . . .?”Pat shook her head. “No, thanks. My father asked me not to smoketill I was eighteen, and by then I’d lost interest.”“And you kept your word? No puffing away behind the garage orwhatever?”“No.”The Senator smiled. “I find that reassuring. Sam Kingsley and Ishare a great distrust of the media. You know him, don’t you? WhenI told him about this program, he assured me you were different.”“That was kind of him,” Pat said, trying to sound casual. “Senator,I suspect the shortest way to go about this is for you to tell me exactlywhy the idea of the program is so abhorrent to you. If I know inadvance what you find objectionable we’re bound to save a lot oftime.”She watched as the Senator ’s face became thoughtful. “It’sinfuriating that no one is satisfied with my personal life. I’ve been awidow since I was thirty-one years old. Taking my husband’s place
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in Congress after his death, then being elected myself and going onto the Senate—all of it has always made me feel I’m still partnerswith him. I love my job and I’m married to it. But of course I can’tvery well tearfully describe little Johnny’s first day at school becauseI never had a child. Unlike Claire Lawrence, I can’t be photographedwith an army of grandchildren. And I warn you, Pat, I will not allowa picture of me in a bathing suit, high heels and a rhinestone crown tobe used in this program.”“But you were Miss New York State. You can’t ignore that.”“Can’t I?” The incredible eyes flashed. “Do you know that shortlyafter Willard’s death, some rag printed that picture of me beingcrowned Miss New York State with the caption “ And your real prizeis to go to Congress for the South? ” The Governor almost changedhis mind about appointing me to complete Willard’s term. It tookJack Kennedy to persuade him that I’d been working side by sidewith my husband from the day he was elected. If Jack hadn’t been sopowerful, I might not be here now. No, thank you, Pat Traymore. Nobeauty-queen pictures. Start your special when I was a senior at theUniversity of Richmond, just married to Willard and helping himcampaign for the first seat in Congress. That’s when my life began.”You can’t pretend the first twenty years of your life don’t exist,Pat thought. And why? Aloud she suggested, “I came across onepicture of you as a child in front of your family home in AppleJunction. That’s the kind of early background I plan to use.”“Pat, I never said that was my family home. I said I had lived there. In point of fact, my mother was the housekeeper for the Saundersfamily and she and I had a small apartment in the back. Please don’tforget I’m the senior Senator from Virginia. The Jennings family hasbeen prominent in Tidewater Virginia since Jamestown. My mother-in-law always called me Willard’s Yankee wife. I’ve gone to greateffort to be considered a Jennings from Virginia and to forget AbigailFoster from Upstate New York. Let’s leave it that way, shall we?”There was a knock at the door. A serious-looking, oval-faced manin his early thirties entered, wearing a gray suit with a faint pin stripethat accentuated the leanness of his body. Thinning blond hair carefullycombed across his pate failed to conceal his bald spot. Rimless glassesadded to the middle-aged effect. “Senator,” he said, “they’re about totake the vote. The fifteen-minute bell just went off.”
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The Senator stood up abruptly. “Pat, I’m sorry. Incidentally, this isPhilip Buckley, my administrative assistant. He and Toby have puttogether some material for you—all sorts of stuff: press clippings,letters, photo albums, even some home movies. Why don’t you lookthem over, and then let’s talk again in the next few days?”Pat could do nothing except agree. She would talk to LutherPelham. Between them, they must convince the Senator that she couldnot sabotage the program. She realized Philip Buckley was studyingher carefully. Did she detect a certain hostility in his manner?“Toby will drive you home,” the Senator continued hurriedly.“Where is he, Phil?”“Right here, Senator. Keep your shirt on.”The cheerful voice came from a barrel-chested man whoimmediately gave Pat the impression of being an overage prize-fighter.His big face was beefy, with the flesh beginning to puff under small,deep-set eyes. Fading sandy hair was abundantly mixed with gray.He was wearing a dark blue suit and holding a cap in his hands.His hands—she found herself staring at them. They were the largestshe had ever seen. A ring with an onyx an inch square accentuatedthe thickness of his fingers. Keep your shirt on. Had he really said that? Aghast, she looked atthe Senator. But Abigail Jennings was laughing.“Pat, this is Toby Gorgone. He can tell you what his job is as hedrives you home. I’ve never been able to figure it out and he’s beenwith me for twenty-five years. He’s from Apple Junction too, andbesides me, he’s the best thing that ever came out of it. And now I’moff. Come on, Phil.”They were gone. This special is going to be sheer hell to make,Pat thought. She had three solid pages of points she’d wanted todiscuss with the Senator and had gotten to bring up exactly one. Tobyhad known Abigail Jennings since childhood. That she put up withhis insolence was incredible. Maybe he’d answer some questions onthe drive home.She had just reached the reception area when the door was flungopen and Senator Jennings rushed back in, followed by Philip. Therelaxed manner was gone. “Toby, thank God I caught you,” shesnapped. “Where did you get the idea I’m not due at the Embassyuntil seven?”
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“That’s what you told me, Senator.”“That’s what I may have told you, but you’re supposed to double-check my appointments, aren’t you?”“Yes, Senator,” Toby said genially.“I’m due at six. Be downstairs at quarter to.” The words were spatout.“Senator, you’ll be late for the vote,” Toby said. “You’d better geta move on.”“I’d be late for everything if I didn’t have eyes in the back of myhead to double-check on you.” This time the door slammed behindher.Toby laughed. “We’d better get started, Miss Traymore.”Wordlessly, Pat nodded. She could not imagine one of the servantsat home addressing either Veronica or Charles with such a familiarityor being so unconcerned about a reprimand. What circumstances hadcreated such a bizarre relationship between Senator Jennings and heroxlike chauffeur?She decided to find out.
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4

Toby steered the sleek gray Cadillac Sedan de Ville through the rapidlygathering traffic. For the hundredth time he brooded on the fact thatWashington in the late afternoon was a driver ’s nightmare. All thetourists in their rented cars who didn’t realize that some of the streetsbecame one-way on the dot of four created havoc for the people whoworked here.He glanced into the rearview mirror and liked what he saw. PatriciaTraymore was all right. It had taken all three of them—himself, Philand Pelham—to talk Abby into agreeing to this documentary. So Tobyfelt even more than usually responsible to see that it worked out.Still, you couldn’t blame Abby for being nervous. She was withinan eyelash of everything she’d ever wanted. His eyes met Pat’s in themirror. What a smile that girl had! He’d heard Sam Kingsley tellAbigail that Pat Traymore ha d a way of making you tell things younever thought you’d share with another human being.Pat had been considering what approach to take with Toby andhad decided the straightforward one was the best. As the car stoppedfor a light on Constitution Avenue, she leaned forward. There was achuckle in her voice as she said, “Toby, I have to confess I thought Iwasn’t hearing straight when you told the Senator to keep her shirton.”He turned his head to look at her directly. “Oh, I shouldn’t a saidthat first time you met me. I don’t usually do that. It’s just I knewAbby was uptight about this program business and on her way in forthe vote, and a bunch of reporters were going to be all over her aboutwhy she wasn’t going along with the rest of the party—so I figured ifI got her to let down for a minute it’d do her good. But don’tmisunderstand. I respect the lady. And don’t worry about her blowingup at me. She’ll forget it in five minutes.”“You grew up together?” Pat prodded gently.The light turned green. Smoothly the car moved forward; Toby
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maneuvered into the right lane ahead of a station wagon beforeanswering. “Well, not exactly that. All the kids in Apple Junction goto the same school—’cept, of course, if they go to parochial school.But she was two years ahead of me, so we were never in the sameclasses. Then when I was fifteen I started doing yard work in the richpart of town. I guess Abby told you she lived in the Saunders house.”“Yes, she did.”“I worked for the people about four places away. One day I heardAbby screaming. The old guy who lived opposite the Saunderses’had taken in his head he needed a watchdog and bought a Germanshepherd. Talk about vicious! Anyway, the old guy left the gate openand the dog got out just as Abby was coming down the street. Madestraight for her.”“And you saved her?”“I sure did. I started shouting and distracted him. Bad luck for meI’d dropped my rake, ‘cause I got half chewed to rags before I got agrip on his neck. And then”—Toby’s voice filled with pride—”andthen, no more watchdog.”With one hand, Pat slipped her tape recorder out of her shoulderbag and turned it on. “I can see why the Senator must feel prettystrongly about you,” she commented. “The Japanese believe that ifyou save someone’s life you become somehow responsible for them.Do you suppose that happened to you? It sounds to me as though youfeel responsible for the Senator.”“Well, I don’t know. Maybe that did happen, or maybe she stuckher neck out for me when we were kids.” The car stopped. “Sorry,Miss Traymore. We should a made that light, but the jerk ahead ofme is reading street signs.”“It doesn’t matter. I’m not in any hurry. The Senator stuck herneck out for you?”“I said maybe she did. Look, forget it. The Senator doesn’t likeme to talk about Apple Junction.”“I’ll bet she talks about how you helped her,” Pat mused. “I canimagine how I’d feel if an attack dog was charging at me and someonethrew himself in between.”“Oh, Abby was grateful, all right. My arm was bleeding, and shewrapped her sweater around it, then insisted on coming to theemergency room with me and even wanted to sit in while they sewedit. After that we were friends for life.”
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Toby looked over his shoulder. “ Friends, ” he repeatedemphatically, “not boyfriend-girlfriend. Abby’s out of my league. Idon’t have to tell you that. There was no question of any of that stuff.But sometimes in the afternoon she’d come over and talk while I wasworking around the yard. She hated Apple Junction as much as I did.And when I was flunking English, she tutored me. I never did haveany head for books. Show me a piece of machinery and I’ll take itapart and put it together in two minutes, but don’t ask me to diagrama sentence.“Anyhow, Abby went off to college and I drifted down to New Yorkand got married and it didn’t take. And I took a job running numbersfor some bookies and ended up in hot water. After that I startedchauffeuring for some fruitcake on Long Island. By then Abby wasmarried and her husband was the Congressman and I read that she’dbeen in an automobile accident because her chauffeur had been drinking.So I thought, What the hell. I wrote to her and two weeks later herhusband hired me and that was going on twenty-five years ago. Say,Miss Traymore, what number are you? We’re on N Street now.”“Three thousand,” Pat said. “It’s the corner house on the next block.”“ That house?” Too late, Toby tried to cover the shock in his voice.“Yes. Why?”“I used to drive Abby and Willard Jennings to that house for parties.Used to be owned by a Congressman named Dean Adams. Did theytell you about him killing his wife and committing suicide?”Pat hoped her voice was calm. “My father ’s lawyer arranged therental. He mentioned there had been a tragedy here many years ago,but he didn’t go into it.” Toby pulled up to the curb. “Just as well toforget it. He even tried to kill his kid—she died later on. Cute littlething. Her name was Kerry, I remember. What can you do?” He shookhis head. “I’ll just park by the hydrant for a minute. Cops won’t botheras long as I don’t hang around.”Pat reached for the handle of the door, but Toby was too quick forher. In an instant he was out the driver ’s side, around the car andholding the door open, putting a hand under her arm. “Be careful,Miss Traymore. Plenty icy here.”“Yes, I see that. Thank you.” She was grateful for the early dusk,
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afraid that her expression might send some signal to Toby. He mightnot have a head for books but she sensed he was extremely perceptive.She had thought of this house only in the context of that one night.Of course there had been parties here. Abigail Jennings was fifty-six.Willard Jennings had been eight or nine years her senior. Pat’s fatherwould have been in his early sixties now. They had beencontemporaries in those Washington days.Toby was reaching into the trunk. She longed to ask him aboutDean and Renée Adams, about “the cute little kid, Kerry.” But notnow, she cautioned herself.Toby followed her into the house, two large cartons in his arms.Pat could see that they were heavy, but he carried them easily. Sheled him into the library and indicated the area next to the boxes fromthe store-room. She blessed the instinct that had made her scrape offthe labels with her father ’s name.But Toby barely glanced at the boxes. “I’d better be off, MissTraymore. This box”—he pointed—”has press clippings, photoalbums, that sort of thing. The other one has letters from constituents—the personal kind, where you can see the sort of help Abby givesthem. It had some home movies too, mostly of when her husbandwas alive. The usual stuff, I guess. I’ll be glad to run the movies foryou anytime and tell you who’s in them and what was going on.”“Let me sort them out and I’ll get back to you. Thanks, Toby. I’msure you’re going to be a big help in this project. Maybe between us,we’ll put together something the Senator will be happy about.”“If she’s not, we’ll both know it.” Toby’s beefy face lit up in agenial smile. “Good night, Miss Traymore.”“Why not make it ‘Pat’? After all, you do call the Senator ‘Abby.’”“I’m the only one who can call her that. She hates it. But whoknows? Maybe I’ll get a chance to save your life too.”“Don’t hesitate for a minute if the opportunity comes your way.”Pat reached out her hand and watched it disappear into his.When he had left, she stood in the doorway, lost in thought. Shewould have to learn not to show any emotion when Dean Adams wasmentioned. She had been lucky that Toby had brought up his namewhile she was still in the protective darkness of the car.
From the shadow of the house directly opposite, another observer
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watched Toby drive away. With angry curiosity he studied Pat as shestood in the doorway. His hands were thrust into the pockets of hisskimpy overcoat. White cotton pants, white socks and white rubber-soles blended into the snow that was banked against the house. Hisbony wrists tightened as he closed his fingers into fists, and tensionrippled through the muscles in his arms. He was a tall, gaunt manwith a stiff, tense stance and a habit of holding his head unnaturallyback. His hair, a silvery gray that seemed incongruous over a peculiarlyunlined face, was combed forward over his forehead.She was here. He had seen her unloading her car last night. Inspite of his warnings, she was going ahead with that program. Thatwas the Senator ’s car, and those boxes probably had some kind ofrecords in them. And she was going to stay in that house.The memory of that long-ago morning sprang into his mind: theman lying on his back, wedged between the coffee table and sofa; thewoman’s eyes, staring, unfocused; the little girl’s hair matted withdried blood . . .He stood there silently, long after Pat had closed the door, as if hewere unable to tear himself away.Pat was in the kitchen broiling a chop when the phone began toring. She didn’t expect to hear from Sam but . . . With a quick smileshe reached for the receiver. “Hello.”A whisper. “Patricia Traymore.”“Yes. Who is this?” But she knew that syrupy, whispering voice.“Did you get my letter?”She tried to make her voice calm and coaxing. “I don’t know whyyou’re upset. Tell me about it.”“Forget your program on the Senator, Miss Traymore. I don’t wantto punish you. Don’t make me do it. But you must remember theLord said, ‘Whoever harms one of these my little ones, better amillstone be put around his neck and he be drowned in the depth ofthe sea.’”The connection went dead.
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5

It was only a crank call—some wacko who probably thought womenbelonged in the kitchen, not in public office. Pat recalled the characterin New York who used to parade on Fifth Avenue with signs quotingScripture about women’s duty to obey their husbands. He had beenharmless. So was this caller. She wouldn’t believe it was anythingmore than that.She brought a tray into the library and ate dinner while she sortedout Abigail’s records. Her admiration for the Senator increased withevery line she read. Abigail Jennings had meant it when she said shewas married to her job. Her constituents are her family, Pat thought.Pat had an appointment with Pelham at the network in the morning.At midnight she went to bed. The master bedroom suite of the houseconsisted of a large bedroom, a dressing room and bath. TheChippendale furniture with its delicate inlays of fruitwood had beeneasy to place. It was obvious that it had been purchased for this house.The highboy fitted between the closets; the mirrored dresser belongedin the alcove, the bed with its elaborately carved headboard on thelong wall facing the windows.Veronica had sent a new spring and mattress, and the bed feltwonderfully comfortable. But the trips to the basement to clean thefiling cabinets had taken their toll on her leg. The familiar naggingpain was more acute than usual, and even though she was very tiredit was hard to fall asleep. Think about something pleasant, she toldherself as she stirred restlessly and turned on her side. Then in thedark she smiled wryly. She’d think about Sam.
The offices and studio of the Potomac Cable Network were justoff Farragut Square. As she went in, Pat remembered what the newsdirector at the Boston station had told her: “There’s no question you
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should take the job, Pat. Working for Luther Pelham is a once-in-a-lifetime break. When he left CBS for Potomac, it was the biggestupset in the industry.”At the lunch with Luther in Boston, she’d been astonished at thefrank stares of everyone in the dining room. She had become used tobeing recognized in the Boston area and having people come to hertable for autographs. But the way virtually every pair of eyes wasabsolutely riveted on Luther Pelham was something else. “Can yougo anywhere without being the center of attention?” she’d asked him.“Not too many places, I’m happy to say. But you’ll find out foryourself. Six months from now, people will be following you whenyou walk down the street and half the young women in America willbe imitating that throaty voice of yours.”Exaggerated, of course, but certainly flattering. After the secondtime she called him “Mr. Pelham,” he’d said, “Pat, you’re on theteam. I have a first name. Use it.”Luther Pelham had certainly been charming, but on that occasionhe had been offering her a job. Now he was her boss.When she was announced, Luther came to the reception area togreet her. His manner was effusively cordial, the familiar well-modulated voice exuding hearty warmth: “Great to have you here,Pat. I want you to meet the gang.” He took her around the newsroomand introduced her. Behind the pleasantries, she sensed the curiosityand speculation in the eyes of her new co-workers. She could guesswhat they were thinking. Would she be able to cut the mustard? Butshe liked her immediate impressions. Potomac was rapidly becomingone of the largest cable networks in the country, and the newsroomwhirred with activity. A young woman was giving on-the-hourheadlines live from her desk; a military expert was taping his bi-weekly segment; staff writers were editing copy from the wire services.She well knew that the apparently calm exterior of the personnel wasa necessary ploy. Everyone in the business lived with constantunderlying tension, always on guard, waiting for something to happen,fearful that somehow a big story might be fumbled.Luther had already agreed that she could write and edit at homeuntil they were ready for actual taping. He pointed out the cubiclethat had been reserved for her, then led her into his private office, alarge oak-paneled corner room.
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“Make yourself comfortable, Pat,” he directed. “There’s a call Ihave to return.”While he was on the phone, Pat had a chance to study him closely. He wascertainly an impressive and handsome man. His thick, carefully barbered stonegray hair contrasted with his youthful skin and probing dark eyes. She knew hehad just had his sixtieth birthday. The party his wife had given at their ChevyChase estate had been written up in all the columns. With his aquiline nose andlong-fingered hands that tapped impatiently on the desk top, he reminded herof an eagle.He hung up the phone. “Have I passed inspection?” His eyes were amused.“With flying colors.” Why was it, she wondered, that she alwaysfelt at ease in a professional situation and yet so often had a sense ofalienation in personal relationships?“Glad to hear it. If you weren’t sizing me up, I’d be worried.Congratulations. You made a great impression on Abigail yesterday.”A quick pleasantry and then he was down to business. She likedthat and wouldn’t waste his time leading up to the problem. “I wasvery impressed with her. Who wouldn’t be?” Then she addedsignificantly—”for as long as I had the chance to be with her.”Pelham waved his hand as though to remove an unpleasant reality.“I know. I know. Abigail is hard to pin down. That’s why I told themto put together some of her personal material for you. Don’t expectmuch cooperation from the lady herself because you won’t get it.I’ve scheduled the program for the twenty-seventh.”“The twenty-seventh? December twenty-seventh!” Pat heard hervoice rising. “Next Wednesday! That would mean all the taping,editing and scoring will have to be done in a week!”“Exactly,” Luther confirmed. “And you’re the one who can do it.”“But why the rush?”He leaned back, crossed his legs and smiled with the relish of abearer of momentous news. “Because this isn’t going to be just anotherdocumentary. Pat Traymore, you have the chance to be a kingmaker.”She thought of what Sam had told her. “ The Vice President? ”“The Vice President,” he confirmed, “and I’m glad you have your ear tothe ground. That triple bypass last year hasn’t done the job for him.
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My spies at the hospital tell me he has extensive heart damageand if he wants to live he’s going to have to change his lifestyle. Thatmeans he’s virtually certain to resign—and now. To keep all factionsof the party happy, the President will go through the motions of havingthe Secret Service check out three or four serious contenders for thejob. But the inside bet is that Abigail has the best shot at it. When weair this program we want to motivate millions of Americans to sendtelegrams to the President in Abigail’s behalf. That’s what the programmust do for her. And think about what it can do for your career.”Sam had talked about the possibility of the Vice President’sresignation and Abigail’s candidacy. Luther Pelham clearly believedboth were imminent probabilities. To be at the right place at the righttime, to be there when a story was breaking—it was the dream ofevery newswoman. “If words leaks out about how sick the VicePresident is . . .”“It’s more than leaking out,” Luther told her. “I’m carrying it onmy newscast tonight, including the rumors that the President isconsidering a woman replacement.”“Then the Jennings program could sweep the ratings next week!Senator Jennings isn ’t that well known to the average voter.Everyone’s going to want to find out about her.”“Exactly. Now you can understand the need to put it together fastand make it something absolutely extraordinary.”“The Senator . . . If we make this program as bloodless as sheseems to want, you won’t get fourteen telegrams, never mind millions.Before I proposed this documentary I did some extensive surveyingto find out what people think about her.”“And?”“Older people compared her to Margaret Chase Smith. They calledher impressive, gutsy, intelligent.”“What’s wrong with that?”“Not one of the older people felt they knew her as a human being.They think of her as being distant and formal.”“Go on.”“The younger people have a different approach. When I told themabout the Senator being Miss New York State, they thought it wasgreat. They want to know more about it. Remember, if Abigail
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Jennings is chosen to be Vice President, she’ll be second in commandof the whole country. A number of people who know she is from theNortheast resent the fact that she never talks about it. I think she’smaking a mistake. And we’ll compound it if we ignore the first twentyyears of her life.”“She’ll never let you mention Apple Junction,” Luther said flatly.“So let’s not waste time on that. She told me that when she resignedher Miss New York State title, they wanted to lynch her there.”“Luther, she’s wrong. Do you seriously think anyone in AppleJunction gives a damn anymore that Abigail didn’t go to Atlantic Cityto try to become Miss America? Right now I’ll bet every adult there isbragging that he or she knew Abigail when. As for resigning the title,let’s face it head on. Who wouldn’t sympathize with an answer likeAbigail saying it had been a lark entering the contest but she found shehated the idea of parading around in a bathing suit and having peoplejudge her like a side of beef? Beauty contests are passé now. We’llmake her look good for realizing it before anyone else did.”Luther drummed his fingers on the desk. Every instinct told himPat was right, but Abigail had been definite on this point. Supposethey talked her into doing some material on her early life and itbackfired? Luther was determined to be the power that put Abigailacross as Vice President. Of course the party leaders would exact apromise from Abigail not to expect to run for the number one spotnext time, but hell, those promises were made to be broken. He’dkeep Abigail front and center until the day came when she was sittingin the Oval Office—and she’d owe it to him. . . .He suddenly realized that Pat Traymore was watching him calmly.Most of the people he hired were trying not to swallow their own spitin the first private session in this office. The fact that she seemedtotally at ease both pleased and annoyed him. He had found himselfdoing a lot of thinking about her in the two weeks since he’d offeredher the job. She was smart; she’d asked all the right questions abouther contract; she was damn good-looking in an interesting, classykind of way. She was a born interviewer; those eyes and that raspyvoice gave her a kind of sympathetic, even naive quality that createda “tell all” atmosphere. And there was a smoldering sexiness abouther that was especially intriguing.
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“Tell me how you see the overall approach to her personal life,”he ordered.“First Apple Junction,” Pat said promptly. “I want to go theremyself and see what I can find. Maybe some shots of the town, of thehouse where she lived. The fact that her mother was a housekeeperand that she went to college on scholarship is a plus. It’s the Americandream, only for the first time we’re applying it to a national leaderwho happens to be a woman.”She pulled her notebook from her purse. Flipping it open, shecontinued. “Certainly we’ll emphasize the early years when she wasmarried to Willard Jennings. I haven’t run the films yet, but it looks asthough we’ll pick up quite a bit of both their public and private lives.”Luther nodded affirmatively. “Incidentally, you’ll probably see afair amount of Jack Kennedy in those pictures. He and WillardJennings were close friends. That’s when Jack was a Senator, ofcourse. Willard and Abigail were a part of the pre-Camelot years.People don’t realize that about her. Leave in as many clips as you canfind of them with any of the Kennedys. Did you know that whenWillard died, Jack escorted Abigail to the memorial service?”Pat jotted a few words on her pad. “Didn’t Senator Jennings haveany family?” she asked.“I guess not. It never came up.” Luther impatiently reached for thecigarette case on his desk. “I keep trying to give up these damn weeds.”He lit one and for the moment looked somewhat relaxed. “I onlywish I’d headed to Washington at that time,” he said. “I thought NewYork was where the action was. I’ve done all right, but those weregreat Washington years. Crazy, though, how many of those youngmen died violently. The Kennedy brothers. Willard in a plane crash.Dean Adams a suicide . . . You’ve heard about him?”“Dean Adams?” She made her voice a question.“Murdered his wife,” Luther explained. “Killed himself. Nearlykilled his kid. She did die eventually. Probably better off, too. Brain-damaged, no doubt. He was a Congressman from Wisconsin. Nobodycould figure the reason. Just went nuts, I guess. If you come acrossany pictures of him or his wife in a group shot, edit them out. No oneneeds to be reminded of that.”
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Pat hoped her face didn’t betray distress. Her tone remaineddeterminedly brisk as she said, “Senator Jennings was one of themoving forces in getting the Parental Kidnapping Prevention Actpassed. There are some wonderful letters in her files. I thought I’dlook up some of the families she’s reunited and pick the best one fora segment on the program. That will counteract Senator Lawrenceand her grandchildren.”Luther nodded. “Fine. Give me the letters. I’ll get someone aroundhere to do the legwork. And by the way, in your outline you didn’thave anything about the Eleanor Brown case. I absolutely want thatin. You know she came from Apple Junction too—the school principalthere asked Abigail to give her a job after she’d been caughtshoplifting.”“My instinct is to let that alone,” Pat said. “Think about it. TheSenator gave a convicted girl a new start. That much is fine. ThenEleanor Brown was accused of stealing seventy-five thousand dollarsin campaign funds. She swore she was innocent. Essentially it wasthe Senator’s testimony that convicted her. Did you ever see that girl’spictures? She was twenty-three when she went to prison for theembezzlement but looked about sixteen. People have a naturalinclination to feel sorry for the underdog—and the whole purpose ofthis program is to make everyone love Abigail Jennings. In the EleanorBrown case, she comes through as the heavy.”“That case shows that some legislators don’t cover up for the crookson their staff. And if you want Abigail’s image softened, play up thefact that thanks to her, that kid got off a lot lighter than anyone else Iknow who stole that much money. Don’t waste your sympathy onEleanor Brown. She faked a nervous breakdown in prison, wastransferred to a psychiatric hospital, was paroled as an outpatient andtook off. She was some cool cookie. What else?”“I’d like to go to Apple Junction tonight. If there’s anythingworthwhile there, I’ll call you and we’ll arrange for a camera crew.After that, I want to follow the Senator through a day in her office,plan some shots and then tape her there a day or two later.”Luther stood up—a signal that the meeting was over. “All right,”he said. “Fly up to . . . What is the place . . . Apple Junction? What ahell of a name! See if you can get good copy. But play it low key.
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Don’t let the natives get the idea they’re going to be on camera. Theminute they think you might have them on the program, they’ll startusing all the big words they know and planning what leisure suit towear.” He twisted his face into a worried frown, made his voice nasal.“Myrtle, get the lighter fluid. There’s a gravy stain on my jacket.”“I’m sure I’ll find some pretty decent people there.” Pat forced afaint smile to take the implied rebuke out of her words.Luther watched her leave, noting the burgundy-and-gray tweedsuit, obviously a designer original; the burgundy leather boots withthe small gold Gucci trademark; the matching shoulder bag; theBurberry over her arm.Money. Patricia Traymore had family money. You could alwaystell. Resentfully, Luther thought of his own humble beginnings on afarm in Nebraska. They hadn’t had indoor plumbing until he was ten.No one could sympathize more than he with Abigail about not wantingto resurrect the early years.Had he done the right thing in allowing Pat Traymore to have herway in this? Abigail would be sore—but she’d probably be a lot sorerwhen she found out they hadn’t told her about the trip.Luther turned on his intercom. “Get me Senator Jennings’ office.”Then he hesitated. “No, hold it; don’t bother.”He put down the phone and shrugged. Why start trouble?
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6

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
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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“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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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.”
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“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
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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
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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
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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
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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.”
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“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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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.
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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
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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.
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8

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.
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“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.”
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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,”
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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.
This was proof? Pat thought. She looked up, and her eyes metMargaret Langley’s hopeful gaze. “Don’t you see?” Margaret said.“Eleanor wrote to me the very night of the supposed theft. Why wouldshe make up that story?”Pat could find no way to soften what she had to say. “She couldhave been setting up an alibi for herself.”“If you’re trying to give yourself an alibi, you don’t write tosomeone who may not get the letter for months,” she said spiritedly.Then she sighed. “Well, I tried. I just hope you’ll have the goodnessnot to rake up that misery again. Eleanor apparently is trying to makesome sort of life for herself and deserves to be let alone.”Pat looked at the other letter Margaret was holding. “She wroteyou after she disappeared?”“Yes. Six years ago this came.”Pat took the letter. The typeface was worn, the paper cheap. Thenote read:
Dear Miss Langley. Please understand that it is betterif I have no contact with anyone from the past. If I amfound, I will have to go back to prison. I swear to you
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I never touched that money. I have been very ill butam trying to rebuild my life. Some days are good Ican almost believe it is possible to become well again.Other times I am so frightened, so afraid that someonewill recognize me. I think of you often. I love and missyou.
Eleanor ’s signature was wavering, the letters uneven—a starkcontrast to the firm and graceful penmanship of the earlier letter.It took all Pat’s persuasive powers to coax Margaret Langley to lether take the letters. “We are planning to include the case in thisprogram,” she said, “but even if Eleanor is recognized and someoneturns her in, perhaps we can have her parole reinstated. Then shewouldn’t have to hide for the rest of her life.”“I would love to see her again,” Margaret whispered. Now tearsbrightened her eyes. “She’s the nearest thing I ever had to a child ofmy own. Wait—let me show you her picture.”On the bottom shelf of the bookcase were stacks of yearbooks. “Ihave one for every year I was in school,” she explained. “But I keepEleanor ’s on top.” She riffled through the pages. “She graduatedseventeen years ago. Isn’t she sweet-looking?”The girl in the photo had fine, mousy hair; soft, innocent eyes.The caption read:
Eleanor Brown —Hobby: painting. Ambition:secretary.Activities: choir. Sport: roller skating.Prediction: right-handgal for executive, marry young,two kids. Favorite thing: Eveningin Paris perfume.
“My God,” Pat said, “how cruel.”“Exactly. That’s why I wanted her to leave here.”Pat shook her head, and her glance caught the other yearbooks.“Wait a minute,” she said, “by any chance do you have the bookSenator Jennings is in?”“Of course. Let’s see—that would be over here somewhere.”The second book Margaret Langley checked was the right one. Inthis photo Abigail’s hair was in a pageboy on her shoulders. Her lipswere parted slightly as though she had obediently followed thephotographer’s direction to smile. Her eyes, wide and thicklashed,were calm and inscrutable. The caption read:
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Abigail Foster (“Abby”)—Hobby: attending statelegislature. Ambition: politics. Activities: debating.Prediction: will become state assemblywoman fromApple Junction. Favorite thing: any book in the library.
“State assemblywoman,” Pat exclaimed; “that’s great!”A half-hour later she left, the Senator ’s yearbook under her arm.As she got into the car, she decided that she’d send a camera crew toget some background footage of the town, including Main Street, theSaunders home, the high school and the highway with the bus toAlbany. Under the footage she’d have Senator Jennings speak brieflyabout growing up there and her early interest in politics. They’d closethat segment with the picture of the Senator as Miss New York State,then her yearbook picture and her explanation that going on toRadcliffe instead of Atlantic City was the most important decision ofher life.With the unfamiliar and disquieting feeling that somehow she wasglossing over the full story, Pat drove around town for an hour andmarked locations for the camera crew. Then she checked out of theApple Motel, drove to Albany, turned in the rental car and with reliefgot on the plane back to Washington.
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9

Washington is beautiful, Pat thought, from any view, at any hour. Bynight the spotlights on the Capitol and monuments seem to impart asense of tranquil agelessness. She’d been gone from here only thirtyhours, yet felt as though days had passed since she’d left. The planelanded with a slight bump and taxied smoothly across the field.As she opened the door to her house, Pat heard the phone ringingand scrambled to answer it. It was Luther Pelham. He sounded edgy.“Pat, I’m glad I’ve reached you. You never did let me know whereyou were staying in Apple Junction. When I finally tracked you down,you had checked out.”“I’m sorry. I should have phoned you this morning.”“Abigail is making a major speech before the final vote on thebudget tomorrow. She suggested you spend the entire day at her office.She gets in at six-thirty.”“I’ll be there.”“How did you do in the hometown?”“Interesting. We can get some sympathetic footage that won’t raisethe Senator ’s hackles.”“I’d like to hear about it. I’ve just finished dinner at the JockeyClub and can be at your place in ten minutes.” The phone clicked inher ear.She had barely time to change into slacks and a sweater before hearrived. The library was cluttered with the Senator ’s material. Patbrought him back to the living room and offered him a drink. Whenshe returned with it, he was studying the candelabrum on the mantel.“Beautiful example of Sheffield,” he told her. “Everything in the roomis beautiful.”In Boston, she had had a studio apartment similar to those of other
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young professionals. It had not occurred to her that the costlyfurnishings and accessories in this house might arouse comment.She tried to sound casual. “My folks are planning to move into acondominium soon. We have an attic full of family stuff and Mothertold me it’s now or never if I want it.”Luther settled on the couch and reached for the glass she placed infront of him. “All I know is that at your age I was living at the Y.” Hepatted the cushion beside him. “Sit here and tell me all about Our Town.”Oh, no, she thought. There’ll be no passes tonight, Luther Pelham.Ignoring the suggestion, she sat on the chair across the table from thecouch and proceeded to give Luther an accounting of what she hadlearned in Apple Junction. It was not edifying.“Abigail may have been the prettiest girl in those parts,” sheconcluded, “but she certainly wasn’t the most popular. I can understandnow why she’s nervous about stirring things up there. Jeremy Saunderswill bad-mouth her till the day he dies. She’s right to be afraid thatcalling attention to her being Miss New York State will get the old-timers again talking about how they contributed their two bucks todress her up for Atlantic City and then she bugged out. Miss AppleJunction! Here, let me show you the picture.”Luther whistled when he saw it. “Hard to believe that blimp couldbe Abigail’s mother.” He thought better of the remark. “All right.She has a valid reason for wanting to forget Apple Junction andeveryone in it. I thought you told me you could salvage some human-interest stuff.”“We’ll cut it to the bone. Background shots of the town, the school,the house where she grew up; then interview the school principal,Margaret Langley, about how Abigail used to go to Albany to sit inon the legislature. Wind up with her school picture in the yearbook.It’s not much, but it’s something. The Senator ’s got to be made tounderstand she’s not a UFO who landed on earth at age twenty-one.Anyhow, she agreed to cooperate in this documentary. We didn’t giveher creative control of it, I hope.”“Certainly not creative control, but some veto power. Don’t forget,Pat. We’re not just doing this about her; we’re doing it with her, andher cooperation in letting us use her personal memorabilia is essential.”
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He stood up. “Since you insist on keeping that table between us . . .”He walked around it, and came over to her, put his hands on hers.Quickly she jumped to her feet, but she was not fast enough. Hepulled her against him. “You’re a beautiful girl, Pat.” He lifted herchin. His lips pressed down on hers. His tongue was insistent.She tried to pull away, but his grip was viselike. Finally shemanaged to dig her elbows into his chest. “Let go of me.”He smiled. “Pat, why don’t you show me the rest of the house?”There was no mistaking his meaning. “It’s pretty late,” she said,“but on the way out you can poke your head into the library anddining room. I do sort of wish you’d wait until I’ve had a chance toget pictures hung and whatever.”“Where’s your bedroom?”“Upstairs.”“I’d like to see it.”“As a matter of fact, even when it’s fixed up, I’d like you to thinkof the second floor of this house the way you had to think about thesecond floor of the Barbizon for Women in your salad days in NewYork: off limits for gentlemen callers.”“I’d rather you didn’t joke, Pat.”“I’d rather we treat this conversation as a joke. Otherwise I canput it another way. I don’t sleep on the job nor do I sleep off the job.Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not next year.”“I see.”She preceded him down the hall. In the foyer she handed him hiscoat.As he put it on, he gave her an acid smile. “Sometimes peoplewho have your kind of insomnia problem find it impossible to handletheir responsibilities,” he said. “They often discover they’re happierat some backwoods station than in the big time. Does Apple Junctionhave a cable station? You might want to check it out, Pat.”
Promptly at ten to six, Toby let himself in the back door of Abigail’shouse in McLean, Virginia. The large kitchen was filled with gourmet
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equipment. Abigail’s idea of relaxing was to spend an eveningcooking. Depending on her mood, she’d prepare six or seven differentkinds of hors d’oeuvre or fish and meat casseroles. Other nights she’dmake a half-dozen different sauces, or biscuits and cakes that wouldmelt in your mouth. Then she’d pop everything into the freezer. Butwhen she gave a party she never admitted that she’d preparedeverything herself. She hated any association with the word “cook.”Abigail herself ate very little. Toby knew she was haunted by thememory of her mother, poor old Francey, that groaning tub of a womanwhose trunk like legs settled into fat ankles and feet so wide it washard to find shoes to fit them.Toby had an apartment over the garage. Nearly every morninghe’d come in and start the coffeepot and squeeze fresh juice. Lateron, after he had Abby settled in her office, he’d have a big breakfast,and if she wasn’t going to need him, he’d find a poker game.Abigail came into the kitchen, still fastening a crescent-shapedgold pin on her lapel. She was wearing a purple suit that brought outthe blueness of her eyes.“You look great, Abby,” he pronounced.Her smile was quick and instantly gone. Whenever Abby had abig speech planned in the Senate she was like this—nervous as a catbefore it, ready to be irritated at anything that went wrong. “Let’s notwaste time on coffee,” she snapped.“You’ve got plenty of time,” Toby assured her. “I’ll have you there bysix-thirty. Drink your coffee. You know how crabby you get without it.”Later he left both cups in the sink, knowing Abby would be irritatedif he took time to rinse them out.The car was at the front entrance. When Abby went to get her coatand briefcase, he hurried outside and turned on the heater.By six-ten they were on the parkway. Even for a day when shewas making a speech, Abby was unusually tense. She’d gone to bedearly the night before. He wondered if she’d been able to sleep.He heard Abby sigh and snap her briefcase closed. “If I don’t knowwhat I’m going to say by now I might as well forget it,” shecommented. “If this damn budget doesn’t get voted on soon, we’ll
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still be in session on Christmas Day. But I won’t let them ax any moreof the entitlement programs.”Toby watched in the rearview mirror as she poured some coffeefrom a thermos. From her attitude he knew she was ready to talk.“Did you get a good rest last night, Senator?” Once in a while,even when they were alone, he threw in the “Senator.” It remindedher that no matter what, he knew his place.“No, I didn’t. I started thinking about this program. I was stupid tolet myself get talked into it. It’s going to backfire. I feel it in my bones.”Toby frowned. He had a healthy respect for Abby’s bones. He still hadn’ttold Abby that Pat Traymore lived in the Dean Adams house. She’d getreal superstitious about that. This wasn’t the time for her to lose her cool.Still, at some point she’d have to know. It was bound to come out. Tobywas starting to get a lousy feeling about the program himself.
Pat had set the alarm for five o’clock. In her first television job,she’d discovered that being calm and collected kept her energy directedto the project at hand. She could still remember the burning chagrin ofrushing breathlessly to interview the Governor of Connecticut andrealizing she’d forgotten her carefully prepared questions.After the Apple Motel, it had felt good to be in the wide,comfortable bed. But she’d slept badly, thinking about the scene withLuther Pelham. There were plenty of men in the television-newsbusiness who made the obligatory pass, and some of them werevengeful when rejected.She dressed quickly, choosing a long-sleeved black wool dresswith a suede vest. Once again it looked as though it would be one ofthe raw, windy days that had characterized this December.Some of the storm windows were missing, and the panes on thenorth side of the house rattled as the wind shrieked against them.She reached the landing of the staircase.The shrieking sound intensified. But now it was a child screaming. I ran down the stairs. I was so frightened, and I was crying. . . .
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A momentary dizziness made her grasp the banister. It’s startingto happen, she thought fiercely. It is coming back.En route to the Senator’s office she felt distracted, out of sync.She could not rid herself of the overwhelming fear that was the resultof the fleeting memory.Why should she experience fear now?How much had she seen of what happened that night?
Philip Buckley was waiting for her in the office when she arrived.In the gloom of the early morning, his attitude toward her seemedeven more cautiously hostile than before. What is he afraid of? Patwondered. You’d think I was a British spy in a Colonial camp. Shetold him that.His small, cold smile was humorless. “If we thought you were a Britishspy, you wouldn’t be anywhere near this Colonial camp,” he commented.“The Senator will be here any minute. You might want to have a look ather schedule today. It will give you some idea of her workload.”He looked over her shoulder as she read the crammed pages.“Actually we’ll have to put off at least three of these people. It’s ourthought that if you simply sit in the Senator ’s office and observe,you’ll be able to decide what segments of her day you might want toinclude in the special. Obviously, if she has to discuss any confidentialmatters, you’ll be excused. I’ve had a desk put in her private officefor you. That way you won’t be conspicuous.”“You think of everything,” Pat told him. “Come on, how about anice big smile? You’ll have to have one for the camera when we startto shoot.”“I’m saving my smile for the time when I see the final edited versionof the program.” But he did look a little more relaxed.Abigail came in a few minutes later. “I’m so glad you’re here,”she said to Pat. “When we couldn’t reach you, I was afraid you wereout of town.”“I got your message last night.”“Oh. Luther wasn’t sure if you’d be available.”
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So that was the reason for the small talk, Pat decided. The Senatorwanted to know where’d she been. She wasn’t going to tell her. “I’mgoing to be your shadow until the program’s completed,” she said.“You’ll probably get sick of having me around.”Abigail didn’t look placated. “I must be able to reach you quickly.Luther told me you had some questions to go over with me. With myschedule the way it is, I don’t often know about free time until justbefore it’s available. Now let’s get to work.”Pat followed her into the private office and tried to make herselfinconspicuous. In a few moments the Senator was in deep discussionwith Philip. One report that he placed on her desk was late. Sharply,she demanded to know why. “I should have had that last week.”“The figures weren’t compiled.”“Why?”“There simply wasn’t time.”“If there isn’t time during the day, there’s time in the evening,”Abigail snapped. “If anyone on my staff has become a clock-watcher,I want to know about it.”At seven o’clock the appointments started. Pat’s respect for Abigailgrew with each new person who came into the office. Lobbyists forthe oil industry, for environmentalists, for veterans’ benefits. Strategysessions for presenting a new housing bill. A representative from theIRS to register specific objections to a proposed exemption for middle-income taxpayers. A delegation of senior citizens protesting thecutbacks in Social Security.When the Senate convened, Pat accompanied Abigail and Philipto the chamber. Pat was not accredited to the press section behind thedais and took a seat in the visitors’ gallery. She watched as the Senatorsentered from the cloakroom, greeting one another along the way,smiling, relaxed. They came in all sizes—tall, short; cadaver-slender,rotund; some with manes of hair, some carefully barbered, some bald.Four or five had the scholarly appearance of college professors.There were two other women Senators, Claire Lawrence of Ohioand Phyllis Holzer of New Hampshire, who had been elected as anindependent in a stunning upset.Pat was especially interested in observing Claire Lawrence. Thejunior Senator from Ohio wore a three-piece navy knit suit that fitted
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comfortably over her size 14 figure. Her short salt-and-pepper hairwas saved from severity by the natural wave that framed and softenedher angular face. Pat noted the genuine pleasure with which thiswoman was greeted by her colleagues, the burst of laughter thatfollowed her murmured greetings. Claire Lawrence was eminentlyquotable; her quick wit had a way of taking the rancor out ofinflammatory issues without compromising the subject at hand.In her notebook, Pat jotted “ humor ” and underlined the word.Abigail was rightly perceived to be serious, intense. A few carefullyplaced light moments should be included in the program.A long, insistent bell was calling the Senate to order. The seniorSenator from Arkansas was presiding in place of the ailing VicePresident. After a few short pieces of business had been completed,the Presiding Officer recognized the senior Senator from Virginia.Abigail stood up and without a trace of nervousness carefully puton blue-rimmed reading glasses. Her hair was pulled back into a simplechignon that enhanced the elegant lines of her profile and neck.“Two of the best-known sentences in the Bible,” she said, “are‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name ofthe Lord.’ In recent years our government, in an exaggerated and ill-considered manner, has given and given. And then it has taken awayand taken away. But there are few to bless its name.“Any responsible citizen would, I trust, agree that an overhaul ofthe entitlement programs has been necessary. But now it is time toexamine what we have done. I maintain that the surgery was tooradical, the cuts too drastic. I maintain that this is the time forrestoration of many necessary programs. Entitlement by definitionmeans ‘to have a claim to.’ Surely no one in this august chamber willdispute that every human being in this country has a rightful claim toshelter and food. . . .”Abigail was an excellent speaker. Her address had been carefullyprepared, carefully documented, sprinkled with enough specificanecdotes to keep the attention of even these professionals.She spoke for an hour and ten minutes. The applause was sustainedand genuine. When the Senate recessed, Pat saw that the MajorityLeader hurried over to congratulate her.
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Pat waited with Philip until the Senator finally broke away fromher colleagues and the visitors who crowded around her. Togetherthey started back to the office.“It was good, wasn’t it?” Abigail asked, but there was no hint ofquestion in her voice.“Excellent, Senator,” Philip said promptly.“Pat?” Abigail looked at her.“I felt sick that we couldn’t record it,” Pat said honestly. “I’d loveto have had excerpts of that speech on the program.”They ate lunch in the Senator’s office. Abigail ordered only a hard-boiled egg and black coffee. She was interrupted four times by urgentphone calls. One was from an old campaign volunteer. “Sure,Maggie,” Abigail said. “No, you’re not interrupting me. I’m alwaysavailable to you—you know that. What can I do?”Pat watched as Abigail’s face became stern and a frown creasedher forehead. “You mean the hospital told you to come get your motherwhen the woman can’t even raise her head from the pillow? . . . I see.Have you any nursing homes in mind? . . . Six months’ wait. Andwhat are you supposed to do in those six months . . . Maggie, I’ll callyou back.”She slammed the phone down on the hook. “This is the kind ofthing that drives me wild. Maggie is trying to raise three kids on herown. She works at a second job on Saturdays and now she’s told totake home a senile, bedridden mother. Philip, track down ArnoldPritchard. And I don’t care if he’s having a two-hour lunch somewhere.Find him now.”Fifteen minutes later the call Abigail was waiting for came through.“Arnold, good to talk to you. . . . I’m glad you’re fine. . . . No, I’m notfine. In fact, I’m pretty upset. . . .”Five minutes later Abigail concluded the conversation by saying,“Yes, I agree. The Willows sounds like a perfect place. It’s near enoughso that Maggie can visit without giving up her whole Sunday to makethe trip. And I know I can count on you, Arnold, to make sure the oldgirl gets settled in. . . . Yes, send an ambulance to the hospital for herthis afternoon. Maggie will be so relieved.”Abigail winked at Pat as she hung up the phone. “This is the aspectof the job that I love,” she said. “I shouldn’t take time to call Maggiemyself, but I’m going to. . . . She dialed quickly. “Maggie, hello.We’re in good shape . . .”
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Maggie, Pat decided, would be a guest on the program.There was an environmental-committee hearing between two andfour. At the hearing, Abigail got into a verbal duel with one of thewitnesses and quoted from her report. The witness said, “Senator,your figures are dead wrong. I think you’ve got the old quotes, notthe revised ones.”Claire Lawrence was also on the committee. “Maybe I can help,”she suggested. “I’m pretty sure I have the latest numbers, and they dochange the picture somewhat. . . .”Pat observed the rigid thrust of Abigail’s shoulders, the way sheclenched and unclenched her hands as Claire Lawrence read fromher report. . . .The studious-looking young woman seated behind Abigail wasapparently the aide who had compiled the inaccurate report. Severaltimes Abigail turned to look at her during Senator Lawrence’scomments. The girl was clearly in an agony of embarrassment. Herface was flushed; she was biting her lips to keep them from trembling.Abigail cut in the instant Senator Lawrence stopped speaking. “Mr.Chairman, I would like to thank Senator Lawrence for her help, andI would also like to apologize to this committee for the fact that thefigures given to me were inaccurate and wasted the valuable time ofeveryone here. I promise you it will never happen again.” She turnedagain to her aide. Pat could read Abigail’s lips: “You’re fired.” Thegirl slipped out of her chair and left the hearing room, tears runningdown her cheeks.Inwardly Pat groaned. The hearing was being televised—anyoneseeing the exchange would surely have felt sympathy for the youngassistant.When the hearing was over, Abigail hurried back to her office. Itwas obvious that everyone there knew what had happened. Thesecretaries and aides in the outer office did not lift their heads as sheroared through. The hapless girl who had made the error was staringout the window, futilely dabbing at her eyes.“In here, Philip,” Abigail snapped. “You too, Pat. You might aswell get a full picture of what goes on in this place.”She sat down at her desk. Except for the paleness of her featuresand the tight set of her lips, she appeared totally composed. “Whathappened, Philip?” she asked, her tone level.
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Even Philip had lost his usual calm. He gulped nervously as hestarted to explain. “Senator, the other girls just talked to me. Eileen’shusband walked out on her a couple of weeks ago. From what theytell me, she’s been in a terrible state. She’s been with us three years,and as you know, she’s one of our best aides. Would you considergiving her a leave of absence until she pulls herself together? Sheloves this job.”“Does she, indeed? Loves it so much she lets me make a fool ofmyself in a televised hearing? She’s finished, Philip. I want her outof here in the next fifteen minutes. And consider yourself lucky you’renot fired too. When that report was late, it was up to you to dig for thereal reason for the problem. With all the brainy people hungry forjobs, including mine, do you think I intend to leave myself vulnerablebecause I’m surrounded by deadwood?”“No, Senator,” Philip mumbled.“There are no second chances in this office. Have I warned mystaff about that?”“Yes, Senator.”“Then get out of here and do as you’re told.”“Yes, Senator.”Wow! Pat thought. No wonder Philip was so on guard with her.She realized the Senator was looking over at her.“Well, Pat,” Abigail said quietly, “I suppose you think I’m an ogre?”She did not wait for an answer. “My people know if they have apersonal problem and can’t handle their job, their responsibility is toreport it and arrange for a leave of absence. That policy is in effect toprevent this sort of occurrence. When a staff member makes a mistake,it reflects on me. I have worked too hard, for too many years, to becompromised by anyone else’s stupidity. And Pat, believe me, if they’lldo it once, they’ll do it again. And now, for God’s sake, I’m due onthe front steps to have my picture taken with a Brownie troop!”
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At a quarter to five, a secretary timidly knocked on the door ofAbigail’s office. “A call for Miss Traymore,” she whispered.It was Sam. The reassuring heartiness of his voice boosted Pat’sspirits immediately. She had been unsettled by the unpleasant episode,by the abject misery in the young woman’s face.“Hello, Sam.” She felt Abigail’s sharp glance.“My spies told me you’re on the Hill. How about dinner?”“Dinner . . . I can’t, Sam. I’ve got to work tonight.”“You also have to eat. What did you have for lunch? One ofAbigail’s hard-boiled eggs?”She tried not to laugh. The Senator was dearly listening to her endof the conversation.“As long as you don’t mind eating fast and early,” she compromised.“Fine with me. How about if I pick you up outside the Russellbuilding in half an hour?”When Pat hung up, she looked over at Abigail.“Have you reviewed all the material we gave you?—the films?”Abigail demanded.“No.”“Some of them?”“No,” Pat admitted. Oh, boy, she thought. I’m glad I don’t workfor you, lady.“I had thought you might come back to my place for dinner andwe could discuss which ones you might be interested in using.”Again a pause. Pat waited.“However, since you haven’t seen the material, I think it would bewiser if I use tonight for some reading I must do.” Abigail smiled.“Sam Kingsley is one of the most eligible bachelors in Washington. Ididn’t realize you knew him so well.”
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Pat tried to make her answer light. “I really don’t.” But she couldn’thelp thinking that Sam was finding it hard to stay away from her.She glanced out the window, hoping to hide her expression. Outsideit was almost dark. The Senator ’s windows overlooked the Capitol.As the daylight faded, the gleaming domed building framed by theblue silk draperies resembled a painting. “How lovely” she exclaimed.Abigail turned her head toward the window. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.“That view at this time of day always reminds me of what I’m doinghere. You can’t imagine the satisfaction of knowing that because ofwhat I did today an old woman will be cared for in a decent nursinghome, and extra money may be made available for people who aretrying to eke out an existence.”There was an almost sensual energy in Abigail Jennings when shespoke about her work, Pat thought. She means every word.But it also occurred to her that the Senator had already dismissedfrom her memory the girl she had fired a few hours earlier.
Pat shivered as she hurried down the few steps from the Senateoffice building to the car. Sam leaned over to kiss her cheek. “How’sthe hotshot filmmaker?”“Tired,” she said. “Keeping up with Senator Jennings is not therecipe for a restful day.”Sam smiled. “I know what you mean. I’ve worked with Abigailon a fair amount of legislation. She never wears down.”Weaving through the traffic, he turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue.“I thought we’d go to Chez Grandmère in Georgetown,” he said.“It’s quiet, the food is excellent and it’s near your place.”Chez Grandmère was nearly empty. “Washington doesn’t dine atquarter to six.” Sam smiled as the maître d’ offered them their choiceof tables.Over a cocktail Pat told him about the day, including the scene inthe hearing room. Sam whistled. “That was a rotten break for Abigail.You don’t need someone on your payroll to make you look bad.”“Could something like that actually influence the President’sdecision?” Pat asked.“Pat, everything can influence the President’s decision. One
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mistake can ruin you. Well, figure it out for yourself. If it weren’t forChappaquiddick, Teddy Kennedy might be President today. Then, ofcourse, you have Watergate and Abscam, and way back, vicuña coatsand home freezers. It never ends. Everything reflects on the man orwoman who holds the office. It’s a miracle Abigail survived thatscandal about the missing campaign funds, and if she had tried tocover up for her aide, it would have been the end of her credibility.What was the girl’s name?”“Eleanor Brown.” Pat thought of what Margaret Langley had said.“ Eleanor couldn’t steal. She’s too timid. ”“Eleanor always claimed she was innocent,” she told Sam now.He shrugged. “Pat, I was a county prosecutor for four years. Youwant to know something? Nine out of ten criminals swear they didn’tdo it. And at least eight out of nine of them are liars.”“But there is always that one who is innocent,” Pat persisted.“Very occasionally,” Sam said. “What do you feel like eating?”It seemed to her that she could watch him visibly unwind in thehour and a half they were together. I’m good for you, Sam, she thought.I can make you happy. You’re equating having a child with the way itwas when you were doing everything for Karen, because Janice wassick. It wouldn’t be that way with me. . . .Over coffee he asked, “How do you find living in the house?Any problems?”She hesitated, then decided to tell him about the note she’d foundslipped under the door and the second phone call. “But as you say,it’s probably just some joker,” she concluded.Sam didn’t return her attempt at a smile. “I said that one randomcall to the Boston station might not be important. But you’re sayingthat in the last three days you’ve had a second phone call, and a notepushed under the door. How do you think this nut got your address?”“How did you get it?” Pat asked.“I phoned Potomac Cable and said I was a friend. A secretarygave me your phone number and street address here and told mewhen you were arriving. Frankly, I was a little surprised they werethat casual about giving out so much information.”“I approved it. I’ll be using the house as an office for this program,and you’d be surprised how many people volunteer anecdotes or
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memorabilia when they read about a documentary being prepared. Ididn’t want to take the chance of losing calls. I certainly didn’t thinkI had anything to worry about.”“Then that creep could have gotten it the same way. By any chancedo you have the note with you?”“It’s in my bag.” She fished it out, glad to be rid of it.Sam studied it, frowning in concentration. “I doubt whetheranybody could trace this, but let me show it to Jack Carlson. He’s anFBI agent and something of a handwriting expert. And you be sure tohang up if you get another call.”He dropped her off at eight-thirty. “You’ve got to get timers forthe lamps,” he commented as they stood at the door. “Anybody couldcome up here and put a note under the door without being noticed.”She looked up at him. The relaxed expression was gone, and thenewly acquired creases around his mouth had deepened again. You’vealways had to worry about Janice, she thought. I don’t want youworrying about me.She tried to recapture the easy companionship of the evening.“Thanks for being the Welcome Wagon again,” she said. “They’re goingto make you chairman of the Hospitality Committee on the Hill.”He smiled briefly and for that moment the tension disappearedfrom his eyes. “Mother taught me to be courtly to the prettiest girls intown.” He closed his hands around hers. For a moment they stoodsilently; then he bent down and kissed her cheek.“I’m glad you’re not playing favorites,” she murmured.“What?”“The other night you kissed me below my right eye—tonight the left.”“Good night, Pat. Lock the door.”
Pat had barely reached the library when the telephone began toring insistently. For a moment she was afraid to answer.“Pat Traymore.” To her own ears her voice sounded tense and husky.“Miss Traymore,” a woman’s voice said, “I’m Lila Thatcher, yourneighbor across the street. I know you just got home, but would it be
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possible for you to come over now? There’s something quite importantyou should know.”Lila Thatcher, Pat thought. Lila Thatcher. Of course. She was theclairvoyant who had written several widely read books on ESP andother psychic phenomena. Only a few months ago she’d beencelebrated for her assistance in finding a missing child.“I’ll be right there,” Pat agreed reluctantly, “but I’m afraid I can’tstay more than a minute.”As she threaded her way across the street, taking pains to avoidthe worst of the melting slush and mud, she tried to ignore the senseof uneasiness.She was sure she would not want to hear what Lila Thatcher wasabout to tell her.
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11

A maid answered Pat’s ring and escorted her to the living room. Patdidn’t know what kind of person to expect—she’d visualized aturbaned Gypsy; but the woman who rose to greet her could bedescribed simply as cozy. She was gently rounded and gray-haired,with intelligent, twinkling eyes and a warm smile.“Patricia Traymore,” she said, “I’m so glad to meet you. Welcometo Georgetown.” Taking Pat’s hand, she studied her carefully. “I knowhow busy you must be with the program you’re preparing. I’m sureit’s quite a project. How are you getting on with Luther Pelham?”“Fine so far.”“I hope that continues.” Lila Thatcher wore her glasses on a longsilver chain around her neck. Absently she picked them up in herright hand and began to tap them against her left palm. “I have only afew minutes myself. I have a meeting in half an hour, and in themorning I have to catch an early flight to California. That’s why Idecided to phone. This is not the sort of thing I usually do. However,in conscience I can’t go away without warning you. Are you awarethat twenty-three years ago a murder-suicide took place in the houseyou’re now renting?”“I’ve been told that.” It was the answer nearest the truth.“It doesn’t upset you?”“Mrs. Thatcher, many of the houses in Georgetown must be abouttwo hundred years old. Surely people have died in every one of them.”“It’s not the same.” The older woman’s voice became quicker, athread of nervousness running through it. “My husband and I movedinto this house a year or so before the tragedy. I remember the firsttime I told him that I was beginning to sense a darkness in theatmosphere around the Adams home. Over the next months it wouldcome and go, but each time it returned it was more pronounced. Dean
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and Renée Adams were a most attractive couple. He was quitesplendid-looking, one of those magnetic men who instantly attractattention. Renée was different—quiet, reserved, a very private youngwoman. My feeling was that being a politician’s wife was all wrongfor her and inevitably the marriage became affected. But she wasvery much in love with her husband and they were both devoted totheir child.”Pat listened motionless.“A few days before she died, Renée told me she was going to goback to New England with Kerry. We were standing in front of yourhouse, and I can’t describe to you the sense of trouble and danger Iexperienced. I tried to warn Renée. I told her that if her decision wasirrevocable, she should not wait any longer. And then it was too late.I never again felt even a suggestion of trouble concerning your houseuntil this week. But now it’s coming back. I don’t know why but it’slike last time. I sense the darkness involves you. Can you leave thathouse? You shouldn’t be there. ”Pat chose her question carefully. “Do you have any reason, other thansensing this aura around the house, for warning me not to stay there?”“Yes. Three days ago my maid observed a man loitering on thecorner. Then she saw footprints in the snow along the side of thishouse. We thought there might be a prowler and notified the police.We saw footprints again yesterday morning after the fresh snowfall.Whoever is prowling about only goes as far as that tall rhododendron.Standing behind it anyone can watch your house without beingobserved from our windows or from the street.”Mrs. Thatcher was hugging herself now as if she were suddenlychilled. The flesh on her face had hardened into deep, grave lines.She stared intently at Pat and then, as Pat watched, her eyes widened;an expression of secret knowledge crept into them. When Pat left afew minutes later, the older woman was clearly upset and again urgedPat to leave the house.Lila Thatcher knows who I am, Pat thought. I’m sure of it. Shewent directly to the library and poured a fairly generous brandy. “That’sbetter,” she murmured as warmth returned to her body. She tried not
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to think of the dark outside. But at least the police were on the lookoutfor a prowler. She tried to force herself to be calm. Lila had beggedRenée to leave. If her mother had listened, had heeded the warning,could the tragedy have been averted? Should she take Lila’s advicenow and go to a hotel or rent an apartment? “I can’t,” she said aloud.“I simply can’t.” She had so little time to prepare the documentary. Itwould be unthinkable to waste any of that time relocating. The factthat, as a psychic, Lila Thatcher sensed trouble did not mean shecould prevent it. Pat thought, If Mother had gone to Boston, Daddywould probably have followed her. If someone is determined to findme, he’ll manage it. I’d have to be just as careful in an apartment ashere. And I will be careful.Somehow the thought that Lila might have guessed her identitywas comforting. She cared about my mother and father. She knewme well when I was little. After the program is finished I can talk toher, probe her memory. Maybe she can help me piece it all together.But now it was absolutely essential to begin reviewing the Senator ’spersonal files and select some for the program.The spools of film were jumbled together in one of the cartonsToby had brought in. Fortunately, they were all labeled. She began tosort them. Some were of political activities, campaign events,speeches. Finally she found the personal ones she was most interestedin seeing. She started with the film labeled WILLARD ANDABIGAIL—HILLCREST WEDDING RECEPTION.She knew they had eloped before his graduation from HarvardLaw School. Abby had just finished her junior year at Radcliffe.Willard had run for Congress a few months after their wedding. She’dhelped him campaign, then completed college at the University ofRichmond. Apparently there had been a reception when he broughther to Virginia.The film opened on the panorama of a festive garden party.Colorful umbrella-covered tables were arranged against the tree-shaded background. Servants moved among the clusters ofguests—women in summer gowns and picture hats, men in darkjackets and white flannel trousers.In the reception line on the terrace, a breathtaking young Abigailwearing a white silk tunic-style gown stood next to a scholarly-looking
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young man. An older woman, obviously Willard Jennings’ mother,was to Abigail’s right. Her aristocratic face was set in taut, angrylines. As the guests moved slowly past her, she introduced them toAbigail. Never once did she look directly at Abigail.What was it the Senator had said? “My mother-in-law alwaysconsidered me the Yankee who stole her son.” Clearly, Abigail hadnot exaggerated.Pat studied Willard Jennings. He was only slightly taller thanAbigail, with sandy hair and a thin, gentle face. There was somethingrather endearingly shy about him, a diffidence in his manner as heshook hands or kissed cheeks.Of the three, only Abigail seemed totally at ease. She smiledconstantly, bent her head forward as if carefully committing namesto memory, reached out her hand to show her rings.If there were only a sound track, Pat thought.The last person had been greeted. Pat watched as Abigail andWillard turned to each other. Willard’s mother stared straight ahead.Now her face seemed less angry than thoughtful.And then she smiled warmly. A tall auburn-haired man approached.He hugged Mrs. Jennings, released her, hugged her again, then turnedto greet the newlyweds. Pat leaned forward. As the man’s face cameinto full view, she stopped the projector.The late arrival was her father, Dean Adams. He looks so young!she thought. He can’t be more than thirty! She tried to swallow overthe lump in her throat. Did she have a vague memory of him lookinglike this? His broad shoulders filled the screen. He was like ahandsome young god, she thought, towering over Willard, exudingmagnetic energy.Feature by feature she studied the face, frozen on the screen,unwavering, open to minute examination. She wondered where hermother was, then realized that when this film was taken, her motherhad still been a student at the Boston Conservatory, still planning acareer in music.Dean Adams was then a freshman Congressman from Wisconsin.He still had the healthy, open look of the Midwest in him, a larger-than-life outdoorsy aura.She pushed the button and the figures sprang to life—Dean Adams
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joking with Willard Jennings, Abigail extending her hand to him. Heignored it and kissed her cheek. Whatever he said to Willard, they allbegan to laugh.The camera followed them as they walked down the flagstonesteps of the terrace and began to circulate among the guests. DeanAdams had his hand under the arm of the older Mrs. Jennings. Shewas talking to him animatedly. Clearly they were very fond of eachother.When the film ended, Pat reran it, marking off segments that mightbe used in the program. Willard and Abigail cutting the cake, toastingeach other, dancing the first dance. She couldn’t use any of the footagefrom the reception line—the displeasure on the face of the seniorMrs. Jennings was too obvious. And of course there was no questionof using the film that involved Dean Adams.What had Abigail felt that afternoon? she wondered. That beautifulwhitewashed brick mansion, that gathering of Virginia gentry andshe only a few years removed from the service apartment of theSaunders house in Apple Junction.The Saunders house. Abigail’s mother, Francey Foster. Where wasshe that day? Had she declined to be at her daughter ’s weddingreception, feeling she would seem out of place among these people?Or had Abigail made that decision for her?One by one Pat began to view the other reels, steeling herselfagainst the shock of watching her father regularly appear in thosewhich had been taken on the estate.Even without the dates, it would have been possible to arrange thefilms in a time sequence.The first campaign: professional newsreels of Abigail and Willardhand in hand walking down the street, greeting passersby . . . Abigailand Willard inspecting a new housing development. The announcer ’svoice . . .” As Willard Jennings campaigned this afternoon for theseat to be made vacant by the retirement of his uncle, CongressmanPorter Jennings, he pledged to continue the family tradition of serviceto the constituency.”There was an interview with Abigail. “How does it feel to spendyour honeymoon campaigning?”Abigail’s reply: “I can’t think of a better way than being at myhusband’s side helping him begin his career in public life.”
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There was a soft lilt in Abigail’s voice, the unmistakable trace of aSouthern accent. Pat did a rapid calculation. At that point Abigailhad been in Virginia less than three months. She marked that segmentfor the program.There were clips of five campaigns in all. As they progressed,Abigail increasingly played a major role in reelection efforts. Oftenher speech would begin “My husband is in Washington doing a jobfor you. Unlike many others, he is not taking time from the importantwork of the Congress to campaign for himself. I’m glad to be able totell you just a few of his accomplishments.”The films of social events at the estate were hardest to watch.WILLARD’S 35TH BIRTHDAY.Two young couples posing withAbigail and Willard—Jack and Jackie Kennedy and Dean and RenéeAdams . . . both recent newlyweds . . .It was the first time Pat had seen a film of her mother. Renée waswearing a pale green gown; her dark hair fell loosely on her shoulders.There was a hesitancy about her, but when she smiled up at herhusband, her expression was adoring. Pat found she could not bear todwell on it. She was glad to let the film unwind. A few frames later,just the Kennedys and Jennings were posing together. She made anote on her pad. That will be a wonderful clip for the program, shethought bitterly. The pre-Camelot days minus the embarrassment ofCongressman Dean Adams and the wife he murdered.The last film she viewed was of Willard Jennings’ funeral. In itwas a newsreel clip that opened outside the National Cathedral. Theannouncer’s voice was subdued. “The funeral cortege of CongressmanWillard Jennings has just arrived. The great and the near great aregathered inside to bid a final farewell to the Virginia legislator whodied when his chartered plane crashed en route to a speakingengagement. Congressman Jennings and the pilot, George Graney,were killed instantly.“The young widow is being escorted by Senator John FitzgeraldKennedy of Massachusetts. Congressman Jennings’ mother, Mrs.Stuart Jennings, is escorted by Congressman Dean Adams ofWisconsin. Senator Kennedy and Congressman Adams were WillardJennings’ closest friends.”
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Pat watched as Abigail emerged from the first car, her facecomposed, a black veil covering her blond hair. She wore a simplycut black silk suit and a string of pearls. The handsome young Senatorfrom Massachusetts gravely offered her his arm.The Congressman’s mother was obviously grief stricken. Whenshe was assisted from the limousine, her eyes fell on the flag-drapedcasket. She clasped her hands together and shook her head slightly ina gesture of agonized rejection. As Pat watched, her father slid hisarm under Mrs. Jennings’ elbow and clasped her hand in his. Slowlythe procession moved into the cathedral.She had seen as much as she could absorb in one evening. Clearlythe human interest material she had been seeking was amply presentin the old film clips. She turned out the lights in the library and wentinto the hall.The hall was drafty. There had been no windows open in the library.She checked the dining room, kitchen and foyer. Everything wasclosed and locked.But there was a draft.A sense of apprehension made Pat’s breath come faster. The door tothe living room was closed. She put her hand on it. The space betweenthe door and the frame was icy cold. Slowly she opened the door. Ablast of cold air assaulted her. She reached for the chandelier switch.The French doors to the patio were open. A pane of glass that hadbeen cut from its frame was lying on the carpet.And then she saw it.Lolling against the fireplace, the right leg twisted under it, thewhite apron soaked with blood, was a Raggedy Ann doll. Sinking toher knees, Pat stared at it. A clever hand had painted downward curveson the stitched mouth, added tears to the cheeks and drawn lines onthe forehead so that the typical Raggedy Ann smiling face had beentransformed to a pain-filled weeping image.She held her hand to her mouth to force back a shriek. Who hadbeen here? Why? Half-hidden by the soiled apron was a sheet of paperpinned to the doll’s dress. She reached for it; her fingers recoiling atthe touch of the crusted blood. The same kind of cheap typing paper as
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the other note; the same small, slanted printing. This is your lastwarning. There must not be a program glorifying Abigail Jennings. A creaking sound. One of the patio doors was moving. Wassomeone there? Pat jumped up. But it was the wind that was pushingthe door back and forth. She ran across the room, yanked the doorstogether and turned the lock. But that was useless. The hand that hadcut out the pane could reach through the empty frame, unlock thedoors again. Maybe the intruder was still there, still hiding in thegarden behind the evergreens.Her hands shook as she dialed the police emergency number. Theofficer’s voice was reassuring. “We’ll send a squad car right away.”As she waited, Pat reread the note. This was the fourth time she’dbeen warned away from the program. Suddenly suspicious, shewondered if the threats were valid. Was it possible this was somekind of “dirty tricks” campaign to make the Senator ’s documentary asubject of gossip, to smear it with outlandish, distracting publicity?What about the doll? Shocking to her because of the memory itevoked, but basically a Raggedy Ann with a garishly painted face.On closer examination, it seemed bizarre rather than frightening. Eventhe bloodied apron might be a crude attempt to horrify. If I were areporter covering this story, I’d have a picture of that thing on thefront page of tomorrow’s newspaper, she thought.The wail of the police siren decided her. Quickly she unpinnedthe note and left it on the mantelpiece. Rushing into the library, shedragged the carton from under the table and dropped the doll into it.The grisly apron sickened her. The doorbell was ringing—a steady,persistent peal. Impulsively she untied the apron, pulled it off andburied it deep in the carton. Without it the doll resembled a hurt child.She shoved the carton back under the table and hurried to admitthe policemen.
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Two police cars, their dome lights blazing, were in the driveway. Athird car had followed them. Don’t let it be the press, she prayed. Butit was.Photographs were taken of the broken pane; the grounds weresearched, the living room dusted for fingerprints.It was hard to explain the note. “It was pinned to something,” adetective pointed out. “Where did you find it?”“Right here by the fireplace.” That was true enough.The reporter was from the Tribune. He asked to see the note.“I’d prefer not to have it made public,” Pat urged. But he wasallowed to read it.“What does ‘last warning’ mean?” the detective asked. “Have youhad other threats?”Omitting the reference to “that house,” she told them about thetwo phone calls, about the letter she’d found the first night.“This one isn’t signed,” the detective pointed out. “Where’s theother one?”“I didn’t keep it. It wasn’t signed either.”“But on the phone he called himself an avenging angel?”“He said something like ‘I am an angel of mercy, of deliverance,an avenging angel.’”“Sounds like a real screwball,” the detective commented. Hestudied her keenly. “Funny he bothered to break in this time. Whynot just slip an envelope under the door again?”Dismayed, Pat watched the reporter scribbling in his notebook.Finally the police were ready to go. The surfaces of all the living-
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room tables were smudged with fingerprint powder. The patio doorshad been wired together so they couldn’t be opened until the panewas replaced.It was impossible to go to bed. Vacuuming the soot and grit fromthe living room, she decided, might help her unwind. As she worked,she couldn’t forget the mutilated Raggedy Ann doll. The child hadrun into the room . . . and tripped . . . the child fell over somethingsoft, and its hand became wet and sticky . . . and the child looked upand saw . . . What did I see? Pat asked herself fiercely. What did I see?Her hands worked unconsciously, vacuuming the worst of thegreasy powder, then polishing the lovely old wooden tables with anoil-dampened chamois cloth, moving bric-a-brac, lifting and pushingfurniture. The carpet had small clumps of slush and dirt from thepolicemen’s shoes. What did I see? She began pushing the furniture back into place.No, not here; that table belongs on the short wall, that lamp on thepiano, the slipper chair near the French doors.It was only when she had finished that she understood what shehad been doing.The slipper chair. The movers had placed it too near the piano. She’d run down the hall into the room. She’d screamed “ Daddy,Daddy . . .” She’d tripped over her mother ’s body. Her mother wasbleeding. She looked up, and then . . .And then, only darkness . . .It was nearly three o’clock. She couldn’t think about it any moretonight. She was exhausted, and her leg ached. Her limp would havebeen obvious to anyone as she dragged the vacuum cleaner back tothe storage closet and made her way upstairs.
At eight o’clock the telephone rang. The caller was Luther Pelham.Even coming out of the stupor of heavy sleep, Pat realized he wasfurious.
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“Pat, I understand you had a break-in last night. Are you all right?”She blinked, trying to force the sleep from her eyes and brain. “Yes.”“You made the front page of the Tribune. It’s quite a caption.‘Anchorwoman’s life threatened.’ Let me read you the first paragraph:“‘A break-in at her Georgetown home was the most recent in aseries of bizarre threats received by television personality PatriciaTraymore. The threats are tied to the documentary program “A Profileof Senator Abigail Jennings,” which Miss Traymore will produceand narrate, to be aired next Wednesday night on Potomac CableTelevision.’“That’s just the kind of publicity Abigail needs!”“I’m sorry,” Pat stammered. “I tried to keep the reporter awayfrom the note.”“Did it ever occur to you to call me, instead of the police? Frankly,I gave you credit for more brains than you displayed last night. Wecould have had private detectives watch your place. This is probablysome harmless nut, but the burning question in Washington will be,Who hates Abigail so much?”He was right. “I’m sorry,” Pat repeated. Then she added, “However,when you realize your home has been broken into, and you’rewondering if some nut may be six feet away on the patio, I think it’sa fairly normal reaction to call the police.”“There’s no use discussing it further until we can assess the damage.Have you reviewed Abigail’s films?”“Yes. I have some excellent material to edit.”“You didn’t tell Abigail about being in Apple Junction?”“No, I didn’t.”“Well, if you’re smart, you won’t! That’s all she needs to hearnow!”Without saying goodbye, Luther hung up.
It was Arthur’s habit to go to the bakery promptly at eight for hotrolls and then pick up the morning paper. Today he reversed the
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procedure. He was so eager to see if the paper had anything about thebreak-in that he went to the newsstand first.There it was, right on the front page. He read the story through,relishing every word, then frowned. Nothing had been said about theRaggedy Ann doll. The doll had been his means of making themunderstand that violence had been committed in that house and mightbe again.He purchased two seeded rolls and walked the three blocks back tothe leaning frame house and up to the dreary apartment on the secondfloor. Only half a mile away King Street had expensive restaurants andshops, but the neighborhood here was run-down and shabby.The door of Glory’s bedroom was open, and he could see she wasalready dressed in a bright red sweater and jeans. Lately she’d gottenfriendly with a girl in her office, a brazen type who was teachingGlory about makeup and had persuaded her to cut her hair.She did not look up, even though she must have heard him comingin. He sighed. Glory’s attitude toward him was becoming distant,even impatient. Like last night when he’d tried to tell her what a hardtime old Mrs. Rodriguez had had swallowing her medicine and howhe’d had to break up the pill and give her a little bread with it to hidethe taste. Glory had interrupted him. “Father, can’t we ever talk aboutanything except the nursing home?” And then she’d gone to a moviewith some of the girls from work.He put the rolls on plates and poured the coffee. “Soup’s on,” he called.Glory hurried into the kitchen. She was wearing her coat and herpurse was under her arm, as though she couldn’t wait to leave.“Hello,” he said softly. “My little girl looks very pretty today.”Gloria didn’t smile.“How was the movie?” he asked.“It was okay. Look, don’t bother getting a roll or bun for meanymore. I’ll have mine in the office with the others.”He felt crushed. He liked sharing breakfast with Glory before theyleft for work.
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She must have sensed his disappointment, because she lookedright at him and the expression in her eyes softened. “You’re so goodto me,” she said, and her voice sounded a little sad.For long minutes after she left, he sat staring into space. Last nighthad been exhausting. After all these years, to have been back in that house, in that room—to have placed Glory’s doll on the exact spot wherethe child had lain . . . When he’d finished arranging it against the fireplace,the right leg crumpled under it, he had almost expected to turn aroundand see the bodies of the man and woman lying there again.
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After Luther ’s call, Pat got up, made coffee and began editing thestoryboards for the program. She had decided to plan two versions ofthe documentary, one including an opening segment about Abigail’searly life in Apple Junction, the other starting at the wedding reception.The more she thought about it, the more she felt Luther ’s anger wasjustified. Abigail was skittish enough about the program without thisupsetting publicity. At least I had the sense to hide the doll, she thought.By nine o’clock she was in the library running off the rest of thefilms. Luther had already sent over edited segments of the EleanorBrown case, showing Abigail leaving the courthouse after the Guiltyverdict. Her regretful statement: “This is a very sad day for me. I onlyhope that now Eleanor will have the decency to tell where she hashidden that money. It may have been for my campaign fund, but farmore important, it was the donations of people who believed in thegoals I embrace.”A reporter asked: “Then, Senator, there is absolutely no truth toEleanor’s insistence that your chauffeur phoned her asking her tolook for your diamond ring in the campaign-office safe?”“My chauffeur was driving me that morning to a meeting inRichmond. The ring was on my finger.”And then the clip showed a picture of Eleanor Brown, a close-upthat clearly revealed every feature of her small, colorless face, hertimid mouth and shy eyes.The reel ended with a scene of Abigail addressing college students.Her subject was Public Trust. Her theme was the absoluteresponsibility of a legislator to keep his or her own office and staffabove reproach.There was another segment Luther had already edited, a
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compilation of the Senator in airline-safety hearings, with excerptsfrom her speeches demanding more stringent regulations. Severaltimes she referred to the fact that she had been widowed because herhusband had entrusted his life to an inexperienced pilot in an ill-equipped plane.At the end of each of those segments Luther had marked “ 2-minutediscussion between Senator J. and Pat T. on subject. ”Pat bit her lip.Both those segments were out of sync with what she was trying todo. What happened to my creative control of this project? she wondered.The whole thing is getting too rushed. No, the word is botched The phone rang as she began to go through Abigail’s letters fromconstituents. It was Sam. “Pat, I read what happened. I’ve checkedwith the rental office for my place.” Sam lived in the WatergateTowers. “There are several sublets available. I want you to take oneon a monthly basis until this character is caught.”“Sam, I can’t. You know the kind of pressure I’m under. I have alocksmith coming. The police are going to keep a watch on the place.I have all my equipment set up here.” She tried to change the subject.“My real problem is what to wear to the White House dinner.”“You always look lovely. Abigail is going to be there as well. Ibumped into her this morning.”A short time later, the Senator phoned to express her shock at thebreak-in. Then she got to the point. “Unfortunately, the suggestionthat you are being threatened because of this program is bound tolead to all sorts of speculation. I really want to get this thing wrappedup, Pat. Obviously, once it’s completed and aired, the threats willend even if they are simply from some sort of crank. Have youreviewed the films I gave you?”“Yes, I have,” Pat replied. “There’s wonderful material and I’vegot it marked off. But I’d like to borrow Toby. There are some placeswhere I need names and more specific background.”They agreed that Toby would come over within the hour. WhenPat hung up she had the feeling that in Abigail Jennings’ estimationshe had become an embarrassment.Toby arrived forty-five minutes later, his leathery face creased in
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a smile. “I wish I’d been here when that joker tried to get in, Pat,” hetold her. “I’d’ve made mincemeat of him.”“I’ll bet you would.”He sat at the library table while she ran the projector. “That’s oldCongressman Porter Jennings,” Toby answered at one point. “He wasthe one who said he wouldn’t retire if Willard didn’t take over hisseat. You know that Virginia aristocracy. Think they own the world.But I have to say that he bucked his sister-in-law when he supportedAbigail to succeed Willard. Willard’s mother, that old she-devil, pulledout all the stops to keep Abigail out of Congress. And between us,she was a lot better Congressman than Willard. He wasn’t aggressiveenough. You know what I mean?”While waiting for Toby, Pat had reviewed the newspaper clippingsabout the Eleanor Brown case. The case seemed almost too simple.Eleanor said that Toby had phoned and sent her to the campaign office.Five thousand dollars of the money had been recovered in her storagearea in the basement of her apartment building.“How do you think Eleanor Brown expected to get away withsuch a flimsy story?” Pat now asked Toby.Toby leaned back in the leather chair, crossing one thick leg overthe other, and shrugged. Pat noticed the cigar in his breast pocket.Wincing inwardly, she invited him to smoke.He beamed, sending his jowly face into a mass of creases. “Thanksa lot. The Senator can’t stand the smell of cigar smoke. I don’t darehave even a puff in the car no matter how long I’m waiting for her.”He lit the cigar and puffed appreciatively.“About Eleanor Brown,” Pat suggested. She rested her elbows onher knees, cupping her chin in her hands.“The way I figure it,” Toby confided, “Eleanor didn’t think the moneywould be missed for a while. They’ve kind of tightened up the lawsince then, but it really used to be that you could have big money sit inthe campaign-office safe for a couple of weeks-even longer.”“But seventy-five thousand dollars in cash?”“Miss Traymore . . . Pat, you gotta understand how manycompanies contribute to both sides in a campaign. They want to besure to be with the winner. Now, of course you can’t hand cash to a
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Senator in the office. That’s against the law. So what the big shotdoes is visit the Senator, let him or her know he’s planning to make abig donation, and then takes a walk with the Senator ’s aide on theCapitol grounds and turns over the money there. The Senator nevertouches it, but knows about it. It’s put right in the campaign funds.But because it’s in cash, if the competition gets elected it isn’t soobvious. You know what I mean?”“I see.”“Don’t get me wrong. It’s legal. But Phil had taken some bigdonations for Abigail, and of course Eleanor knew about them. Maybeshe had some boyfriend who wanted to make a killing and onlyborrowed the money. Then when they looked for it so fast, she had tocome up with an excuse.”“She just doesn’t seem that sophisticated to me,” Pat observed,thinking of the high school yearbook picture.“Well, like the prosecutor said, still water runs deep. I hate to rushyou, Pat, but the Senator will be needing me.”“There are just one or two more questions.”The phone rang. “I’ll make this fast.” Pat picked it up. “Pat Traymore.”“How are you, my dear?” She instantly recognized the precise,overly cultivated voice.“Hello, Mr. Saunders.” Too late she remembered that Toby knewJeremy Saunders. Toby’s head jerked up. Would he associate the nameSaunders with the Jeremy Saunders he’d known in Apple Junction?“I tried to get you several times early last evening,” Saunderspurred. He was not drunk this time. She was sure of it.“You didn’t leave your name.”“Recorded messages can be heard by the wrong ears. Don’t youagree?”“Just a moment, please.” Pat looked at Toby. He was smoking hiscigar thoughtfully arid seemed indifferent to the call. Maybe he hadn’tput together the name Saunders with a man he hadn’t seen in thirty-five years.“Toby, this is a private call. I wonder if . . .”He stood up quickly before she could finish. “Want me towait outside? ”
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“No, Toby. Just hang up when I get to the kitchen extension?”Deliberately she spoke his name again so that Jeremy would hearand not begin talking until he was sure only Pat was on the line.Toby accepted the receiver casually, but he was certain it wasJeremy Saunders. Why was he calling Pat Traymore? Had she beenin touch with him? Abigail would hit the ceiling. From the other endof the phone he heard the faint sound of breathing. That stinkingphony, he thought. If he tries to smear Abby . . .!Pat’s voice came on. “Toby, would you mind hanging up?”“Sure, Pat.” He made his voice hearty. He hung up the receiver witha definite click and didn’t dare to try to ease it off the hook again.“ Toby, ” Jeremy Saunders said, his voice incredulous. “Don’t tellme you’re hobnobbing with Toby Gorgone.”“He’s helping me with some of the background material on theprogram,” Pat replied. She kept her voice low.“Of course. He’s been there every step of the way with ourstateswoman, hasn’t he? Pat, I wanted to call because I realize thatthe combination of vodka and your sympathy made me ratherindiscreet. I do insist that our conversation remain totally confidential.My wife and daughter would not enjoy having the shabby little taleof my involvement with Abigail aired on national television.”“I have no intention of quoting anything you told me,” Pat replied.“The Mirror might be interested in gossipy personal material, but Iassure you, I’m not.”“Very good. I’m greatly relieved.” Saunders’ voice became friendlier.“I saw Edwin Shepherd at the club. He tells me he gave you a copy ofthe newspaper showing Abby as the beauty queen. I’d forgotten aboutthat. I do hope you plan to use the picture of Miss Apple Junction withher adoring mother. That one’s worth a thousand words”“I really don’t think so,” Pat said coldly. His presumption hadturned her off. “I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to work, Mr. Saunders.”She hung up and went back into the library. Toby was sitting inthe chair where she’d left him, but there was something differentabout him. The genial manner was gone. He seemed distracted andleft almost immediately.
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After he had gone, she flung open the window to get rid of thecigar smell. But the odor hung in the room. She realized that onceagain she felt acutely uneasy and jumped at every sound.
Back at the office, Toby went directly to Philip. “How’s it going?”Philip raised his eyes heavenward. “The Senator is in a state aboutthe story. She just gave Luther Pelham hell for ever talking her intothat documentary. She’d kill it in a minute if the publicity weren’talready out. How did it go with Pat Traymore?”Toby wasn’t ready to talk about Apple Junction, but he did askPhilip to look into the question of the rental of the Adams house,which was also on his mind.He knocked on the door of Abigail’s office. She was quiet now—too quiet. That meant she was worried. She had the afternoon editionof the paper. “Look at this,” she told him.A famous Washington gossip column’s lead item began:
Wags on Capitol Hill are placing bets on the identityof the person who threatened Patricia Traymore’s lifeif she goes ahead with the documentary on SenatorJennings. Seems everyone has a candidate. Thebeautiful senior Senator from Virginia has a reputationamong her colleagues as an abrasive perfectionist.
As Toby watched, Abigail Jennings, her face savage with fury,crumpled the paper in her hand and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.
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Sam Kingsley snapped the last stud in his dress shirt and twisted his tieinto a bow. He glanced at the clock on the mantel over his bedroom fireplaceand decided he had more than enough time for a Scotch and soda.His Watergate apartment commanded a sweeping view of the Potomac.From the side window of the living room he looked down at the KennedyCenter. Some evenings when he arrived late from the office, he’d go inand catch the second and third acts of a favorite opera.After Janice died, there’d been no reason to keep the big house inChevy Chase. Karen was living in San Francisco, and she and herhusband spent their holidays with her in-laws in Palm Springs. Samhad given Karen her choice of dishes, silver, bric-a-brac and furnitureand sold most of the rest. He had wanted to start with a clean slate inthe hope that his pervading sense of weariness might subside.Sam carried his glass to the window. The Potomac was shimmeringfrom the lights of the apartment building and the floodlights ofKennedy Center. Potomac fever. He had it. So did most of the peoplewho came here. Would Pat catch it as well? he wondered.He was damn worried about her. His FBI friend Jack Carlson hadflatly told him: “First she gets a phone call, then a note under thedoor, then another phone call and finally a break-in with a warningnote left in her home. You figure out what might happen next time.“You’ve got a full-blown psycho who’s about to explode. Thatslanted printing is a dead giveaway-and compare these notes. They’rewritten only a few days apart. Some of the letters on the second one arepractically illegible. His stress is building to a breaking point. And oneway or another, that stress seems to be directed at your Pat Traymore.”
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His Pat Traymore. In those last months before Janice died, he’dmanaged to keep Pat from his thoughts. He’d always be grateful forthat. He and Janice had managed to recapture something of their earlycloseness. She had died secure in his love.Afterward, he had felt drained, exhausted, lifeless, old . Too oldfor a twenty-seven-year-old girl and all that a life with her wouldinvolve. He simply wanted peace.Then he’d read that Pat was coming to work in Washington and he’ddecided to phone and invite her to dinner. There was no way he couldavoid her, or want to avoid her, and he did not intend their first meetingto be constrained by the presence of others. So he’d asked her out.He had soon realized that whatever was between them hadn’t goneaway, but was still simmering, waiting to blaze up—and that waswhat she wanted.But what did he want?“I don’t know,” Sam said aloud. Jack’s warning rang in his ears:Suppose something happened to Pat?The house phone rang. “Your car is here, Congressman,” thedoorman announced.“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”Sam put his half-empty glass on the bar and went into the bedroomto get his jacket and coat. His movements were brisk. In a few minuteshe’d be with Pat.
Pat decided to wear an emerald satin gown with a beaded top to theWhite House dinner. It was an Oscar de la Renta that Veronica had insistedshe purchase for the Boston Symphony Ball. Now she was glad she’dbeen talked into it. With it she wore her grandmother’s emeralds.“You don’t look the part of the girl reporter,” Sam commentedwhen he picked her up.“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment.” Sam waswearing a navy blue cashmere coat and white silk scarf over his dinnerjacket. What was it Abigail had called him? One of the most eligiblebachelors in Washington?“It was intended as one. No more phone calls or notes?” he asked.
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“No.” She had not yet told him about the doll and didn’t want tobring it up now.“Good. I’ll feel better when that program is finished.”“ You’ll feel better.”In the limousine on the way to the White House, he asked herabout her activities.“Work,” she said promptly. “Luther agreed with the film clips Iselected and we’ve completed the storyboard. He’s adamant aboutnot crossing the Senator by including her early life. He’s turning what’ssupposed to be a documentary into a paean of praise that’s going tobe journalistically unsound.”“And you can’t do anything about it?”“I could quit. But I didn’t come down here to quit after the firstweek—not if I can help it.”They were at Eighteenth Street and PennsylvaniaAvenue.“Sam, was there ever a hotel on that corner?”“Yes, the old Roger Smith. They tore it down about ten years ago.” When I was little I went to a Christmas party there. I wore a redvelvet dress and white tights and black patent leather slippers. Ispiledchocolate ice cream on the dress and cried and Daddy said, “It’s notyour fault, Kerry.” The limousine was drawing up to the northwest gate of the WhiteHouse. They waited in line as each car stopped for the security check.When it was their turn, a respectful guard confirmed their names onthe guest list.Inside, the mansion was festive with holiday decorations. TheMarine Band was playing in the marble foyer. Waiters were offeringchampagne. Pat recognized familiar faces among the assembledguests: film stars, Senators, Cabinet members, socialites, a grandedame of the theater.“Have you ever been here before?” Sam asked.“On a school trip when I was sixteen. We took the tour and theytold us that Abigail Adams used to hang her wash in what is now theEast Room.”“You won’t find any laundry there now. Come on. If you’re goingto have a career in Washington, you’d better get to know some people.”
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A moment later he was introducing her to the President’s presssecretary.Brian Salem was an amiable, rotund man. “Are you trying to pushus off the front page, Miss Traymore?” he asked, smiling.So even in the Oval Office the break-in had been discussed.“Have the police any leads?”“I’m not sure, but we all think it was just some sort of crank.”Penny Salem was a sharp-eyed, wiry woman in her early forties.“God knows Brian sees enough crank letters addressed to the President.”“I sure do,” her husband agreed easily. “Anyone in public office isbound to step on toes. The more powerful you are, the maddersomebody or some group gets at you. And Abigail Jennings takespositive stands on some mighty volatile issues. Oh, say, there’s thelady now.” He suddenly grinned. “Doesn’t she look great?”Abigail had just entered the East Room. This was one night shehad not chosen to underplay her beauty. She was wearing an apricotsatin gown with a bodice covered in pearls. A belied skirtcomplimented her small waist and slender frame. Her hair was looselydrawn back into a chignon. Soft waves framed her flawless features.Pale blue shadow accentuated the extraordinary eyes, and rose blushhighlighted her cheekbones. A deeper apricot shade outlined herperfectly shaped lips.This was a different Abigail, laughing softly, laying a hand forjust an extra moment on the arm of an octogenarian ambassador,accepting the tributes to her appearance as her due. Pat wondered ifevery other woman in the room felt as she did—suddenly colorlessand insignificant.Abigail had timed her arrival well. An instant later, the music fromthe Marine Band shifted to a stirring “Hail to the Chief.” The Presidentand First Lady were descending from their private quarters. Withthem were the new Prime Minister of Canada and his wife. As thelast notes of “Hail to the Chief” died out, the opening chords of theCanadian national anthem began.A receiving line was formed. When Pat and Sam approached thePresident and First Lady, Pat realized that her heart was pounding.The First Lady was far more attractive in person than in her pictures.
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She had a long, tranquil face with a generous mouth and pale hazeleyes. Her hair was sandy with traces of gray. There was an air of totalself-confidence about her. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, andher lips parted to reveal strong, perfect teeth. She told Pat that whenshe was a girl her ambition had been to get a job in television. “Andinstead”—she laughed, looking up at her husband—”I had no soonerlet go of the daisy chain at Vassar than I found myself married.”“I was smart enough to grab her before anyone else did,” thePresident said. “Pat, I’m glad to meet you.” It was a palpable emotionto feel the solid handshake of the most powerful man in the world.“They ’re good people, ” Sam commented as they acceptedchampagne. “And he’s been a strong President. It’s hard to believehe’s completing his second term. He’s young, not sixty yet. It’ll beinteresting to see what he does with the rest of his life.”Pat was studying the First Lady. “I’d love to do a program on her.She seems comfortable in her own skin.”“Her father was Ambassador to England; her grandfather was VicePresident. Generations of breeding and money coupled with a diplomaticbackground do have a way of instilling self-confidence, Pat.’In the State Dining Room, the tables were set with Limoges china,an intricate green pattern, rimmed with gold. Pale green damask clothsand napkins with centerpieces of red roses and ferns in low crystalcontainers completed the effect. “Sorry we’re not sitting together,”Sam commented, “but you seem to have a good table. And pleasenotice where Abigail has been placed.”She was at the President’s table between the President and theguest of honor, the Prime Minister of Canada. “I wish I had this oncamera,” Pat murmured. She glanced at the first few items on themenu: salmon in aspic, suprême of capon in flamed brandy sauce,wild rice.Her dinner partner was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.The others at the table included a college president, a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, an Episcopal bishop, the director of Lincoln Center.She glanced around to see where Sam had gone. He was at thePresident’s table directly across from Senator Jennings. They weresmiling at each other. With a twinge of pain, Pat looked away.
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Near the end of the dinner the President invited everyone toremember in prayer the Vice President, who was so seriously ill. Headded, “More than any of us realized, he had been pursuing arduousfourteen hour days without ever considering the toll they were takingon his health.” When the tribute was completed, there was no doubtin anyone’s mind that the Vice President would never resume hisduties. As he sat down, the President smiled at Abigail. There wassomething of a public benediction in that glance.
“Well, did you enjoy yourself?” Sam asked on the way home. “Thatplaywright at your table seemed quite taken with you. You dancedwith him three or four times, didn’t you?”“When you were dancing with the Senator. Sam, wasn’t it quitean honor for you to be at the President’s table?”“It’s always an honor to be placed there.”An odd constraint came over them. It seemed to Pat that suddenlythe evening had gone flat. Was that the true reason Sam had gottenthe invitation for her—so that she’d meet Washington people? Didhe simply feel he had a certain obligation to help launch her beforehe withdrew from her life again?He waited while she unlocked the door, but declined a nightcap.“I’ve got to get in a long day tomorrow. I’m leaving for Palm Springson the six-o’cock flight to spend the holiday with Karen and Tom athis family’s place. Are you going to Concord for the holiday, Pat?”She didn’t want to tell him that Veronica and Charles had left fora Caribbean cruise. “This will be a working Christmas,” she said.“Let’s have a belated celebration after the program is finished.And I’ll give you your Christmas present then.”“That’ll be fine.” She hoped her voice sounded as casually friendlyas his. She refused to reveal the emptiness she felt.“You looked lovely, Pat. You’d be surprised at the number of peopleI heard commenting about you.”“I hope they were all my own age. Good night, Sam.” She pushedthe door open and went inside.“Damn it, Pat!” Sam stepped into the foyer and spun her around.Her jacket fell from her shoulders as he pulled her to him.Her hands slipped around his neck; her fingertips touched the collar
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of his coat, found the cool skin above it, twisted his thick, wavy hair.It was as she remembered—the faint good scent of his breath, thefeel of his arms enveloping her, the absolute certainty that theybelonged together. “Oh, my love,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you so.”It was as if she had slapped him. In an involuntary movement, hestraightened up and stepped back. Dumbfounded, Pat dropped her arms.“Sam . . .”“Pat, I’m, sorry . . .” He tried to smile. “You’re just too damnattractive for your own good.”For a long minute they stared at each other. Then Sam grasped hershoulders. “Don’t you think I’d like nothing better than to pick upwhere we left off that day? I’m not going to do it to you, Pat. You’rea beautiful young woman. Within six months you’ll have your pickof half a dozen men who can give you the kind of life you shouldhave. Pat, my time is past. I damn near lost my seat in the last election.And you know what my opponent said? He said it’s time for newblood. Sam Kingsley’s been around too long. He’s in a rut. Let’s givehim the rest he needs.”“And you believed it?”“I believe it because it’s true. That last year and a half with Janiceleft me empty—empty and drained. Pat, it’s hard for me to decidewhere I stand on any issue these days. Choosing what tie to wear is abig effort, for God’s sake, but there is one decision I can stick to. I’mnot going to foul up your life again.”“Have you ever stopped to think how much you’ll foul it up bynot coming back into it?”Unhappily they stared at each other. “I’m simply not going to letmyself believe that, Pat.” Then he was gone.
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Glory was different now. She had begun setting her hair in themorning. She had new clothes, more colorful. The blouses had highruffled necks instead of button-down collars. And recently she hadbought some earrings, a couple of pairs. He’d never seen her wearearrings before.Every day now she told him not to make her a sandwich for lunch,that she would eat out.“All by yourself?” he’d asked.“No, Father.”“With Opal?”“I’m just eating out”-and there was that unfamiliar note ofimpatience in her voice.She didn’t want to hear about his work at all anymore. He’d trieda couple of times to tell her how even with the respirator, old Mrs.Gillespie was rasping and coughing and in pain. Glory used to listenso sympathetically when he told her about his patients and agree whenhe said it would be a mercy if the angels came for the very sick ones.Her agreement helped him carry out his mission.He’d been so distracted with Glory that when he delivered Mrs.Gillespie to the Lord he’d been careless. He had thought she wasasleep, but as he pulled out the respirator plug and prayed over her,she opened her eyes. She had understood what he was doing. Herchin had quivered, and she had whispered, “Please, please oh, . . .sweet Virgin, help me . . .” He’d watched the expression in her eyeschange from terrified to glassy to vacant. And Mrs. Hanck had seen him having Mrs. Giespie’s room. Nurse Sheehan was the one who’d found Mrs. Gillespie. She hadn’taccepted the old woman’s death as the will of God. Instead she’dinsisted that the respirator be checked to make sure it had been
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functioning properly. Later on he’d seen her with Mrs. Harnick. Mrs.Harnick was very much excited and pointing toward Mrs. Gillespie’s room.Everyone in the Home liked him except Nurse Sheehan. She wasalways reprimanding him, telling him that he was overstepping. “Wehave staff chaplains,” she would say. “It’s not your job to counsel people.”If he’d thought about Nurse Sheehan’s being on duty today, hewould never have gone near Mrs. Gillespie.It was his worry over the Senator Jennings documentary that wasconsuming him, making it impossible for him to think straight. Hehad warned Patricia Traymore four times that she must not continueto prepare that program.There would be no fifth warning.
Pat simply wasn’t sleepy. After an hour of restless tossing, shegave up and reached for a book. But her mind refused to becomeinvolved with the Churchill biography she had been looking forwardto reading.At one o’clock she shut her eyes. At three o’clock she wentdownstairs to heat a cup of milk. She had left the downstairs foyerlight on, but even so, the staircase was dark and she had to reach forthe railing where the steps curved. She used to sit on this step just out of sight of the people in thefoyer and watch company come. I had a blue nightgown with flowerson it. I was wearing it that night . . . I had been sitting here and thenI was frightened and I went back up to bed. . . . And then . . .” I don’t know,” she said aloud. “I don’t know.”Even the hot milk did not induce sleep.At four o’clock she went downstairs again and brought up thenearly completed storyboard.The program would open with the Senator and Pat in the studioseated in front of an enlarged picture of Abigail and Willard Jenningsin their wedding reception line. Mrs. Jennings senior had been editedout of the reel. While the film of the reception ran, the Senator wouldtalk about meeting Willard while she was attending Radcliffe.At least, that way I get something in about the Northeast, Pat thought.
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Then they’d show a montage of Willard’s Congressional campaignswith Pat asking about Abigail’s growing commitment to politics.Willard’s thirty-fifth birthday party would highlight the pre-Camelotyears with the Kennedys.Then would come the funeral, with Abigail escorted by JackKennedy. They’d eliminated the segment that showed her mother-in-law in a separate car. Then Abigail being sworn into Congress inblack mourning attire, her face pale and grave.Next came the footage about the embezzlement of the campaignfunds and Abigail’s commitment to airline safety. She sounds sostrident and sanctimonious, Pat thought, and then you see the pictureof that scared kid, Eleanor Brown. And it’s one thing to be concernedabout airline safety—another to keep pointing the finger at a pilotwho also lost his life . . . But she knew she wouldn’t be able to persuadeLuther to change either segment.The day after Christmas they would shoot Abigail in her office,with her staff and some carefully selected visitors. Congress had atlast adjourned, and the shooting should go quickly.At least Luther had agreed to a scene of Abigail in her own homewith friends. Pat had suggested a Christmas supper party with shotsof Abigail arranging the buffet table. The guests would be somedistinguished Washington personalities as well as a few of her officestaff who could not be with their families on the holiday.The last scene would be the Senator returning home at dusk, abriefcase under her arm. And then the wrap-up: “Like many of themillions of single adults in the United States, Senator Abigail Jenningshas found her family, her vocation, her avocation in the work she loves.”Luther had written that line for Pat to deliver.At eight o’clock Pat phoned Luther and asked him again topersuade the Senator to allow her early life to be included in theprogram. “What we have is dull,” she said. “Except for those personalfilms, it’s a thirty-minute campaign commercial.”Luther cut her off. “You’ve examined all the film?”“Yes.”“How about photographs?”“There were very few.”
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“Call and see if there are any more. No. I’ll call.You’re not very high on the Senator ’s list right now.”
Forty-five minutes later she heard from Philip. Toby would beover around noon with photograph albums. The Senator believed Patwould find some interesting pictures in them.Restlessly Pat wandered into the library. She had jammed the cartonwith the doll under the library table. She would use this time to gothrough more of her father’s effects.When she lifted the doll from the carton, she carried it to thewindow and examined it closely. A skillful pen had shaded the blackbutton eyes, filled in the brows, given the mouth that mournful twist.In the daylight, it seemed even more pathetic. Was it supposed torepresent her?She put it aside and began to unpack the carton: the pictures of hermother and father; the packets of letters and papers; the photo albums.Her hands became soiled and dusty as she sorted the material into piles.Then she sat cross-legged on the carpet and began to go through it.Loving hands had kept the mementos of Dean Adams’ boyhood.Report cards were neaty pasted in sequence. A-pluses, A’s. The lowestmark a B-plus.He had lived on a farm fifty miles from Milwaukee. The housewas a medium-sized white frame with a small porch. There werepictures of him with his mother and father. My grandparents, Patthought. She realized she didn’t know their names. The back of oneof the pictures was marked Irene and Wislon with Dean, age 6 months. She picked up a packet of letters. The rubber band snapped andthey scattered on the carpet. Quickly she gathered and glanced throughthem. One especially caught her eye.
DearMomMom,
Thank you. I guess those are the only words for allthe years of sacrifice to put me through college andlaw school. I know all about the dresses you didn’tbuy, the outings you never attended with the otherlades in town. Long ago promised I’d try to be just
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like Dad I’ll keep that promise. I love you. Andremember to go to the doctor please. That coughsounded awfully deep.
Your loving son,Dean
An obituary notice for Irene Wagner Adams was beneath the letter.It was dated six months later.Tears blurred Pat’s eyes for the young man who had not beenashamed to express his love for his mother. She too had experiencedthat generous love. Her hand in his. Her screaming delight when hecame home. Daddy. Daddy. Swung high in the air and tossed up andstrong hands catching her. She was riding her tricycle down thedriveway . . . her knees scraping along gravel . . . his voice saying,“This won’t hurt much, Kerry. We have to make sure it’s clean . . .What kind of ice cream should we get? . . .” The doorbell rang. Pat swept the pictures and letters together andstood up. Half of them spilled from her arms as she tried to jam theminto the carton. The doorbell rang again, this time more insistently.She scrambled to pick up the scattered photos and notes and hidethem with the others. She started from the room and realized she’dforgotten to put away the pictures of her parents and the RaggedyAnn doll. Suppose Toby had come in here and seen them! She droppedthem into the carton and shoved it under the table.Toby was about to ring the bell again when she yanked open the door.Involuntarily, she stepped back as his bulky frame filled the doorway.“I was just giving up on you!” His attempt to sound genial didn’tcome off.“Don’t give up on me, Toby,” she said coldly. Who was he to beannoyed at having to wait a few seconds? He seemed to be studyingher. She glanced down and realized how grimy her hands were andthat she had been rubbing her eyes. Her face was probably smearedwith dirt.“You look like you were making mud pies.” There was a puzzled,suspicious expression on his face. She didn’t answer him. He shiftedthe package under his arm, and the oversized onyx ring moved backand forth on his finger. “Where do you want this stuff, Pat? In the library?”
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“Yes.”He followed her so closely that she had the uneasy feeling he wouldcrash into her if she stopped suddenly. Sitting cross-legged for solong had made her right leg numb, and she was favoring it.“You limping, Pat? You didn’t fall on the ice or anything, did you?”You don’t miss a trick, she thought. “Put the box on the table,”she told him.“Okay. I gotta get right back. The Senator wasn’t happy abouthaving to figure out where these albums were. I can see myself out.”She waited until she heard the front door dose before she went tosecure the bolt. As she reached the foyer, the door opened again.Toby seemed startled to see her standing there; then his face creasedin an unpleasant smile. “That lock wouldn’t keep out anyone whoknew his way around, Pat,” he said. “Be sure to use the dead bolt.”The Senator ’s additional material was a hodgepodge of newspaperclippings and fan letters. Most of the pictures were shots of her atpolitical ceremonies, state dinners, ribbon-cutting ceremonies,inaugurations. As Pat turned the pages, several of them fluttered downto the floor.The back pages of the album were more promising. She cameupon an enlarged photo of a young Abigail and Willard seated on ablanket near a lake. He was reading to her. It was an idyllic setting,they looked like lovers on a Victorian cameo.There were a few more snapshots that might fit into a montage. Atlast she had gone through everything and bent down to retrieve thepictures that had fallen. Underneath one of them was a folded sheetof expensive notepaper. She opened it. It read:
Billy darling. You were splendid in the hearings thisafternoon. I am so proud of you I love you so and lookforward to a lifetime of being with you, of workingwith you. Oh, my dearest we really are going to makea difference in this world
A.
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The letter was dated May 13. Willard Jennings had been on hisway to deliver the commencement address when he met his death onMay 20.What a terrific wrap-up that would make Pat exulted. It would quietanyone who thinks of the Senator as cold and uncaring. If she could onlypersuade Luther to let her read the note on the program. How would itsound? “Billy darling,” she read aloud. “I’m so sorry . . .”Her voice broke. What is the matter with me? she thought impatiently.Firmly, she began again. “Billy darling. You were splendid. . . .”
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On the twenty-third of December at 2 P.M. Senator Abigail Jenningssat in the library of her home with Toby and Philip and watched thetelecast as the Vice President of the United States formally tenderedhis resignation to the Chief Executive.Her lips dry, her fingernails digging into her palms, Abigail listenedas the Vice President, propped on pillows in his hospital bed, ashen-faced and obviously dying, said in a surprisingly strong voice, “I hadexpected to withhold my decision until after the first of the year.However, I feel that it is my clear duty to vacate this office and havethe line of succession to Chief Executive of this great countryuncompromised. I am grateful for the confidence the President andmy party expressed when I was twice chosen to be the VicePresidential candidate. I am grateful to the people of the United Statesfor having given me the opportunity to serve them.”With profound regret, the President accepted the resignation ofhis old friend and colleague. When asked if he had decided on areplacement, he said, “I have a few ideas.” But he declined to respondto the names suggested by the press.Toby whistled. “Well, it’s happened, Abby.”“Senator, mark my words . . .” Philip began.“Be quiet and listen!” she snapped. As the scene in the hospitalroom ended, the camera focused on Luther Pelham in the newsroomof Potomac Cable.“A historic moment,” Luther began. With dignified reticence herecounted a brief history of the Vice Presidency and then came to thepoint. “The time has come for a woman to be selected for the highoffice . . . a woman with the necessary experience and provedexpertise. Mr. President, choose her now.”Abigail laughed sharply. “Meaning me.”
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The phone began to ring. “That will be reporters. I’m not in,” she said.An hour later the press was still camped outside Abigail’s home. Finallyshe agreed to an interview. Outwardly she was calm. She said that shewas busy with preparations for a Christmas supper for friends. Whenasked if she expected to be appointed Vice President, she said in anamused tone, “Now, you really can’t expect me to comment on that.”Once the door closed behind her, her expression and mannerchanged. Even Toby did not dare to cross the line.Luther phoned to confirm the taping schedule. Abigail’s raisedvoice could be heard throughout the house. “Yes, I saw it. You wantto know something? I probably have this in the bag right now, withoutthat damn program hanging over my head. I told you it was a rottenidea. Don’t tell me you only wanted to help me. You wanted to haveme obligated to you, and we both know it.”Abigail’s voice lowered, and Philip exchanged glances with Toby.“What did you find out?” he asked.“Pat Traymore was up in Apple Junction last week. She stoppedat the newspaper office and got some back issues. She visitedSaunders, the guy who was sweet on Abby when she was a kid. Hetalked his head off to her. Then she saw the retired school principalwho knew Abby. I was at Pat’s house in Georgetown when Saundersphoned her.”“How much damage could any of those people do to the Senator?”Philip asked.Toby shrugged. “It depends. Did you find out anything about the house?”“Some,” Philip told him. “We got to the realty company that hasbeen renting it for years. They had a new tenant all lined up, but thebank handling the trust for the heirs said that someone in the familywas planning to use it and it wouldn’t be for rent again.”“Someone in the family?” Toby repeated. “ Who in the family?”“I would guess Pat Traymore,” Philip said sarcastically.“Don’t get smart with me,” Toby snapped. “I want to know who owns that place now, and which relative is using it.”
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With mixed emotions Pat watched Potomac Cable cover the VicePresident’s resignation. At the end of Luther’s segment, the anchormansaid that it was considered unlikely the President would name asuccessor before the New Year.And we air the program on the twenty-seventh, Pat thought.As Sam had predicted the first night she was in Washington, shemight have a hand in the selection of the first woman Vice President.Once again her sleep had been interrupted by troubled dreams.Did she really remember her mother and father so clearly, or was sheconfusing the films and pictures she had seen of them with reality?The memory of his bandaging her knee and taking her for ice creamwas authentic. She was sure of that. But hadn’t there also been timeswhen she had pulled the pillow over her ears because of angry voicesand hysterical weeping?She was determined to finish reviewing her father ’s effects.Doggedly she had examined the material and found herselfincreasingly concerned about the references to her mother. There wereletters from her grandmother to Renée. One of them, dated six monthsbefore the tragedy, said: “Renée, dear, the tone of your note troublesme. If you feel you are having onslaughts of depression again, pleasego into counseling immediately.” It had been her grandmother, according to the newspaper articles,who had claimed that Dean Adams was an unstable personality.She found a letter from her father to her mother written the yearbefore their deaths:
Dear Renée,
I am pretty upset that you want to spend the entiresummer in New Hampshire with Kerry. You must knowhow much I miss you both. It is absolutely necessaryfor me to go to Wisconsin Why not give it a try? Wecan rent a Steinway for you while you’re there. Icertainly understand that Mother ’s old spinet is hardlyappropriate. Please, dear. For my sake.
Pat felt as though she were trying to remove bandages from afestering wound. The nearer she got to the wound itself, the harder it
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was to pull the adhesive from it. The sense of pain, emotional andeven physical, was increasingly acute.One of the cartons was filled with Christmas ornaments and stringsof lights. They gave her an idea. She would get a small Christmastree. Why not? Where were Veronica and Charles now? She consultedtheir itinerary. Their ship would be putting in at St. John tomorrow.She wondered if she could phone them on Christmas Day.The mail was a welcome respite. She had an abundance of cardsand invitations from her friends in Boston. “Come up just for the dayof you possibly can.” “We’re all waiting for the program.” “An Enemyfor this one, Pat-not just the nomination” One letter had been forwarded from Boston Cable. The return-address sticker on the envelope read: CATHERINE GRANEY, 22BALSAM PLACE, RICHMOND, VA. Graney, Pat thought. That was the name of the pilot who diedwith Willard Jennings.The letter was brief:
Dear Miss Traymore:
I have read that you are planning to prepare andnarrate a program about Senator Abigail Jennings.As one who has had the opportunity to appreciateseveral of your fine documentaries, I feel it imperativeto notify you that the program about Senator AbegailJennings may become the subject of a lawsuit. I warnyou, do not give the Senator the opportunity to discussWillard Jennings’ death. For your own sake, don’t lether assert that pilot error cost her husband his life.That pilot, my husband, died too. And believe me, it isa bitter joke that she dares to affect the pose of abereaved widow. If you wish to speak with me, youmay call me at this number: 804-555-6841.
Pat went to the phone and dialed the number. It rang many times.She was about to hang up when she heard a hurried hello. It wasCatherine Graney. The background was noisy, as though a crowd ofpeople were there. Pat tried to make an appointment. “It will have tobe tomorrow,” the woman told her. “I run an antiques shop, and I’mhaving a sale today.”
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They agreed on a time, and she hurriedly gave Pat directions.That afternoon Pat went shopping. Her first stop was an art shop.She left for reframing one of the old sailing prints that had comefrom her father ’s office. It would be her Christmas present to Sam.“Have it for you in a week, Miss. That’s a fine print. Worth somemoney if you ever want to sell it.”“I don’t want to sell it.”She stopped in the specialty market near the house and orderedgroceries, including a small turkey. At the florist’s she bought twopoinsettias and a garland of evergreen for the mantel. She found aChristmas tree that stood as high as her shoulders. The pick of thetrees was gone, but this one was well enough shaped and the pineneedles had a luxurious sheen.By early evening she had finished decorating. The tree was setnear the patio doors. The mantel was draped with evergreen. Onepoinsettia was on the low round table next to the couch, the other onthe cocktail table in front of the love seat.She had hung all the paintings. She had had to guess at placingthem, but even so, the living room was now complete. A fire, shethought. There was always a fire.She laid one, ignited the papers and kindling, and positioned thescreen. Then she fixed an omelette and salad and brought the tray tothe living room. Tonight she would simply watch television and relax.She felt she had been pushing too hard, that she should let memoryunfold in its own way. She had expected this room to be repugnant toher, but despite the terror of that last night, she found it warm andpeaceful. Did it harbor happy memories as well?She turned on the set. The President and First Lady flashed on thescreen. They were boarding Air Force One en route to their familyhome for Christmas. Once again the President was being badgeredabout his choice. “I’ll tell you who she or he is by the New Year,” hecalled. “Merry Christmas.” She. Had that been a deliberate slip? Of course not.Sam phoned a few minutes later. “Pat, how is it going?”She wished her mouth would not go dry at the sound of his voice.“Fine. Did you see the President on TV just now?”“Yes, I did. Well, we’re surely down to two people. He’s committed
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himself to selecting a woman. I’m going to give Abigail a call. Shemust be chewing her nails.”Pat raised her eyebrows. “I would be, in her place.” She twistedthe tassel of her belt. “How’s the weather?”“It’s hot as hell. Frankly, I prefer Christmas in a winter setting.”“Then you shouldn’t have left. I was trooping around buying aChristmas tree and it was cold enough.”“What are your plans for Christmas Day? Will you be at Abigail’sfor the supper party?”“Yes. I’m surprised you weren’t invited.”“I was. Pat, it’s good to be with Karen and Tom, but—well, this isKaren’s family now, not mine. I had to bite my tongue at lunch not totell off some pompous ass who had a laundry list of all the mistakesthis Administration has made.”Pat couldn’t resist. “Isn’t Tom’s mother fixing you up with heravailable friends or cousins or whatever?”Sam laughed. “I’m afraid so. I’m not staying till New Year ’s. I’llbe back a few days after Christmas. You haven’t had any more threats,have you?”“Not even one breathless phone call. I miss you, Sam,” she added deliberately.There was a pause. She could imagine his expression—worried,trying to find the right phrase You care every bit as much about me asyou did two years ago, she thought.“Sam?”His voice was constrained. “I miss you, too, Pat. You’re veryimportant to me.”What a fantastic way to put it. “And you’re one of my very dearest friends.”Without waiting for his response, she hung up.
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“Father, have you seen my Raggedy Ann doll?”He smiled at Glory, hoping he didn’t look nervous. “No, of courseI haven’t seen it. Didn’t you have it in the closet in your bedroom?”“Yes. I can’t imagine . . . Father, are you sure you didn’t throw it away?”“Why would I throw it away?”“I don’t know.” She got up from the table. “I’m going to do a littleChristmas shopping. I won’t be late.” She looked worried, then asked,“Father, are you starting to feel sick again? You’ve been talking in yoursleep the last few nights. I could hear you from my room. Is anythingworrying you? You’re not hearing those voices again, are you?”He saw the fear in her eyes. He never should have told Glory aboutthe voices. She hadn’t understood. Worse, she had started to benervous around him. “Oh, no. I was joking when I told you aboutthem.” He was sure she didn’t believe him.She put her hand on his arm. “You kept saying Mrs. Gillespie’s namein your sleep. Isn’t she the woman who just died in the nursing home?”After Glory went out, Arthur sat at the kitchen table, his thin legswound around the rungs of the chair, thinking. Nurse Sheehan andthe doctors had questioned him about Mrs. Gillespie: had he lookedin on her?“Yes,” he’d admitted. “I just wanted to see if she was comfortable.”“How many times did you look in on her?”“Once. She was asleep. She was fine.”“Mrs. Harnick and Mrs. Drury both thought they saw you. ButMrs. Drury said it was at five after three, and Mrs. Harnick was sureit was later.”
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“Mrs. Harnick is wrong. I only stopped in once.”They had to believe him. Half the time Mrs. Harnick was almostsenile. But the rest of the time she was very sharp. He suddenly picked up the newspaper again. He’d taken the Metrohome. An old woman carrying a shopping bag and leaning on a canehad been on the platform. He’d been about to go over and offer tohelp her with her bag when the express roared into the station. Thecrowd had surged forward and a young fellow, his arms filled withschoolbooks, had nearly knocked the old lady over as he rushed toget a seat.He recalled how he had helped her into the train just before thedoors closed. “Are you all right?” he had asked.“Oh, yes. My, I was afraid I’d fall. Young people are so careless.Not like in my day.”“They are cruel,” he said softly.The young man got off at Dupont Circle and crossed the platform.He had followed him, managed to get next to him as he stood at thefront of the crowd, right at the edge of the platform. As the trainapproached he had stepped behind him and jostled his arm so thatone of the books began to slip. The young man grabbed for it. Off-balance as he was, it was easy to push him forward. The book and theyoung man landed on the tracks together.The newspaper. Yes, here it was on page three: NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD STUDENT KILLED BY METRO.The account calledthe death an accident. A bystander had seen a book slip from thestudent’s arm. He had bent forward to retrieve it and lost his balance.The coffee cup in Arthur’s hands had grown cold. He would makea fresh cup, then get to work.There were so many helpless old people in the nursing homewaiting for his attention. His mind had been on Patricia Traymore.That was why he hadn’t been more careful about Mrs. Gillespie.Tomorrow he’d tell Glory he had to work late and he’d go back toPatricia Traymore’s house.He had to get in again.Glory wanted her doll back.
At ten o’clock on the twenty-fourth Pat set off for Richmond. The
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sun had come out strong and golden, but the air was still very cold. Itwould be a frosty Christmas.After leaving the highway she took three wrong turns and becamethoroughly exasperated with herself. At last she found Balsam Place.It was a street of comfortable medium-sized Tudor-style houses.Number 22 was larger than its neighbors and had a carved signANTIQUES on the lawn.Catherine Graney was waiting in the doorway. She was about fifty,with a square face, deep-set blue eyes and a sturdy, slim body. Hergraying hair was straight and blunt-cut. She shook Pat’s hand warmly.“I feel as though I know you. I go on buying trips to New Englandfairly often, and whenever I got the chance I watched your program.”The downstairs was used as a showroom. Chairs, couches, vases,lamps, paintings, Oriental carpets, china and fine glassware were allmarked with tags. A Queen Anne breakfront held delicate figurines.A sleepy Irish setter, his dark red hair generously sprinkled with gray,was asleep in front of it.“I live upstairs,” Mrs. Graney explained. “Technically the shop isdosed, but someone phoned and asked if she could stop in for a last-minute gift. You will have coffee, won’t you?”Pat took off her coat. She looked around, studying the contents ofthe room. “You have beautiful things.”“I like to think so.” Mrs. Graney looked pleased. “I love searchingout antiques and restoring them. My workshop is in the garage.” Shepoured coffee from a Sheffield pot and handed a cup to Pat. “And Ihave the pleasure of being surrounded by beautiful things. With thatauburn hair and gold blouse, you look as though you belong on thatChippendale couch.”“Thank you.” Pat realized she liked this outspoken woman. Therewas something direct and honest about her. It made it possible to getright to the point of the visit. “Mrs. Graney, you can understand thatyour letter was quite startling. But will you tell me why you didn’tcontact the network directly, instead of writing to me?”Catherine Graney took a sip of coffee. “As I told you, I’ve seen anumber of your documentaries. I sense integrity in your work, and Ididn’t think you would willingly help to perpetuate a lie. That’s whyI’m appealing to you to make sure that George Graney’s name is not
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mentioned on the Jennings program, and that Abigail Jennings doesnot refer to ‘pilot error ’ in connection with Willard’s death. Myhusband could fly anything that had wings.”Pat thought of the already-edited segments for the program. TheSenator had denounced the pilot—but had she actually mentionedhis name? Pat wasn’t sure. But she did remember some of the detailsof the accident. “Didn’t the investigation findings indicate that yourhusband was flying too low?” she asked.“The plane was flying too low and went into the mountain. WhenAbigail Jennings started using that crash as a means for getting hername in the paper as a spokesperson for airline safety regulations, Ishould have objected immediately.”Pat watched as the Irish setter, seeming to sense the tension in hismistress’ voice, got up, stretched, ambled across the room and settledat her feet. Catherine leaned over and patted him.“Why didn’t you speak up immediately?”“Many reasons. I had a baby a few weeks after the accident. AndI suppose I wanted to be considerate of Willard’s mother.”“Willard’s mother?”“Yes. You see, George used to fly Willard Jennings quite often.They became good friends. Old Mrs. Jennings knew that, and shecame to me after the crash had been sighted—to me , not to herdaughter-in-law—and we sat together and waited for the final word.She put a very generous sum of money in trust for my son’s education.I didn’t want to make her unhappy by using the weapon I could haveused against Abigail Jennings. We both had our suspicions, but toher, scandal was anathema.”Three grandfather clocks simultaneously chimed the hour. It wasone o’clock. The sun streamed into the room. Pat noticed thatCatherine Graney twisted her gold wedding band as she spoke.Apparently, she had never remarried. “What weapon could you haveused?” she asked.“I could have destroyed Abigail’s credibility. Willard was miserablyunhappy with her and with politics. The day he died he was planningto announce that he was not seeking reelection and that he wasaccepting the presidency of a college. He wanted the academic life.The last morning he and Abigail had a terrible fight at the airport.
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She pleaded with him not to announce his resignation. And he toldher, right in front of George and me—’Abigail, it won’t make a damnbit of difference to you. We’re finished.’”“Abigail and Willard Jennings were on the verge of divorce ?”“This ‘noble widow’ business has always been a posture. My son,George Graney, Junior, is an Air Force pilot now. He never knew hisdad. But I’m not going to have him embarrassed by any more of herlies. And whether I win the suit or not, I’ll make the whole worldrealize what a phony she’s always been.”Pat tried to choose her words carefully. “Mrs. Graney, I willcertainly do what I can to see that your husband isn’t referred to in aderogatory way. But I must tell you, I’ve been going through theSenator ’s private files and everything I see suggests that Abigail andWillard Jennings were very much in love.”Catherine Graney looked scornful. “I’d like to see the expressionon old Mrs. Jennings’ face if she ever heard that! Tell you what: onyour way back, drive an extra mile and pass Hillcrest. That’s theJennings estate. And imagine how strongly a woman must have feltnot to leave it—or one red cent—to her own daughter-in-law.”Fifteen minutes later, Pat was looking through high iron gates atthe lovely mansion set on the crest of the snow-covered grounds. AsWillard’s widow, Abigail had had every right to think she might inheritthis estate as well as his seat in Congress. As his divorced wife, onthe other hand, she would have been the outcast once again. IfCatherine Graney was to be believed, the tragedy Abigail spoke somovingly about had, in fact, been the stroke of fortune that twenty-five years ago saved her from oblivion.
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“It looks good, Abby,” Toby said genially.“It should photograph well,” she agreed. They were admiring theChristmas tree in Abigail’s living room. The dining-room table wasalready set for the Christmas buffet.“There are bound to be reporters hanging around tomorrowmorning,” she said. “Find out what time the early services are at theCathedral. I should be seen there.”She didn’t plan to leave a stone unturned. Ever since the Presidenthad said, “I’ll announce her, “Abigail had been sick with nervousness.“I’m the better candidate,” she’d said a dozen times. “Claire isfrom his own region. That’s not good. If only we weren’t involvedwith the damn program.”“It might help you,” he said soothingly, though secretly he was asworried as she.“Toby, it might help if I were running for elective office in a bigfield of candidates. But I don’t think the President is going to see thedamn thing and jump up and say ‘She’s for me.’ But he just might waitto see if there’s negative reaction to it before he announces his decision.”He knew she was right. “Don’t worry. Anyway, you can’t pull out.The program’s already in the listings.”She’d carefully selected the guests for the Christmas buffet supper.Among them she had two Senators, three Congressmen, a SupremeCourt Justice and Luther Pelham. “I only wish Sam Kingsley weren’tin California,” she said.By six o’clock, everything had been arranged. Abby had a goosecooking in the oven. She would serve it cold at the supper the next
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day. The warm, rich smell filled the house. It reminded Toby of beingin the kitchen of the Saunders house when they were high schoolkids. That kitchen always smelled of good food roasting or baking.Francey Foster had been some cook. You had to give her that!“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way, Abby.”“Got a heavy date, Toby?”“Not too heavy.” The Steakburger waitress was beginning to borehim. Eventually they all did.“I’ll see you in the morning. Pick me up early.”“Right, Senator. Sleep well. You want to look your best tomorrow.”Toby left Abby fussing with some strands of tinsel that weren’thanging straight. He went back to his apartment, showered and puton slacks, a textured shirt and a sports jacket. The Steakburger kidhad pretty definitely told him she didn’t plan to cook tonight. Hewould take her out for a change and then they’d go back to herapartment for a nightcap.Toby didn’t enjoy spending his money on food-not when the ponieswere so interesting. He pulled on his dark green knitted tie and waslooking at himself in the mirror when the phone rang. It was Abby.“Go out and get me a copy of The National Mirror, ” she demanded.“The Mirror ?”“You heard me—go out and get it. Philip just phoned. Miss AppleJunction and her elegant mother are on the front page. Who dug outthat picture? Who?”Toby gripped the phone. Pat Traymore had been in the newspaperoffice at Apple Junction. Jeremy Saunders had phoned Pat Traymore.“Senator, if someone is trying to put the screws on you, I’ll makemincemeat of them.”
Pat was home by three-thirty and looked forward to an hour ’snap. As usual, the extra exertion of standing and climbing to hang thepictures the night before had taken its toll on her leg. The dull, steadyache had been persistent during the drive from Richmond. But she’dscarcely entered the house when the phone rang. It was Lila Thatcher.“I’m so glad I’ve caught you, Pat. I’ve been watching for you. Areyou free this evening?”
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“As a matter of fact . . .” Caught off guard, Pat could not think ofa reasonable excuse. You can’t lie easily to a psychic, she thought.Lila interrupted. “ Don’t be busy. The Ambassador is having people infor his usual Christmas Eve supper and I phoned and told him I’d like tobring you. After all, you are one of his neighbors now. He’d be delighted.”The octogenarian retired Ambassador was perhaps the mostdistinguished elder statesmen of the District. Few world leadersvisiting Washington failed to stop at the Ambassador ’s home.“I’d love to go,” Pat said warmly. ‘Thank you for thinking of me.”When she hung up, Pat went up to the bedroom. The guests at theAmbassador’s home would be a dressy crowd. She decided to wear ablack velvet suit with sable-banded cuffs.She still had time to soak in a hot tub for fifteen minutes and thento take a nap.As she lay back in the tub, Pat noticed that a corner of the blandbeige wallpaper was peeling. A swatch of Wedgwood blue could beseen underneath. Reaching up, she peeled back a large piece of thetop layer of paper.That was what she remembered—that lovely violet and Wedgwoodblue. And the bed had an ivoy satin quilted spread, she thought, andwe had a blue carpet on the floor. Mechanically she dried herself and pulled on a terry-cloth caftan.The bedroom was cool and already filled with late-afternoon shadows.As a precaution, she set the alarm for four-thirty before driftingoff to sleep. The angry voices . . . the blankets pulled over her head . . . the loudnoise . . . another loud noise . . . her bare feet silent on the stairs . . . The insistent pealing of the alarm woke her. She rubbed her foreheadtrying to recall the shadowy dream. Had the wallpaper triggeredsomething in her head? Oh, God, if only she hadn’t set the alarm.But it’s coming closer, she thought. The truth comes closer each time. . . .
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Slowly she got up and went to the vanity in the dressing room.Her face was strained and pale. A creaking sound down the hallwaymade her whirl around, her hand at her throat. But of course, it wasjust the house settling.Promptly at five, Lila Thatcher rang the bell. She stood framed inthe doorway, almost elfin with her rosy cheeks and white hair. Shelooked festive in an Autumn Haze mink coat with a Christmas corsagepinned on the wide collar.“Have we time for a glass of sherry?” Pat asked.“I think so.” Lila glanced at the slender Carrara marble table andmatching marble-framed mirror in the foyer. “I always loved thosepieces. I’m glad to see them back.”“You know.” It was a statement. “I thought so the other night.”She had set out a decanter of sherry and a plate of sweet biscuitson the cocktail table. Lila paused at the doorway of the living room.“Yes,” she said, “you’ve done a very good job. Of course, it’s been solong, but it is as I remember it. That wonderful carpet; that couch.Even the paintings,” she murmured. “No wonder I’ve been troubled.Pat, are you sure this is wise?”They sat down and Pat poured the sherry. “I don’t know if it’swise. I do know it’s necessary.”“How much do you remember?”“Bits. Pieces. Nothing that hangs together.”“I used to call the hospital to inquire about you. You wereunconscious for months. When you were moved, we were given tounderstand that if you did pull through, you’d be permanentlydamaged. And then the death notice appeared.”“Veronica . . . my mother ’s sister and her husband adopted me.My grandmother didn’t want the scandal following me . . . or them.”“And that’s why they changed your first name as well?”“My name is Patricia Kerry. I gather the Kerry was my father ’sidea. Patricia was my grandmother ’s name. They decided that as longas they were changing my last name they might as well start usingmy real first name too.”“So Kerry Adams became Patricia Traymore. What are you hopingto find here?” Lila took a sip of sherry and set down the glass.
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Restlessly Pat got up and walked over to the piano. In a reflexaction she reached toward the keyboard, then pulled her hands back.Lila was watching her. “You play?”“Only for pleasure.”“Your mother played constantly. You know that.”“Yes. Veronica has told me about her. You see, at first I only wantedto understand what happened here. Then I realized that ever since Ican remember I’ve hated my father; hated him for hurting me so, forrobbing me of my mother. I think I hoped to find some indication thathe was sick, falling apart—I don’t know what. But now, as I begin toremember little things, I realize it’s more than that. I’m not the sameperson I would have become if . . .”She gestured at the area where the bodies had been found. “ . . . ifall this hadn’t happened. I need to link the child I was with the personI am. I’ve lost some part of myself back there. I have so manypreconceived ideas—my mother was an angel, my father a devil.Veronica hinted that my father destroyed my mother ’s musical careerand then her life. But what about him? She married a politician andthen refused to share his life. Was that fair? How much was I a catalystof the trouble between them? Veronica told me once that this housewas too small. When my mother tried to practice, I’d wake up andstart crying.”“Catalyst,” Lila said. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid you are, Pat.You’re setting things in motion that are best left alone.” She studiedher. “You seem to have recovered very well from your injuries.”“It took a long time. When I finally regained consciousness, I had tobe taught everything all over again. I didn’t understand words. I didn’tknow how to use a fork. I wore the brace on my leg till I was seven.”Lila realized she was very warm. Only a moment before she’d feltcool. She didn’t want to examine the reason for the change. She knewonly that this room had not yet completed its scenario of tragedy. Shestood up. “We’d better not keep the Ambassador waiting,” she said briskly.She could see in Pat’s face the cheekbones and sensitive mouth ofRenée, the wide-spaced eyes and auburn hair of Dean.
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“All right, Lila, you’ve studied me long enough,” Pat said. “Whichone of them do I resemble?”“Both,” Lila said honestly, “but I think you are more like your father.”“Not in every way, please, God.” Pat’s attempt at a smile was aforlorn failure.
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Well-hidden in the shadows of the trees and shrubs, Arthur observedPat and Lila through the patio doors. He had been bitterly disappointedto see the lighted house, the car in the driveway. Maybe he wouldn’tbe able to search for the doll tonight. And he desperately wantedGlory to have it in time for Christmas. He tried to hear what thewomen were saying but could not catch more than an occasionalword. They were both dressed up. Could they be going out? Hedecided to wait. Avidly he studied Patricia Traymore’s face. She wasso serious, her expression so troubled. Had she begun to heed hiswarnings? For her sake he hoped so.He had been watching only a few minutes when they stood up.They were going out. Silently he crept along the side of the houseand in a moment heard the sound of the front door opening. They didnot take the car. They could not be going too far, maybe to a neighbor ’shouse or a nearby restaurant. He would have to hurry.Quickly he made his way back to the patio. Patricia Traymore hadleft the living-room lights on and he could see the strong new lockson the French doors. Even if he cut a pane he would not be able to getin. He had anticipated that and had planned what he would do. Therewas an elm tree next to the patio, one that would be easy to climb. Athick branch ran just under an upstairs window.The night he left the doll he’d noticed that window was notcompletely closed at the top. It sagged as though it didn’t hangproperly. It would be easy to force it open.A few minutes later he was stepping over the sill onto the floor.He listened intently. The room had a hollow feeling. Cautiously heturned on his flashlight. The room was empty and he opened the doorto the hallway. He was sure he was alone in the house. Where shouldhe begin searching?
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He’d gone to so much trouble because of the doll. He’d almostbeen caught taking the vial of blood from the lab in the nursing home.He’d forgotten how much Glory loved her doll, how when he’d tiptoeinto her room just to see if she was sleeping peacefully, she’d alwayshad the doll clutched in her arms.It was incredible to him that for the second time in a week he wasinside this house again. The memory of that long ago morning wasstill so vivid: the ambulance, lights flashing, sirens blazing, tiresscreeching in the driveway. The sidewalk crowded with people,neighbors with coats thrown over expensive bathrobes; police carsbarricading N Street; cops everywhere. A woman screaming. She wasthe housekeeper who’d found the bodies.He and his fellow ambulance attendant from Georgetown Hospitalhad rushed into the house. A young cop was on guard at the door.“Don’t hurry. They don’t need you.”The man lying on his back, the bullet in his temple, must havedied instantly. The gun was between him and the woman. She hadpitched forward and the blood from the chest wound stained the rugaround her. Her eyes were still open, staring, unfocused, as thoughshe’d wondered what had happened, how it had happened. Shecouldn’t have been more than thirty. Her dark hair was scattered overher shoulders. Her thin face had delicate nostrils and high cheekbones.A yellow silk robe billowed around her like an evening gown.He’d been the first to bend over the little girl. Her red hair was somatted with dried blood it had turned auburn; her right leg was juttingfrom the flowered nightdress, the bone sticking up in a pyramid.He’d bent closer. “Alive,” he’d whispered. Bedlam. I.V. hookedup. They’d hung a bottle of O negative; clamped an oxygen mask onthe small, still face; splinted the shattered leg. He’d helped swathethe head, his fingers soothing her forehead, her hair curling aroundhis fingers. Someone said her name was Kerry. “If it is God’s will I’llsave you, Kerry,” he’d whispered.“She can’t make it,” the intern told him roughly, and pushed himout of the way. The police photographers snapped pictures of thelittle girl; of the corpses. Chalk marks on the carpet outlined thepositions of the bodies.Even then he’d felt the house was a place of sin and evil, a place
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where two innocent flowers, a young woman and her little girl, hadbeen willfully violated. He’d pointed out the house to Glory onceand told her all about that morning.Little Kerry had remained in an intensive-care unit at GeorgetownHospital for two months. He’d looked in on her as often as he could.She never woke up, just lay there, a sleeping doll. He had come tounderstand that she was not supposed to live and had tried to find away to deliver her to the Lord. But before he could act, she was movedto a long-term-care facility near Boston, and after a while he readthat she’d died. His sister had had a doll “Let me help take care of it,” he’d pleaded“We’ll pretend it’s sick and I’ll make it well.” His father ’s heavy,caused hand had slammed his face. Blood had gushed from his nose.“Make that well, you sissy.” He began to search for Glory’s doll in Patricia Traymore’s bedroom.Opening the closet, he examined the shelves and the floor, but itwasn’t there. With sullen anger he observed the many expensiveclothes. Silk blouses, and negligées, and gowns, and the kind of suitsyou see in magazine ads. Glory wore jeans and sweaters most of thetime, and she bought them at K-Mart. The people in the nursing homewere usually in flannel nightgowns and oversized robes that swaddledtheir shapeless bodies. One of Patricia Traymore’s robes startled him.It was a brown wool tunic with a corded belt. It reminded him of amonk’s habit. He took it out of the closet and held it against him.Next he investigated the deep bottom drawers of the dresser. Thedoll wasn’t there either. If the doll was still in the house it was not inher bedroom. He couldn’t waste so much time. He glanced into theclosets of the empty bedrooms and went downstairs.Patricia Traymore had left the vestibule light on, as well as a lampin the library and others in the living room—she had even left on thelights on the Christmas tree. She was sinfully wasteful, he thoughtangrily. It was unfair to use so much energy, when old people couldn’teven afford to heat their own homes. And the tree was already dry. Ifa flame touched it, it would ignite and the branches would crackleand the ornaments melt. One of the ornaments had fallen from the tree. He picked it up andreplaced it. There was really no hiding place in the living room.
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The library was the last room he searched. The files were locked—that’s where she had probably put it. Then he noticed the cartonjammed far back under the library table. And somehow he knew. Hehad to tug hard to get the carton out but when he opened it his heartbeat joyfully. There was Glory’s precious doll.The apron was gone, but he couldn’t waste time looking for it. Hewalked through all the rooms, carefully examining them for signs ofhis presence. He hadn’t turned a light on or off or touched a door. Hehad plenty of experience from his work in the nursing home. Of courseif Patricia Traymore looked for the doll, she’d know that someonehad come in. But that carton was pushed far under the table. Maybeshe wouldn’t miss the doll for a while.He would go out the same way he’d come in—from the secondstory bedroom window. Patricia Traymore didn’t use that bedroom;she probably didn’t even glance in it for days at a time.He had entered the house at five-fifteen. The chimes of the churchnear the college tolled six as he slid down the tree, made his furtiveway through the yard and disappeared into the night.
The Ambassador’s house was immense. Stark white walls provideda vivid backdrop for his magnificent art collection. Comfortable, richlyupholstered couches and antique Georgian tables caught Pat’s eye. Ahuge Christmas tree decorated with silver ornaments stood in frontof the patio doors.The dining room table was set with an elaborate buffet: caviar andsturgeon, a Virginia ham, turkey en gelée, hot biscuits and salads.Two waiters discreetly refilled the guests’ champagne glasses.Ambassador Cardell, small, trim and whitehaired, welcomed Patwith courtly grace and introduced her to his sister Rowena Van Cleef,who now lived with him. “His baby sister,” Mrs. Van Cleef told Pat,her eyes twinkling. “I’m only seventy-four; Edward is eighty-two.”There were some forty other people present. Sotto voce, Lilapointed out the most celebrated to Pat. “The British Ambassador andhis wife, Sir John and Lady Clemens . . . the French Ambassador . . .Donald Arlen—he’s about to be appointed head of the World Bank .. . General Wilkins is the tall man by the mantel—he’s taking overthe NATO command . . . Senator White lock—that’s not his wifewith him . . .”
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She introduced Pat to the neighborhood people. Pat was surprisedto discover she was the center of attention. Was there any indicationof who might have been responsible for the break-in? Didn’t it seemas though the President was going to appoint Senator JenningsVice President? Was the Senator easy to work with? Did they tapethe entire program in advance?Gina Butterfield, the columnist from The Washigton Tribune, haddrifted over and was listening avidly to what Pat was saying.“It’s so extraordinary that someone broke into your house and lefta threatening note,” the columnist observed. “Obviously you didn’ttake it seriously.”Pat tried to sound offhand. “We all feel it was the work of a crank.I’m sorry so much was made of it. It really is unfair to the Senator.”The columnist smiled. “My dear, this is Washington. Surely youdon’t believe that anything this newsy can be ignored. You seem verysanguine, but if I were in your shoes I’d be quite upset to find myhome broken into and my life threatened.”“Especially in that house,” another volunteered. “Were you toldabout the Adams murder-suicide there?”Pat stared at the bubbles in her champagne glass. “Yes, I’d heardthe story. But it was so long ago, wasn’t it?”“Must we discuss that subject?” Lila broke in. “It is Christmas Eve.”“Wait a minute, ” Gina Butterfield said quickly. “ Adams.Congressman Adams. Do you mean that Pat is living in the housewhere he killed himself? How did the press miss that?”“What possible connection does it have to the break-in?” Lila snapped.Pat felt the older woman touch her arm in a warning gesture. Washer expression revealing too much?The Ambassador stopped at their group. “Please, help yourselvesto some supper,” he urged.Pat turned to follow him, but the columnist’s question to anotherguest stopped her.“You were living here in Georgetown at the time of the deaths?”“Yes, indeed,” the woman answered. “Just two houses down fromthem. My mother was alive then. We knew the Adams couple quite well.”
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“That was before I came to Washington,” Gina Butterfieldexplained, “but of course I heard all the rumors. Is it true there was alot more to the case than came out?”“Of course it’s true.” The neighbor ’s lips parted in a crafty smile.“Renée’s mother, Mrs. Schuyler, played the grande dame in Boston.She told the press that Renée had realized her marriage was a mistakeand planned to divorce Dean Adams.”“Pat, shall we get something to eat?” Lila’s arm urged her away.“Wasn’t she getting the divorce?” Gina asked.“I doubt it,” the other snapped. “She was insane about Dean, crazyjealous of him, resentful of his work. A real dud at parties. Never openedher mouth. And the way she’d practice that damn piano eight hours aday. In warm weather we all went wild listening to it. And believe me,she was no Myra Hess. Her playing was altogether pedestrian.”I won’t believe this, Pat thought. I don’t want to believe it. Whatwas the columnist asking now? Something about Dean Adams havinga reputation as a womanizer?“He was so attractive that women always made a play for him.” Theneighbor shrugged her shoulders, “I was only twenty-three then, and Ihad a huge crush on him. He used to walk with little Kerry in the evening.I made it my business to bump into them regularly, but it didn’t do meany good. I think we’d better get on that buffet line. I’m starved.”“Was Congressman Adams visibly unstable?” Gina asked.“Of course not. Renée’s mother started that talk. She knew whatshe was doing. Remember, both their fingerprints were on the gun.My mother and I always thought that Renée was probably the onewho flipped and shot up the place. And as far as what happened toKerry . . . Listen, those bony pianist’s hands were mighty powerful! Iwouldn’t have put it past her to have hit that poor child that night.”
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Sam sipped a light beer as he stared aimlessly across the crowd at thePalm Springs Racquet Club. Turning his head, he glanced at hisdaughter and smiled. Karen had inherited her mother ’s coloring; herdeep tan only made her blond hair seem that much lighter. Her handrested on her husband’s arm. Thomas Walton Snow, Jr., was a verynice fellow, Sam thought. A good husband; a successful businessman.His family was too boringly social for Sam’s taste, but he was happythat his daughter had married well.Since his arrival, Sam had been introduced to several extremelyattractive women in their early forties—widows, grass widows, careertypes, each ready to select a man for the rest of her life. All of thisonly caused Sam to feel a cumulative restlessness, an inability tosettle down, an aching, pervasive sense of not belonging.Where in the merry hell did he belong?In Washington. That was where. It was good to be with Karen, buthe simply didn’t give a damn about the rest of the people she foundso intensely satisfying.My child is twenty-four years old, he thought. She’s happilymarried. She’s expecting a baby. I don’t want to be introduced to allthe eligible forty-plus women in Palm Springs.“Daddy, will you please stop scowling?”Karen leaned across the table, kissed him and then settled backwith Tom’s arm around her. He surveyed the bright, expectant facesof Tom’s family. In another day or so they’d start to get fed up. He’dbecome a difficult guest.“Sweetheart,” he said to Karen, making his voice confidential.“You asked me if you thought the President would appoint SenatorJennings Vice President, and I said I didn’t know. I should be morehonest. I think she’ll get it.”
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All eyes were suddenly focused on him.“Tomorrow night the Senator is having a Christmas supper partyat her home; you’ll see some of it on the television program. She’dlike me to be there. If you don’t mind, I think I should attend.”Everyone understood. Karen ’s father-in-law sent out for atimetable. If Sam left L.A. the next morning on the 8 A.M. flight,he’d be at National Airport by four-thirty East Coast time. Howinteresting to be a guest at the televised dinner party. Everyone waslooking forward to the program.Only Karen was quiet. Then, laughing, she said, “Daddy, cut thebaloney. I’ve heard the rumors that Senator Jennings has her eye on you!”
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At nine-fifteen, Pat and Lila walked silently together from theAmbassador’s party. It was only when they were within reach of theirown houses that Lila said quietly, “Pat, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”“How much of what that woman said was true and how much wasexaggeration? I must know.” Phrases kept running through her mind:neurotic . . . long, bony fingers . . . womanizer . . . We think she hitthat poor kid . . .”I really need to know how much is true,” she repeated.“Pat, she’s a vicious gossip. She knew perfectly well what shewas doing when she started to talk about the background of the housewith that woman from The Washington Tribune. ”“She was mistaken, of course,” Pat said tonelessly.“Mistaken?”They were at Lila’s gate. Pat looked across the street at her ownhouse. Even though she’d left several lights burning downstairs, itstill seemed remote and shadowy. “You see, there’s one thing thatI’m quite sure I remember. When I ran through the foyer into theliving room that night I tripped over my mother ’s body.” She turnedto Lila. “So you see what that gets me: a neurotic mother whoapparently found me a nuisance and a father who went berserk andtried to kill me. Quite a heritage, isn’t it?”Lila didn’t answer. The sense of foreboding that had been naggingat her was becoming acute. “Oh, Kerry, I want to help you.”Pat pressed her hand. “You are helping me, Lila,” she said. “Good night.”
In the library, the red button on the answering machine wasflashing. Pat rewound the tape. There was a single call on the unit.
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“This is Luther Pelham. It is now seven-twenty. We have a crisis. Nomatter what time you get in, call me at Senator Jennings’ home, 703/555-0143. It is imperative that we meet there tonight.”Her mouth suddenly dry, Pat phoned the number. It was busy. Ittook three more attempts before she got through. Toby answered.“This is Pat Traymore, Toby. What’s wrong?”“Plenty. Where are you?”“At home.”“All right. Mr. Pelham has a car standing by to pick you up. Itshould be there in ten minutes.”“Toby, what’s wrong?”“Miss Traymore, maybe that’s something you’re going to have toexplain to the Senator.”He hung up.A half-hour later the network staff car that Luther had sent pulled upin front of Senator Jennings’ home in McLean. On the drive over, Pathad worried herself with endless suppositions, but all her thoughts led tothe same chilling conclusion: something had happened to further upsetor embarrass the Senator, and whatever it was, she was being blamed.A grim-faced Toby opened the door and led her into the library. Silentshapes were seated around the table in a council of war, the atmosphereoddly at variance with the poinsettia plants flanking the fireplace.Senator Jennings, icy calm, her sphinxlike expression cast inmarble, stared through Pat. Philip was to the Senator ’s right, his long,thin strands of colorless hair no longer combed carefully over hisoval skull.Luther Pelham’s cheekbones were mottled purple. He appeared tobe on the verge of a stroke.This isn’t a trial, Pat thought. It’s an inquisition. My guilt hasalready been decided. But for what? Without offering her a seat, Tobydropped his heavy bulk into the last chair at the table.“Senator,” Pat said, “something is terribly wrong and it’s quiteevident it has to do with me. Will someone please tell me what’sgoing on?”There was a newspaper in the middle of the table. With one gesture,
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Philip flipped it over and pushed it at Pat. “Where did they get thatpicture?” he asked coldly.Pat stared down at the cover of The National Mirror . The headlineread: “WILL MISS APPLE JUNCTION BE THE FIRST WOMANVEEP?” The picture, which took up the entire cover, was of Abigailin her Miss Apple Junction crown standing with her mother.Enlarged, the picture revealed even more cruelly the massivedimensions of Francey Foster. Bulging flesh strained against the splotchyprint of her badly cut dress. The arm around Abigail was dimpled withfat; the proud smile only emphasized the double-chinned face.“You’ve seen this picture before,” Philip snapped.“Yes.” How horrible for the Senator, she thought. She rememberedAbigail’s stern observation that she had spent more than thirty yearstrying to put Apple Junction behind her. Ignoring the others, Pataddressed the Senator directly. “Surely you can’t believe I had anythingto do with the Mirror getting this picture?”“Listen, Miss Traymore,” Toby answered, “don’t bother lying. Ifound out that you were snooping around Apple Junction, includingdigging up back issues of the newspaper. I was at your place the daySaunders called.” There was nothing deferential about Toby now.“I have told the Senator you went to Apple Junction against myexplicit orders,” Luther thundered.Pat understood the warning. She was not to let Abigail Jenningsknow that Luther had acceded to her trip to Abigail’s birthplace. Butthat didn’t matter now. What mattered was Abigail. “Senator,” shebegan, “I understand how you must feel . . .”The effect of her words was explosive. Abigail jumped to her feet.“Do you indeed? I thought I’d been plain enough, but let me startagain. I hated every minute of my life in that stinking town. Lutherand Toby have finally gotten around to letting me in on your activitiesup there, so I know you saw Jeremy Saunders. What did that uselessleech tell you? That I had to use the back door and that my motherwas the cook? I’ll bet he did.“I believe you released that picture, Pat Traymore. And I knowwhy. You’re bound and determined you’re going to profile me your way. You like Cinderella stories. In your letters to me you insinuated
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as much. And when I was bloody fool enough to let myself get talkedinto this program, you decided that it had to be done your way soeveryone could talk about that poignant, moving Patricia Traymoretouch. Never mind that it could cost me everything I’ve been workingfor all my life.”“You believe I would send out that picture to somehow further myown career?” Pat looked from one to the other. “Luther, has the Senatorseen the storyboard yet?”“Yes, she has.”“How about the alternative storyboard?”“Forget that one.”“What alternative storyboard?” Philip demanded.“The one I’ve been begging Luther to use—and I assure you it hasno mention of the first beauty contest or picture from it. Senator, in away you’re right. I do want to see this production done my way. Butfor the best possible reason. I have admired you tremendously. WhenI wrote to you, I didn’t know there was any chance that you mightsoon be appointed Vice President. I was looking ahead and hopingyou would be a serious contender for the Presidential nominationnext year.”Pat paused for breath, then rushed on. “I wish you’d dig out thatfirst letter I sent you. I meant what I said. The one problem you have isthat the American public considers you cold and remote. That pictureis a good example. Obviously you’re ashamed of it. But look at theexpression on your mother’s face. She’s so proud of you! She’s fat—isthat what bothers you? Millions of people are overweight, and in yourmother ’s generation a lot more older people were. So if I were you,when you get inquiries, I’d tell whoever asked me that that was thefirst beauty contest and you entered because you knew how happy itwould make your mother if you won. There isn’t a mother in the worldwho won’t like you for that. Luther can show you the rest of mysuggestions for the show. But I can tell you this. If you’re not appointedVice President, it won’t be because of this picture; it will be because ofyour reaction to it and your being ashamed of your background.“I’ll ask the driver to take me home,” she said. Then, eyes blazing,she turned to Luther. “You can call me in the morning and let meknow if you still want me on this program. Good night, Senator.”
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She turned to go. Luther ’s voice stopped her. “Toby, get your assout of that chair and make some coffee. Pat, sit down and let’s startfixing this mess.”
It was one-thirty when Pat got home. She changed into a nightgownand robe, made tea, brought it into the living room and curled up onthe couch.Staring at the Christmas tree, she reflected on the day. If sheaccepted what Catherine Graney said, all the talk about the great lovebetween Abigail and Willard Jennings was a lie. If she believed whatshe had heard at the Ambassador ’s party, her mother had been aneurotic. If she believed Senator Jennings, everything JeremySaunders had told her was a twisted complaint.It was he who must have sent the picture of Abigail to the Mirror. It was just the sort of mean-spirited thing he would do.She swallowed the last sip of tea and got up. There was no usetrying to think about it anymore. Walking over to the Christmas tree,she reached for the switch to turn off the lights, then paused. Whenshe and Lila were having sherry, she thought she’d noticed that oneof the ornaments had slipped from its branch and was lying on thefloor. My mistake, she thought.She shrugged and went to bed.
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At nine-fifteen on Christmas morning, Toby was standing at the stovein Abigail Jennings’ kitchen waiting for the coffee to perk. He hopedthat he’d be able to have a cup himself before Abby appeared. True,he’d known her since they were kids, but this was one day he couldn’tpredict what her mood was likely to be. Last night had been somemess. There’d been only two other times he’d seen her so upset, andhe never let himself think of either of them.After Pat Traymore left, Abby and Pelham and Phil had sat aroundfor another hour still trying to decide what to do. Or, rather, Abby hadshouted at Pelham, telling him a dozen times that she still thoughtPat Traymore was working for Claire Lawrence, that maybe Pelhamwas too.Even for her, Abigail had gone pretty far, and Toby was amazedthat Pelham had taken it. Later Phil supplied the answer: “Listen,he’s the biggest TV news personality in the country. He’s mademillions. But he’s sixty years old, and he’s bored stiff. Now he wantsto be another Edward R. Murrow. Murrow capped his career as headof the U.S. Information Agency. Pelham wants that job so bad he cantaste it. Tremendous prestige and no more competing for ratings. TheSenator will deliver for him if he delivers for her. He knows she’s gota right to scream about the way this program is going.”Toby had to agree with what Pelham said. Like it or not, the damagewas done. Either the program was produced from the angle ofincluding Apple Junction and the beauty contests or it would seemlike a farce.“You can’t ignore the fact you’re on the cover of The NationalMirror ,” Pelham kept telling Abby. “It’s read by four million people
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and handed away to God knows how many more. That picture isgoing to be reprinted by every sensational newspaper in this country.You’ve got to decide what you’re going to tell them about it.”“Tell them?” Abby had stormed. “I’ll tell them the truth: my fatherwas a lush and the only decent thing he ever did was die when I wassix. Then I can say that my fat mother had the viewpoint of a scullerymaid and her highest ambition for me was that I’d be Miss AppleJunction and a good cook. Don’t you think that’s exactly thebackground a Vice President is supposed to have?” She had criedtears of rage. Abigail was no crybaby. Toby could remember onlythose few occasions. . . .He had said his piece. “Abby, listen to me. You’re stuck withFrancey’s picture, so get your act together and go along with PatTraymore’s suggestion.”That had calmed her down. She trusted him.He heard Abby’s steps in the hall. He was anxious to see whatshe’d be wearing. Pelham had agreed that she should show up atChristmas services at the Cathedral and wear something photogenicbut not too luxurious. “Leave your mink home,” he’d said.“Good morning, Toby. Merry Christmas.” The tone was sarcasticbut under control. Even before he turned around he knew Abby hadrecovered her cool.“Merry Christmas, Senator.” He swung around. “Hey, you look great.”She was wearing a double-breasted bright red walking suit. Thecoat came to her fingertips. The skirt was pleated.“Like one of Santa’s helpers,” she snapped. But even though shesounded crabby, there was a sort of joke in her voice. She picked upher cup and held it out in a toast. “We’re going to bring this one offtoo, aren’t we, Toby?”“You bet we are!”
They were waiting for her at the Cathedral. As soon as Abigail gotout of the car, a television correspondent held up a microphone to her.“Merry Christmas, Senator.”
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“Merry Christmas, Bob.” Abby was smart, Toby reflected. Shemade it her business to know all the press and TV people, no matterhow unimportant they were.“Senator, you’re about to go into Christmas services at the NationalCathedral. Is there a special prayer you’ll be offering?”Abby hesitated just long enough. Then she said, “Bob, I guesswe’re all praying for world peace, aren’t we? And after that my prayeris for the hungry. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we knew that everyman, woman and child on this earth would be eating a good dinnertonight?” She smiled and joined the people streaming through theportal of the CathedralToby got back into the car. Terrific, he thought. He reached underthe driver ’s seat and pulled out the racing charts. The ponies hadn’tbeen too good to him lately. It was about time his luck changed.
The service lasted an hour and fifteen minutes. When the Senatorcame out another reporter was waiting for her. This one had somehard questions to ask. “Senator, have you seen The National Mirror cover this week?”Toby had just gotten around the car to open the door. He held hisbreath, waiting to see how she’d handle herself.Abby smiled—a warm, happy smile. “Yes, indeed.”“What do you think of it, Senator?”Abby laughed. “I was astonished. I must say I’m more used to beingmentioned in the Congressional Record than in The National Mirror .”“Did the appearance of that picture upset or anger you, Senator?”“Of course not. Why should it? I suppose that, like most of us, onholidays I think about the people I loved who aren’t with me anymore.That picture made me remember how happy my mother was when Iwon that contest. I entered it to please her. She was widowed, youknow, and brought me up alone. We were very, very close.”Now her eyes became moist, her lips trembled. Quickly she benther head and got into the car. With a decisive snap, Toby closed thedoor behind her.The recorder light was blinking when Pat returned from the
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morning service. Automatically she pressed the rewind button untilthe tape screeched to a halt, then switched to playback.The first three calls were disconnects. Then Sam came on, hisvoice edgy. “Pat, I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m just boarding aplane for D.C. See you at Abigail’s this evening.”How loving can you get? Sam had planned to spend the weekwith Karen and her husband. And now he’s rushing home. Abigailhad obviously summoned him to be one of her close and intimatefriends at her Christmas supper. There was something between them!Abigail was eight years older, but didn’t look it. Plenty of men marriedolder women.Luther Pelham had also phoned. “Continue to work on the secondversion of the storyboard. Be at the Senator ’s home at four P.M. Ifyou are called by newspapers about the Mirror picture, claim youhaven’t seen it.”The next message began in a soft, troubled voice: “MissTraymore—er, Pat—you may not remember me. [A pause.] Of courseyou will; it’s just you meet so many people, don’t you? [Pause.] Imust hurry. This is Margaret Langley. I am the principal . . . retired,of course . . . of Apple Junction High School.”The message time had run out. Exasperated, Pat bit her lip.Miss Langley had called back. This time she said hurriedly, “Tocontinue, please call me at 518/555-2460.” There were sounds oftremulous breathing. Then Miss Langley burst out, “Miss Traymore,I heard from Eleanor today.”The phone rang only once before Miss Langley answered. Patidentified herself and was interrupted immediately. “Miss Traymore,after all these years I’ve heard from Eleanor. Just as I came in fromchurch the phone was ringing and she said hello in that sweet, shyvoice and we both started to cry.”“Miss Langley, where is Eleanor? What is she doing?”There was a pause; then Margaret Langley spoke carefully, asthough trying to choose exactly the right words. “She didn’t tell mewhere she is. She said she is much better and doesn’t want to behiding forever. She said she is thinking of turning herself in. Sheknows she’ll go back to jail—she did violate her parole. She said thatthis time she’d like me to visit her.”
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“Turning herself in!” Pat thought of the stunned, helpless face ofEleanor Brown after her conviction. “What did you tell her?”“I begged her to call you. I thought you might be able to get herparole reinstated.” Now Margaret Langley’s voice broke. “MissTraymore, please don’t let that girl go back to prison.”“I’ll try,” Pat promised. “I have a friend, a Congressman, who willhelp. Miss Langley, please, for Eleanor ’s sake, do you know where Ican reach her?”“No, honestly, I don’t.”“If she calls back, beg her to contact me before she surrenders.Her bargaining position will be so much stronger.”“I knew you’d want to help. I knew you were a good person.” NowMargaret Langley’s tone changed. “I want you to know how happy I amthat that nice Mr. Pelham phoned and invited me to be on your program.Someone is coming to interview and tape me tomorrow morning.”So Luther had taken that suggestion too. “I’m so glad.” Pat triedto sound enthusiastic. “Now, remember to tell Eleanor to call me.”She lowered the receiver slowly. If Eleanor Brown was the timidgirl Miss Langley believed her to be, turning herself in would be atremendous act of courage. But for Abigail Jennings, it could bemortally embarrassing if, in the next few days, a vulnerable youngwoman was marched back to prison still protesting her innocence ofthe theft from Abigail’s office.
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As he walked down the corridor of the nursing home, Arthur sensedthe tension and was immediately on guard. The place seemed peacefulenough. Christmas trees and Hanukkah candles stood on card tablescovered with felt and make-believe snow. All the doors of the patients’rooms had greeting cards taped to them. Christmas music was playingon the stereo in the recreation room. But something was wrong.“Good morning, Mrs. Harnick. How are you feeling?” She wasadvancing slowly down the hall on her walker, her birdlike frame bentover, her hair scraggly around her ashen face. She looked up at himwithout raising her head. Just her eyes moved, sunken, watery, afraid.“Stay away from me, Arthur,” she said, her voice aquiver. “I toldthem you came out of Anita’s room, and I know I’m right.”He touched Mrs. Harnick’s arm, but she shrank away. “Of courseI was in Mrs. Gillespie’s room,” he said. “She and I were friends.”“She wasn’t your friend. She was afraid of you.”He tried not to show his anger. “Now, Mrs. Harnick . . .”“I mean what I say. Anita wanted to stay alive. Her daughter, AnnaMarie, was coming to see her. She hadn’t been East for two years.Anita said she didn’t care when she died as long as she saw her AnnaMarie again. She didn’t just stop breathing. I told them that.”The head nurse, Elizabeth Sheehan, sat at a desk halfway downthe corridor. He hated her. She had a stern face, and blue-gray eyesthat could turn steel gray when she was angry. “Arthur, before youmake your rounds please come to the office.”He followed her into the business office of the nursing home, theplace where families would come to make arrangements to jettisontheir old people. But today there weren’t any relatives, only a baby-faced young man in a raincoat with shoes that needed a shine. He hada pleasant smile and a very warm manner, but Arthur wasn’t fooled.
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“I’m Detective Barrott,” he said.The superintendent of the home, Dr. Cole, was also there.“Arthur, sit down,” he said, trying to make his voice friendly.“Thank you, Nurse Sheehan; you needn’t wait.”Arthur chose a straight chair and remembered to fold his hands inhis lap and look just a little puzzled, as though he had no idea whatwas going on. He’d practiced that look in front of the mirror.“Arthur, Mrs. Gillespie died last Thursday,” Detective Barrott said.Arthur nodded and made his expression regretful. He was suddenlyglad he’d met Mrs. Harnick in the hall. “I know. I was so hopingshe’d live just a little longer. Her daughter was coming to visit herand she hadn’t seen her for two years.”“You knew that?” Dr. Cole asked.“Of course. Mrs. Gillespie told me.”“I see. We didn’t realize she’d discussed her daughter ’s visit.”“Doctor, you know how long it took to feed Mrs. Gillespie.Sometimes she’d need to rest and we’d just talk.”“Arthur, were you glad to see Mrs. Gillespie die?” Detective Barrott asked.“I’m glad she died before that cancer got much worse. She wouldhave been in terrible pain. Isn’t that right, Doctor?” He looked at Dr.Cole now, making his eyes wide.“It’s possible, yes,” Dr. Cole said unwillingly. “Of course one never knows. . . .”“But I wish Mrs. Gillespie had lived to see Anna Marie. She and Iused to pray over that. She used to ask me to read prayers from her Saint Anthony Missal for a special favor. That was her prayer.”Detective Barrott was studying him carefully. “Arthur, did youvisit Mrs. Gillespie’s room last Monday?”“Oh, yes, I went in just before Nurse Krause made her rounds. ButMrs. Gillespie didn’t want anything.”“Mrs. Harnick said she saw you coming out of Mrs. Gillespie’sroom at about five of four. Is that true?”Arthur had figured out his answer. “No, I didn’t go in her room. I looked in her room, but she was asleep. She’d had a bad night and Iwas worried about her. Mrs. Harnick saw me look in.”Dr. Cole leaned back in his chair. He seemed relieved.
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Detective Barrott’s voice got softer. “But the other day you saidMrs. Harnick was wrong.”“No, somebody asked me if I’d gone into Mrs. Gillespie’s roomtwice. I hadn’t. But then, when I thought about it, I remembered I’dlooked in. So Mrs. Harnick and I were both right, you see.”Dr. Cole was smiling now. “Arthur is one of our most caringhelpers,” he said. “I told you that, Mr. Barrott.”But Detective Barrott wasn’t smiling. “Arthur, do many of theorderlies pray with the patients or is it just you?”“Oh, I think it’s just me. You see, I was in a seminary once. I wasplanning to become a priest but got sick and had to leave. In a way Ithink of myself as a clergyman.”Detective Barrott’s eyes, soft and limpid, encouraged confidences.“How old were you when you went into that seminary, Arthur?” heasked kindly.“I was twenty. And I stayed until I was twenty and a half.”“I see,” Detective Barrott said. “Tell me, Arthur, what seminarywere you in?”“I was at Collegeville, Minnesota, with the Benedictine community.”Detective Barrott pulled out a notebook and wrote that down. Toolate Arthur realized he had told too much. Suppose Detective Barrottgot in touch with the community and they told that after FatherDamian’s death, Arthur had been requested to leave.Arthur worried about that all day. Even though Dr. Cole told himto go back to work, he could feel the suspicious glances from NurseSheehan. All the patients were looking at him in a peculiar way.When he went to look in on old Mr. Thoman, his daughter wasthere and she said, “Arthur, you don’t have to worry about my dadanymore. I’ve asked Nurse Sheehan to appoint another orderly tohelp him.”It was a slap in the face. Only last week Mr. Thoman had said, “Ican’t put up with feeling so sick much longer.” Arthur had comfortedhim saying, “Maybe God won’t ask you to, Mr. Thoman.”Arthur tried to keep his smile bright as he crossed the recreationroom to help Mr. Whelan, who was struggling to his feet. As he walkedMr. Whelan down the hall to the lavatory and back, he realized that
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he was getting a headache, one of those blinding ones that made lightsdance in front of his eyes. He knew what would happen next.As he eased Mr. Whelan back into his chair, he glanced at thetelevision set. The screen was all cloudy and then a face began toform, the face of Gabriel as he would look on Judgment Day. Gabrielspoke only to him. “Arthur, you are not safe here anymore.”“I understand.” He didn’t know he’d said the words out loud untilMr. Whelan said, “Shhh.”When he went down to his locker, Arthur carefully packed hispersonal effects but left his extra uniform and old shoes. He was offtomorrow and Wednesday, so they might not realize he wouldn’t returnon Thurs-day morning unless for some reaso n they searchedhis locker and found it empty.He put on his sports jacket, the brown-and-yellow one he’d boughtat J.C. Penney’s last year. He kept it here so that if he was meetingGlory for a movie or something, he could look nice.In the pocket of his raincoat he put the pair of socks that had threehundred dollars stuffed in the toes. He always kept emergency moneyavailable, both here and at home, just in case he had to leave suddenly.The locker room was cold and dingy. There was no one around.They’d given the day off to as many of the staff as possible. He hadvolunteered to work.His hands were restless and dry; his nerves were screaming withresentment. They had no right to treat him like this. Restlessly hiseyes roamed around the barren room. Most of the supplies were lockedup in the big storage room, but there was a kind of catchall closetnear the stairs. It was filled with opened bottles and cans of cleaningagents and unwashed dust rags. He thought of those people upstairs—Mrs. Harnick accusing him, Mr. Thoman’s daughter telling him tostay away from her father, Nurse Sheehan. How dared they whisperabout him, question him, reject him!In the closet he found a half-empty can of turpentine. He loosenedthe cap, then turned the can on its side. Drops of turpentine began todrip onto the floor. He left the closet door open. Right next to it, adozen bags of trash were piled together waiting to be carried out tothe dump site.
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Arthur didn’t smoke, but when visitors left packs of cigarettesaround the nursing home, he always picked them up for Glory. Nowhe took a Salem from his pocket, lit it, puffed until he was sure itwouldn’t go out, unfastened the tie on one of the trash bags anddropped it in.It would not take long. The cigarette would smolder; then the wholebag would catch fire; then the other bags would go, and the drippingturpentine would cause the fire to burn out of control. The rags in thecloset would cause dense smoke, and by the time the staff tried to getthe old people out, the whole building would be gone. It would seemto be a careless accident—an ignited cigarette in the trash; a fire causedby an overturned can of turpentine that had dripped from the shelf—if the investigators could even piece that much together.He retied the bag as the faint, good burning smell made his nostrilsquiver and his loins tighten, then hurried from the building and downthe lonely street toward the Metro.
Glory was on the couch in the living room reading a book whenArthur got home. She was wearing a very pretty blue wool housecoat,with a zipper that came up to her neck and long, full sleeves. Thebook she was reading was a novel on the best-seller list that had cost$15.95. Arthur had never in his life spent more than a dollar for abook. He and Glory would go to secondhand stores and browse andcome home with six or seven titles. And it was their pleasure to sitcompanionably reading. But somehow the dog-eared volumes withthe stained covers that they had delighted in purchasing seemed poorand shabby next to this book with the shiny jacket and crisp newpages. The girls in the office had given it to her.Glory had fixed a roast chicken for him, and cranberry sauce andhot muffins. But it was no pleasure eating Christmas dinner alone.She’d said she wasn’t hungry. She seemed to be thinking so deeply.Several times he caught her staring at him, her eyes questioning andtroubled. They reminded him of the way Mrs. Harnick had looked athim. He didn’t want Glory to be afraid of him.“I have a present for you,” he told her. “I know you’ll like it.”Yesterday, at the big discount store in the mall, he’d bought a frillywhite apron for the Raggedy Ann doll, and except for a few spots on
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the dress, the doll looked just the same. And he’d bought Christmaspaper and wrappings and made it look like a real present.“And I have a present for you, Father.”They exchanged the gifts solemnly. “You open first,” he said. Hewanted to see her expression. She’d be so happy.“All right.” She smiled, and he noticed that her hair seemed lighter.Was she coloring it?She untied the ribbon carefully, pushed back the paper, and thefrilly apron showed first. “What . . . oh, Father.” She was startled.“You found her. What a pretty new apron.” She looked pleased, butnot as exquisitely happy as he’d expected. Then her face becamevery thoughtful. “Look at that poor, sad face. And that’s the way Ithought of myself. I remember the day I painted it. I was so sick,wasn’t I?”“Will you take her to bed with you again?” he asked. “That’s whyyou wanted her, isn’t it?”“Oh, no. I just wanted to look at her. Open your present. It willmake you happy, I think.”It was a handsome blue-and-white wool sweater with a V-neckand long sleeves. “I knitted it for you, Father,” Glory told him happily.“Would you believe I finally was able to stick with something andfinish it? I guess I’m getting my act together. It’s about time, don’tyou think?”“I like you just as you are,” he said. “I like taking care of you.”“But pretty soon it may be impossible,” she said.They both knew what she meant.It was time to tell her. “Glory,” he said carefully. “Today I wasasked to do something very special. There are a number of nursinghomes in Tennessee that are badly understaffed and need the kind ofhelp I can give to very sick patients. They want me to go there rightaway and select one of them to work in.”“Move? Again?” She looked dismayed.“Yes, Glory. I do God’s work, and now it’s my turn to ask for yourhelp. You’re a great comfort to me. We will leave Thursday morning.”He was sure he’d be safe until then. At the very least, the firewould have caused great confusion. At best, his personnel recordsmight be destroyed. But even if the fire was put out before it burned
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the place down, it would probably be at least a few days before thepolice could check his references and find the long gaps betweenemployment, or learn the reason he’d been asked to leave the seminary.By the time that detective wanted to question him again, he and Glorywould be gone.For a long time Glory was silent. Then she said, “Father, if mypicture is on that program Wednesday night, I’m going to turn myselfin. People all over the country will see it, and I can’t go on any longerwondering if someone is staring at me because he or she knows whoI am. Otherwise I will go with you to Tennessee.” Her lip quivered,and he knew she was near tears.He went to her and patted her cheek. He could not tell Glory thatthe only reason he was waiting until Thursday to go away was becauseof that program.“Father,” Glory burst out, “I’ve started to be happy here. I don’t thinkit’s fair the way they expect you to just pick up and go all the time.”
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At 1:30 P.M. Lila rang Pat’s doorbell. She was carrying a smallpackage. “Merry Christmas!”“Merry Christmas. Come in.” Pat was genuinely pleased by thevisit. She had been trying to decide whether or not to confide in Lutherthat Eleanor might turn herself in to the police. And how could shebroach the subject of Catherine Graney to him? The prospect of alawsuit would send him into orbit.“I won’t stay but a minute,” Lila said. “I just wanted to give yousome fruitcake. It’s a specialty of mine.”Pat hugged her impulsively. “I’m glad you did come. It’s terriblyodd to be so quiet on Christmas afternoon. How about a glass of sherry?”Lila looked at her watch. “I’ll be out of here by quarter of two,”she announced.Pat led her back to the living room; got a plate, a knife and glasses;poured the sherry and cut thin slices of the cake. “Marvelous,” shepronounced after sampling it.“It is good, isn’t it?” Lila agreed. Her eyes darted around the livingroom. “You’ve changed something in here.”“I switched a couple of paintings. I realized they were in the wrong place.”“How much is coming back to you?”“Some.” Pat admitted. “I was in the library working. Thensomething just made me come in here. As soon as I did, I knew thatthe still life and the landscape should be reversed.”“What else, Pat? There’s more.”“I’m so darn edgy,” Pat said simply. “And I don’t know why.”
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“Pat, please don’t stay here. Move to an apartment, a hotel.” Lilaclasped her hands imploringly.“I can’t,” Pat said. “But help me now. Were you ever in here onChristmas Day? What was it like?”“That last year, you were three and a half and able to reallyunderstand Christmas. They were both so delighted with you. It wasa day of genuine happiness.”“I sometimes think I remember a little of that day. I had a walkingdoll and was trying to make it walk with me. Could that have been true?”“You did have a walking doll that year, yes.”“My mother played the piano that afternoon, didn’t she?”“Yes.”Pat walked over to the piano, opened it. “Do you remember whatshe played that Christmas?”“I’m sure it was her favorite Christmas carol. It’s called ‘Bells of Christmas.’”“I know it. Veronica wanted me to learn it. She said mygrandmother loved it.” Slowly her fingers began to run over the keys.Lila watched and listened. When the last notes faded away, shesaid, “That was very much like your mother playing. I told you youresemble your father, but I never realized until this minute howstartling the resemblance is. Somebody who knew him well is boundto make the connection.”
At three o’clock the television crew from Potomac Cable Networkarrived at Senator Jennings’ house to tape her Christmas supper.Toby watched them with a hawk’s eye as they set up in the living anddining rooms, making it his business to be sure nothing got broken orscratched. He knew how much everything in the place meant to Abby.Pat Traymore and Luther Pelham came within a minute or two ofeach other. Pat was wearing a white wool dress that showed off herfigure. Her hair was twisted in a kind of bun. Toby had never seenher wear it like that. It made her look different and yet familiar. Whothe hell did she remind him of? Toby wondered.
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She seemed relaxed, but you could tell Pelham wasn’t. As soon ashe walked in, he started snapping at one of the cameramen. Abigailwas uptight, and that didn’t help either. Right away she tangled withTraymore. Pat wanted to set the food out on the buffet table and tapethe Senator inspecting it and making little changes in the way it wasplaced. Abigail didn’t want to put the food out so early.“Senator, it takes time to get exactly the feeling we want,” Pattold her. “It will be much easier to do now than when your guests arestanding around watching.”“I won’t have my guests standing around like extras in a B movie,”Abigail snapped.“Then I suggest we photograph the table now.”Toby noticed that Pat didn ’t back down when she wantedsomething done. Luther remarked that Abigail had prepared all thefood herself, and that was another hassle. Pat wanted a shot of her inthe kitchen working.“Senator, everybody thinks you just phone a caterer when youhave a party. That you actually do everything yourself will endearyou to all the women who are stuck preparing three meals a day, tosay nothing of the men and women whose hobby is cooking.”Abigail flatly rejected the idea, but Pat kept insisting. “Senator,the whole purpose of our being here is to make people see you as ahuman being.”In the end it was Toby who persuaded Abigail to go along. “Comeon, show them you’re a regular Julia Child, Senator,” he coaxed.Abby refused to put an apron over her designer shirt and slacks,but when she began to put hors d’oeuvre together, she made it clearshe was a gourmet cook. Toby watched as she rolled batter for pastryshells, chopped ham for quiche, seasoned crabmeat, those long,slender fingers working miraculously. No messy kitchen for Abby.Well, you had to give a tip of the hat to Francey Foster for that.Once the crew started taping, Abigail began to relax. They haddone only a couple of takes when Pat said, “Senator, thank you. I’msure we have what we want. That came over very well. Now, if youdon’t mind changing to whatever you’re planning to wear at the party,we can get the footage at the table.”
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Toby was anxious to see what Abigail would wear. She’s beenhemming and hawing between a couple of outfits. He was pleasedwhen she came back, wearing a yellow satin blouse that matched theyellow in her plaid taffeta skirt. Her hair was soft around her face andneck. Her eye makeup was heavier than usual. She looked stunning.Besides, she had a glow about her. Toby knew why. Sam Kingsleyhad phoned to say he’d be at the party.There was no question Abby had set her cap for Sam Kingsley.Toby hadn’t missed the way she’d suggested to her friends that theyput Sam next to her at dinner parties. There was something abouthim that reminded Toby of Billy, and of course that was the bigattraction for Abby. She’d put on a good show in public, but she’dbeen a basket case when Billy died.Toby knew Sam didn’t like him. But that wasn’t a problem. Samwouldn ’t last any longer than the others had. Abby was toodomineering for most men. Either they got sick of adjusting to herschedule and moods, or if they knuckled under, she got sick of them.He, Toby, would be part of Abby’s life until one or the other of themdied. She’d be lost without him, and she knew it.As he watched her posing at the buffet table, a tinge of regretmade him swallow hard. Every once in a while he daydreamed abouthow it would have been if he’d been smart in school instead of justhaving the smarts; if he’d gone on to become an engineer instead ofa jack-of-all-trades. And if he’d been good-looking like that wimpJeremy Saunders, instead of rough-faced and burly—well, who knew?Somewhere along the line, Abby might have fallen for him.He dismissed the thought and got back to work.
Promptly at five the first car drove up. The retired Supreme CourtJustice and his wife entered a minute or two later. “Merry Christmas,Madam Vice President,” the Justice said.Abigail returned his kiss warmly. “From your lips to God’s ear,”she laughed.Other guests began to flow in. Hired waiters poured champagneand punch. “Keep the hard stuff for later,” Luther had suggested.
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“The Bible Belt doesn’t like to be reminded that its public officialsserve booze.”Sam was the last to arrive. Abigail opened the door for him. Herkiss on his cheek was affectionate. Luther was directing the othercamera toward them. Pat felt her heart sink. Sam and Abigail made astunning couple—both tall, her ash blond hair contrasting with hisdark head, the streaks of gray in his hair a subtle balance to the finelines around her eyes.Pat could see everyone clustering around Sam. I only think abouthim as Sam , she thought. I’ve never seen him in his professionalelement. Was that the way it had been with her mother and father?They’d met when they were both vacationing on Martha’s Vineyard.They ’d married within a month, never really knowing orunderstanding each other ’s worlds—and then the clash had begun.Except I wouldn’t dash with you, Sam. I like your world.Abigail must have said something amusing; everyone laughed.Sam smiled at her.“That’s a nice shot, Pat,” the cameraman said. “A little sexy—youknow what I mean? You never see Senator Jennings with a guy. People like that.” The cameraman was beaming.“All the world loves a lover,” Pat replied.“We’ve got enough,” Luther suddenly announced. “Let the Senatorand her guests have some peace. Pat, you be at the Senator ’s officefor the taping in the morning. I’ll be in Apple Junction. You knowwhat we need.” He turned his back, dismissing her.Did his attitude result from the picture in the Mirror or from herrefusal to sleep with him? Only time would tell.She slipped past the guests, down the hallway and into the den,where she’d left her coat.“Pat.”She turned around. “Sam!” He was standing in the doorway,looking at her. “Ah, Congressman. Season’s greetings.” She reachedfor her coat.“Pat, you’re not leaving?”“No one invited me to stay.”
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He came over, took the coat from her. “What’s this about the Mirror cover?”She told him. “And it seems the senior Senator from Virginiabelieves I slipped that picture to that rag just to get my way about thisprogram.”He put his hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t?”“That sounds like a questions!” Could he really believe she’d hadanything to do with the Mirror cover? If so, he didn’t know her at all.Or maybe it was time she realized that the man she thought she knewdidn’t exist.“Pat, I can’t leave yet, but I should be able to get away in an hour.Are you going home?”“Yes, I am. Why?”“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll take you to dinner.”“All the decent restaurants will be closed. Stay; enjoy yourself.”She tried to pull away from him.“Miss Traymore, if you give me your keys, I’ll bring your car around.”They sprang apart, both embarrassed. “Toby, what the hell are you doing here?” Sam snapped.Toby looked at him impassively. “The Senator is about to ask herguests in to supper, Congressman, and told me to round them up. Sheparticularly told me to look for you.”Sam was still holding Pat’s coat. She reached for it. “I can get myown car, Toby,” she said. She looked at him directly. He was standingin the doorway, a large, dark mass. She tried to pass him, but hedidn’t move.“ May I?”He was staring at her, his expression distracted. “Oh, sure. Sorry.”He stepped aside, and unconsciously she shrank against the wall toavoid brushing against him.
Pat drove at breakneck speed trying to escape the memory of howwarmly Abigail and Sam had greeted each other, of the subtle way inwhich the others seemed to treat them as a couple. It was a quarter to
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eight when she got home. Grateful that she’d had the foresight tocook the turkey, she made a sandwich and poured a glass of wine.The house felt dark and empty. She turned on the lights in the foyer,library, dining room and living room, then plugged in the tree.The other day the living room had somehow seemed warmer, morelivable. Now, for some reason, it was uncomfortable, shadowy. Why?Her eye caught a strand of tinsel almost hidden on a brilliant apricot-hued section of the carpet. Yesterday when she and Lila were here,she thought she’d seen an ornament with a piece of tinsel lying onthis area of the carpet. Perhaps it had been just the tinsel.The television set was in the library. She carried the sandwich andthe wine there. Potomac Cable had hourly news highlights. Shewondered if they’d show Abigail at church.They did. Pat watched dispassionately as Abigail stepped fromthe car, the bright red suit dramatic against her flawless skin and hair,her eyes soft as she voiced her prayer for the hungry. This was thewoman Pat had revered. The newscaster announced, “Later SenatorJennings was questioned about her picture as a young beauty queen,which is on the cover of this week’s National Mirror .” A postage-stamp-size picture of the Mirror cover was shown. “With tears in hereyes the Senator recalled her mother ’s desire to have her enter thatcontest. Potomac Cable Network wishes Senator Abigail Jennings avery merry Christmas; and we’re sure that her mother, were she awareof her success, would be terribly proud of her.”“Good Lord,” Pat cried. Jumping up, she pushed the button thatturned off the set. “And Luther has the gall to call that news! Nowonder the media are criticized for bias.”Restlessly she began to jot down the conflicting statements shehad been hearing all week:
Catherine Graney said that Abigail and Willard were about to divorce.Senator Jennings claims she loved her husband very much.
Eleanor Brown stole $75,000 from Senator Jennings.
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Eleanor Brown swears she did not steal that money.
George Graney was a master pilot; his plane was carefully inspectedbefore takeoff.Senator Jennings said George Graney was a careless pilot withsecond-rate equipment.
Nothing adds up, Pat thought, absolutely nothing!It was nearly eleven o’clock before the door chimes signaled Sam’sarrival. At ten-thirty, ready to give up on him, Pat had gone to herroom, then told herself that if Sam were not coming, he would havecalled. She changed to silk pajamas that were comfortable for loungingbut technically still suitable for receiving guests. She washed herface, then touched her eyelids lightly with shadow and her lips withgloss. No point looking like a mouse, she thought—not when he’djust left the beauty queen.Swiftly she hung up the clothes she had left scattered over theroom. Was Sam neat? I don’t even know that, she thought. The onenight they had stayed together certainly hadn’t been any barometerof either of their personal habits. When they’d checked into the motelshe’d brushed her teeth with the folding toothbrush she always carriedin her cosmetic case. “I wish I had one of those,” he’d said. She’dsmiled up at his reflection in the mirror. “One of my favorite linesfrom Random Harvest was when the minister asks Smithy and Paulaif they’re so in love they use the same toothbrush.” She ran hers underhot water, spread toothpaste across the bristles and handed it to him.“Be my guest.”That toothbrush was now in a velvet jeweler’s box in the top drawerof the vanity. Some women press roses or tie ribbons around letters,Pat thought. I kept a toothbrush.She had just come down the stairs when the chimes rang again.“Come in, come in, whoever you are,” she said.Sam’s expression was contrite. “Pat, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get awayas fast as I’d hoped. And then I cabbed to my place, dropped my bagsand picked up my car. Were you on your way to bed?”
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“Not at all. If you mean this outfit, its technically called loungingpajamas and, according to the Saks brochure, is perfect for that eveningat home when entertaining a few friends.”“Just be careful which friends you entertain,” Sam suggested.“That’s a pretty sexy-looking getup.”She took his coat; the fine wool was still cold from the icy wind.He bent down to kiss her.“Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for his answer, she ledhim into the library and silently pointed to the bar. He poured brandyinto snifters and handed one to her. “I assume this is still your after-dinner choice?”She nodded and deliberately chose the fan-back chair across fromthe couch.Sam had changed when he stopped at his apartment. He waswearing an Argyle sweater with a predominantly blue-and-gray patternthat complemented the blueness of his eyes, the touches of gray inhis dark brown hair. He settled on the couch, and it seemed to herthere was a weariness in the way he moved and in the lines aroundhis eyes.“How did it go after I left?”“About as you saw it. We did have one high point, however. ThePresident phoned to wish Abigail a merry Christmas.”“ The President phoned! Sam, does that mean . . .?”“My bet is he’s milking this for all it’s worth. He probably phonedClaire Lawrence as well.”“You mean he hasn’t made his decision?”“I think he’s still sending up trial balloons. You saw the way he featuredAbigail at the White House dinner last week. But he and the First Ladyalso went to a private supper in Claire’s honor the next night.”“Sam, how badly did that Mirror cover hurt Senator Jennings?”He shrugged. “Hard to say. Abigail has done the Southern-aristocracy scene a little too heavily for a lot of people around here.On the other hand, it just may make her sympathetic. Another problem:that publicity about the threats to you has made for a lot of locker-room jokes on Capitol Hill—and they’re all on Abigail.”
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Pat stared at her untouched brandy. Her mouth suddenly felt dryand brackish. Last week Sam had been worried about her because ofthe break-in. Now he was sharing Abigail’s reaction to the publicity.Well, in a way it made things easier. “If this program causes anymore unfavorable publicity to Senator Jennings, could it cost her theVice Presidency?”“Perhaps. No President, particularly one who’s had a spotlessadministration, is going to risk having it tarnished.”“That’s exactly what I was afraid you’d say.” She told him aboutEleanor Brown and Catherine Graney. “I don’t know what to do,” sheconcluded. “Should I warn Luther to keep away from those subjects onthe program? If I do, he’ll have to tell the Senator the reason.”“There’s no way Abigail can take any more aggravation,” Samsaid flatly. “After the others left she was really wired.”“After the others left!” Pat raised an eyebrow. “You mean you stayed?”“She asked me to.”“I see.” She felt her heart sink. It confirmed everything she hadbeen thinking. “Then I shouldn’t tell Luther.”“Try it this way. If that girl . . .”“Eleanor Brown.”“Yes—if she calls you, persuade her to wait until I see if we canplea-bargain on her parole. In that case there’d be no publicity, atleast until the President announces his selection.”“And Catherine Graney.”“Let me look into the records of that crash. She probably doesn’thave a leg to stand on. Do you think either one of these women mighthave made those threats to you?”“I’ve never met Eleanor. I’m sure it wasn’t Catherine Graney. Anddon’t forget it was a man’s voice.”“Of course. He hasn’t called again?”Her eyes fell on the carton under the table. She considered, thenrejected, the idea of showing the Raggedy Ann doll to Sam. She didnot want him concerning himself about her anymore. “No, he hasn’t.”
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“That’s good news.” He finished the brandy and set the glass onthe table. “I’d better be on my way. It’s been a long day and you mustbe bushed.”It was the opening she was waiting for. “Sam, on the way homefrom the Senator ’s tonight, I did some hard thinking. Want to hearabout it?”“Certainly.”“I came to Washington with three specific and rather idealisticgoals in mind. I was going to do an Emmy-winning documentary ona wonderful, noble woman. I was going to find an explanation forwhat my father did to my mother and me. And I was going to see youand it would be the reunion of the century. Well, none of these turnedout as I expected. Abigail Jennings is a good politician and a strongleader, but she isn’t a nice person. I was suckered into this programbecause my preconceived notions about Abigail suited Luther Pelham,and whatever reputation I’ve achieved in the industry gives credibilityto what is essentially P.R. fluff. There’s so much about that lady thatdoesn’t hang together that it frightens me.“I’ve also been here long enough to know that my mother wasn’ta saint, as I’d been led to believe, and very possibly goaded my fatherinto some form of temporary insanity that night. That’s not the fullstory—not yet; but it’s close.“And as for us, Sam, I do owe you an apology. I certainly wasterribly naive to think that I was anything more to you than a casualaffair. The fact that you never called me after Janice died should havebeen the tip-off, but I guess I’m not a quick study. You can stopworrying now. I don’t intend to embarrass you with any moredeclarations of love. It’s very clear you’ve got something going withAbigail Jennings.”“I don’t have anything going with Abigail!”“Oh, yes, you do. Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you do. Thatlady wants you, Sam. Anyone with half an eye can see that. And youdidn’t cut short your vacation and come rushing across the country ather summons without good reason. Just forget about having to let medown easy. Really, Sam, all that talk about being worn out and notable to make decisions isn’t very becoming. You can drop it now.”
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“I told you that because it’s true .”“Then snap out of it. It doesn’t become you. You’re a handsome,virile man with twenty or thirty good years ahead of you.” Shemanaged a smile. “Maybe the prospect of becoming a grandfather isa little shocking to your ego.”“Are you finished?”“Quite.”“Then if you don’t mind, I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He gotup, his face flushed.She reached out her hand. “There’s no reason not to be friends.Washington is a small town. That is the reason you called me in thefirst place, isn’t it?”He didn’t answer.With a certain degree of satisfaction, Pat heard him slam the frontdoor as he left.
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“Senator, they’ll probably want you to be anchorwoman on the Today show,” Toby volunteered genially. He glanced into the rearviewmirror to see Abby’s reaction. They were on their way to the office.At 6:30 A.M. on December 26 it was still dark and bone-chilling.“I have no desire to be anchorwoman on the Today show or anyother show,” Abigail snapped. “Toby, what the hell do I look like? Inever closed an eye last night. Toby, the President phoned me . . . he phoned me personally. He said to have a good rest over the Christmasrecess because it was going to be a busy year ahead. What could hehave meant by that? . . . Toby, I can taste it. The Vice Presidency.Toby, why didn’t I follow my instincts? Why did I let Luther Pelhamtalk me into this program? Where was my head?”“Senator, listen. That picture may be the best thing that everhappened to you. It’s for sure that wallflower Claire Lawrence neverwon any contests. Maybe Pat Traymore is right. That kind of makesyou more accessible . . . is that the word?”They were going over the Roosevelt Bridge, and traffic was pickingup. Toby concentrated on the driving. When he looked again into therearview mirror, Abby’s hands were still in her lap. “Toby, I’ve workedfor this.”“I know you have, Abby.”“It isn’t fair to lose it just because I’ve had to claw my way up.”“You’re not going to lose it, Senator.”“I don’t know. There’s something about Pat Traymore that disturbsme. She’s managed to give me two bouts of embarrassing publicityin one week. There’s more to her than we know.”“Senator, Phil checked her out. She’s been touting you since shewas in college. She wrote an essay on you her senior year at Wellesley.She’s on the level. She may be bad luck, but she’s on the level.”“She’s trouble. I warn you, there’s something else about her.”The car swung past the Capitol and pulled up at the Russell Senate
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Office Building. “I’ll be right up, Senator, and I promise you, I’llkeep an eye on Pat Traymore. She won’t get in your way.” He hoppedout of the car to open the door for Abby.She accepted his hand, got out, then impulsively squeezed hisfingers. “Toby, look at that girl’s eyes. There’s something about them. . . something secretive . . . as though . . .”She didn’t finish the sentence. But for Toby, it wasn’t necessary.At six o’clock Philip was waiting in the office to admit Pat andthe network camera crew.Sleepy-eyed guards and cleaning women with weary, patient faceswere the only other people in evidence in the Russell building. InAbigail’s office, Pat and the cameramen bent over the storyboard.“We’ll only give three minutes to this segment,” Pat said. “I want thefeeling of the Senator arriving at an empty office and starting workbefore anyone shows up. Then Philip coming in to brief her . . . a shotof her daily calendar, but don’t show the date . . . then office helparriving; the phones starting; a shot of the daily mail; the Senatorgreeting visitors from her state; the Senator talking to a constituent;Phil in and out with the messages. You know what we want—a senseof behind-the-scenes in a Senator ’s workday office.”When Abigail arrived, they were ready for her. Pat explained thefirst shot she wanted, and the Senator nodded and returned to thevestibule. Cameras rolled, and her key turned in the latch. Herexpression was preoccupied and businesslike. She slipped off thegray cashmere cape that covered a well-cut but restrained pin-stripedgray suit. Even the way she ran her fingers through her hair as shetossed off her hat was natural, the gesture of someone who caresabout her appearance but is preoccupied with more important matters.“Cut,” Pat said. “Senator, that’s fine, just the feeling I wanted.”Her spontaneous praise sounded patronizing even to her own ears.Senator Jennings’ smile was enigmatic. “Thank you. Now what?”Pat explained the scene with the mail, Phil and the constituent,Maggie Sayles.The taping went smoothly. Pat quickly realized that SenatorJennings had a natural instinct for presenting herself at the best cameraangle. The pin-striped suit gave her an executive, businesslikeappearance that would be a nice contrast to the taffeta skirt at the
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Christmas supper party. Her earrings were silver; she wore a silvertie pin, stark and slim against the ascot of a soft gray silk blouse. Itwas the Senator’s idea to photograph her office in a long shot showingthe flags of both the United States and Virginia and then to have onlythe flag of the United States behind her in close-ups.Pat watched the camera angle in as Abigail carefully selected aletter from the mound of mail on her desk—a letter in a childishhandwriting. Another touch of theater, Pat thought. How smart ofher. Then the constituent, Maggie, came in—the one whom Abigailhad helped to find a nursing home for her mother. Abigail sprang upto meet her, kissed her affectionately, led her to a chair . . . allanimation, warmth, concern.She does mean the concern, Pat thought. I was here when she gotthat woman’s mother into a home; but there’s so much showmanshipgoing on now. Are all politicians like this? Am I simply too damn naive?By ten o’clock they had finished. Having reassured Abigail thatthey had everything they needed, Pat and the camera crew got readyto leave. “We’ll do the first rough edit this afternoon,” Pat told thedirector. “Then go over it with Luther tonight.”“I think it’s going to turn out great,” the cameraman volunteered.“It’s turning into a good show. That much I’ll grant,” Pat said.
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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
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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.
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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:
Eleanor was timid . . . she never chewed gum in classor talked when the teacher was out of the room . . .she loved her job in the Senator ’ office . . . she hadjust been promoted . . . she was taking art classes . . .she was going to Baltimore that day to sketch. . . .
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Pat read and reread her notes. A girl doing well at a responsiblejob who had just been given a promotion, but so stupid she had hiddenstolen money in her own storage room. Some stolen money. The bulk of it—$70,000—was never found.A girl as timid as that would be a poor witness in her own defense.Eleanor had had a nervous breakdown in prison. She would have hadto be a consummate actress to fake that. But she had violated her parole.And what about Toby? He had been the witness who contradictedEleanor ’s story. He had sworn he never phoned her that morning.Senator Jennings had confirmed that Toby was driving her at the timeof the alleged call.Would Senator Jennings deliberately lie for Toby, deliberately allowan innocent girl to go to prison?But suppose someone who sounded like Toby had phoned Eleanor?In that case all three—Eleanor, Toby and the Senator—had been tellingthe truth. Who else would have known about Eleanor ’s storage spacein her apartment building? What about the person who had made thethreats, broken in here, left the doll? Could he be the x factor in thedisappearance of the campaign funds?The doll. Pat pushed back her chair and reached for the cartonjammed under the library table, then changed her mind. There wasnothing to be gained by looking at the doll now. The sight of thatweeping face was too unsettling. After the program was aired, if therewere no more threats, she’d throw it away. If there were any moreletters or phone calls or attempted break-ins, she’d have to show thedoll to the police.On the next page in her pad she wrote Toby, then fished throughthe desk drawer for the cassettes of her interviews.She had recorded Toby in the car that first afternoon. He hadn’trealized she was taping him, and his voice was somewhat muffled.She turned the sound as high as possible, pushed the “play” buttonand began to take notes.
Maybe Abby stuck her neck out for me . . . I wasworking for a bookie in New York and almost got introuble . . . I used to drive Abby and Willard Jenningsto that house for parties . . . cute little kid, Kerry.
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She was glad to switch to the interview with the waitress, EthelStubbins, and her husband, Ernie. They had said something aboutToby. She found the segment, Ernie saying, “Say hello to him for me.Ask him if he’s still losing money on the horses.”Jeremy Saunders had discussed Toby. She listened to his derisiveremarks about the joyriding incident. his story about his father ’sbuying off Abigail: “I always thought Toby had a hand in it.”After hearing the last of the cassettes, Pat read and reread hertranscriptions. She knew what she had to do. If Eleanor turned herselfin and was sent back to prison, Pat vowed she would stay with thecase until she had satisfied herself as to Eleanor ’s guilt or innocence.And if it turns out I believe her story, Pat thought, I’ll do everythingI can to help her. Let the chips fall where they may—including AbigailJennings’ chips.Pat wandered from the library into the foyer, and then to thestaircase. She glanced up, then hesitated. The step above the turn.That’s where I used to sit. Impulsively she hurried up the stairs, saton that step, leaned her head against the baluster and closed her eyes. Her father was in the foyer. She had shrunk deeper into theshadows, knowing that he was angry, that this time he would not jokeabout finding her here. She had run back to bed. She hurried up the rest of the staircase. Her old room was past theguest room, across the back of the house, overlooking the garden. Itwas empty now.She’d walked in here that first morning as the moving men werescurrying through the house, but it had evoked absolutely nomemories. Now it seemed she could remember the bed with the frillywhite canopy, the small rocking chair near the window with the musicbox, the shelves of toys.I came back to bed that night. I was frightened because Daddywas so angry. The living room is right underneath this room. I couldhear voices; they were shouting at each other. Then the loud noiseand Mother screaming, “No . . . No!” Mother screaming. After the loud noise. Had she been able toscream after she was shot or had she screamed when she realizedshe had shot her husband? Pat felt her body begin to shake. She grasped the door for support,
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felt the dampness in her palms and forehead. Her breath was comingin short, hard gasps. She thought, I am afraid. But it’s over. It was solong ago.She turned and realized she was running down the hall; she wasrushing down the staircase. I am back there, she thought. I am goingto remember. “Daddy, Daddy,” she called softly. At the foot of thestairs, she turned and began to stumble through the foyer, her armsoutstretched. Daddy . . . Daddy! At the living-room door she crumpled to her knees Vague shadowswere around her but would not take form. Burying her face in herhands, she began to sob . . .” Mother, Daddy, come home.” She had awakened and there had been a strange baby-sitter.Mother. Daddy. I want my mother. I want my daddy. And they hadcome. Mother rocking her. Kerry, Kerry it’s all right Daddy pattingher hair; his arms around both of them Shhh, Kerry, we’re here. After a while Pat slid into a sitting position and leaned against thewall, staring into the room. Another memory had broken through.She was sure it was accurate. No matter which one was guilty thatlast night, she thought fiercely, I know that both of them loved me. . . .
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There was a movie theater on Wisconsin Avenue that opened at ten.Arthur went into a cafeteria near it and dawdled over coffee, thenwalked around the neighborhood until the box office opened.Whenever he was upset, he liked to go to the movies. He wouldchoose a seat near the back and against the wall. And he’d buy thetallest bag of popcorn and sit and eat and watch unseeingly as thefigures moved on the screen.He liked the feeling of people near him but not conscious of him,the voices and music on the soundtrack, the anonymity of the darkenedauditorium. It gave him a place to think. Now he settled in and staredblankly at the screen.It had been a mistake to set the fire. There had been no mention ofit in the newspaper. When he got off the Metro, he’d phoned thenursing home and the operator had answered at once. He’d muffledhis voice: “I’m Mrs. Harnick’s son. How serious was the fire?”“Oh, sir, it was discovered almost at once. A smoldering cigarettein the trash bag. We didn’t know any of the guests were even awareof it.”That meant they must have seen the overturned can of turpentine.No one would believe it had tipped accidentally.If only he hadn’t mentioned the monastery. Of course, the officethere might simply say: “Yes, our records indicate Arthur Stevenswas with us for a short time.”Suppose they were pressed for details? “He left at the suggestionof his spiritual director.”“May we speak to the spiritual director?”“He died some years ago.”Would they tell why he had been asked to leave?Would they study the records of the nursing home and see which
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patients had died in these few years and how many of them he hadhelped to nurse? He was sure they wouldn’t understand that he wasonly being kind, only alleviating suffering.Twice before he’d been questioned when patients he had cared forhad slipped away to the Lord.“Were you glad to see them die, Arthur?”“I was glad to see them at peace. I did everything possible to helpthem get well or at least be comfortable.”When there was no hope, no relief from pain, when old peoplebecame too weak to even whisper or moan, when the doctors andrelatives agreed it would be a blessing if God took them, then, andonly then, did he help them slip away.If he had known that Anita Gillespie was looking forward to seeingher daughter, he would have waited. It would have given him so muchjoy to know Mrs. Gillespie died happy.That was the problem. She had been fighting death, not reconciledto it. That was why she had been too frightened to understand he wasonly trying to help her.It was his concern for Glory that had made him so careless. Hecould remember the night the worry had begun. They were havingdinner at home together, each reading a section of the newspaper,and Glory had cried, “Oh, dear God!” She was looking at the televisionpage of the Tribune and had seen the announcement of the SenatorJennings program. It would include the highlights of her career. Hehad begged Glory not to be upset; he was sure it would be all right.But she hadn’t listened. She’d started to sob. “Maybe it’s better toface it,” she’d said. “I don’t want to live my life like this any longer.”Right then her attitude began to change. He stared ahead, heedlesslychewing on the popcorn. He had not been given the privilege offormally taking his vows. Instead, he had sworn them privately.Poverty, chastity, and obedience. Never once had he broken them—but he used to get so lonely. . . .Then nine years ago he’d met Glory. She’d been sitting in the drearywaiting room of the clinic, clutching the Raggedy Ann doll and waitingher turn to see the psychiatrist. The doll was what had caught hisattention. Something made him wait around outside for her.
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They’d started walking toward the bus stop together. He’dexplained he was a priest but had left parish work to work directlywith the sick. She’d told him all about herself, how she’d been inprison for a crime she didn’t commit and she was on parole and livedin a furnished room. “I’m not allowed to smoke in my room,” shetold him, “or even have a hot plate so I can fix coffee or soup when Idon’t want to go out to the drugstore to eat.”They went for ice cream and it began to get dark. She said she waslate and the woman where she lived would be angry. Then she startedto cry and said she’d rather be dead than go back there. And he hadtaken her home with him. “You will be a child in my care,” he’d toldher. And she was like a helpless child. He gave her his bedroom andslept on the couch, and in the beginning she would just lie in bed andcry. For a few weeks the cops came around the clinic to see if she’dshown up again, but then they lost interest.They’d gone to Baltimore. That was when he told her he was goingto tell everyone that she was his daughter. “You call me Fatheranyhow,” he said. And he had named her Gloria.Slowly she had started to get better. But for nearly seven years shehad left the apartment only at night; she was so sure that a policemanwould recognize her. He’d worked in different nursing homes aroundBaltimore, and then two years ago it was necessary to leave and they’dcome to Alexandria. Glory loved being near Washington, but shewas afraid she might run into people who knew her. He convincedher that was foolish. “None of the people from the Senator ’s officewould ever come near this neighborhood.” Even so, whenever Glorywent out, she wore dark glasses. Gradually her spells of depressionbegan to ease. She needed less and less of the medicine he broughtfrom the nursing home, and she’d gotten the typing job.Arthur finished the popcorn. He would not leave Washington untiltomorrow night, after he’d seen the program about Senator Jennings.He never helped people slip away until there was absolutely nothingthe doctors could do for them, until his voices directed him that theirtime had come. Neither would he condemn Patricia Traymore withoutevidence. If she did not talk about Glory on the program or show herpicture, Glory would be safe. He would arrange to meet her and they’dgo away together.
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But if Glory was exposed to the world as a thief, she would giveherself up. This time she would die in prison. He was sure of it. Hehad seen enough people who had lost the will to live. But if ithappened, Patricia Traymore would be punished for that terrible sin!He would go to the house where she lived and mete out justice to her.Three Thousand N Street. Even the house where Patricia Traymorelived was a symbol of suffering and death.The movie was ending. Where could he go now? You must hide, Arthur. “But where?” He realized he had spoken aloud. The woman in theseat ahead of him turned and glanced back. Three Thousand N Street , the voices whispered. Go there, Arthur.Go in the window again. Think about the closet. The image of the closet in the unused bedroom filled his mind. Hewould be warm and safe concealed behind the rows of shelves in thatcloset. The lights were on in the theater and he stood up quickly. Hemust not draw attention to himself. He would go to another movienow and another after that. By then it would be dark. Where better tospend the hours until the broadcast tomorrow evening than in PatriciaTraymore’s own home? No one would dream of looking for him there. She must have her chance to be exonerated, Arthur. You must notbe too hasty. The words swirled in the air above his head. “Iunderstand,” he said. If there was no reference to Glory on theprogram, Patricia Traymore would never know that he had beenstaying with her. But if Glory was shown and identified, Patricia wouldbe punished by the angels.He would light the avenging torch.
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At one o’clock Lila Thatcher’s maid returned from grocery shopping.Lila was in her study working on a lecture she was planning to give thefollowing week at the University of Maryland. The subject was “HarnessYour Psychic Gift.” Lila bent over the typewriter, her hands clasped.The maid knocked on the door. “Miss Lila, you don’t look toohappy.” The maid spoke with the comfortable familiarity of anemployee who had become a trusted friend.“I’m not, Ouida. For someone who’s trying to teach people to usetheir psychic skills, my own are pretty scrambled today.”“I brought in the Tribune . Do you want to see it now?”“Yes, I think so.”Five minutes later, in angry disbelief, Lila was reading the GinaButterfield spread. Fifteen minutes later, she was ringing Pat’sdoorbell. With dismay she realized Pat had been weeping. “There’ssomething I have to show you,” she explained.They went into the library. Lila laid the paper on the table andopened it. She watched as Pat saw the headline and the color drainedfrom her face.Helplessly Pat skimmed the copy, glanced at the pictures. “MyGod, it makes me sound as though I was blabbing about the break-in,the Senator, this house, everything. Lila, I can’t tell you how upsetthey’ll all be. Luther Pelham had every single picture of my motherand father edited out of the old films. He didn’t want any connectionbetween the Senator and, I quote him, ‘the Adams mess.’ It’s as thoughthere’s a force in action I can’t stop. I don’t know whether to try toexplain, to resign or what.” She tried to hold back angry tears.Lila began to fold the newspaper. “I can’t advise you about thejob, but I can tell you that you must not look at this again, Kerry. I
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had to show it to you, but I’m taking it home with me. It’s not wisefor you to see yourself as you were that day, like a broken doll.”Pat grabbed the older woman’s arm. “Why did you say that?”“Say what? You mean why did I call you Kerry? That just slipped out.”“No, I mean why did you compare me to a broken doll?”Lila stared at her and then looked down at the newspaper. “It’s inhere,” she said. “I just read it. Look.” In the lead column GinaButterfield had reprinted some of the original Tribune story aboutthe murder-suicide.
Police Chief Collins, commenting on the grisly scene,said, “It’s the worst I’ve ever come across. When Isaw that poor little kid like a broken doll, I wonderedwhy he hadn’t shot her too. It would have been easierfor her.”
“A broken doll,” Pat whispered. “Whoever left it knew me then.”“Left what? Pat, sit down. You look as though you’re going tofaint. I’ll get you a glass of water.” Lila hurried from the room.Pat leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes.When she had looked up the newspaper accounts of the tragedy, she hadseen the pictures of the bodies being carried out; of herself, bandagedand bloody on the stretcher. But seeing them juxtaposed against those ofthe smiling, apparently carefree young couples was worse. She didn’tremember reading that quote from the police chief. Maybe she hadn’tseen the issue in which it appeared. But it proved that whoever hadthreatened her knew who she was, had known her then.Lila came back. She had filled a glass with cold water.“I’m all right,” Pat said. “Lila, the night someone broke in here,he didn’t just leave a note.” She tugged at the carton to try to get itout from under the library table. It was wedged in so tightly that itwouldn’t budge. I can’t believe I jammed it in like this, Pat thought.As she struggled, she told Lila about finding the doll.Shocked, Lila absorbed what she was hearing. The intruder hadleft a bloodied doll against the fireplace? Pat was in danger here. Shehad sensed it all along. She was still in danger.
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Pat freed the carton. She opened it, going through it rapidly. Lilawatched as her expression changed from surprise to alarm. “Pat, whatis it?”“The doll. It’s gone.”“Are you sure . . .”“I put it here myself. I looked at it again just the other day. Lila, Itook its apron off. It was sickening to look at. I shoved it way down.Maybe it’s still here.” Pat fished through the box. “Look, here it is.”Lila stared at the crumpled piece of white cotton, soiled with reddish-brown stains, the strings of the sash hanging limply from the sides.“When was the last time you saw the doll?”“Saturday afternoon. I had it out on the table. The Senator ’schauffeur came with more of her photograph albums. I hid it in thecarton again. I didn’t want him to see it.” Pat paused.“Wait. There was something about Toby when he came in. Hewas brusque and kept eyeing everything in this room. I hadn’tanswered the bell right away and I think he wondered what I’d beenup to. And then he said he’d let himself out. When I heard the doorclose, I decided to slide the bolt, and Lila, the door was openingagain. Toby had something that looked like a credit card in his hand.He tried to pass it off by insinuating that he was just testing the lockfor me, and that I should be sure to keep the bolt on.“He knew me when I was little. Maybe he’s the one who’s beenthreatening me. But why?”It was not yet midafternoon, but the day had turned gray and cloudy.The dark wood paneling and the fading light made Pat seem smalland vulnerable. “We must call the police immediately,” Lila said.“They’ll question the chauffeur.”“I can’t do that. Can you imagine what the Senator would think?And it’s only a possibility. But I do know someone who can haveToby investigated quietly.” Pat saw the distress on Lila’s face. “It’sgoing to be all right,” she assured her. “I’ll keep the bolt on the door—and Lila, if everything that’s happened is an attempt to stop theprogram, it’s really too late. We’re taping the Senator arriving homethis evening. Tomorrow we do some in-studio scenes and tomorrownight it will be aired. After that there won’t be any point in trying to
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scare me. And I’m beginning to think that’s what this is about—justan attempt to scare me off.”Lila left a few minutes later. Pat had to be at the studio at fouro’clock. She promised she would phone her Congressman friend—Sam Kingsley—and ask him to have the chauffeur investigated. ToLila’s consternation, Pat insisted on keeping the newspaper. “I’ll haveto read it carefully and know exactly what it says. If you don’t giveme this, I’ll go out and buy another one.”Lila’s maid had the door open when she came up the steps. “I’vebeen watching for you, Miss Lila,” she explained. “You never finishedyour lunch and you looked real upset when you left.”“You’ve been watching for me, Ouida?” Lila went into the diningroom and walked over to the windows facing the street. From thereshe could see the entire frontage and the right side of Pat’s house andproperty. “It won’t work,” she murmured. “He broke in through thepatio doors and I can’t see them from here.”“What did you say, Miss Lila?”“It’s nothing. I’m going to keep a stillwatch and I had thought ofsetting my typewriter on a table just back from the windows.”“A stillwatch?”“Yes, it’s an expression that means if you believe something iswrong, you keep a vigil.”“You think something is wrong at Miss Traymore’s? You thinkthat prowler may come back again?”Lila stared at the unnatural darkness surrounding Pat’s house. Withan acute sense of foreboding she answered somberly, “That’s justwhat I think.”
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From the moment Father phoned her, Glory had been waiting for thepolice to come. At ten o’clock it happened. The door of the real estateoffice opened and a man in his mid-thirties came in. She looked up andsaw a squad car parked out front. Her fingers dropped from the typewriter.“Detective Barrott,” the visitor said, and held up a badge. “I’d liketo speak with Gloria Stevens. Is she here?”Glory stood up. Already she could hear his questions: Isn’t yourreal name Eleanor Brown? Why did you violate parole? How longdid you think you could get away with it? Detective Barrott came over to her. He had a frank, chubby facewith sandy hair that curled around his ears. His eyes were inquisitivebut not unfriendly. She realized he was about her own age, and somehowhe seemed a little less frightening than the scornful detective who hadquestioned her after the money was found in her storage room.“Miss Stevens? Don’t be nervous. I wonder if I could speak toyou privately?”“We could go in here.” She led the way into Mr. Schuller ’s smallprivate office. There were two leather chairs in front of Mr. Schuller ’sdesk. She sat in one of them and the detective settled in the other.“You looked scared,” he said kindly. “You have nothing to worryabout. We just want to talk to your dad. Do you know where we canreach him?” Talk to her dad Father! She swallowed. “When I left for work hewas home. He probably went to the bakery.”“He didn’t come back. Maybe when he saw the police car in frontof your house, he decided not to. Do you think he might be withsome relatives or friends?”
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“I . . . I don’t know. Why do you want to talk to him?”“Just to ask a few questions. By any chance has he called you this morning?” This man thought Arthur was her father. He wasn’t interested in her. “He . . . he did call. But I was on the phone with my boss.”“What did he want?”“He . . . wanted me to meet him and I said I couldn’t.”“Where did he want you to meet him?”Father ’s words rang in her ears. Metro Central . . . Twelfth and Gexit . . . Was he there now? Was he in trouble? Father had taken careof her all these years. She could not hurt him now.She chose her words carefully. “I couldn’t stay on the phone. I . . .I just said I couldn’t leave the office and practically hung up on him.Why do you want to talk to him? What’s wrong?”“Well, maybe nothing.” The detective’s voice was kind. “Doesyour dad talk to you about his patients?”“Yes.” It was easy to answer that question. “He cares so muchabout them.”“Has he ever mentioned Mrs. Gillespie to you?”“Yes. She died last week, didn’t she? He felt so bad. Somethingabout her daughter coming to visit her.” She thought about the wayhe had cried out in his sleep, “Close your eyes, Mrs. Gillespie. Closeyour eyes.” Maybe he had made a mistake when he was helping Mrs.Gillespie and they were blaming him for it.“Has he seemed different lately—nervous or anything like that?”“He is the kindest man I know. His whole life is devoted to helpingpeople. In fact, they just asked him at the nursing home to go toTennessee and help out there.”The detective smiled. “How old are you, Miss Stevens?”“Thirty-four.”He looked surprised. “You don ’t look it. According to theemployment records, Arthur Stevens is forty-nine.” He paused, thenin a friendly voice added, “He’s not your real father, is he?”Soon he would be pinning her down with questions. “He used tobe a parish priest but decided to spend his whole life caring for thesick. When I was very ill and had no one, he took me in.”
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Now he would ask her real name. But he didn’t.“I see. Miss . . . Miss Stevens, we do want to talk to, er . . . FatherStevens. If he calls you, will you contact me?” He gave her his card.DETECTVE WILLIAM BARROTT. She could sense him studyingher. Why wasn’t he asking her more questions about herself, abouther background?He was gone. She sat alone in the private office until Opal came in.“Gloria, is anything wrong?”Opal was a good friend, the best friend she’d ever had. Opal hadhelped her think of herself as a woman again. Opal was always afterher to go to parties, saying her boyfriend would fix her up with ablind date. She’d always refused.“Gloria, what’s wrong?” Opal repeated. “You look terrible.”“No, nothing’s wrong. I have a headache. Do you think I could go home?”“Sure; I’ll finish your typing. Gloria, if there’s anything I can do . . . “Glory looked into her friend’s troubled face. “Not anymore, butthank you for everything.”She walked home. The temperature was in the forties, but evenso, the day was raw with a chill that penetrated her coat and gloves.The apartment, with its shabby, rented furniture, seemed strangelyempty, as though it sensed they would not be returning. She went tothe hall closet and found the battered black suitcase that Father hadbought at a garage sale. She packed her meager supply of clothing,her cosmetics and the new book Opal had given her for Christmas.The suitcase wasn’t large, and it was hard to force the locks to snap.There was something else—her Raggedy Ann doll. At the mental-health clinic the psychiatrist had asked her to draw a picture of howshe felt about herself, but somehow she couldn’t do that. The dollwas with some others on a shelf, and he had given it to her. “Do youthink you could show me how this doll would look if it were you?”It hadn’t been hard to paint the tears and to sketch in the frightenedlook about the eyes and to change the thrust of the mouth so thatinstead of smiling it seemed about to scream.“That bad?” the doctor had said when she was finished.“Worse.”
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Oh, Father, she thought, I wish I could stay here and wait until youcall me. But they’re going to find out about me. That detective isprobably having me checked right now. I can’t run away anymore.While I have the courage, I have to turn myself in. Maybe it will helpme get a lighter sentence for breaking parole.There was one promise she could keep. Miss Langley had beggedher to call that television celebrity Patricia Traymore before she didanything. Now she made the call, told what she planned and listenedimpassively to Pat’s emotional pleading.Finally at three o’clock she left. A car was parked down the street.Two men were sitting in it. “That’s the girl,” one of them said. “Shewas lying about not planning to meet Stevens.” He sounded regretful.The other man pressed his foot on the pedal. “I told you she washolding back on you. Ten bucks she’ll lead us to Stevens now.”
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Pat sped across town to the Lotus Inn Restaurant on WisconsinAvenue. Desperately she tried to think of some way she could persuadeEleanor Brown not to surrender herself yet. Surely she could bepersuaded to listen to reason.She had tried to reach Sam, but after five rings had slammed downthe phone and run out. Now as she rushed into the restaurant shewondered if she would recognize the girl from her high school picture.Was she using her own name? Probably not.The hostess greeted her. “Are you Miss Traymore?”“Yes, I am.”“Miss Brown is waiting for you.”She was sitting at a rear table sipping chablis. Pat slipped into thechair opposite her, trying to collect herself to know what to say. EleanorBrown had not changed very much from her high school picture. Shewas obviously older, no longer painfully thin and prettier than Pathad expected, but there was no mistaking her.She spoke softly. “Miss Traymore? Thank you for coming.”“Eleanor, please listen to me. We can get you a lawyer. You can beout on bail while we work something out. You were in the midst of abreakdown when you violated parole. There are so many angles agood lawyer can work.”The waiter came with an appetizer of butterfly shrimp. “I used todream of these,” Eleanor said. “Do you want to order something?”“No. Nothing. Eleanor, did you understand what I said?”“Yes, I did.” Eleanor dipped one of the shrimp in the sweet sauce.“Oh, that’s good.” Her face was pale but determined. “Miss Traymore,I hope I can get my parole reinstated, but if I can’t, I know I’m strongenough now to serve the time they gave me. I can sleep in a cell, andwear a prison uniform, and eat that slop they call food, and put up
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with the strip searches and the boredom. When I get out I won’t haveto hide anymore, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying toprove my innocence.”“Eleanor, wasn’t the money found in your possession?”“Miss Traymore, half the people in the office knew about thatstoreroom. When I moved from one apartment to the other, six or eightof them helped. We made a party of it. The furniture I couldn’t use wascarried down to the storage room. Some of the money was found there,but seventy thousand dollars went into someone else’s pocket.”“Eleanor, you claim Toby phoned you and he said he didn’t. Didn’tyou think it unusual to be asked to go to the campaign office on Sunday?”Eleanor pushed aside the shells on her plate. “No. You see theSenator was up for reelection. A lot of mailings were sent from thecampaign office. She used to drop by and help just to make thevolunteers feel important. When she did that she would take off herbig diamond ring. It was a little loose and she really was carelesswith it. A couple of times she left without it.”“And Toby or someone sounding like Toby said she’d lost ormislaid it again.”“Yes. I knew she’d been in the campaign office on Saturday helpingwith the mailings, so it sounded perfectly natural that she might haveforgotten it again and one of the senior aides might have put it in thesafe for her.“I believe Toby was driving the Senator at the time the call wasmade. The voice was muffled and whoever spoke to me didn’t saymuch. It was something like, ‘See if the Senator ’s ring is in thecampaign safe and let her know.’ I was annoyed because I wanted togo to Richmond to sketch and I even said something like ‘she’llprobably find it under her nose.’ Whoever it was who phoned sort oflaughed and hung up. If Abigail Jennings hadn’t talked so much aboutthe second chance she had given me, called me a convicted thief, Iwould have had a better chance of reasonable doubt. I’ve lost elevenyears of my life for something I didn’t do and I’m not losing anotherday.” She stood up and laid money on the table. “That should covereverything.” Bending down, she picked up her suitcase, then paused.
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“You know what’s hardest for me now? I’m breaking my promise tothe man I’ve been living with, and he’s been so good to me. He beggedme not to go to the police yet. I wish I could explain to him, but Idon’t know where he is.”“Can I call him for you later? What’s his name? Where does he work?”“His name is Arthur Stevens. I think there’s some problem at hisjob. He won’t be there. There’s nothing you can do. I hope yourprogram is very successful, Miss Traymore. I was terribly upset whenI read the announcement about it. I knew that if even one picture ofme was shown I’d be in jail within twenty-four hours. But you know,that made me realize how tired I was of running. In a crazy way, itgave me the courage to face going back to prison so that someday Ireally will be free. Father, I mean Arthur Stevens, just couldn’t acceptthat. And now I’d better go before I run out of courage.”Helplessly Pat watched her retreating back.As Eleanor left the restaurant two men at a corner table got up andfollowed her out.
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“Abby, it’s not as bad as it could be.” In the forty years he had knownher, it was only the third time he had had his arms around her. Shewas sobbing helplessly.“Why didn’t you tell me she was staying in that house?”“There was no reason to.”They were in Abigail’s living room. He’d shown her the articlewhen they arrived, then tried to calm the inevitable explosion.“Abby, tomorrow this newspaper will be lining garbage cans.”“I don’t want to line garbage cans!” she’d screamed.He poured a straight Scotch and made her drink it. “Come on,Senator, pull yourself together. Maybe there’s a photographer hidingin the bushes.”“Shut up, you bloody fool.” But the suggestion had been enoughto shock her. And after the drink, she’d started to cry. “Toby, it lookslike the old penny-dreadful scandal sheets. And that picture. Toby, that picture. ” She didn’t mean the one of her and Francey.He put his arms around her, clumsily patted her back and realizedwith the dullness of a long-accepted pain that he was nothing more toher than a railing to grab when your feet gave way underneath you.“If anyone really studies the pictures! Toby, look at that one.”“Nobody’s going to bother.”“Toby, that girl—that Pat Traymore. How did she happen to leasethat house? It can’t be a coincidence.”“The house has been rented to twelve different tenants in the pasttwenty-four years. She’s just another one of them.” Toby tried to makehis voice hearty. He didn’t believe that; but on the other hand, Phil stillhadn’t been able to uncover the details of the rental. “Senator, yougotta hang in there. Whoever made those threats to Pat Traymore . . .”
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“Toby, how do we know there were threats? How do we know thisisn’t a calculated attempt to embarrass me?”He was so startled he stepped back. In a reflex action she pulledaway from him, and they stared at each other. “God Almighty, Abby,do you think she engineered this?”The ring of the telephone made them both jump. He looked at her.“You want me . . .”“Yes.” She held her hands up to her face. “I don’t give a goddamnwho’s calling. I’m not here.”“Senator Jennings’ residence.” Toby put on his butler’s voice. “MayI take a message for the Senator? She’s not available at the moment.”He winked at Abby and was rewarded by the trace of a smile. “ThePresident. . . . Oh, just a minute, sir.” He held his hand over themouthpiece. “Abby, the President is calling you. . . .”“Toby, don’t you dare . . .”“Abby, for chrissake, it’s the President! ”She clasped her hands to her lips, then came over and took thephone from him. “If this is your idea of a joke . . .” She got on.“Abigail Jennings.”Toby watched as her expression changed. “Mr. President. I’m sosorry. . . . I’m sorry . . . Some reading . . . That’s why I left word. . . .I’m sorry. . . . Yes, sir, of course. Yes, I can be at the White Housetomorrow evening . . . eight-thirty, of course. Yes, we’ve been quitebusy with this program. Frankly, I’m not comfortable being the subjectof this sort of thing. . . . Why, how kind of you. . . . Sir, you mean . .. I simply don’t know what to say. . . . Of course, I understand. . . .Thank you, sir.”She hung up. Dazed, she looked at Toby. “I’m not to tell a soul.He’s announcing his appointment of me tomorrow night after theprogram. He said it isn’t a bad idea the whole country gets to knowme a little better. He laughed about the Mirror cover. He said hismother was a big gal too, but that I’m much prettier now than when Iwas seventeen. Toby, I’m going to be Vice President of the UnitedStates!” She laughed hysterically and flung herself at him.“Abby, you did it!” He lifted her off her feet.An instant later her face twisted with tension. “Toby, nothing canhappen . . . Nothing must stop this. . . .”
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He put her down and covered both her hands in his. “Abby, I swear nothing will keep this from you.”She started to laugh and then began to cry. “Toby, I’m on a rollercoaster. You and that damn Scotch. You know I can’t drink. Toby— Vice President! ”He had to ease her down. His voice soothing, he said, “Later on we’lltake a ride over and just kind of cruise past your new house, Abby. You’refinally getting a mansion. Next stop Massachusetts Avenue.”“Toby, shut up. Just make me a cup of tea. I’m going to take ashower and try to collect myself. Vice President! My God, my God!”He put the kettle on and then, not bothering with a coat, walked tothe roadside mailbox and flipped it open. The usual collection of junk—coupons, contests, “You may have won two million dollars”. . . . Ninety-nine percent of Abby’s personal mail went through the office.Then he saw it. The blue envelope with the handwritten address.A personal note to Abby. He looked at the upper left-hand corner andfelt the blood drain from his face.The note was from Catherine Graney.
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Sam drove across town on n 7th Street, already a little late for hisnoon appointment with Larry Saggiotes of the National TransportationSafety Board.After he left Pat, he’d gone home and lain awake most of the night,his emotions shifting from anger to a sober examination of Pat’s charges.“Can I help you, sir?”“What? Oh, sorry.” Sheepishly Sam realized he’d been so deep inthought, he had arrived in the lobby of the FAA building withoutrealizing he had come through the revolving door. The security guardwas looking at him curiously.He went up to the eighth floor and gave his name to the receptionist.“It will be just a few minutes,” she said.Sam settled into a chair. Had Abigail and Willard Jennings beenhaving a violent argument that last day? he wondered. But that didn’thave to mean anything. He remembered there were times when he’dthreatened to quit Congress, to get a job that would provide some ofthe luxuries that Janice deserved. She’d argued with him and stormedat him, and anyone who heard them would have thought they couldn’tstand each other. Maybe the pilot’s widow did hear Abigail arguingwith Willard Jennings that day. Maybe Willard was disgusted aboutsomething and ready to give up politics and she didn’t want himburning his bridges. Sam had called his FBI friend Jack Carlson totrace the report of the crash.“Twenty-seven years ago? That could be a tough one,” Jack hadsaid. “The National Transportation Safety Board handlesinvestigations into crashes now, but that many years ago the CivilAeronautics Administration was in charge. Let me call you back.”At nine-thirty Jack had phoned back. “You’re in luck,” he’d saidlaconically. “Most records are shredded after ten years, but when
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prominent people are involved, the investigation reports are stored inthe Safety Board warehouse. They’ve got the data on accidentsinvolving everyone from Amelia Earhart and Carole Lombard to DagHammarskjöld and Hale Boggs. My contact at the board is LarrySaggiotes. He’ll get the report sent to his office, look it over. Hesuggests you come by about noon. He’ll review it with you.”“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Saggiotes will see you now.”Sam looked up. He had a feeling the receptionist had been tryingto get his attention. I’d better get with it, he thought. He followed herdown the corridor.Larry Saggiotes was a big man whose features and coloring reflectedhis Greek heritage. They exchanged greetings. Sam gave a carefullyedited explanation of why he’d wanted to investigate the crash.Larry settled back in his chair, frowning. “Nice day here, isn’t it?”he commented. “But it’s foggy in New York, icy in Minneapolis,pouring in Dallas. Yet in the next twenty-four hours one hundredtwenty thousand commercial, military and private planes will takeoff and land in this country. And the odds against any of them crashingare astronomical. That’s why when a plane that’s been checked outby an expert mechanic and flown by a master pilot on a day withgood visibility suddenly crashes into a mountain and is scattered overtwo square miles of rocky landscape, we’re not happy.”“The Jennings plane!”“The Jennings plane,” Larry confirmed. “I’ve just read the report.What happened? We don’t know. The last contact with George Graneywas when he left traffic control in Richmond. There was no suggestionof trouble. It was a routine two-hour flight. And then he was overdue.”“And the verdict was pilot error?” Sam asked.“ Probable cause, pilot error. It always ends up like that when wecan’t come up with other answers. It was a fairly new Cessna twin-engine, so their engineers were around to prove the plane was in greatshape. Willard Jennings’ widow cried her eyes out about how she’dhad a horror of small charter planes, that her husband had complainedabout rough landings with Graney.”“Did the possibility of foul play ever come up?”“Congressman, the possibility of foul play is always investigatedin a case like this. First we look for how it might have been done.Well, there are plenty of ways that are pretty hard to trace. For example,
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with all the magnetic tape being used today, a strong magnet hiddenin the cockpit could screw up all the instruments. Twenty-seven yearsago that wouldn’t have happened. But if anybody had fooled with thegenerator of Graney’s plane, maybe, frayed or cut a wire, Graneywould have had a complete loss of power right as he’s flying over amountain. The chances of recovering usable evidence would havebeen negligible.“The fuel switch would be another possibility. That plane had twotanks. The pilot switched to the second tank when the first tank’sneedle indicated it was empty. Suppose the switch wasn’t working?He wouldn’t have had a chance to use the second tank. Then, of course,we have corrosive acid. Somebody who doesn’t want a plane to makeit safely could have put a leaky container of the stuff on board. Itcould be in the luggage area, under a seat—wouldn’t matter. Thatwould eat through the cables within half an hour and there’d be nocontrolling the plane. But that would be easier to discover.”“Did any of this come up at the hearing?” Sam asked.“There weren’t enough pieces of that plane recovered to play PickUp Sticks. So the next thing we do is look for motive. And foundabsolutely none. Graney’s charter line was doing well; he hadn’t takenout any recent insurance. The Congressman was so poorly insured itwas amazing, but when you have family dough, you don’t needinsurance, I guess. Incidentally, this is the second request I’ve had fora copy of the report. Mrs. George Graney came in for one last week.”“Larry, if it’s at all possible, I’m trying to keep Senator Jenningsfrom being embarrassed by having this rehashed—and of course I’llstudy the report myself, but let me get this straight: was there anysuggestion that George Graney was an inexperienced or careless pilot?”“Absolutely none. He had an impeccable record, Congressman. Hehad been in air combat through the Korean War, then worked for Unitedfor a couple of years. This kind of flying was child’s play to him.”“How about his equipment?”“Always in top shape. His mechanics were good.”“So the pilot’s widow has a valid reason to be upset that the blamefor the crash got laid at George Graney’s doorstep.”Larry blew a smoke ring the size of a cruller. “You bet she does— more than valid.”
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At ten minutes past four, Pat managed to reach Sam from the lobbyof the Potomac Cable Network building. Without mentioning theirquarrel, she told him about Eleanor Brown. “I couldn’t stop her. Shewas determined to turn herself in.”“Calm down, Pat. I’ll send a lawyer to see her. How long will yoube at the network?”“I don’t know. Have you seen the Tribune today?”“Just the headlines.”“Read the second section. A columnist I met the other night heardwhere I lived and rehashed everything.”“Pat, I’ll be here. Come over when you finish at the network.”
Luther was waiting for her in his office. She had expected to betreated as a pariah. Instead, he was fairly restrained. “The Apple Junctionshooting went well,” he told her. “It snowed there yesterday and thatwhole cruddy backwoods looked like the American dream. We caughtthe Saunders house, the high school with the crèche in front and MainStreet with its Christmas tree. We put a sign in front of the town hall:‘Apple Junction, Birthplace of Senator Abigail Foster Jennings.’”Luther puffed on a cigarette. “That old lady, Margaret Langley,was a good interview. Kind of classy-looking and quaint. Nice touchhaving her talk about what a dedicated student the Senator was andshowing the yearbook.”Pat realized that somehow it had become Luther ’s idea to dobackground shots in Apple Junction. “Have you seen the footage fromlast night and this morning?” she asked.“Yes. It’s okay. You might have gotten a little more of Abigailactually working at her desk. The sequence at Christmas dinner was fine.”
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“Surely you’ve seen today’s Tribune? ”“Yes.” Luther ground his cigarette into the ashtray and reachedfor another one. His voice changed. Telltale red spots appeared in hischeeks. “Pat, would you mind laying your cards on the table andexplaining why you gave out that story?”“Why I what? ”Now the restraint in Luther ’s manner disappeared. “Maybe a lotof people would consider it coincidence that so much has happenedthis week to give the Senator sensational publicity. I happen not tobelieve in coincidence. I agree with what Abigail said after that firstpicture came out in the Mirror. You’ve been out from day one toforce us to produce this program your way. And I think you’ve usedevery trick in the books to get personal publicity for yourself. Thereisn’t anyone in Washington who isn’t talking about Pat Traymore.”“If you believe that, you ought to fire me.”“And give you more headlines? No way. But just as a matter ofcuriosity, will you answer a few questions for me?”“Go ahead.”“The first day in this office, I told you to edit out any reference toCongressman Adams and his wife. Did you know you were rentingtheir house?”“Yes, I did.”“Wouldn’t it have been natural to mention it?”“I don’t think so. I certainly edited out every single picture ofthem from the Senator’s material—and incidentally, I did a damngood job of it. Have you run through all those films?”“Yes. You did do a good job. Then suppose you tell me yourreasoning for the threats. Anyone who knows the BUSINESS wouldrealize that whether or not you worked on the program it was goingto be completed.”Pat chose her words carefully. “I think the threats were just that— threats . I don’t think anyone ever meant to harm me, just scare meoff. I think that someone is afraid to have the program made andthought that if I didn’t do it the project would be dropped.” She paused,then added deliberately, “That person couldn’t know I’m just afigurehead in a campaign to make Abigail Jennings Vice President.”
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“Are you trying to insinuate . . .?”“No, not insinuate: state. Look, I fell for it. I fell for being hired sofast, for being rushed down here to do three months’ work in a week,for having the material for the program spoon-fed to me by you andthe Senator. The little claim this program will have to being an honestdocumentary is because of the segments I had to force down yourthroats. It’s only because of the rotten publicity I’ve inadvertentlycaused Abigail Jennings that I’m going to do my best to make thisprogram work for her. But I warn you, when it’s over, there are somethings I intend to investigate.”“Such as . . . ?”“Such as Eleanor Brown, the girl who was convicted of embezzlingthe campaign funds. I saw her today. She was about to turn herself into the police. And she swears she never touched that money.”“Eleanor Brown turned herself in?” Luther interrupted. “We canmake a plus out of that. As a parole violator, she won’t get bail.”“Congressman Kingsley is trying to have bail set.”“That’s a mistake. I’ll see that she stays put until the Presidentmakes his appointment. After that, who cares? She had a fair trial.We’ll talk about the case on the program just as we’ve written it, onlywe’ll add the fact that because of the program she turned herself in.That’ll spike her guns if she wants to make trouble.”Pat felt that somehow she had betrayed her trust. “I happen to thinkthat girl is innocent, and if she is, I’ll fight to get her a new trial.”“She’s guilty,” Luther snapped. “Otherwise why did she breakparole? She’s probably gone through that seventy thousand bucksnow and wants to be able to stop running. Don’t forget: a panel ofjurors convicted her unanimously. You still believe in the jury system,I hope? Now, is there anything else? Any single thing that you knowthat could reflect badly on the Senator?”She told him about Catherine Graney.“So she’s talking about suing the network?” Luther lookedimmensely pleased. “And you’re worried about that?”“If she starts gossiping about the Jennings marriage . . . the veryfact that the Senator wasn’t left a penny by her mother-in-law. . . .”“Abigail will have the wholehearted support of every woman in
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America who’s put up with a miserable mother-in-law. As far as theJennings marriage goes, it’s this Graney woman’s word against theSenator and Toby . . . don’t forget he was a witness to their last timetogether. And what about the letter you gave me that the Senatorwrote to her husband? That’s dated only a few days before he died.”“We assume that. Someone else could point out that she neverfilled in the year. ”“She can fill it in now if necessary. Anything else?”“To the best of my knowledge those are the only two places wherethe Senator might have unfavorable publicity. I’m prepared to givemy word of honor on that.”“All right.” Luther seemed appeased. “I’m taking a crew to tapethe Senator going into her home this evening—that end-of-the-dayworking scene.”“Don’t you want me at that taping?”“I want you as far away from Abigail Jennings as you can get untilshe has time to calm down. Pat, have you read your contract with thisnetwork carefully?”“I think so.”“Then you do realize we have the right to cancel your employmenthere for a specified cash settlement? Frankly, I don’t buy the cock-and-bull story that someone is trying to keep this program from beingmade. But I almost admire you for having made yourself a householdword in Washington, and you’ve done it by piggybacking onto awoman who’s dedicated her whole life to public service.”“Have you read my contract?” Pat asked.“I wrote it.”“Then you do know you gave me creative control of the projectsto which I’m assigned. Do you think you’ve fulfilled my contractthis week?” She opened the door of Luther’s office, sure that everyonein the newsroom was listening to them.Luther ’s last words echoed through the room: “By this time nextweek the terms of your contract will be moot.”It was one of the few times in her life that Pat slammed a door.
Fifteen minutes later she was giving her name to the desk clerk inSam’s apartment building.
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Sam was waiting in the hallway when the elevator stopped at hisfloor. “Pat, you look bushed,” he told her.“I am.” Wearily she looked up at him. He was wearing the sameArgyle sweater he’d had on the night before. With a stab of pain shenoted again how it brought out the blueness of his eyes. He took herarm and they walked down the long corridor.Inside the apartment, her immediate impression was surprise atthe decor. Charcoal gray sectional furniture was grouped in the centerof the room. The walls had a number of good prints and a few first-class paintings. The carpet was wall-to-wall in a tweedy gray-black-and-white combination.Somehow in Sam’s home she’d expected a more traditional look—a couch with arms, easy chairs, family pieces. An Oriental, howeverworn, would have been a distinct improvement over the carpet. Heasked her what she thought of the place and she told him.Sam’s eyes crinkled. “You sure know how to get invited back,don’t you? You’re right, of course. I wanted to make a clean sweep,start over, and naturally outdid myself. I agree. This place does looklike a motel lobby.”“Then why stay here? I gather you have other options.”“Oh, the apartment is fine,” Sam said easily. “It’s just the furniturethat bugs me. I rang out the old but didn’t know exactly what the newwas supposed to be.”It was a half-joking statement that suddenly assumed too much weight.“By any chance, do you have a Scotch for a tired lady?” she asked.“Sure do.” He went over to the bar. “Lots of soda, one ice cube,twist of lemon if possible, but don’t worry if you’re out of lemon.”He smiled.“I’m sure I don’t sound that wimpy.”“Not wimpy, just considerate.” He mixed the drinks and placedthem on the cocktail table. “Sit down and don’t be so fidgety. Howdid the studio go?”“By this time next week I probably won’t have a job. You see,Luther really thinks I’m pulling all this as a publicity stunt and herather admires my moxie for trying it.”“I think Abigail has somewhat the same view.”
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Pat raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you’d be the first to know. Sam, Ihardly expected to call you so quickly after last night. In fact, my guesswould have been a nice three-month cooling-off period before we metas disinterested friends. But I do need some help fast, and I certainlycan’t look to Luther Pelham for it. So I’m afraid you’re elected.”“Not exactly the reason I’d choose to hear from you, but I’m gladto be of service.”Sam was different today. She could feel it. It was as though thatvacillating aimlessness were missing. “Sam, there was somethingelse about the break-in.” As calmly as possible, she told him aboutthe Raggedy Ann doll. “And now the doll is gone.”“Pat, are you telling me that someone has been back in your housewithout you knowing it?”“Yes.”“Then you’re not going to spend another minute there.”Restlessly she got up and walked over to the window. “That isn’tthe answer. Sam, in a crazy way the fact that the doll is gone is almostreassuring. I don’t think whoever has been threatening me reallyintends to hurt me. Otherwise he certainly would have done it. I thinkhe’s afraid of what the program might do to him. And I’ve got someideas.” Quickly she explained her analysis of the Eleanor Brown case.“If Eleanor Brown wasn’t lying, Toby was. If Toby was lying, theSenator was covering up for him, and that seems incredible. Butsuppose another person was involved who could imitate Toby’s voice,who knew about Eleanor ’s storeroom and planted just enough of themoney to make her look guilty?”“How do you explain the doll and the threats?”“I think someone who knew me when I was little, and may haverecognized me, is trying to scare me and stop this program. Sam,what do you make of this? Toby knew me when I was little. Toby hasbecome truly hostile toward me. I thought at first it was because ofthe Senator and all the bad publicity, but the other day he kept eyeingthe library as though he was casing it. And after he left, he let himselfback in. He didn’t realize I intended to follow him to slide the safetybolt. He tried to say he was just testing the lock and that anyonecould get in and I should be careful. I fell for that—but Sam, I really
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am nervous about him. Could you have him checked out and see ifhe’s ever been in trouble? I mean real trouble?”“Yes, I can. I never liked that bird myself.” He came up behindher, put his arms around her waist. In an instinctive reaction she leanedback against him. “I’ve missed you, Pat.”“Since last night?”“No, since two years ago.”“You could have fooled me.” For a moment she gave herself up tothe sheer joy of being close to him; then she turned and faced him.“Sam, a little residual affection doesn’t add up to what I want. Sowhy don’t you just . . .”His arms were tight around her. His lips were no longer tentative.“I’m fresh out of residual affection.”For long moments they stood there, silhouetted against the window.Finally Pat stepped back. Sam let her go. They looked at eachother. “Pat,” he said, “everything you said last night was true exceptone thing. There is absolutely nothing between Abigail and me. Canyou give me a little time to find myself again? I didn’t know until Isaw you this week that I’ve been functioning like a zombie.”She tried to smile. “You seem to forget, I need some time too.Memory Lane isn’t as simple as I expected it to be.”“Do you think you’re getting honest impressions of that night?”“Honest, perhaps, but not particularly desirable. I’m beginning tobelieve my mother may have been the one who went crazy that night,and somehow that’s harder.”“Why do you think that?”“It’s not why I think it, but why she may have snapped that interestsme now. Well, one more day and ‘The Life and Times of AbigailJennings’ will be presented to the world. And at that point I startdoing some real investigating. I just wish to God this whole thingwasn’t so rushed. Sam, there’s too much that doesn’t hang together.And I don’t care what Luther Pelham thinks. That segment about theplane crash is going to blow up in Abigail’s face. Catherine Graneymeans business.”She declined his invitation to dinner. “This has been a gruelingday. I was up at four o’clock to get ready for the Senator ’s office, andtomorrow we finish taping. I’m going to fix a sandwich and be in bedby nine o’clock.”
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At the door, he held her once more. “When I’m seventy, you’ll beforty-nine.”“And when you’re one hundred and three, I’ll be eighty-two. You’llget a trace on Toby and you’ll let me know when you hear anythingabout Eleanor Brown?”“Of course.”When Pat left, Sam phoned Jack Carlson and quickly told himwhat Pat had confided.Jack whistled. “You mean that guy’s been back? Sam, you reallyhave a loony. Sure we can check this Toby character, but do me afavor. Get me a sample of his handwriting, can you?”
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Detective Barrott was kind. He believed she was telling the truth.But the older detective was hostile. Over and over Eleanor answeredthe same questions from him.How could she tell them where she was keeping seventy thousanddollars that she’d never even seen?Was she angry at Patricia Traymore for preparing the programthat might force her out of hiding? No, of course not. At first she wasafraid and then she knew she couldn’t hide anymore, that she’d beglad if it were over.Did she know where Patricia Traymore lived? Yes, Father hadtold her that Patricia Traymore lived in the Adams house inGeorgetown. He’d shown her that house once. He’d been on theambulance squad of Georgetown Hospital when that awful tragedyhad happened. Break into that house? Of course not. How could she?In the cell she sat on the edge of the bunk wondering how shecould have thought she was strong enough to go back into this world.The steel bars and the insulting intimacy of the open toilet, the senseof entrapment, the haunting depression that like a black fog wasbeginning to envelop her.She lay on the bunk and wondered where Father had gone. It wasimpossible that they seemed to be suggesting he would deliberatelyhurt anyone. He was the kindest man she had ever known. But he hadbeen terribly nervous after Mrs. Gillespie died.She hoped he wouldn’t be angry that she had given herself up.They would have arrested her anyway. She was sure Detective Barrottwas planning to investigate her.Had Father gone away? Probably. With growing concern Eleanorthought of the many times he had changed jobs. Where was he now?
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Arthur had an early dinner in a cafeteria on 14th Street. He chosebeef stew, lemon meringue pie and coffee. He ate slowly and carefully.It was important that he eat well now. It might be days before he hada hot meal again.His plans were made. After dark he would go back to PatriciaTraymore’s house. He’d slip in through the upstairs window. He’d settlehimself in the closet in the guest room. He’d bring cans of soda; he stillhad one of the Danish pastries and two of the rolls from this morningin his pocket. He’d better pick up some cans of juice too. And maybehe should get some peanut butter and rye bread. That would be enoughto hold him over until he saw the program the next night.He had to spend ninety of his precious dollars on a miniature black-and-white TV with a headset. That way he could watch the programright in Patricia Traymore’s house.On the way to her house, he’d buy caffeine pills in the drugstore.He couldn’t take the chance of crying out in his sleep. Oh, she’dprobably never hear him from her room, but he couldn’t risk it.Forty minutes later he was in Georgetown, two streets from PatriciaTraymore’s home. The whole area was quiet, more quiet than he wouldhave liked. Now that the Christmas shopping was over, a strangerwas more likely to be noticed. The police might even be keeping awatch on Miss Traymore’s house. But the fact that she had the cornerproperty helped. The house behind hers was dark.Arthur slipped into the yard of the unlighted house. The woodenfence that separated the backyards wasn’t high. He dropped hisshopping bag over the fence, making sure that it slid down onto asnowbank, and then easily climbed over.He waited. There wasn’t a sound. Miss Traymore’s car wasn’t inthe driveway. Her house was totally dark.It was awkward getting up the tree with the shopping bag. Thetrunk was icy and hard to grasp; he could feel its rough coldnessthrough his gloves. Without the tiers of branches, he could not havemade it. The window was stiff and hard to raise. When he steppedover the sill into the room, the floorboards creaked heavily.For agonizing minutes he waited by the window, ready to bolt outagain, to clamber down the tree and run across the yard. But therewas only silence in the house. That and the occasional rumble of the furnace.
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He began to organize his hiding place in the closet. To hissatisfaction he realized that the shelves were not attached to the walls.If he spread them out just a little, they would look as though theywere touching the walls and no one would realize how much spacehe had in the triangular area behind him.Carefully he began to set up his secret place. He selected a thickquilt and laid it on the floor. It was large enough to use as a sleepingbag. He set up his supplies of food and his television set. There werefour king-size pillows on the lowest shelf.In a few minutes he was settled. Now he needed to explore.Unfortunately, she hadn’t left any lights on. It meant he could movearound only by holding his flashlight very low to the floor so nogleam could show out the window. Several times he practiced goingback and forth between the guest bedroom and the master suite. Hetested the floorboards and found the one that creaked.It took him twelve seconds to make his way down the hall fromhis closet to Pat’s room. He crept into her room and over to the vanitytable. He had never seen such pretty objects. Her comb and mirrorand brushes were all decorated with ornate silver. He took the stopperfrom the perfume bottle and inhaled the subtle fragrance.Then he went into the bathroom, noticed her negligee on the backof the door and tentatively touched it. Angrily he thought that thiswas the kind of clothing Glory would enjoy.Had the police gone to Glory’s office to question her? She shouldbe home now. He wanted to talk to her.He made his way over to the bed, found the phone on the nighttable and dialed. After the fourth ring he began to frown. She hadtalked about turning herself in to the police, but she would never dothat after having promised she’d wait. No, she was probably lying inbed, trembling, waiting to see if her picture was shown on the programtomorrow night.He replaced the phone on the night table but sat crouched by Pat’sbed. Already he missed Glory. He was keenly aware of the solitaryquiet of the house. But he knew that soon his voices would come tojoin him.
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“That was fine, Senator,” Luther said. “Sorry I had to ask you tochange. But we did want the look of a single working day, so you hadto be wearing the same outfit coming home as going out.”“It’s all right. I should have realized that,” Abigail said shortly.They were in her living room. The camera crew were packingtheir equipment. Toby could see that Abigail had no intention ofoffering Pelham a drink. She just wanted to be rid of him.Luther was obviously getting the message. “Hurry up,” he snappedat the crew. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. “I know it’s been a longday for you, Abigail. Just one more session in the studio tomorrowmorning and we’ll wrap it up.”“That will be the happiest moment in my life.”Toby wished Abigail could relax. They’d gone for a drive andpassed the Vice President’s mansion a couple of times. Abby hadeven joked about it: “Can you imagine what the columnists wouldsay if they saw me casing the place?” But as soon as the camera crewarrived, she’d tensed up again.Pelham was putting on his coat. “The President has called a newsconference for nine P.M. in the East Room tomorrow night. Are youplanning to be there, Abigail?”“I believe I’ve been invited,” she said.“That makes our timing excellent. The program will run betweensix-thirty and seven, so there won’t be a schedule conflict for the viewers.”“I’m sure all of Washington is fainting with anticipation,” Abigailsaid. “Luther, I really am terribly tired.”“Of course. Forgive me. I’ll see you in the morning. Nine o’clock,if that’s all right.”“One minute more and I’d have gone mad,” Abigail said when
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she and Toby were finally alone. “And when I think all this isabsolutely unnecessary . . .”“No, it’s not unnecessary, Senator,” Toby said soothingly. “Youstill have to be confirmed by Congress. Sure, you’ll get a majority,but it would be nice if a lot of people sent telegrams cheering yournomination along. The program can do that for you.”“In that case it will be worth it.”“Abby, is there anything more you want me for tonight?”“No, I’m going to bed early and read until I fall asleep. It’s been along day.” She smiled, and he could see she was starting to unwind.“Which waitresses are you chasing now? Or is it a poker game?”
Pat got home at six-thirty. She switched on the foyer light, but thestairs past the turn remained in shadow. Her father ’s angry words suddenly echoed in her ears: “Youshouldn’t have come.”That last night the bell had run insistently; her father had openedthe door; someone had brushed past him, that person had been lookingup—that is why she was so scared; Daddy was angry and she wasafraid she’d been seen. Her hand shook as she placed it on the banister. There’s no usegetting upset, she thought. It’s just that I’m overtired and it’s been arough day. I’ll get comfortable and fix some dinner.In her bedroom she undressed quickly and reached for the robe onthe back of the door, then decided she would wear the brown velourcaftan instead. It was warm and comfortable.At her dressing table she tied back her hair and began to creamher face. Mechanically her fingertips moved over her skin, rotatingin the pattern the beautician had taught her, pressing for an instantagainst her temples, touching the faint scar near her hairline.The furniture behind her was reflected in the mirror; the posts of thebed seemed like tall sentinels. She looked intently into the mirror. Shehad heard that if you picture an imaginary dot on your forehead andstare into it you can hypnotize yourself and retreat back into the past.For a full minute she concentrated on the imaginary dot, and had theodd sensation of watching herself walking backward into a tunnel . . .and it seemed she was not alone. She had a sense of another presence.
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Ridiculous. She was getting lightheaded and fanciful.Going downstairs to the kitchen, she fixed an omelette, coffeeand toast and forced herself to eat.The kitchen had a cozy, calming warmth. She and her mother andfather must sometimes have eaten together here. Did she have a vaguerecollection of sitting on her father ’s lap at this table? Veronica hadshown her their last Christmas card. It was signed Dean, Renée andKerry. She said the names aloud, “Dean, Renée and Kerry” andwondered why the cadence seemed wrong.Rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher was a reasonfor delaying what she knew must be done. She had to study thatnewspaper article and see if it divulged any new facts about Deanand Renée Adams.The paper was still on the library table. Opening it to the centerspread, she forced herself to read every line of the text. Much of itshe already knew but that did not help to deaden the pain . . .” Thegun smeared with both their fingerprints . . . Dean Adams had diedinstantly from the bullet wound in his forehead . . . Renée Adamsmight have lived a short time. . . .” One column emphasized the rumorsher neighbors had gleefully picked up at the party: the marriage wasclearly unhappy, Renée had urged her husband to leave Washington,she despised the constant round of receptions, she was jealous of theattention her husband attracted from other women. . . .That quote from a neighbor: “She was clearly besotted with him—and he had a roving eye.”There were persistent rumors that Renée, not Dean, had fired thegun. At the inquest, Renée’s mother had attempted to squelch thatspeculation. “It is not a mystery,” she said, “it is a tragedy. Only a fewdays before she was murdered, my daughter told me she was cominghome with Kerry and would file for divorce and custody. I believethat her decision triggered his violence.”She could have been right, Pat thought. I remember tripping overa body. Why am I sure it was Mother ’s, not his? She wasn’t sure. She studied the informal snapshots that covered most of the secondpage. Willard Jennings was so scholarly-looking. Catherine Graneyhad said that he wanted to give up Congress and accept a collegepresidency. And Abigail had been an absolutely beautiful young
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woman. There was one rather blurred snapshot sandwiched in amongthe others. Pat glanced at it several times, then moved the paper sothat the light shone directly on it.It was a candid shot that had been taken on the beach. Her father,her mother and Abigail were in a group with two other people. Hermother was absorbed in a book. The two strangers were lying onblankets, their eyes closed. The camera had caught her father and Abigaillooking at each other. There was no mistaking the air of intimacy.There was a magnifying glass in the desk. Pat found it and held itover the picture. Magnified, Abigail’s expression became rapturous.Her father’s eyes were tender as they looked down at her. Their handswere touching.Pat folded the newspaper. What did the pictures mean? A casualflirtation? Her father had been attractive to women, probablyencouraged their attention. Abigail had been a beautiful young widow.Maybe that was all it amounted to.As always when she was troubled, Pat turned to music. In theliving room she plugged in the Christmas-tree lights and impulsivelyswitched off the chandelier. At the piano she let her fingers rove overthe keys until she found the soft notes of Beethoven’s Pathétique .Sam had been himself again today, the way she’d rememberedhim, strong and confident. He needed time. Of course he did. So didshe. Two years ago they’d felt so torn and guilty about theirrelationship. Now it could be different.Her father and Abigail Jennings. Had they been involved? Had shejust been one in a string of casual affairs? Her father might have beena ladies’ man. Why not? He was certainly attractive, and it was thestyle among rising young politicians then—look at the Kennedys. . . .Eleanor Brown. Had the lawyer been able to arrange bail for her?Sam hadn’t phoned. Eleanor is innocent, Pat told herself—I am sureof it.Liszt’s Liebestraum. That was what she was playing now. And theBeethoven. She had unconsciously chosen both those pieces the othernight as well. Had her mother played them here? The mood of bothof them was the same, plaintive and lonely.
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“Renée, listen to me. Stop playing and listen to me.” “I can’t. Letme alone.” The voices—his troubled and urgent, hers despairing. They quarreled so much, Pat thought. After the quarrels she wouldplay for hours. But sometimes, when she was happy, she’d put me onthe bench next to her. “No, Kerry, this way. Put your fingers here . .. She can pick out the notes when I hum them. She’s a natural.” Pat felt her hands beginning the opening notes of Mendelsohn’s Opus 30, Number 3, another piece that suggested pain. She stood up.There were too many ghosts in this room.Sam phoned just as she was starting up the stairs again. “Theywon’t release Eleanor Brown. They’re afraid she’ll jump bail. It seemsthe man she’s living with is a suspect in some nursing-home deaths.”“Sam, I can’t stand thinking of that girl in a cell.”“Frank Crowley, the lawyer I sent, thinks she’s telling the truth.He’s getting a transcript of her trial in the morning. We’ll do what wecan for her, Pat. It may not be much, I’m afraid. . . . How are you?”“Just about to turn in.”“The place locked up?”“Bolted tight.”“Good. Pat, it may be all over but the shouting. Quite a few of ushave been invited to the White House tomorrow night. The President’smaking an important announcement. Your name is on the media list.I checked.”“Sam, do you think . . .?”“I just don’t know. The money’s on Abigail, but the President isreally playing it close. None of the possible appointees has been givenSecret Service protection yet. That’s always a tip-off. I guess thePresident wants to keep everyone guessing until the last minute. Butno matter who gets it, you and I will go out and celebrate.”“Suppose you don’t agree with his choice?”“At this point I don’t give a damn whom he chooses. I’ve gotother things in mind. I want to celebrate just being with you. I wantto catch up on the last two years. After we stopped seeing each other,the only way I could get over missing you was to tell myself why itwouldn’t have worked even if I was free. After a while, I guess Istarted to believe my own lies.”Pat’s laugh was shaky. She blinked back the sudden moisture inher eyes. “Apology accepted.”
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“Then I want to talk about not wasting any more of our lives.”“I thought you needed more time. . . .”“Neither of us does.” Even his voice was different—confident,strong, the way she had remembered it all those nights she had lainawake thinking about him. “Pat, I fell hopelessly in love with youthat day on Cape Cod. Nothing will ever change that. I’m so damngrateful you waited for me.”“I had no choice. Oh, God, Sam, it’s going to be marvelous. I loveyou so.”For minutes after they said goodbye, Pat stood with her hand restingon the telephone as though by touching it, she could hear again everysingle word Sam had uttered. Finally, still smiling softly, she startedup the stairs. A sudden creaking sound overhead startled her. Sheknew what it was. That one board on the upstairs landing which alwaysmoved when she stepped on it.Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself.The hallway was poorly lit by flame-shaped bulbs in wall sconces.She started to go into her bedroom, then impulsively turned and walkedtoward the back of the house. Deliberately she stepped on the looseboard and listened as it responded with a distinct creaking. I’d swearthat’s the sound I heard. She went into her old bedroom. Her footstepsechoed on the uncarpeted floor. The room was stuffy and hot.The door of the guest bedroom was not quite closed. It was muchcooler in there. She felt a draft and walked over to the window. Thewindow was open from the top. She tried to close it, then realized thesash cord was broken. That’s what it is, she thought; there’s probablyenough draft to make the door sway. Even so, she opened the closetand glanced at the shelves of bedding and linen.In her room she undressed quickly and got into bed. It wasridiculous to still feel so jittery. Think about Sam; think about the lifethat they would have together.Her last impression before she began to doze was the strangefeeling that she was not alone. It didn’t make sense, but she was tootired to think about it.
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With a sigh of relief, Catherine Graney reversed the sign on theshop door from “OPEN” to “CLOSED.” For the day after Christmas,business had been unexpectedly brisk. A buyer from Texas had boughtthe pair of Rudolstadt figure candelabra, the marquetry game tablesand the Stouk carpet. It had been a most impressive sale.Catherine turned off the lights in her shop and went upstairs to herapartment, Sligo at her heels. She had laid a fire that morning. Nowshe touched a match to the paper under the kindling. Sligo settled inhis favorite spot.Going into the kitchen, she began to fix dinner. Next week whenyoung George was here she’d enjoy cooking big meals. But a chopand a salad were all she wanted now.George had called her the day before to wish her a merry Christmasand to tell her the news. He’d been promoted to major. “Twenty-seven years old and an oak leaf already” she’d exclaimed. “By God,would your Dad be proud.”Catherine put her chop under the broiler. One more good reasonnot to let Abigail Jennings smear George senior ’s name any longer.She wondered what Abigail had thought of the letter. She had workedand reworked it before mailing it Christmas Eve.
I must insist you take the opportunity on the upcomingprogram to publicly acknowledge that there has neverbeen a shred of proof to indicate that pilot error causedyour husband’s fatal accident. It is not enough to nolonger smear George Graney’s reputation: you mustset the record straight. If you do not, I will sue you forlibel and reveal your true relationship with WillardJennings.
At eleven o’clock she watched the news. At eleven-thirty Sligonuzzled her hand. “I know,” she groaned. “Okay, get your leash.”The evening was dark. Earlier there’d been some stars, but nowthe sky was clouded over. The breeze was raw, and Catherine pulledup the collar of her coat. “This is going to be one quick walk,” shetold Sligo.There was a path through the woods near her house. Usually sheand Sligo cut through there and then walked back around the block.
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Now he strained at the leash, rushing her through the path to hisfavorite bushes and trees. Then he stopped abruptly and a low growlcame from his throat.“Come on,” Catherine said impatiently. All that she’d need wouldbe for him to go after a skunk.Sligo leaped forward. Bewildered, Catherine watched as a handshot out and grabbed the old animal in a lock around the neck. Therewas a sickening cracking sound, and Sligo’s limp body dropped ontothe hardened snow.Catherine tried to scream, but no sound came. The hand that hadsnapped Sligo’s neck was raised over her head, and in the instantbefore she died, Catherine Graney finally understood what hadhappened that long-ago day.
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On the morning of December 27, Sam got up at seven, reread the transcriptof the CAA investigation into the crash that had killed CongressmanWillard Jennings, underlined a particular sentence and phoned JackCarlson. “How are you coming with that report on Toby Gorgone?”“I’ll have it by eleven.”“Are you free for lunch? I have something to show you.” It wasthe sentence from the transcript: “Congressman Jennings’ chauffeur,Toby Gorgone, placed his luggage on the plane.” Sam wanted toread the report on Toby before discussing it.They agreed to meet at the Gangplank Restaurant at noon.Next Sam phoned Frank Crowley, the attorney he’d hired torepresent Eleanor Brown, and invited him to the same lunch. “Canyou have the transcript of Eleanor Brown’s trial with you?”“I’ll make sure I have it, Sam.”The coffee was perking. Sam poured a cup and turned on thekitchen radio. Most of the nine-o ’clock news was over. Theweatherman was now promising a partly sunny day. The temperaturewould be in the low thirties. And then the headlines were recapped,including the fact that the body of a prominent antiques dealer, Mrs.Catherine Graney of Richmond, had been found in a wooded areanear her home. Her dog’s neck had been broken. Police believed theanimal had died trying to defend her.Catherine Graney dead! Just as she’d been about to blow open apotential scandal involving Abigail. “I don’t believe in coincidence,”Sam said aloud. “I just don’t believe in it.”For the rest of the morning he agonized over his suspicions. Several
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times he reached for the phone to call the White House. Each time hewithdrew his hand. He had absolutely no proof that Toby Gorgonewas anything but what he appeared to be, a devoted bodyguard-chauffeur for Abigail. Even if Toby was guilty of the crime, he hadabsolutely no proof that Abigail was aware of his activities.The President would announce the appointment of Abigail thatnight. Sam was sure of it. But the confirmation hearings were severalweeks away. There would be time to launch a thorough investigation.And this time I’ll make sure there’s no whitewash, he thought grimly.Somehow Sam was sure that Toby was responsible for the threatsto Pat. If he had anything to hide, he wouldn’t want her digging intothe past.If he turned out to be the one who had threatened her . . .Sam clenched his hands into fists. He was no longer thinking ofhimself as a grandfather-to-be.Abigail twisted her hands nervously. “We should have left earlier,”she said, “we’re in all the traffic. Step on it.”“Don’t worry, Senator,” Toby said soothingly. “They can’t starttaping without you. How did you sleep?”“I kept waking up. All I could think of was ‘I am going to be VicePresident of the United States.’ Turn on the radio. Let’s see whatthey’re saying about me. . . .”The eight-thirty CBS news was just beginning. “Rumors persistthat the reason the President has called a news conference for thisevening is to announce his choice of either Senator Abigail Jenningsor Senator Claire Lawrence as Vice President of the United States,the first woman to be so honored.” And then: “In a tragic coincidence,it has been learned that Mrs. Catherine Graney, the Richmond antiquesdealer found murdered while walking her dog, is the widow of thepilot who died twenty-seven years ago in a plane crash withCongressman Willard Jennings. Abigail Jennings began her politicalcareer when she was appointed to complete her husband’s term. . . .”“Toby!”He glanced into the rearview mirror. Abigail looked shocked.“Toby, how awful.”“Yeah, it’s lousy.” He watched as Abigail’s expression hardened.
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“I’ll never forget how Willard’s mother went to that woman andsat with her when the plane was overdue. She never even called tosee how I was.”“Well, they’re together now, Abby. Look how fast the traffic ismoving. We’ll be at the studio right on time.”As they pulled into the private parking area, Abigail asked quietly,“What did you do last night, Toby-play poker or have a date?”“I saw the little lady from Steakburger and spent the evening withher. Why? You checking on me? You want to talk to her, Senator?”Now his tone had an indignant edge.“No, of course not. You’re welcome to your cocktail waitresses,on your own time. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”“I did. I haven’t been taking much personal time lately.”“I know. I’ve kept you awfully busy.” Her voice was conciliatory.“It’s just . . .”“Just what, Senator?”“Nothing . . . nothing at all.”
At eight o’clock Eleanor was taken for a lie-detector test. She hadslept surprisingly well. She remembered that first night in a cell elevenyears ago when she had suddenly started to scream. “You expressedacute claustrophobia that night,” a psychiatrist had told her after thebreakdown. But now there was a curious peacefulness about notrunning anymore.Could Father have hurt those old people? Eleanor racked her brain,trying to remember a single example of his being anything but kindand gentle. There was none.“This door.” The matron led her into a small room near thecellblock. Detective Barrott was reading the newspaper. She was gladhe was there. He didn’t treat her as though she were a liar. He lookedup at her and smiled.Even when another man came in and hooked her to the lie-detectormachine, she didn’t start to cry the way she had after her arrest forstealing from the Senator. Instead, she sat in the chair, held up herdoll and a little embarrassed, asked if they’d mind if she kept it withher. They didn’t act as though it were a crazy request. Frank Crowley,
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that nice fatherly-looking man who was her lawyer, came in. She hadtried to explain to him yesterday that she couldn’t pay him more thanthe nearly five hundred dollars she’d saved, but he told her not toworry about it.“Eleanor, you can still refuse to take this test,” he told her now,and she said that she understood.At first the man who was giving her the test asked simple, evensilly, questions about her age and education and her favorite food.Then he started asking the ones she’d been gearing herself to hear.“Have you ever stolen-anything?”“No.”“Not even anything small, like a crayon or a piece of chalk whenyou were little?”The last time she’d been asked that, she’d started sobbing, “I’mnot a thief. I’m not a thief.” But now it wasn’t that hard. She pretendedshe was talking to Detective Barrott, not this brusque, impersonalstranger. “I’ve never, ever stolen anything in my life,” she saidearnestly. “Not even a crayon or a piece of chalk. I couldn’t takeanything that belonged to anyone else.”“What about the bottle of perfume when you were in high school?”“ I did not steal it. I swear to you. I forgot to give it to the clerk!”“How often do you drink? Every day?”“Oh, no. I just have wine sometimes, and not very much. It makesme sleepy.” She noticed that Detective Barrott smiled.“Did you take the seventy-five thousand dollars from SenatorJennings’ campaign office?”Last time during the test, she’d gotten hysterical at that question.Now she simply said, “No, I did not.”“But you put five thousand dollars of that money in your storageroom, didn’t you?”“No, I did not.”“Then how do you think it got there?”The questions went on and on. “Did you lie when you claimedToby Gorgone phoned?”“No, I did not.”“You’re sure it was Toby Gorgone?”
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“I thought it was. If it wasn’t, it sounded just like him.”Then the incredible questions began: “Did you know Arthur Stevenswas a suspect in the death of one of his patients, a Mrs. Anita Gillespie?”She almost lost control. “No, I did not. I can’t believe that.” Thenshe remembered the way he’d yelled in his sleep: “Close your eyes,Mrs. Gillespie. Close your eyes! ”“You do believe it’s possible. It shows up right in this test.”“No,” she whispered. “Father could never have hurt anyone, onlyhelp them. He takes it so to heart when one of his patients is in pain.”“Do you think he might try to stop the pain?”“I don’t know what you mean.”“I think you do. Eleanor, Arthur Stevens tried to set fire to thenursing home on Christmas Day.”“That’s impossible.”The shock of what she was hearing made Eleanor blanch. Horrified,she stared at the interrogator as he asked his last question: “Did you everhave any reason to suspect that Arthur Stevens was a homicidal maniac?”
During the night Arthur swallowed caffeine pills every two hours.He could not risk falling asleep and calling out. Instead he sat crouchedin the closet, too tense to lie down, staring into the dark.He’d been so careless. When Patricia Traymore came home, he’dlistened at the door of the closet to the sounds of her moving aroundthe house. He’d heard the roar of the pipes when she showered; she’dgone back downstairs and he’d smelled coffee perking. Then she hadbegun playing the piano. Knowing it was safe to go out, he’d sat onthe landing listening to the music.That was when the voices started talking to him again, telling himthat when this was over he must find a new nursing home where hecould continue his mission. He’d been so deep in meditation that hehadn’t realized that the music had stopped, hadn’t thought about wherehe was until he heard Patricia Traymore’s footsteps on the stairs.In his rush to get to his hiding place he’d stepped on the looseboard, and she had known something was wrong. He hadn’t dared to
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breathe when she opened the door of the closet. But of course it neveroccurred to her to look behind the shelves.And so he had kept watch all night, straining for the sounds of herawakening, glad when she finally left the house, but afraid to leavethe closet for more than a few minutes at a time. A housekeeper mightcome in and hear him.The long hours passed. Then the voices directed him to take thebrown robe from Patricia Traymore’s closet and put it on.If she had betrayed Glory, he would be suitably clothed to meteout her punishment.
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Pat arrived at the network building at nine thirty-five and decided tohave coffee and an English muffin in the drugstore. She wasn’t readyfor the charged atmosphere, underlying irritability and explosivenerves that she knew would be waiting on this final day of taping andediting. Her head was vaguely throbbing, her whole body sore. Sheknew that she had slept restlessly and that her dreams had beentroubled. At one point she had cried out, but she couldn’t rememberwhat she had said;In the car she had turned on the news and learned about CatherineGraney’s death. She couldn’t put the image of the woman out of hermind. The way her face had brightened when she talked about herson; the affectionate pat she had given her aging Irish setter. CatherineGraney would have followed through on her threat to sue SenatorJennings and the network after the program was aired. Her death hadended that threat.Had she been the random victim of a mugger? The report had saidshe was walking her dog. What was his name? Sligo? It seemed unlikelythat a criminal would choose to attack a woman with a large dog.Pat pushed back the English muffin. She wasn’t hungry. Only threedays ago she had shared coffee with Catherine Graney. Now thatattractive, vibrant woman was dead.When she reached the studio, Luther was already on the set, hisface mottled, his lips bloodless, his eyes constantly roving, huntingfor flaws. “I said to get rid of those flowers!” he was shouting. “Idon’t give a damn whether they were just delivered or not. They lookdead. Can’t anybody do anything right around here? And that chairisn’t high enough for the Senator. It looks like a goddamn milkingstool.” He spotted Pat. “I see you’re finally here. You heard about
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that Graney woman? We’ll have to redo the segment of Abigail talkingabout traffic safety. She comes across a little too heavy on the pilot.There’s bound to be backlash when people find out his widow is acrime victim. We start taping in ten minutes.”Pat stared at Luther. Catherine Graney had been a good and decentperson and all this man cared about was that her death had caused a setbackin the taping. Wordlessly she turned and went into the dressing room.Senator Jennings was seated in front of a mirror, a towel wrappedaround her shoulders. The makeup artist was anxiously hovering overher, dabbing a touch of powder on her nose.The Senator ’s fingers were tightly locked together. Her greetingwas cordial enough. “This is it, Pat. Will you be as glad to be finishedas I?”“Yes, I think so, Senator.”The makeup girl picked up the can of hair spray and tested it.“Don’t use that stuff on me,” the Senator snapped. “I don’t wantto look like a Barbie doll.”“I’m sorry.” The girl’s tone faltered. “Most people . . .” Her voicetrailed off.Aware that Abigail was watching her in the mirror, Pat deliberatelyavoided eye contact.“There are a few points we should discuss.” Now Abigail’s tonewas brisk and businesslike. “I’m just as glad we’re redoing the air-safety segment, even though of course it’s terrible about Mrs. Graney.But I want to come off more emphatically on the necessity for betterfacilities at small airports. And I’ve decided we should talk moreabout my mother. There’s no use not meeting that Mirror picture andthat spread in yesterday’s Tribune head on. And we should certainlyemphasize my role in foreign affairs. I’ve prepared some questionsfor you to ask me.”Pat put down the brush she was holding and turned to face theSenator. “ Have you?”
Four hours later, over sandwiches and coffee, a small group sat inthe projection room viewing the completed tape. Abigail was in thefirst row, Luther and Philip on either side of her. Pat sat several rows
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behind them with the assistant director. In the last row, Toby kept hissolitary vigil.The program opened with Pat, Luther and the Senator sitting in asemicircle. “Hello, and welcome to the first program in our series Women in Government . . . .” Pat studied herself critically. Her voicewas huskier than usual; there was something in the rigid way she wassitting that suggested tension. Luther was totally at ease, and on thewhole, the opening sounded all right. She and Abigail complementedeach other well. Abigail’s blue silk dress had been a good choice; itexpressed femininity without frills. Her smile was warm, her eyescrinkled. Her acknowledgment of the flattering introduction had nohint of coyness.They discussed her position as senior Senator from Virginia.Abigail: “It’s a tremendously demanding and satisfying job. . . .” Themontage of shots of Apple Junction. The shot of Abigail with hermother. Pat watched the screen as Abigail’s voice became tender.“My mother faced the same problem as so many working motherstoday. She was widowed when I was six. She didn’t want to leave mealone and so she took a job as a housekeeper. She sacrificed a hotel-management career so that she’d be there when I came home fromschool. We were very close. She was always embarrassed about herweight. She had a glandular problem. I guess a lot of people canunderstand. When I tried to get her to live with Willard and me, she’dlaugh and say, ‘No way is the mountain coming to Washington.’ Shewas a funny, dear lady.” At that point Abigail’s voice trembled. Andthen Abigail explained the beauty contest: “Talk about win it for theGipper . . . I won that for Mommy. . . .”Pat found herself caught in the spell of Abigail’s warmth. Eventhe scene in Abigail’s den when the Senator had called her mother afat tyrant seemed unreal now. But it was real, she thought. AbigailJennings is a consummate actress. The clips of the reception and thefirst campaign. Pat’s questions to Abigail: “Senator, you were a youngbride; you were completing your last year in college and you werehelping your husband campaign for his first seat in Congress. Tell ushow you felt about that.” Abigail’s answer: “It was wonderful. I wasvery much in love. I’d always pictured myself getting a job as anassistant to someone in public office. To be there right at the beginning
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was thrilling. You see, even though a Jennings had always held thatseat, Willard’s competition was stiff. The night we heard Willard hadbeen elected—I can’t describe it. Every election victory is exciting,but the first one is unforgettable.”The clip with the Kennedys at Willard Jennings’ birthday party . .. Abigail said, “We were all so young. . . . There were three or fourcouples who used to get together regularly and we’d sit around forhours talking. We were all so sure we could help to change the worldand make life better. Now those young statesmen are gone. I’m theonly one left in government and I often think of the plans Willard andJack and the others were making.”And my father was one of the “others,” Pat reflected as she watchedthe screen.There were several genuinely touching scenes. Maggie in the officewith Abigail thanking her for finding her mother a place in the nursinghome; a young mother tightly holding her three-year-old daughterand telling how her ex-husband had kidnapped the child. “No onewould help me. No one. And then someone said, ‘Call SenatorJennings. She gets things done.’”Yes, she does, Pat agreed.But then, with Luther interviewing her, Abigail discussed theembezzled campaign funds. “I’m so glad that Eleanor Brown hasturned herself in to complete her debt to society. I only hope that shemay also be honest enough to return whatever is left of that money,or tell who shared in spending it.”Something made Pat turn around. In the semi-darkness of thescreening room, Toby’s thick bulk loomed in his chair, his handsfolded under his chin, the onyx ring gleaming on his finger. His headwas nodding approval. Quickly she looked back at the screen, notwanting to meet his gaze.Luther questioned Abigail about her commitment to airline safety.“Willard was constantly asked to speak at colleges and he acceptedevery possible date. He said that college was the time when youngpeople were beginning to form mature judgments about the world,about government. We were living on a Congressman’s salary andhad to be very careful. I am a widow today because my husbandchartered the cheapest plane he could find. . . . Do you know the
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statistics on how many army pilots bought a secondhand plane andtried to start a charter airline on a shoestring? Most of them went outof business. They hadn’t the funds to keep the planes in propercondition. My husband died over twenty-five years ago and I’ve beenfighting ever since to bar those small planes from busy fields. AndI’ve always worked closely with the Airline Pilots Association totighten and maintain rigid standards for pilots.”No mention of George Graney, but once again the implied reasonfor Willard Jennings’ death. After all these years Abigail won’t stopunderscoring the blame for that accident, Pat thought. As she watchedherself on the screen, she realized that the documentary had turnedout exactly as she had planned it; it portrayed Abigail Jennings as asympathetic human being and a dedicated public servant. Therealization brought no satisfaction.The program ended with Abigail walking into her home in thenear-dark and Pat’s commentary that like so many single adults,Abigail was going home alone, and she would spend the evening ather desk studying proposed legislation.The screen went dark, and as the room brightened, they all stoodup. Pat watched for Abigail’s reaction. The Senator turned to Toby.He nodded approvingly, and with a relaxed smile Abigail pronouncedthe program a success.She glanced at Pat. “In spite of all the problems, you’ve done avery good job. And you were right about using my early background.I’m sorry I gave you so much grief. Luther, what do you think?”“I think you come across terrific. Pat, what’s your feeling?”Pat considered. They were all satisfied, and the ending wastechnically all right. Then what was it that was forcing her to pressfor an additional scene? The letter. She wanted to read the letter Abigailhad written to Willard Jennings. “I have one problem,” she said. “Thepersonal aspects of this program are what make it special. I wish wehadn’t ended on a business note.”Abigail raised her eyes impatiently. Toby frowned. The atmospherein the room suddenly became strained. The projectionist’s voice cameover the loudspeaker. “Is that a wrap?”“No. Run the last scene again,” Luther snapped.The room darkened and an instant later the dosing two minutes ofthe program were replayed.
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They all watched intently. Luther was the first to comment. “Wecan leave it, but I think Pat may be right.”“That’s wonderful,” Abigail said. “What are you going to do aboutit? I’ve got to be at the White House in a few hours and I don’t intendto arrive there at the last second.”Can I get her to go along with me? Pat wondered. For some reasonshe desperately wanted to read the “Billy darling” letter and she wantedthe Senator’s spontaneous reaction to it. But Abigail had insisted onseeing every inch of the storyboard before they taped. Pat tried tosound casual. “Senator, you’ve been very generous in opening yourpersonal files to us. In the last batch Toby brought over I found aletter that might just give the final personal touch we want. Of courseyou can read it before we tape, but I think it would have a morenatural quality if you don’t. In any case, if it doesn’t work, we’ll gowith the present close.”Abigail’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Luther. “Have you readthis letter?”“Yes, I have. I agree with Pat. But it’s up to you.”She turned to Philip and Toby. “You two went over everythingyou released for possible use on the program?”“Everything, Senator.”She shrugged. “In that case . . . Just make sure you don’t read aletter from someone saying she was Miss Apple Junction the yearafter me.”They all laughed. There is something changed about her, Patthought. She’s surer of herself.“We’ll shoot in ten minutes,” Luther said.Pat hurried into the dressing room. She dabbed fresh powder onthe beads of perspiration that had formed on her forehead. What isthe matter with me? she asked herself fiercely.The door opened and Abigail came in. She opened her purse andpulled out a compact. “Pat, that program is pretty good, isn’t it?”“Yes, it is.”“I was so against it. I had such a bad feeling about it. You’ve donea great job making me look like a pretty nice person.” She smiled.“Seeing the tape, I liked myself better than I have in a long time.”“I’m glad.” Here again was the woman she had admired so much.
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A few minutes later they were back on the set. With her hand, Patwas covering the letter she was about to read. Luther began to speak.“Senator, we want to thank you for sharing your time with us in thisvery personal way. What you have accomplished is certainly aninspiration to everyone and surely an example of how good can comefrom tragedy. When we were planning this program, you gave usmany of your private papers. Among them we found a letter you wroteto your husband, Congressman Willard Jennings. I think this lettersums up the young woman you were and the woman you became.May I allow Pat to read it to you now?”Abigail tilted her head, her expression questioning.Pat unfolded the letter. Her voice husky, she read it slowly. “Billy,darling.” Her throat tightened. She had to force herself to go on. Againher mouth was hopelessly dry. She glanced up. Abigail was staring ather, the color draining from her face. “You were splendid in thehearings this afternoon. I am so proud of you. I love you so and lookforward to a lifetime of being with you, of working with you. Oh, mydearest, we really are going to make a difference in this world.”Luther interjected, “That note was written on May thirteenth, andon May twentieth Congressman Willard Jennings died and you wenton alone to make a difference in this world. Senator Abigail Jennings,thank you.”The Senator ’s eyes were shining. A tender half-smile played at thecorners of her mouth. She nodded and her lips formed the words“Thank you.”“Cut,” the director called.Luther jumped up. “Senator; that was perfect. Everybody will . . .”He stopped in mid-sentence as Abigail lunged forward and grabbedthe letter from Pat’s hand. “Where did you get that?” she shrieked.“What are you trying to do to me?”“Senator, I told you, we don’t have to use it,” Luther protested.Pat stared as Abigail’s face twisted into a mask of anger and pain.Where had she seen that expression, on that face, once before?A bulky figure rushed past her. Toby was shaking the Senator,almost shouting at her: “Abby, get hold of yourself. That was a greatway to end the program. Abby, it’s okay to let people know aboutyour last letter to your husband .”
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“My . . . last . . . letter?” Abigail raised one hand to cover her faceas though she were trying to remold her expression. “Of course . . .I’m sorry . . . It’s just that Willard and I used to write little notes toeach other all the time. . . . I’m so glad you found—the last one. . . .”Pat sat immobilized. “Billy darling, Billy darling . . .” The wordshad a drumroll cadence, hammering in her mind. Gripping the armsof the chair, she looked up and met Toby’s savage stare. She shrankback in mindless terror.He turned back to Abigail and, with Luther and Phil assisting,escorted her from the studio. One by one the floodlights were turnedoff. “Hey, Pat,” the cameraman called. “That’s a wrap, isn’t it?”At last she was able to get up. “It’s a wrap,” she agreed.
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Whenever Sam was wrestling with a problem, a long walk had a wayof clearing his head and helping him think. That was why he elected towalk the several miles from his apartment to the Southwest section ofthe District. The Gangplank Restaurant was on the Washington Channel,and as he neared it, he studied the restless pattern of the whitecaps.Cape Cod. Nauset Beach. Pat walking beside him, her hair tossedby the wind, her arm tucked in his, the incredible sense of freedom,as though it were just the two of them and sky and beach and ocean.Next summer we’ll go back, he promised himself.The restaurant resembled a ship moored to the dock. He hurriedup the gangplank, enjoying the faint undulating feeling.Jack Carlson was already seated at a window table. Several crushedcigarettes were in the ashtray in front of him, and he was sipping aPerrier. Sam apologized for being late.“I’m early,” Jack said simply. He was a trim, gray-haired manwith bright, inquisitive eyes. He and Sam had been friends for morethan twenty years.Sam ordered a gin martini. “Maybe that will quiet me down orpick me up,” he explained with an attempt at a smile. He felt Jack’seyes studying him.“I’ve seen you looking more cheerful,” Jack commented. “Sam,what made you ask us to check on Toby Gorgone?”“Only a hunch.” Sam felt himself tense. “Did you come up withanything interesting?”“I’d say so.”“Hello, Sam.” Frank Crowley, his normally pale face ruddy fromthe cold, his heavy white hair somewhat disheveled, joined them. Heintroduced himself to Jack, adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses, opened
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his briefcase and pulled out a bulky envelope. “I’m lucky to be here,”he announced. “I started going through the trial transcript and almostforgot the time.” The waiter was at his elbow. “Vodka martini, verydry,” he ordered. “Sam, you seem to be the only one I know who canstill drink gin martinis.”Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “United States versus Eleanor Brown. Makes interesting reading and boils down to onesimple issue: which member of Senator Jennings’ official family waslying, Eleanor or Toby? Eleanor took the stand in her own defense. Abig mistake. She started talking about the shoplifting connection andthe prosecutor blew it up until you’d think she’d robbed Fort Knox.The Senator ’s testimony didn’t help any. She talked too damn muchabout giving Eleanor a second chance. I’ve marked the most relevantpages.” He handed Carlson the transcript.Jack took an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s the fact sheet youwanted on Gorgone, Sam.”Sam skimmed it, raised his eyebrows and reread it carefully.
Apple Junction: Suspect in car theft. Police chaseresulted in death of three. No indictment.
Apple Junction: Suspect in bookmaking operation. Noindictment.
New York City: Suspect in firebombing of car resultingin death of loan shark. No indictment. Thought to beon fringe of Mafia.
May have settled gambling debts by performingservices for mob.
Other relevant fact: Exceptional mechanical aptitude.
“A perfectly clean record,” he said sarcastically.Over sliced-steak sandwiches they discussed, compared andevaluated the fact sheet on Toby Gorgone, Eleanor Brown’s trialtranscript, the CAA findings on the plane crash and the news ofCatherine Graney’s murder. By the time coffee was served, they hadseparately and jointly arrived at disturbing possibilities: Toby was amechanical whiz who had left a suitcase on the Jennings plane minutes
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before takeoff and the plane had crashed under mysteriouscircumstances. Toby was a gambler who might have been in debt tobookies at the time the campaign funds disappeared.“It seems to me that Senator Jennings and this character Toby taketurns exchanging favors,” Crowley commented. “She alibis for himand he pulls her chestnuts out of the fire.”“I can’t believe Abigail Jennings would deliberately send a younggirl to prison,” Sam said flatly. “And I certainly don’t believe she’dbe party to the murder of her husband.” He realized they were allwhispering now. They were talking about a woman who in a fewhours might become Vice President—designate of the United States.The restaurant was starting to empty. The diners, most of themgovernment people, were hurrying back to their jobs. Probably atone point during lunch every one of them had speculated about thePresident’s conference tonight.“Sam, I’ve seen dozens of characters like this Toby,” Jack said.“Most of them in the mob. They’re devoted to the head guy. Theysmooth his path—and take care of themselves at the same time. PerhapsSenator Jennings wasn’t involved in Toby’s activities. But look at itthis way: Let’s say Toby knew Willard Jennings wanted to give up hisseat in Congress and get a divorce from Abigail. Jennings wasn’t worthfifty thousand bucks in his own right. Mama held the purse strings. SoAbigail would have been out of the political scene, dropped by WillardJennings’ circle of friends and back to being an ex-beauty queen froma hick town. And Toby decided not to let that happen.”“Are you suggesting she returned the favor by lying for him aboutthe campaign money?” Sam asked.“Not necessarily,” Frank said. “Here—read the Senator’s testimonyon the stand. She admitted that they stopped at a gas station aroundthe time Eleanor received the call. The engine had developed a knockand Toby wanted to check it. She swears he was never out of hersight. But she was on her way to deliver a speech and probablystudying her notes. One minute she probably saw Toby in front of thecar tinkering at the engine; the next maybe he was behind it getting atool out of the trunk. How long does it take to scoot around to thepublic phone, dial a number and leave a two-second message? I’d
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have torn that testimony apart. But even assuming we’re right, I can’tunderstand why Toby picked Eleanor.”“That’s easy,” Jack said. “He knew about her record. He knew howsensitive she was. Without that open-and-shut case, there’d have beena full-blown investigation into the missing funds. He’d have been asuspect and his background investigated. He’s smart enough to havegotten away with another ‘no indictment’ on his fact sheet, but theSenator would have been pressured by the party to get rid of him.”“If what we believe about Toby Gorgone checks out,” Samconcluded, “Catherine Graney’s death becomes too timely, tooconvenient to be a case of random murder.”“If Abigail Jennings gets the nod from the President tonight,” Jacksaid, “and it comes out that her chauffeur murdered the Graneywoman, those confirmation hearings will be a worldwide scandal.”The three men sat at the table, each somberly reflecting on thepossible embarrassment to the President. Sam finally broke the silence.“One bright note is if we can prove Toby wrote those threateningnotes and arrest him, I can stop worrying about Pat.”Frank Crowley nodded at Jack. “And if your people get enoughon him, Toby might be persuaded to tell the truth about the campaignfunds. I tell you, to see that poor girl Eleanor Brown taking that lie-detector test this morning and swearing she’d never even stolen apiece of chalk would break your heart. She doesn’t look eighteen,never mind thirty-four. That prison experience almost killed her. Afterher breakdown a shrink had her paint a doll’s face to show how shefelt. She still carries that doll around with her. The damn thing wouldgive you the creeps. It looks like a battered child.”“A doll!” Sam exclaimed. “She has a doll . By any chance, is it aRaggedy Ann doll?”At Frank’s astonished nod, he signaled for more coffee. “I’m afraidwe’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said wearily. “Let’s start allover again.”
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Toby poured a Manhattan into the chilled cocktail glass and set itdown in front of Abigail. “Drink this, Senator. You need it.”“ Toby where did she get that letter? Where did she get it? ”“I don’t know, Senator.”“It couldn’t have been in anything you gave her. I never saw itagain after I wrote it. How much does she know? Toby, if she couldprove I was there that night . . .”“She can’t, Senator. No one can. And no matter what she mayhave dug up, she hasn’t any proof. Come on, she did you a favor.That letter will clinch sympathy for you. Wait and see.”He finally appeased her the only way that worked. “ Trust me!Don’t worry about it. Have I ever let you down?” He calmed her alittle, but even so, she was still a bundle of nerves. And in a fewhours she was due at the White House.“Listen, Abby,” he said. “While I fix you something to eat, I wantyou to belt two Manhattans. After that have a hot bath and sleep foran hour. Then get yourself in your best-looking outfit. This is thebiggest night of your life.”He meant it. She had reason to be uspet—plenty of reason. Theminute he heard the letter being read, he’d been on his feet. But assoon as Pelham said, “Your husband was lost a week later,” he’dknown it would be all right.Abby almost blew it. Once again he’d been there to stop her frommaking a terrible mistake.Abby reached for her glass. “Bottoms up,” she said, and a touch ofa smile lingered around her lips. “Toby, in a little while we’ll have it.”The Vice Presidency. “That’s right, Senator.” He was sitting on ahassock across from the couch.“Ah, Toby,” she said. “What would I have become without you?”
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“State assemblywoman from Apple Junction.”“Oh, sure.” She tried to smile.Her hair was loose around her face and she didn’t look more thanthirty years old. She was so slim. Slim the way a woman should be.Not a bag of bones, but firm and sleek.“Toby, you look as though you’re thinking. That would be a first.”He grinned at her, glad she was starting to loosen up. “You’re thesmart one. I leave the thinking to you.”She sipped the drink quickly. “The program turned out all right?”“I keep telling you . . . it wouldn’t have made sense for you tocarry on about the letter. She did you a favor.”“I know. . . . It’s just . . .”The Manhattan was hitting her. He had to get some food into her.“Senator, you relax. I’ll fix a tray for you.”“Yes . . . that would be a good idea. Toby, do you realize that a few hoursfrom now I’m going to be Vice President-designate of the United States?”“I sure do, Abby.”“We all know how ceremonial the office is. But Toby, if I do agood job, they may not be able to deny me the top spot next year.That’s what I intend to have happen.”“I know that, Senator.” Toby refilled her glass. “I’m going to fixyou an omelette. Then you’re going to take a nap. This is your night.”Toby got up. He couldn’t look anymore at the naked yearning onher face. He’d seen it the day she got the news that she wouldn’t beeligible for a scholarship to Radcliffe. She’d come over to where hewas mowing the lawn and shown him the letter, then sat on the porchsteps, hugged her legs and dropped her head in her lap. She’d beeneighteen years old. “Toby, I want to go there so bad. I can’t rot in thisstinking town. I can’t. . . .”And then he’d suggested she romance that jerk Jeremy Saunders. . . .He’d helped her other times, helped her to find her destiny.And now, once again, somebody was trying to ruin everything for her.Toby went into the kitchen. As he prepared the dinner he tried toenvision how interesting it would be when Abby was one heartbeataway from the Presidency.
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The phone rang. It was Phil. “The Senator okay?”“She’s fine. Look, I’m getting her dinner.”“I have a piece of information you wanted. Guess who owns PatTraymore’s house.”Toby waited.“Pat Traymore, that’s who. It’s been in trust for her since she wasfour years old.”Toby whistled soundlessly. Those eyes, that hair, a certain lookabout her . . . Why hadn’t he figured it out before this? He could haveblown everything by being so dumb.Phil’s voice was querulous. “Did you hear me? I said . . .“I heard you. Just keep it under your hat. What the Senator don’tknow won’t hurt her.”A short time later he went back to his apartment above the garage.Under his urging, Abigail decided to watch the program while restingin her room. At eight o’clock he would bring the car around andthey’d leave for the White House.He waited until the program had been on a few minutes, thenquietly left his apartment. His car, a black Toyota, was in the driveway.He pushed it until he could roll it down to the street. He didn’t wantAbby to know he was going out. He had a little less than an hour anda half for the round trip to Pat Traymore’s house.It was enough to do what was needed.
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Pat drove across Massachusetts Avenue, up Q Street, over the BuffaloBridge and into Georgetown. Her head was aching now—a steadythrobbing. She drove by rote, observing traffic lights subconsciously.Presently she was on 31st Street, turning the corner, pulling intoher driveway. She was on the steps, the slap of the wind on her face.Her fingers were fumbling in her purse for her key. The lock wasclicking; she was pushing the door open, going into the shadowyquiet of the foyer.In a reflex action, she closed the door and leaned against it. Thecoat was heavy on her shoulders. She shrugged it off, tossed it aside.She raised her head; her eyes became riveted on the step at the bendof the staircase. There was a child sitting there. A child with longreddish-brown hair, her chin leaning on the palms of her hands; herexpression curious. I wasn’t asleep, she thought. I heard the doorbell ring and I wantedto see who was coming. Daddy opened the door and someone pushedpast him He was angry. I ran back to bed. When I heard the first shot,I didn’t come right down. I stayed in bed and screamed for Daddy.But he didn’t come. And I heard another loud bang and ran downthe stairs to the living room. . . .And then . . .She realized she was trembling and light-headed. Going into thelibrary, she poured brandy into a tumbler and sipped it quickly. Whyhad Senator Jennings been so devastated by that letter? She’d beenpanicky, furious, frightened.Why?It didn’t make sense.
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And why did I get so upset reading it? Why has it upset me everytime I’ve read it?The way Toby looked at me as though he hated me. The way heshouted at the Senator. He wasn’t trying to calm her down. He wastrying to warn her about something. But what?She sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, her arms clasped aroundher knees. I used to sit in here like this when Daddy was working athis desk. “You can stay, Kerry, as long as you promise to be quiet.”Why was her memory of him so vivid now? She could see him, notas he’d looked in the film clips but as he’d been here in this room,leaning back in the chair, tapping his fingers on the desk when hewas concentrating.The newspaper article was still open on the desk. On a suddenimpulse she went over to it, reread it carefully. Her eyes kept comingback to the picture of her father and Abigail Jennings on the beach.There was an undeniably intimate quality there. A summer-afternoonflirtation or more? Suppose her mother had looked up and caughtthat glance between them?Why was she so afraid? She’d slept so badly last night. A hot bathand a brief rest would help calm her down. Slowly she went upstairsto her room. Again she had the eerie feeling she was being watched.She had had the same sensation the night before, before she fell asleep,but again she brushed it from her mind.The phone rang just as she reached her room. It was Lila.“Pat, are you all right? I’m worried about you. I don’t want toalarm you, but I must. I sense danger around you. Won’t you pleasecome over here now and stay with me?”“Lila, I think the impression you’re getting is that I’m really quiteclose to a breakthrough in remembering that night. Somethinghappened today, during the final taping, that seems to be triggeringit. But don’t worry—no matter what it is, I can handle it.”“Pat, listen to me. You shouldn’t be in that house now!”“It’s the only way I’ll be able to piece it together.”She’s nervous because of the break-ins, Pat told herself as she layin the tub. She’s afraid I can’t face the truth. She slipped on her terry-
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cloth robe. Sitting at the dressing table, she unpinned her hair andbegan to brush it. She’d been wearing it in a chignon most of theweek. She knew Sam liked it best when it was loose. Tonight she’dwear it that way.She got into bed and turned the radio on low. She hadn’t expectedto doze, but she soon drifted off. The sound of Eleanor ’s name startledher into consciousness.The bedside clock read six-fifteen. The program would be on infifteen minutes.“Giving as her motive that she could no longer endure the fear ofbeing recognized, Miss Brown has surrendered and was taken intocustody. She still steadfastly maintains her innocence of the theft forwhich she was convicted. A police spokesman said that in the nineyears since she violated parole, Miss Brown had been living with aparamedic Arthur Stevens. Stevens is a suspect in a series of nursing-home deaths and a warrant has been issued for his arrest. A religiousfanatic, he has been dubbed the ‘nursing home angel.’”“ The Nursing Home Angel! ” The first time he phoned, the callerhad referred to himself as an angel of mercy, of deliverance, ofvengeance. Pat bolted up and grabbed the phone. Frantically she dialedSam’s number, let the phone ring ten, twelve, fourteen times beforeshe finally replaced it. If only she had realized what Eleanor was sayingwhen she talked about Arthur Stevens! He had begged Eleanor not togive herself up. To save Eleanor he might have tried to stop the program. Could Eleanor have been aware of those threats? No, I’m sure shewasn’t, Pat decided. Her lawyer should know about this before wetell the police.It was twenty-five past six. She got out of bed, tightened the beltof her robe and put on her slippers. As she hurried down the stairs,she wondered where Arthur Stevens was now. Was he aware thatEleanor was under arrest? Would he see the program and blame herwhen Eleanor ’s picture was shown? Blame her because Eleanor hadnot kept her promise to wait before going to the police?In the living room she turned the chandelier to the brightest setting
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and took a moment to light the Christmas tree before switching onthe set. Even so, the room had an oddly cheerless quality. Settlingherself on the couch, she watched intently as the credits rolled afterthe six-o’clock news.She had wanted the chance to watch the program alone. In thestudio she’d been conscious of tuning into everyone else’s reactionsto it. Even so, she realized she was dreading seeing it again. It wasmuch more than the usual apprehension of launching a new series.The furnace rumbled and a hissing of air came from the heat risers.The sound made her jump. It’s crazy what this place is doing to me,she thought.The program was beginning. Critically Pat studied the three ofthem—the Senator, Luther and herself, sitting in the semicircle. Thebackground was good. Luther had been right about changing theflowers. Abigail showed none of the tension she’d exhibited off-camera. The footage on Apple Junction was well chosen. Abigail’sreminiscences about her early life had just the right touch of humaninterest. And it’s all such a lie, Pat thought.The films of Abigail and Willard Jennings at their weddingreception, at parties on the estate, during his campaigns. Abigail’stender memories of her husband as the clips were shown. “Willardand I . . . ,” “My husband and I . . .” Funny she never once referred tohim as Billy.With growing awareness, Pat realized that the films of Abigail asa young woman had an oddly familiar quality. They were evokingmemories that had nothing to do with her having viewed them somany times. Why was that happening now?There was a commercial break.The segment about Eleanor Brown and the embezzled funds wouldcome next.
Arthur heard Patricia Traymore go down the stairs. Cautiously hetiptoed until he was sure he was listening to the faint sounds of thetelevision broadcast coming from downstairs. He had been afraidthat friends might join her to view the program. But she was alone.
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For the first time in all these years he felt as though he were dressedin the garb God intended him to wear. With moist, open palms, hesmoothed the fine wool against his body. This woman even defiledsacred garments. What right had she to wear the raiment of the chosen?Returning to his secret place, he put on the earphones, turned on theset and adjusted the picture. He had tapped into the cable antenna, andthe screen was remarkably clear. Kneeling as before an altar, his handslocked in the posture of prayer, Arthur began to watch the program.
Lila sat watching the documentary, her dinner on a tray before her.It was hard to make even a pretense of eating. Her absolute certaintythat Pat was in serious danger only heightened as she saw Pat’s imageon the screen.Cassandra’s warnings, she thought bitterly. Pat won’t listen to me.She simply has to get out of that house or she will suffer a deathmore violent than her parents endured. She is running out of time. Lila had met Sam Kingsley just once and liked him very much.She sensed that he was important to Pat. Would it be of any use to tryto talk to Congressman Kingsley, share her apprehension with him?Could she possibly persuade him to insist that Pat leave her homeuntil this dark aura around it dissolved?She pushed the tray aside, got up and reached for the green book.She would call him immediately.
Sam went directly to his office from the restaurant.He had several meetings scheduled, but found it impossible to concentrateon any of them. His mind kept returning to the luncheon discussions.They had built a strong circumstantial case against Toby Gorgone,but Sam had been a prosecutor long enough to know that strongcircumstantial evidence can be upset like a house of cards. And theRaggedy Ann doll was upsetting the case against Toby. If Toby wasinnocent of involvement in the plane crash and the embezzled funds,if Catherine Graney had been the victim of a random mugging, then
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Abigail Jennings was what she seemed to be—above reproach and aworthy candidate for the job most people expected her to get. But themore Sam thought about Toby, the more uneasy he got.At twenty after six he was finally free and immediately dialed Pat.Her phone was busy. Quickly he locked his desk. He wanted to gethome in time to watch the documentary.The sound of the telephone stopped him as he was rushing out ofthe office. Some instinct warned him not to ignore it.It was Jack Carlson. “Sam, are you alone?”“Yes.”“We have some new developments in the Catherine Graney case.Her son found a draft of a letter she wrote to Senator Jennings. A letterthat probably arrived at the Senator’s house yesterday. It’s pretty strongstuff. Mrs. Graney intended to attack Senator Jennings’ version of herrelationship with her husband, and she was going to sue her for libel ifshe didn’t retract her statements about pilot error on the program.”Sam whistled. “Are you saying that Abigail may have receivedthat letter yesterday?”“Exactly. But that isn’t the half of it. Mrs. Graney’s neighbors hada party last night. We got a list of the guests and checked them all out.One young couple who came late, about eleven-fifteen or so, hadtrouble locating the exact street. They’d asked directions from a guywho was getting in his car two blocks away. He brushed them offfast. The car was a black Toyota, with Virginia plates. They describedsomeone who sounds like Gorgone. The girl even remembers he waswearing a heavy, dark ring. We’re picking Toby up for questioning.Do you think you ought to phone the White House?” Toby might have been seen near the site of Catherine Graney’smurder. If he had killed Catherine Graney, everything else theysuspected of him was possible, even logical. “Abigail has to knowabout this immediately,” Sam said. “I’ll go to her now. She shouldhave the chance to withdraw her name from consideration. If sherefuses, I’ll call the President myself. Even if she had no idea of whatToby was up to, she’s got to accept the moral responsibility.”
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“I don’t think that lady has ever worried about moral responsibility.If J. Edgar were alive, she wouldn’t have gotten this far toward theVice Presidency. You saw that article in the Trib the other day aboutwhat great pals she was with Congressman Adams and his wife.”“I saw it.”“Like the paper said, there was always a rumor that another womanwas the direct cause of the fatal quarrel. I was new in the Bureauwhen that case broke, but when I read that article, something startedbugging me. On a hunch I pulled the Adams file. We have a memo init about a freshman Congresswoman named Abigail Jennings. Allthe indications were that she was that other woman.”
Try as she would, Abigail couldn’t rest. The knowledge that in afew hours she would be nominated to be Vice President of the UnitedStates was too exhilarating to bear.Madam Vice President. Air Force Two and the mansion on thegrounds of the old Naval Observatory. Presiding over the Senate andrepresenting the President all over the world.In two years the Presidential nomination. I’ll win, she promised herself.Golda Meir. Indira Gandhi. Margaret Thatcher. Abigail Jennings.The Senate had been a mighty step up. The night she was electedLuther had said, “Well, Abigail, you’re a member of the world’s mostexclusive club.”Now another vast step was impending. No longer one of onehundred Senators, but the second-highest official in the land.She had decided to wear a three-piece outfit, a silk blouse andskirt with a knitted jacket, in tones of pink and gray. It would showup well on the television sets.Vice President Abigail Jennings . . .It was six-fifteen. She got up from the chaise, went over to herdressing table and brushed her hair. With deft strokes she applied atouch of eye shadow and mascara. Excitement had flushed her cheeks;she didn’t need blush. She might as well get dressed now, watch theprogram and practice her acceptance speech until it was time to leavefor the White House.
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She slipped into the suit and fastened a gold-and-diamond sunburstpin to her jacket. The library television set had the biggest screen.She’d watch her program in there.“Stay tuned for Women in Government .”She had already seen everything but the last few minutes of theprogram. Even so, it was reassuring to watch it again. Apple Junctionunder a fresh coating of snow had a down-home country look thatconcealed its shabby dreariness. Thoughtfully she studied the Saundershome. She remembered when Mrs. Saunders had ordered her to retraceher steps and take the path to the service entrance. She’d made thatmiserable witch pay for that mistake.If it weren’t for Toby’s figuring out how to get the money forRadcliffe, where would she be now?The Saunderses owed me that money, she told herself. Twelveyears of humiliations in that house!She watched the clips of the wedding reception, the earlycampaigns, Willard’s funeral. She remembered the exultation she hadfelt when in the funeral car Jack Kennedy had agreed to urge theGovernor to appoint her to complete Willard’s term.The insistent ring of the doorbell startled her. No one ever droppedin. Could someone from the press be brazen enough to ring like that?She tried to ignore it. But the peal became a steady, unbroken intrusion.She hurried to the door. “Who is it?”“Sam.”She pulled open the door. He stepped in, his face grim, but shebarely glanced at him. “Sam, why aren’t you watching This Is YourLife? Come on.” Grabbing his hand, she ran ahead into the library.On the program, Luther was asking her about her commitment toairline safety.“Abigail, I have to talk to you.”“Sam, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you want me to see my own program?”“This won’t wait.” Against the background of the documentary, hetold her why he had come. He watched the disbelief grow in her eyes.
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“You’re trying to say Toby may have killed the Graney woman?You’re crazy.”“Am I?”“He was out on a date. That waitress will vouch for him.”“Two people described him accurately. The letter Catherine Graneywrote you was the motive.”“What letter?”They stared at each other, and her face paled.“He picks up your mail, doesn’t he, Abigail?”“Yes.”“Did he get it yesterday?”“Yes.”“And what did he bring in?”“The usual junk. Wait a minute. You can’t make these accusationsabout him. You make them to him.”“Then call him in here now. He’s going to be picked up forquestioning anyway.”Sam watched as Abigail dialed the phone. Dispassionately heobserved the beautiful outfit she was wearing. She was dressed up tobecome Vice President, he thought.Abigail held the receiver to her ear, listening to the bell ring. “He’sprobably just not answering. He certainly wouldn’t expect me to becalling.” Her voice trailed off, then became resolutely brisk. “Sam,you can’t believe what you’re saying. Pat Traymore put you up tothis. She’s been out to sabotage me from the beginning.”“Pat has nothing to do with the fact that Toby Gorgone was seennear Catherine Graney’s home.”On the television screen Abigail was discussing her leadership inairline safety regulations. “I am a widow today because my husbandchartered the cheapest plane he could find.”Sam pointed to the set. “That statement would have been enoughto send Catherine Graney to the newspapers tomorrow morning, andToby knew it. Abigail, if the President has called this news conferencetonight to introduce you as Vice President-designate, you’ve got toask him to postpone the announcement until this is cleared up.”
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“Have you taken leave of your senses? I don’t care if Toby wastwo blocks from where that woman was killed. What does it prove?Maybe he has a girlfriend or a floating card game in Richmond. He’sprobably just not answering the phone. I wish to God I hadn’t botheredto answer the door.”A sense of urgency overwhelmed Sam. Yesterday Pat had toldhim that she felt Toby had become hostile to her; that she wasbecoming nervous when he was around. Only a few minutes agoAbigail had said that Pat was trying to sabotage her. Did Toby believethat? Sam grasped Abigail’s shoulders. “Is there any reason that Tobymight consider Pat a threat to you?”“Sam, stop it! Let go of me! He was just as upset as I about thepublicity she’s caused, but even that turned out all right. In fact, hethinks that in the long run she did me a favor.”“Are you sure? ”“Sam, Toby never laid eyes on Pat Traymore before last week.You’re not being rational.” He never laid eyes on her before last week? That wasn’t true.Toby had known Pat well as a child. Could he have recognized her?Abigail had been involved with Pat’s father. Was Pat becoming awareof that? Forgive me, Pat, he thought. I have to tell her. “Abigail, PatTraymore is Dean Adams’ daughter, Kerry.”“Pat Traymore is—Kerry?” Abigail’s eyes widened with shock.Then she shook herself free. “You don’t know what you’re talkingabout. Kerry Adams is dead.”“I’m telling you Pat Traymore is Kerry Adams. I’ve been told thatyou were involved with her father, that you may have triggered thatlast quarrel. Pat is starting to remember bits and pieces of that night.Would Toby try to protect you or himself from anything she mightfind out?”“No,” Abigail said flatly. “I don’t care if she remembers seeingme. Nothing that happened was my fault.”“ Toby —what about Toby? Was he there?”“She never saw him. When he went back for my purse he told meshe was already unconscious.”
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The implications of what she had said burst upon both of them.Sam ran for the door, Abigail stumbling behind him.
Arthur watched the film clips of Glory in handcuffs being led fromthe courtroom after the Guilty verdict. There was one close-up ofher. Her face was dazed and expressionless, but her pupils wereenormous. The uncomprehending pain in her eyes brought tears tohis own. He buried his face in his hands as Luther Pelham talkedabout Glory’s nervous breakdown, her parole as a psychiatricoutpatient, her disappearance nine years ago. And then, not wantingto believe what he was hearing, he listened as Pelham said, “Yesterday,citing her overwhelming fear of being recognized, Eleanor Brownsurrendered to the police. She is now in custody and will be returnedto federal prison to complete her sentence.” Glory had surrendered to the police. She had broken her promiseto him. No. She had been driven to break her promise—driven by thecertainty that this program would expose her. He knew he wouldnever see her again.His voices, angry and vengeful, began speaking to him. Clenchinghis fists, he listened intently. When they were silent, he tore off theheadset. Without bothering to push the shelves together to conceal hishiding place, he hurried out to the landing and descended the stairs.
Pat sat motionless, studying the program. She watched herselfbegin to read the letter. “Billy, darling.”“Billy,” she whispered. “Billy.”Raptly she studied Abigail Jennings’ shocked expression, theinvoluntary clenching of her hands before she managed with ironcontrol to assume a pleasant misty-eyed demeanor as the letter wasread to her.She had seen that anguished expression on Abigail’s face before.
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“Billy, darling. Billy, darling.” “ You must not call Mommy ‘Renée .’”“ But Daddy calls you ‘Renée’ . . .”The way Abigail had lunged at her when the cameras stopped rolling.“ Where did you get that letter? What are you trying to do to me? ”Toby’s shout: “It’s all right, Abby. It’s all right to let people hearthe last letter you wrote your husband.” “ Your husband. ” That’s whathe’d been trying to tell her.The picture of Abigail and her father on the beach, their hands touching. Abigail was the one who had rung the bell that night, who hadpushed past her father, her face ravaged with grief and anger. “ You must not call me ‘Renée,’ and you must not call Daddy ‘Billy.’ ”Dean Wilson Adams. Her father —not Willard Jennings—was Billy!The letter! She had found it on the floor in the library the day shehad tried to hide her father ’s personal papers from Toby. That lettermust have fallen from his files, not Abigail’s.Abigail had been here that night. She and Dean Adams— Billy Adams—had been lovers. Had she precipitated that final quarrel?A little girl was crouched in bed, her hands over her ears to drownout the angry voices.The shot.“ Daddy! Daddy! ”Another loud bang.And then I ran downstairs. I tripped over Mother ’s body. Someoneelse was there. Abigail? Oh, God, could Abigail Jennings have beenthere when I ran into the room? The patio door had opened. The phone began to ring, and in the same instant, the chandelierswent off. Pat jumped up and spun around. Illuminated by the twinklinglights of the Christmas tree an apparition was rushing toward her, thetall, gaunt figure of a monk with a vacant unlined face and silveryhair that fell forward over glittering china blue eyes.
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Toby drove toward Georgetown, careful to keep his car below thespeed limit. This was one night he didn’t need a ticket. He’d waiteduntil the documentary was on before he left. He knew Abby wouldbe glued to the set for that half-hour. If she did phone him after theprogram, he could always say he’d been outside checking the car.From the beginning he’d known there was something weirdlyfamiliar about Pat Traymore. Years ago he hadn’t shed any tears whenhe’d read that Kerry Adams had “succumbed to her injuries.” Notthat anything a three-or-four-year-old kid said stood up in court; buteven so, it wasn’t the kind of grief he needed.Abby had been right. Pat Traymore had been out to put the screwson them from the beginning. But she wasn’t going to get away with it.He was on M Street in Georgetown. He turned onto 31st Streetand drove to N, then turned right. He knew where to park. He’d doneit before.The right side of the property extended halfway down the block.He left the car just around the next corner, walked back and ignoringthe padlocked gate, easily scaled the fence. Silently he melted intothe shadowy area beyond the patio.It was impossible not to think about the other night in this place—dragging Abby out, holding his hand over her mouth to keep herfrom crying out, laying her on the back seat of the car, hearing herterrified moan, “My purse is in there” and going back.Edging his way under cover of the tree trunks, Toby pressed againstthe back of the house until he was on the patio a few inches from thedoors. Turning his head, he glanced cautiously inside.His blood froze. Pat Traymore was lying on the couch, her handsand legs tied behind her. Her mouth was taped. A priest or monk, hisback to the door, was kneeling beside her and lighting the candles ina silver candelabrum. What in hell was he up to? The man turned,and Toby had a better chance to see him. He wasn’t a real priest. Thatwasn’t a habit—it was some sort of robe. The look on his facereminded Toby of a neighbor who years before had gone berserk.The guy was yelling at Pat Traymore. Toby could barely make outthe words. “You did not heed my warnings. You were given the choice.”
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Warnings. They thought Pat Traymore had made up that story aboutthe phone calls and the break-in. But if she hadn’t . . . As Toby watched,the man carried the candelabrum over to the Christmas tree and set itunder the lowest branch.He was setting fire to the place! Pat Traymore would be trapped inthere. All he had to do was get back into the car and go home.Toby flattened against the wall. The man was heading toward thepatio doors. Suppose he was found in there? Everyone knew PatTraymore had been getting threats. If this place burned and she wasfound with the guy who had been threatening her, that would be theend of it. No more investigations, no possibility that someone wouldtalk about having seen a strange car parked in the neighborhood.Toby listened for the click of the lock. The robed stranger pushedopen the patio doors, then turned back to look into the room.Silently Toby moved over and stood behind him.
As the closing credits of the program rolled onto the screen, Lilaredialed Sam’s number. But it was useless. There was still no answer.Again she tried to phone Pat. After a half-dozen rings she hung upand walked over to the window. Pat’s car was still in the driveway.Lila was positive she was home. As Lila watched, it seemed therewas a reddish glow behind the dark aura surrounding the house.Should she call the police? Suppose Pat was simply coming closeto the memory of the tragedy; suppose the danger Lila was sensingwas of an emotional not physical nature. Pat wanted so desperatelyto understand how one of her parents had hurt her so badly. Supposethe truth was even worse than she had envisioned?What could the police do if Pat simply refused to answer the door?They would never break it down just because Lila had told themabout her premonitions. Lila knew exactly how scornful ofparapsychology the policemen could be.Helplessly she stood at the window staring at the whirling cloudsof blackness which were enveloping the house across the street.
The patio doors. They had opened that night. She had looked upand seen him and run to him, wrapping her arms around his legs.
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Toby, her friend who always gave her piggy-back rides. And he hadpicked her up and thrown her . . .Toby . . . it had been Toby. And he was there now, standing behind Arthur Stevens. . . .Arthur sensed Toby’s presence and whirled around. The blow fromToby’s hand caught him directly on the throat, sending him reelingbackward across the room. With a gasping, strangling cry he collapsednear the fireplace. His eyes closed; his head lolled to the side.Toby came into the room. Pat shrank from the sight of the thicklegs in the dark trousers, the massive body, the powerful hands, thedark square of the onyx ring.He bent over her. “You know, don’t you, Kerry? As soon as I figuredout who you were, I was sure you’d get around to doping it out. I’msorry about what happened, but I had to take care of Abby. She wascrazy about Billy. When she saw your mother shoot him, she fellapart. If I hadn’t come back for her purse, I swear I wouldn’t of touchedyou. I just wanted to shut you up for a while. But now you’re out toget Abby, and that can’t happen.“You made it easy for me this time, Kerry. Everyone knows you’vebeen getting threats. I didn’t expect to be so lucky. Now this kookwill be found with you and no more questions asked. You ask toomany questions—you know that?”The branches directly above the candelabrum suddenly ignited.They began to crackle, and gusts of smoke surged toward the ceiling.“The whole room will be gone in a few minutes, Kerry. I’ve got toget back now. It’s a big night for Abby.”He patted her cheek. “Sorry.”The entire tree burst into flame. As she watched him closing thepatio doors behind him, the carpet began to smolder. The pungentodor of evergreen mingled with the smoke. She tried to hold her breath.Her eyes stung so painfully that it was impossible to keep them open.She’d suffocate here. Rolling to the edge of the couch, she threwherself to the floor. Her forehead banged against the leg of the cocktailtable. Gasping at the sudden pain, she began to wriggle toward thehall. With her hands tied behind her, she could barely move. She
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managed to flip over onto her back, brace her hands under her anduse them to propel herself forward. The heavy terry-cloth robehampered her. Her bare feet slid helplessly over the carpet.At the threshold of the living room, she stopped. If she couldmanage to close the door, she’d keep the fire from spreading, at leastfor a few minutes. She dragged herself over the doorsill. The metalplate broke the skin on her hands. Squirming around the door, shepropped herself against the wall, wedged her shoulder behind thedoor and leaned backward until she heard the latch click. The hallwaywas already filling with smoke. She couldn’t tell any longer whichway she was going. If she made a mistake and wandered into thelibrary, she wouldn’t have a chance.Using the baseboard for guidance, she inched her way toward thefront door.
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Lila tried once again to reach Pat. This time she asked the operator tocheck the number. The phone was in working order.She could not wait any longer. Something was terribly wrong.She dialed the police. She could ask them to check Pat’s house, tellthem she thought she had seen the prowler. But when the desk sergeantanswered, she could not speak. Her throat closed as though she waschoking. Her nostrils filled with the smell of acrid smoke. Pain shotthrough her wrists and ankles. Her body suffused with heat. Thesergeant repeated his name impatiently. At last Lila found her voice.“Three thousand N Street,” she shrieked. “Patricia Traymore isdying! Patricia Traymore is dying!”
Sam drove at a frenzied pace, running red lights, hoping to pickup a police escort. Beside him Abigail sat, her clenched hands pressingagainst her lips.“Abigail, I want the truth. What happened the night Dean andRenée Adams died?”“Billy had promised he’d get a divorce. . . . That day he called meand said he couldn’t do it. . . . That he had to make a go of his marriage. . . That he couldn’t leave Kerry. I thought Renée was in Boston. Iwent there to plead with him. Renée went wild when she saw me.She had found out about us. Billy kept a gun in the desk. She turnedit on herself. . . . He tried to get it from her . . . the gun went off. . . .Sam, it was a nightmare. He died before my eyes”“Then who killed her? ” Sam demanded. “Who?”“She killed herself,” Abigail sobbed. “Toby knew there’d betrouble. He was watching from the patio. He dragged me out to thecar. Sam, I was in shock. I didn’t know what was happening. The lastI saw was Renée standing there, holding the gun. Toby had to go
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back for my purse. Sam, I heard that second shot before he went backinto the house. I swear it. He didn’t tell me about Kerry until the nextday. He said she must have come down right after we left, that Renéemust have shoved her against the fireplace to get her out of the way.But he didn’t realize she’d been seriously injured.”“Pat remembers tripping over her mother ’s body.”“No. That’s impossible. She can’t have.”The tires screeched as they turned onto Wisconsin Avenue.“You’ve always believed Toby,” he accused her, “because you wanted to believe him. It was better for you that way. Did you believethe plane crash was an accident, Abigail—a fortunate accident? Didyou believe Toby when you alibied for him for the campaign funds?”“Yes . . . yes. . . .”The streets were packed with pedestrians. Wildly he honked thehorn. The dinner crowd was drifting into the restaurants. He racedthe car down M Street, across 31st Street to the corner of N and flooredthe brake pedal. They were both thrown forward.“Oh, my God,” Abigail whispered.An elderly woman, screaming for help, was banging her fistsagainst the front door of Pat’s house. A police car, its siren wailing,was racing down the block.The house was in flames.
Toby hurried through the yard toward the fence. It was all overnow. No more loose ends. No pilot’s widow to stir up trouble forAbigail. No Kerry Adams to remember what happened in the livingroom that night.He’d have to hurry. Pretty soon Abby would be looking for him.She was due at the White House in an hour. Someone was yelling forhelp. Someone must have spotted smoke. He heard the police sirenand he began to run.He’d just reached the fence when a car roared past, spun aroundthe corner and screeched to a stop. Car doors slammed and he hearda man shouting Pat Traymore’s name. Sam Kingsley! He had to getout of here. The whole back of the house was starting to go. Someonewould see him.“Not the front door, Sam, back here, back here.” Toby dropped
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from the fence. Abby. It was Abby. She was running along the side ofthe house, heading for the patio. He ran to her, overtook her. “Abby,for Christ sake, stay away from there.”She looked at him wildeyed. The smell of smoke permeated thenight air. A side window blew out and flames whooshed across thelawn.“Toby, is Kerry in there?” Abby grabbed his lapels.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”“Toby, you were seen near the Graney woman’s house last night.”“Abby, shut up! Last night I had dinner with my Steakburger friend.You saw me come in at ten-thirty.”“No I didn’t.”“Yes, you did, Senator!”“Then it’s true. . . . What Sam told me . . .”“Abby, don’t pull that shit on me. I take care of you. You take careof me. It’s always been like that, and you know it.”A second police car, its dome light blinking, sped past. “Abby,I’ve got to get out of here.” There was no fear in his voice.“Is Kerry in there?”“I didn’t start the fire. I didn’t do a thing to her.”“Is she in there?”“Yes.”“You oaf! You stupid, homicidal oaf! Get her out of there!” Shepounded on his chest. “You heard me. Get her out of there.” Flamesshot through the roof. “Do as I say,” she shouted.For several seconds they stared at each other. Then Toby shrugged,giving in, and ran clumsily along the snow-covered side lawn, throughthe garden and onto the patio. The sound of fire engines wailed downthe street as he kicked in the patio doors.The heat inside was withering. Pulling off his coat, Toby wrappedit around his head and shoulders. She had been on the couch,somewhere to the right of the doors. It’s because she’s Billy’s girl, hethought. It’s all over for you, Abby. We can’t pull this one off now. . . .He was at the couch, running his hands along it. He couldn’t see.She wasn’t there.He tried to feel the floor around the couch. A crackling sound
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exploded overhead. He had to get out of here—the whole place wasgoing to cave in.He stumbled toward the doors, guided only by the cold draft. Piecesof plaster fell on him and he lost his balance and fell. His hand touchedhuman flesh. A face, but not a woman’s face. It was the crazy.Toby pulled himself up, felt himself shaking, felt the room shaking.A moment later the ceiling collapsed.With his last breath he whispered, “Abby!” But he knew shecouldn’t help him this time. . . .
In a pushing, crawling motion, Pat moved inch by inch along thehallway. The tightly knotted rope had cut off the circulation in herright leg. She had to drag her legs, use only her fingers and palms topropel herself. The floorboards were becoming unbearably hot. Theacrid smoke stung her eyes and skin. She couldn’t feel the baseboardany longer. She was disoriented. It was hopeless. She was choking.She was going to burn to death.Then it began . . . the pounding . . . the voice . . . Lila’s voiceshouting for help. . . . Pat twisted her body, tried to move toward thesound. A roar from the back of the house shook the floor. The wholehouse was collapsing. She felt herself losing consciousness. . . . Shehad been meant to die in this house.As blackness overwhelmed her, she heard a cacophony ofhammering, splintering noises. They were trying to break the doordown. She was so near it. A rush of cold air. Funnels of flames andsmoke roaring toward the draft . . . Men’s angry voices shouting, “ It’stoo late. You can’t go in there. ” Lila’s screams: “ Help her, help her. ”Sam’s desperate, furious “ Let go of me. ”Sam . . . Sam . . . Footsteps running past her . . . Sam yelling hername. With the last of her strength, Pat lifted her legs and smashedthem against the wall.He turned. In the light of the flames, he saw her, scooped her up,and ran out of the house.
The street was crowded with fire engines and squad cars. Onlookershuddled together in shocked silence. Abigail stood statuelike as theambulance attendants worked over Pat. Sam was kneeling at the side
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of the stretcher, his hands caressing Pat’s arms, his face bleak withapprehension. A trembling, ashen-faced Lila was standing a few feetaway, her eyes riveted on Pat’s still body. Around them, hot sootydebris drifted from the wreckage of the house.“Her pulsebeat is getting stronger,” the attendant said.Pat stirred, tried to push aside the oxygen mask. “Sam . . .”“I’m here, darling.” He looked up as Abigail touched his shoulder.Her face was smudged with grimy smoke. The suit she had plannedto wear to the White House was soiled and wrinkled. “I’m glad Kerry’sall right, Sam. Take good care of her.”“I intend to.”“I’ll get a policeman to drive me to a phone. I don’t feel quite upto telling the President in person that I must resign from public life.Let me know what I need to do to help Eleanor Brown.”Slowly she began to walk to the nearest police car. Recognizingher, the onlookers broke into astonished comments and parted to opena path for her. Some of them began clapping. “Your program wasgreat, Senator,” someone yelled. “We love you.” “We’re rooting foryou to be Vice President,” another one shouted.As she stepped into the car, Abigail Jennings turned, and with atortured half-smile forced herself to acknowledge their greetings forthe last time.
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On December 29 at 9 P.M. the President strode into the East Room ofthe White House for the news conference he had summarily postponedtwo nights earlier. He walked to the lecturn where the microphoneshad been placed. “I wonder why we’re all here,” he remarked. Therewas a burst of laughter.The President expressed regret at the untimely resignation of theformer Vice President. Then he continued, “There are manyoutstanding legislators who would fill the role with great distinctionand could complete my second term in office if for any reason I wereunable to. However, the person I have chosen to be Vice President,with the hearty approval of the leaders of all branches of thegovernment and subject to confirmation by the Congress, is one whowill fill a unique place in the history of this country. Ladies andgentlemen, it is my pleasure to present to you the first woman VicePresident of the United States, Senator Claire Lawrence of Ohio.”A roar of applause erupted as the White House audience jumpedto its feet.
Nestled together on the couch in his apartment, Sam and Patwatched the news conference. “I wonder if Abigail is seeing this,”Pat said.“I imagine she is.”“She never needed Toby’s kind of help. She could have done it onher own.”“That’s true. And it’s the saddest part of it.”“What will happen to her?”“She’ll leave Washington. But don’t count her out.Abigail’s tough. She’ll fight her way back. And this time withoutthat goon in the background.”
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“She did so much good,” Pat said sadly. “In so many ways, she was the woman I believed her to be.”They listened to Claire Lawrence’s acceptance speech. Then Samhelped Pat to her feet. “With your eyebrows and lashes singed, youhave the most incredible surprised look.” He cupped her face in hishands. “Feel good to be out of the hospital?”“You know it!”He had come so close to losing her. Now she was looking up athim, her face trusting but troubled.“What will happen to Eleanor?” she asked. “You haven’t saidanything and I’ve been afraid to ask.”“I didn’t mean not to tell you. The revised statement from Abigailcoupled with everything else we have on Toby will exonerate her.How about you? Now that you know the truth, how do you feel aboutyour mother and father?”“Happy that it wasn’t my father who pulled the trigger. Sorry formy mother. Glad that neither one of them hurt me that night. Theywere absolutely wrong for each other, but so much that happenedwas nobody’s fault. Maybe I’m starting to understand people better.At least I hope so.”“Think about this. If your parents hadn’t gotten together, youwouldn’t be around, and I might be spending the rest of my life in aplace that’s decorated . . . how did you put it . . . like a motel lobby?”“Something like that.”“Have you decided about the job?”“I don’t know. Luther does seem sincere about wanting me to stay.I guess for what it’s worth the program was well received. He’s askedme to start planning one on Claire Lawrence and thinks we mighteven be able to get the First Lady. It’s mighty tempting. He swearsthis time I’ll have creative control of my projects. And with youaround, he certainly won’t try any more passes at me.”“He’d better not!” Sam put his arm around her and saw the faintbeginning of a smile. “Come on. You like a water view.” They walkedto the window and looked out. The night had clouded over but thePotomac gleamed in the lights of the Kennedy Center.“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like seeing that houseon fire, knowing you were inside,” he said. His arm tightened around
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her. “I can’t lose you, Pat, not now, not ever.” He kissed her. “I’mdead serious about not wasting any more time. Would a honeymoonin Caneel Bay next week suit you?”“Save your money. I’d rather go back to the Cape.”“And the Ebb Tide?”“You guessed it. With just one change.” She looked up at him andher smile became radiant. “This time when we leave we’ll take thesame plane home.”
MARY HIGGINS CLARK is the author of twenty-onebestsellers. She lives with her husband, John ConHeeney, in SaddleRiver, New Jersey.
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