Nighttime Is My Time Page 7

  Who indeed? Inside, I’m still too often the needy outsider, Jean thought, but she was saved from answering when Gordon suddenly smiled boyishly and said, “One should never get too philosophical over dinner. Maybe I’ll feel differently after they hang that medal on me. What do you think, Laura?”

  He turned to speak to her, and Jean turned to Jack Emerson who was on her left.

  “That seems to be an intense discussion you’ve been having with Gordon,” he observed.

  Jean noted the naked curiosity on his face. The last thing she wanted to do was continue with him the conversation she had been having with Gordon. “Oh, we were just gossiping about growing up here, Jack,” she said glibly.

  I was so unsure of myself, she thought. I was so thin and awkward. My hair was stringy. I was always waiting for my mother and father to start blasting at each other again. I felt so guilty when they told me that the only reason they were staying together was for my sake. All I wanted to do was grow up and get as far away as possible. And I did.

  “Cornwall was a great place to grow up,” Jack said heartily. “Never could understand why more of you didn’t settle here or at least buy a country retreat for yourselves around here, now that you’re all so successful. Incidentally, if you ever decide you want one, Jeannie, I have some properties listed that I can promise you are little jewels.”

  Jean remembered that Alice Sommers had told her the rumor was that Jack Emerson was the new owner of Alice’s former home. “Any in my old neighborhood?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I’m talking about places with drop-dead river views. When can I take you around and show them to you?”

  Never, Jean thought. I’m not coming back here to live. I just want to get out of here. First, though, I have to find out who is contacting me about Lily. It’s just a hunch, but I’d stake my life that that person is sitting in this room right now. I want this dinner to be over so that I can meet Alice and the detective she has brought here tonight. I have to believe that somehow he will be able to help me find Lily and remove any threat to her safety. And when I am sure that she is well and happy, I need to go back to my adult world. Being here for twenty-four hours has already made me realize that, for better or for worse, whatever I have become was because of the life I led here, and I have to make peace with that.

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m in the market for a home in Cornwall,” she told Jack Emerson.

  “Maybe not now, Jeannie,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “but I bet that someday soon I’ll find a place for you to stay. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  21

  At these dinners the honorees are usually introduced in increasing order of importance, The Owl thought sardonically as Laura’s name was called. She was the first to receive her medal, jointly presented by the mayor of Cornwall and the president of Stonecroft.

  Laura’s garment bag and small suitcase were in his car. He’d sneaked them down the backstairs, out the service entrance, and into the trunk without being observed. As a precaution he’d broken the light over the service entrance and worn a cap and jacket that could vaguely have passed for a uniform if anyone happened to see him, even from a distance.

  Predictably, Laura looked beautiful. She was wearing a gold dinner gown that, as the well-worn saying went, “left nothing to the imagination.” Her makeup was flawless. Her diamond necklace was probably fake but looked good. Her diamond earrings might be genuine. They were probably the last, or near the last, of the jewelry she’d received from her second husband. A little talent, helped by her spectacular good looks, had given Laura her fifteen minutes of fame. And, face it, she had an engaging personality—that is, if you weren’t on the receiving end of her trashing.

  Now she was thanking the mayor, the president of Stonecroft, and the dinner guests. “Cornwall-on-Hudson was a wonderful place to grow up,” she gushed. “And the four years at Stonecroft were the happiest of my life.”

  With a thrill of anticipation, he imagined the moment when they got to the house, when he closed the door behind her and saw the terror begin to come into her eyes, the moment when she understood that she was trapped.

  They were applauding Laura’s speech, and then the mayor was announcing the next honoree.

  Finally it was over, and they could get up to leave. He sensed that Laura was looking at him, but he did not meet her glance. They had agreed that they would mingle for a little while, then go to their rooms separately while everyone was saying good night. Then she would meet him at the car.

  The others would be checking out in the morning and driving in their own cars to the memorial service at Alison’s grave, and then on to the farewell brunch. Laura wouldn’t be missed until then, and the supposition might easily be that she’d simply had enough of the reunion and had headed home early.

  “Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” Jean said, resting her hand a few inches above his wrist. She had touched the deepest and most ragged of the dog bites. The Owl felt a spurt of blood from the wound dampen his jacket and realized that the sleeve of Jean’s royal blue dinner gown was in contact with it.

  With a tremendous effort he managed not to give any hint of the pain that shot through his arm. Obviously Jean did not realize what had happened, and she turned to greet a couple in their early sixties who were approaching her.

  For an instant, The Owl thought of the blood that had dripped onto the street when the dog bit him. DNA. It concerned him that it was the first time he’d ever left physical evidence behind—except, of course, for his symbol, but over the years everyone everywhere had missed that. In a way he’d been disappointed by their stupidity, but in another way he’d been glad. If the deaths of all those women were linked, it would make it harder for him to continue. If he chose to continue after Laura and Jean.

  Even if Jean realized the spot on her sleeve was blood, she wouldn’t have any idea where it had come from and how she had come in contact with it. Besides, no detective, not even Sherlock Holmes, would connect a spot on the sleeve of an honoree of Stonecroft Academy with blood found in the street twenty miles away.

  Never in a million years, The Owl thought, dismissing the idea as absurd.

  22

  From the moment she met Sam Deegan, Jean understood why Alice had spoken so highly of him. She liked his looks: a strong face enhanced by clear dark blue eyes. She also liked the warmth of his smile and his firm handshake.

  “I told Sam about Lily and about the fax you received yesterday,” Alice said, her voice low.

  “There’s been another one,” Jean whispered. “Alice, I’m so frightened for Lily. I almost couldn’t make myself come down to dinner. It’s been so hard to try to make conversation when I don’t know what may be happening to her.”

  Before Alice could reply, Jean felt a tug on her sleeve as a cheery voice cried, “Jean Sheridan. My, how happy I am to see you! You used to baby-sit for my kids when you were thirteen.”

  Jean managed a smile. “Oh, Mrs. Rhodeen, it’s so good to see you again.”

  “Jean, people want to talk to you,” Sam said. “Alice and I will go over and get a table in the cocktail lounge. Join us as soon as you can.”

  It was fifteen minutes before she could break away from the local people who had attended the dinner and who remembered her growing up or who had read her books and wanted to talk to her about them. But at last she was with Alice and Sam at a corner table where they could speak without being overheard.

  As they sipped the champagne Sam had ordered, she told them about the flower and note she had found in the cemetery. “The rose couldn’t have been there long,” she said nervously. “It almost has to have been put there by someone in the reunion group who knew I was going to West Point and was sure I’d stop at Reed’s grave. But why is he or she playing this game? Why these vague threats? Why not come out with the reason for being in touch with me now?”

  “May I be in touch with you now?” Mark Fleischman asked pleasantly. He was standing at th
e empty chair beside her, a glass in his hand.

  “I was looking to ask you to have a nightcap, Jean,” he explained. “I couldn’t find you, then I spotted you over here.”

  He saw the hesitation on the faces of the people at the table, and acknowledged to himself that he had expected it. He had been perfectly aware that they were in a serious discussion, but he wanted to know whom Jean was with and what they were talking about.

  “Of course, join us,” Jean said, trying to sound welcoming. How much did he overhear? she wondered as she introduced him to Alice and Sam.

  “Mark Fleischman,” Sam said. “Dr. Mark Fleischman. I’ve seen your program and like it very much. You give darn good advice. I especially admire the way you handle teenagers. When they’re your guests, you have a way of letting them vent their feelings and feel comfortable about doing it. If more kids opened up and got decent advice, they would realize they were not alone and their problems wouldn’t seem so overwhelming.”

  Jean watched as Mark Fleischman’s face brightened with a pleased smile at the obvious sincerity of Sam Deegan’s praise.

  He was so quiet as a kid, she thought. He was always so shy. I never would have guessed that he’d end up a television personality. Was Gordon right that Mark became a psychiatrist specializing in adolescents because of his own problem after his brother’s death?

  “I know you grew up here, Mark. Do you still have family in town?” Alice Sommers asked.

  “My father. He’s never moved from the old homestead. Retired, but does a lot of traveling, I gather.”

  Jean was startled. “At dinner, Gordon and I were talking about the fact that none of us has roots here anymore.”

  “I don’t have roots here, Jean,” Mark said quietly. “I haven’t been in touch with my father in years. Although he clearly must realize from all the publicity about this reunion and the fact that I’m here as one of the honorees, I haven’t heard from him.”

  He caught the note of bitterness that had crept into his voice, and was ashamed of it. What made me open up like that to two perfect strangers and to Jeannie Sheridan? he wondered. I’m supposed to be the listener. “Tall, lanky, cheerful, funny, and wise, Dr. Mark Fleischman” was how they introduced him on TV.

  “Perhaps your father is out of town,” Alice suggested softly.

  “If he is, then he’s wasting a lot of electricity. His lights were on last night.” Mark shrugged, then smiled. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to pour out my soul. I came barging over here because I wanted to congratulate Jean on her remarks at the podium. She was sweet and natural and thankfully made up for the antics of a couple of our fellow honorees.”

  “And so did you,” Alice Sommers said heartily. “I thought Robby Brent was absolutely out of order and that Gordon Amory and Carter Stewart sounded downright bitter. But if you’re going to congratulate Jeannie, be sure to mention how lovely she looks.”

  “I seriously doubt that with Laura up there, anybody noticed me,” Jean said, but she realized how pleased she was by Mark’s unexpected compliment.

  “I’m sure everyone noticed you and would agree you look lovely,” Mark said as he stood up. “I also wanted to be sure to tell you that it’s been good to see you again, Jeannie, in case we don’t get a chance to visit tomorrow. I’ll go to Alison’s memorial service, but I may not be able to stay for the brunch.”

  He smiled at Alice Sommers and extended his hand to Sam Deegan. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Now I see a couple of people I want to catch in case I miss them in the morning.” With long strides he was across the room.

  “That man is very attractive, Jean,” Alice Sommers said emphatically. “And it’s obvious that he has an eye for you.”

  But that may not be the only reason he dropped by, Sam Deegan thought. He’d been watching us from the bar. He wanted to know what we were talking about.

  I wonder why it was so important to him.

  23

  The Owl was almost out of the cage. He was separating from it. He could always tell when total separation was taking place. His own kind, gentle self—the person he might have become under different circumstances—began to recede. He heard and saw himself smiling and joking and accepting the kisses on the cheek from some of the women in the reunion group.

  And then he slipped away. He could feel the velvety softness of his plumage when, twenty minutes later, he sat in the car waiting for Laura. He watched as she slipped out the back entrance of the hotel, taking care to look around and avoid running into anyone. She had even been smart enough to wear a hooded raincoat over her gown.

  Then she was at the car door, opening it. She slid onto the seat beside him. “Take me away, honey,” she said laughing. “Isn’t this fun?”

  24

  Jake Perkins stayed up late to write his report about the banquet for the Stonecroft Academy Gazette. His home on Riverbank Lane looked over the Hudson, and he valued that view as he valued few things in his life. At age sixteen he already considered himself something of a philosopher as well as a good writer and a keen student of human behavior.

  In a moment of profound thinking, he had decided that the tides and currents of the river symbolized to him the passions and moods of human beings. He liked to get that kind of depth into his news stories. He knew, of course, that the columns he wanted to write would never get by Mr. Holland, the English teacher who was the adviser and censor of the Gazette, but to amuse himself, Jake wrote the column he wished he could print before he got down to the one that he’d submit.

  The somewhat shabby ballroom of the stuffy Glen-Ridge House was somewhat brightened with blue and white Stonecroft banners and centerpieces. The food was predictably dreadful, beginning with what passed for a seafood cocktail followed by filet mignon done to a crisp, yet only slightly warm, pan-roasted potatoes that could have been lethal weapons, and wilted string beans almondine. Melted ice cream with chocolate sauce completed the chef’s attempt at gourmet dining.

  The townspeople supported the event by turning out to honor the graduates, all of whom were once residents of Cornwall. It is generally known that Jack Emerson, the chairman and driving force behind the reunion, has a purpose behind his effort not connected with embracing his fellow classmates. The banquet was also the kickoff for the building project at Stonecroft, a new addition that will be erected on land presently owned by Emerson and built by the contractor acknowledged to be in Emerson’s pocket.

  The six honorees were seated at the dais together with Mayor Walter Carlson, Stonecroft president Alfred Downes, and trustees . . .

  Their names don’t matter in this version of the story, Jake decided.

  Laura Wilcox was the first to receive the Distinguished Alumna medal. Her gold lamé dress had most of the men in the assembly unaware of what she was babbling, something to the effect of how happy her life had been in this town. Since she had never come back and since no one could ever picture the glamorous Ms. Wilcox strolling down Main Street or stopping by for a tattoo at our recently opened tattoo emporium, her remarks were greeted with polite applause and a few whistles.

  Dr. Mark Fleischman, psychiatrist and now television personality, gave a low-key, well-received address in which he cautioned parents and teachers to build up their kids’ morale. “The world will be happy to beat them down,” he said. “It’s your job to make them feel good about themselves even while you give them appropriate limits.”

  Carter Stewart, the playwright, gave a two-level speech in which he said he was sure that the townspeople and the students who have become prototypes for many of the characters in his plays were present at the banquet. He also said that contrary to Dr. Fleischman’s remarks, his father believed in the old chestnut that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. He then thanked his late father for having been that kind of parent because it gave him a dark view on life which has served him well.

  Stewart’s remarks were greeted with nervous laughter and little applause.

  Comedian Robby Brent br
oke up the audience with his vividly funny imitation of the teachers who were always threatening to fail him, which would have caused him to lose his scholarship to Stonecroft. One of those teachers was present and smiled gamely at Brent’s merciless parody of her gestures and mannerisms and dead-on imitation of her voice. But Miss Ella Bender, the rock of the mathematics department, was close to tears as Brent devastated the audience with a perfect parody of her high-pitched tone and nervous giggle.

  “I was the last and dumbest of the Brents,” Robby concluded. “You never let me forget it. My defense was humor, and for that I thank you.”

  He then blinked his eyes and puckered his lips exactly as President Downes blinks his eyes and puckers his lips, and handed him a check for $1, his contribution toward the building fund.

  Then, as the audience gasped, he yelled, “Just kidding,” and waved a check for $10,000, which he ceremoniously handed over.

  Some in the audience thought he was sidesplittingly funny. Others, like Dr. Jean Sheridan, were distressed by Brent’s antics. She was later overheard telling someone that she did not believe humor should be cruel.

  Gordon Amory, our cable television czar, was next to speak. “I never made any team I tried for at Stonecroft,” he said. “You can’t imagine how hard I prayed that I’d get just one chance to be a jock—which proves the old adage, ‘Be careful what you pray for. You may get it.’ Instead I became a television addict, then began analyzing the stuff I was watching. Before long, I realized I could tell why some programs or specials or situation comedies or docudramas worked and why others were worthless. That was the beginning of my career. It was founded on rejection, disappointment, and pain. And, oh yes, before I leave, let me set a rumor to rest. I did not deliberately set fire to my parents’ home. I was smoking a cigarette and did not notice after I turned off the television and went up to bed that the live butt had slipped behind the empty pizza box my mother had left on the couch.”