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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
Tags: Suspense
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last time she looked at the clock it had been 4:05, just the time that Gus had left only yesterday. Gus had never been a demonstrative man. He had bent over and kissed her good-bye. Did he have a premonition that he would never come back home? she wondered.
That was the last thought she had before she mercifully drifted off. Later she was awakened by the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. For one hopeful moment she thought it was Gus there, but then she realized that of course it was Gretchen, who had arrived from Minneapolis late the afternoon before.
Lottie sighed and with a weary gesture sat up in bed. She fumbled for her ten-year-old robe and then stuffed her feet into her slippers. The robe had been a Christmas present from Gus. He’d bought it at Victoria’s Secret. Lottie remembered thinking that when she saw the package she hoped that Gus hadn’t wasted his money on silly skimpy nightgowns that she’d never wear. Instead she had found inside the wrapping a pretty blue-patterned robe with a satin exterior and cozy warm lining. And it was washable.
They didn’t make those robes anymore, but as soon as the weather turned cold she trotted this one out and loved to slip into itfirst thing in the morning. Both she and Gus were early risers, never later than seven thirty. Gus usually was up ahead of her and had the coffee ready when she came down.
He’d have the papers collected, too, and they’d eat in contented silence. Lottie always got to read the Post first. Gus liked the News . They both had orange juice and cereal with a banana because the doctor had said it was the best way to start the day.
But there wouldn’t be any coffee waiting for her today. And she’d have to go out to the end of the driveway to pick up the newspapers. The guy who delivered them wouldn’t come down and leave them at the side door, because he didn’t like to back out onto the street.
The shower was still running when Lottie passed the bathroom. Gus would have had a fit that Gretchen’s using up so much hot water, she thought. He always hated waste.
As she walked down the stairs, she tried to push back her worry that Gretchen would be tempted to show neighbors and friends pictures of her expensive house in Minnesota during the viewing for Gus. People who know us would wonder how Gretchen could afford such a lavish place. Divorced and childless, after working for the telephone company for years, Gretchen had become a masseuse. And a good one, Lottie thought loyally. Even if she didn’t make a lot of money, she had a nice circle of friends out there. She’s active in the Presbyterian Church. But she doesn’t think. She’s a talker. All she needed to say was . . .
Lottie did not finish the thought. Instead she went into the kitchen, started the coffeepot, and opened the door.
At least it wasn’t raining. She walked down to the edge of the driveway and, bending slowly to keep her balance, picked up the three newspapers, the Post , the News, and the Long Island Daily , and carried them back to the house.
Inside she took off the protective wrappings and then unrolled them. All three had pictures on the front page of the Connelly fire. With trembling fingers she opened the Post to page three. There was a picture of Gus under the headline FIRE VICTIM A DISGRUNTLED EX-EMPLOYEE OF CONNELLY FINE ANTIQUE REPRODUCTIONS.
23
“I t’s not for nothing you have red hair” was the oft-repeated comment of Jessica’s father, Steve, in her growing years. At twenty-one Steve Carlson had graduated from the police academy in New York and spent the next thirty years rising through the ranks until he retired as a captain. He had married his high school sweetheart, Annie, and when it became obvious that the large family they had planned was not to happen, he made his only offspring, Jessica, his companion at sports events.
As close as he and Annie were, his wife vastly preferred reading a book to sitting out in the hot or cold
That was the last thought she had before she mercifully drifted off. Later she was awakened by the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. For one hopeful moment she thought it was Gus there, but then she realized that of course it was Gretchen, who had arrived from Minneapolis late the afternoon before.
Lottie sighed and with a weary gesture sat up in bed. She fumbled for her ten-year-old robe and then stuffed her feet into her slippers. The robe had been a Christmas present from Gus. He’d bought it at Victoria’s Secret. Lottie remembered thinking that when she saw the package she hoped that Gus hadn’t wasted his money on silly skimpy nightgowns that she’d never wear. Instead she had found inside the wrapping a pretty blue-patterned robe with a satin exterior and cozy warm lining. And it was washable.
They didn’t make those robes anymore, but as soon as the weather turned cold she trotted this one out and loved to slip into itfirst thing in the morning. Both she and Gus were early risers, never later than seven thirty. Gus usually was up ahead of her and had the coffee ready when she came down.
He’d have the papers collected, too, and they’d eat in contented silence. Lottie always got to read the Post first. Gus liked the News . They both had orange juice and cereal with a banana because the doctor had said it was the best way to start the day.
But there wouldn’t be any coffee waiting for her today. And she’d have to go out to the end of the driveway to pick up the newspapers. The guy who delivered them wouldn’t come down and leave them at the side door, because he didn’t like to back out onto the street.
The shower was still running when Lottie passed the bathroom. Gus would have had a fit that Gretchen’s using up so much hot water, she thought. He always hated waste.
As she walked down the stairs, she tried to push back her worry that Gretchen would be tempted to show neighbors and friends pictures of her expensive house in Minnesota during the viewing for Gus. People who know us would wonder how Gretchen could afford such a lavish place. Divorced and childless, after working for the telephone company for years, Gretchen had become a masseuse. And a good one, Lottie thought loyally. Even if she didn’t make a lot of money, she had a nice circle of friends out there. She’s active in the Presbyterian Church. But she doesn’t think. She’s a talker. All she needed to say was . . .
Lottie did not finish the thought. Instead she went into the kitchen, started the coffeepot, and opened the door.
At least it wasn’t raining. She walked down to the edge of the driveway and, bending slowly to keep her balance, picked up the three newspapers, the Post , the News, and the Long Island Daily , and carried them back to the house.
Inside she took off the protective wrappings and then unrolled them. All three had pictures on the front page of the Connelly fire. With trembling fingers she opened the Post to page three. There was a picture of Gus under the headline FIRE VICTIM A DISGRUNTLED EX-EMPLOYEE OF CONNELLY FINE ANTIQUE REPRODUCTIONS.
23
“I t’s not for nothing you have red hair” was the oft-repeated comment of Jessica’s father, Steve, in her growing years. At twenty-one Steve Carlson had graduated from the police academy in New York and spent the next thirty years rising through the ranks until he retired as a captain. He had married his high school sweetheart, Annie, and when it became obvious that the large family they had planned was not to happen, he made his only offspring, Jessica, his companion at sports events.
As close as he and Annie were, his wife vastly preferred reading a book to sitting out in the hot or cold
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