Read Online Stillwatch by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
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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
45
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
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
44
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
45
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
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