Nighttime Is My Time

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “She was supposed to check out by two. She ordered a car to take her to the airport at two-fifteen, so I don’t know what to tell you about your flowers, sonny.”

  “I guess I’ll check with my customer. Thanks.”

  Jake turned off his cell phone and slipped it back into his pocket. I know exactly where I’m going to be at two o’clock, he thought—I’ll be in the lobby of the Glen-Ridge, waiting to see if Laura Wilcox is there to check out.

  He started to walk back down the corridor to the auditorium. Suppose she never does show up, he thought. Suppose she just disappears. If she does . . . He felt a thrill of nervous anticipation shoot through him. He understood what it was—a newsman’s nose for a hot story. It’s too big for the Stonecroft Academy Gazette, Jake thought. But the New York Post would love it. I’ll get the lunch table picture enlarged and have it ready to run with the story. He could see the headline: “Hard Luck Class Claims Another Victim.” Pretty good.

  Or maybe even, “And Then There Was One.” Even better!

  I took a couple of really good pictures of Dr. Sheridan, he thought. I’ll have them ready to show the Post as well.

  As he opened the door of the auditorium, the first lines of the school song were being sung by the assembled guests. “We hail thee, dear Stonecroft; the place of our dreams . . .”

  The reunion of the twentieth-anniversary graduates was over at last.

  28

  “I guess this is good-bye, Jean. It’s been good to see you again.” Mark Fleischman was holding his card in his hand. “I’ll give you mine if you’ll give me yours,” he said, smiling.

  “Of course.” Jean dug into her bag and pulled a card out of her wallet. “I’m glad you were able to make the brunch after all.”

  “I am, too. When do you leave?”

  “I’m staying at the hotel for a few days more. A little research project.” Jean tried to sound casual.

  “I tape some shows in Boston tomorrow. Otherwise I’d stay and ask you to join me for a quiet dinner tonight.” He hesitated, then bent down and kissed her cheek. “Again, as people say, it’s been good to see you.”

  “Good-bye, Mark.” Jean caught herself before adding, “Give me a call if you plan to be in Washington.” For an instant their hands lingered together, then he was gone.

  Carter Stewart and Gordon Amory were standing together, saying final good-byes to the dispersing classmates. Jean walked over to them. Before she could speak, Gordon asked, “Have you heard from Laura?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Laura’s unreliable. That’s another reason her career has tanked. She has a history of keeping people waiting, but Alison had been moving heaven and earth to get her a job. Too bad that Laura couldn’t remember that today.”

  “Well . . .” Jean decided not to agree or disagree. She turned to Carter Stewart. “Are you heading back to New York, Carter?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m checking out of the Glen-Ridge and into the Hudson Valley Hotel across town. Pierce Ellison is directing my new play. He lives only ten minutes away in Highland Falls. We need to go over the script together, and he suggested we could work quietly at his place if I stayed over a few days. I’m not staying at the Glen-Ridge, though. They haven’t spent a nickel on improvements at that place in fifty years.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Amory agreed. “I have too many memories of being a busboy and then a room-service waiter there. I’m heading over to the country club. Some of my people are coming in. We’re looking for a corporate headquarters in this area.”

  “Talk to Jack Emerson,” Stewart said sarcastically.

  “Anyone but him. My people have lined up some places for me to see.”

  “Then this may not be good-bye,” Jean said. “We may be bumping into one another in town. Whether or not, it’s been good to be with you.”

  She did not see Robby Brent or Jack Emerson, but didn’t want to wait any longer. She had agreed to meet Sam Deegan at Alice Sommers’ home at two o’clock, and it was nearly that time now.

  With a final smile and a murmured good-bye to the classmates she passed on the way out, she walked quickly to the parking lot. As she got into her car, she looked across the school grounds to the cemetery. The unreality of Alison’s death hit her again. It seemed so strange to leave her here on this cold, wet day. I used to tell Alison that she should have been born in California, Jean thought as she turned the key in the ignition. She hated the cold. Her idea of heaven was to get out of bed in the morning, open the door, and go for a swim.

  That was what Alison was doing the morning she died.

  It was the thought that accompanied Jean as she drove to Alice Sommers’ home.

  29

  Carter Stewart had reserved a suite at the new Hudson Valley Hotel near Storm King State Park. Perched on the side of the mountain overlooking the Hudson, with its center building and twin towers, it reminded him of an eagle with outstretched wings.

  The eagle, symbol of life and light and power and majesty.

  The tentative title for his new play was The Eagle and the Owl.

  The owl. Symbol of darkness and death. Bird of prey. Pierce Ellison, his director, liked the title. I’m not sure, Stewart thought, as he pulled up at the entrance of the hotel and stepped out of the car. I’m just not sure.

  Is it too obvious? Symbols are meant to be noted by the profound thinker, not served on a platter to the Wednesday matinee bridge club. Not that that group rushed to buy tickets to his plays.

  “We’ll take care of your bags, sir.”

  Carter Stewart pressed a five-dollar bill into the doorman’s hand. At least he didn’t say, “Welcome home,” he thought.

  Five minutes later, a scotch from the mini-bar in his hand, he was standing at a window in his suite. The Hudson was brooding and restless. Only mid-afternoon in October and there was already a winter feel in the air. But at least, thank God, the reunion was over. I even quite liked seeing a few of those people again, Carter thought, if only to remind me of how far I’ve come since I left there.

  Pierce Ellison felt that they needed to strengthen the character of Gwendolyn in the play. “Get someone who really is a ditsy blonde,” he’d been urging. “Not an actress playing a ditsy blonde.”

  Carter Stewart chuckled aloud as he thought of Laura. “My, my, how she would have fit the bill,” he said aloud. “I’ll drink to that, even though in one hundred thousand years it would never have happened.”

  30

  Robby Brent had not missed the fact that many of his former classmates shunned him after his speech at the dinner. A few others had paid him the barbed compliment of saying that he was a marvelous mimic, even if he had been a little hard on their old teachers and the principal. It also got back to him that Jean Sheridan said humor should not be cruel.

  All of which was intensely satisfying to Robby Brent. Miss Ella Bender, the math teacher, had apparently been seen crying in the ladies room after the dinner. You seem to forget, Miss Bender, how frequently you reminded me that I didn’t have one-tenth the ability for higher mathematics that my brothers and sisters did. I was your whipping boy, Miss Bender. The last and least of the Brents. And now you have the nerve to be offended when I show your prissy ways and unfortunate habit of frequently licking your lips with your tongue. Too bad.

  He had hinted to Jack Emerson that he might be in the market to invest in property, and Emerson had buttonholed him after the brunch. Emerson was a blowhard in a lot of ways, Robby thought as he turned into the Glen-Ridge driveway, but he did make sense when they talked about real estate and the advisability of investing in this area.

  “Land,” Emerson had expounded. “Around here it does nothing but go up in value. Taxes are low when it’s undeveloped. Sit on it for twenty years, and you’ll be worth a fortune. Get in on it before it goes out of sight, Robby. I have a few listings on some fabulous parcels, all with views of the Hudson, and some of them waterfront. They’ll knock your socks off.
I’d buy them myself, but I have plenty. Don’t want to make my kid too rich when he grows up. Stay over and I’ll take you around tomorrow.”

  “It’s the land, Katie Scarlett, it’s the land.” Robby grinned, remembering the bewildered look on Emerson’s face when he quoted that line from Gone With the Wind to him. But then he’d latched onto it when he explained that what Scarlett’s father meant was that land was the basis for security and wealth.

  “Gotta remember that, Robby. That’s great and it’s true. Land is real money, real value. Land doesn’t go away.”

  Next time I’ll try a quote from Plato on him, Robby thought as he stopped the car at the entrance to the Glen-Ridge. Might as well let the valet do the parking today, he thought. I’m not going anywhere until tomorrow, and then I’ll be in Emerson’s car.

  Jack Emerson should only know how much property I already have, he thought. W. C. Fields used to leave money in banks in towns all over the country, wherever he was performing. I buy undeveloped land all over the country and then have it posted with NO TRESPASSING signs.

  All my life growing up, I lived in a rented house, he thought. Even back then, those intellectual wizards, my mother and father, couldn’t scrape together enough money for a down payment on a real home. Now, besides my home base in Vegas, if I wanted, I could build a house on my property in Santa Barbara or Minneapolis or Atlanta or Boston or the Hamptons or New Orleans or Palm Beach or Aspen, to say nothing of acres and acres in Washington. Land is my secret, Robby thought smugly as he walked into the lobby of the Glen-Ridge.

  And land holds my secrets.

  31

  “I was at the cemetery this morning,” Alice Sommers told Jean. “I could see the Stonecroft group at the memorial service. Karen’s grave isn’t terribly far from where Alison Kendall is buried.”

  “Not as many people attended as I would have expected,” Jean said. “Much of the class went directly to the breakfast.”

  They were sitting in the cozy den of Alice Sommers’ townhouse. She had started the fire, and the leaping flames not only warmed the room but elevated their spirits as well. It was clear to Jean that Alice Sommers had been weeping for a long time. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, but there was an expression of peace on her face that had not been there yesterday.

  As though she could read her thoughts, Alice said, “You know, as I told you yesterday, the days leading up to the anniversary are the worst. I go over every minute of that last day, wondering if there was something we could have done to keep Karen safe. Of course, twenty years ago we didn’t have an alarm system. Now, most of us wouldn’t dream of going to bed without setting an alarm in the house.”

  She reached for the teapot and refilled their cups. “But now I’ll be okay again,” she said briskly. “In fact, I’ve decided that retirement may not be such a good thing. One of my friends has a flower shop and needs help. She’s asked me to work for her a couple of days a week, and I’m going to do it.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Jean said sincerely. “I remember how beautiful your garden always looked.”

  “Michael used to tease me by saying that if I spent as much time in the kitchen as I did in the garden, I’d be a world-class chef,” Alice said. She glanced out the window. “Oh, look, here’s Sam. Right on time, as always.”

  Sam Deegan scraped his feet carefully on the mat before he rang the bell. He had stopped at Karen’s grave on his way to meet Jean, then had found himself almost unable to say that he had to give up trying to find her killer. Something kept blocking the apology he had planned to offer her. Finally he had said, “Karen, I’m retiring. I have to. I’ll talk your case over with one of the young guys. Maybe somebody smarter than I am can nab the guy who hurt you.”

  Alice was opening the door before his finger touched the bell. He did not comment on her swollen eyes, but gripped both her hands in his. “Let me just be sure I don’t track mud into the house,” he said.

  He was at the cemetery, Alice thought gratefully. I know he was. “Come on in,” she told him. “Don’t worry about a speck or two of dirt.” There was something so strong and reassuring about Sam, she thought as she took his coat. I was so right when I asked him to try to help Jean.

  He had brought a notebook with him, and after greeting Jean and accepting the offer of a cup of tea from Alice, he got down to business. “Jean, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. We have to take seriously that whoever is writing you about Lily may be capable of hurting her. He was near enough to her to pick up her hairbrush, so it may be someone in the family who adopted her. He—and understand, it could just as easily be a she—may intend to try to extort money from you, which as you point out would be almost a relief. But that kind of situation could go on for years, too. So it’s clear we’ve got to find this person as fast as possible.”

  “I went to St. Thomas of Canterbury this morning,” Jean said, “but the priest who said Mass was one who only comes in on Sundays. He said I should go to the rectory office tomorrow and see the pastor about looking at the baptismal records. Since then I’ve been thinking about it. He might be pretty wary about opening them to me. He might think this is just my way of trying to find Lily.”

  She looked directly at Sam. “I’ll bet that thought occurred to you.”

  “When Alice told me about it, it did occur to me,” Sam said frankly. “Having met you, though, I absolutely believe that the situation is exactly as you describe it. But you’re right—the priest would have to be very careful, which is why I think it should be me going to him instead of you. He’d probably be a lot more willing to talk to me if he knows of an adopted baby who was baptized at that time.”

  “I’ve thought of that, too,” Jean said quietly. “You know, for these twenty years I’ve wondered if I shouldn’t have kept Lily. It wasn’t all that many generations ago that an eighteen-year-old with a baby was the norm. Now that I have to find her, I realize that if I could see her even from a distance, I’d be satisfied.” She bit her lip. “Or at least I think I’d be satisfied,” she said softly.

  Sam looked from Jean to Alice. Two women who, each in a different way, had lost a child. The cadet was about to graduate and be commissioned. If he had not been killed in that accident, Jean would have married him and kept her baby. If Karen had not happened to come home for an overnight visit twenty years ago, Alice would still have her, and probably have grandchildren as well.

  Life never has been fair, Sam thought, but some things we can try to make better. He hadn’t been able to solve Karen’s murder, but at least maybe he could help Jean now.

  “Dr. Connors had to have worked with a lawyer to handle the adoption papers,” he said. “Somebody is sure to know who that lawyer was. Does his wife or family still live around here?”

  “I don’t know,” Jean said.

  “Well, we’ll start with that. Did you bring the hairbrush and faxes with you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’d like to get them from you.”

  “The brush is one of those small ones that you carry in a purse,” Jean said. “It’s the kind you can get in a drugstore. The faxes don’t have anything to identify the source, but of course you can have them both.”

  “When I speak to the pastor, it will help if I have them.”

  Jean and Sam left a few minutes later. They arranged that he would follow her in his car to the hotel. From the window, Alice watched them go, then reached in the pocket of her sweater. This morning she had found a trinket on Karen’s grave that had undoubtedly been dropped by a child. When she was little, Karen had loved stuffed animals and had a variety of them. Alice thought of the owl that had been one of her favorites, as with a wistful smile she looked down at the inch-long pewter owl she was holding in the palm of her hand.

  32

  Jake Perkins sat in the lobby of the Glen-Ridge House, watching as the last of the reunion celebrants checked out and headed back to their private lives. The welcoming banner was gone, and he could see tha
t the bar was empty. No last good-byes, he thought. By now they’re probably all sick of one another.

  The first thing he had done when he arrived was stop at the front desk and verify that Ms. Wilcox had not yet returned to check out, and that she had not cancelled the car that was to take her to the airport at two-fifteen.

  At two-fifteen he watched as a uniformed driver came into the lobby and went to the desk. Jake rushed to stand next to him and hear for himself that the man expected to pick up Laura Wilcox.

  At two-thirty the driver left, obviously disgruntled. Jake overheard his comment that it was too damn bad he hadn’t been told that she wasn’t going, because he could have had another job, and not to bother to call him the next time she needs a ride.

  At four o’clock, Jake was still in the lobby. That was when Dr. Sheridan returned with the older man she’d been talking to after the dinner. They went directly to the front desk. She’s asking about Laura Wilcox, Jake thought. His hunch was right—Laura Wilcox was missing.

  He decided it wouldn’t hurt to try to get a statement from Dr. Sheridan. He reached her side in time to hear the man she was with say, “Jean, I agree. I don’t like the look of it, but Laura is an adult and has the right to change her mind about checking out of the hotel or catching a plane.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m Jake Perkins, a reporter for the Stonecroft paper,” Jake broke in.

  “Sam Deegan.”

  It was clear to Jake that his presence was not welcomed by either Dr. Sheridan or Sam Deegan. Get right to it, he thought. “Dr. Sheridan, I know you were concerned that Ms. Wilcox didn’t show up for the brunch, and now she has missed her car to the airport. Do you think that anything may have happened to her—I mean, given the history of the women at your old lunch table at Stonecroft?”