Stitch In Snow

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Unfortunately the prosecution rather fancies their case against Jerry.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now. They have no case against him. I was with Dan all night!’

  He sighed. ‘That’s just it, Mrs. Lovell, without meaning any offense.’

  ‘What’s it?’

  He sighed, swinging about a rotary. ‘Did you have sexual relations with my client, Mrs. Lovell?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  He gave me another fast inscrutable look.

  ‘Although to be utterly candid, that should support his alibi rather than deny it.’

  ‘It should.’ He sounded horribly unsure.

  ‘At my age, Mr. Taggert, I’ve got too much sense to be sentimental about sex. Or to perjure myself.’

  He didn’t answer immediately as he was steering the big car into a parking lot by an older office building. We were, I presumed, in the business section of Denver.

  ‘That’s just it, Mrs. Lovell,’ he said, pulling on the handbrake. ‘The prosecution is likely to suggest that at your age, you might do anything for sex. Jerry’s a goodlooking guy . . .’

  I remember having to close my mouth because the cold crisp air of Denver got in as he opened his door. By the time he had opened mine, I was really burning mad. I stalked beside him into the building, seething with fury, impervious to the cold, and tapping my foot on the carpeted elevator as we were silently wafted up to whatever floor his offices were on.

  ‘How do you know that’s what they’d try to prove, Mr. Taggert?’ I said when we were in his corridor and alone.

  He indicated an anonymous door in the corridor that ended in an imposing glass partition with the firm’s name in discreet gold leaf. Beyond I noticed a reception area, western in treatment and modern in execution.

  He ushered me into his private office, leather stuffed seats, huge heavy leather bound law tomes, a desk with neat piles of paper and a yellow-lined note-pad, full of pencilled phrases, askew on the blotter.

  ‘I know the prosecution, Mrs. Lovell. They’re out to get Jerry if they can because they have a possible motive and can prove opportunity. They will try to establish that you are perjuring yourself.’

  ‘But I’m not . . . Certainly not on the basis of a couple of good tumbles in bed!’

  ‘The hotel staff mentioned a woman in his company on and off. Noreen Sue was, at the time of her death, a blonde, about your size and height, Mrs. Lovell . . .’

  ‘Good God, doesn’t the truth count for anything anymore?’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder, Mrs. Lovell. I really do. Right now, I’d like to take down your version . . . all right, the truth . . . of the critical time. Stick to the facts only, please.’ He depressed a toggle on his intercom and asked his secretary to come in.

  ‘The facts, huh? The version according to Mrs. Lovell? The truth as I see it?’

  He gave me a tight smile for my sour parody on the sensational press type headlines. I was repentant for his eyes were tired and cynical. I sensed he was desperately afraid for Jerry-Dan yet here was I, his hope for Dan’s reprieve, likely to jeopardize the matter still more. His secretary came in, pad in hand, and sat with quiet attention after giving me a composed nod and smile of greeting.

  ‘I’ll need my diary,’ I said, unlatching my attaché case. ‘My brains,’ I rattled on, trying to lighten the atmosphere. I opened it to the proper pages and looked first at his secretary and then him in expectation. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Details first, like your name . . .’

  ‘My full name is Dana Jane Lovell. I’m sorry, Dana Jane Hartman Lovell. I use D. J. Hartman for my professional papers . . .’

  ‘Professional papers?’ He held up his hand to his secretary to suspend dictation.

  ‘Yes, I have my PhD in Library Sciences and I often publish in Library Journals, and some teachers’ magazines, library skills, that sort of thing . . .’ I paused because Peter Taggert was staring at me. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You really have a PhD?’

  ‘I don’t carry the diploma around but you can check with Columbia University in New York. Or in the Who’s Who of American Women. I’ve been listed since 1970.’ And that was the first time I’d ever called on that for a reference.

  ‘You’re a real, bona fide doctor of philosophy?’ He was still incredulous.

  ‘Yes, I am. But it is in library sciences, not . . .’

  He waved an impatient hand at my attempt to qualify. ‘You’ve a masters in what?’

  ‘Education.’

  ‘Did you teach?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t really like it . . .’

  ‘Where?’ He wanted the facts, just the facts but he was excited . . . and more, hopeful.

  ‘In Cambridge while my husband was getting his doctorate in Sociology at Harvard. And then I taught after Raymond died.’

  ‘Raymond was your husband? How did he die?’

  ‘He died of cancer of the lungs fourteen years ago.’

  ‘You’ve only the one child?’

  ‘Yes, Tim’s nineteen now.’

  ‘You never remarried?’ He had held up his hand briefly to signal his secretary to hold the dictation.

  ‘No,’ and then I grinned at the half-formed question in his expression. ‘I’ve had offers and I’ve had lovers. But writing’s a full time occupation, Mr. Taggert and I’ve a son to get through college, and that takes too much time.’

  ‘Writer? I thought you were a teacher. Oh, yes, you said you write for journals. . . . Now, let’s just get the statement. Barbara?’ He glanced at his secretary. ‘Go ahead, Dr. Lovell.’ And he grinned at me as he emphasized the title.

  Again I reduced the facts of a tender love-affair to a dry recitation of times and activities. It sounded worse when Barbara read back the dictation, and absolutely sexless. Which was to Mr. Taggert’s satisfaction for he sat there nodding and steepling his fingers. When Barbara had finished speaking, he smiled, leaning back in his chair and idly swinging it on its gimbals.

  ‘Good, good. Would you type that please, Barbara?’

  She murmured, nodded pleasantly to me, the modern efficient paragon of a legal secretary and left the room.

  ‘Things are looking much better, Doctor Lovell. Yes, indeed!’

  ‘A difference in degree?’

  He bellowed so appreciatively that his secretary poked her head back through the door to inquire if he’d called. He waved her an okay.

  ‘Yes, it does, Doctor Lovell.’

  ‘You mean, PhD’s can have affairs with impunity. It’s just not done by fuzzy-minded housewives on a mid-winter holiday and hot enough in the knickers to lay anything?’

  He shook both head and hands, laughing.

  ‘And PhD’s only indulge in erudite discourse and sexless physical exercise?’

  ‘Something like that, Doctor Lovell. Something more like that! Did Jerry know?’

  ‘About my doctorate? The subject of academic degrees never arose.’

  ‘Hmmm. Yes. Of course. Might I have a look at your diaries? I see you have last year’s with you as well.’

  ‘I had a lecture tour then too and I brought it along for my notes.’

  ‘I see.’ He started with the current diary and I watched, a bit self-conscious but amused at the various expressions crossing his face as he turned the pages. I kept wondering what I had written that would delight him under the circumstances.

  ‘What does D or C mean?’

  I hid my mouth in my hand. ‘That’s rather personal, Mr. Taggert.’

  His expression invited me to confide.

  ‘I have trouble switching water supplies . . . the D means diarrhea, the C . . .’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘Trivia, Mr. Taggert.’

  ‘Hmmm, but in its own elementary . . .’

  ‘Mr. Taggert!’

  ‘Sorry about that. I do love to pun. In its way, however, Doctor Lovell, such trivia supports the relevant entries.’ He flicked through the pages, noting that I
kept more or less the same sort of annotations and abbreviations, nodding his head more and more vigorously.

  ‘I underlined the names and references I’d need this year in green ink.’

  ‘I had wondered about that.’ He gave a deep, satisfied sigh. ‘I’m not a diarist myself but I thank God you are. These entries are obviously made almost daily. Tim is your son?’ I nodded. ‘And who is Mairead?’

  ‘My closest friend in Dublin.’

  ‘And SK?’

  ‘My agent.’

  ‘PS?’

  ‘One of my publishers.’

  ‘Desmond?’

  ‘A personal friend.’

  ‘Ah, then you always designate business or professional people by their initials and your personal friends by their first or full name?’

  ‘Generally.’

  ‘And I do not see a prior reference to either a DJL or a Jerry or a Dan in either. On this sort of trivia,’ and he waggled the diaries at me, ‘cases are made or broken. Mathews’ contention that you knew Jerry prior to Denver is blown!’ He swung back and forth in the gimbaled chair, very pleased.

  ‘I have to be a bit personal, Doctor Lovell. What did you and Jerry talk about? Did he mention how worried he was about his son? Or why he was in Denver?’

  ‘No, although I knew something was worrying him. Actually, we didn’t talk very much . . . yes, I know, Mr. Taggert, we were otherwise occupied but only some of the time . . . I’d just had three weeks of lectures and discussions and I really wanted not to have to answer questions or talk about myself or my work or anything. Dan was of a like mind but I see now that his real worries were to come. We simply did not get involved in each other’s personal lives. He did say he was divorced and he did mention a son. So did I but the comments were in passing. We did discuss the weather, our fellow passengers, swimming, hiking, how to cheat at card games, inconsequentialities. But no details given, or asked.’

  ‘Unfortunately the dearth of detail about you went against him. He only knew that you were a lecturer, lived in Ireland, widowed and . . .’ he paused, dropping his eyes to the floor where my knitting bag rested, ‘never dropped stitches when you knit.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Dan since my phone call?’

  Mr. Taggert had a very engaging smile when he wasn’t worried or cynical. ‘He got the message about the water, Doctor Lovell, and you couldn’t have said anything to revive him faster. He’s been pretty depressed and hopeless, I can tell you.’

  ‘He didn’t think I’d deliberately let him down?’

  Peter Taggert eyed me for a long moment. ‘No. He didn’t. He insisted that you probably hadn’t got the message or understood it. I was to refer to him as Dan, not Jerry.’

  ‘Why is he Jerry and not Dan, if his name is Daniel Jerome?’

  ‘The Second. His father was known as Dan Lovell.’

  ‘So the son is number three?’

  There was a discreet knock at the door and his secretary re-entered, typed sheets floating in her hand.

  ‘I’ve called the notary public, Mr. Taggert, and he’ll wait for you.’

  ‘Good.’ Mr. Taggert only seemed to glance at the pages and he grinned openly at the last one, slipping it over to me first. I was clearly identified as Dana Jane Hartman Lovell, BA, MA, PhD.

  ‘Read it through and see if you have anything to add. Or delete.’

  I read slowly, every word. I meant, and reaffirmed every word of my testimony. And said so. He slipped it into a manila folder.

  ‘Thanks for staying over, Babs.’

  ‘I was more than glad to, Mr. Taggert. Anything for Mr. Lowell and DJ.’ She smiled broadly at me, not a bit efficient-secretary, and then left the room.

  The lawyer helped me on with my cloak and suggested I bring my things with me but could he keep the diaries for the moment. I agreed.

  The Notary Public was a scrawny little man who kept a sporting goods shop two blocks away from the office. He rattled through the statement under his breath, ohed a bit at my titles, and then had me swear that I’d told the truth. I signed the document in his presence, he stamped it all right and tight and handed the thing back to Peter Taggert, taking his fee in the other hand and palming the bill into his pocket in a fluid gesture. From practice, I guess.

  ‘I’ve booked you into a central city hotel, Dr. Lovell.’

  ‘How long will the wheels of justice take now?’

  ‘That depends on what Jack Mathews, our keen sighted, charge sticking D.A. thinks of this affidavit. Which he will have on his desk in the morning. Good God, you don’t have more lectures to give, have you?’

  ‘No, Tulsa was the end of this year’s round.’

  ‘That’s all to the good.’

  Something in his tone brought me up sharp. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, something could be construed that you’re doing this for publicity purposes.’

  I stared at him, snapping my mouth shut when I realized that my jaw had dropped. ‘For college lectures? Whose side are you on?’

  ‘Jerry’s. And yours. But I know the D.A. His situation with more crimes and fewer arrests, and pressure from the governor to keep Denver decent, makes him snatch on anything he can pin to a criminal. He’s got a b’ar hunt in Jerry. And the two have never liked each other . . .’

  ‘Personal vendetta? What is it the Mafia have, a contract?’

  We had drawn up in front of a glass and brick hotel entrance. Peter Taggert leaned forward to peer past me through the entrance. With a muttered oath, he pressed down on the accelerator and we took off. I’d been in the process of opening my door; now I clung to the handle, hoping it wouldn’t swing wide.

  ‘Hey, my door.’

  ‘Close it! Please.’ He added the courtesy after the snapped order.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Reporters. I’d rather they didn’t have a go at you.’

  ‘Why? Wouldn’t Doctor Lovell be sufficient?’

  ‘I don’t think you need the shit.’

  ‘I think you’re quite right,’ I replied after a moment’s reflection. I’d learned quite enough today to unsettle me and I was angry enough, seething inside, to be indiscreet out of simple complicated frustration.

  I didn’t ask him where he was taking me now. I was too depleted, deflated and depressed. Running to someone’s rescue is stimulating; you’re full of do-goodery, uprightness, moral rectitude and honest anger. When you’ve done your bit, the reaction is equally severe and devastating. I resolved never to tour again, or knit on board a plane, or converse with total strangers, male or female, however charming and whatever the circumstances.

  ‘Having second thoughts, Doctor?’

  ‘Thoughts, yes. But nothing to deflect me from my present course, Mr. Taggert. I don’t renege on my given word. Or my sworn statement.’

  ‘You were telling the truth?’

  ‘The whole truth and nothing but the truth, unpalatable and somewhat unflattering.’

  ‘Unflattering?’

  ‘Sure, Gunga Din had more of his attention than I!’

  I succeeded in making Peter Taggert chuckle.

  ‘I like you, lady.’

  ‘Get Daniel Jerome Lowell cleared of this ridiculous charge and I’ll return the compliment.’

  ‘Not until then?’

  ‘We’ll see, particularly if you will tell me where you’re taking me now.’

  ‘Where I can protect my star witness.’

  With superb timing he turned the Buick up a drive, leading to a low, spread out ranch-type house in the couple of hundred thousand dollar bracket. From snow-covered lumps evenly spaced along the drive, I could imagine that in the summer the place was magnificently landscaped. Lights glowed in the main entrance but the other glass windows were draped and impenetrable. We swung past the main entrance to a triple car garage and one of the doors silently moved upwards. The Buick slid in and the door, down. I’d forgotten such amenities and must have looked my surprise.

  ‘The part of American
life most likely to be forgotten in Ireland,’ I said to Peter Taggert as he grinned at my expression.

  A side door opened and a tiny elegant woman was silhouetted against the light.

  ‘Peter? Did she really come?’

  ‘She really came and she’s also here. The reporters had gathered at the hotel.’

  ‘Mrs. Lovell, do come . . .’

  ‘She’s officially Doctor Lovell, Petra. Dana Jane Lovell, my wife, Petra.’

  As I walked towards the woman, my mind boggled over Peter-Petra but the moment our hands clasped, both of her small ones around mine, I forgot all in her radiant welcome. She was genuinely overjoyed to see me. She kept shaking my hand as she led me into the side hall, repeating how glad she was I’d come, that the messages had reached me, and was I very tired? Would I like a drink? Did I wish to freshen up first?

  I kept saying yes, and enthusiastically ‘yes’ for the drink. I needed it more urgently when Petra escorted me into the huge living room and Daniel Jerome Lowell rose from a black leather chair beside the immense western ranch type fireplace.

  ‘Jenny! You came!’

  ‘You did drop a few stitches, my friend . . .’

  I hoped that my voice sounded casual but my innards were executing some peculiar gyrations. All the rationalizations, stern moral warnings and careful interpretations of three snow-bound days in Denver went up the flue with the smoke of the great fire burning there.

  I hadn’t expected to see him. I mean, I thought he would be stuck in jail.

  ‘You can arrange bail on manslaughter charges, you know,’ Peter said quietly in my car and then led me towards the fire. ‘You’re freezing. Get the woman a drink, Jerry. Be useful. She is.’

  I managed to respond to the pleasantries, to thank Dan for the drink he brought me, to nod and smile as Peter Taggert, all skepticism and sour cynicism gone, itemized the strengths of my supporting evidence.

  Dan was was equally surprised at my title and quirked his eyebrows at me deferentially, but that was his only flash of the wayward humor I’d enjoyed. This ghastly business had left ineradicable marks on him, in his eyes, the downward pull of his mouth, the set of his shoulders: not defeated, but as if he was expecting more psychological blows to fall and steeling himself to endure. As Peter discounted each of the points of circumstantial evidence against Dan in the light of my statement, Dan visibly straightened and began to relax. Instead of sitting in a stiff way in the comfortable chair, he slowly leaned back, slid down and finally stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. The merest touch of a smile drew his mouth up as he looked across the hearth at me, raised his glass in a toast. I shrugged a disclaimer.