‘Well, I am glad,’ said Petra abruptly, ‘but I think we’re being terribly inconsiderate of Doctor Lovell. She’s been travelling and I’m sure she’d like to freshen up before dinner.’ She rose and gestured gracefully to me. ‘Please do excuse our inhospitality because you’re the answer to our most fervent prayers.’
She led me from the lounge which was the center of the L-shaped house, past the main entrance foyer, up steps to what was the bedroom level.
‘It’s been so ghastly because everything pointed to Jerry and I knew, I just knew, he couldn’t have struck Noreen Sue. God knows he’s had provocation; that’s why he stayed away . . .’
A door whipped open and a boy catapulted into the hall.
‘She came?’ He did not bear much facial resemblance to his father but something about the haunted intensity of expression evoked Daniel Jerome.
‘Yes, DJ, I came. I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner that I was needed. You must have been very worried.’
He planted himself squarely in front of me, cocking his head which was a mannerism of his father’s, all right enough.
‘You were with him? Watching Gunga Din, like he said?’
‘Your father told the truth, DJ. In fact, we saw the whole film twice.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. Then stuck his hand out at me, his face wreathed with a happy smile. ‘I’m Daniel Jerome Lowell the Third.’
‘I’m . . . Dana Jane Lovell . . . Doctor of Philosophy.’ We solemnly shook hands.
‘A doctor? Of philosophy?’ The first condition awed him; he wasn’t sure of the second but he gave me a long searching look. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Dr. Lovell can tell you after she’s freshened up, DJ. It’s nearly time for dinner now.’
‘Dana? Is that female for Daniel?’
I didn’t know and said so.
‘But, gee, your initials are the same as mine, and my dad’s.’
‘DJ,’ said Petra warningly.
‘I guess I better wash now. Excuse me.’ He sort of bounced on the balls of his feet back to his room, obviously in much better frame.
I was gladder than ever that I’d come, and truly dismayed that I had ignored the previous messages. That boy had suffered deeply and all through my stupidity.
‘The young are resilient,’ Petra said.
‘He’s still too young to have to endure sordidness.’
She showed me into a white-walled room, small, simple but restful with its Indian motifs, and flicked on the switch in the adjoining bathroom. I had about ten minutes before dinner, she said and left me.
Stimulation had given a false animation to my face. I stared at my tired reflection in the mirror, observing that the only thing alive about my face was my hair which gleamed silver-orange in the vanity light. Vigorously I washed my face and put on fresh make-up. Some improvement. I splashed on some of my Graffiti cologne. That helped, too. Good perfume ranks with a fresh hair-do as a great morale booster.
I could hear the laughter of young girls as I retraced my steps to the living room. When I entered, silence fell as Dan and Peter Taggert got to their feet. DJ nudged the girl nearest him. Her black pigtails bounced as she whipped her head around. The other girl was already facing me: they both stared at me as if I were coming out in green stripes.
‘Dr. Lovell, these are my daughters, Pierrot and Alexandra,’ said Peter.
‘Are you the Dana Jane Lovell who writes the “Timmy” books?’ Pierrot’s words rushed out of her mouth as if I’d better be that Dana Jane Lovell. ‘There can’t be two people with that name!’
‘I am!’
‘Oh?’ My affirmative was greeted with such excited bliss that what could have been an awkward situation was covered by frantic questions from both girls. Was there really a Timmy? Did he really get into those exciting situations? Did he really think up all those creatures? Or dream them? Did I have a picture of Timmy? Could they see it after supper? Was I writing any more “Timmy” books? What was the next one about?
Petra, coming from the kitchen to announce that dinner was ready, had to shush her daughters long enough to be heard. The girls each grabbed a hand, chattering a mile a minute, to lead me into the dining room so Petra surrendered to happy chance and seated me between the two girls instead of Dan and Peter.
‘Dr. Lovell . . .’ Peter began, holding up a hand to quiet his daughters.
‘I’d prefer to be . . . Jenny, please. I never use the title.’
‘The title is an essential in Denver, Jenny. Now, I don’t mean to sound ignorant,’ his daughters giggled, ‘but are your children’s books as popular as my daughters lead me to suspect?’
‘They are pretty widely read.’
‘And librarians would know your name?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Mrs. Harrison knows her name,’ Pierrot said, stoutly my champion. She was the clinging type and I’d had to disengage myself from her clasp to eat. ‘Our school library has every single one of the “Timmy” books and two of some.’
I began to see the method behind his question.
‘Thank God you’re not a Jacqueline Susanne,’ he said, rolling his eyes expressively.
‘I wish I could laugh all the way to the bank the way she does . . . did.’
‘Not in this case.’
I saw Petra gesture minutely with one hand, noticed Peter catch her eye and nod.
‘And what happened in school today, Pierrot?’ Petra asked her daughter, firmly establishing that business was not to be discussed at dinner.
I didn’t mean to dominate the dinner conversation but Pierrot and Zandra vied with each other in asking ‘Timmy’ questions; some of them so outrageous that even Dan laughed. I was conscious of his gaze and DJ’s rapt expression. The boy early admitted, somewhat gruffly, that he had never read any of my books but would Pierrot lend him one for after his homework? He was relieved to learn that Timmy was grown-up, and quite respectful when I told them that Tim was studying to be an engineer at Lehigh.
Peter Taggert was passive to the conversation’s flow, even after I’d finally got the children off the subject of Tim and onto winter sports. The lawyer was deep in some private reflections, though he joined in laughter and seemed to follow what was being said. Petra kept glancing at me, too, but that was more to see if the children were bothering me with their questions. Dan slouched in his chair, his shoulders sagging. He kept playing with the silverware at his place, starting suddenly and pulling himself erect in a conscious effort to appear part of the group. Son kept one eye on father all through dinner. DJ III adored DJ II.
After dinner the children were firmly sent to their rooms to do their homework, with Petra physically shooing them to the steps of the bedroom level.
‘Now then,’ she said with an exaggerated sigh of relief, ‘we can have coffee in peace. And I need a brandy.’
‘Let me,’ Dan said, striding to the bar cabinet.
‘I’ll bring in the coffee,’ said Peter and his wife winked at me as she settled, with another sigh, into a chair by the fire, curling her legs under her. She looked tinier than ever in the large chair.
‘Has this mess interrupted your lecture tour?’ Dan asked, passing around the brandy snifters.
‘No, I finished in Tulsa. Or maybe Tulsa finished me. And I do want to explain why I didn’t answer Peter’s message sooner. I was getting so I didn’t know where I was, what city, what college, what time . . .’
Dan pressed my hand, all too briefly, and smiled reassuringly.
‘I told Peter that’s probably what was happening . . .’
‘I’m so glad to see you . . .’
‘You mean, outside the pokey?’
‘I didn’t know. I’ve never been . . .’
‘I wouldn’t have dragged you into this if I could have . . .’
‘I don’t bloody mind, Dan!’ I was furious with him for being so goddamn anxious.
‘He wouldn’t cooperate at first,’ said Pet
er grimly, returning with the coffee tray, ‘just in case you think the age of chivalry is dead, Jenny.’
‘There wasn’t any need at first to involve Jenny . . .’
‘Until a neighbor remembered seeing a man in a ski mask around the house . . .’ Peter growled in his throat. ‘And Fred . . . do you know Jenny calls him Hearty-har-har, Petra?’
‘Oh, heavens, but that’s perfect . . .’ murmured Petra as her husband continued.
‘. . . Fred remembered the ski mask in Jerry’s pocket.’
‘Do I refer to you as Jerry? Or Dan?’ I asked.
‘I can’t change Pete at this late date but I’d prefer you to call me Dan . . .’ A darkness closed briefly over his face and I’d the notion that his ex-wife had called him ‘Jerry’ in such a way as to make him wish for the change.
‘I’ll try, man, I’ll try,’ Peter said in a gravelly voice.
‘So what are my chances, Pete, now that we’ve involved Jenny in the case?’
Peter took a long drag on his cigar (at least he wasn’t inhaling) and saw my inadvertent reaction. ‘Does smoking bother you?’
‘Only because of what I’ve seen it do, and know it can do. I apologize if my thoughts were that transparent.’
‘Peter tried to give it up,’ Petra said, ‘but he’s under such strain . . .’
‘You’re not inhaling . . .’ I tried to mitigate my unspoken anxiety. ‘What are Dan’s chances now?’
‘As I told you in the office, Jenny, and as Dan knows, it depends on how much weight the D.A. will give your statement. There’s a good hunk of circumstantial evidence against Jer . . . Dan. Opportunity, unfortunately, is there and Mathews has it that the custody bit provides a motive. Noreen Sue certainly did blab it about that she was terrified of what Daniel J might do. Jerry has admitted, and it’s a matter of record, that he telephoned her several times: that his primary reason in stopping off in Denver was to see DJ and find out exactly what truth there was behind the boy’s letters that Noreen Sue was having wild parties in the house which kept him up all night, that she left him alone for days when she was partying elsewhere.’
‘I travel so much that I thought, when the marriage broke up, it would be better for DJ to stay in his own home, near his friends, in the same school,’ Dan said to me. ‘He didn’t object to staying with his mother . . .’
‘The D.A. is making a big thing about the fact that Jerry didn’t attempt to get into Denver proper from the airport . . .’
‘Christ, Pete, there wasn’t a taxi at the airport that’d take a chance on the roads . . . and I didn’t know then that DJ was at the McPhersons’. Noreen Sue wouldn’t let me speak to him but she didn’t say it was because he wasn’t even in the house.’
‘And then,’ Peter gave his friend a disgusted look, ‘he phoned around, asking friends and enemies about Noreen Sue’s activities and DJ’s state of mind. All this leads the D.A. to a motive.’
‘The boutique salesgirl remembers selling him the ski jacket and the mask.’
‘Two masks,’ I said, ‘he bought me one because we went out for an invigoratinghike Thursday afternoon. I’d bought a ski jacket before Dan did, only I didn’t think of needing a mask.’
Peter looked questioningly at Dan. ‘The girl didn’t mention selling anything to Jenny.’
‘Well, she will when she sees me. We talked about the weather and Ireland. But she wouldn’t have seen Dan and me together. I had bought the jacket while I was waiting for Dan to join me for lunch. He came in while she was wrapping up my things . . . I got some sweaters and junk, too . . . but he’d forgotten his wallet and gone back to his room for it. She wouldn’t have seen us together.’
Peter nodded during this explanation.
‘I’d forgotten that,’ Dan said, wearily.
‘But definitely and decidedly, Dan was with me from the moment he left Hearty-har-har until the next morning.’
‘Let’shopetheD.A. buys it.’
‘He’ll have to. It’s the truth!’
‘He’ll try to find holes in your statement . . .’
‘There aren’t any . . .’
Petergavemea hard, angry look. ‘He’ll try, Jenny. Or he’ll try to cast doubt on your personal integrity and morality.’
‘You mean, if I’d perjure myself because I’m so hard up . . .’
‘Shut up, Jenny!’ said Dan in a hard voice and he grabbed my hand in a hurtful grasp.
Peter had bounced out of his chair, his face the mask of the worldly attorney.
‘I’d better take Jenny back to her hotel.’
I got to my feet too, swallowing hard against his decision, scrubbing at my face, and the skin on my head that seemed to be contracting around my brain.
We were all on our feet, tense and upset.
‘I’m awfully, awfully tired.’ I said. ‘I’d better go while I can still maneuver.’
Dan made a move as if to comfort me. That would have been disastrous. I stepped back, saw the uncertainty and shock in Dan’s face and forced myself to keep my hands at my sides.
‘We can’t drop any more stitches now, Dan,’ I said, trying to soften my apparent rejection. ‘I’m talked out, wrung out. Please.’
He put both hands to his face, rubbing at his temples as if he suffered the same discomfort as I did. But, as his hands came away, he nodded comprehension and swung to the fireplace, leaning his head against the arm he propped on the mantelpiece.
Petra filled the gap with gentle suggestions to me of a hot bath and did I have a tranquilizer? Peter draped my cloak over my shoulders and took my attaché case, though he handed me the knitting bag with a grin and the comment that he’d never live it down if he was seen carrying that. I tried vainly to think of something else to say to Dan to reassure him but I must cultivate a barrier of indifference to him if I had to appear on his behalf in a court, before prying eyes and destructive personalities.
Once Peter settled me in the Buick I shut my eyes and laid my head against the backrest. He was kind enough to keep quiet the entire trip back to the city. He asked me to wait in the car long enough to be sure there were no lingering reporters. In a daze, I signed into the hotel, fumbling in my handbag for my diary. I always write the number of my hotel room down so I can remember it. I couldn’t find my diary: it wasn’t in my handbag. It wasn’t in the attaché case and there was my suitcase on the bellboy’s carrier and everyone standing about, waiting for me to finish my rooting.
‘What are you looking for, Jenny?’
‘My diary.’ I felt lost without it.
I caught Peter’s half grin and remembered. ‘Oh!’ I almost burst into tears. Peter caught my arm firmly and started me to the elevator while I got a grip on myself.
‘Remember, Jackson, no phone calls for Dr. Lovell: no visitors no matter how much they pass you!’ he said over his shoulder to the reception clerk.
Peter got me to my room, shooed the bellboy out with a second reminder about my privacy, and judging by the grin on the man’s face, a hefty tip. Peter pushed me to the bed and on it.
‘You won’t be disturbed. Sleep yourself out. If you need anything, call my office.’ He let go of my hands to winkle a card from his wallet which he stuck on the phone dial. ‘Call me anyway when you wake up. If I’m not there, ask for Barbara.’
Still dazed, I heard him leave, fumbling with the doorknob, locking me in.
I sat on the edge of the bed, wanting to cry and unable to. Poor Dan. Poor confused DJ. Then I just kicked off my shoes and struggled under the blankets. I didn’t even turn the light off. It was still burning the next morning when I woke up: a shocking waste of energy which, in a much calmer frame of mind, appalled me.
9
I MADE A small front page headline, at the bottom, as ‘Mystery Witness’ for D. Jerome Lowell. I was also billed as the well known lecturer, Doctor Dana Jane Hartman Lovell, BA, MA, PhD, and author of many children’s books. There was a recap of the death of Mrs. Noreen Sue Lowell and the arraignment of
D. Jerome Lowell on charges of manslaughter.
Depressed by the article, I dutifully phoned Peter’s office. He was in and the tone of his greeting did not lift my spirits.
‘The D.A. still thinks he has a case, Jenny.’
‘Does that mean I have to hang around Denver?’ That did not please me.
‘I thought you said your engagements were completed?’
‘They are, but I live in Ireland, and I want to see my son.’
‘You’ve got one of those excursion tickets?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘You’re not to worry about your expenses,’ he said firmly.
‘They are not my main worry. Trials in the States can take ages . . . I want to see my son, he must be worried sick over all this . . . And I have commitments at home . . . in Ireland . . .’
I suppose I sounded petulant. What I feared was that somehow the prurient D.A. would divine that I was in love with Daniel Jerome and that would blow my alibi to finders. I wanted not to be in Dan’s vicinity so that I could keep up my pretense of indifference.
‘I can certainly move for an early trial date. But if you did have to go back to Ireland and return here, you’re not to worry about your expenses . . .’
‘Fuck the expenses,’ I said with a force and inelegance that made him gasp on the other end. I always save my expletives for emergencies but I chuckled because I had managed to shock Peter Taggert. ‘You have absolutely no idea how this mucks up my writing schedule. I must have quiet and no interruptions. I can’t write when I’m so wound up with worry that creative thought is impossible. I sure as hell-won’t-freeze can’t write a “Timmy” story in my present frame of mind. And I’ve got to. I’ve a contract to ful-fill . . .’
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