Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

Stepsister? Oh, she told the doorman I was her stepbrother, Ryan remembered. “Alice, people share apartments all the time in New York, and in every big city I guess, but I’m long overdue to have a place of my own. That’s what I’m going to be looking for today. So I’m sure I’ll be gone when you get back.”

I will be gone, too, he thought, even if it’s to a residential hotel.

“Well, I hope that doesn’t mean you won’t come for a cocktail or dinner sometime? I pride myself on being a good hostess, and I have some really interesting friends in New York.” Alice put the plate of poached eggs in front of him and refilled his coffee cup.

Ryan made the only response possible. “Of course I’ll come, if I’m invited.” Alice is very nice, very attractive, and I’m sure very smart, he thought. If it weren’t for Monica it might be different, but it’s not going to be different. Giving Monica back the file on Monday will be an excuse to talk to her and apologize for making her feel uncomfortable in front of the nurses. When she was here that Friday, she enjoyed herself. I know she did.

“Well, how are my eggs?” Alice asked. “I mean they’re done to perfection, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan agreed hastily. “Many thanks, Alice. And now I’m off. I have to stop at the hospital.” I do have to stop in my office there, he thought. I want to see the Michael O’Keefe file. The O’Keefes’ address and phone number are in it. I am going to do some apartment hunting today, but I’m also going to call and ask if I can visit Michael. I want to see him for myself before I ask to testify in Sister Catherine’s beatification process as an expert witness.

With a final good-bye to Alice, and her unwanted kiss on his lips, Ryan went down in the elevator. As it descended, he remembered a fragment of the dream he had had during the night. Monica had been in it somehow. No reason she wouldn’t be, he thought. Ever since she was almost hit by that bus, I’ve been sick with worry about her.

But it was not just that she was in it. He remembered that she had been speaking to a nun.

Good Lord, he thought. Now I’m dreaming about Sister Catherine, too.

At three o’clock Dr. Douglas Langdon and Dr. Clayton Hadley met for a late lunch at the St. Regis Hotel. They decided to select from the light menu served in the King Cole Bar, and chose a table out of any possible earshot of the few other diners.

“Physician, heal thyself,” Langdon said dryly. “For God’s sake, Clay, things are bad enough without you falling apart. You look awful.”

“Easy for you to say,” Hadley shot back. “You weren’t at the funeral with Monica Farrell staring at you. You didn’t pick up the urn at the crematorium and escort it to the cemetery.”

“It was a nice show of respect,” Langdon told him. “That’s important now.”

“I told you we should have given Peter the money he needed to pay off Carter,” Hadley complained.

“You know perfectly well the foundation couldn’t produce that much, and anyway she’d have been back for more in another month. When all is said and done, Peter did us a favor by killing her.”

“Have you talked to Greg today?” Hadley asked. “I’ve been afraid to call him.”

“Of course I’ve spoken to him. We wrote a statement together for the press, the usual party line. ‘We firmly stand behind Peter Gannon, who is innocent of these outrageous charges. We are confident that he will be fully vindicated.’ ”

“Fully vindicated! They found the hundred thousand dollars he claimed to have given that Carter woman hidden in his office. That was in the newspaper.”

“Clay, what did you expect us to say in the press release? That we knew how desperate Peter was when he tried to get us to release foundation money to him? It was Greg who tried to convince him that if it came out that Renée Carter had his child, so what? What’s the big deal? That kind of stuff is in the papers every day. Unfortunately, Peter didn’t see it that way, and he snapped. It happens.”

Both men fell silent as the waiter approached them. “Another round?” he suggested.

“Yes,” Hadley said, as he drained the last of his vodka on the rocks.

“Just coffee for me,” Langdon said. “And we’d better order now. What are you having, Clay?”

“Sliders.”

“And I’ll have a tuna salad.” When the waiter left, Langdon remarked, “Clay, you’re putting on more weight. May I point out that the sliders, those three small hamburgers with cheese, don’t look like much, but they have a lot of calories. As a psychiatrist, I warn you that you are compensating for stress by overeating.”

Hadley stared at him. “Doug, sometimes I don’t believe you. Everything could fall apart and we could both end up in prison, and you’re lecturing me about calories?”

“Well I actually do have more serious concerns. As we both know, we handled the first problem, Olivia Morrow, before she could hurt us. Monica Farrell, our second problem, will not be with us much longer. Soon we will announce that due to some unwise investments the Gannon Foundation will be closing down. Greg can handle the paperwork for that. Then I intend to retire and enjoy the rest of my life in places like the south of France, with great gratitude to the largess of the Gannon Foundation. I suggest you start thinking in the same vein.”

Feeling the vibration of his cell phone, Langdon reached into his pocket. He glanced at the phone number that appeared on the screen and quickly answered. “Hello, I’m having lunch with Clay.”

As Langdon listened to the caller, Hadley watched his expression darken.

“You’re right. It’s a problem. I’ll get back to you.” Langdon snapped the cell phone shut. He looked at Hadley. “Maybe you’re right to worry. We’re not out of the woods yet. That guy Alterman, who was nosing around the Schwab House yesterday, was in Southampton today. He’s already made the connection between Morrow and the Gannons. If he keeps digging, it’s all over.”

Another person will have to die. Clay Hadley thought of the frightened look on the face of Olivia Morrow just before he held the pillow over her head. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Langdon replied, coldly. “It’s already being taken care of.”

After sharing coffee with Monica and Nan following Olivia Morrow’s funeral Mass, Sophie Rutkowski went home to her nearby apartment, the memory of her many years with Olivia paramount in her mind.

I wish I had been there when she died, Sophie thought, as she changed from her good slacks and jacket into the sweatshirt and cotton pants that were her work clothes. It’s such a shame she was alone. When I go, I know my children will be around me to say good-bye. If they get any warning that I am dying, nothing on earth would keep them away…

Dr. Farrell, what a lovely-looking girl she is. Hard to believe that she’s a doctor and very highly respected, according to what they wrote in the paper after that bus almost killed her. Ms. Morrow didn’t have a single family member at the funeral. The priest even mentioned that in his sermon. He spoke so nicely about Ms. Morrow. Dr. Farrell was so disappointed when I couldn’t tell her what Ms. Morrow meant when she said she knew the doctor’s grandparents. Dr. Farrell has no family, either. Ah, dear God, people have so many problems and it’s hard to face them alone…

On that somber note Sophie picked up her knitting needles. She was making a sweater for her newest grandchild and had a spare half hour until it was time to go to the one job she didn’t like. It was at Schwab House on Saturday afternoons, starting at one o’clock, in an apartment three floors down from the one where Olivia Morrow had lived.