Mary Clark - Nighttime Is My Time

"Oh, I don't think I'm in the market for a home in Cornwall," she told Jack Emerson.

"Maybe not now, Jeannie," he said, his eyes twinkling, "but I bet that someday soon I'll find a place for you to stay. In fact, I'm sure of it."

At these dinners the honorees are usually introduced in increasing order of importance, The Owl thought sardonically as Laura's name was called. She was the first to receive her medal, jointly presented by the mayor of Cornwall and the president of Stonecroft.

Laura's garment bag and small suitcase were in his car. He'd sneaked them down the backstairs, out the service entrance, and into the trunk without being observed. As a precaution he'd broken the light over the service entrance and worn a cap and jacket that could vaguely have passed for a uniform if anyone happened to see him, even from a distance.

Predictably, Laura looked beautiful. She was wearing a gold dinner gown that, as the well-worn saying went, "left nothing to the imagination." Her makeup was flawless. Her diamond necklace was probably fake but looked good. Her diamond earrings might be genuine. They were probably the last, or near the last, of the jewelry she'd received from her second husband. A little talent, helped by her spectacular good looks, had given Laura her fifteen minutes of fame. And, face it, she had an engaging personality-that is, if you weren't on the receiving end of her trashing.

Now she was thanking the mayor, the president of Stonecroft, and the dinner guests. " Cornwall-on-Hudson was a wonderful place to grow up," she gushed. "And the four years at Stonecroft were the happiest of my life."

With a thrill of anticipation, he imagined the moment when they got to the house, when he closed the door behind her and saw the terror begin to come into her eyes, the moment when she understood that she was trapped.

They were applauding Laura's speech, and then the mayor was announcing the next honoree.

Finally it was over, and they could get up to leave. He sensed that Laura was looking at him, but he did not meet her glance. They had agreed that they would mingle for a little while, then go to their rooms separately while everyone was saying good night. Then she would meet him at the car.

The others would be checking out in the morning and driving in their own cars to the memorial service at Alison's grave, and then on to the farewell brunch. Laura wouldn't be missed until then, and the supposition might easily be that she'd simply had enough of the reunion and had headed home early.

"Congratulations are in order, I suppose," Jean said, resting her hand a few inches above his wrist. She had touched the deepest and most ragged of the dog bites. The Owl felt a spurt of blood from the wound dampen his jacket and realized that the sleeve of Jean's royal blue dinner gown was in contact with it.

With a tremendous effort he managed not to give any hint of the pain that shot through his arm. Obviously Jean did not realize what had happened, and she turned to greet a couple in their early sixties who were approaching her.

For an instant, The Owl thought of the blood that had dripped onto the street when the dog bit him. DNA. It concerned him that it was the first time he'd ever left physical evidence behind-except, of course, for his symbol, but over the years everyone everywhere had missed that. In a way he'd been disappointed by their stupidity, but in another way he'd been glad. If the deaths of all those women were linked, it would make it harder for him to continue. If he chose to continue after Laura and Jean.

Even if Jean realized the spot on her sleeve was blood, she wouldn't have any idea where it had come from and how she had come in contact with it. Besides, no detective, not even Sherlock Holmes, would connect a spot on the sleeve of an honoree of Stonecroft Academy with blood found in the street twenty miles away.

Never in a million years, The Owl thought, dismissing the idea as absurd.

From the moment she met Sam Deegan, Jean understood why Alice had spoken so highly of him. She liked his looks: a strong face enhanced by clear dark blue eyes. She also liked the warmth of his smile and his firm handshake.

"I told Sam about Lily and about the fax you received yesterday," Alice said, her voice low.

"There's been another one," Jean whispered. " Alice, I'm so frightened for Lily. I almost couldn't make myself come down to dinner. It's been so hard to try to make conversation when I don't know what may be happening to her."

Before Alice could reply, Jean felt a tug on her sleeve as a cheery voice cried, "Jean Sheridan. My, how happy I am to see you! You used to baby-sit for my kids when you were thirteen."

Jean managed a smile. "Oh, Mrs. Rhodeen, it's so good to see you again."

"Jean, people want to talk to you," Sam said. "Alice and I will go over and get a table in the cocktail lounge. Join us as soon as you can."

It was fifteen minutes before she could break away from the local people who had attended the dinner and who remembered her growing up or who had read her books and wanted to talk to her about them. But at last she was with Alice and Sam at a corner table where they could speak without being overheard.

As they sipped the champagne Sam had ordered, she told them about the flower and note she had found in the cemetery. "The rose couldn't have been there long," she said nervously. "It almost has to have been put there by someone in the reunion group who knew I was going to West Point and was sure I'd stop at Reed's grave. But why is he or she playing this game? Why these vague threats? Why not come out with the reason for being in touch with me now?"

"May I be in touch with you now?" Mark Fleischman asked pleasantly. He was standing at the empty chair beside her, a glass in his hand.

"I was looking to ask you to have a nightcap, Jean," he explained. "I couldn't find you, then I spotted you over here."

He saw the hesitation on the faces of the people at the table, and acknowledged to himself that he had expected it. He had been perfectly aware that they were in a serious discussion, but he wanted to know whom Jean was with and what they were talking about.

"Of course, join us," Jean said, trying to sound welcoming. How much did he overhear? she wondered as she introduced him to Alice and Sam.

"Mark Fleischman," Sam said. " Dr . Mark Fleischman. I've seen your program and like it very much. You give darn good advice. I especially admire the way you handle teenagers. When they're your guests, you have a way of letting them vent their feelings and feel comfortable about doing it. If more kids opened up and got decent advice, they would realize they were not alone and their problems wouldn't seem so overwhelming."

Jean watched as Mark Fleischman's face brightened with a pleased smile at the obvious sincerity of Sam Deegan's praise.

He was so quiet as a kid, she thought. He was always so shy. I never would have guessed that he'd end up a television personality. Was Gordon right that Mark became a psychiatrist specializing in adolescents because of his own problem after his brother's death?

"I know you grew up here, Mark. Do you still have family in town?" Alice Sommers asked.

"My father. He's never moved from the old homestead. Retired, but does a lot of traveling, I gather."

Jean was startled. "At dinner, Gordon and I were talking about the fact that none of us has roots here anymore."

"I don't have roots here, Jean," Mark said quietly. "I haven't been in touch with my father in years. Although he clearly must realize from all the publicity about this reunion and the fact that I'm here as one of the honorees, I haven't heard from him."

He caught the note of bitterness that had crept into his voice, and was ashamed of it. What made me open up like that to two perfect strangers and to Jeannie Sheridan? he wondered. I'm supposed to be the listener. "Tall, lanky, cheerful, funny, and wise, Dr. Mark Fleischman" was how they introduced him on TV.