Stillwatch by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

requested wine and asked for a menu.“Oh, don’t bother with a menu,” the waitress urged. “Try thesauerbraten. It’s really good.”Pat glanced across the room. Obviously that was what the oldcouple were eating. “If you’ll give me about half much as . . .”The waitress smiled, revealing large, even white teeth.“Oh, sure.” She lowered her voice. “I always fill those two up.They can only afford to eat out once a week, so I like to get a decentmeal into them.”The wine was a New York State red jug wine, but it was pleasant.A few minutes later the waitress came out of the kitchen carrying aplate of steaming food and a basket of homemade biscuits.The food was delicious. The meat had been marinated in winesand herbs; the gravy was rich and tangy; the cabbage pungent; thebutter melted into the still warm biscuits.My God, if I ate like this every night, I’d be the size of a house,Pat thought. But she felt her spirits begin to lift.When Pat had finished, the waitress took her plate and came overwith the coffeepot. “I’ve been looking and looking at you,” the womansaid. “Don’t I know you? Haven’t I seen you on television?”Pat nodded. So much for poking around on my own, she thought.“Sure,” the waitress continued. “You’re Patricia Traymore. I saw youon TV when I visited my cousin in Boston. I know why you’re here! You’re doing a program on Abby Foster—I mean Senator Jennings.”“You knew her?” Pat asked quickly.“Knew her! I should say I did. Why don’t I just have coffee withyou?” It was a rhetorical question. Reaching over to the next tablefor an empty cup, she sank heavily into the chair opposite Pat. “Myhusband does the cooking, he can take care of closing up. It waspretty quiet tonight, but my feet hurt anyhow. All this standing . . .”Pat made appropriate sympathetic sounds.“Abigail Jennings, huh. Ab-by-gail Jennings,” the waitress mused.“You gonna put folks from Apple Junction in the program?”
     
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“I’m not sure,” Pat said honestly. “Did you know the Senator well?”“Not well, exactly. We were in the same class at school. But Abbywas always so quiet; you could never figure what she was thinking. Girlsusually tell each other everything and have best friends and run in cliques.Not Abby. I can’t remember her having even one close friend.”“What did the other girls think about her?” Pat asked.“Well, you know how it is. When someone is as pretty as Abbywas, the other kids are kind of jealous. Then everybody got the feelingshe thought she was too good for the rest of us, so that didn’t makeher any too popular either.”Pat considered her for a moment. “Did you feel that way abouther, Mrs. . . .?”“Stubbins. Ethel Stubbins. In a way I guess I did, but I kind ofunderstood. Abby just wanted to grow up and get out of here. Thedebating club was the only activity she joined in school. She didn’teven dress like the rest of us. When everyone else was going aroundin sloppy joe sweaters and penny loafers, she wore a starched blouseand heels to school. Her mother was the cook at the Saunders house.I think that bothered Abby a lot.”“I understood her mother was the housekeeper,”Pat said.“The cook, ” Ethel repeated emphatically. “She and Abby had alittle apartment off the kitchen. My mother used to go to the Saundersplace every week to clean, so I know.”It was a fine distinction: saying your mother had been thehousekeeper rather than the cook. Pat shrugged mentally. What couldbe more harmless than Senator Jennings’ upgrading her mother ’s joba notch? She debated. Sometimes taking notes or using a recorderhad the immediate effect of causing an interviewee to freeze. Shedecided to take the chance.“Do you mind if I record you?” she asked.“Not at all. Should I talk louder?”“No, you’re fine.” Pat pulled out her recorder and placed it on thetable between them. “Just talk about Abigail as you remember her.You say it