Nighttime Is My Time: A Novel (4 page)

The Gordie they knew doesn't exist, he told himself as he started toward the Hudson Valley Suite. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

"Mr. Amory."

A baby-faced, redheaded kid with a notebook was standing next to him.

"I'm Jake Perkins, a reporter for the
Stonecroft Gazette
. I'm interviewing the honorees. Could I just have a minute of your time?"

Gordon managed a warm smile. "Of course."

"May I begin by saying that you've changed a lot in the twenty years since your senior picture."

"I guess I have."

"You already owned the majority share of four cable television channels. Why did you buy into Maximum?"

"Maximum has a reputation for strong family programming. I decided it would round out our ability to reach a segment of the audience I wanted in our entertainment portfolio."

"There's been buzz about a new series and a rumor that your former classmate Laura Wilcox may be the star. Is that true?"

"There has been no casting yet on the series you mention."

"Your crime and punishment channel has been criticized as being too violent. Do you agree?"

"No, I do not. It offers genuine reality, not those made-up ludicrous situations that are the bread and butter of the commercial networks. Now if you'll excuse me."

"One more question, please. Would you just glance at this list?"

Impatiently, Gordon Amory took the sheet of paper from Perkins.

"Do you recognize those names?"

"They seem to be some of my former classmates."

"They are five women, members of this class, who have died or disappeared during these twenty years."

"I didn't realize that."

Perkins pointed. "I was astonished when I began my research. It started with Catherine Kane nineteen years ago. Her car skidded into the Potomac when she was a freshman at George Washington University. Cindy Lang vanished when she was skiing at Snowbird. Gloria Martin was an apparent suicide. Debra Parker piloted her own plane, and six years ago it crashed, killing her. Last month, Alison Kendall drowned in her pool. Wouldn't you say it would be fair to call this a hard luck class, and maybe do a program on your network about it?"

"I would prefer to call it a 'tragedy-ridden' class, and, no, I would not want to do a program about it. Now if you'll excuse me."

"Of course. Just one more question. What does receiving this medal from Stonecroft mean to you?"

Gordon Amory smiled. It means I can say a pox on your house. In spite of the misery I endured here, I've made it big—that's what he thought. Instead he said, "It is the fulfillment of my dream to be considered a success in the eyes of my classmates."

8

Robby Brent had checked into the hotel on Thursday afternoon. He'd just finished a six-day engagement at the Trump Casino in Atlantic City where his famous comedy act had drawn its usual large audience. It made no sense to fly home to San Francisco only to come right back, and he hadn't felt like staying in Atlantic City or stopping in New York.

It had been a satisfactory decision, he decided as he dressed for the cocktail party. He reached in the closet for a dark blue jacket. Putting it on, he looked at himself critically in the mirror on the closet door. Lousy lighting, he thought, but he still looked okay. He'd been compared to Don Rickles, not only because of his swift-paced comedy act, but because of his appearance as well. Round face, shiny dome, a bit stocky—he could understand the comparison. Still, his looks hadn't stopped women from being attracted to him. Post Stonecroft, he added to himself, definitely post Stonecroft.

He still had a couple of minutes before it was time to go down. He walked over to the window and looked out, thinking about how yesterday, after he'd checked in, he'd walked around town, picking out the homes of the kids who, like him, were honorees at the reunion.

He'd passed Jeannie Sheridan's house. He'd thought about how a couple of times the cops had been called by the neighbors because her parents were scuffling with each other in the driveway. He had heard they divorced years ago. Probably lucky they had. People used to predict that one or the other would end up getting hurt during one of their fights.

Laura Wilcox's first house was right next to Jeannie's. Then her father inherited some money, and the family moved to the big house on Concord Avenue when they were sophomores. He remembered walking past Laura's first house when he was a kid, hoping she'd happen to come out so he could start a conversation with her.

A family named Sommers had bought Laura's house. Their daughter had been murdered in it. They'd sold it eventually. Most people don't hang around a place where their kid has been stabbed to death. That had been on Columbus Day weekend, he reflected.

The invitation to the reunion lay on the bed. He glanced at it. The names of the honorees and their bios were included in the packet. Carter Stewart. How long after Stonecroft did it take him to drop being called Howie? Robby wondered. Howie's mother had called herself an artist and was always seen around town with her sketch pad. Occasionally she'd persuade the art gallery to show some of her stuff. Really bad, Robby remembered. Howie's father had been a bully, always whacking him around. No wonder his plays were so dark. Howie used to run out of the house and hide from his old man in the neighbors' backyards. He may be successful, but inside he has to be the same sneak who used to peep in people's windows. Thought he got away with it, but I caught him a couple of times. He had a crush on Laura so intense it practically oozed from his pores.

As did I, Robby admitted, sneering down at the picture of Gordie Amory, the plastic surgery kid. Mr. Cover Boy himself. Yesterday, during his walk, he'd looked up Gordie's house and saw that it had been totally renovated. Originally an odd shade of blue, it was now twice the size and sparkling white—like Gordie's new teeth, Robby thought.

Gordie's first house had burned down when they were juniors. The joke in town was that it was the only way it could be thoroughly cleaned. Gordie's mother had kept the place looking like a pigpen. A lot of people thought that Gordie deliberately set the fire. I wouldn't have put it past him, Robby thought. He was always weird. Robby reminded himself to call Gordie "Gordon" when they met at the cocktail party. Over the years he'd run into him a few times—uptight as they come and another one who'd been crazy about Laura.

So was Mark Fleischman, the other guy being honored. At school Mark had never said boo to anyone, but you got the feeling there was a lot going on inside him. He'd always been in the shadow of his older brother, Dennis, who'd been an all-around big man at Stonecroft, top student, outstanding athlete. Everyone in town knew him. He'd been killed in a car accident the summer before their class began its freshman year. Different as day and night, the two brothers. It was well known around town that if God had to take one of their sons, Mark's parents would have preferred that he and not Dennis had been chosen. He had so much resentment built up inside him that it's a wonder the top of his head didn't come off, Robby thought grimly.

He reached for his room key, finally ready to face the crowd below, and then opened the door of his room. I either disliked or hated just about all of my classmates, he thought. Then why did I accept the invitation to come here? He pushed the button for the elevator. I'll get plenty of new material for the act, he promised himself. There was another reason of course, but he quickly pushed it out of his mind. I won't go there, he thought as the elevator door opened. At least not now.

9

As they arrived at the cocktail party, Jack Emerson, the chairman of the reunion committee, invited the honorees to step into the alcove at the end of the Hudson Valley Suite. A florid-faced man with the look of a drinker, indicated by the broken capillaries in his face, he was the only member of the class who had elected to stay in Cornwall and therefore was in place to do hands-on planning for this weekend. "When we introduce the class individually, I want to save you and the others for last," he explained.

Jean walked into the alcove in time to hear Gordon Amory observe, "Jack, I gather that we have you to thank that we're the ones to be honored."

"It was my idea," Emerson said heartily. "And you deserve it, one and all. Gordie, I mean Gordon, you're an outstanding figure in cable television. Mark is a psychiatrist with a reputation for being an expert in adolescent behavior. Robby is an outstanding comedian and mimic. Howie, I mean Carter Stewart, is a major playwright. Jean Sheridan—oh, here you are, Jean, so good to see you — is a dean and professor
of
history at Georgetown, and now she's a best-selling author. Laura Wilcox was the star of a long-running sitcom. And Alison Kendall became head of a major talent agency. As you know, she would have been the seventh recipient. We'll send her plaque to her parents. They are very pleased to know that she is being honored by her graduating class."

The hard luck class, Jean thought with a stab of pain as Emerson rushed over to plant a kiss on her cheek. That had been the term that school reporter Jake Perkins had suggested when he'd grabbed her for an interview. What he'd told her had been a shock. I lost track of everyone except Alison and Laura after graduation, she remembered. The year Catherine died, I was in Chicago, supposedly choosing to work for a year before college. I knew that Debby Parker's plane crashed, but I didn't know about Cindy Lang and Gloria Martin. And only last month, Alison. Dear God, we all used to sit at the same table.

And now only Laura and I are left, she thought. What kind of karma is hanging over us?

Laura had phoned to say she'd meet her at the party. "Jeannie, I know we were talking about getting together earlier, but I'm not nearly ready. I have to make an entrance with all flags flying," she'd explained. "My object for the weekend is to woo and win Gordie Amory so that I can play the lead in his new TV series."

Instead of being disappointed, Jean realized she had been relieved. The respite had given her time to phone Alice Sommers, who had been their next-door neighbor years ago. Mrs. Sommers now lived in a townhouse near the parkway. The Sommerses had moved to Cornwall about two years before their daughter Karen was murdered. Jean never forgot the time when she'd been picked up at school by Mrs. Sommers. "Jean, why don't you come shopping with me?" she'd suggested. "I don't think you should go home right now."

That day she'd been spared the cringing embarrassment of seeing a squad car in front of her house and her parents being handcuffed. She never knew Karen Sommers well. Karen had been in Columbia Medical School in Manhattan, and the Sommerses kept an apartment in Manhattan. That was where they spent time with their daughter. In fact, until the night of her death, Karen had rarely come to Cornwall.

We've always kept in touch, Jean thought. When they came to Washington, they always called to invite me to dinner. Michael Sommers had died years ago, but Alice had learned about the reunion and called to say that Jean must come over for a ten o'clock breakfast before the scheduled visit to West Point.

In the time she might have visited with Laura, Jean had made up her mind. Tomorrow when she saw Alice, she would tell her about Lily and show her the faxes and the original letter with the hairbrush and strands of Lily's hair. Whoever knew about the baby must have seen Dr. Connors' records, she thought. It has to be someone who was around here at that time or who knew someone from around here who could get hold of the records. Alice might help me find the right person to talk to in law enforcement here. She had always said that they were still trying to find her Karen's murderer.

"Jean, it's good to see you again." Mark Fleischman had been speaking to Robby Brent, but now he came over to her. "You look lovely, but upset. Did that kid reporter grab you?"

She nodded. "Yes, he did. Mark, I was shocked. I didn't know about anyone's death except Debby's and then, of course, Alison's."

Fleischman nodded. "Neither did I. In fact, I hadn't heard about Debby. I've never bothered with any of the stuff that came from Stonecroft until Jack Emerson contacted me."

"What did Perkins ask you?"

"Specifically, he wanted to know if since none of the five died together in some sort of multiple accident, wouldn't I, as a psychiatrist, find that many deaths in so small a group an unusually high number? I told him I didn't have to look up anything to know that the number was out of the ball park. Of course it was."

Jean nodded. "He told me that according to his research, that kind of statistic is much more likely to happen in wartime, but he said there are examples of families or classmates or members of a team that seem to be jinxed. Mark, I don't think it's jinxed. I think it's eerie."

Jack Emerson had overheard. The smile he'd worn while listing their accomplishments vanished and was replaced by a look of irritated concern. "I asked that Perkins kid to stop showing that list around," he said.

Carter Stewart came into the alcove with Laura Wilcox in time to hear Emerson. "I can assure you, he's showing it around," he said shortly. "My suggestion to anyone who has not yet been pounced upon by that young man is to tell him you do not wish to see it. It worked for me."

Jean was standing to the side of the entry, and Laura did not spot her when she walked in. "OK if I join you?" she joked. "Or have I wandered into the men's club by mistake?"