Stitch in Snow

Chapter 8

When I walked up the ramp in Denver, I had graduated from Visiting Celebrity to Murder Witness. This makes for flash photos and newspaper reporters and an entirely different sort of reception I'd rather not endure again.

Fortunately Peter Taggert was there. After my first confusion of shouting 'no comment' my arm was grabbed by a stocky man in an elegant pinstripe suit with one of those expensive patterned tie and shirt combinations. He elbowed two reporters out of the way and placed his broad back between me and the other important members of the press.

'I'm Pete Taggert, Mrs. Lovell, if you'll just come with me.' He ran interference. 'No comment, boys. You can see Mrs. Lovell later. Right now, I got her. This way, Mrs. Lovell.' He seemed to pow/bam/crash on my name. But he could pow/bam/crash through the reporters.

'Give me your baggage checks, Mrs. Lovell,' he said to me in an undertone as we raced down the slick corridor.

He gave them in turn to someone running beside us and then veered suddenly to our right, through a door marked 'private', down some steps leading to a corridor, through a door to the back VIP parking. He guided me to a big, dark green Buick convertible. We were away, zooming out of the airport, neat as you please.

There were still snowdrifts lining the roads.

'First, Mrs. Lovell, thanks for calling today. You're saving Jerry's life. Second, let me apologise for dragging your son into this but that was the only clue we had to your whereabouts without a police search. I don't think guest lecturers would appreciate that kind of attention. Jerry'd seen your son's address on a letter. He wanted me to get that straight with you first. Third, having got you here I'd better tell you that this is going to be a nasty case.'

He kept his eyes on the road as he talked so that I had only his rather rough profile to look at and no indication of his attitude or feelings. He drove fast but well and spoke in a low, well placed voice which was conversational rather than obviously controlled.

'There've been some snide cracks about your existence, Mrs. Lovell…'

'Why did you emphasise my name so heavily at the airport?'

'Jerry said you were quick…' He grinned.

'I also know him as Dan rather than Jerry…'

'So he said. About your name, his is Lowell.'

'Close but no cigar…'

'Not when you see the handwriting on your room bill. It looks like Lovell. Clerk error, okay, but the prosecution is making out that you knew each other before; that your presence in the hotel was pre-arranged…'

'And the murder?'

'The alibi was pre-arranged… so the murder could be committed with impunity.'

I felt cold and a bit sick.

'I suppose we arranged the snowstorm, too?'

'They'd like it if you had.' Peter Taggert's mouth curved down in a sour smile.

'I'd never met Dan… Jerry… Lowell before in my life. After all, I can prove I've been living in Ireland…'

He shot me a surprised look. 'You don't know what he does for a living?'

'He said something about being an engineer and travelling a lot.'

'And you don't read Irish newspapers? About off-shore oil?'

'Oh, God, and he has been in Ireland?'

He nodded slowly, his eyes on the road.

'So Dan and I were supposed to have met in Dublin, hatched up a murder, seeded clouds for a convenient blizzard for what reason? If they were already divorced?'

'Noreen Sue…'

'Good God, I didn't think people were really named that.'

'Noreen Sue divorced Jerry two years ago, and bluntly, took him for all she could. Part of the settlement was her right to use the marital home… which has been in Dan's family since Pike discovered the Peak - as long as she remained in Denver with their son. Jerry wanted DJ to have a settled life.' Peter Taggert snorted. 'Noreen's nothing but a tramp and the boy's been miserable. He's only just old enough to appeal to court to change the custody. The case is… was due… to come up in two weeks…'

'Then you were one of his business phone calls?'

'Yes…' he was about to say more but changed his mind.

'And she was fighting the matter?'

'Yes, with all she had. She'd lose the house and the support money. I don't think she cared about losing the boy…'

'I'd say that she had reason to murder him… not the other way around. You haven't told me how she was killed?'

'She was hit on the head and died of exposure.

'That's not murder…'

'No, manslaughter. But if they can prove Jerry did it, it'll put him into jail for a long time and deprive him of his son.'

'The poor boy! And where was he at the time?' I am not fond of calling kids by initials; it sounds affected.

'DJ was in Denver with a school friend. His mother was supposed to pick him up Tuesday after school when the blizzard warnings were hoisted but she never collected him.'

'Where was the marital home… in relation to the airport hotel?'

'On the way into Denver, Mrs. Lovell. About three miles from the hotel… as the snow bird flies.'

I began to see the problem. 'In short, Dan - had he been the killer - could have hiked from the hotel to the house, done the dirty and come back in spite of the weather conditions?'

'Yes.'

'Too bad that won't wash. Dan was never out of my sight, particularly on the night involved, long enough to have hiked three miles in those conditions.'

'Prosecution has a witness who saw him at the hotel at 6 PM dressed for outdoors, found him very distracted and anxious to get away…'

'Old Hearty-har-har…'

'I beg your pardon?'

'That's what I called…oh, what was his name… I have it written down in my diary…'

'Fred B. Winkleman?'

'Fred, yes, that was what Dan called him. I was at the elevator when Dan was trying to shake him loose.'

'You were?'

'Yes, I was. And I was in Dan's company…' I took a deep breath,'… the entire night. We watched both screenings of Gunga Din: that was the feature film of the week.'

'Gunga Din?' His foot slipped on the accelerator.

'Yes, and I'd swear to that under oath, on a stack of Bibles, anything you wish.'

'Yes, Mrs. Lovell.'

My willingness did not seem to reassure him. He sounded tired, morally tired.

'So it's on Hearty-har-har's say-so that Dan is pegged for the role of murderer? That seems rather flimsy evidence.'

'I said it was all circumstantial. There's a night watchman that spoke with him at 4:30 AM Friday, who said he was fully dressed.'

'Yes, but…'

'There are statements that Noreen Sue was aware that Dan was in Denver, at that hotel, and she had telephoned several people, asking them to come stay with her because she was afraid of what Dan might do to her.'

'Hysterical type. And?'

'The storm prevented anyone from getting to her house.'

'Oh?'

'She also phoned the police, saying that she was in physical danger from her ex-husband. He had called her… the calls are part of the hotel records…'

' Yes, they would be…'

'Dan says he phoned to speak to DJ, and she wouldn't let him.'

'You said DJ wasn't even in the house.'

'That' s right but Dan said Noreen Sue didn' t tell him that.'

' Mr. Taggert, he had two tickets in his hand when we got to the airport on Friday…'

The lawyer's lips set briefly in a thin, angry line. 'Jerry was taking DJ to San Francisco with him. He'd found out… from me… that DJ had been with the McPhersons during the blizzard. He felt, and I concurred with him, that Noreen Sue was not a fit guardian for the boy and he would resume custody of him until the hearing.'

'And?' Because it was apparent somehow this was wrong.

'This has been construed to mean that Jerry knew that Noreen Sue was no longer alive to take care of the boy.'

'Oh!' Yes, I could see how that could be assumed. 'Well, then, who did bang Noreen Sue on the bean and leave her to die? Because it bloody hell wasn't Dan!'

He gave me a warm smile for my outburst.

'Don't you believe me? Him?'

'I do, yes.'

'Well, aren't there other suspects? Surely there were. vandals and thieves out in the blizzard, getting what they could? Or an irate boyfriend of hers? Or maybe she was just… blown down, and hit her head? Slipped on the ice?'

'Unfortunately the prosecution rather fancies their case against Jerry.'

'Well, I'm here now. They have no case against him. I was with Dan all night!'

He sighed. 'That's just it, Mrs. Lovell, without meaning any offence.'

'What's it?'

He sighed, swinging about a rotary. 'Did you have sexual relations with my client, Mrs. Lovell?'

'Yes. I did.' He gave me another fast inscrutable look.

'Although to be utterly candid, that should support his alibi rather than deny it.'

'It should.' He sounded horribly unsure.

'At my age, Mr. Taggert, I've got too much sense to be sentimental about sex. Or to perjure myself.'

He didn't answer immediately as he was steering the big car into a parking lot by an older office building. We were, I presumed, in the business section of Denver.

'That's just it, Mrs. Lovell,' he said, pulling on the hand-brake. 'The prosecution is likely to suggest that at your age, you might do anything for sex. Jerry's a good looking guy…'

I remember having to close my mouth because the cold crisp air of Denver got in as he opened his door. By the time he had opened mine, I was really burning mad. I stalked beside him into the building, seething with fury, impervious to the cold, and tapping my foot on the carpeted elevator as we were silently wafted up to whatever floor his offices were on.

'How do you know that's what they'd try to prove, Mr. Taggert?' I said when we were in his corridor and alone.

He indicated an anonymous door in the corridor that ended in an imposing glass partition with the firm's name in discreet gold leaf. Beyond I noticed a reception area, western in treatment and modern in execution.

He ushered me into his private office, leather stuffed seats, huge heavy leather bound law tomes, a desk with neat piles of paper and a yellow-lined note-pad, full of pencilled phrases, askew on the blotter.

'I know the prosecution, Mrs. Lovell. They're out to get Jerry if they can because they have a possible motive and can prove opportunity. They will try to establish that you are perjuring yourself.'

'But I'm not… Certainly not on the basis of a couple of good tumbles in bed!'

'The hotel staff mentioned a woman in his company on and off. Noreen Sue was, at the time of her death, a blonde, about your size and height, Mrs. Lovell…'

'Good God, doesn't the truth count for anything any more?'

'Sometimes I wonder, Mrs. Lovell. I really do. Right now, I'd like to take down your version… all right, the truth… of the critical time. Stick to the facts only, please.' He depressed a toggle on his intercom and asked his secretary to come in.

'The facts, huh? The version according to Mrs. Lovell? The truth as I see it?'

He gave me a tight smile for my sour parody on the sensational press type headlines. I was repentant for his eyes were tired and cynical. I sensed he was desperately afraid for Jerry-Dan yet here was I, his hope for Dan's reprieve, likely to jeopardise the matter still more. His secretary came in, pad in hand, and sat with quiet attention after giving me a composed nod and smile of greeting.

'I'll need my diary,' I said, unlatching my attache case. 'My brains,' I rattled on, trying to lighten the atmosphere. I opened it to the proper pages and looked first at his secretary and then him in expectation. 'I'm ready.'

'Details first, like your name…'

'My full name is Dana Jane Lovell. I'm sorry, Dana Jane Hartman Lovell. I use D. J. Hartman for my professional papers…'

'Professional papers?' He held up his hand to his secretary to suspend dictation.

'Yes, I have my PhD in Library Sciences and I often publish in Library Journals, and some teachers' magazines, library skills, that sort of thing…' I paused because Peter Taggert was staring at me. 'What's the matter?'

'You really have a PhD?'

'I don't carry the diploma around but you can check with Columbia University in New York. Or in the Who's Who of American Women. I've been listed since 1970.' And that was the first time I'd ever called on that for a reference.

'You're a real, bona fide doctor of philosophy?' He was still incredulous.

'Yes, I am. But it is in library sciences, not…'

He waved an impatient hand at my attempt to qualify. 'You've a masters in what?'

'Education.' -

'Did you teach?'

'Yes, but I didn't really like it…'

'Where?' He wanted the facts, just the facts but he was excited… and more, hopeful.

'In Cambridge while my husband was getting his doctorate in Sociology at Harvard. And then I taught after Raymond died.'

'Raymond was your husband? How did he die?'

'He died of cancer of the lungs fourteen years ago.'

'You've only the one child?'

'Yes, Tim's nineteen now.'

'You never remarried?' He had held up his hand briefly to signal his secretary to hold the dictation.

'No,' and then I grinned at the half-formed question in his expression. 'I've had offers and I've had lovers. But writing's a full time occupation, Mr. Taggert and I've a son to get through college, and that takes too much time.'

'Writer? I thought you were a teacher. Oh, yes, you said you write for journals… Now, let's just get the statement. Barbara?' He glanced at his secretary. 'Go ahead, Dr. Lovell.' And he grinned at me as he emphasised the title.

Again I reduced the facts of a tender love-affair to a dry recitation of times and activities. It sounded worse when Barbara read back the dictation, and absolutely sexless. Which was to Mr. Taggert's satisfaction for he sat there nodding and steepling his fingers. When Barbara had finished speaking, he smiled, leaning back in his chair and idly swinging it on its gimbals.

'Good, good. Would you type that please, Barbara?'

She murmured, nodded pleasantly to me, the modern efficient paragon of a legal secretary and left the room.

'Things are looking much better, Doctor Lovell. Yes, indeed!'

'A difference in degree?'

He bellowed so appreciatively that his secretary poked her head back through the door to inquire if he'd called. He waved her an okay.

'Yes, it does, Doctor Lovell.'

'You mean, PhD's can have affairs with impunity. It's just not done by fuzzy-minded housewives on a mid-winter holiday and hot enough in the knickers to lay anything?'

He shook both head and hands, laughing.

'And PhD's only indulge in erudite discourse and sexless physical exercise?'

'Something like that, Doctor Lovell. Something more like that! Did Jerry know?'

'About my doctorate? The subject of academic degrees never arose.'

'Hmmm. Yes. Of course. Might I have a look at your diaries? I see you have last year's with you as well.'

'I had a lecture tour then too and I brought it along for my notes.'

'I see.' He started with the current diary and I watched, a bit self-conscious but amused at the various expressions crossing his face as he turned the-pages. I kept wondering what I had written that would delight him under the circumstances.

'What does D or C mean?'

I hid my mouth in my hand. 'That's rather personal, Mr. Taggert.'

His expression invited me to confide.

' I have trouble switching water supplies… the D means diarrhoea, the C…'

'I get it.'

'Trivia, Mr. Taggert.'

'Hmmm, but in its own elementary…'

'Mr. Taggert!'

'Sorry about that. I do love to pun. In its way, however, Doctor Lovell, such trivia supports the relevant entries.' He flicked through the pages, noting that I kept more or less the same sort of annotations and abbreviations, nodding his head more and more vigorously.

'I underlined the names and references I'd need this year in green ink.'

'I had wondered about that.' He gave a deep, satisfied sigh. 'I'm not a diarist myself but I thank God you are. These entries are obviously made almost daily. Tim is your son?' I nodded. 'And who is Mairead?'

'My closest friend in Dublin.'

'And SK?'

'My agent.'

'PS?'

'One of my publishers.

'Desmond?'

'A personal friend.'

'Ah, then you always designate business or professional people by their initials and your personal friends by their first or full name?'

'Generally.'

'And I do not see a prior reference to either a DJL or a Jerry or a Dan in either. On this sort of trivia,' and he waggled the diaries at me, 'cases are made or broken. Mathews' contention that you knew Jerry prior to Denver is blown!' He swung back and forth in the gimbaled chair, very pleased.

'I have to be a bit personal. Doctor Lovell. What did you and Jerry talk about? Did he mention how worried he was about his son? Or why he was in Denver?'

'No, although I knew something was worrying him. Actually, we didn't talk very much… yes, I know, Mr. Taggert, we were otherwise occupied but only some of the time… I'd just had three weeks of lectures and discussions and I really wanted not to have to answer questions or talk about myself or my work or anything. Dan was of a like mind but I see now that his real worries were to come. We simply did not get involved in each other's personal lives. He did say he was divorced and he did mention a son. So did I but the comments were in passing. We did discuss the weather, our fellow passengers, swimming, hiking, how to cheat at card games, inconsequentialities. But no details given, or asked.'

'Unfortunately the dearth of detail about you went against him. He only knew that you were a lecturer, lived in Ireland, widowed and…'he paused, dropping his eyes to the floor where my knitting bag rested, 'never dropped stitches when you knit.'

'Have you spoken to Dan since my phone call?'

Mr. Taggert had a very engaging smile when he wasn't worried or cynical. 'He got the message about the water, Doctor Lovell, and you couldn't have said anything to revive him faster. He's been pretty depressed and hopeless, let me tell you.'

'He didn't think I'd deliberately let him down?'

Peter Taggert eyed me for a long moment. 'No. He didn't. He insisted that you probably hadn't got the message or understood it. I was to refer to him as Dan, not Jerry.'

'Why is he Jerry and not Dan, if his name is Daniel Jerome?'

'The Second. His father was known as Dan Lovell.'

'So the son is number three?'

There was a discreet knock at the door and his secretary re-entered, typed sheets floating in her hand.

'I've called the notary public, Mr. Taggert, and he'll wait for you.'

'Good.' Mr. Taggert only seemed to glance at the pages and he grinned openly at the last one, slipping it over to me first. I was clearly identified as Dana Jane Hartman Lovell, BA, MA, PhD.

'Read it through and see if you have anything to add. Or delete.'

I read slowly, every word. I meant, and reaffirmed every word of my testimony. And said so. He slipped it into a manilla folder.

'Thanks for staying over, Babs.'

'I was more than glad to, Mr. Taggert. Anything for Mr. Lowell and DJ.' She smiled broadly at me, not a bit efficient-secretary, and then left the room.

The lawyer helped me on with my cloak and suggested I bring my things with me but could he keep the diaries for the moment. I agreed.

The Notary Public was a scrawny little man who kept a sporting goods shop two blocks away from the office. He rattled through the statement under his breath, ohed a bit at my titles, and then had me swear that I'd told the truth. I signed the document in his presence, he stamped it all right and tight and handed the thing back to Peter Taggert, taking his fee in the other hand and palming the bill into his pocket in a fluid gesture. From practice, I guess.

'I've booked you into a central city hotel. Dr. Lovell.'

'How long will the wheels of justice take now?'

'That depends on what Jack Mathews, our keen sighted, charge sticking D.A. thinks of this affidavit. Which he will have on his desk in the morning. Good God, you don't have more lectures to give, have you?'

'No, Tulsa was the end of this year's round.'

'That's all to the good.'

Something in his tone brought me up sharp. 'Why?'

'Oh, something could be construed that you're doing this for publicity purposes.'

I stared at him, snapping my mouth shut when I realised that my jaw had dropped. 'For college lectures? Whose side are you on?'

'Jerry's. And yours. But I know the D.A. His situation with more crimes and fewer arrests, and pressure from the governor to keep Denver decent, makes him snatch on anything he can pin to a criminal. He's got a b'ar hunt in Jerry. And the two have never liked each other…'

'Personal vendetta? What is it the Mafia have, a contract?'

We had drawn up in front of a glass and brick hotel entrance. Peter Taggert leaned forward to peer past me through the entrance. With a muttered oath, he pressed down on the accelerator and we took off. I'd been in the process of opening my door; now I clung to the handle, hoping it wouldn't swing wide.

'Hey, my door.'

'Close it! Please.' He added the courtesy after the snapped order.

'What's wrong?'

'Reporters. I'd rather they didn't have a go at you.'

'Why? Wouldn't Doctor Lovell be sufficient?'

'I don't think you need the shit.'

'I think you're quite right,' I replied after a moment's reflection. I'd learned quite enough today to unsettle me and I was angry enough, seething inside, to be indiscreet out of simple complicated frustration.

I didn't ask him where he was taking me now. I was too depleted, deflated and depressed. Running to someone's rescue is stimulating; you're full of do-goodery, uprightness, moral rectitude and honest anger. When you've done your bit, the reaction is equally severe and devastating. I resolved never to tour again, or knit on board a plane, or converse with total strangers, male or female, however charming and whatever the circumstances.

'Having second thoughts. Doctor?'

'Thoughts, yes. But nothing to deflect me from my present course, Mr. Taggert. I don't renege on my given word. Or my sworn statement.'

'You were telling the truth?'

'The whole truth and nothing but the truth, unpalatable and somewhat unflattering.'

'Unflattering?'

'Sure, Gunga Din had more of his attention than I!'

I succeeded in making Peter Taggert chuckle.

'I like you, lady.'

'Get Daniel Jerome Lowell cleared of this ridiculous charge and I'll return the compliment.'

'Not until then?'

'We'll see, particularly if you will tell me where you're taking me now.'

'Where I can protect my star witness.'

With superb timing he turned the Buick up a drive, leading to a low, spread out ranch-type house in the couple of hundred thousand dollar bracket. From snow-covered lumps evenly spaced along the drive, I could imagine that in the summer the place was magnificently landscaped. Lights glowed in the main entrance but the other glass windows were draped and impenetrable. We swung past the main entrance to a triple car garage and one of the doors silently moved upwards. The Buick slid in and the door, down. I'd forgotten such amenities and must have looked my surprise.

'The part of American life most likely to be forgotten in Ireland,' I said to Peter Taggert as he grinned at my expression.

A side door opened and a tiny elegant woman was silhouetted against the light.

'Peter? Did she really come?'

'She really came and she's also here. The reporters had gathered at the hotel.'

'Mrs. Lovell, do come…'

'She's officially Doctor Lovell, Petra. Dana Jane Lovell, my wife, Petra.'

As I walked towards the woman, my mind boggled over Peter-Petra but the moment our hands clasped, both of her small ones around mine, I forgot all in her radiant welcome. She was genuinely overjoyed to see me. She kept shaking my hand as she led me into the side hall, repeating how glad she was I'd come, that the messages had reached me, and was I very tired? Would I like a drink? Did I wish to freshen up first?

I kept saying yes, and enthusiastically 'yes' for the drink. I needed it more urgently when Petra escorted me into the huge living room and Daniel Jerome Lowell rose from a black leather chair beside the immense western ranch type fireplace.

'Jenny! You came!'

'You did drop a few stitches, my friend…'

I hoped that my voice sounded casual but my innards were executing some peculiar gyrations. All the rationalisations, stern moral warnings and careful interpretations of three snow-bound days in Denver went up the flue with the smoke of the great fire burning there.

I hadn't expected to see him. I mean, I thought he would be stuck in jail.

'You can arrange bail on manslaughter charges, you know,' Peter said quietly in my ear and then led me towards the fire. 'You're freezing. Get the woman a drink, Jerry. Be useful. She is.' I managed to respond to the pleasantries, to thank Dan for the drink he brought me, to nod and smile as Peter Taggert, all scepticism and sour cynicism gone, itemised the strengths of my supporting evidence.

Dan was equally surprised at my title and quirked his eyebrows at me deferentially, but that was his only flash of the wayward humour I'd enjoyed. This ghastly business had left ineradicable marks on him, in his eyes, the downward pull of his mouth, the set of his shoulders: not defeated, but as if he was expecting more psychological blows to fall and steeling himself to endure. As Peter discounted each of the points of circumstantial evidence against Dan in the light of my statement, Dan visibly straightened and began to relax. Instead of sitting in a stiff way in the comfortable chair, he slowly leaned back, slid down and finally stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. The merest touch of a smile drew his mouth up as he looked across the hearth at me, raised his glass in a toast. I shrugged a disclaimer.

'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 centre 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 realise 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!'

'l 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 Peter 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 neighbour 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 apologise 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 in to 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 invigorating hike 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's hope the D.A. buys it.'

'He'll have to. It's the truth!'

'He'll try to find holes in your statement…'

'There aren't any…'

Peter gave me a 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 manoeuvre.'

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 tranquilliser? Peter draped my cloak over my shoulders and took my attache 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 attache 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.