Perfect Nightmare

Chapter Thirty-one

Neville Cavanaugh put the first of the garden’s lilies in a vase and set it gently on the breakfast tray. Even though Mr. Shields was still sleeping in the library, at least he seemed to have finally regained a little of his appetite. Perhaps if he rapped on the library door— But before he could finish the thought, let alone pick up the breakfast tray to act on it, the kitchen door opened and Patrick Shields himself walked into the kitchen.

And this morning he wasn’t wearing his pajamas and bathrobe. Rather, he was freshly showered and shaved, wore a pair of loose-fitting white linen trousers and a black polo shirt, and was looking fitter and more chipper than Neville had seen him in months.

Since the day before Christmas, in fact.

Wherever Patrick had gone two nights ago, Neville thought, it must have done him a lot more good than he himself would have thought possible.

“Good morning, Neville,” Patrick said. “Think I’ll eat in the conservatory this morning. It’s such a beautiful day.” Neville took the tray to the conservatory, where the remains of his own breakfast still littered the table. He set the tray down and then began to tidy up.

Patrick Shields picked up the newspaper that Neville had taken to reading himself since his employer had shown little interest in it in months.

Neville set out his employer’s breakfast, then piled his own dishes on the tray and waited for the paper. Patrick glanced up at him.

“I think I’ll just read it, today, thanks.” His eyes went back to the story Neville himself had been reading half an hour earlier. The story about the girl who had disappeared, Lindsay Marshall. “Have you heard anything else about this girl?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Neville responded as he dusted crumbs off the table. “Just what I’ve read in the paper.”

“Claire knows the girl’s mother,” his employer replied. “Said we actually met once at a fund-raiser. What a horrible thing.” “I can barely imagine what they must be going through,” Neville murmured.

Again his employer glanced up, his lips compressing into a hard line. “No,” he said. “I suppose you can’t. But I can.” Neville felt himself flush as their eyes met once again. Then he picked up the tray and left the room, and Patrick, alone, turned back to the paper and focused on the story. It had been almost a week, with no word. The girl’s family was frantic, and understandably so.

Unlike Neville Cavanaugh, Patrick could more than imagine what they must be going through.

He knew exactly what they were feeling.

And then, as he read the story one more time, he remembered the words spoken two nights earlier by the man who had lost his twins.

Find someone else who’s hurting as bad as you are, and try to give them a hand.

Picking up the phone Neville had left on the table, Patrick dialed information, asked for the number of the Camden Green police department, then waited while the connection was made.

Moments later he’d gone through several people before the person he was seeking finally came on the line, his voice flat. “Sergeant Grant.” “Sergeant Grant, this is Patrick Shields.”

“Mr. Shields,” Grant said, his voice immediately losing its neutral tone. Though he hadn’t actually spoken to Patrick Shields since they were children, the policeman was as aware of who Patrick was — and what had happened to his family — as everybody else in Camden Green. “It’s been a while. How are you holding up?” “I’m getting along,” Patrick replied. “Thank you for asking. But I’m not calling about myself. I’m wondering about the Marshall girl. Has there been any progress on the case?” He heard the sergeant hesitate. “I’m thinking I’d like to try to do something for her parents,” he explained. When Grant still made no reply, Patrick told him, “I think I know how they must be feeling.” Another silence, and now Patrick wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have called. “I guess maybe—” he began, then forced himself to go on. “I thought perhaps if I posted a reward…” His voice trailed off, and once again he wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he should just keep to himself after all.

Then Andrew Grant responded. “You never know,” he said. “Sometimes rewards bring out new leads. That’s very generous of you.” “Then consider it done,” Patrick said. “Do you think ten thousand would help?”

“It would sure get me calling,” Grant replied. “You’ll have to run that by the family. They’re the ones who’ll have to decide. But if they go along with it, it’s fine with me.” Now it was Patrick who was silent. “Is there a problem with that?” Grant asked when the silence went on too long.

“I — Well, I think I’d prefer the source to remain anonymous. So if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could inform the family?” “I understand,” Grant said. “Of course. I’ll get back to you.”

Patrick clicked off the phone, set it down on the table, and took a blueberry muffin from the basket Neville had left. As he broke it open and spread butter on its steaming halves, he looked out the window toward the Sound.

It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

In the kitchen, Neville Cavanaugh quietly set the extension phone back in its cradle.