Call After Midnight

He shook off the image. Damn, he needed a drink. It was time to go home. The hearse was headed off safely to a designated mortuary; as previously arranged, Sarah Fontaine would take charge from there. He wondered if he should call her just one more time. But for what? More condolences, more regrets? He’d done his part. She’d already paid the bill. There was nothing else to say.

By the time he got to his apartment, Nick had shoved the whole grisly affair out of his mind. He threw his briefcase onto the couch and went straight to the kitchen, where he poured out a generous glass of whiskey and slid a TV dinner into the oven. Good old Swanson, the bachelor’s friend. He leaned back against the counter and sipped his drink. The refrigerator began to growl, and the oven light clicked off. He thought of turning on the radio, but he couldn’t quite force himself to move. So ended another day as a public servant. And to think it was only Tuesday.

He wondered how long it had been since he’d been happy. Months? Years? Trying to recall a different state of mind was futile. Sights and sounds were what he remembered—the blue of a sky, the smile on a face. His last distinct image of happiness was of riding a bus in London, a bus with torn seats and dirty windows. He’d just left the embassy for the day and was on his way home to Lauren….

The apartment buzzer made him jump. Suddenly he felt starved for company, any company, even the paperboy’s. He went to the intercom. “Hello?”

“Hey, Nick? It’s Tim. Let me in.”

“Okay. Come on up.”

Nick released the front lock. Would Tim want supper? Dumb question. He always wanted supper. Nick poked in the freezer and was relieved to find two more TV dinners. He put one in the oven.

He went to the front doorway and waited for the elevator to open.

Tim bounded out. “Okay, are you ready for this? Guess what my FBI friend found out?”

Nick sighed. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“You know that guy, Geoffrey Fontaine? Well, he’s dead all right.”

“So what’s new?”

“No, I’m talking about the real Geoffrey Fontaine.”

“Look,” said Nick. “I’ve pretty much closed my file on this case. But if you want to stay for dinner…”

Tim followed him into the apartment. “See, the real Geoffrey Fontaine died—”

“Right,” said Nick.

“Forty-two years ago.”

The door slammed shut. Nick turned and stared at him.

“Ha!” said Tim. “I thought that’d get your attention.”

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7017170a-2c40-5070-a6d6-20fcc4512fa2)

THE DAY SMELLED of flowers. On the grass at Sarah’s feet lay a mound of carnations and gladioli and lilies. For the rest of her life, the smell would sicken her. It would bring back this hilltop and the marble plaques dotting the shorn grass and the mist hanging in the valley below. Most of all, it would bring back the pain. Everything else—the minister’s words, the squeeze of her good friend Abby’s hand around her arm, even the first cold drops of rain against her face—she scarcely felt, for it was peripheral to the pain.

She forced herself not to concentrate on the gash of earth at her feet. Instead she stared at the hill across the valley. Through the mist she could see a faint dappling of pink. The cherry trees were blooming. But the view only saddened her; it was a springtime Geoffrey would not see.

The minister’s voice receded to a faintly irritating drone. A cold drizzle stung Sarah’s cheeks and clouded her glasses; fog moved in, closing off the world. Abby’s sudden nudge brought her back to reality. The casket had been lowered. She saw faces, all watching her, all waiting. These were her friends, but in her pain she scarcely recognized them. Even Abby, dear Abby, was a stranger to her now.

Automatically Sarah bent down and took a handful of earth. It was damp and rich and it smelled of rain. She tossed it into the grave. The thud of the casket made her wince.

Faces passed by as if they were ghosts in the mist. Her friends were gentle. They spoke softly. Through it all she stood dry-eyed and numb. The smell of flowers and the mist against her face overpowered her senses, and she was aware of nothing else until she looked around and saw that the others had gone. Only she and Abby were standing beside the grave.

“It’s starting to rain,” said Abby.

Sarah looked up and saw the clouds descending on them like a cold, silvery blanket. Abby draped her stout arm around Sarah’s shoulders and nudged her toward the parking lot.

“A cup of tea, that’s what we both need,” said Abby. It was her remedy for everything. She had survived a nasty divorce and the departure of her college-bound sons on nothing more potent than Earl Grey. “A cup of tea, and then let’s talk.”

“A cup of tea does sound nice,” admitted Sarah.

Arm in arm, they slowly walked across the lawn. “I know it means nothing to you now,” said Abby, “but the pain will pass, Sarah. It really will. We women are strong that way. We have to be.”

“What if I’m not?”

“You are. Don’t you doubt it.”

Sarah shook her head. “I question everything now. And everyone.”

“You don’t doubt me, do you?”

Sarah looked at Abby’s broad, damp face and smiled. “No. Not you.”

“Good. When you get to be my age, you’ll see that it’s all—” Suddenly Abby stopped in her tracks. Her breathing was loud and husky. Sarah followed the direction of her gaze.

A man was walking toward them through the mist.

Sarah took in the windblown dark hair and the gray overcoat, now sparkling with water droplets. She could tell he had been standing outside a long time, probably through the whole funeral. The cold had turned his face ruddy.

“Mrs. Fontaine?” he asked.

“Hello, Mr. O’Hara.”

“Look, I realize this is a bad moment, but I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days. You haven’t returned my calls.”

“No,” she admitted, “I haven’t.”

“I need to talk to you. There’ve been some new developments. I think you should hear about them.”

“Sarah, who is this man?” broke in Abby.

Nick turned to the older woman. “Nick O’Hara. I’m with the State Department. If it would be all right, ma’am, I’d like a moment alone with Mrs. Fontaine.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

He looked back at Sarah. “It’s important.”

Something about the way he looked at her, the stubborn angle of his jaw, made Sarah consider his request. She hadn’t planned to speak to him again. For the past two days, her answering machine had recorded his half dozen calls, all of which she’d ignored. Geoffrey was dead and buried; that was pain enough. Nick O’Hara would only make things worse by asking his unanswerable questions.

“Please, Mrs. Fontaine.”

At last she nodded. With a glance at Abby, she said, “I’ll be all right.”