My Gal Sunday

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Sims sighed. “Which, of course, is one of the reasons President Britland has always blamed himself. I am sure he feels that if he had accompanied the prime minister on deck that night, he might somehow have been able to prevent his death.”

  “I understand the prime minister had a recurring dream that he would be assassinated.”

  “Very Lincolnesque, wasn’t it?” Sims commented. "And perhaps he anticipated his enemies by taking his own life, as the president believes. Who knows? Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Klein, I must see to my duties. The launch bearing President and Mrs. Britland is nearing the dock.”

  Congor Reuthers checked into the Boca Raton Hotel, looking for all the world like a seasoned golfer out for a holiday. His light blue linen jacket hung casually over impeccably cut white jeans. A golf bag with a sufficiently used appearance was propped against his Boyd two-suiter. As a finishing touch, he had a leather camera case slung over his shoulder, but in place of a camera, it held a state-of-the-art, ultrapowerful cellular phone.

  The golf bag and the handsome clubs were real but in Reuthers’s hands were mere props for his pose as tourist. The clubs, in fact, had once been the property of a Costa Barria industrialist who had made the mistake of publicly criticizing Madame del Rio, and had been left behind with virtually all his other worldly possessions when he made his escape from the island.

  Reuthers realized suddenly that the clerk was speaking to him. What was the fellow blathering about? he asked himself irritably. Something about golf.

  “Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “I’m looking forward to a few innings of golf. Love the game, you know.”

  Unaware of his gaffe, he turned imperiously and followed the bellman to the suite from which he intended to direct his mandated operation, the search of the Columbia.

  At four o’clock the phone rang.

  The caller was Lenny Wallace, also known as Len Pagan, but whose real name was Lorenzo Esperanza, the mole Reuthers had managed to place on the crew of the Columbia.

  With satisfaction, Reuthers called to mind the man’s baby face, complete with angelic smile, fuzz on the upper lip, freckles across the bridge of the nose, and big ears. Len resembled nothing so much as a young Mickey Rooney as he had looked in his long-ago movie role as Andy Hardy.

  In truth, he was a cold-blooded killer.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Len drawled.

  Reuthers bit his lip, reminding himself that this insolent hatchet man was a special favorite of Prime Minister Angelica del Rio. Then he reminded himself that she always could be counted upon to punish failure. “Why ever not?” he snapped.

  “Because President Britland’s wife is nosy, always snooping around. And also she is asking a lot of questions about that night.”

  Reuthers felt his palms begin to sweat. “Like what?”

  “I pretended to be polishing something in the dining room when she and Britland were there. I overheard them talking about the dinner with del Rio; she was asking him where everyone sat.”

  “He was only twelve years old at the time,” Reuthers protested. “What could he possibly remember that would make a difference to us now?”

  “She said something like she’d never heard him, I mean her husband, talk so much about having been tired. She said something like, ‘You were tired, the prime minister was tired, your father was tired. What did you people have for dessert that night, Valium?’”

  Reuthers closed his eyes, ignoring the splendid sight of the sun beginning its majestic descent. His worst nightmare had just come true. They were getting too close for comfort. “You’ve got to find those papers,” he ordered.

  “Look, the place is swarming with Secret Service. I’ll get one chance and one chance only, so your information had better be fight. You’re sure you hid the papers in Stateroom A?”

  “You insolent thug, of course I’m sure,” Reuthers snapped.

  The memory of that night made him shiver. After he had gone through the prime minister’s jacket, he had realized that the envelope was gone. I knew the boy was the last one to talk to him. I knew he must have slipped the envelope to him. I had to find his stateroom in the pitch dark. The kid was in Stateroom A. With my lousy sense of direction, I opened the wrong door. Suppose someone had been in Stateroom B.

  Reuthers still got cold sweats remembering how he had tiptoed into the boy’s cabin, praying that the steward wouldn’t come back, find the corridor light out, and investigate. Then, armed with a pencil-beam flashlight, he had made his way to the desk and picked up del Rio’s envelope. By a stroke of luck he happened to glance at the open journal. Realizing what it contained as he read it, he tore the last entry from the binder.

  But then he had heard the handle of the door turning and the boy began to stir. Quickly he had hidden in the closet. Feeling trapped, he had searched in the dark for any possible way out. Instead, he found a hole cut in the wall. Fearing that he might be discovered and searched, he had shoved the journal pages and del Rio’s envelope into the opening.

  From inside the closet he had listened as someone came in, walked over to the bed, then turned and left. When he went to retrieve the papers, however, he couldn’t reach them. For nearly an hour he had struggled to get his hand down, feeling his fingers on the tip of the envelope and not able to grasp it. Then, on cue, Madame del Rio sounded the alarm. I barely got out of the room before the kid woke up, he remembered. She shrieked like a banshee. He learned that the next day safes were installed in all the staterooms. That was why the hole had been prepared in the closet wall.

  “This is gonna be a tough one,” Len was saying. “ Britland’s Secret Service guys are smart. Eyes in the back of the head, that kind of thing. The top one already yelled at me for going into the dining room when the Britlands were there.”

  “That is not my concern!” Reuthers snapped. “Let me put it this way. If you can retrieve those papers safely and get away, you’ll enjoy the grateful thanks of a powerful boss. If you mess this up, your aging mother and her eight sisters will be dispatched to the hereafter.”

  Len’s voice became pleading. “I love my Mama and my aunties.”

  “Then I would suggest you get those papers back, no matter what you have to do. Do you understand? That hole was in the wall because a safe was being installed the next day. The scheduled renovation may expose them. Break through the paneling at the rear of the closet of Stateroom A. They’re in there! I don’t care how you do it, just do it, and don’t make any mistakes.”

  “Henry, when you told your father about the missing papers, what did he do?” Sunday asked as she sipped champagne in the glassed-in salon of the Columbia. A semicircular room at the back of the ship, the salon seated about ten people comfortably, and as Henry had explained, it was a location preferred by many dignitaries for conversation, reading, or simply observing the horizon.

  “I’m afraid that with the calamity of the prime minister’s disappearance, Father was not too impressed by my tale of missing papers. The prime minister had a habit of doodling on dinner menus or printed speeches, and I know Father thought that possibly he had passed something of the sort to me as a joke.”

  “What about your journal entry?”

  “He told me to rewrite it when I felt better. I had awakened with a headache, some sort of bug, I assume, and of course all hell was breaking loose. Helicopters were swarming around looking for any sign of the body. Boats, Navy divers, you name it.”

  “Do you believe that del Rio gave you some sort of doodle in that envelope?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Was a search made for your missing papers?”

  “In fairness to Father, yes, there was. At his instructions, Sims personally went through my stateroom to be sure I hadn’t been mistaken about leaving the envelope with the journal on the desk. But he found nothing.”

  “And of course since you’d written in a loose-leaf binder, it wasn’t as though you could show pages had been ripped from your journal.”


  “Exactly.” He paused and looked at his wife, his affection for her obvious in his eyes. He smiled, then said, “Incidentally, if your constituents could see you now, they’d never vote for you. You look about twelve years old.”

  Sunday was wearing a long, wraparound flowered skirt, a sleeveless white tee shirt, and sandals. She raised an eyebrow. “At this moment I may not look like a member of Congress,” she said with dignity, “but for your information all these questions are not caused by idle, childish curiosity, or even, darling, because I know how troubled you are about that night. I feel exactly the same as you do about Madame del Rio. I’d like to see Costa Barria have a crack at a fair, nonoppressive government. But it would take a lot to get the people so riled up that they would take action against her, and unless something dramatic happens, she’s going to breeze through that election. It’s as good as fixed.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And it maddens me to think that one of Garcia del Rio’s group may have stolen his suicide note, if that’s what it was, from your room while you slept. There’s no way of knowing, but it could have made a difference.”

  “It maddens me even more to think that I might have saved the prime minister’s life if I had strolled the deck with him. That’s really why I bought the Columbia. Except for that incident it has such a great and distinguished history. I want to remove the taint somehow.”

  Sims quietly entered the room carrying a tray of cheese puffs. He offered it to Sunday. As she accepted one, she said to him, “Sims, you were on this yacht before?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “How does it look to you?”

  Sims’s forehead crinkled. “Very well kept indeed, madam, but if I may observe, it is rather shocking that absolutely nothing has changed. By that I mean the wall coverings, the bedding, the upholstery, the draperies. During the thirty-two years the Columbia was in the possession of Mr. Hodgins Weatherby, he clearly treated it rather as a shrine.”

  Henry chuckled. “I can explain that: Weatherby was no sailor. In fact, the sight of a lapping wave was torture to him. He paid a fortune to dredge the harbor so he could walk aboard from the dock, and other than maintenance people, no one was allowed aboard except him and his psychic. He’d always sit here” — Henry patted the arm of the chair in which he was seated, then pointed to the one where Sunday was perched — “and the psychic, there.

  “I didn’t tell you, darling, but you’re in Sir Winston Churchill’s seat. From what Father told me, when FDR borrowed the yacht from my father to take Churchill for a sail, he made a beeline for that seat. Through the psychic, old Weatherby claimed to have held conversations with the prime minister, as well as with FDR, de Gaulle, and Eisenhower, to name but a few. I understand, however, that he wouldn’t exchange a word with Stalin.”

  “He treated the boat as nothing more than an exotic gazebo,” Sunday said. “I can understand why Weatherby’s family was ready to donate her to the charity auction when he died.”

  “I can too. But of course that’s what gave rise to the idea of the ship’s being haunted. Apparently the psychic was a pretty good mimic.”

  There was a tap on the door. Marvin Klein came in hesitantly. “Mr. President, I tried not to interrupt, but the secretary of state is calling.”

  “Tony?” Henry said. “Something must be up.” He took the phone from Klein’s hand, then hissed, “Sims, don’t go away. Give me some of those cheese puffs.”

  He swallowed one quickly, then spoke heartily into the phone. “ Hello, Tony. Ranger keeping you busy, I hope?”

  Ranger was the Secret Service code name for the chief executive.

  Secretary of State Anthony Pryor had been tapped for the top cabinet position by Henry’s successor, President Desmond Ogilvey. A friend of Henry’s since their Harvard days, Pryor delighted in dropping his formal demeanor when talking to him. “Henry, I’m busier than a fox in a chicken coop,” he said, “but you know that. Look, you bought the Columbia back, and now we’re hoping that you’ll help us out with something. You’re going to get a call from Miguel Alesso’s people. He wants to see you. Ranger wants you to see him.”

  Alesso? He’s running against the prime minister of Costa Barria.”

  “You bet he is. And he’s in Miami incognito. He swears that Angelica del Rio engineered her husband’s murder thirty-two years ago, and that her agents were trying to buy the Columbia at the auction, only you beat them to it.”

  “How does he know that?” Henry asked quietly.

  “Because the widow of one of the guys who screwed up the purchase last week called him. The point is, Ranger figures that you of all people would be able to spot holes in Alesso’s story. If you think it holds water, it says a lot about what our position should be on that coming election. Even though thirty-two years have passed Garcia del Rio is considered practically a saint in his country. Don’t forget Angelica del Rio is scheduled to come here on a state visit in exchange for guaranteeing human rights and releasing dissidents. Ranger doesn’t want to end up with egg on his face if someone proves she masterminded her husband’s murder.”

  “You mean Des thinks this may be a tactic to prevent Prime Minister del Rio from getting our approval just before the election?”

  “You got it. God, Henry, these damned small countries can drive you nuts, can’t they?”

  “No more than the big ones,” Henry reminded him. “Of course I’ll see Alesso. Tomorrow morning, here on the Columbia.”

  “Great. We’ll make all the arrangements.”

  Henry handed the phone back to Marvin Klein and looked at Sunday. “ My dear,” he said, “it may be that as usual you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “About Garcia del Rio’s death.”

  Congor Reuthers had learned long ago that even a man under the gun needs nourishment. This was Monday. Lenny had gotten word to him that the Britlands were scheduled to fly to Washington Wednesday morning, when Congresswoman Sandra O’Brien Britland needed to be on Capitol Hill for the final debate on aid to Costa Barria. Once the Britlands were off the boat, all extra crew members, including Lenny, would be discharged. Which meant that they were running out of time. Lenny had to get into Stateroom A tomorrow.

  For the moment, however, there was nothing more that Reuthers could do. Except eat. Having become particularly fond of the ambiance of the tower restaurant of the Boca Raton Hotel, he decided to head there. Surely a few martinis and a lobster would refresh his spirits. Reaching for the phone, he dialed the tower and imperiously ordered a window table, one facing the inland waterway.

  When he arrived at the maître d’s desk, he was outraged to find that he could not have his table of choice. Forced to decide whether to stomp out or to accept fate, he allowed his stomach to make the decision.

  “I am sure you will understand why we had to rearrange our seatings, sir,” the maitre d’ said with a nervous smirk as he led Reuthers to a table where the only nearby sign of water was in a pitcher. “You see why we had to keep some tables clear,” he whispered, gesturing to the wall of windows.

  Reuthers’s heart leaped. Seated by themselves, chatting over cocktails, tanned and smiling, were America’s favorite couple, the former president of the United States and his congresswoman bride.

  Reuthers reached into his pocket for the cigarette case that concealed his eavesdropping device. Casually he placed it open on the table and pointed it in the direction of the Britlands. As though scratching his head, he inserted the tiny receiver in his ear and was rewarded by hearing Henry Parker Britland IV say, “I’ll be interested in meeting with Alesso tomorrow.”

  Alesso! Reuthers thought. Alesso! Why would Britland be meeting with him?

  He cupped his ear to block out the hum from surrounding tables, then realized he was being addressed.

  “I’m sorry, sir, this is a smoke-free environment.” Reuthers looked up to see the disapproving frown on the face of the dining-room captain and realized he had
missed something Sunday Britland had said about “Alesso bringing proof . . .”

  “I am not smoking,” Reuthers contradicted. Pointedly the captain looked at the open cigarette case.

  “I keep it out only to test my willpower,” Reuthers snapped.

  “Then, sir, with your permission.” The captain moved the case so that it was almost concealed between the bud vase and the basket of bread a busboy had just placed on the table. “Now you can peek at it, but other diners won’t see it and have the impression that this is a smoking area. Remember, you may not be the only one here resisting temptation. Oh my, wouldn’t that be a can of worms? Sir, have you ever thought to reduce your craving for nicotine by chewing gum? It does help.”

  “Get out of there, you fool. Britland is looking at you.”

  Reuthers jumped as a familiar voice seared his eardrum with acidic anger.

  “He might recognize you, you imbecile.”

  Reuthers looked around, his eyes wildly searching the room. What disguise was Angelica assuming today? She had to be frantic with worry if she had come here instead of going directly to Costa Barria from New York. He spotted a gray-haired solitary diner, one elbow on the table, staring at her wineglass. There she was, Lonesome Wilma, another of Angelica’s personas. His searching glance next went over to a window table where it locked with the intense gaze of the former president of the United States. It had been thirty-two years since they had met. Reuthers had been on the fateful trip, ostensibly as one of Garcia del Rio’s personal bodyguards and, theoretically, had been executed with the rest of his staff for dereliction of duty in failing to protect the prime minister.

  Could Britland recognize him after all these years?

  Afraid to risk the possibility of discovery, Reuthers jumped up and turned his back on the former president. “I do not choose to dine here,” he barked, and hurried from the dining room.

  He was at the elevator when the captain caught up with him. “You forgot your cigarette case, sir,” he said. “Keep up the good work in resisting temptation. Courage!”