Stitch in Snow

'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?'