'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. Lovelclass="underline" 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.
Chapter 9
I made a small front page headline, at the bottom, as 'Mystery Witness' for D. Jerome Lowell. I was also billed as the well known lecturer, Doctor Dana Jane Hartman Lovell, BA, MA, Ph. D, and author of many children's books. There was a recap of the death of Mrs. Noreen Sue Lowell and the arraignment of D. Jerome Lowell on charges of manslaughter.
Depressed by the article, I dutifully phoned Peter's office. He was in and the tone of his greeting did not lift my spirits. 'The D.A. still thinks he has a case, Jenny.'
'Does that mean I have to hang around Denver?' That did not please me.
'I thought you said your engagements were completed?'
'They are, but I live in Ireland, and I want to see my son.'
'You've got one of those excursion tickets?'
'Yes…'
'You're not to worry about your expenses,' he said firmly.
'They are not my main worry. Trials in the States can take ages… I want to see my son, he must be worried sick over all this… And I have commitments at home… in Ireland…'
I suppose I sounded petulant. What I feared was that somehow the prurient D.A. would divine that I was in love with Daniel Jerome and that would blow my alibi to flinders. I wanted not to be in Dan's vicinity so that I could keep up my pretence of indifference.
'I can certainly move for an early trial date. But if you did have to go back to Ireland and return here, you're not to worry about your expenses…'
'Fuck the expenses,' I said with a force and inelegance that made him gasp on the other end. I always save my expletives for emergencies but I chuckled because I had managed to shock Peter Taggert. 'You have absolutely no idea how this mucks up my writing schedule. I must have quiet and no interruptions. I can't write when I'm so wound up with worry that creative thought is impossible. I sure as hell-won't-freeze can't write a "Timmy" story in my present frame of mind. And I've got to. I've a contract to fulfil…'
'Jenny, Jenny. Calm down, Jenny. Please listen. Jenny…' Peter kept saying as I exploded. 'I'll be right over. Call room service and get some food into you. Did you just wake up?'
'Yes, I did. You told me to call you when I woke up. l am.'
'Okay, okay. Just order breakfast. Sent up, do you hear? And no reporters. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. I'll probably arrive with your breakfast.'
The moment I jammed the phone down I was ashamed of my outburst. But I felt better. I'd roared out some of the tension. I ordered a big breakfast from room service. It'd be lunch because my watch read 11:30. I ran a hot, hot bath which revived me, too.
I had just finished dressing when there was a knock on my door. I almost threw it open when caution returned. Leaving the door on the chain, I opened it a bit and asked who was there.
'Bell Captain, Dr. Lovell. Mr. Taggert asked me to give you this when you woke up.' The man passed in a thin parcel wrapped in fine white paper. He left before I could tip him.
I unwrapped a leather-bound, gilt-edged slim volume, a diary: much more elegant than my Eason's 50 penny pocket thingie. And in the corner of the front cover, in gold, were my initials: DJ H L.
I was astounded and then deeply touched as the pages fell open to yesterday's date. Carefully inscribed in a precise hand were the notations: Arrived Denver, 4:45. See PT,
Dinner PT, Hotel Room #804. On today's date was the entry:
'Lunch PT, discuss DJL case.' In the address and phone section all my data had been carefully transcribed in another handwriting. Barbara's, probably, because it was femininely cursive.
And I'd been such a bitch on the phone! I riffled the pages, and smoothed the leather of the binding. I wondered if Peter knew how much Daniel Jerome mattered to me.
Which reminded me. I walked fingers in the yellow pages, found the phone number of the bookstore with the largest ad, called them and asked for three copies of any books they had in stock by Dana Jane Lovell. I asked them to be sent, cash on delivery, to the hotel and the clerk's gasp of surprise when I gave her my name was one of the fringe benefits of being a well-known, or should I say, infamous, person in Denver. If the books arrived in time, I could give them, suitably inscribed, to Peter to deliver to the children.
My brunch and Peter arrived simultaneously. He was ordering some lunch for himself when I made with the door-routine.
When I began my enthusiastic thanks for the diary, he tried to brush off the gratitude, telling me to shut up and fill my face. I tried to question him but he said flatly that he never discussed business before breakfast; in this case, mine. He leaned back in his chair and studied a pocket notebook. I was hungry enough to take advantage of this dictum so I plowed through melon, coffee, toast, eggs and sausages until his salad lunch arrived.
'Now,' he said, settling before the service table, 'I've made some tentative plans for you, subject to your agreement. A petition for an early trial date has been presented in court this morning. I should know the precise date later today. I see no reason why you can't keep to your own plan, and see your son. You were then to have returned to Dublin, right? To work? Can you postpone your commitments in Ireland? I can offer you a ski lodge in Aspen for as long as you require it.. Would that give you peace and quiet? I can guarantee you won't be interrupted there.'