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New Yorkand got married and it didn’t take. And I took a job running numbersfor some bookies and ended up in hot water. After that I startedchauffeuring for some fruitcake on Long Island. By then Abby wasmarried and her husband was the Congressman and I read that she’dbeen in an automobile accident because her chauffeur had been drinking.So I thought, What the hell. I wrote to her and two weeks later herhusband hired me and that was going on twenty-five years ago. Say,Miss Traymore, what number are you? We’re on N Street now.”“Three thousand,” Pat said. “It’s the corner house on the next block.”“ That house?” Too late, Toby tried to cover the shock in his voice.“Yes. Why?”“I used to drive Abby and Willard Jennings to that house for parties.Used to be owned by a Congressman named Dean Adams. Did theytell you about him killing his wife and committing suicide?”Pat hoped her voice was calm. “My father ’s lawyer arranged therental. He mentioned there had been a tragedy here many years ago,but he didn’t go into it.” Toby pulled up to the curb. “Just as well toforget it. He even tried to kill his kid—she died later on. Cute littlething. Her name was Kerry, I remember. What can you do?” He shookhis head. “I’ll just park by the hydrant for a minute. Cops won’t botheras long as I don’t hang around.”Pat reached for the handle of the door, but Toby was too quick forher. In an instant he was out the driver ’s side, around the car andholding the door open, putting a hand under her arm. “Be careful,Miss Traymore. Plenty icy here.”“Yes, I see that. Thank you.” She was grateful for the early dusk,
     
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afraid that her expression might send some signal to Toby. He mightnot have a head for books but she sensed he was extremely perceptive.She had thought of this house only in the context of that one night.Of course there had been parties here. Abigail Jennings was fifty-six.Willard Jennings had been eight or nine years her senior. Pat’s fatherwould have been in his early sixties now. They had beencontemporaries in those Washington days.Toby was reaching into the trunk. She longed to ask him aboutDean and Renée Adams, about “the cute little kid, Kerry.” But notnow, she cautioned herself.Toby followed her into the house, two large cartons in his arms.Pat could see that they were heavy, but he carried them easily. Sheled him into the library and indicated the area next to the boxes fromthe store-room. She blessed the instinct that had made her scrape offthe labels with her father ’s name.But Toby barely glanced at the boxes. “I’d better be off, MissTraymore. This box”—he pointed—”has press clippings, photoalbums, that sort of thing. The other one has letters from constituents—the personal kind, where you can see the sort of help Abby givesthem. It had some home movies too, mostly of when her husbandwas alive. The usual stuff, I guess. I’ll be glad to run the movies foryou anytime and tell you who’s in them and what was going on.”“Let me sort them out and I’ll get back to you. Thanks, Toby. I’msure you’re going to be a big help in this project. Maybe between us,we’ll put together something the Senator will be happy about.”“If she’s not, we’ll both know it.” Toby’s beefy face lit up in agenial smile. “Good night, Miss Traymore.”“Why not make it ‘Pat’? After all, you do call the Senator ‘Abby.’”“I’m the only one who can call her that. She hates it. But whoknows? Maybe I’ll get a chance to save your life too.”“Don’t hesitate for a minute if the opportunity comes your way.”Pat reached out her hand and watched it disappear into his.When he had left, she stood in the doorway, lost in thought. Shewould have to learn not to show any emotion when Dean Adams wasmentioned. She had been lucky that Toby had brought up his namewhile she was still in the protective darkness of the car.
     
From the shadow of the