My Gal Sunday

“Tantalizing . . . Fans of Nick and Nora ‘Thin Man’ movies . . . will fall in love with Mary Higgins Clark’s newest detective team. Readers will hope there will be many more tales about them. A great treat . . .”

— Harriet Klausner,
Bookpage

“These adventures are in keeping with Ms. Clark’s more humorous fiction, such as her tales of the inimitable Willy and Alvirah. . . . Henry and Sunday . . . offer comic relief. . . .”

— Ann Lloyd Merriman,
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“The romance of wealth . . . [is] coupled . . . with the potent fairy-tale mix of power, glamor, [and] gentility . . . in this gentle, upscale epithalamion.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Vintage Clark, and her many loyal readers are sure to enjoy their cozy, thrill-a-minute fantasy. . . .”

—
Daytona News-Journal
(FL)

“Clark’s new book of short mysteries is good reading. . . . Clark tells a good story.”

— Mary Garber,
Winston-Salem Journal
(NC)

“All four stories have splendid backgrounds. . . . You’ll find this a pleasant journey.”

—
Hartford Courant
(CT)

“This book is so skillfully crafted it not only scares, it tickles your funny bone. . . . Clark artfully weaves . . . [and] deftly word-paints. . . . Touching and heart-breaking . . . thrilling . . . fascinating . . . delightful . . . A heartfelt bravo . . .”

Patricia A. Jones,
Tulsa World
(OK)

“An unusual new detective team . . . They aren’t Nick and Nora Charles, but they click almost as well as they sniff out crime in Washington.”

—
Detroit News

“Never a dull moment . . .”

—
Marion Star
(OH)

“Four gentle . . . stories . . . Henry and Sunday are very likable characters. . . . A perfect beach book . . .”

—
San Francisco Examiner

“Charming . . . vintage Clark . . . the kind of suspense stories readers love . . . The trappings of these stories are so engaging one suspects [Clark’s] fans wouldn’t mind in the least if she turned out a whole series of Henry and Sunday mysteries. . . . They are far too appealing to shelve after one book.”

— Fran Wood,
The Star-Ledger
(Newark, NJ)

“Mystery lovers who are entertained by husband-and-wife sleuthing teams can add a new pair to their reading lists. . . . A sophisticated couple who are somewhat reminiscent of Nick and Nora Charles [but] modern and definitely politically correct . . . Each [story] is a mystery in itself. . . .”

—
Baton Rouge Magazine
(LA)

Books by Mary Higgins Clark

All Through the Night

You Belong to Me

Pretend You Don’t See Her

My Gal Sunday

Moonlight Becomes You

Silent Night

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

The Lottery Winner

Remember Me

I’ll Be Seeing You

All Around the Town

Loves Music, Loves to Dance

The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories

While My Pretty One Sleeps

Weep No More, My Lady

Stillwatch

A Cry in the Night

The Cradle Will Fall

A Stranger Is Watching

Where Are the Children?

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 1996 by Mary Higgins Clark

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

eISBN-10: 0-7432-0628-2
eISBN-13: 978-0-7432-0628-0

First Pocket Books printing November 1997

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

A
s a child I had frequent attacks of asthma. The reward for a night of gasping for breath was that in the morning, when the attack eased, I’d be propped up in bed with books and a radio.

At regular intervals I’d tune in to a number of radio dramas, those great old continuing sagas which invited me to share glamorous adventures.

My favorite by far was
Our Gal Sunday.
The pitch for it went something like this: “The story that asks the question ‘Can a girl from a mining town in the West find happiness as the wife of England’s richest, most handsome lord, Lord Henry Brinthrop?’crush”

I had a huge crush on Lord Henry and thought he and Sunday were a perfect couple.
Yes,
she could find happiness with him. Who couldn’t, for heaven’s sake?

That was why, when I wanted to create a new husband-and-wife suspense team, I thought about Lord Henry and Sunday and asked myself, “Suppose Henry is a former American president, smart, nice, rich, and gorgeous? Suppose Sunday is a stunning, savvy young congresswoman?” These stories are the result. I hope you enjoy them.

They wouldn’t have evolved without the guidance, nurturing, encouragement, and wisdom of my longtime editor, Michael Korda, and his associate, senior editor Chuck Adams. Again, as always, thank you, guys — I love you. Multiple thanks to Gypsy da Silva, copy editor incomparable, patience personified.

Richard McGann of Vance Security in Washington, D.C., a former Secret Service agent, has been my valued expert in explaining the Secret Service protection a former president and his wife would experience. Detective Sergeant Kevin J. Valentine of the Bernardsville, New Jersey, Police Department willingly answered all my many questions about the procedure that would be followed if a child were suddenly to be found seemingly abandoned. Thank you, thank you, Dick and Kevin.

Finally, as always, blessings and thanks to my family and friends, who cheer me on as I approach deadlines and patiently understand my tunnel vision when I’m immersed in tales to be told. You’re all the greatest!

For John

with love

à tout jamais

“
‘B
eware the fury of a patient man,’
 
” Henry Parker Britland IV observed sadly as he studied the picture of his former secretary of state. He had just learned that his close friend and political ally had been indicted for the murder of his lover, Arabella Young.

“Then you think poor Tommy did it?” Sandra O’Brien Britland said with a sigh as she patted homemade jam onto a hot scone, fresh out of the oven.

It was still early morning, and the couple was comfortably ensconced in their king-sized bed at Drumdoe, their country estate in Bernardsville, New Jersey.
The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, The Times
(London),
L’Osservatore Romano,
and
The Paris Review,
all in varying stages of being read, were scattered about, some lying on the delicately flowered, gossamer-soft quilt, others spilling over onto the floor. Directly in front of the couple were matching breakfast trays, each complete with a single rose in a narrow silver vase.

“Actually, no,” Henry said after a moment, slowly shaking his head. “I find it impossible to believe. Tom always had such strong self-control. That’s what made him such a fine secretary of state. But ever since Constance died — it was during my second administration — he just hasn’t seemed himself. And it was obvious to everyone that when he met Arabella he just fell madly in love. Of course, what also became obvious after a while was that he had lost some of that steely control — I’ll never forget the time he slipped and called Arabella ‘Poopie’ in front of Lady Thatcher.”

“I do wish I had known you then,” Sandra said ruefully. "I didn’t always agree with you, of course, but I thought you were an excellent president. But then, nine years ago, when you were first sworn in, you’d have found me boring, I’m sure. How interesting could a law student be to the president of the United States? I mean, hopefully you would have found me attractive, but I know you wouldn’t have taken me seriously. At least when you met me as a member of Congress, you thought of me with some respect.”

Henry turned and looked affectionately at his bride of eight months. Her hair, the color of winter wheat, was tousled. The expression in her intensely blue eyes somehow managed to convey simultaneously intelligence, warmth, wit, and humor. And sometimes also childlike wonder. He smiled as he remembered the first time he met her: he had asked if she still believed in Santa Claus.

That had been the evening before the inauguration of his successor, when Henry had hosted a cocktail party at the White House for all the new members of Congress.

“I believe in what Santa Claus represents, sir,” Sandra had replied. “Don’t you?”

Later, as the guests were leaving, he had invited her to stay for a quiet dinner.

“I’m so sorry,” she had replied. “I’m meeting my parents. I can’t disappoint them.”

Left to dine alone on this final evening in the White House, Henry had thought of all the women who over the past eight years had readily changed their plans in a fraction of a second, and he realized that at last he had found the woman of his dreams. They were married six weeks later.

At first the media hype threatened to be unending. The marriage of the country’s most eligible bachelor — the forty-four-year-old ex-president — to the beautiful young congresswoman, twelve years his junior, set off a feeding frenzy among journalists. Not in years had a marriage so completely captured the public’s collective imagination.

The fact that Sandra’s father was a motorman on the New Jersey Central Railroad, that she had worked her way through both St. Peter’s College and Fordham Law School, spent seven years as a public defender, then, in a stunning upset, won the congressional seat of the longtime incumbent from Jersey City, already had made her a champion to womankind, as well as a darling of the media.

Henry’s status as one of the two most popular presidents of the twentieth century, as well as the possessor of a considerable private fortune, combined with the fact that he appeared with regularity at or near the top of the list of America’s sexiest men, made him likewise a favorite source of copy, as well as an object of envy by other men who could only wonder why the gods so obviously favored him.

On their wedding day, one tabloid had run the headline:
LORD HENRY BRINTHROP MARRIES OUR GAL SUNDAY
, a reference to the once wildly popular radio soap opera that daily, five days a week, for years on end, asked the question: “Can a girl from a mining town in the West find happiness as the wife of England’s richest and most handsome lord, Lord Henry Brinthrop?”

Sandra had immediately become known to one and all, including her doting husband, as Sunday. She hated the nickname at first, but became resigned to it when Henry pointed out that for him it had a double meaning, that he thought of her as “a Sunday kind of love,” a reference to the lyrics of one of his favorite songs. “Besides,” he added, “it suits you. Tip O’Neill had a nickname that was just right for him; Sunday is just right for you.”

This morning, as she studied her husband, Sunday thought back over the months they had spent together, days that until this morning had remained almost carefree. Now, seeing the genuine concern in Henry’s eyes, she covered his hand with hers. “You’re worried about Tommy. I can tell. What can we do to help him?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid. I’ll certainly check to make sure the defense lawyer he has hired is up to the task, but no matter who he gets to represent him, the prospects look bleak. Think about it. It’s a particularly vicious crime, and when you look at the circumstances it’s hard not to assume that Tom did it. The woman was shot three times, with Tommy’s pistol,
in
Tommy’s library, right after he told people how upset he was that she had broken up with him.”

Sunday picked up one of the papers and examined the picture of a beaming Thomas Shipman, his arm around the dazzling thirty-year-old who had helped to dry his tears following his wife’s death. “How old is Tommy?” Sunday asked.

“I’m not sure. Sixty-five, I’d guess, give or take a year.”

They both studied the photograph. Tommy was a trim, lean man, with thinning gray hair and a scholarly face. In contrast, Arabella Young’s wildly teased hair framed a boldly pretty face, and her body possessed the kind of curves found on
Playboy
covers.

“A May-December relationship if I ever saw one,” Sunday commented.

“They probably say that about us,” Henry said lightly, forcing a smile.

“Oh, Henry, be quiet,” Sunday said. Then she took his hand. “And don’t try to pretend that you aren’t really upset. We may still be newlyweds, but I know you too well already to be fooled.”

“You’re right, I am worried,” Henry said quietly. “When I think back over the past few years, I can’t imagine myself sitting in the Oval Office without Tommy at my side. I’d only had one term in the Senate before becoming president and in so many ways I was still very green. Thanks to him I weathered those first months without falling on my face. When I was all set to have it out with the Soviets, Tommy — in his calm, deliberate way — showed me how wrong I’d be to force a confrontation but then publicly managed to convey the impression that he was only a sounding board for my own decision. Tommy is a true statesman, but more to the point, he is a gentleman, through and through. He’s honest, he’s smart, he’s loyal.”

“But surely he’s also a man who must have been aware that people were joking about his relationship with Arabella and just how smitten he was with her? Then when she finally wanted out, he lost it,” Sunday observed. “That’s pretty much the way you see it, isn’t it?”

Henry sighed. “Perhaps. Temporary insanity? It’s possible.” He lifted his breakfast tray and put it on the night table. “Nevertheless, he was always there for me, and I’m going to be there for him. He’s been allowed to post bond. I’m going to see him.”

Sunday quickly shoved her tray aside, barely managing to catch her half-empty coffee cup before it spilled onto the quilt. “I’m coming too,” she said. “Just give me ten minutes in the Jacuzzi and I’ll be ready.”

Henry watched his wife’s long legs as she slid out of bed. “ The Jacuzzi. What a splendid idea,” he said enthusiastically, “I’ll join you.”

Thomas Acker Shipman had tried to ignore the army of media camped outside, near his driveway. When he and his lawyer pulled up in front of his house, he had simply stared straight ahead and barged his way from the car to the house, desperately trying not to hear the roar of questions hurled at him as he passed. Once inside, however, the events of the day finally hit him, and he visibly slumped. “I think a scotch may be in order,” he said quietly.

His attorney, Leonard Hart, looked at him sympathetically. “I’d say you deserve one,” he said. “But first, let me once again reassure you that if you insist, we’ll go ahead with a plea bargain, but I’m compelled to once more point out to you that we could put together a very strong insanity defense, and I wish you’d agree to go to trial. The situation is so clear that any jury could understand: you went through the agony of losing a beloved wife, and on the rebound you fell in love with an attractive young woman who at first accepted many gifts from you, then spurned you. It is a classic story, and one that I feel confident would be received sympathetically when coupled with a temporary insanity plea.”

As he spoke, Hart’s voice became increasingly passionate, as though he were addressing a jury: “You asked her to come here and talk it over, but she taunted you and an argument ensued. Suddenly, you lost your head, and in a blinding rage so intense that you can’t even remember the details, you shot her. The gun normally was kept locked away, but this evening you had it out because you had been so upset that you actually had entertained thoughts of killing yourself.”

The lawyer paused in his presentation, and in the moment of silence the former secretary of state stared up at him, a puzzled look on his face. “ Is that actually how you see it?” he asked.

Hart seemed surprised at the question. “Why, yes, of course,” he replied. “There are a few details we have to iron out yet, a few things that I’m not completely clear on. For example, we’ll have to explain how you could simply leave Miss Young bleeding on the floor and go up to bed, where you slept so soundly that you didn’t even hear your housekeeper’s scream when she discovered the body the next morning. Based on what I know, though, I would think that at the trial we would contend that you were in a state of shock.”

“Would you?” Shipman asked wearily. “But I wasn’t in shock. In fact, after I had that drink, I just seemed to start floating. I can barely remember what Arabella and I said to each other, never mind recalling actually shooting her.”

A pained look crossed the lawyer’s face. “I think, Tom, that I must beg you not to make statements like that to anyone. Will you promise me, please? And may I also suggest that certainly for the foreseeable future you go easy on the scotch; obviously it isn’t agreeing with you.”

Thomas Shipman stood behind the drapes as he peered through the window, watching as his rotund attorney attempted to fend off a charge by the media. Rather like seeing the lions released on a solitary Christian, he thought. Only in this case, it wasn’t Attorney Hart’s blood they were after. It was his own. Unfortunately, he had no taste for martyrdom.

Fortunately, he had been able to reach his housekeeper, Lillian West, in time to tell her to stay home today. He had known last evening, when the indictment was handed down, that television cameras would be camped outside his house, to witness and record every step of his leaving in handcuffs, followed by the arrangement, the fingerprinting, the plea of innocence, and then this morning’s less-than-triumphal return home. No, getting into his house today had been like running the gauntlet; he didn’t want his housekeeper to be subjected to that too.

He did miss having someone around, though. The house felt too quiet, and lonely. Engulfed by memories, his mind was drawn back to the day he and Constance had bought the place, some thirty years ago. They had driven up from Manhattan to have lunch at the Bird and Bottle near Bear Mountain, then had taken a leisurely drive back to the city. Impulsively, they had decided to detour through the lovely residential streets in Tarrytown, and it was then that they came across the For Sale sign in front of this turn-of-the-century house overlooking the Hudson River and the Palisades.

And for the next twenty-eight years, two months, and ten days, we lived here in a state of happily ever after, Shipman thought. “Oh, Constance, if only we could have had twenty-eight more,” he said quietly as he headed toward the kitchen, having decided on coffee instead of scotch as the drink he needed.