“She claims she’s innocent, Mrs. Grant, but we found a knife that may be the murder weapon in her room.”
At last the dam broke. Anne Webster had known that it would. Karen Grant let out a strangled cry that was half laugh, half sob, and became hysterical.
44
BIC TURNED ON the noon news as they were eating lunch in his office in the television studio on West Sixty-first Street. The breaking story was headlined: FATAL ATTRACTION MURDER AT CLINTON COLLEGE.
Opal gasped and Bic turned white as the picture of the child, Laurie, flashed on the screen. “As a four-year-old, Laurie Kenyon was the victim of an abduction. Today, at twenty-one, Kenyon is accused of stabbing to death a popular professor to whom she is alleged to have written dozens of love letters. Allan Grant was found in bed . . .”
A picture of a house flashed on the screen. The area around it was roped off. There was a shot of an open window. “It is believed that Laurie Kenyon entered and left Allan Grant’s bedroom by this window.” Squad cars lined the streets.
A student, her eyes popping with excitement, was interviewed. “Laurie was yelling at Professor Grant about having sex with him. I think he was trying to break off with her and she went crazy.”
When the segment was over, Bic said, “Turn that off, Opal.”
She obeyed.
“She gave herself to another man,” Bic said. “She was creeping into his bed at night.”
Opal didn’t know what to do or say. Bic was trembling. His face was sweaty. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then held out his arms. The lush curly hair on them was now steel gray. “Remember how scared she’d be when I held my arms out to her?” he asked. “But Lee knew I loved her. She’s haunted me all these years. You’ve witnessed that, Opal. And while I suffered these last months, seeing her, being near enough to touch her, worrying that she’d talk about me to that doctor, threaten all I’ve worked for, she was writing filth to someone else.”
His eyes were enormously wide, brilliantly bright, firing darts of lightning. Opal gave him the answer that was expected of her. “Lee should be punished, Bic.”
“She will be. If the eye offends, pluck it out. If the hand offends, cut it off. Lee is clearly under Satan’s influence. It is my duty to send her to the healing forgiveness of the Lord by compelling her to turn the blade upon herself.”
45
SARAH DROVE UP the Garden State Parkway, Laurie beside her, sleeping. The matron had promised to call Dr. Carpenter and tell him they were on the way home. Gregg had thrust Laurie into Sarah’s arms, protesting, “Laurie, Laurie, I’d never hurt you. I love you.” Then, shaking his head, he’d said to Sarah, “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll call you,” Sarah told him hurriedly. She knew his phone number was in Laurie’s address book. Last year Laurie had called Gregg regularly.
When she reached Ridgewood and turned into their street, she was dismayed to see three vans parked in front of the house. A crowd of reporters with cameras and microphones were clustered there, blocking the driveway. Sarah leaned on the horn. They let her pass but ran beside the car until it stopped at the porch steps. Laurie stirred, opened her eyes, looked around. “Sarah, why are these people here?”
To Sarah’s relief, the front door opened. Dr. Carpenter and Sophie rushed down the steps. Carpenter pushed his way through the reporters, opened the passenger door and put his arm around Laurie. Cameras flashed and questions were shouted at Laurie as he and Sophie half carried her up the steps into the house.
Sarah knew she had to make a statement. She got out of the car and waited as the microphones were thrust at her. Forcing herself to appear calm and confident, she listened to the questions: “Is this a fatal attraction murder? . . . Will you plea bargain? . . . Is it true you quit your job to defend Laurie? . . . Do you believe she’s guilty?”
Sarah chose to answer the last query. “My sister is legally and morally innocent of any crime and we will prove that in court.” She turned and pushed her way through the inquisitors.
Sophie was holding open the door. Laurie was lying on the couch in the den, Dr. Carpenter beside her. “I’ve given her a strong sedative,” he whispered to Sarah. “Get her upstairs and into bed immediately. I’ve left a message for Dr. Donnelly. He’s expected back from Australia today.”
It was like dressing a doll, Sarah thought as she and Sophie pulled the sweater over Laurie’s head and slipped the nightgown in its place. Laurie did not open her eyes nor seem to be aware of them. “I’ll get another blanket,” Sophie said quietly. “Her hands and feet are ice cold.”
The first mewing sound came as Sarah was turning on the nightlight. It was a heartbroken weeping that Laurie was trying to muffle in the pillow.
“She’s crying in her sleep,” Sophie said. “The poor child.”
That was it. If she were not looking at Laurie, Sarah would have thought the sound was coming from a frightened child. “Ask Dr. Carpenter to come up.”
Her instinct was to put her arms around Laurie and comfort her, but she forced herself to wait until the doctor was in the room. He stood beside her in the dim light and studied Laurie. Then, as the sobs faded and Laurie’s grip on the pillow relaxed, she began to whisper. They bent over to hear. “I want my daddy. I want my mommy. I want Sare-wuh. I want to go home.”
46
THOMASINA PERKINS LIVED in a small four-room row house in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Now seventy-two, she was a cheerful presence whose one fault was that she loved to talk about the most exciting event of her life—her involvement in the Laurie Kenyon case. She had been the cashier who had called the police when Laurie became hysterical in the diner.
Her greatest regret was that she hadn’t gotten a good look at the couple and couldn’t remember what name the woman had called the man when they rushed Laurie out of the diner. Sometimes Thomasina would dream about them, especially the man, but he never had a face, just longish hair, a beard and powerful arms with a heavy growth of curly hair.
Thomasina heard about Laurie Kenyon’s arrest on the six o’clock television news. That poor family, she thought sadly. All that trouble. The Kenyons had been so grateful to her. She had appeared with them on “Good Morning America” after Laurie returned home. That day John Kenyon had quietly given her a check for five thousand dollars.
Thomasina had hoped that the Kenyons would keep in touch with her. For a while she wrote regularly to them, long newsy letters describing how everyone who came into the diner wanted to hear about the case and how they’d get tears in their eyes when Thomasina described how frightened Laurie looked and how pitifully she had been crying.
Then one day she received a letter from John Kenyon. He thanked her again for her kindness but said maybe it would be better if she didn’t write to them anymore. The letters upset his wife so much. They were all trying to put the memory of that terrible time behind them.
Thomasina had been intensely disappointed. She wanted so much to be invited to visit them and to be able to tell new stories about Laurie. But even though she continued to send Christmas cards every year, they never responded again.
Then she’d sent a sympathy note to Sarah and Laurie when she read about the accident in September and received a lovely note from Sarah saying her mother and father always felt that Thomasina was God’s way of answering their prayers and thanking her for the fifteen happy years their family had enjoyed since Laurie’s return. Thomasina framed the note and made sure any visitors became aware of it.
Thomasina loved to watch television, especially on Sunday morning. She was deeply religious, and the “Church of the Airways” was her favorite program. She’d been devoted to Reverend Rutland Garrison and was heartbroken when he died.
Reverend Bobby Hawkins was so different. Thomasina wasn’t sure about him. He gave her a funny feeling. However, there was something mesmerizing about watching him and Carla together. She couldn’t take her eyes off them. And he certainly was a powerful preacher.
Now Thomasina fervently wished that it was Sunday morning so that when Reverend Bobby told everyone to put their hands on the television and ask for a personal miracle, she could ask that Laurie’s arrest would turn out to be a mistake. But it was Wednesday, not Sunday, and she’d have to wait the whole rest of the week.
At nine o’clock the phone rang. It was the producer of the local television show “Good Morning, Harrisburg.” He apologized for the late call and asked if Thomasina would consider being on the program in the morning to talk about Laurie.
Thomasina was thrilled. “I was looking over the files of the Kenyon case, Miss Perkins,” the producer said. “Boy, what a pity you couldn’t remember the name of that guy who was with Laurie in the diner.”
“I know,” Thomasina acknowledged. “It’s like it still rattles somewhere in my brain, but he’s probably either dead or living in South America by now anyhow. What good would it do?”
“It would do a lot of good,” the producer said. “Your testimony is the only eyewitness proof that Laurie may have been abused by her abductors. They’ll need a lot more evidence than that to create sympathy for her in court. We’ll talk about it tomorrow on the program.”
When she put down the phone, Thomasina sprang up and rushed into the bedroom. She reached for her best blue silk dress with the matching jacket and examined it carefully. No stains, thank heaven. She laid out her good corset, her Sunday oxfords, the pair of Alicia Pantihose from JC Penney she’d been saving for a special occasion. Since she’d stopped working she hadn’t bothered putting pin curls in her hair at night, but now she carefully set every one of the thinning strands.
Just as she was about to get into bed, Reverend Bobby’s advice to pray for a miracle flashed into her mind.
Thomasina’s niece had given her lavender stationery for Christmas. She got it out and searched for the new Bic pen she’d bought at the supermarket. Settling at the dinette table she wrote a long letter to Reverend Bobby Hawkins telling him all about her involvement with Laurie Kenyon. She explained that years ago she had refused to undergo hypnosis to help her remember the name the woman had called the man. She’d always believed that to go under hypnosis meant that you were putting your soul in the power of another, and that it would be displeasing to God. What did Reverend Bobby think? She’d be guided by him. Please write soon.
She wrote a second letter to Sarah, explaining what she was doing.
As an afterthought, she enclosed an offering of two dollars in Reverend Bobby Hawkins’s envelope.
47
DR. JUSTIN DONNELLY had gone home to Australia for Christmas vacation, with plans to stay a month. It was summer there and for those four weeks he visited his family, saw his friends, caught up with his old colleagues and reveled in the chance to unwind.
He also spent a great deal of time with Pamela Crabtree. Two years ago, when he’d left for the United States, they’d been close to making a commitment but agreed neither was ready. Pamela had her own career as a neurologist and was developing a considerable reputation in Sydney.
Over the holiday season they dined together, sailed together, went to the theater together. But as much as he’d always looked forward to being with Pamela, as much as he admired her and enjoyed her company, Justin sensed a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. Perhaps there were more than professional conflicts holding them back.
Justin’s gnawing sense of unease gradually centered on the realization that he was thinking more and more of Sarah Kenyon. He’d only seen her that one time in October, yet he missed their weekly conversations. He wished he hadn’t been so reluctant to suggest that they have dinner together again.
Shortly before he returned to New York, Pamela and he talked it through and agreed that whatever had been between them was over. With a vast sense of relief, Justin Donnelly boarded the plane to New York, arriving exhausted from the long trip at noon on Wednesday. When he got to the apartment he fell into bed and slept until ten o’clock, then checked his messages.
Five minutes later he was on the phone to Sarah. The sound of her voice, tired and strained, tore at his gut. Dismayed, he listened as she told him what had happened. “You must get Laurie in to see me,” he told her. “Tomorrow I’ve got to sort out things in the clinic. Friday morning at ten?”
“She won’t want to come.”
“She has to.”
“I know.” There was a pause, then Sarah said, “I’m so glad you’re back, Dr. Donnelly.”
So am I, Justin thought as he replaced the receiver. He knew Sarah had not yet fully absorbed the ordeal she was facing. Laurie had committed murder in one of her altered states, and that might put the persona who was Laurie Kenyon already beyond his help.
48
BRENDON MOODY returned to Teaneck, New Jersey, late Wednesday night from a week of fishing with his buddies in Florida. His wife, Betty, was waiting up for him. She told him about Laurie Kenyon’s arrest.
Laurie Kenyon! Brendon had been a detective with the Bergen County prosecutor’s office seventeen years ago when four-year-old Laurie disappeared. Until his retirement, he’d been on the homicide squad there and knew Sarah very well. Shaking his head, he turned on the eleven o’clock news. The campus murder was the main story. The segment included shots of Allan Grant’s home, Grant’s widow being escorted into the house, Laurie and Sarah emerging from the police station, Sarah making a statement in front of the Kenyons’ Ridgewood house.
With growing dismay, Brendon watched and listened. When the report was over, he snapped off the set. “That’s a tough one,” he said.
Thirty years ago, when Brendon was courting Betty, her father had said derisively, “That little bantam thinks he’s the cock of the walk.” There was an element of truth in the remark. Betty always felt that when Brendon was upset or angry, a certain electricity went through him. His chin went up; his thinning gray hair became tousled; his cheeks became flushed; his eyes behind rimless glasses seemed magnified.
At sixty Brendon had lost none of the feisty energy that had made him the top investigator in the prosecutor’s office. In three days they were supposed to visit Betty’s sister in Charleston. Knowing that she was giving him carte blanche to beg off from the trip, she said, “Isn’t there something you can do?” Brendon was now a licensed private investigator, taking only cases that interested him.
Brendon’s smile was both grim and relieved. “You bet there is. Sarah needs to have someone down on that campus gathering and sifting every possible tidbit of information she can get. This looks like an open-and-shut case. Bets, you’ve heard me say it a thousand times and I’ll say it again. When you go in with that attitude the only thing you can hope for is a few years off the sentence. You gotta go in believing your client is as innocent as the babe in the manger. That’s how you find extenuating circumstances. Sarah Kenyon is a hell of a nice woman and a hell of a good lawyer. I always predicted she’d have a gavel in her hand someday. But she needs help now. Real help. Tomorrow I go see her and sign on.”
“If she’ll have you,” Betty suggested mildly.
“She’ll have me. And Bets, you know how you hate the cold. Why don’t you go down to Charleston and visit Jane on your own?”
Betty untied her robe and got into bed. “I might just as well. From now on, knowing you, you’ll be eating, sleeping and dreaming this case.”
49
“CARLA, describe Lee’s bedroom in detail to me.”
Opal was holding the coffeepot, about to pour coffee for Bic. She paused then carefully tilted the spigot over his cup. “Why?”
“I have many times warned you not to question my requests.” The voice was gentle, but Opal shivered.
“I’m sorry. You just surprised me.” She looked across the table, trying to smile. “You look so handsome in that velvet jacket, Bobby. Now let’s see. Like I told you, her room and her sister’s room are on the right side of the staircase. The real estate agent said that the Kenyons turned smaller rooms into baths
, so the four bedrooms each have a bath. Lee’s room has a double bed with a velvet headboard, a dresser, desk, a standing bookcase, night tables and a slipper chair. It’s very feminine, blue-and-white flowered pattern on the spread and headboard and draperies. Two nice-sized closets, cross ventilation, pale blue carpet.”
She could tell he was not yet satisfied and narrowed her eyes in concentration. “Oh yes, there are family pictures on her desk and a telephone on the night table.”
“Is there a picture of Lee as a child in the pink bathing suit she was wearing when she joined us?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure there is.”
“You’re forgetting something, Carla. Last time we discussed this, you told me that there was a stack of family albums on the bottom shelf of the bookcase and it looked as though Lee might have been going through them or perhaps was rearranging them. There appeared to be a great many loose pictures of Lee and her sister as young children.”
“Yes. That’s right.” Opal sipped her coffee nervously. A few minutes ago she’d been telling herself that everything would be all right. She’d been reveling in the luxury of the pretty sitting room of their hotel suite, enjoying the feel of her new brushed-velvet Dior robe. She looked up and her gaze met Bic’s stare. His eyes were flashing, messianic. With a sinking heart she knew he was going to demand something dangerous of her.
50
AT QUARTER of twelve on Thursday Laurie awakened from her sedated sleep. She opened her eyes and looked around the familiar room. A bewildering cacophony of thoughts shouted through her mind. Somewhere a child was crying. Two women in her head were screaming at each other. One of them was yelling, I was mad at him but I loved him and I didn’t want that to happen.
The other was saying, I told you to stay home that night. You fool. Look what you’ve done to her.