“Do you have the sales record?” Moody asked.
“Of course, but we did decide to replace it, sir. Mrs. Grant is a good customer.”
“By any chance do you have a picture of the bracelet or a similar one?”
“I have both a picture and a bracelet. We’ve made several dozen of them since January.”
“All alike? Was there anything different about that particular one?”
“The catch, sir. After the incident with Mrs. Grant we changed it on the others. We didn’t want any repeat problems.” He reached under the counter for a notebook. “You see the original catch clasped like this . . . the one we now use snaps this way and has a safety bar.”
The clerk was a good artist.
A copy of the January 28 sales slip, a color photo of the bracelet and the signed and labeled sketch in hand, Sarah and Moody went back to the Global Travel Agency. Santini was waiting, her eyes alive with curiosity. She willingly dialed Anne Webster’s number, then handed the phone to Moody, who pressed the speaker button.
“Mrs. Webster,” he asked, “was there something about a missing bracelet the night you were at Newark airport with Karen Grant?”
“Oh yes. As I told you, Karen was driving the client and me back to New York. Suddenly she said, ’Damn it, I’ve lost it again.’ Then she turned to me and, very upset, demanded to know whether or not I had noticed her bracelet in the airport.”
“And had you?”
Webster hesitated. “I told a teeny-weeny fib. Actually I know she was wearing it in the VIP lounge, but after the way she carried on when she thought she’d lost it in the office . . . Well, I didn’t want her to explode in front of the client. I said very positively that she hadn’t been wearing it at the airport and that it was probably around her desk somewhere. But I did phone the airport that night, just in case someone turned it in. It’s really all right. The jeweler replaced it.”
Dear God, dear God, Sarah thought.
“Would you recognize it, Mrs. Webster?” Moody asked.
“Certainly. She showed it to Connie and me and told us about it being a new design.”
Santini nodded vigorously.
“Mrs. Webster, I’ll be back to you shortly. You’ve been a big help.” In spite of yourself, Moody thought as he hung up the phone.
One last detail to put in place. Please, please, Sarah prayed as she dialed the office of the Hunterdon County prosecutor. She was put through to the prosecutor and told him what she needed. “I’ll hold on.” As she waited she told Moody, “They’re sending someone to the evidence room.”
They waited in silence for ten minutes, then Moody watched Sarah’s face light up like a sunburst and then a rainbow as tears welled from her eyes. “Twisted gold with silver,” she said. “Thank you. I need to see you first thing in the morning. Will Judge Armon be in his chambers?”
107
KAREN GRANT was thoroughly annoyed on Thursday morning to find that Connie Santini was not at her desk. I’m going to fire her, Karen thought as she snapped on lights and listened for messages. Santini had left one. She had an urgent errand but would be in sometime later. What’s urgent about anything in her life? Karen thought as she opened her desk and took out the first draft of the statement she was planning to deliver in court at Laurie Kenyon’s sentencing. It began: “Allan Grant was a husband beyond compare.”
Karen should only know where I am right now, Connie Santini thought as she sat with Anne Webster in the small waiting area outside the prosecutor’s private office. Sarah Kenyon and Mr. Moody were in talking to the prosecutor. Connie was fascinated by the charged atmosphere of the place. Phones ringing. Young attorneys rushing by, arms loaded with files. One of them looked over her shoulder and called, “Take a message. Can’t talk now. I’m due in court.”
Sarah Kenyon opened the door and said, “Will you come in now, please. The prosecutor wants to talk to you.”
A moment later as she acknowledged the introduction to Prosecutor Levine, Anne Webster glanced down at his desk and noticed the object in a tagged plastic bag. “Oh for heaven’s sake, there’s Karen’s bracelet,” she said. “Where did you find it?”
* * *
An hour later, Prosecutor Levine and Sarah were in Judge Armon’s chambers. “Your Honor,” Levine said, “I don’t know where to begin, but I’m here with Sarah Kenyon to jointly request an adjournment of Laurie Kenyon’s sentencing for two weeks.”
The judge’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”
“Judge, I’ve never had anything like this happen before, especially where the defendant pled guilty. We now have reason to seriously question whether Laurie Kenyon committed this homicide. As you know, Miss Kenyon indicated to you that she didn’t remember committing the homicide but was satisfied from the state’s investigation that she had done so.
“Now some new and quite astonishing evidence has come to light that casts serious doubt on her culpability.”
Sarah listened quietly as the prosecutor told the judge about the bracelet, the jewelry salesman’s statement, the purchase of gas at the Clinton service station and then gave him the written affidavits of Anne Webster and Connie Santini.
They sat in silence for the three minutes it took Judge Armon to read the affidavits and examine the receipts. When he had finished, he shook his head and said, “Well, I’ve been on the bench for twenty years and I’ve never seen anything like this happen. Of course, under the circumstances, I’ll adjourn the sentencing.”
He looked at Sarah sympathetically as she sat gripping the arms of the chair, the mixture of emotions obvious in her face.
Sarah tried to keep her voice steady as she said, “Judge, on one level I’m obviously ecstatic and on another I’m devastated that I allowed her to plead guilty.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Sarah,” Judge Armon said. “We all know you’ve turned yourself inside out to defend her.”
The prosecutor stood up. “I was going to talk with Mrs. Grant before the sentencing about the statement she wanted to make in court. Instead I think I’m going to have a little talk with her about how her husband died.”
* * *
“What do you mean the sentencing isn’t going to take place on Monday?” Karen asked indignantly. “What kind of snag? Mr. Levine, I think you should realize that this is a terrible ordeal for me. I don’t want to have to face that girl again. Just preparing the statement I’m going to make to the judge is upsetting.”
“These technicalities come up,” Levine said soothingly. “Why don’t you come in tomorrow around ten. I want to go over it with you.”
* * *
Connie Santini arrived in the office at two o’clock fully expecting to have Karen Grant’s wrath descend on her. The prosecutor had warned her to say nothing to Karen about her meeting with him. Karen was preoccupied, however, and asked the secretary no questions. “You handle the phones,” she told Connie. “Say I’m out. I’m working on my statement. I want that judge to know all I’ve been through.”
* * *
The next morning, Karen dressed carefully for her meeting. It might be a little much to wear black today to the courtroom. Instead she chose a dark blue linen and matching pumps. She kept her makeup subdued.
The prosecutor did not keep her waiting. “Come in, Karen. I’m glad to see you.”
He was always so pleasant and really a very attractive man. Karen smiled up at him. “I’ve prepared my statement for the judge. I think it really gets across everything I feel.”
“Before we get to that, a couple of things have come up that I want to go over with you. Want to step in here?”
She was surprised that they did not go into his private office. Instead he took her into a smaller room. Several men and a stenotypist were already there. She recognized two of the men as the detectives who had spoken to her in the house the morning Allan’s body was found.
There was something different about Prosecutor Levine. His voice was businesslike and remote as he sai
d, “Karen, I’m going to read you your constitutional rights.”
“What?”
“You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand that?”
Karen Grant felt the blood drain from her face. “Yes.”
“You have a right to an attorney . . . anything you say can be used against you in a court of law . . .”
“Yes, I understand, but what the hell is going on? I’m the widow of the victim.”
He continued to read her her rights, to ask if she understood them. Finally he requested, “Will you read and sign the waiver-of-rights form and speak to us?”
“Yes, I will, but I think you’re all crazy.” Karen Grant’s hand shook as she signed the paper.
The questions began. She became oblivious to the video camera, barely aware of the faint clicking of the keys as the stenographer’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
“No, of course I didn’t leave the airport that night. No. I wasn’t parked in a different spot. That old bag Webster is always half-asleep. I sat through that lousy movie with her snoring beside me.”
They showed her the charge card receipt for the gas she had purchased at the service station.
“That’s a mistake. The date’s a mistake. Those people never know what they’re doing.”
The bracelet.
“They sell plenty of those bracelets. What do you think, I’m the only customer that store has? Anyhow I lost it in the office. Even Anne Webster said I didn’t have it on at the airport.”
Karen’s head started to pound and the prosecutor pointed out that the catch on her bracelet was one of a kind, that Anne Webster’s sworn statement was that she had seen the bracelet on Karen’s wrist in the airport and had called to report it missing.
Time passed as she snapped answers to their questions.
Her relationship with Allan? “It was perfect. We were crazy about each other. Of course he didn’t ask me for a divorce on the phone that night.”
Edwin Rand? “He’s just a friend.”
The bracelet? “I don’t want to talk about the bracelet anymore. No, I didn’t lose it in the bedroom.”
The veins in Karen Grant’s neck were throbbing. Her eyes were watering. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands.
The prosecutor and detectives could sense that she was beginning to realize she could not talk her way out of it. She was beginning to feel the net closing around her.
The older detective, Frank Reeves, took the sympathetic approach. “I can understand how it happened. You went home to make up with your husband. He was asleep. You saw Laurie Kenyon’s bag on the floor beside the bed. Maybe you thought that Allan had been lying to you after all about being involved with her. You snapped. The knife was there. A second later you realized what you’d done. It must have been a shock when I told you that we’d found the knife in Laurie’s room.”
As Reeves spoke, Karen’s head bowed, her whole body sagged. Her eyes welling with tears, she said bitterly, “When I saw Laurie’s bag I thought he had been lying to me. He had told me on the phone that he wanted a divorce, that there was someone else. When you told me she had the knife, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe Allan was really dead either. I never meant to kill him.”
She looked imploringly into the faces of the prosecutor and detectives. “I really loved him, you know,” she said. “He was so generous.”
108
“IT’S BEEN QUITE a weekend,” Justin said to Laurie as she settled herself on the couch.
“I still can’t get it through my head,” Laurie said. “Do you realize that this is the very hour I expected to be standing in court being sentenced?”
“How do you feel about Karen Grant?”
“I honestly don’t know. I guess I’m having trouble believing that I had nothing to do with her husband’s death.”
“Believe it, Laurie,” Justin said gently. He studied her carefully. The euphoria of the swiftly moving events had vanished. The aftershock of all the strain was going to show for a while. “I think it’s a great idea for you and Sarah to get away on vacation for a couple of weeks. Do you remember that not long ago you told me you’d give anything to play the golf course at St. Andrews in Scotland? Now you can do it.”
“Can I?”
“Of course. Laurie, I’d like to thank the little boy who’s taken such good care of you. He was the one who knew you were innocent. Can I talk to him?”
“If you like.”
She closed her eyes, paused, sat up as she opened them again. Her lips tightened. Her features softened. Her posture altered. A polite boyish voice said, “All right, Doctor. I’m here now.”
“I just wanted to let you know that you’ve been great,” Justin said.
“Not that great. If I hadn’t taken that bracelet, Laurie wouldn’t have been blamed for everything.”
“That’s not your fault. You did your best, and you’re only nine years old. Laurie is twenty-two and she’s really getting strong. I think that soon you and Kate and Leona and Debbie ought to start thinking about joining her completely. I’ve hardly seen Debbie in weeks. I haven’t seen that much of Kate or Leona either. Don’t you think it’s time to release all the secrets to Laurie and help her to get well?”
Laurie sighed. “Gosh I have a headache today,” she said in her normal voice as she settled back on the couch. “Something’s different today, Doctor. The others seem to want me to do the talking.”
Justin knew it was an important moment, one that must not be wasted. “That’s because they want to become part of you, Laurie,” he said carefully. “They always have been part of you, you know. Kate is your natural desire to take care of yourself. She’s self-preservation. Leona is the woman in you. You’ve frozen your normal womanly responses so long they had to come out another way.”
“In a sex kitten,” Laurie suggested with a half smile.
“She is, or was, pretty sexy,” Justin agreed. “Debbie is the little girl lost, the child who wanted to go home. You’re home now, Laurie. You’re safe.”
“Am I?”
“You will be if you’ll only let that nine-year-old boy put the rest of the puzzle together. He’s admitted that one of the names you’re forbidden to say is Opal. Let go a little more. Have him surrender his memories to you. Do you know the boy’s name?”
“Now I do.”
“Tell it to me, Laurie. Nothing will happen, I promise.”
She sighed. “I hope not. His name is Lee.”
109
THE PHONE would not stop ringing. Congratulations were pouring in. Sarah found herself saying the same thing over and over. “I know. It’s a miracle. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.”
Bouquets and baskets of flowers were arriving. The most elaborate basket came with the prayers and congratulations of the Reverend Bobby and Carla Hawkins.
“It’s big enough to be from the chief mourner at a funeral,” Sophie sniffed.
The words sent a clammy shock through Sarah. “Sophie, when you leave, take it with you, please. I don’t care what you do with it.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me anymore today?”
“Hey, give yourself a break.” Sarah walked over to Sophie, hugged her. “We wouldn’t have made it through all this without you. Gregg is coming over. His classes start next week, so he’s leaving for Stanford tomorrow. He and Laurie are taking off for the day.”
“And you?”
“I’m staying home. I need to collapse.”
“No Dr. Donnelly?”
“Not tonight. He’s got to drive to Connecticut for some meeting.”
“I like him, Sarah.”
“So do I.”
* * *
Sophie was starting out the door when the phone rang. Sarah waved her off. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”
It was Justin. There was something in his quick greeting that set off a warning signal to Sarah. “Is anything wrong?” she demanded.
“No, no,” he said so
othingly. “It’s just that Laurie came up with a name today and I’m trying to remember in what context I heard it recently.”
“What is it?”
“Lee.”
Sarah frowned. “Let’s see. Oh, I know. The letter Thomasina Perkins wrote me a couple of weeks ago. I told you about it. She’s decided that she’s stopped believing in Reverend Hawkins’s miracles. In the letter she pointed out that while he was praying over her, he referred to Laurie as ’Lee.’ ”
“That’s it,” Justin said. “I noticed it myself the day I watched that program.”
“How did Laurie use the name?” Sarah asked.
“It’s what her nine-year-old boy alter calls himself. Of course it’s probably just coincidence. Sarah, I’ve got to run. They need me upstairs. Laurie’s on her way home. I’ll call you later.”
* * *
Sarah hung up slowly. A thought so frightening, so incredible and still so plausible burned in her mind. She dialed Betsy Lyons at the real estate agency. “Mrs. Lyons, please get out the file on our house. I’ll be right over. I need to know the exact dates that the Hawkinses were in our house.”
Laurie was on her way home. Gregg would be along any minute. As she ran from the apartment, Sarah remembered to hide the key under the mat for him.
110
LAURIE DROVE across Ninety-sixth Street, up the West Side Drive, over the George Washington Bridge, west on Route 4, north on Route 17. She knew why she had this terrible sense that her time was running out.
It was forbidden to tell the names. It was forbidden to tell what he had done to her. Her car phone rang. She pushed the ANSWER button.
It was the Reverend Hawkins. “Laurie, Sarah gave me your number. Are you on your way home?”
“Yes. Where is Sarah?”
“Right here. She’s had a minor accident but she’s all right, dear.”
“Accident! What do you mean?”