“Here’s to that agreement,” Betsy said as she clinked her glass against his.
Twenty years later, George thought as he unlocked the door of the car. His mind switched to what Laurie Moran had told him about the rest of his part in the filming.
“And then we’ll have you and Alex Buckley sitting together, and he’ll ask you your overall impressions of the party and of Betsy Powell,” Laurie had said. “Maybe you have some stories you could tell about Betsy. From what I understand, you were close friends of the Powells and frequently saw them socially.”
I told Moran that I saw Rob more on the golf course at the club than socially, as couples, George thought as he walked up the three steps to the charming brick house that he and Isabelle had built twenty years ago. He remembered how the architect had come in with pretentious renderings of houses in which the entrance hall was big enough for a skating rink and twin staircases led to a balcony “where you could put a full orchestra.”
Isabelle’s comment was, “We want a home, not a concert hall.”
And it was homey. Spacious but not overwhelming. Inviting and warm.
He opened the door and headed to the family room. As he had expected, Isabelle and the twins, Leila and Justin, who were home from college for the summer, were there.
George’s heart swelled with love as he looked at the three of them.
And to think I almost lost them, he thought as he remembered his threat to Betsy.
29
When Claire got back to the hotel, the first thing she did was to put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, then rush to wash her face.
All the carefully applied makeup vanished into the soapy washcloth as she checked and rechecked to be sure that every vestige of it was gone. Well, it served its purpose, she thought. I saw the look on all their faces, especially Rob Powell’s, when they saw me. I’m not sure whether Nina pulled that faint or if it was genuine. She was a pretty good actress, even if she never did make it big.
But I think she upstaged Daddy Rob. He was just about to faint himself before she beat him to it. Well, didn’t he used to brag that in high school he was voted best actor in the senior play? And he’s perfected his act since then.
30
Nina could see the look of disappointment on her mother’s face when Rob didn’t extend an invitation to dinner. But in the car Muriel pointed out that he had referred more than once to the good times they had had together. That much is true, Nina acknowledged to herself.
As they got off the elevator in the hotel, Muriel asked, “Did you see the chandelier? It must be worth forty thousand dollars.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw one like it when we were in Venice for background scenes.”
Fitting, Nina thought. Now, as an actress, you’re in the background again.
“Did you see how that housekeeper acted as if we were a bunch of intruders?”
“Mom, I remember her from the time when we were growing up. Jane always looked as if she disapproved of everyone except Betsy.” Nina hesitated, then added sarcastically, “I mean ‘Mrs. Powell.’ That’s what Jane was forced to call her, even though they’d worked together for years.”
“Well, I certainly would have made her call me ‘Mrs. Powell’ instead of Muriel,” her mother snapped. “If I had married Rob.”
“I’m going to my room. I’ll have dinner served there,” Nina replied, rolling her eyes to heaven. As she walked rapidly away from Muriel, she thought, the greatest gift you ever received was that Betsy was out of your way, but even though you called Rob Powell any number of times after she died, he didn’t want to see you again. And now it’s obvious to me that he’s just toying with you.
Will you ever learn?
31
Regina was barely in her hotel when she received a telephone call from Zach from London. He got directly to the point.
“Mom, please be honest, did you bring that letter with you?”
Regina knew there was no use in lying.
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Zach. I lied to you because I didn’t want you to be upset.”
“Then, Mom, I have to tell you. I destroyed the copy you had. I’ve been wanting to tear that letter up ever since you told me about it. I would have torn up the original, too, but I couldn’t find where you put it.”
“Zach, it’s okay. I know you’re right and after this week, I will destroy it. Or if you want, I’ll let you burn it. That’s a promise.”
“Awesome, Mom, I’ll hold you to that.”
They both said, “I love you,” then said good-bye.
Regina raced to the dresser where she’d left her pocketbook, opened it, and with trembling fingers reached for her wallet. She had known when she arrived at the Powell estate that she should not have carried the letter with her.
She opened the secret flap in her wallet where she had carefully folded the letter.
It was empty.
Whoever had taken it must have suspected she might be carrying something important, or else had gone through all the pocketbooks that had been left on the patio table for the same reason.
And the letter provided the perfect reason for her to have murdered Betsy.
Frantically she dumped her pocketbook on the table and rummaged through the contents, hoping against hope that somehow she would find it. But it was not there.
32
Rod woke at four in the morning after hearing a door close. “Alie,” he called. He turned on the overhead light. The door to the sitting room was open, and he could see Alison was not there. He bolted up and reached for his crutches. After all these years his arms and shoulders were powerful, and he could move swiftly on them. Was Alison sleepwalking again? He glanced into the bathroom and the dressing room. She was not in either of them. He reached the outer door of the room in seconds and threw it open. There was Alison, walking slowly down the long hallway.
He caught up with her at the top of the staircase to the lobby.
Once there, he reached for her hand and whispered her name. He watched her eyes blinking, and she turned her face to him.
“It’s fine,” he said soothingly. “It’s fine. We’re going back to bed.”
When they were inside the room she began to cry. “Rod, Rod, I was sleepwalking again, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, but it’s all right. It’s fine.”
“Rod, the night of the Gala I was so angry. People were asking me if I was planning to go to medical school. I told them I was going to have to work for a year at least. Whenever I looked at Betsy all I could think was that she had stolen that scholarship from me so that she could get into a fancy club.” Her voice a desperate whisper, she said, “I was sleepwalking that night of the Gala. I woke up leaving Betsy’s room. I was so grateful she hadn’t heard me. Or is it possible I killed her?”
Her words were drowned in sobs.
33
Leo Farley dropped Laurie off in a cab, then instructed her driver to wait until he had seen the doorman open the door into the lobby and close it behind her.
As safe as I can make her, he thought, then leaned back in the cab with a weary sigh. It had been a long day, made even longer by his anxiety about Timmy being away at camp.
He was so deep in thought that he did not notice when the cab pulled up at his apartment building on the next block.
Tony the doorman was there, waiting to open the door. Leo usually bounded out of the cab, but tonight, after he had paid the fare, he moved slowly and even reached for Tony’s hand to help get him to his feet.
And then he felt it begin—the rapid pulsing of his heart that meant he was beginning to have an attack of cardiac fibrillation. As Tony waited attentively, Leo started to get out, then remembered that his doctor had warned him that he must not, absolutely must not ignore it when his heart began to beat like this—like a locomotive out o
f control.
“Get to the hospital right away, Leo,” he had ordered. “A lot of people have this condition, but yours is much more serious than most. Your heart has to be slowed down immediately.”
Leo looked up at Tony. “Just remembered I left something at my daughter’s house,” he fibbed, then added, “I may stay over with her.”
“That’s fine, sir. Good night.”
Tony closed the door with a decisive click, and Leo reluctantly told the driver to take him to Mount Sinai Hospital.
At least it’s only a few blocks way, he thought as he again checked his rapidly accelerating pulse.
34
Alex Buckley pondered the events of the day as he drove home from Salem Ridge to Manhattan. The four girls, now women, had been friends since their freshman year in high school, and it was obvious that their greetings to each other had been guarded, although as the hours wore on they seemed to be warming up.
Their reaction to Robert Powell was unmistakably hostile, even as they kept up a thin veneer of cordiality.
Years of interrogating witnesses had given Alex the ability to cut through the surface of what someone was saying and study their eyes and body language. What he concluded from all four graduates today was that they despised Robert Powell.
The question was, why? Alex would bet the animosity began more than twenty years ago.
Then why did they go along with the Graduation Gala? Even if my best friend wanted to share his graduation party with me, I wouldn’t have done it if I hated his father, Alex thought. And that raised another question. How did they feel about Betsy Bonner Powell? If one of the four had killed her, there had to be a compelling motive for her to seize the opportunity to stay overnight at the Powell home.
These questions Alex began to sort in his head as he pulled the car into his garage and went to his apartment.
Ramon was quick to hear his key turn the lock in the door. He appeared in the foyer, a smile on his face. “Good evening, Mr. Alex. I hope you had a good day?”
“Let’s call it an interesting day,” Alex said, returning the smile. “I’m going to change right away. I certainly didn’t need to wear a tie and jacket today. It was hot outside.”
The apartment was comfortably cool, and as usual his closet was a masterpiece of precision, thanks to Ramon, who hung every jacket and shirt and tie in color groupings. Alex’s trousers were placed in the same orderly pattern.
Now Alex changed into a short-sleeved sport shirt and khakis. Then he washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and decided that what he wanted was a cold beer.
As he passed the dining room, he saw that the table was set for two.
“Ramon, who’s coming?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator door. “I don’t remember inviting anyone.”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you, sir,” Ramon replied as he prepared a small plate of hors d’oeuvres. “Your brother should be here any minute. He has an appointment in New York in the morning.”
“Andrew’s coming, that’s great,” Alex said sincerely, although he had a fleeting moment of disappointment, since he had intended to jot down all his impressions of the day over dinner. But Andrew knew today was the beginning of the filming and would probably have lots of questions. Questions could be useful in drawing out facts. If anyone should know that, it’s me, Alex thought.
His first sip of beer coincided with the sound of chimes announcing Andrew’s arrival. He had his own key and was letting himself in when Alex walked into the foyer.
For a long time it had been just the two of them. Their mother had died when Alex was a freshman in college, and their father two years later. Alex had just turned twenty-one and had been appointed Andrew’s guardian.
Like most brothers, they had had their squabbles growing up. Both were competitive in sports, and a victory over the other in golf or tennis was a source of great joy.
But competition had disappeared when it was just the two of them. They had only distant cousins in their extended family, none of whom lived in New York. They sold their home in Oyster Bay and moved into a four-room apartment in Manhattan on East Sixty-seventh Street, which they shared until Andrew had graduated from Columbia Law School and accepted a job in Washington, D.C.
Alex, by then five years out of NYU Law and a rising star in a litigation firm, had stayed in that apartment until he bought the one on Beekman Place.
Unlike Alex, Andrew had married six years ago and now had three children—a five-year-old boy and twin two-year-old daughters.
“How are Marcy and the kids?” was the first question Alex asked after giving his brother a brief hug.
Andrew, six two to Alex’s six four, his hair slightly darker than Alex’s, his eyes blue-gray, but with the same disciplined body, laughed.
“Marcy is jealous that I’m getting away overnight. The twins are living the concept of the terrible twos. Their vocabulary consists of one word: ‘no.’ Johnny, as usual, is a great kid. If he ever was a two-year-old like the girls, I don’t remember it.”
He looked at the glass in his brother’s hand. “How about one of those for me?”
Ramon was already pouring the beer into a chilled glass.
They settled in the den, and Andrew hungrily reached for the plate of hors d’oeuvres. “I’m starving. I skipped lunch today.”
“You should have ordered out,” Alex suggested.
“That’s profound wisdom. If only I had thought of it.”
The brothers exchanged a brief grin, then Andrew asked, “And now for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. How did it go today?”
“Interesting, of course.” Alex began telling him about the breakfast gathering. When he came to the fact that Nina Craig had fainted at the sight of Claire, Andrew interrupted.
“Was it a real faint or was she faking it?”
“What makes you ask that?” Alex said quickly.
“Well, don’t forget, Marcy did a lot of acting before we were married. She lived in California for five years after college. When we knew that you were involved with all this and that the journalists were rehashing the case, she told me she had been in a play with Muriel Craig and that every night after the show Muriel would head for a bar, get drunk, and start telling people how she could have married Robert Powell except that her stupid daughter had dragged her friend’s mother over to meet him. She’d rant on about how she and Powell were practically engaged and that right now she could be living in a mansion with a handsome, rich husband if it hadn’t been for her stupid daughter, Nina. Apparently Nina was there one night, and after Muriel got finished, they almost came to blows!”
“Well, maybe that explains it,” Alex said. “I think the faint was genuine, but as she was coming out of it, Nina screamed at her mother to take her miserable hands off her!”
“How long had Betsy been married to Powell when she was murdered?” Andrew asked. “Wasn’t it six or seven years?”
“Nine years.”
“Do you think there’s any chance that Nina Craig took the opportunity to get rid of Betsy by staying over at the house after the Gala and hopefully make Powell available for her mother again? From what Marcy told me, Nina can be a tough cookie.”
Alex did not answer for a long minute, then said wryly, “Maybe you’re the one who should have been the criminal lawyer.”
Ramon was standing in the doorway. “Dinner is served if you are ready, sir.”
“I hope we have fish,” Alex commented as he stood up. “It’s supposed to be brain food, isn’t it, Ramon?”
35
Laurie had set the alarm for six o’clock but woke at five-thirty. A glance at the clock on her night table told her that she had the luxury of lying in bed for another half hour.
This was the hour when if Timmy woke up early, he would come into her room and snuggle against her in bed. She lo
ved the feeling of putting her arm around him and having his head tucked under her chin. He was tall for his age, but he still seemed so little and vulnerable that a fierce need to protect him always filled her being. I would kill for you, she would think passionately when the threat Blue Eyes had shouted flooded her mind.
But today Timmy had just completed his first overnight away from her or her father since he was born. Whenever she had to go away on business, Leo moved in and stayed with Timmy.
Was Timmy enjoying camp? Was he homesick? That would be natural, she told herself. All first-time campers are bound to feel that way for a day or two.
But I’m homesick for him, she thought as she threw back the light covers, knowing that it would be easier to get up than to lie awake worrying about Timmy.
She allowed herself to pick up the framed picture on her dressing table. It had been enlarged from a snapshot someone had taken of Greg, Timmy, and her when they had been with a group of friends at the beach in East Hampton.
It was the last picture of the three of them. Greg had been shot a week later.
Laurie ran the tip of her finger over Greg’s face, a gesture that she had made hundreds of times in the last five years. She sometimes fantasized that one day instead of the flat surface of the print she would feel Greg’s face, that she would run her finger along the outline of his mouth and feel it curve into a smile.
She thought of how one night a few months after Greg’s death, her need for him had been so strong that she fell asleep whispering his name over and over again.
Then she dreamt so vividly of him, his expression troubled and sad, as if he were in distress that she was so aggrieved . . .
Shaking her head, she put the picture back on the dresser. Fifteen minutes later, her hair still wet from the shower, her cotton bathrobe covering her slender body, she went into the kitchen where the coffee had already brewed on the timer.