There was no answer Alex could offer her. Her tears stopped immediately, and he watched as Laurie pulled out her compact and dabbed her eyes. When she looked up at him her voice revealed no sign of stress. “You’d better make that call, Alex,” she said. “ ‘Mr. Rob’ expects us at the table in exactly fifteen minutes.”
67
Chief Penn, the graduates, Rod, Alex, Muriel, and Laurie had gathered at the dining room table when Robert Powell made his appearance.
“How quiet you all are,” he remarked. “I can understand why. You are under a great strain.” He paused as he looked from one to the other. “And so am I.”
Jane was about to enter the dining room.
“Jane, would you please excuse us and close the door? I have a few things to share with my guests.”
“Of course, sir.”
Powell addressed them: “Are any of you thinking that this beautiful day is exactly the same as the day of the Gala? I remember Betsy sitting at this table with me that morning. We were congratulating each other on our good luck at having such perfect weather. Could any of us have imagined that the next morning Betsy would be dead, murdered by an intruder?” He paused. “Or perhaps not by an intruder?”
He waited, and when there was no response, he went on briskly, “Now, let’s be sure I have the details straight. This afternoon, Regina and then Nina will be interviewed. At about four-thirty the graduates will be dressed in replicas of the gowns they wore that night and photographed against the background of films of the Gala. My good friend George Curtis will be standing with you, Alex, sharing his impressions of that evening.”
He looked at Laurie. “Am I correct so far?”
“Yes, you are,” she said.
Powell smiled. “In the morning I will have my interview with you, Alex—with the graduates present. I hope and expect you will all find it quite interesting. One of you especially.” He gave a tight smile.
“As to later this evening, everyone at this table, with the exception of Chief Penn, will be staying overnight. After the last scene is finished, the graduates will be driven in individual cars to their hotels. You will pack and check out. Your luggage will be placed in your car. You will have dinner on your own wherever you wish to dine—as my guest, of course—but please return here by eleven o’clock. We will have a nightcap together at that time, then retire. I want everyone to be alert for what I have to say tomorrow. Is that understood?”
This time, as if compelled to respond, heads nodded.
“At brunch tomorrow I will present you the checks you have been promised. After that, one of you may want to use it to retain Mr. Buckley’s services.” He smiled a cold, mirthless smile. “Just joking, of course,” he added.
He turned to Nina. “Nina, you need not share your car with your dear mother. Muriel and I are going to dine together this evening. It is time to turn the page on the past.”
Muriel smiled adoringly at Powell, then shot a triumphant look at Nina.
“Enough of business. Let us now enjoy our luncheon. Ah, here comes Jane. I know she has prepared vichyssoise. You have not lived until you have sampled Jane’s vichyssoise. It is indeed nectar for the gods.”
It was served in total silence.
68
After leaving the dining room, Regina walked across the yard to the makeup van. The heat outside was a sharp contrast to the coolness of the house, but she welcomed it. After hearing Robert Powell’s elaborate plans for the rest of the day and tomorrow morning, she was sure of only one thing: he had her father’s suicide note. What more proof would anyone need that she had been Betsy’s killer?
For twenty-seven years, since she was fifteen years old, even under oath she had sworn there was no such note in his pocket or around his body.
Who could have had a stronger motive to kill Betsy? she asked herself. And there was no question that Robert Powell was determined to have closure on Betsy’s death. That was the whole purpose of his financing the program.
She walked past the pool. Crystal clear, reflecting the sun, brightly patterned lounge chairs scattered around it, it had the look of a stage setting. In the correspondence, they had all been invited to bring swimming apparel.
No one had.
Beyond it, the pool house, a miniature of the mansion, stood unused by anyone but the gardener, who incessantly entered and exited as he fussed over the grounds.
At the production van, Regina hesitated, then pulled open the door.
Meg was waiting, jars of cosmetics lined up neatly on the shelf in front of her.
Courtney was settled in the other chair, reading in front of a shelf of brushes, sprays, and a hair dryer.
This morning Courtney had told Regina that women would kill to have her thick, curly hair. “And I’ll bet you’ll say that it’s a nuisance because it grows too fast.”
That’s exactly what I did say, Regina thought.
She avoided looking at the wall on her left, where the pictures of herself and the other graduates at the Gala had been blown up.
She knew what they looked like. Claire, without a trace of makeup, her hair in a ponytail, her dress high-necked and with sleeves to her elbows. Alison, whose talented mother had made her gown, as she made all her clothes—Alison’s father was a produce manager in a grocery store. Nina, her dress daringly low cut, her red hair blazing, her makeup skillfully applied. Even then she looked so confident, Regina thought.
And I had on the most elegant dress of all. Mother went to work at Bergdorf after we lost everything. Even though that dress was reduced a lot, we still couldn’t afford it. But she insisted I have it. “Your father would have bought it for you,” she told me.
Regina realized she had not spoken to Meg or to Courtney. “Hello, you two,” she said. “Don’t think I’m crazy. Just gearing up for my interview.”
“Claire and Alison were nervous, too,” Meg said cheerfully. “Why wouldn’t you be? This program is going to be broadcast all over the world.”
Regina sank into the chair at Meg’s station.
“Thanks for reminding me of that,” she said as Meg clipped a plastic sheet around her neck.
This morning, for the picture in the den depicting the four of them after the body had been found and the police had arrived, Meg had applied very little makeup, and Courtney had left their hair a touch disheveled, as it had been the morning after Betsy’s death.
Now they were all wearing clothes of their own choice. “Dress as you feel comfortable,” Laurie had counseled them.
Regina had chosen a dark blue linen jacket, white shell, and slacks. Her only jewelry was the string of pearls her father had given her on her fifteenth birthday.
Now she watched as with deft strokes, Meg began to apply foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lip rouge.
Courtney came over, and with a few quick movements of her brush, swept Regina’s hair into a half bang and pulled it behind her ears.
“You look great,” she said.
“You sure do,” Meg agreed.
As Meg was unclasping the sheet from Regina’s neck, Jerry opened the door of the van. “All set, Regina?” he asked.
“I guess so.”
As they walked back to the house Jerry said comfortingly, “I know you’re nervous, Regina. Don’t be. Can you believe that Helen Hayes got stage fright every night till the moment she stepped onstage?”
“It’s funny,” Regina told him. “You know that I have a real estate office. Just this morning I was thinking that the day I got the letter about this program I was so unnerved I did a lousy presentation of a house I should have sold. The owner was a seventy-six-year-old woman who wanted to move into an assisted-living facility. I sold the house for her two months later, and for thirty thousand dollars less than I should have gotten for it. When I get the money for doing this program, I’m going to return my commis
sion to her.”
“Then you’re one in a million,” Jerry said dryly as he slid open the door from the patio to the kitchen.
Regina remembered that earlier in the morning, this patio entrance had been blocked off.
“No one on the patio now, and no sign of Jane,” Jerry commented. “I guess she must take some downtime after all.”
Where are the others? Regina asked herself as they walked down the hallway to the den. Are they afraid to be together?
We don’t trust each other, she thought. We each had a reason to kill Betsy, but mine is the strongest.
Laurie Moran and Alex Buckley were waiting for her in the den. Laurie’s assistant Grace stood to the side. A crew member was still adjusting lights. The cameraman was in his place.
Without being invited, Regina sat at the table opposite Alex. She began to clasp and unclasp her hands. Stop it, she warned herself. She heard Laurie’s greeting and returned it.
Alex Buckley was welcoming her, but she was sure his attitude was hostile. When would he produce her father’s suicide note? she asked herself.
“Take one,” the director was saying, and began to count. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” There was the clap of the slate board, and Alex began.
“We are now speaking to the third of the four honorees at the Graduation Gala, Regina Callari.
“Regina, thank you for agreeing to be with us on this program. You grew up in this town, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And yet, as I understand it, you haven’t been back since shortly after the Gala and the death of Betsy Bonner Powell?”
Try to sound calm, Regina warned herself.
“As I’m sure the others have told you, all four of us were treated as murder suspects. Would you have hung around after that?”
“You moved to Florida shortly after. Your mother followed you there?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Wasn’t she very young when she died?”
“She was just turning fifty.”
“What was she like?”
“She was one of those women who did a lot of good, but hated the limelight.”
“What was her relationship with your father?”
“They were one soul.”
“What was his business?”
“He bought failing companies, turned them around, and then sold them for huge profits. He was very successful.”
“Let’s go back to that later. I want to talk about the night of the Gala, starting with when you were all in the den together.”
Laurie listened and observed as Regina told the same story as the other girls. They had filled their wineglasses again and again. They had discussed the evening, laughing at some of the dresses of the older women. Exactly as the other girls had, she described the finding of Betsy’s body.
“We were young. You must know that we all had our own issues with the Powells,” Regina was saying. “By then I know I was relaxed and enjoying being with the others. We refilled our wineglasses, going in and out for smokes. Even Claire was joking about her stepfather being so finicky about smoking. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t light up until you are at the end of the patio. He’s got the nose of a bloodhound.’
“We were talking about our plans. Nina was going to Hollywood. She always played the lead in the plays in high school and college, and, of course, her mother was an actress. She even joked about the fact that her mother was still riding her because she called Claire and her mother over when they were in the same restaurant, and that’s how Betsy met Rob Powell.”
“How did Claire respond to that?” Alex asked quickly.
“She said, ‘You are lucky, Nina,’ ” Regina answered.
“What do you think she meant?” Alex asked quickly.
“I have my suspicions,” Regina answered honestly. “But I just don’t know.”
“Let’s go back a little,” Alex said. “I’ve seen pictures of your home. It was very beautiful.”
“Yes, it was,” Regina said. “And more than that, it was a warm and comfortable home.”
“But then, of course, everything changed when your father invested in Robert Powell’s hedge fund.”
Regina realized where he was going. Be careful, she warned herself, he’s building a motive for you to have killed Betsy.
“It must have been hard not to resent the fact that virtually all of your dad’s money was lost in that investment.”
“My mother was sad but not bitter. She told me my father had something of a go-for-the-gold mentality, and he put too many eggs in one basket several times. On the other hand, he had never been reckless.”
“But you still maintained a close friendship with Claire?”
“Yes, I did, until we all left Salem Ridge. I guess by unspoken agreement we didn’t want to stay in touch after Betsy’s death.”
“How did you feel coming to this mansion after your father’s death?”
“I was very seldom here. I don’t think Robert Powell liked having Claire’s friends around. We were more likely to get together at the rest of our homes.”
“Then why would he have the Gala for all of you?”
“My guess is it was Betsy’s idea. Some of her friends were having graduation parties for their daughters. She wanted to outshine them.”
“What were you thinking the night of the Gala?”
“Missing my father. Thinking how perfect that beautiful night would have been if he were still here. My mother was a guest as well—I could see in her eyes that her thoughts mirrored my own.”
“Regina, at age fifteen you discovered your father’s body,” Alex continued.
“Yes, I did,” Regina said quietly.
“Would it have been easier for you if he left a note? If he had apologized for his suicide and the financial disaster? If he told you one last time he loved you? Do you think that would have helped you and your mother?”
The vivid memory of feeling so happy, riding her bicycle up the long driveway, the salt air filling her senses, pushing the button to open the garage door, the sight of her handsome forty-five-year-old father swaying from the noose, one hand around it as if perhaps he changed his mind too late, shattered Regina’s fragile composure.
“Would a note have made any difference?” she asked, choking out the words. “My father was dead.”
“Did you blame Robert Powell because your father lost everything in his hedge fund?”
Her last shred of composure crumbled. “I blame both of them. Betsy was up to her neck in deceiving my father, just as much as Powell was.”
“How do you know that, Regina? Wasn’t it because your father did in fact leave a note?”
Alex waited, then went on firmly. “He did leave a note, didn’t he?”
Regina heard herself trying to whisper a faint “No . . . no . . . no,” as he stared at her, his eyes sympathetic but demanding.
69
Bruno’s excitement rose to a fever pitch after he heard Laurie’s call to her father. Gleefully, he reflected on how everything was falling into place.
Leo Farley would be in the hospital until tomorrow morning.
Leo and Laurie would take the call from Timmy in the hospital room.
Two hours later, I pick up Timmy, Bruno thought. Leo had already told the director of the camp that he was in the hospital. I’ll be in a cop’s uniform.
I can pull it off.
I can probably even get away with it.
But if not, it’s worth it. The “Blue Eyes” murder case had been in the newspapers for years; still was. If they only knew that I spent five years rotting in prison after I shot Laurie’s husband. And all for a lousy parole violation. But in a way, it was worth it. Leo Farley and his daughter have spent these five years wondering and worrying about w
hen I’ll strike again. Tomorrow their waiting will be over.
Bruno dropped the phone into his pocket and went outside in time to see the police chief’s car pulling up behind the studio vans. He was here for lunch.
Bruno walked to the putting green, as far from the chief’s line of vision as humanly possible. Here, the chief could not get a clear look at his face.
There was one thing Bruno knew—most cops have long-term memories of faces, even when people age or alter their facial hair.
Or are dumb enough to put themselves on Facebook.
Bruno laughed out loud at that thought.
An hour later he was carefully examining the flower beds alongside the pool when the police car drove away.
That meant the chief wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.
Just in time for the Big Show, Bruno thought gleefully.
70
Nina and Muriel did not speak after lunch. Muriel had obviously asked Robert Powell to have a car ready for her for the afternoon, because it had parked at the front door and was waiting for her.
Nina knew what that meant. The expensive new outfits her mother bought on her credit card were about to be put aside in favor of new ones—ones that would also be purchased on Nina’s credit card.
Nina went up to her room to try to collect her thoughts until it was time for her own interview.
Like all the others it was a large bedroom, with a sitting area that offered a couch, an easy chair, a cocktail table, and a television.
Nina sat on the couch, taking in the cream-colored draperies behind the bed, the way their edgings picked up those on the panels at the window, and the way the rug and pillow shams coordinated and harmonized. An interior designer’s dream, Nina thought.
She remembered that about a year before her death, Betsy had commissioned a complete redecorating job. Claire had told the girls about it.