At two-thirty, Alex was back at his desk at the offices of the Wright Family Foundation. At quarter of three his secretary announced a call from Dee Chandler Harriman.
“Put it through, Alice,” he said, a note of curiosity in his voice.
Dee’s voice was both warm and apologetic. “Alex, you’re probably busy giving away five or six million dollars, so I won’t keep you but a minute.”
“I haven’t given away that much money since yesterday afternoon,” he assured her. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing too difficult, I hope. Somewhere around dawn I made a momentous decision. It’s time to move back to New York. My partners at the modeling agency out here are willing to buy me out. A neighbor who’s renting in my building has been salivating for my condo and will take it right off my hands. So here’s why I’m calling: Can you recommend a good real estate agent? I’m in the market for a four- or five-room co-op on the East Side, preferably somewhere between Fifth and Park, and definitely in the mid-seventies.”
“I’m not going to be a lot of help, Dee. I’ve been living in the same house since I was born,” Alex told her. “But I could inquire about a broker for you.”
“Oh, thank you, that would be such a help. I hate to bother you, but I had the feeling you wouldn’t mind. I’m arriving there tomorrow afternoon. That way I can start looking on Friday.”
“I’ll come up with a name for you by then.”
“Then give it to me over a drink tomorrow night. My treat.”
She hung up before he could respond. Alex Wright leaned back in his chair. This was an unexpected complication. He had heard the change in Susan’s voice when he told her he had invited her sister to the dinner at the library. That was why he had sent the flowers today and had taken such pains to make them special.
“Do I need this?” he muttered aloud. Then he remembered that his father had been fond of saying that any negative situation could be turned into a plus. The trick, Alex thought wryly, was to figure out how to make that happen in this case.
50
With weary resignation, Jane Clausen entered the hospital room. As she suspected, her doctor had insisted that she go in for immediate treatment. The cancer that was inevitably winning the battle with her body seemed intent on not giving her the strength or the time to take care of all that needed tending to. Jane wished she could just say “No more treatment,” but she wasn’t ready to die—not quite yet. She had a sense that some unfinished business might actually be taken care of, if she were only given the time, now when she had a glimmer of hope that she might learn the truth about Regina’s fate. If the woman who had phoned in to Dr. Chandler’s program would only come forward and show the picture of the man who had given her the turquoise ring, they would have a starting point at last.
She undressed, hung her clothes in the small wardrobe, and put on the gown and robe Vera had packed for her. Another bout of chemotherapy would begin in the morning.
When dinner was served, she accepted only a cup of tea and a slice of toast, then got into bed, took the painkiller the nurse brought her, and began to drift off.
“Mrs. Clausen.”
She opened her eyes and saw the solicitous face of Douglas Layton bending over her.
“Douglas.” She wasn’t sure if she was pleased that he had come, but she did find some comfort in his obvious concern.
“I called you at home because we needed your signature on a tax form. When Vera told me you were here, I came right over.”
“I thought I signed everything at the meeting,” she murmured.
“One of the pages was overlooked, I’m afraid. But it can wait. I don’t want to bother you with it now.”
“That’s foolish. Give it to me.” I wasn’t feeling well at the meeting, Jane thought. I’m surprised I didn’t miss more.
She reached for her glasses and glanced at the form Douglas was offering. “Oh, yes, that one.” She took the pen he gave her and wrote her signature, carefully, making an effort to keep it even on the line.
Tonight, in the dim light in the hospital room, Jane Clausen thought how much Douglas looked like the Laytons she had known in Philadelphia. A fine family. Yet how quick she had been to mistrust him yesterday. That was the trouble, she thought. Her illness and all the medication was robbing her of judgment. Tomorrow she would phone Dr. Chandler and tell her she was sure she had been wrong in her suspicions about Douglas—wrong, and terribly unfair to him.
“Mrs. Clausen, can I get you anything?”
“No, nothing at all, but thank you, Douglas.”
“May I stop in tomorrow?”
“Call first. I may not be up to visitors.”
“I understand.”
Jane Clausen felt him lift her hand and graze it gently with his lips.
She was asleep before he tiptoed from the room, but even had she been awake, given the darkness of the room, she probably would have been unaware of the satisfied smirk on his face.
51
After her second phone call to Ask Dr. Susan, Tiffany was intensely pleased with herself. She had gotten across exactly the message she wanted, and now she just hoped that someone would report her call to Matt. And she was sure her boss, Tony Sepeddi, would be thrilled when he heard about the plug she had managed to get in for The Grotto.
Later she was struck by a sudden possibility: Suppose Matt showed up at The Grotto tonight? Tiffany studied herself in the mirror. She definitely was overdue for a dye job; the dark roots of her hair were popping out. They look like railroad tracks, she told herself. Plus her bangs were getting long. He could almost mistake me for a sheepdog, she thought playfully, as she punched in the number of her hairdresser.
“Tiffany! My gosh, we’re all talking about you. One of the customers told us yesterday that you’d been on Ask Dr. Susan, so we turned it on today. When I heard you, I yelled at everybody to keep quiet. We even turned off the dryers. You sounded terrific. So natural and cute. And listen, tell your boss at The Grotto you should get a raise.”
Tiffany’s request for an immediate appointment was enthusiastically granted. “Come right over. You’re a celebrity. We gotta make sure you look like one.”
Forty-five minutes later, Tiffany was sitting at a sink, the two inches of hair closest to her scalp processing. It was four-twenty when she got back home, her shiny hair caressing her shoulders, her nails freshly tipped and painted in the dark blue shade that Jill had encouraged her to try.
Gotta be out of here in fifteen minutes, she warned herself. Plug or no plug, Tony was a devil about getting in to work late.
Even so, she took the extra time to run the iron over the blouse and skirt that she knew looked really great on her. Maybe if Matt showed up, they could go someplace when she got off at midnight, maybe someplace nice for a nightcap.
She hesitated about wearing the turquoise ring that had inspired this moment of celebrity, then decided to leave it on. But if Matt did show up and happened to mention it, she wouldn’t make a fuss about it. She would just let him see it, casually . . .
Tiffany had just opened the door to leave her apartment when the phone rang. I’ll let it go, she thought, I don’t want to get stuck talking.
On the other hand, she thought, quickly reconsidering, it might be Matt. She ran across the small living room to her even smaller bedroom and managed to pick up the receiver on the third ring.
It was Matt’s mother. She didn’t bother with greetings but cut straight to the chase: “Tiffany, I must insist that you stop talking about my son on the radio. Matthew took you out only a few times. He told me he had nothing in common with you. Next month he is moving out to Long Island. He has just become engaged to a very attractive young woman he’s been seeing for some time. So please forget him, and do not talk about your dates with him, particularly where his friends or his fiancée will hear about it.”
A decisive click sounded in Tiffany’s ear.
Shocked, she stood perfectly still for a full minut
e, the receiver in her hand. Engaged? I hadn’t even heard he was dating anybody, she thought, feeling the despair seep through her body.
“If you’d like to make a call . . .”
The operator’s voice sounded as if it were coming from another planet. Tiffany slammed down the receiver. She had to get to work; already she knew she would have to rush to keep from being late. Tears streaming from her eyes, she ran down the stairs, ignoring the greeting from her landlord’s six-year-old son, who was playing on the porch.
In the car, the hurt and disappointment washed over her, and she could hardly breathe for the sobs that were racking her body. She wanted to pull over somewhere and cry it out of her system, but she knew she didn’t have time.
Instead, when she reached The Grotto, she chose a remote spot in the parking lot and sat for a moment in the car. Then she pulled out her compact. She had to get ahold of herself. She couldn’t walk in there like this; she couldn’t let them see her crying over some jerk who ate slimy fish and only took her to lousy movies. “Who needs him anyhow?” she asked out loud.
A new layer of foundation, fresh eye shadow, and lipstick helped repair the damage, even though her lip wouldn’t stop quivering. Well, if you don’t want me, then I don’t want you, she thought fiercely. I hate you, Matt. You jerk!
It was one minute of five. She might make it on time after all, but she had to get moving. All she needed right now was for Tony to start blasting her.
On the way to the kitchen door, she passed the Dumpster. She paused for a moment and looked at it. In one sweeping gesture, she pulled the turquoise ring from her finger and tossed it inside, where it disappeared into a half-open plastic bag stuffed with lunchtime refuse. “Lousy ring brought me nothing but lousy luck,” Tiffany muttered, then ran to the kitchen door, pushed it open, and yelled, “Hi, guys, has Tony heard about the big plug I gave this dump today?”
52
Susan’s two o’clock appointment arrived only five minutes after she had reached her office. In the cab, she had managed to clear her head of anything other than the patient’s history. Meyer Winter was a sixty-five-year-old retired executive who had overcome the damage caused by a stroke. Now, although he used a walking stick and had a slight limp, there was nothing to suggest the length and severity of his illness.
Nothing, that is, except the profound depression caused by the fear that it could happen again, she reminded herself.
Today’s visit was his tenth, and when he left, Susan felt she could see visible improvement, the kind of turnaround in attitude that she found so deeply rewarding. It was her own response to victories like this one that made her really glad of her decision six years ago to make psychology her lifework, instead of the law.
As soon as Mr. Winter left, Janet came in with her messages. “A Dr. Pamela Hastings phoned. She’s at home and says she’s anxious to talk with you.”
“I’ll call her right now.”
“Aren’t those flowers gorgeous?” Janet asked.
Susan had barely noticed the vase of flowers that sat on her office credenza. Now, as she crossed to them, her eyes widened. “There must be a mistake,” she said. “That vase is Waterford.”
“No mistake,” Janet assured her. “I tried to tip the guy who brought the bouquet, but he refused. He said it was from his employer. My guess is he was a chauffeur, or something like that.”
Of course. Alex heard something in my voice after he told me he had invited Dee along on Saturday night, Susan thought. That explains a gesture so grand as this. How perceptive of him. And how stupid of me, to allow my feelings to be so transparent.
The gift was beautiful, but her pleasure at receiving it was diminished by her understanding of the reason behind it. For a moment she debated whether to call Alex right away to say that she couldn’t possibly accept the vase. Then she shook her head—she could deal with all that later. Right now there were more pressing things. She reached for the phone.
The conversation was brief, and it ended with Pamela Hastings promising to be at Susan’s office at nine o’clock the next morning.
Susan glanced at her watch: She was only seconds away from her next appointment. Clearly she had no time to speculate about the obvious fact that Pamela Hastings was upset about something other than her friend’s grave condition. She had said, “Dr. Chandler, I have a hard decision to make. It concerns what happened to Carolyn Wells. Perhaps you can help me.”
Susan had wanted to press her for more information, but she knew it might be an involved discussion, and it would just have to wait.
“Mrs. Mentis is here,” Janet announced, sticking her head in the door.
At ten of four, Donald Richards phoned. “Just calling to confirm tonight, Susan. Seven o’clock at Palio, on West Fifty-first—all right?”
After that call, Susan realized she still had a few minutes before her next patient. She looked up Jane Clausen’s number and quickly dialed it. There was no response, so she left a message for her on the answering machine.
It was five after six before she’d seen her last patient out. Janet already had left for the day. Susan would have liked to go home for at least a few minutes, but she knew that she had barely enough time to freshen up here at the office before she would have to take a taxi to the restaurant.
She had wanted to reach Tiffany at home earlier, and to try to persuade her at least to make an appointment so they could compare her turquoise ring with the one Jane Clausen had found among Regina’s possessions. But Tiffany was surely at work now, and the restaurant probably was at the height of its dinner hour. I’ll call her there later, when I get home, Susan thought. She said she works nights, so she probably stays fairly late. If I miss her, I’ll try her at home in the morning.
Susan shuddered. Why did thinking about Tiffany give her such an uneasy feeling? she wondered. It was a sensation akin to what her grandmother used to call “sixth sense.”
53
He didn’t know Tiffany’s last name, but even if he did, and even if she was registered in the Yonkers phone book, it wouldn’t be wise to try to track her down at home. Besides, it wasn’t necessary. She had already told him where he could find her.
He phoned The Grotto in midafternoon and asked to speak to her. As anticipated, he was told that she wasn’t there—that she came on at five.
He had long ago learned that the best way to get information was to let someone correct an erroneous statement. “She gets off about eleven, right?” he suggested.
“Midnight. That’s when the kitchen closes down. You wanna leave a message?”
“No, thanks. I’ll try her at home again.”
Come tomorrow, if whoever he had just spoken to at The Grotto remembered the call, he probably would dismiss it as being from one of Tiffany’s friends. After all, hadn’t he indicated that he knew Tiffany’s home number?
He hoped the hours leading up to his excursion to Yonkers turned out to be pleasant. Still, he couldn’t wait for the time to pass until he could get to her. It was a rendezvous he looked forward to with great anticipation. Tiffany had studied him. And probably, like many people in the restaurant business, she had a good memory for faces. It had been pure luck she hadn’t blathered to Susan Chandler that she had seen a man buying one of the special turquoise rings in the shop when she was there.
He could imagine what Chandler would have said: Tiffany, what you’re telling me is very important. I must meet you . . .
Too late, Susan, he thought. And too bad.
What about Tiffany’s boyfriend—Matt?
Carefully he reviewed the scene in Parki’s shop. He had phoned ahead to be sure Parki had a ring in stock. When he entered the shop, he already had in his hand the exact change, including tax, and, as instructed, Parki had the ring waiting at the register. It was only when he turned to leave that he saw the couple. He remembered the moment distinctly. Yes, he had been directly in the girl’s line of vision. She had seen him clearly. The fellow she was with was looki
ng over the junk on the shelves, his back to him. He wasn’t a problem, thank God.
Parki was out of the way. And after tonight, Tiffany too would no longer be a concern.
A line from “The Highwayman,” a poem he had memorized as a child, ran through his mind: “I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He chuckled grimly at the thought.
54
Late Wednesday afternoon, when Justin Wells returned to his office from the hospital, he was appalled to find a message to call Captain Shea of the 19th Precinct to set up a visit to the station house to discuss his wife’s accident. The message concluded ominously with the words, “You know where we are located.”
The memory of that terrible evening when Carolyn had sworn out a complaint against him was something Justin had never allowed himself to dwell on.
I shouldn’t have threatened to kill her, he reminded himself as he crumpled the message in his hand. I never meant to hurt her, I just grabbed her arm when she started walking out of the apartment. I didn’t mean to twist it. It happened because she tried to pull away.
Then she had run into the bedroom, locked the door, and called the cops. What followed had been a nightmare for him. The next day she had left him a note saying that she was withdrawing the criminal complaint and filing for divorce. Then she disappeared.
He had begged Pamela Hastings to tell him where Carolyn had gone, but she wouldn’t give him any information. It was only when he thought to call Carolyn’s travel agent and say that he had mislaid the number where she could be reached that he had gotten the name of the ship she was sailing on and was able to contact her.
That had been exactly two years ago.
One of the promises he had made to Carolyn at the time was to start therapy, and he had—but then he couldn’t stand the thought of revealing himself to anyone, even to a sympathetic listener like Dr. Richards, and that was the end of that.