Of course, he never told Carolyn. She thought he was still seeing Richards.
Justin paced his office, remembering how Carolyn had been different over the weekend: she seemed quieter, a little nervous. He had felt himself getting suspicious. And she had been late getting home one night last week—claimed she was going over plans with the client whose house she was decorating in East Hampton.
Then on Monday, Barbara, the receptionist, told him in front of his partners that she was sure it was Carolyn she had heard on the Ask Dr. Susan radio program, talking about a guy she met when she and her husband were separated.
He had called Carolyn and asked her about it. He knew he upset her. Then he had left the office. He didn’t want to think about the rest of the day.
Now Carolyn was in the hospital, still in a coma, and she kept trying to say someone’s name. “Win,” it sounded like. Was that the guy she had gotten involved with on the ship? he wondered.
The thought of it made Justin’s chest feel as if it were going to explode. He could feel perspiration beading up on his forehead.
He smoothed out the note and looked at it again. He had to call Captain Shea. He didn’t want him phoning the office again. As it was, Barbara had given him a funny look when she handed him the message.
The thought of that terrible night two years ago almost sickened him—the cops arresting him, bringing him to the station, handcuffed like a common thief.
Justin picked up the receiver, then depressed the button to cut off the dial tone. Finally he lifted his finger and forced himself to make the call.
An hour later he was giving his name to the desk sergeant at the 19th Precinct, acutely aware that some of the cops might remember his face. Cops were good at that.
Then he was sent into Captain Shea’s office, and the questioning began.
“Any trouble with your wife since last time, Mr. Wells?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Where were you between four and four-thirty Monday afternoon?”
“I was taking a walk.”
“Did you stop at your home?”
“Yes, I did. Why?”
“Did you see your wife?”
“She was out.”
“What did you do then?”
“I came back to the office.”
“By any chance were you at the corner of Eighty-first and Park around four-fifteen?”
“No, I walked down Fifth Avenue.”
“Did you know the late Hilda Johnson?”
“Who’s that?” Justin paused. “Wait a minute. She’s the woman who said Carolyn didn’t fall but was pushed. I saw her on television. I gather, though, that nobody believed her.”
“Yes,” Shea said quietly. “She’s the woman who insisted that your wife was pushed in front of that van. Hilda was a very careful woman, Mr. Wells. She never would have buzzed someone into the lobby of her building, then opened the door of her apartment unless she felt she could trust that person.”
Tom Shea leaned across his desk, his manner confidential. “Mr. Wells, I knew Hilda. She was a regular character in this neighborhood. I am sure she would have opened both those doors to the husband of the woman she insisted had been pushed. She would have been anxious to tell him her story personally. You didn’t happen to go visit Hilda Johnson later that night, did you, Mr. Wells?”
55
Donald Richards was waiting at the bar at Palio when Susan arrived at ten after seven. He cut short her apology.
“Traffic was terrible, and I just walked in the door myself. And you might be interested to hear that I had lunch with my mother today. She was listening to your program when I was on and was very impressed with you. However, she lectured me on the fact that I had arranged to meet you here. In her day, a gentleman apparently always called for a young lady at home, and escorted her to the restaurant.”
Susan laughed. “Given the traffic in Manhattan, by the time you picked me up in the Village, and then came back to mid-town, the restaurants would be closed.” She looked around. The horseshoe-shaped bar was busy and flanked on both sides by small tables, all of them occupied. A magnificent mural depicting the famous Palio horse race, painted primarily in reds, soared above them, covering the walls on all four sides of the two-story room. The lighting was subdued, the atmosphere was both warm and sophisticated. “I’ve never been here. It looks very nice,” she said.
“Neither have I, but it comes highly recommended. The dining room is on the second floor.”
Richards gave his name to the young woman at the desk. “Reservation confirmed. We’re free to use the elevator,” he told Susan.
She tried not to show how keenly she was studying Donald Richards. His hair was dark brown, with just a touch of auburn—“leaf brown” was the way Gran Susie would have described it, she thought. He was wearing wide glasses with a steel gray frame. The lenses enhanced his gray-blue eyes—or were his eyes pure blue, and their color subtly altered by the frame?
She was sure he had changed for the evening. Yesterday and Monday when he came to the studio, he had worn a blazer and slacks. The impression she had gotten of him was of someone slightly rumpled, professorial. Tonight he looked markedly different, dressed in an obviously expensive dark blue suit and silver-and-blue tie.
The elevator arrived. They got in, and as the door closed, he observed, “May I say you look very attractive. That’s a great suit.”
“I’m not sure if I’m fancy enough for you,” Susan said candidly. “As my grandmother would put it, ‘you’re all duded up.’ ”
“You’re fancy enough, I assure you.”
That’s the second time in five minutes I’ve thought of Gran, Susan thought. What gives?
They emerged on the second floor, where the maître d’ greeted them and took them to their table. He asked for their drink orders, and Susan requested chardonnay; Donald Richards, a martini, straight up.
“I don’t usually have a ‘see-through,’ ” he explained, “but it’s been a heavy-duty day.”
Was that because of lunch with your mother? Susan wondered. She warned herself not to seem curious about him. She couldn’t let herself forget that he was a psychiatrist and would see through any effort to probe.
She was burning with questions, however, and wondered if she would ever find a “safe” way to ask them. For example, why had he reacted with such distress when a caller asked about his wife’s death? Wouldn’t it have been natural to discuss the fact that he was familiar with cruise ships when Susan talked about Regina Clausen disappearing while on a cruise? And according to Richards’s bio, the ship Regina was on—the Gabrielle—was his favorite. She had to get him to talk about it.
The best way to steer a conversation to where you want it to be is to disarm the other person, she told herself, put him at ease. Susan smiled warmly across the table. “A listener phoned today to say that after hearing you, she went out and bought your book and is thoroughly enjoying it.”
Richards returned her smile. “I heard her. Obviously a woman of great discrimination.”
You heard her? Susan wondered. Busy psychiatrists don’t usually listen to two-hour advice programs.
Their drinks came. Richards raised his glass in a toast to her. “I’m grateful for the pleasure of your company.”
She knew it was the sort of remark that people make over a cocktail. Still Susan felt there was something behind the casual compliment—an intensity in the way he said it, a sudden narrowing of his eyes, as though he were studying her under a microscope.
“Dr. Susan,” he said, “I’m going to admit something. I looked you up on the Internet.”
That makes two of us, Susan thought. Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.
“You were raised in Westchester?” he asked.
“Yes. Larchmont, then Rye. But my grandmother always lived in Greenwich Village, and I spent a lot of weekends with her when I was growing up. I always loved it. My sister is much more the country-club type than I ever wa
s.”
“Parents?”
“Divorced three years ago. And unfortunately not one of those agree-to-disagree situations. My father met someone else and fell head over heels in love. My mother was devastated and has gone through the various stages of being heartbroken, angry, bitter, in denial. You name it.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“Sad. We were a close-knit, happy family, or so I thought. We had fun together. We really liked each other. After the divorce, though, everything changed. I sometimes think that it was like a ship striking a reef and sinking, and while all on board survived, everyone got in a different lifeboat.”
She realized suddenly that she had said more than she intended, and was grateful he did not pursue it.
Instead he said, “I’m curious. What made you leave being an assistant district attorney and go back to school for a doctorate in clinical psychology?”
Susan found that an easy question to answer. “I guess I realized I was restless. There are people who are hardened criminals, and I got real satisfaction from getting them off the streets. But then I prosecuted a case where a woman killed her husband because he was about to leave her. She got fifteen years. I’ll never forget the stunned, disbelieving look on her face when she heard the sentence. I could only think that if she had been caught in time, had gotten help, released that anger before it destroyed her . . .”
“Terrible grief can trigger terrible anger,” he said quietly. “No doubt later you saw your mother in that situation and realized that could have been her being sentenced.”
Susan nodded. “For a brief period into the separation, my mother was both suicidal and violent, at least in the way she talked about my father. I did my best to help her. In some ways I miss the courts, but I know it was the right decision for me. How about you? What took you into this field?”
“I always wanted to be a doctor. In medical school I realized to what extent the way the mind works affects physical health, and so I chose that path.”
The maître d’ arrived with menus, and after a few minutes of discussing the pros and cons of the various food groups, they ordered their dinners.
Susan had hoped to use the break in conversation to steer the discussion more toward him, but he returned immediately to talk of her radio show.
“There was something else my mother brought up today,” he said, casually. “Did you ever hear anything more from Karen, the woman who called on Monday?”
“No, I didn’t,” Susan said.
Donald Richards broke off a piece of roll. “Did your producer send Justin Wells a copy of that program?”
It was not a question Susan had expected. “Do you know Justin Wells?” she asked, unable to keep her surprise from showing in her voice.
“I’ve met him.”
“Personally or professionally?”
“Professionally.”
“Were you treating him for excessive and dangerous jealousy of his wife?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because if the answer is yes, I think you have a moral obligation to tell what you know about him to the police. I didn’t mean to be evasive when you asked about Karen, but the truth is, while I didn’t hear from her again, I have learned something more about her. It turns out that the woman who called herself Karen is Justin Wells’s wife, whose real name is Carolyn, and she fell or was pushed in front of a van a few hours after she called me.”
Donald Richards’s expression was not so much surprised as grave and reflective. “I’m afraid you’re probably right, I should speak to the police,” he said grimly.
“Captain Shea of the 19th Precinct is handling the investigation,” Susan told him.
I was right, she thought. The obvious connection between what happened to Carolyn Wells and the phone call to me is her husband’s jealousy.
She thought of the turquoise ring with the sentimental inscription. The fact that Tiffany had gotten one in Greenwich Village probably meant nothing at all. Like plastic Statues of Liberty, or ivory Taj Mahals, or heart-shaped lockets, they were the kind of thing indigenous to souvenir and trinket shops everywhere.
“How’s your salad?” Richards asked.
It was obvious he intended to change the subject. And rightly so, Susan thought with relief. Professional ethics. “Absolutely fine. And I’ve told you about myself. What about you? Any siblings?”
“No, I’m an only. Grew up in Manhattan. My father died ten years ago. That’s when my mother decided to live in Tuxedo Park year round. She’s a painter, quite good, perhaps even very good. My father was a born sailor and used to take me along to crew for him.”
Susan mentally crossed her fingers. “I was interested to see that you took a year off from college to work as an assistant cruise director. Your father’s influence, I assume?”
He looked amused. “We both get information from the Internet, don’t we? Yes, I enjoyed that year. Did the round-the-world cruise, taking in most of the major ports, then I hit the smaller destinations. Pretty much traveled the globe.”
“What exactly does an assistant cruise director do?”
“Helps to organize and coordinate the shipboard activities. Everything from scheduling the paid entertainers and making sure they have whatever they need to do their acts, to running bingo and planning costume balls. Smoothe ruffled feathers. Spot lonely or unhappy people and draw them out. You name it.”
“According to your bio, you met your wife on the Gabrielle; it says also that it was your favorite ship. That was the ship Regina Clausen was traveling on when she disappeared.”
“Yes. I never met her, of course, but I can certainly understand why the Gabrielle would have been recommended to her. She’s a wonderful ship.”
“If you had known about Regina Clausen’s disappearance, would you have been tempted to include her among those you discuss in your book?” She hoped the question sounded offhand.
“No, I don’t think so.”
At some point he’s going to tell me to stop the grilling, Susan thought, but so far, so good, so I’ll keep going until he does. “I’m curious,” she said. “What gave you the idea for writing Vanishing Women?”
“I got interested in the subject because six years ago I had a patient whose wife disappeared. She simply didn’t come home one day. He envisioned her in all sorts of situations—being held prisoner, wandering with amnesia, murdered.”
“Did he ever learn what happened to her?”
“Two years ago, he did. There was a lake at the bend of the road near their home. Somebody went scuba diving there and saw a car—her car, as it turned out—on the bottom. She was in it. She probably missed the turn.”
“What happened to him?”
“His life changed. The next year he remarried; now he’s a totally different person from the man who came to me for help. What struck me is that perhaps the greatest pain in losing someone you love is in not knowing what happened to her . . . or him. And that made me research other cases of women who seemingly vanished without a trace.”
“How did you select the cases you used in the book?”
“I quickly realized that in most cases the cause of the disappearance was foul play. On that basis, I analyzed how women got into a particular situation, and then suggested ways to prevent that kind of thing from happening to anyone else.”
During the course of their conversation, salad plates had been cleared and replaced by entrees. They had continued talking through the meal, niceties—comments on the food (highly favorable), comparisons with other favorite restaurants (New York City is a feast for diners)—interspersed among the more obviously probing questions.
Don Richards finished the last bit of his Dover sole, then leaned back in his chair. “It seems to me that this has been a Q-and-A, with me being the answer man,” he said good-naturedly. “I’ve filled you in about myself. Let’s talk about you for a while, Susan. As I told you, I’m a sailor. What do you do for recreation?”
?
??I ski a lot,” Susan said. “My father is a terrific skier, and he taught me. Just as you sailed with your dad, mine always took me along with him when he went skiing. My mother hates the cold and my sister does too, and wasn’t interested, so he had plenty of time for me.”
“Still ski with him?”
“No. I’m afraid he’s hung up his skis.”
“Since his new marriage?”
“About that time.” Susan was grateful that the waiter arrived with the dessert menu. She had wanted to learn about Donald Richards, yet here she was, revealing too much about herself.
They both decided to skip dessert and order espresso. After it had arrived, Richards brought up Tiffany’s name. “It was kind of sad to listen to her today. She’s terribly vulnerable, don’t you think?”
“I think she wants desperately to fall in love, and to be loved,” Susan said in agreement. “It sounds like Matt was the nearest thing to a lasting relationship that she’s ever had. She’s given his name to her need.”
Richards nodded. “And I bet that if Matt does call her, it won’t be because he’s happy that she’s been making so much of his impulse to buy a souvenir ring. That would scare most guys off.”
Is he downplaying the ring? Susan wondered. The words of the song “You Belong to Me” began to drift through her mind: See the pyramids along the Nile / Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle . . .
When they left the restaurant, Richards hailed a cab. As they got in, he gave the driver her address. Then he looked at her sheepishly. “I’m not a mind reader. I saw that you’re listed in the phone book . . . under S. C. Chandler. What’s the C stand for?”
“Connelley. My mother’s maiden name.”
Once they had arrived at her apartment building, he had the cab wait while he escorted her upstairs. “Your mother would be pleased,” Susan told him. “A perfect gentleman.” She thought of Alex Wright, who had done the same thing two nights ago. Two gentlemen in three days, she reflected. Not bad.
Richards took her hand. “I think I said thank you for the pleasure of your company at the beginning of the evening. I say it again, even more emphatically.”