“Then you probably needed it,” he said.
“I’ll give you a glass of wine if you’ll give me fifteen minutes to get myself ready,” Susan offered.
“It’s a deal.”
She could see that he was openly studying the apartment. “You have very nice digs, Dr. Chandler,” he said. “One of my patients is a real estate broker. She tells me that the minute she walks into a home, she gets vibrations about the people who live there.”
“I believe that,” Susan said. “Well, I don’t know what kind of vibrations this place sends out, but I’m mighty comfortable in it. Now let me get you that glass of wine, and you can look around while I get changed.”
Don went into the kitchen with her. “Please don’t get dressed up,” he said. “As you can see, I didn’t. I dropped in on my mother this afternoon, and she told me I looked good in a sweater, so I just put a jacket over it.”
There is something strange about Don Richards, Susan thought as she adjusted the collar of a tailored blue blouse and reached for her herringbone jacket. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him that I just don’t get.
She crossed from her bedroom into the foyer and was about to say, “I’m ready,” when she saw Donald Richards standing at her desk in the den, examining the two passenger lists from the cruise ships.
He had obviously heard her, because he looked up. “Any reason for collecting these, Susan?” he asked quietly.
She did not answer immediately, and he put them down. “Sorry if I overstepped your invitation to look around. This is a beautiful nineteenth-century desk, and I wanted a closer look at it. The passenger lists didn’t seem to be confidential material.”
“You said you’ve often been a passenger on the Gabrielle, didn’t you?” Susan asked. She didn’t like the idea of his going through papers on her desk, but decided to let it drop.
“Yes, many times. She’s a beautiful ship.” He walked over to where she stood. “You look very nice, and I’m very hungry. Let’s go.”
They ate at an intimate seafood restaurant on Thompson Street. “The father of one of my patients owns it,” he explained. “He gives me a discount.”
“Even without the discount, you got your money’s worth,” Susan told him later, as the waiter removed their plates. “That pompano was marvelous.”
“So was the salmon.” He paused and took a sip of his wine. “Susan, there’s something I have to ask you. I stopped by the hospital both yesterday and late this afternoon to see Justin Wells. He tells me you’ve met with him also.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s all you’re going to say about it?”
“I think that’s all I should say, except that I absolutely believe his wife’s injury was no accident and that he is innocent of harming her.”
“I know hearing that has been a great boost for him at a time when he needs it desperately.”
“I’m glad. I like him.”
“So do I, but as I told you the other evening I hope he resumes therapy with me—or with anyone, for that matter—once his wife is out of the woods. And, by the way, they told me at the hospital that she’s showing signs of improvement. Right now, though, Justin’s carrying too much self-imposed guilt about the accident for anyone to handle. You know how the guilt scenario goes. He’s decided that if he hadn’t phoned and upset his wife, she would have kept the appointment with you and taken a cab instead of walking to the post office and therefore ending up under the wheels of that van.”
Richards shrugged. “Of course, I’d probably be out of a practice if so many people weren’t guilt ridden. It’s something I can certainly empathize with. Oh, here’s the coffee.”
The waiter placed the cups before them.
Susan took a sip, then asked bluntly, “Are you guilt ridden, Don?”
“I have been. I think I’m getting over it at last. But you said something the other night that touched me. You said that after your parents’ divorce, you felt as though you’d all gotten into different lifeboats. Why is that?”
“Hey, don’t analyze me, ” Susan protested.
“I’m asking as a friend.”
“Then I’ll answer. It’s the usual thing that happens when there’s a divorce: divided loyalties. My mother was heartbroken and my father was running around saying he’d never been happier. Kind of made me question all the years when I was obviously under the mistaken impression that we were a very happy family.”
“How about your sister? Are you close to her? You don’t even have to answer. You should see the look on your face.”
Susan heard herself saying, “Seven years ago I was about to get engaged, then Dee came into the picture. Guess who got the guy and became a bride?”
“Your sister.”
“That’s right. Then Jack was killed in a skiing accident, and now she’s in the process of trying to move in on someone I’m dating. Nice, huh?”
“Do you still love Jack?”
“I don’t think you ever stop loving someone you cared that deeply about. I also don’t think you should try to erase any part of your past, because, in fact, you can’t anyhow. The difference, as I preach to my mother, is to let go of the pain and get on with life.”
“Have you done that?”
“Yes, I think I have.”
“Are you interested in this new guy?”
“It’s much too soon to say. And now can we please talk about the weather, or even better, will you tell me why you were so interested in those passenger lists?”
The understanding warmth in Don Richards’s eyes disappeared. “If you’ll tell me why you checked off some names and circled two: Owen Adams and Henry Owen Young.”
“Owen is one of my favorite names,” Susan said. “It’s getting late, Don. You’re leaving early in the morning, and I have a very long day ahead of me.”
She thought of the 8 A.M. phone call she was going to make to Chris Ryan, and the package of pictures she should be receiving from London in the afternoon.
“In fact, I could be there as late as nine o’clock.”
96
On Monday mornings, Chris Ryan liked to get into the office early. Sundays were for family, and typically at least two of his six children and their families would drift in to visit him and his wife, and would stay for dinner.
Both he and his wife loved the fact that the grandkids wanted to be around them, but sometimes, when they finally had collapsed into bed, Chris would happily remember that the people he would be investigating tomorrow wouldn’t be fighting about whose turn it was on the big bike, or who said the bad word first.
Yesterday had been a particularly strenuous Sunday of togetherness, and as a result, Chris was unlocking his office door at 8:20 A.M. He checked his messages and found several that warranted immediate attention. The first had been left on Saturday by a source in Atlantic City, and it contained interesting information about Douglas Layton. The second, from Susan Chandler, had come in earlier this morning. “Chris, it’s Susan; call me right away,” was all it said.
She answered on the first ring. “Chris, I’m onto something and I need you to check out two people for me. One was a passenger on a cruise ship, the Gabrielle, three years ago; the second was on another cruise ship, the Seagodiva, two years ago. The thing is, I don’t think they’re different people at all. I think they may be one and the same person, and if I am right, we’re talking about a serial killer.”
Chris fumbled in his breast pocket for his pen and grabbed a sheet of paper. “Give me the names and dates.” When he heard them he commented, “Both mid-October. Cruise ships give a discount then?”
“The dates have been in the back of my mind, Chris,” Susan told him. “If mid-October is part of a pattern, then some woman could be in terrible danger right now.”
“Let me get on it with Quantico. My guys at the FBI can do a fast trace. Oh, Susan, it turns out your pal, Doug Layton, may be in big trouble. He lost big time at the tables in A
tlantic City last week.”
“You know he’s not my pal, and what do you mean by ‘big time’?”
“Try four hundred thousand dollars. I hope he’s got a rich aunt.”
“The trouble is that he thinks he does.” The sum of four hundred thousand dollars startled her. A man who can run up gambling losses that great is in serious trouble. He could also be desperate and dangerous. “Thanks, Chris,” Susan said. “We’ll be talking.”
She hung up the phone and looked at her watch. She would have enough time to visit briefly with Mrs. Clausen before she went to the studio.
She’s got to know about Layton immediately, Susan thought. If he owes that much money to gamblers, he’ll need to cover it right away, and the Clausen Family Trust is where he’ll go for it.
97
Jane Clausen knew something was seriously wrong when Susan phoned and requested such an early morning visit. She had also heard the tension in Douglas Layton’s voice when he called a few minutes later to say he needed to stop by on his way to the airport. He said that another requisition concerning the orphanage required her signature.
“You’ll have to wait at least till nine o’clock,” she told him firmly.
“Mrs. Clausen, I’m afraid that might make me late for my plane.”
“And I’m afraid you should have thought of that sooner, Douglas. Susan Chandler is coming to see me in a few minutes.” She paused, then added in a cool tone, “Yesterday, Susan was by to take some Polaroids of the sketch of the orphanage. She wouldn’t tell me why she needed them, but I have a feeling that’s what she wants to discuss with me now. I hope there’s no problem about the building, Douglas.”
“Of course not, Mrs. Clausen. Perhaps I can do without that signature for the present.”
“Well, I’ll be able to see you at nine, Douglas, and I’ll be expecting you.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Clausen.”
When Susan arrived, Jane Clausen said, “You don’t have to worry about my reaction to anything you might tell me, Susan. I’ve come to believe that Douglas Layton is cheating or is trying to cheat me. But I would be interested in seeing the proof.”
As Susan opened the book about the Wright Family Foundation, Jane Clausen made a call to Hubert March, who was still at home. “Hubert, get down to the office, call in your auditors and make sure that Douglas Layton can’t get his hands on any of our bank accounts or liquidate any of our assets. And do it now!”
She put down the phone and studied the picture of the orphanage in the book on her lap. “Everything is the same except the name on the sign,” she commented.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said quietly.
“Don’t be. Even when Douglas was being so solicitous, that uneasy feeling about him just wouldn’t go away.”
She closed the book and looked at the jacket; then she chuckled. “Gerie must be spinning in her grave,” she said. “She wanted the foundation named after her and Alexander. Her real name was Virginia Marie, hence ‘Gerie,’ as she was called by everyone. The stupid woman forgot that Alexander’s first wife was also Virginia. And I see young Alex had them put his mother’s image on all the Wright Foundation literature.”
“Good for him!” Susan said. They laughed together.
98
Douglas Layton now knew what it felt like to be a trapped animal. He had called Jane Clausen from a phone in a hotel near the hospital, anticipating that he could go right to her room and get the necessary signature.
You fool, he told himself. You’ve tipped her off. She may be dying, but she’s still smart. Now she’ll get Hubert on the phone and tell him to contact the banks. If that happens, you’re done for—the people you’re dealing with won’t listen to excuses.
He absolutely had to have the money. He shivered at the thought of what would happen to him if he didn’t honor his debt to the casino. If only he hadn’t felt lucky the other night. He had intended to put the money he had gotten on Jane Clausen’s signature into a separate account for his trip. But then he went to the casino because he really had felt lucky. And for a while, things had gone his way. He had been up nearly eight hundred thousand dollars at one point, but then he lost all that and several hundred thousand dollars more.
They told him he had until tomorrow to come up with the money, but he knew that if he waited until tomorrow, it might all be over. By then, Susan Chandler would no doubt know more about him. Then she would definitely go to Mrs. Clausen. They might even call the police. Susan Chandler was the problem. She was the one who had started everything.
He stood at the phone, trying to decide what to do next. His palms were clammy. He saw the woman at the next phone staring at him, curiosity in her eyes.
There was one thing he could try that might work. But “might” wasn’t good enough. It had to work. What was Hubert March’s home phone number?
He caught Hubert just as he was leaving for the office. Hubert’s salutatory question, “Douglas, what is this all about?” confirmed his suspicion that Mrs. Clausen had phoned him.
“I’m with Mrs. Clausen,” Doug said. “I’m afraid she’s in and out of reality. She thinks she may have just phoned you and apologizes for anything she said.”
Hubert March’s relieved laugh was balm to Douglas Layton’s soul. “No apologies necessary to me, but I hope she apologized to you, my boy.”
99
Jim Curley drove Alex Wright to Kennedy Airport and placed his bags on the curbside check-in line. “Awfully busy at this hour, Mr. Alex,” he said as he glanced nervously at the policewoman hovering about, threatening to ticket cars left too long at curbside.
“What do you expect at nine o’clock on Monday morning, Jim?” Alex Wright asked. “Get back in the car and take off before I’m stuck with paying a fine. And do you remember what I told you?”
“Of course, Mr. Alex. I phone Dr. Chandler and tell her that I’m at her disposal.”
“Right,” Alex said encouragingly. “And . . .?”
“And she’ll probably give me—what did you call it, sir?—the ‘appropriate disclaimers’ about how she doesn’t need a car, that sort of thing. That’s my cue to say, ‘Mr. Alex begs you to allow me to serve you, but with one proviso: Dr. Chandler may not bring a date in his car.”’
Alex Wright laughed and clapped his chauffeur on the shoulder. “I know I can count on you, Jim. Now get out of here. That cop has a book to fill, and she’s heading for my car.”
100
For a change, Susan finished her radio program and got back to the office knowing that she had a full hour and a half until her first appointment, at two o’clock. The extra time was a luxury she wasn’t used to.
She spent it studying the file she had compiled as a result of the events of the past week. It included Regina Clausen’s memorabilia from her cruise on the Gabrielle, Carolyn Wells’s similar memorabilia from the Seagodiva, and the photographs of Tiffany’s turquoise ring that Pete Sanchez had sent her.
Study as she might, however, they revealed nothing new to her.
Finally she listened to segments of three of last week’s programs: the one with Carolyn Wells calling on Monday, and the ones with calls from Tiffany Smith on Tuesday and Wednesday. She listened carefully to Carolyn, so upset and fearful of becoming involved; Tiffany, so apologetic on Wednesday because when she called in on Tuesday she had belittled the gift of the turquoise ring.
Susan’s careful attention to the tapes proved fruitless too, however—they revealed nothing new.
She had asked Janet to hold off ordering lunch until after one o’clock. At one-thirty, Janet came in with the usual lunch bag. She was humming “You Belong to Me.”
“Dr. Chandler,” she said as she placed the lunch bag on Susan’s desk, “that song has been going through my head all weekend. I just can’t shake it. It was also driving me crazy, because I couldn’t remember all the lyrics, so I phoned my mother and she sang them to me. It really is a pretty song.”
“Yes, it
is,” Susan agreed absentmindedly as she opened the paper bag and took out the soup of the day. It was split pea, which she detested, and which Janet knew she detested.
She’s getting married next month and moving to Michigan, Susan reminded herself. Don’t say anything. This too will pass.
“ ‘See the pyramids along the Nile . . ./ Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle. . .”’
Unasked, Janet was singing the lyrics of “You Belong to Me.”
“ ‘See the marketplace in old Algiers . . .”’
Susan suddenly forgot her annoyance about the soup. “Stop for a minute, Janet,” she said.
Janet looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry if my singing is bothering you, Doctor.”
“No, no, you’re not bothering me at all,” Susan said. “It’s just that while listening to you, something occurred to me about that song.”
Susan thought of the news bulletin from the Gabrielle that had referred to Bali as a tropic isle, and the postcard of a restaurant in Bali, with a circle drawn around a table on the dining verandah.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Susan could sense that the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Yes, the pieces were there, but she still hadn’t figured out who had been manipulating them.
“Win”—or Owen—wanted to show Carolyn Wells around Algiers, she thought. “See the marketplace in old Algiers.”
“Janet, could you sing the rest of the lyrics, please? Now,” Susan requested.
“If you want, Doctor. I’m not much of a singer. Let’s see. Oh, I have them. ‘Fly the ocean in a silver plane . . .”’
Three years ago, Regina disappeared after being in Bali, Susan thought. Two years ago, it could have been Carolyn—and there may have been someone else chosen in her stead—in Algiers. Last year he may have met a woman on a plane rather than a cruise ship. What would have been before that? she asked herself. Let’s go back: Did he meet a woman four years ago in Egypt? That would fit the pattern, she decided.