Yesterday, when she heard the woman who called herself Karen talk with Dr. Susan about the turquoise ring some guy had given her on a cruise, she thought immediately about Matt Bauer, who had given her a similar ring. After they broke up she tried to pretend that the sentiment engraved on it, “You belong to me,” was stupid and gooey, but she didn’t really mean it.
The phone call to Dr. Susan this morning had been an impulse, and almost immediately she regretted telling her that Matt was a cheapskate, just because the ring had only cost ten dollars. It actually was pretty, and she admitted to herself that she made that remark only because Matt had dropped her.
As the day wore on, Tiffany thought more and more about that afternoon last year she had spent with Matt in Greenwich Village. By four o’clock, as she got ready for work, fluffing her hair and applying her makeup, she realized that the name of the shop where they bought the ring was not going to come to her.
“Let’s see,” she said aloud. “We went to the Village for lunch at a sushi bar first, then went to see that dumb movie Matt thought was so great, and that I pretended to like. Not a word of English, just a lot of jabbering. Then we were walking around and passed that souvenir shop, and I said, ‘Let’s stop in.’
“Then Matt bought me a souvenir.” That was back when Matt really acted as though he liked me, Tiffany thought. We were trying to decide between a brass monkey and a miniature Taj Mahal, and the owner was giving us all the time we needed. He was behind the glass counter where the cash register was when that classy guy came in.
She had noticed him right away, because she had just turned away from Matt, who had picked up something else and was reading the tag that said why it was special. The guy didn’t seem to realize they were there, because they’d been standing behind a screen with camels and pyramids painted on it. She hadn’t been able to hear what the man said, but the owner took something from the glass counter by the cash register.
The customer was a doll, Tiffany reflected, remembering still the attractive man she had seen in the shop that day. She figured he was the kind who went out with the people she only read about in the columns. Not like the jerks who stuff themselves at The Grotto, she thought. She remembered the look of surprise on his face when he turned around and saw her standing there. After the man left, the store owner said, “That gentleman has purchased several of these rings for his ladyfriends. Maybe you’d like to see one.”
It was pretty, Tiffany thought, and she knew Matt could see by the amount rung up on the cash register that it cost only ten dollars, so she didn’t mind telling him she’d like to have it.
Then the owner showed us the inscription, Tiffany remembered, and Matt blushed and said that was fine, and I thought maybe it was a sign that this time I’d met a guy who would last.
Tiffany penciled her eyebrows and reached for her mascara. But then we broke up, she thought ruefully.
Wistfully she looked at the turquoise ring that she kept in the little ivory box that her grandfather bought for her grandmother on their honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls. She took it out and held it up and admired it. I’m not going to send it to Dr. Susan, she thought. Who knows? Maybe Matt will call me up sometime. Maybe he still doesn’t have a steady girlfriend.
But I promised Dr. Susan I’d send it, she reminded herself. So what shall I do? Wait a minute! Tiffany thought. What Dr. Susan really seemed interested in was the location of the shop. So instead of sending the ring, maybe I can just narrow down the location enough to help her. I remember that there was a porno shop across the street, and I’m pretty sure it was only a couple of blocks away from a subway station. She’s smart. She should be able to find it with that information.
Relieved that she had made the proper decision, Tiffany put on her blue dangle earrings. Then she sat down and wrote Dr. Susan a note describing the location of the shop as she remembered it, and explaining why she was hanging on to the ring. She signed the note, “Your sincere admirer, Tiffany.”
By then, she was running late, as usual, and didn’t take the time to drop the letter in the mailbox.
She thought of that omission later, as she was plopping four orders of reheated lasagna in front of pain-in-the-neck customers at The Grotto. I hope they burn their mouths, she thought—they only use their tongues to complain.
Thinking about the customers’ tongues gave her an idea. She would call Dr. Susan tomorrow instead of writing. Once she was on the air, she could explain that she wanted to apologize for making that crack about the ring being cheap, that she only said it because she missed Matt so much. He was such a nice guy, and could Dr. Susan suggest some way they might get together again? He hadn’t answered her calls last year, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t going around with anyone else yet.
Tiffany watched with satisfaction as one of her customers took a bite of lasagna and grabbed for the water glass. That way, maybe I’ll get some free advice, she thought, or maybe Matt’s mother or one of her friends will be listening and hear his name and tell him, and he’ll be flattered and give me a call.
What’s to lose? Tiffany asked herself as she turned to a table of newly seated diners, people whose names she didn’t know but whom she recognized as always leaving a lousy tip.
31
Alex Wright lived in the four-story brownstone on East Seventy-eighth Street that had been his home since childhood. It was still furnished as his mother had left it, with dark, heavy Victorian tables, buffets, and bookcases; overstuffed couches and chairs upholstered in rich brocades, antique Persian carpets, and graceful objets d’art. Visitors exclaimed about the traditional beauty of the turn-of-the-century mansion.
Even the fourth floor, most of which had been designed as a play area for Alex, remained the same. Some of the built-ins, commissioned from F.A.O. Schwarz, were so distinctive that they had been part of a feature in Architectural Digest.
Alex said he had not redecorated the brownstone for one reason only: At some point he intended to get married, and when that happened he would leave any changes to his wife. On one occasion when he made that statement, a friend had teased, “Suppose she’s into supermodern designs, or even wants something retro and psychedelic?”
Alex had smiled and replied, “Wouldn’t happen; she never would have gotten to fiancée status.”
He lived relatively simply, never having been comfortable with a staff of servants in the house, perhaps because both his mother and father were known as difficult employers. The constant turnover of help, as well as the muttered comments he overheard about his parents, had distressed him as a child. Now he employed only Jim, as chauffeur, and Marguerite, a marvelously efficient and blessedly quiet housekeeper. She arrived at the Seventy-eighth Street house promptly at eight-thirty each morning, in time to prepare breakfast for Alex, and she stayed to cook dinner on those occasions when he planned to be home, which wasn’t more than twice a week.
Single, attractive, and with the allure of the Wright fortune behind him, Alex had always been firmly entrenched on the social A list. Nonetheless he had maintained a relatively low public profile, because while he enjoyed interesting dinner parties, he abhorred personal publicity and always avoided the big society events that some people found exhilarating.
On Tuesday he spent the better part of the day at his desk in the foundation headquarters, then in the late afternoon played squash with friends at the club. He hadn’t been sure of his evening plans and had instructed Marguerite to prepare what he called a “contingency dinner.”
So, when he arrived home at six-thirty, his first stop was to check the refrigerator. A bowl of Marguerite’s excellent chicken soup was ready for the microwave oven, and lettuce and sliced chicken were prepared for a sandwich.
Nodding his approval, Alex went to the drinks table in the library, selected a bottle of Bordeaux, and poured himself a glass. He had just begun to sip when the phone rang.
The answering machine was on, so he decided to let it screen his calls. He raised his ey
ebrows when Dee Chandler Harriman announced herself. Her voice, low and pleasing, was hesitant.
“Alex, I hope you don’t mind. I asked Dad for your home number. I just wanted to thank you for being so nice to me the other day at Binky and Dad’s cocktail party. I’ve been down a lot lately, and although you don’t know it, you really helped, just by being a nice guy. I’m going to try to kill the blues by going on a cruise next week. Anyhow, thank you. I just had to let you know. Oh, by the way, just for the record, my phone number is 310-555-6347.”
I guess she doesn’t know I asked her sister out to dinner, Alex thought. Dee is gorgeous, but Susan is much more interesting. He took another sip of his wine and closed his eyes.
Yes, Susan Chandler was interesting. In fact, she had been on his mind all day.
32
Jane Clausen phoned Susan shortly before four o’clock to tell her that she could not keep their appointment. “I’m afraid I have to rest,” she apologized.
“You don’t sound very well, Mrs. Clausen,” Susan had said. “Should you see your doctor?”
“No. An hour’s nap does wonders. I’m just sorry to miss the chance to talk with you today.”
Susan had told her that if she wanted to come later, it would be fine. “I’ll be here for quite a while. I have a great deal of paperwork to catch up on,” she assured her.
Thus, at six o’clock she was still in her office when Jane Clausen arrived for their meeting. The ashen complexion of her visitor reinforced Susan’s realization of how seriously ill the woman was. The kindest thing that could happen to her would be to know the truth about Regina’s disappearance, she thought.
“Dr. Chandler,” Mrs. Clausen began, a touch of hesitation in her voice.
“Please call me Susan. Dr. Chandler sounds so formal,” Susan said with a smile.
Jane Clausen nodded. “It’s hard to break old habits. All her life, my mother called our neighbor, who was her closest friend, Mrs. Crabtree. Too much of that reserve rubbed off on me, I suppose. Maybe too much on Regina as well. She was quite reticent socially.” She glanced down for a moment and then looked directly at Susan. “You met my lawyer yesterday. Douglas Layton. What did you think of him?”
The question surprised Susan. I’m the one who’s supposed to gently prod, she thought wryly. “He seemed nervous,” she said, deciding to be direct in her response.
“And you were surprised that he didn’t wait with me?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Why were you surprised?”
Susan did not have to consider her answer. “Because it was entirely possible that you were going to meet a woman who might have shed light on your daughter’s disappearance—perhaps even a woman who could have described a man who might have been involved in that disappearance. It was potentially a very significant moment for you. I would have expected him to stay with you for support.”
Jane Clausen nodded. “Exactly. Susan, Douglas Layton told me all along that he did not know my daughter. Now from something he said this morning, I think that he did know her.”
“Why would he lie about that?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know. I did some checking today. The Laytons of Philadelphia are indeed his second cousins, but they say they scarcely remember him. He, on the other hand, has spoken at length of his familiarity with them. It turns out that his father, Ambrose Layton, was a ne’er-do-well who went through his inheritance in a few years, then disappeared.”
Jane Clausen spoke slowly, frowning in concentration. Her words were measured. “It is to Douglas’s credit that he received scholarships to Stanford University, then to Columbia Law School. Clearly he is very intelligent. His first job, with Kane and Ross, involved a great deal of traveling, and he’s a gifted linguist, which is one of the reasons he moved so quickly into a position of power when he went with Hubert March’s firm. He is now on the board of our foundation.”
She is trying to be fair, Susan thought, but she’s not just worried—I think she’s afraid.
“The point is, Susan, Douglas definitely gave me the impression that he knew his cousins intimately. Thinking back, I realize that he told me that after I said I’d lost touch with them. Today, I realized he was eavesdropping when I spoke with you. The door was partially open, and I could see him reflected in the glass of the cabinet. I was terribly startled. Why would he do that? What reason has he to skulk around me?”
“Did you ask him?”
“No. I had a weak spell and wasn’t up to confronting him. I don’t want to put him on guard. I am going to have one particular grant audited. It was one we were reviewing at today’s meeting, an orphanage in Guatemala. Doug is scheduled to go there next week and present a report at the next trustees’ meeting. I questioned the amounts we’ve been giving, and Douglas blurted out that Regina had told him it was one of her favorite charities. He said it as though it had been thoroughly discussed between them.”
“Yet he’s denied knowing her.”
“Yes. Susan, I needed to share this with you because I have suddenly realized one possible reason why Douglas Layton rushed out of this office yesterday.”
Susan knew what Jane Clausen was about to tell her—that Douglas Layton had been afraid to come face to face with “Karen.”
Jane Clausen left a few minutes later. “I think that tomorrow morning my doctor will want me to go into the hospital for some further treatment,” she said as she was departing. “I wanted to share this with you first. I know that at one time you were an assistant district attorney. In truth, I don’t know whether I brought my suspicions to you to receive insight from a psychologist, or to ask a former officer of the court how to go about opening an inquiry.”
33
Dr. Donald Richards had left the studio right after the broadcast and belatedly he realized that Rena would have prepared lunch.
He found a pay phone and dialed his home number. “I forgot to tell you; I have to run an errand,” he told Rena apologetically.
“Doctor, why do you always do this to me when I’m fixing something hot for you?”
“That’s the kind of question my wife always asked me. Can you put it on a back burner or something? I’ll be an hour or so.” He smiled to himself. Then, realizing why his eyes felt strained, he took off his reading glasses and slipped them into his pocket.
When he reached his office an hour and a half later, Rena had his lunch ready for him. “I’ll put the tray on your desk, Doctor,” she said.
His two o’clock appointment was a severely anorexic thirty-year-old businesswoman. It was her fourth visit, and Richards listened and jotted notes on a pad.
The patient was opening up to him at last, talking about the painful experience of growing up overweight and never being able to stay on a diet. “I loved to eat, but then I’d look in the mirror and see what I was doing to myself. I began to hate my body, then I hated food for doing that to me.”
“Do you still hate food?”
“I loathe it, but sometimes I think how great it would be to enjoy the act of dining. I’m dating someone now, someone really important to me, and I know I’m going to lose him if I don’t change. He said he’s tired of watching me push food around the plate.”
Motivation, Don thought. It’s always the first major step to any change. Susan Chandler’s face flashed through his mind.
At ten of three, after he had seen the patient out, he phoned Susan Chandler, reasoning that she undoubtedly spaced appointments as he did—see a patient for fifty minutes, then take a ten-minute break before the next appointment.
Her secretary told him that Susan was on the phone. “I’ll wait,” he said.
“I’m afraid she has another call already waiting.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
At four minutes of three he was about to give up; his own three o’clock patient was already in the reception area. Then Susan’s voice, a bit breathless, came on. “Dr. Richards?” she said.
“Just because you??
?re in your office doesn’t mean you can’t call me Don.”
Susan laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you called. It’s been a bit hectic here, and I wanted to thank you for being a great guest.”
“And I want to thank you for all the great exposure. My publisher was very happy to hear me talking about the book on your program for two days.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a patient coming in and you probably do too, so let’s cut to the chase. Can you have dinner with me tonight?”
“Not tonight. I have to work late.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“Let’s say sevenish, and I’ll call you at the office tomorrow when I figure out a place.”
A really planned date, he thought. Too late now.
“I’ll be here all afternoon,” Susan told him.
Richards jotted down the time—sevenish—muttered a hasty good-bye, and put down the receiver. Even though he knew he had to hurry to see his patient, he took a moment to reflect on tomorrow night, wondering just how much he should disclose to Susan Chandler.
34
Dee Chandler Harriman had timed her call to Alex Wright with the hope of catching him at home. She had phoned from the modeling agency office in Beverly Hills at quarter of four. That meant it was quarter of seven in New York, a time that she thought Alex might be home. When he didn’t pick up, she decided that if he were out to dinner, he might try to reach her later in the evening.
With that hope, Dee went directly from work to her condo in Palos Verdes, and at seven o’clock was listlessly preparing herself a meal of a scrambled egg, toast, and coffee. In the past two years, I’ve hardly ever stayed home in the evening, she thought. I couldn’t without Jack. I had to be with people. But tonight, she realized, she was feeling more bored and restless than she was lonely.