‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ Chapters 11-20

Mary Higgins Clark,

AARP

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Published July 01, 2024

Illustration of a view from above of a person standing next to a large swimming pool

Illustration by Maiyashu

Jump to chapters

Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Chapter 18 • Chapter 19 • Chapter 20

Chapter 11

From the windows of the ornate and seldom-used living room, Jane Novak watched the stream of cars pass the house.

Today the television crew was upstairs in Betsy’s bedroom.

I mean Mrs. Powell’s bedroom, Jane thought sarcastically. Betsy had become “Mrs. Powell” to her the day she took over as housekeeper here twenty-nine years ago.

“Mr. Powell is quite traditional, Jane,” she had said. “He told me that it was fine with him if I wanted to hire you, but that it was necessary for you to refer to me that way.”

At the time, thirty-three-year-old Jane hadn’t minded. She’d been thrilled to get the job. Mr. Powell had insisted on meeting her and sent his chauffeur to bring her up for an interview. He explained that because it was such a large house, two maids from a cleaning service came in four hours a day and would work under her supervision. She would prepare the meals. If they had a dinner party, their caterers would handle it. With two maids reporting to her, instead of having to clean dressing rooms after sloppy actors, Jane could spend most of her day cooking—a joy, not a task. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

By the time the first anniversary of working for the Powells had passed, Jane’s heartfelt gratitude for the job had evolved.

She’d fallen passionately in love with Rob Powell.

She did not for a minute believe that she would ever have the slightest prospect of his looking at her as a man looked at a woman.

Providing for his comfort, glowing at his praise for the meals she served, hearing his footsteps as he came downstairs in the morning to get Betsy’s wake-up coffee was enough. In the twenty years since Betsy’s death, Jane had been able to live the fantasy that she was married to Rob.

Whenever he said, “I’m going out to dinner tonight, Jane,” she would panic with fear and secretly look at the calendar he kept on his desk.

But women’s names appeared only occasionally, and Jane had come to believe that, at his age, there would never be another Mrs. Powell.

One day last year he had been going over his will with his lawyer, who was also his close friend, and didn’t put it away when they went outside to play on the golf course.

Jane had flipped to the end of the will and found what she was looking for—the bequest to her: three hundred thousand dollars for a condo in Silver Pines, the fifty-five-plus community where he knew Jane had formed a few friendships with residents she had met at her church. And an income of one thousand dollars a week for the remainder of her life.

Reading that made Jane’s worship of Robert Powell even deeper.

But this program would start trouble. She knew it. Let sleeping dogs lie, she thought as she watched rubberneckers pass the house.

Jane shook her head and turned from the window and realized that the producer, Laurie Moran, was standing in the doorway.

“Oh,” Jane said, startled out of her usual reserve.

Laurie sensed the housekeeper’s resentment at her presence. “Oh, Ms. Novak, I’m sure you must be sick of us being here already, but I don’t want to disturb Mr. Powell. I have just one question.”

Jane managed to smooth her expression. “Of course. What is it, Ms. Moran?”

“Mrs. Powell’s bedroom is exquisite. Were the drapes and spread and carpet replaced after she died, or were they here the night of the murder?”

“No, Mrs. Powell had just had a decorator redo the room, then didn’t like the effect. She said the colors were too bold.”

The waste, Jane thought, not allowing herself to shake her head. The absolute waste of money.

“She’d ordered new draperies and a new headboard and a new carpet. After she died, Mr. Powell had them installed to honor her wishes. It’s exactly as you see it now.”

“It’s beautiful,” Laurie said sincerely. “Is it ever used?”

“It is never used,” Jane said. “But it is always kept fresh. You’ll never see the silver brush and comb on the dressing table not looking polished. Even the towels in her bathroom are replaced regularly. Mr. Powell wanted her room and bath to always look as if she were about to open the door and come in.”

Laurie couldn’t resist asking, “Does he spend much time in her room?”

Jane frowned. “I don’t think so, but that’s the kind of question I think you should ask Mr. Powell.”

Now the disapproval was evident in the housekeeper’s expression and tone of voice.

Oh boy, Laurie thought. I’d really hate to cross this one. “Thank you, Jane,” she said soothingly. “We’re all leaving now. We won’t be back over the weekend. We’ll see you Monday morning. And let me reassure you we will absolutely be finished on Wednesday after lunch.”

It was nearly noon, which meant Robert Powell expected the crew from the production company to clear out. It was also a Friday, the day he worked from home. He had been in his office with the door closed since they’d arrived.

THREE DAYS, LAURIE THOUGHT LATER THAT DAY in her office as she went over her notes with Jerry and Grace, who were with her every day of the shoot in Salem Ridge.

It was Grace who voiced what all three of them were thinking. “That place is gorgeous,” she said. “In one way it makes me never want to come home to my five-story walk-up apartment that’s not big enough to take three steps in without bumping into a wall.” She paused, her expressive eyes even more mascaraed than usual, then finished, “On the other hand, it gives me the creeps. My grandmother used to say that a pigeon flying into the room was a sign of death coming to the house. Laurie, were you in Betsy Powell’s bedroom today when a pigeon was flying around outside, trying to find a way to get in?”

“Oh, come on,” Jerry said. “Grace, that’s a stretch even for you.”

Of course it’s a stretch, Laurie told herself.

She was not about to admit to Grace and Jerry that the magnificent home where Betsy Powell had died also gave her the creeps.

Chapter 12

At noon on Sunday Josh picked up the first arrival, Claire, at the Westchester Airport. Although she knew Josh, who had been hired shortly before Betsy’s death, she gave him only a brief hello and did not engage in any conversation with him. As he drove her to the Westchester Hilton, she reflected on the plans for the next three days. On Monday they would meet for the first time over breakfast. They would be free for the rest of the day to reacquaint themselves with the house and the grounds. The individual interviews would take place on Tuesday. They had all agreed to sleep at the house Tuesday night in the same rooms they had been in twenty years earlier. Wednesday morning would be Robert Powell’s interview, followed by their being photographed at the luncheon table. They would then be driven to their departing flights.

“While we are certainly aware of how painful this will be for all of you, by your willingness to appear on the program, you each are making a forceful statement to clear your names,” was the conclusion of Laurie’s letter.

Clear our names! Claire Bonner thought bitterly as she checked into the Westchester Hilton.

She was wearing a light-green summer pantsuit she had bought at an expensive boutique in Chicago. In the three months since the first letter had come from Laurie Moran, she had let her hair grow and had lightened it so that now it was a shining mane around her shoulders. But today she had it tied in a ponytail with a scarf over her head. She had also practiced using makeup, but was wearing none today. With makeup and hair combed as her mother had worn it, she knew she bore a startling resemblance to her. She did not want Josh to see that resemblance and tell Powell until she met with him face to face.

“Your suite is ready, Ms. Bonner,” the clerk said, and waved to the bellman. Claire caught the long glance he gave her and the hint of excitement in his voice.

Why not? It would be almost impossible to miss all the newspaper articles about the upcoming program. The gossip magazines were having a field day digging up everything they could find about Betsy Bonner Powell. USHERED TO A FATAL NEW LIFESTYLE was a particularly grating one that had appeared on the front page of the Shocker, a sensational weekly. The article detailed the first meeting of Betsy Bonner and Robert Powell. Betsy had taken her daughter, Claire, to lunch at a restaurant in Rye for her thirteenth birthday. Robert Powell, a widower, had been seated across the room with Claire’s friend Nina and her mother. As Betsy and Claire were leaving, Nina had called to them. They walked over to Powell’s table, where Nina introduced Betsy and Claire to the Wall Street hedge fund multimillionaire.

“The rest is, as they say, history,” was the trite introduction to the final columns of that story. Robert Powell claimed it was love at first sight. He and Betsy Bonner were married three months later.

“Actress Muriel Craig put up a brave front, but insiders say she was furious and blamed her daughter, Nina, for making it a point to call out to Claire in the restaurant.”

I know that’s true, Claire thought as she followed the bellman to the elevator. Poor Nina.

The suite consisted of a large bedroom and living room, a full bath, and a powder room furnished in pastel shades. It was both attractive and restful.

Claire tipped the bellman, phoned room service, and unpacked her one suitcase. It contained the three outfits she had selected to bring with her, as well as her supply of new cosmetics.

In one of her e-mails, Laurie Moran had requested Claire’s size and height, saying that she would have wardrobe changes available.

Wardrobe changes! Claire had thought when she read the e-mail. Why on earth would I need changes? But then she had understood. Moran would provide gowns similar but not identical to the ones they had worn twenty years ago at the Gala.

They would reenact a few of the scenes in the films, like the one of the four of them clinking glasses or with arms around one another, posing for the cam- eras. And individually being questioned by the police.

I know I look good, Claire thought. Now I’m so like my dear mother.

A light tap at the door told her that room service had arrived with the chicken salad and iced tea she had ordered.

But as she nibbled at the salad and sipped the tea, Claire realized that she was not as brave as she had thought.

Something was telling her not to go forward with her plan.

Just nerves, she tried to reassure herself. Just nerves.

But it was more than that.

Like a drumbeat in her head, her inner voice was saying, Don’t do it. Don’t do it. It is not worth the risk!

Chapter 13

It had been a long trip from Cleveland to Westchester Airport. A heavy rainstorm had caused their plane to sit on the tarmac for two hours, and even though they were flying on a small private jet, there was little space to move around. This made it very difficult for Rod’s back. At one point, she suggested they just forget the whole thing.

“Alie, this is your chance to get the degree you always wanted. Between Powell and the production company, you’ll net three hundred thousand dollars. It will pay for medical school and all the other expenses, but every cent counts. You know how desperately you have always wanted to be a doctor and then go into medical research,” Rod had said in refusal.

Even if I can commute to school, I will have to be studying all the time. Where does that leave Rod? Or if I have to go away to school, does he leave his job at the pharmacy and come with me but then have nothing to do? she wondered. But if that happens, then the pharmacy loses both him and me, and we have to hire two new people. I don’t know how that’s going to work. It was three o’clock by her wristwatch when they landed in Westchester. By then Rod’s expression was sufficient proof of the pain he was in. After he hobbled on crutches from the cabin to his waiting wheelchair, Alison bent over him and whispered, “Thank you for making this trip.”

He managed a smile as he looked up at her.

Mercifully the driver, a ruddy-faced man of about fifty with the build of an ex-boxer, was waiting for them in the terminal. He introduced himself to them. “I’m Josh Damiano, Mr. Powell’s chauffeur. He wanted to be sure you had a comfortable ride from the airport to your hotel.”

“How kind of Mr. Powell.” Alison hoped that the contempt she felt did not show. Now that they were back in New York, a kaleidoscope of memories was flooding her mind. Neither one of them had been in New York in fifteen years. That was when the doctors had told Rod there would be no more operations.

By then their money was gone and Rod’s family was taking out loans to support them, but Alison had managed to take the necessary courses at night for a year and get her license as a pharmacist. They had gratefully seized the opportunity to go to Cleveland and work in his cousin’s pharmacy.

I loved New York, she thought, but I was happy to get away from it. I always thought that the minute people saw me, they wondered whether I’d killed Betsy Bonner Powell. In Cleveland, for the most part, we have lived quietly.

“There are benches near the doors,” Damiano said. “Let me get you settled comfortably and go for the car. I’ll try not to be too long.”

They watched as he collected the luggage from the pilots. He was back for them within five minutes. “The car’s right outside,” he said as he helped Rod with his wheelchair.

A shiny black Bentley was waiting at the curb.

When Damiano helped Rod out of the wheelchair and into the backseat, Alison felt her heart wrench.

He’s in so much pain, she thought, but he never complains, and he never talks about the football career he would have had . . .

The big car began to move. “The traffic’s light,” Damiano told them. “We should be at the hotel in about twenty minutes.”

They had chosen to stay at the Crowne Plaza in White Plains. The town was near enough to Salem Ridge, but far enough away from the hotels where the other three childhood friends who were on the program were staying. Laurie Moran made sure of that.

“You two okay?” Damiano asked them solicitously. “I’m very comfortable,” Alison assured him as Rod murmured his assent.

But then Rod leaned over and whispered, “Alie, I was thinking, when you’re on camera, not a word about sleepwalking and possibly being in Betsy’s room that night.”

“Oh, Rod I never would,” Alison said, horrified.

“And don’t volunteer that you’re hoping to go to med school unless they ask. It will remind everyone how disappointed you were when you didn’t get the scholarship to medical school, and how furious you were that Robert Powell got the dean to throw it to Vivian Fields.”

The mention of her heartbreak the day of her graduation from college was enough to make Alison’s face contort with pain and rage. “Betsy Powell was trying to get into the Women’s Club with the top-of-the-line socialites, and Vivian Fields’s mother was the president of it. And of course Powell had leverage—he’d just donated a dormitory to the college! The Fieldses could have afforded to pay Vivian’s tuition one hundred times over. Even the dean looked embarrassed when he called out her name. And then he muttered something about Vivian’s academic brilliance. Right! She dropped out in her second year. I could have scratched Betsy’s eyes out!”

“Which is why if they ask you what you’ll do with the money, just say that we’re planning to take a round-the-world ocean cruise,” Rod counseled.

GLANCING INTO THE REARVIEW MIRROR, JOSH Damiano observed Rod whispering something to his wife and watched her shocked reaction and how upset she instantly became. He could not hear what they were saying, but he smiled inwardly.

It doesn’t matter whether I can hear them, he thought. The recorder picks up everything that’s said in this car.

Chapter 14

Regina Callari’s initial response upon learning that, between Fisher Blake Studios and Robert Powell, she would net three hundred thousand dollars for appearing in the program was one of relief and elation.

The crushing burden of living paycheck to paycheck, which translated to house sale to house sale in a terrible real estate market, had been lifted from her shoulders.

It almost gave her that warm, secure feeling she had felt in early childhood, until the day she found her father’s body hanging in the garage.

Over the years she had had the same dream about her early life. In it, she woke up in her big bedroom, with the pretty white bed that had a spray of delicate pink flowers painted on the headboard, the night table, the dresser, the desk, and the bookcase. In the dream she could always vividly see the pink-and-white bedspread, the matching draperies, and the soft pink rug.

After her father’s suicide, when her mother realized how little money they had, they had moved to a three-room apartment, where they shared a bedroom.

Her mother, who loved fashion, had gotten a job as a personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman, where she had once been a valued customer. Somehow they’d gotten by, and Regina had proudly graduated from college on a financial-aid scholarship.

After Alison’s wedding and all the gossip about Betsy’s death, I moved to Florida to escape, Regina thought as she boarded the plane in St. Augustine. Some escape. Put it aside, she told herself. Don’t keep dwelling or you’ll drive yourself crazy.

A few hours earlier she had seen Zach off on his backpacking trip to Europe. He was meeting his group in Boston, and they were flying to Paris tonight. Regina settled comfortably in the small private plane and helped herself to a predeparture glass of wine.

She smiled briefly at the memory of the visit she and Zach had just shared.

When he had arrived home from college two weeks earlier, she had put a CLOSED FOR VACATION sign up on the front door of the office and announced to Zach that they were going on a vacation together—a cruise through the Caribbean.

The closeness between them that she was so afraid was lost had been regained—even magnified—on that trip.

Zach purposely said little about his father and step- mother, but once she asked, he told her everything.

“Mom, I knew when Dad made money, lots of money, he should have given you more. I think he would have, except he was afraid of Sonya’s reaction. She has a really bad temper.”

Zach’s father was writing the songs that made him rich when we were married, but the first one didn’t sell until a year after we were divorced. I couldn’t afford a lawyer to prove that he wrote it when he was married to me, Regina had thought bitterly.

“I think he regrets marrying Sonya,” Zach had told her. “When they have an argument, the decibel level goes through the roof.”

“I love it,” Regina remembered telling Zach.

She warmed at the memory of Zach’s compliments about her twenty-pound weight loss. “Mom, you look so cool,” he’d said, more than once.

“I worked out at the gym a lot these past two months,” she told him. “I realized that I’d gotten out of the habit of going there regularly.”

On the cruise he asked her about her parents. “All you ever really told me was that Grandpa committed suicide because he had made some bad investments and was broke, and that Grandma was planning to live in Florida when she retired, but died in her sleep only a year after you moved here,” he said.

“She never got over losing my father.”

Zach looks so much like my father, Regina thought now as the plane took off. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed.

The last night they were at dinner on the cruise Zach asked her about the night Betsy died. He had overheard his father telling Sonya all about it and had googled it.

Regina had then told him about the note.

Was I wrong to tell him about it? she wondered now. I needed to talk to someone about it. I was always worried I had made a mistake by not showing it to my mother.

Don’t dwell on it, Regina thought as she helped herself to a second glass of wine.

It was eight o’clock when she landed at Westchester. The driver who met her introduced himself as Mr. Powell’s chauffeur, Josh Damiano. He told her that Mr. Powell wanted to ensure her comfort.

It was hard not to laugh out loud. When he opened the door of the Bentley for her, she could not resist commenting to him, “I guess Mr. Powell has outgrown the Mercedes?”

“Oh no,” Damiano answered with a smile. “He has a Mercedes wagon.”

“I’m so glad.” Shut your mouth, Regina warned herself as she stepped into the car.

They were barely leaving the airport when her cell phone rang.

It was Zach. “We’re about to board, Mom. Wanted to be sure you landed safely.”

“Oh, Zach, how sweet of you. I miss you already.”

Zach’s tone changed. “Mom, the note. You told me you were tempted to shove it in Powell’s face. Have you got it with you?”

“Yes. I have it, but don’t worry. I won’t be that crazy. It’s in my suitcase. I promise you, no one can find it.”

“Mom, tear it up! If anyone found it, you could be in big trouble.”

“Zach, if it makes you feel better, I promise I’ll tear it up.”

No I won’t, she thought, but I can’t let him get on that plane upset about me.

IN THE FRONT SEAT, JOSH DAMIANO HAD NOT expected to record Regina because she was traveling alone. When he heard her phone ring, he quickly turned on the recorder. Maybe I’ll get lucky, he thought.

You couldn’t be too careful when you worked for a man like Mr. Powell.

Chapter 15

It had been a long day. Sitting in her office with Jerry and Grace, Laurie had gone over a myriad of details to ensure everything was in order for the first day of shooting.

She finally leaned back and said, “That’s it, the die is cast, we can’t do anything more now. The graduates are all here, and tomorrow we meet them. We start the day at nine A.M. Mr. Powell said that the housekeeper will have coffee and fruit and rolls prepared.”

“It’s amazing. They claim that not one of them has been in touch with the others all these years,” Jerry observed, “but I bet they google each other once in a while. I would if I were one of them. My aunt always googles to see what her ex is up to.”

“I would guess this meeting will be awkward for at least the first few minutes,” Laurie said, a worried note in her voice. “But they were close friends for years, and they all went through hell being interrogated by the police.”

“Nina Craig once told a reporter every one of them was accused of having been part of a plan to murder Betsy, and that the detective told her she’d better turn state’s witness to get a lighter sentence,” Jerry recalled. “That must have been pretty scary.”

“I still don’t get why any one of the graduates would have wanted to kill Betsy Powell,” Grace said, shaking her head. “They’re celebrating their graduation at a lavish party. They have their whole lives in front of them. They all look happy in the films of the party.”

“Maybe one of them wasn’t as happy as she looked,” Laurie suggested.

“This is the way I look at it,” Grace declared. “Betsy’s daughter, Claire, certainly didn’t seem to have any reason to kill her mother. They were always very close. Regina Callari’s father lost his money in one of Powell’s hedge funds, but even her mother admitted that Powell had repeatedly warned him that while he might make a lot of money, he should not invest more than he could afford to lose. Nina Craig’s mother was dating Powell when he met Betsy, but unless you’re really crazy you don’t suffocate someone for a reason like that. And Alison Schaefer married her boyfriend four months after graduation. He was already a football star with a multimillion-dollar contract. What reason would she have had for putting a pillow over Betsy Powell’s face?”

As she was speaking, Grace held up her fingers one by one to illustrate the point she was making.

“And that sour-looking housekeeper had been hired by Betsy,” she continued. “My guess is it was as simple as a burglary gone wrong. The house is big. There are sliding glass doors all over the place. The alarm wasn’t on. One door was unlocked. Anyone could have gotten in. I think it was someone who was after the emerald necklace and earrings. They were worth a fortune. Don’t forget, one of the earrings was on the floor of her bedroom.”

“Someone in the crowd may have been a party crasher,” Laurie agreed. “Some of the guests asked to bring friends, and there are a couple of people in the films that no one could identify positively.” She paused. “Well, maybe this program will bring that out. If so, Powell, the housekeeper, and the graduates will certainly be glad they participated.”

“I think they’re already glad,” Jerry observed. “Three hundred thousand dollars net is a pretty nice number to put in your wallet. I wish I had it.”

“If I did, I’d treat myself to a new apartment that’s only a four-story walk-up,” Grace said with a sigh.

“But if it turns out that one of them did it, she could always hire Alex Buckley to defend her,” Jerry suggested. “With his fees, that three hundred thousand dollars would go up in smoke.”

Alex Buckley was the renowned criminal lawyer who would be the host of the program and would conduct separate interviews with Powell, the house- keeper, and the graduates. Thirty-eight years old, he was a frequent guest on television programs discussing major crimes.

He had become famous by defending a mogul accused of murdering his business partner. Against tremendous odds Buckley had secured a not-guilty verdict, which the press had deplored as a miserable miscarriage of justice. Then, ten months later, the business partner’s wife committed suicide, leaving a note saying that she had murdered her husband.

After watching countless videos of Alex Buckley, Laurie had decided he would be the ideal narrator of the Graduation Gala program.

Then she had to convince him.

She had called his office and made an appointment to see him.

A moment after she was ushered into his office he had taken an urgent phone call, and sitting across from his desk Laurie had had a chance to study him closely.

He had dark hair, blue-green eyes accentuated by black-rimmed glasses, a firm chin, and the tall, lanky build that she knew had made him a basketball star in college.

Observing him on television, she had decided that he was the kind of man people instinctively liked and trusted, and that was the quality she was looking for in a narrator who would also be on camera. That instinct was reinforced as she heard him reassuring the person he was speaking to that there was no reason to worry.

When he finished the phone call, his apologetic smile was warm and genuine. But his first question—“And what can I do for you, Ms. Moran?”—warned her not to waste his time.

Laurie had been prepared, succinct, and passionate. She thought back to the moment when Alex Buckley leaned back in his chair and said, “I’d be very interested in taking part in the program, Ms. Moran.”

“Laurie, I was sure you were going to get turned down flat that day,” Jerry said.

“I knew that the money I could offer Buckley for being on the program wasn’t enough to compensate him, but my hunch was he might be intrigued by the unsolved Graduation Gala case. Thank heaven it turns out that I was right.”

“You were right on,” Jerry agreed heartily. “He’ll be great.”

It was six o’clock. “Let’s hope so,” Laurie said as she pushed back her chair and got up. “We’ve labored in the vineyard long enough. Let’s call it a day.”

TWO HOURS LATER AS THEY SIPPED COFFEE, Laurie said to her father, “As I told Jerry and Grace today, the die is cast.”

“What does that mean?” Timmy asked. Tonight he had not asked to be excused after he finished dessert.

“It means that I’ve done everything possible, and we start filming the people on the program tomorrow morning.”

“Will it be a series?” Timmy asked.

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Laurie said fervently, then smiled at her son. So like Greg, she thought, not just in looks, but in the expression he gets when he’s thinking something through.

He always asked about any project she was working on. This one she had described in the broadest terms as “a reunion of four friends who grew up together but haven’t seen each other in twenty years.”

Timmy’s answer to that was, “Why didn’t they see each other?”

“Because they lived in different states,” Laurie answered honestly.

The last few months have been hard, she thought. It wasn’t only the pressure of the enormous amount of preparation for the filming. Timmy had received his First Holy Communion on May 25, and she had not been able to keep the tears from slipping past her dark glasses. Greg should be here. Greg should be here, but he’ll never be here for all the important events in Timmy’s life. Not his confirmation or graduations or when he gets married. Not any of them. Those thoughts had sounded like a drumbeat in her head, repeating themselves over and over as she made a desperate effort to stop crying.

Laurie realized that Timmy was looking at her, a worried expression on his face.

“Mom, you look sad,” he said anxiously.

“I didn’t mean to.” Laurie swallowed over the lump that was forming in her throat and smiled. “Why should I? I have you and Grandpa. Isn’t that right, Dad?”

Leo Farley was familiar with the emotion he sensed his daughter was feeling. He often had moments of intense sadness when he thought of the years he and Eileen had been married. And then to lose Greg to some devil incarnate—Leo stopped that thought. “And I have you two,” he said heartily. “Remember, don’t stay up too late, either one of you. We all have to get up early tomorrow.”

In the morning Timmy was going away to camp for two weeks with some of his friends.

Leo and Laurie had wrestled with their abiding worry that Blue Eyes might somehow find out where Timmy was going, then realized that if they isolated him from activities with his friends, he would grow up nervous and fearful. In the five years since Greg’s murder, they’d struggled to make Timmy feel normal—while keeping him safe.

Leo had gone upstate personally to look the camp over, and had spoken with the head counselor and been assured that the boys Timmy’s age were under constant supervision, and that they had security guards who would spot a stranger in a heartbeat.

Leo told the counselor the words Timmy had been screaming: “Blue Eyes shot my daddy.” Then he repeated the description the elderly witness had given the police. “He had a scarf over his face. He was wearing a cap. He was average height, broad but not fat. He was around the block in seconds, but I don’t think he was young. But he could run really fast.”

For some reason the image of the guy who had skated past them on the sidewalk in March ran through Leo’s mind as he spoke the words “really fast.” Maybe it’s because he almost knocked over that pregnant lady who was ahead of us, he thought.

“A little more coffee, Dad?”

“No thanks.” Leo had made himself stop telling Laurie that getting those people from the Graduation Gala under one roof again was too risky. It was going to happen, and there was no use wasting his breath.

He pushed his chair back from the table, collected the dessert dishes and coffee cups, and brought them into the kitchen. Laurie was already there, about to start loading the dishes into the dishwasher.

“I’ll do those,” he said. “You double-check Timmy’s bag. I think I have everything in it.”

“Then everything is in it. I never knew anyone so organized. Dad, what would I do without you?”

“You’d do very well, but I plan to be around for a while.” Leo Farley kissed his daughter. As he said that, the words of the elderly woman who had witnessed Greg’s death and heard the murderer shout to Timmy, “Tell your mother that she’s next, then it’s your turn,” rang in his head for the millionth time.

At that moment Leo Farley decided that he would quietly drive up to Salem Ridge for the days of the filming. I’m enough of a cop that I can do surveillance without being observed, he thought.

If anything goes wrong, I want to be there, he told himself.

Chapter 16

Alex Buckley’s alarm went off at 6 A.M., only seconds after his interior alarm made him stir in his sleep and open his eyes.

He lay quietly for a few minutes to collect his thoughts.

Today he would be in Salem Ridge for the first day of filming the Graduation Gala.

He pushed off the sheet and got up. Years ago, a client who was out on bail had come to his office. When he stood up to greet her, she had exclaimed, “My God, I never realized there’s no end to you!”

Six foot four, Alex had understood the remark and laughed. The woman was only five feet tall, a fact that had not prevented her from fatally stabbing her husband during a domestic quarrel.

The woman’s remark ran through his mind as he headed for the shower, but it quickly disappeared as he thought about the day ahead.

He knew why he had decided to accept the offer from Laurie Moran. He had read about the Graduation Gala when he was a sophomore at Fordham University and had followed the case with avid interest, trying to imagine which graduate had committed the crime. He had been sure it was one of them.

His apartment was on Beekman Place, by the East River, that was home to high-ranking UN delegates, as well as quietly wealthy businesspeople.

Two years ago he had happened to visit the apartment, and at the dinner table learned that the hosts were putting it on the market. He instantly decided to buy it. To him, its only downfall was the large, incessantly blinking red PEPSI-COLA sign on a building in Long Island City that marred the view of the East River.

But the apartment had six large rooms, as well as servant quarters. He knew he didn’t need so much space, but on the other hand, he rationalized, the full dining room meant he could have dinner parties; he could turn the second bedroom into a den; and it would be handy to have a guestroom. His brother Andrew, a corporate lawyer, lived in Washington, D.C., and came up to Manhattan regularly on business.

“Now you won’t need to go to a hotel,” he had told Andrew.

“I’m willing to pay the going rate,” his brother had joked, then added, “As it happens, I’m sick of hotels, so this will be great.”

When he bought the apartment, Alex decided that instead of a biweekly housekeeper it would be better to have one full-time employee who could keep the apartment clean, run errands, and prepare breakfast and dinner when he was home. Through the recommendation of the interior decorator who had furnished his new home with quiet good taste he had hired Ramon, who had been with one of her other clients but had chosen not to move to California with them. Ramon’s former employers were an eccentric couple who kept erratic hours, and what they didn’t wear they dropped on the floor.

Ramon happily settled in the studio-sized room and bath off the kitchen, which had been designed for a live-in helper. Sixty years old, born in the Philippines, he was long divorced, with a daughter in Syracuse.

Ramon had no interest in Alex’s private affairs, and it would never have occurred to him to read anything Alex left on his desk.

Ramon was already in the kitchen when Alex, dressed in his usual business suit, white shirt, and tie, took his seat in the breakfast nook. The morning papers were next to his plate, but after greeting Ramon and skimming the headlines, he pushed them away.

“I’ll read them when I get home tonight,” he said as Ramon poured coffee into his cup. “Anything exciting in them?”

“You’re on Page Six of the Post, sir. You escorted Miss Allen to the opening of a film.”

“Yes, I did.” Alex was still not used to the unwanted publicity that accompanied the celebrity status he had achieved by his frequent television appearances.

“She is a very beautiful woman, sir.”

“Yes, she is.” That was something else. As an unmarried, prominent lawyer, he could not escort a woman to an event without being linked to her. Elizabeth Allen was a friend, and nothing more.

Alex made short work of the fruit, cereal, and toast Ramon set before him. He realized that he was anxious to get up to the home of Robert Powell and meet both him and the returning graduates.

They’d all be forty-one or forty-two by now, he thought, Claire Bonner, Alison Schaefer, Regina Callari, and Nina Craig. Since he had agreed to be the narrator of the program, he had done extensive research on each, and had read everything that had been in the media at the time of Betsy Powell’s murder.

He had been asked to arrive at the Powell estate at nine o’clock. It was time to leave. “Will you be home for dinner tonight, Mr. Alex?” Ramon asked.

“Yes, I will.”

“Do you plan to have a guest or guests?”

Alex smiled at the diminutive man who was looking so anxiously at him.

Ramon is a perfectionist, he thought, not for the first time. He did not like to waste food when it could be avoided, and he happily welcomed being informed when Alex was inviting friends for dinner. Alex shook his head. “No guests,” he said.

A few minutes later Alex was in the garage of his building. Ramon had phoned ahead, so his Lexus convertible was already parked near the exit ramp with the roof down.

Alex put on his sunglasses, started the car, and headed for the East River Drive. The questions he would ask the six people who were known to be in the house on the night that Betsy Bonner Powell had been suffocated in her sleep were already in his head.

Chapter 17

Leo Farley gave his grandson a bear hug as he prepared to climb aboard the chartered bus from Saint David’s School to Camp Mountainside in the Adirondacks. He was careful not to show any sign of his ever-present worry that Blue Eyes might ferret out Timmy’s location.

He said, “You’re going to have a great time with your pals.”

“I know it, Grandpa,” Timmy said, but then a frightened expression came over his face.

Glancing around, Leo could see that what was happening to Timmy was the same with all his friends. The moment of saying good-bye to parents or grandparents was causing a flicker of worry over all their faces.

“Okay, boys, all aboard,” one of the counselors who were accompanying the campers called.

Leo hugged Timmy again. “You’re going to have a great time,” he repeated as he planted a kiss on Timmy’s cheek.

“And you’ll take care of Mom, won’t you, Grandpa?”

“Of course I will.”

Laurie had had breakfast with Timmy at six o’clock before she was picked up by a Fisher Blake Studios car for the drive to Salem Ridge. Their good-bye had been tearful, but blessedly brief.

As Timmy turned and got on line for the coach, Leo could only think that the boy, who now had only an occasional nightmare about Blue Eyes, still retained his awareness of that terrible threat his father’s killer had shouted.

And at eight years old, he was also worried that something would happen to his mother.

Not on my watch, Leo thought. After waving good-bye to the parting campers, he headed for the rented black Toyota he had parked a block away on Fifth Avenue. He had not wanted to risk Laurie catching sight of his familiar red Ford sedan. He turned on the engine and headed for Salem Ridge.

Forty-five minutes later he was on Old Farms Road as the limousine bringing the first of the graduates turned and entered the long driveway of the Powell estate.

Chapter 18

Blue Eyes always followed his instincts. He had known that day five years ago that it was time to begin taking his revenge. He had followed Dr. Greg Moran and Timmy from their home in the Peter Cooper Village apartment complex on Twenty-first Street to the playground on Fifteenth Street that afternoon.

It had given him a rush of power seeing the two of them walking hand in hand to the place of execution. At the busy crossing on First Avenue, the doctor picked up Timmy and carried him. Blue Eyes laughed when he saw Timmy, his arms around his father’s neck, a happy smile on his face.

For an instant he had wondered if he should kill both of them, but he decided against it. Then there would only be Laurie left. No, better to wait.

But now it was Laurie’s turn. He knew so much about her; where she lived, where she worked, when she jogged along the East River. He had followed her sometimes onto the crosstown bus and sat next to her. If you only knew, if you only knew! It was hard not to say it out loud.

Blue Eyes adopted the “Bruno Hoffa” name after he was released from serving his five-year term. It was really easy to change my name and get phony docu- ments after my parole was completed, he thought.

Most of the last six months, since he was released from prison for the second time, he’d been doing the kind of jobs where no one cares much about your background, like construction work and day labor.

He didn’t mind hard work; in fact, he liked it. He remembered overhearing someone say that he looked and acted like a peasant.

Instead of being angry he had laughed at the remark. He knew he had the squat body and powerful arms people associate with someone who dug ditches, and that’s the way he wanted it.

Even at sixty, he knew he could probably outrun any cop who tried to chase him.

In April he had read in the newspapers that Fisher Blake Studios was going to reenact the Graduation Gala murder and that Laurie Moran would be the producer.

That was when he knew he had to get a job somehow on the Powell estate to allow him to be there without arousing suspicion. He drove past Powell’s property and observed the oversized truck with the PERFECT ESTATES sign on it. He looked up the company and applied for a job. As a kid he had worked for a landscaper and picked up everything he needed to know about the job. It didn’t take a genius to mow a lawn or clip hedges and bushes or to plant flowers in the places pointed out by the boss.

He liked the job. And he knew Laurie Moran would be up there a lot when they started filming.

He had seen Laurie at the estate for the first time right after he got the job. He recognized her when she got out of her car and immediately grabbed a grass clipper to get close to the den, where Powell always met business guests.

He could have taken her out that day as she was walking back to her car, but he had decided to wait. He’d waited so long already, savoring her family’s fear. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she was here with her film crew? he asked himself. Wouldn’t the media coverage of her death be more dramatic when it was attached to the publicity around the Graduation Gala filming?

Powell had told Blue Eyes’ boss, Artie Carter, that the filming would begin June 20th. Blue Eyes’ concern had been that Powell would order all the planting and mowing and trimming be completed before the filming began.

That was why Blue Eyes spoke to Artie on the 19th, as they were wrapping up their final trimming and planting.

“Mr. Carter,” he said, as he always did, even though the rest of the workers called him Artie. He had explained it was because he had been taught to respect the boss, and he sensed that Carter was pleased by it.

Actually, Artie Carter felt there was something not quite right about Bruno Hoffa. He never joined the other workers for a beer after work. He never entered debates about the baseball season when they were driving from one job to another. He never complained if the weather was lousy. In Artie’s opinion, Bruno had one card missing from his deck, but so what? He was the best worker of all his crew.

As Artie finished inspecting the grounds, he was satisfied. Even the pain-in-the-neck client, Mr. Robert Powell, couldn’t find anything to complain about.

It was then that Bruno Hoffa approached him. “Mr. Carter, I have a suggestion to make,” he said. “What is it, Bruno?” It had been a long day, and Artie was ready to go home and have a nice cold beer. Or maybe a couple of nice cold beers.

Now Bruno, his narrow mouth extended into a forced smile, his lidded eyes fixed on Artie’s neck, his tone unusually subservient even for him, hesitantly began his planned speech.

“Mr. Powell came out the other day when I was planting flowers around the pool house. He said that the flowers were beautiful, but he was really annoyed because he knew the film crew would crush the grass. He supposed it would be inevitable, but he wished he could do something about it.”

“Mr. Powell is a perfectionist,” Artie said. “And our biggest customer. From what I understand they’ll be photographing outside all week. What are we supposed to do about that?” he asked irritably. “We’ve been told to stay off the property after today.”

Blue Eyes began his carefully prepared pitch. “Mr. Carter, I was thinking. We couldn’t have one of the trucks in the driveway, because Mr. Powell would have a fit. But maybe you could suggest I be stationed in the pool house. That way if the film crew tramples on the grass or makes holes with their heavy equipment, I could repair it the minute they leave the area. Also, the people who are in the film might decide to take a walk on the grounds, or maybe have lunch outside and leave litter behind them. I could take care of that, too. If he agrees, I’d have to be dropped off in the morning and picked up when they’re finished shooting at the end of the day.”

Artie Carter considered. Powell was such a perfectionist that this might appeal to him. And Artie knew that Bruno was so self-effacing that he wouldn’t get in the way of anyone in the production company.

“I’ll give Mr. Powell a call and suggest that you be around for the shooting. Knowing him, I bet he agrees.”

Of course he will, Blue Eyes thought as he struggled to keep a triumphant smile off his face. Laurie, you won’t have to grieve much longer for your hus- band, he told himself. That’s my promise to you.

Chapter 19

Much to Nina Craig’s dismay, there was a message for her mother waiting at the desk at the St. Regis when they checked in.

As she had feared, it was from Robert Powell, inviting Muriel to the 9 A.M. breakfast.

Muriel smiled with delight, then waved the note in Nina’s face. “You thought he was toying with me,” she snapped. “You don’t, or won’t, understand that Rob and I were deeply in love. The fact that his head was turned by Betsy Bonner doesn’t mean he didn’t care about me.” Nina realized that Muriel, having drunk a vodka and at least two glasses of wine on the plane, and after their argument in the car when she was screaming how much she hated Betsy, was out of control.

She could see the two desk clerks taking in the tirade. “Mother, please . . . ,” she began.

“Don’t ‘please’ me. Read the reviews I got. You’re nothing but an extra, a nobody. Didn’t that woman stop me on the street and tell me how wonderful I was in the remake of Random Harvest?”

Muriel’s voice was rising and her face was becoming flushed as she spat out the words. “As for you, you couldn’t make it to first base as an actress. That’s why you’re an extra, a member of the crowd scenes.”

Nina could see that the clerk had put the keys to the rooms in separate envelopes. She reached out her hand. “I’m Nina Craig,” she said quietly. “I apologize for the scene my mother is making.”

If Muriel had heard her, she did not indicate it. She was still finishing her sentence. “. . . and you’re always trying to put me down.”

The clerk was tactful enough not to offer any reply to Nina other than to murmur, “I’ll have your bags sent up to your room.”

“Thank you. I just have the large black one.” Nina pointed to it, then turned and brushed past Muriel, who had finally stopped talking. Furious and embar- rassed by the curious eyes of the onlookers who were in line at the desk, she walked rapidly to the elevator and managed to get in as the door was closing.

On the sixth floor she got out, and following the arrow to the odd-numbered rooms, hurried to get into 621 before Muriel arrived and tried to follow her into her room.

Once inside, Nina sat down in the nearest chair with her hands clenched and whispered, “I can’t stand any more. I can’t stand it any more.”

Later she called for room service. It would have been typical of her mother, who was in the room next door, to phone her about dinner. But that didn’t hap- pen. Nina would not have agreed to meet with her, but was denied the satisfaction of saying the words that were crowding her throat. Go ahead. Make a fool of yourself tomorrow. I tried to warn you. You’re Muriel Craig, B-actress and a total failure as a mother and as a human being.

HOPING TO HEAR MORE FROM THEM, JOSH HAD arranged the car service so that he was the one who picked them up in the morning and again taped their angry conversation.

That morning, Josh had arrived half an hour early for an eight o’clock pickup. But when he phoned Nina Craig, she had said, “We’ll be right down.”

Nina had thought that there was nothing else her mother could possibly do to upset her, but she quickly realized she was wrong. Muriel wanted to arrive at the breakfast early so she could have time with Robert Powell before the others arrived. At least this time they rode in silence.

When they arrived at the estate, the door was opened by Powell’s longtime housekeeper, Jane. She eyed them up and down, greeted them by name, and said that Mr. Powell would be down at nine, and that the producer, Ms. Moran, was already in the dining room.

Nina watched as her mother hid her disappointment and became Muriel Craig, the actress. Her smile was gracious, her tone warm when she was introduced to Laurie Moran, and she thanked her for being invited to accompany Nina.

“Mr. Powell is your host, Ms. Craig,” Laurie said quietly. “I can’t take any credit for it. I understand that after the breakfast you’ll be driven back to the St. Regis?”

Wonderful, Nina thought with satisfaction. As she extended her hand to Laurie, she realized how surprised she was that the producer of the program was so young. Mid-thirties, Nina thought enviously. Nina’s forty-second birthday the previous week had made her keenly aware that her life was going nowhere, and this three-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall would only serve to buy her mother an apartment and get her out of her hair once and for all.

On the set of her last movie, Nina had been an extra in a ballroom scene, and the producer, Grant Richmond, had told her that she danced beautifully. “You put the others in the scene to shame,” he had said.

Nina knew he was pushing sixty and recently widowed. Then, the other night, he had invited her to meet him for cocktails. He had taken the trouble to explain that he had promised to have dinner with the producer, but that “we’ll make it another time.” He sent her home in his car.

I wish my mother was right, that Robert Powell might still be interested in her, she thought. Then, as she accepted the housekeeper’s offer of coffee, Nina appraised Muriel carefully. Her mother did look good. She was wearing a white suit—very expensive, and bought with Nina’s American Express card—with white high-heeled shoes that showed off her long legs and excellent figure. At the pricey salon, she had accepted the beautician’s tactful suggestion that perhaps her fiery red hair could be toned down a bit. Now it was an attractive rust shade and had been cut and shaped so that it was barely touching her shoulders. She had always been skillful at applying her own makeup. In other words, Nina thought, my beloved mother looks great.

How do I look? she wondered. Okay, but it could be better. I want space. I want to be able to go home to a neat, restful apartment that isn’t choked with cigarette smoke and have a glass of wine on the deck looking over the pool by myself.

And be able to invite Grant Richmond in for a drink if he does invite me out for dinner, she thought. With a cup of coffee in her hand, Muriel was telling Laurie Moran how vividly she remembered that terrible, tragic night twenty years ago when her dear, dear friend Betsy was viciously murdered. “My heart was broken,” she was saying. “We were such good friends.” Disgusted, Nina walked to the windows overlooking the pool and, beyond it, the putting green.

The door of the pool house opened, and she could make out the figure of a man emerging onto the lawn. Did Robert Powell have a guest staying there? she wondered, then realized something was dangling from the man’s hand. As she watched, he began snipping at the bush nearest to the pool house.

Then the doorbell rang, and Nina turned from the window. One of the other suspects in the death of Betsy Bonner Powell had arrived.

Chapter 20

George Curtis had become increasingly more nervous about why Robert Powell was drawing him into the Graduation Gala filming.

It was bad enough that he had been forced to agree to be on camera at some point, but why was he being invited to this breakfast, where, as Rob put it, “all the suspects will gather”? Then Rob quickly added, “Not that you’re one of the suspects, George.”

Now, as he parked his red Porsche in the driveway, George pulled out a handkerchief and patted his forehead dry, an unusual gesture for him. The convertible top was down and the air-conditioning was on. There was no reason to be sweating—except anxiety.

But George Curtis, billionaire, constant on the Forbes list, friend of presidents and prime ministers, at that moment acknowledged to himself that by the end of the week it was possible that he would be under arrest, in handcuffs. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief again.

Taking a long minute to steady his nerves, he got out of the car. The June morning was, as one television weatherman was prone to saying, “A gift. A perfect day.” And today he’d be right, George thought—blue skies, sun glowing warm, a soft breeze coming from nearby Long Island Sound. But he didn’t care.

He started to cross the driveway to the front door, then waited as a limousine rounded the curve. The limo stopped to allow him to walk in front of it.

He did not ring the bell, but waited until the chauffeur opened the back door and the occupants stepped out. Even though it had been twenty years, he immediately recognized Alison Schaefer. She hasn’t changed much, was George’s immediate impression—tall, slender, the dark hair not quite so long on her shoulders as it used to be. He remembered that on the night of the Gala he had chatted with her for a few moments and had the impression that there was repressed anger in her when she said something about the lavish party. “The money could be put to better use,” she said bitterly. Because it was such an unexpected statement coming from one of the honorees, George had never forgotten it.

Now Alison waited by the car until the other occupant got out with painfully slow movements. As George watched, Rod Kimball pulled himself to his feet and adjusted his crutches firmly under his arms.

Of course, George thought. Alison married the rookie football player who was struck by a hit-and-run driver.

He rang the bell as the couple negotiated the one step to the wide entrance. With polite constraint, Alison and George greeted each other, and Alison intro- duced Rod.

Then Jane was opening the door for them. She greeted the three with what for her was warmth and said, unnecessarily, “Mr. Powell is expecting you.”

AFTER ALEX BUCKLEY PARKED IN FRONT OF THE Powell mansion, he took a moment to study the mas- sive stone house before he left his car.

What had Betsy Bonner thought when she saw this house? he wondered. She had been renting a modest condo in Salem Ridge in the hope of meeting someone with money.

She sure struck it rich for a lady born in the Bronx and making a living as an usher in a theatre, Alex thought as he got out of the car and walked to the front door.

He was admitted by Jane, and introduced to the group already in the dining room. He was relieved to see Laurie Moran had arrived before him.

“Well, here we go,” she said when he walked over to her.

“Just what I was thinking,” he replied, his tone equally low.

REGINA KNEW IT WAS DANGEROUS TO CARRY HER father’s suicide note with her to the breakfast. If anyone opened her purse and found it, she would become the most logical suspect to have murdered Betsy Powell. They might as well stop filming the show, she thought.

On the other hand, she had an almost paranoid fear that if she left the letter in the safe at the hotel, someone would steal it. It would be just like Robert Powell to pull off something like that, she thought. I should know! At least I can keep my pocketbook with me.

Then she had folded the note so that it fit inside the small billfold that held her credit and insurance cards.

As her limo turned into the familiar driveway, she saw the front door being opened and three people going into the house. One of the men was on crutches.

That has to be Alison’s husband, she thought. By the time she’d heard about the accident she’d been in Florida.

We were such dopes when we agreed to be her bridesmaids! she thought now. The press had had a field day taking pictures of Claire and Nina and me walking down the aisle in front of Alison. One of the captions read, “The bride and her fellow suspects.”

Talk about a low blow!

Regina was so deep in her thoughts that for a moment she did not realize the car had stopped and the driver was holding the door open for her.

Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and climbed the steps to the door.

How many times have I been in this house? she asked herself as she pressed the bell. She’d been close to Claire in high school.

But why did I keep coming after Daddy killed himself? Was it morbid curiosity to look at Betsy throwing her charm around? Or was it that I always planned to get back at both of them someday?

In the few moments she waited until the door was opened, she nervously reassured herself about her appearance.

She had lost the twenty pounds she vowed to drop when she received that letter asking her to be in the series. She had bought some new clothes for this trip, and she knew that the black-and-white jacket and white slacks flattered her reclaimed figure and complemented her midnight-black hair.

Zach kept telling me how good I look, she thought as the door opened and Jane, a perfunctory welcome on her lips, stepped back to admit her into the house.

Regina’s unwelcome thought as she entered the mansion was to remember her promise to Zach to burn the letter before it provided a reason to suspect she had killed Betsy Bonner Powell.

CLAIRE HAD THOUGHT SHE WOULD BE NERVOUS and fearful at the meeting with her stepfather, Robert Powell. It had been years since they’d seen each other. Instead she woke from a troubled sleep alert with icy calm. Her room service order arrived promptly at seven, and she ate her continental breakfast sitting in the chair in front of the television, watching the news.

But instead of seeing the latest report on a series of muggings in Manhattan, she flashed back to the television coverage of her mother’s body being carried out of the house.

We were all together, huddled in the den, she thought. We had robes on.

And then the police started to question us . . .

She turned off the television set and carried her second cup of coffee into the bathroom. There she drew a bath, and when the tub was nearly full, dropped the bath salts she had carried with her into it.

Dear Betsy’s favorite, she thought. I want to smell just like her when I get there.

She was in no hurry. I want to be sure they’re all there when I arrive. She smiled at the thought. Betsy was always late. It drove Rob crazy. He was a stickler for punctuality, no matter what the occasion.

I should know!

The outfit Claire had chosen was a sky-blue Escada cashmere and silk jacket and narrow gray slacks.

Betsy loved this color, she thought as she slipped on the jacket. She thought it brought out the color of her eyes. Well, let it bring out the color of mine.

The one piece of jewelry that she had taken when she left Robert Powell’s house for the last time was the simple strand of pearls that had originally belonged to the grandmother whom she only vaguely remembered. But I do remember loving her, she thought. Even though I was only three when she died, I remember sitting on her lap while she read books to me.

At eight thirty the driver called to announce that he was downstairs.

“I’ll be another half hour,” she told him. She had calculated that that would bring her to the house about 9:20. Again she reassured herself that all the others would be gathered there.

Then Betsy Bonner Powell’s daughter will make her entrance.