‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ Chapters 61–70

Robert Powell entered the kitchen a few minutes later. “Jane, I’ve been thinking. It’s quite warm out. Let’s eat in the dining room. How many do we have for lunch today?”

Jane could see that his mood was much brighter than it had been in the morning. He was wearing a light blue sport shirt and khaki slacks. His full head of white hair complemented his handsome face. His straight carriage belied his chronological age.

He doesn’t look anything like his age, Jane thought. He’s always looked like an English lord.

Lord and Lady Powell.

What had he asked her? Of course, how many would be at lunch today.

“The four graduates,” Jane hesitated. “That’s the way I still think of them. Ms. Moran, Mrs. Craig, Mr. Rod Kimball, Mr. Alex Buckley, and yourself, sir.”

“The lucky nine,” Rob Powell said cheerfully. “Or a motley crew. Which is it, Jane?”

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the patio door and went outside.

What’s gotten into him? Jane asked herself. This morning it seemed like all he wanted was to get them out of the house. Perhaps knowing that they’ll be on their way tomorrow is making him feel good. I don’t know what the others said in their interviews, but I know I came off fine.

Filled with self-satisfaction, she began to set the table in the dining room.

Josh appeared in the doorway. “I’ll finish that,” he said angrily. “You get the food out.”

Jane looked at him, surprised. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“The matter with me is that I’m not a houseboy,” Josh snapped.

Jane had just begun placing the silverware on the table. Startled, she straightened up. Her cheeks flushed, her lips tight, she spat out the words, “For the kind of salary you get, you have some nerve to talk like that about helping out in the house for a few days. Be careful. Be very careful. If Mr. Powell had heard you, you’d have been out the door in a minute. If I report this conversation to him, the same thing would happen.”

“Well, listen to the lady of the house,” Josh snapped defiantly. “Whatever became of all the jewelry George Curtis gave Betsy? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. When Mr. Rob was on business trips, I used to drive Betsy to her trysts with George Curtis, and she’d be lit up like a Christmas tree when I took her to meet him. I know she kept it hidden in her room somewhere, but I never heard any mention of it being found. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, Mr. Rob Powell had no idea that affair was going on.”

“You don’t know what you’re sure of,” Jane whispered fiercely. “So why don’t we both agree to keep our mouths shut? Tomorrow at this time they’ll all be on their way.”

“One last thought, Jane. If Betsy had left Powell for George Curtis, she’d have taken you with her, for two good reasons. First, because you waited on her hand and foot. Second, because once she moved out of here and asked Powell for a divorce, he’d have hired private detectives to find out how long that affair had been going on and discovered that you covered for Betsy when he called her from overseas every time he was away on a business trip.”

“And what do you think he’d have done to you if he knew you were driving her back and forth to her little love nest in his Bentley?” Jane asked, her voice almost a whisper.

They glared at each other from across the table, then Jane said in a pleasant voice, “We’d better get moving. They were told that lunch would be served at one-thirty.”

 

Chapter 65

After Alison fled from the den, Alex and Laurie did not speak until Jerry, Grace, and the camera crew were gone.

Then Alex said quietly, “Two of our graduates have now given a worldwide audience a convincing reason why one of them might have killed Betsy Powell.”

“They absolutely did,” Laurie said. “And who knows what Regina and Nina will have to say this afternoon? I would be surprised if all four of them don’t bitterly regret getting involved in this program, even for the money.”

“I’m sure they already do,” Alex agreed.

“Alex, why do you think Powell insisted we all stay here tonight—and that we don’t interview him until tomorrow morning?”

“Building up the pressure on all of them, hoping one of them will crack? You and I will be the chief witnesses, if that happens,” Alex replied briskly. “My guess is that he’s bluffing.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better call my office. We’re due inside in fifteen minutes.”

“And I’m going to try my dad.”

Alex sat back in the chair, pretending to look for something in his briefcase.

He wanted to be here for Laurie if Leo Farley did not—or could not—answer the phone.

 

Chapter 66

Leo’s cheery “Hello” took the edge off Laurie’s panic.

“I hear you were out on the town last night, Dad,” she said.

“Yes, I had a hot date at Mount Sinai. How’s your show going?”

“Why didn’t you call me when you went to the hospital?”

“So that you didn’t come rushing over here. I’ve had these episodes before. Jim Morris told me to calm down by watching game shows. Right now I’m watching an I Love Lucy rerun.”

“Then I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from it. I’ll be down by seven thirty at the latest.” Laurie hesitated, then asked, “Dad, do you really feel all right now?”

“I feel fine. Stop worrying.”

“You make that very hard,” Laurie said wryly. “All right, go back to I Love Lucy. I’ll see you later.”

With one hand she dropped the cell phone in her pocket. With the other, she impatiently fumbled for a tissue to brush away the tears that had begun to form in her eyes.

Alex reached into his pocket and handed her his freshly pressed handkerchief. As she accepted it he said, “Laurie, it doesn’t hurt to let go a little occasionally.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “The day I let go, I’ll lose my grip for good. I keep hearing that threat ringing in my ears. The only way I have kept my sanity at all is by hoping Blue Eyes keeps his promise that I’m next. Maybe when he kills me, he’ll be caught. If he gets away, maybe Dad and Timmy can change their identities and disappear; who knows? But suppose Timmy and I are outside together? Or if I die, suppose Dad isn’t here to protect Timmy?”

There was no answer Alex could offer her. Her tears stopped immediately, and he watched as Laurie pulled out her compact and dabbed her eyes. When she looked up at him her voice revealed no sign of stress. “You’d better make that call, Alex,” she said. “‘Mr. Rob’ expects us at the table in exactly fifteen minutes.”

 

Chapter 67

Chief Penn, the graduates, Rod, Alex, Muriel, and Laurie had gathered at the dining room table when Robert Powell made his appearance.

“How quiet you all are,” he remarked. “I can understand why. You are under a great strain.” He paused as he looked from one to the other. “And so am I.”

Jane was about to enter the dining room.

“Jane, would you please excuse us and close the door? I have a few things to share with my guests.”

“Of course, sir.”

Powell addressed them: “Are any of you thinking that this beautiful day is exactly the same as the day of the Gala? I remember Betsy sitting at this table with me that morning. We were congratulating each other on our good luck at having such perfect weather. Could any of us have imagined that the next morning Betsy would be dead, murdered by an intruder?” He paused. “Or perhaps not by an intruder?”

He waited, and when there was no response, he went on briskly, “Now, let’s be sure I have the details straight. This afternoon, Regina and then Nina will be interviewed. At about four-thirty the graduates will be dressed in replicas of the gowns they wore that night and photographed against the background of films of the Gala. My good friend George Curtis will be standing with you, Alex, sharing his impressions of that evening.”

He looked at Laurie. “Am I correct so far?”

“Yes, you are,” she said.

Powell smiled. “In the morning I will have my interview with you, Alex—with the graduates present. I hope and expect you will all find it quite interesting. One of you especially.” He gave a tight smile.

“As to later this evening, everyone at this table, with the exception of Chief Penn, will be staying overnight. After the last scene is finished, the graduates will be driven in individual cars to their hotels. You will pack and check out. Your luggage will be placed in your car. You will have dinner on your own wherever you wish to dine—as my guest, of course— but please return here by eleven o’clock. We will have a nightcap together at that time, then retire. I want everyone to be alert for what I have to say tomorrow. Is that understood?”

This time, as if compelled to respond, heads nodded.

“At brunch tomorrow I will present you the checks you have been promised. After that, one of you may want to use it to retain Mr. Buckley’s services.” He smiled a cold, mirthless smile. “Just joking, of course,” he added.

He turned to Nina. “Nina, you need not share your car with your dear mother. Muriel and I are going to dine together this evening. It is time to turn the page on the past.”

Muriel smiled adoringly at Powell, then shot a triumphant look at Nina.

“Enough of business. Let us now enjoy our luncheon. Ah, here comes Jane. I know she has prepared vichyssoise. You have not lived until you have sampled Jane’s vichyssoise. It is indeed nectar for the gods.”

It was served in total silence.

 

Chapter 68

After leaving the dining room, Regina walked across the yard to the makeup van. The heat outside was a sharp contrast to the coolness of the house, but she welcomed it. After hearing Robert Powell’s elaborate plans for the rest of the day and tomorrow morning, she was sure of only one thing: he had her father’s suicide note. What more proof would anyone need that she had been Betsy’s killer?

For twenty-seven years, since she was fifteen years old, even under oath she had sworn there was no such note in his pocket or around his body.

Who could have had a stronger motive to kill Betsy? she asked herself. And there was no question that Robert Powell was determined to have closure on Betsy’s death. That was the whole purpose of his financing the program.

She walked past the pool. Crystal clear, reflecting the sun, brightly patterned lounge chairs scattered around it, it had the look of a stage setting. In the correspondence, they had all been invited to bring swimming apparel.

No one had.

Beyond it, the pool house, a miniature of the mansion, stood unused by anyone but the gardener, who incessantly entered and exited as he fussed over the grounds.

At the production van, Regina hesitated, then pulled open the door.

Meg was waiting, jars of cosmetics lined up neatly on the shelf in front of her.

Courtney was settled in the other chair, reading in front of a shelf of brushes, sprays, and a hair dryer.

This morning Courtney had told Regina that women would kill to have her thick, curly hair. “And I’ll bet you’ll say that it’s a nuisance because it grows too fast.”

That’s exactly what I did say, Regina thought.

She avoided looking at the wall on her left, where the pictures of herself and the other graduates at the Gala had been blown up.

She knew what they looked like. Claire, without a trace of makeup, her hair in a ponytail, her dress high-necked and with sleeves to her elbows. Alison, whose talented mother had made her gown, as she made all her clothes—Alison’s father was a produce manager in a grocery store. Nina, her dress daringly low cut, her red hair blazing, her makeup skillfully applied. Even then she looked so confident, Regina thought.

And I had on the most elegant dress of all. Mother went to work at Bergdorf after we lost everything. Even though that dress was reduced a lot, we still couldn’t afford it. But she insisted I have it. “Your father would have bought it for you,” she told me.

Regina realized she had not spoken to Meg or to Courtney. “Hello, you two,” she said. “Don’t think I’m crazy. Just gearing up for my interview.”

“Claire and Alison were nervous, too,” Meg said cheerfully. “Why wouldn’t you be? This program is going to be broadcast all over the world.”

Regina sank into the chair at Meg’s station. “Thanks for reminding me of that,” she said as Meg clipped a plastic sheet around her neck.

This morning, for the picture in the den depicting the four of them after the body had been found and the police had arrived, Meg had applied very little makeup, and Courtney had left their hair a touch disheveled, as it had been the morning after Betsy’s death.

Now they were all wearing clothes of their own choice. “Dress as you feel comfortable,” Laurie had counseled them.

Regina had chosen a dark blue linen jacket, white shell, and slacks. Her only jewelry was the string of pearls her father had given her on her fifteenth birth- day.

Now she watched as with deft strokes, Meg began to apply foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lip rouge.

Courtney came over, and with a few quick movements of her brush, swept Regina’s hair into a half bang and pulled it behind her ears.

“You look great,” she said.

“You sure do,” Meg agreed.

As Meg was unclasping the sheet from Regina’s neck, Jerry opened the door of the van. “All set, Regina?” he asked.

“I guess so.”

As they walked back to the house Jerry said comfortingly, “I know you’re nervous, Regina. Don’t be. Can you believe that Helen Hayes got stage fright every night till the moment she stepped onstage?”

“It’s funny,” Regina told him. “You know that I have a real estate office. Just this morning I was thinking that the day I got the letter about this program I was so unnerved I did a lousy presentation of a house I should have sold. The owner was a seventy-six-year-old woman who wanted to move into an assisted-living facility. I sold the house for her two months later, and for thirty thousand dollars less than I should have gotten for it. When I get the money for doing this program, I’m going to return my commission to her.”

“Then you’re one in a million,” Jerry said dryly as he slid open the door from the patio to the kitchen.

Regina remembered that earlier in the morning, this patio entrance had been blocked off.

“No one on the patio now, and no sign of Jane,” Jerry commented. “I guess she must take some downtime after all.”

Where are the others? Regina asked herself as they walked down the hallway to the den. Are they afraid to be together?

We don’t trust each other, she thought. We each had a reason to kill Betsy, but mine is the strongest.

Laurie Moran and Alex Buckley were waiting for her in the den. Laurie’s assistant Grace stood to the side. A crew member was still adjusting lights. The cameraman was in his place.

Without being invited, Regina sat at the table opposite Alex. She began to clasp and unclasp her hands. Stop it, she warned herself. She heard Laurie’s greeting and returned it.

Alex Buckley was welcoming her, but she was sure his attitude was hostile. When would he produce her father’s suicide note? she asked herself.

“Take one,” the director was saying, and began to count. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” There was the clap of the slate board, and Alex began.

“We are now speaking to the third of the four honorees at the Graduation Gala, Regina Callari.

“Regina, thank you for agreeing to be with us on this program. You grew up in this town, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And yet, as I understand it, you haven’t been back since shortly after the Gala and the death of Betsy Bonner Powell?”

Try to sound calm, Regina warned herself.

“As I’m sure the others have told you, all four of us were treated as murder suspects. Would you have hung around after that?”

“You moved to Florida shortly after. Your mother followed you there?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Wasn’t she very young when she died?”

“She was just turning fifty.”

“What was she like?”

“She was one of those women who did a lot of good, but hated the limelight.”

“What was her relationship with your father?”

“They were one soul.”

“What was his business?”

“He bought failing companies, turned them around, and then sold them for huge profits. He was very successful.”

“Let’s go back to that later. I want to talk about the night of the Gala, starting with when you were all in the den together.”

Laurie listened and observed as Regina told the same story as the other girls. They had filled their wineglasses again and again. They had discussed the evening, laughing at some of the dresses of the older women. Exactly as the other girls had, she described the finding of Betsy’s body.

“We were young. You must know that we all had our own issues with the Powells,” Regina was saying. “By then I know I was relaxed and enjoying being with the others. We refilled our wineglasses, going in and out for smokes. Even Claire was joking about her stepfather being so finicky about smoking. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t light up until you are at the end of the patio. He’s got the nose of a bloodhound.’

“We were talking about our plans. Nina was going to Hollywood. She always played the lead in the plays in high school and college, and, of course, her mother was an actress. She even joked about the fact that her mother was still riding her because she called Claire and her mother over when they were in the same restaurant, and that’s how Betsy met Rob Powell.”

“How did Claire respond to that?” Alex asked quickly.

“She said, ‘You are lucky, Nina,’” Regina answered. “What do you think she meant?” Alex asked quickly.

“I have my suspicions,” Regina answered honestly. “But I just don’t know.”

“Let’s go back a little,” Alex said. “I’ve seen pictures of your home. It was very beautiful.”

“Yes, it was,” Regina said. “And more than that, it was a warm and comfortable home.”

“But then, of course, everything changed when your father invested in Robert Powell’s hedge fund.”

Regina realized where he was going. Be careful, she warned herself, he’s building a motive for you to have killed Betsy.

“It must have been hard not to resent the fact that virtually all of your dad’s money was lost in that investment.”

“My mother was sad but not bitter. She told me my father had something of a go-for-the-gold mentality, and he put too many eggs in one basket several times. On the other hand, he had never been reckless.”

“But you still maintained a close friendship with Claire?”

“Yes, I did, until we all left Salem Ridge. I guess by unspoken agreement we didn’t want to stay in touch after Betsy’s death.”

“How did you feel coming to this mansion after your father’s death?”

“I was very seldom here. I don’t think Robert Pow- ell liked having Claire’s friends around. We were more likely to get together at the rest of our homes.”

“Then why would he have the Gala for all of you?”

“My guess is it was Betsy’s idea. Some of her friends were having graduation parties for their daughters. She wanted to outshine them.”

“What were you thinking the night of the Gala?”

“Missing my father. Thinking how perfect that beautiful night would have been if he were still here. My mother was a guest as well—I could see in her eyes that her thoughts mirrored my own.”

“Regina, at age fifteen you discovered your father’s body,” Alex continued.

“Yes, I did,” Regina said quietly.

“Would it have been easier for you if he left a note? If he had apologized for his suicide and the financial disaster? If he told you one last time he loved you? Do you think that would have helped you and your mother?”

The vivid memory of feeling so happy, riding her bicycle up the long driveway, the salt air filling her senses, pushing the button to open the garage door, the sight of her handsome forty-five-year-old father swaying from the noose, one hand around it as if perhaps he changed his mind too late, shattered Regina’s fragile composure.

“Would a note have made any difference?” she asked, choking out the words. “My father was dead.”

“Did you blame Robert Powell because your father lost everything in his hedge fund?”

Her last shred of composure crumbled. “I blame both of them. Betsy was up to her neck in deceiving my father, just as much as Powell was.”

“How do you know that, Regina? Wasn’t it because your father did in fact leave a note?”

Alex waited, then went on firmly. “He did leave a note, didn’t he?”

Regina heard herself trying to whisper a faint “No . . . no . . . no,” as he stared at her, his eyes sympathetic but demanding.

 

Chapter 69

Bruno’s excitement rose to a fever pitch after he heard Laurie’s call to her father. Gleefully, he reflected on how everything was falling into place.

Leo Farley would be in the hospital until tomorrow morning.

Leo and Laurie would take the call from Timmy in the hospital room.

Two hours later, I pick up Timmy, Bruno thought. Leo had already told the director of the camp that he was in the hospital. I’ll be in a cop’s uniform.

I can pull it off.

I can probably even get away with it.

But if not, it’s worth it. The “Blue Eyes” murder case had been in the newspapers for years; still was. If they only knew that I spent five years rotting in prison after I shot Laurie’s husband. And all for a lousy parole violation. But in a way, it was worth it. Leo Farley and his daughter have spent these five years wondering and worrying about when I’ll strike again. Tomorrow their waiting will be over.

Bruno dropped the phone into his pocket and went outside in time to see the police chief’s car pulling up behind the studio vans. He was here for lunch.

Bruno walked to the putting green, as far from the chief’s line of vision as humanly possible. Here, the chief could not get a clear look at his face.

There was one thing Bruno knew—most cops have long-term memories of faces, even when people age or alter their facial hair.

Or are dumb enough to put themselves on Facebook.

Bruno laughed out loud at that thought.

An hour later he was carefully examining the flower beds alongside the pool when the police car drove away.

That meant the chief wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

Just in time for the Big Show, Bruno thought gleefully.

 

Chapter 70

Nina and Muriel did not speak after lunch. Muriel had obviously asked Robert Powell to have a car ready for her for the afternoon, because it had parked at the front door and was waiting for her.

Nina knew what that meant. The expensive new outfits her mother bought on her credit card were about to be put aside in favor of new ones—ones that would also be purchased on Nina’s credit card.

Nina went up to her room to try to collect her thoughts until it was time for her own interview.

Like all the others it was a large bedroom, with a sitting area that offered a couch, an easy chair, a cocktail table, and a television.

Nina sat on the couch, taking in the cream-colored draperies behind the bed, the way their edgings picked up those on the panels at the window, and the way the rug and pillow shams coordinated and harmonized. An interior designer’s dream, Nina thought.

She remembered that about a year before her death, Betsy had commissioned a complete redecorating job. Claire had told the girls about it.

Claire had said, “I’ve been told to bring you over to see it. My mother is giving the grand tour to everyone.”

The “grand tour” came up after she died, Nina remembered. In fact, a college friend majoring in pre-law had warned me it would be a factor in the defense if anyone was accused of Betsy’s murder: many, many people knew the layout of the house exactly—and that Betsy and Robert had separate bedrooms.

What is going to happen? Nina asked herself. I’m sure Robert is bluffing. He’s making a fool of my mother, and she will turn on me again. Would she honestly be vindictive enough to claim I confessed to her that I killed Betsy?

No, even she couldn’t do that, Nina decided.

Or could she?

Nina’s cell phone rang. She picked it up, and her eyes widened as she saw the number. Quickly she answered, “Hello, Grant.”

His voice was warm as he spoke her name.

Nina listened as he told her she wasn’t to make any plans with anyone else for Saturday night. He wanted her to go to a dinner party with him at Steven Spielberg’s home.

To go with Grant to a dinner party at Steven Spielberg’s home! This was the crème de la crème of Hollywood society.

Suppose her mother accused Nina of confessing to Betsy’s murder? Or, almost as bad, returned to California with her and picked up where they had left off: living with her, screaming at her all the time, the condo always a mess, wineglasses all over the place, the smell of cigarette smoke heavy in the air.

“Can’t wait to see you Saturday night,” Grant said. Don’t sound like Muriel, simpering and fawning, Nina warned herself. “I’m looking forward to it so much, too, Grant,” she said warmly, but without undue excitement in her tone.

After she disconnected, Nina sat, no longer even aware of her surroundings.

No matter which way she does it, my mother is going to ruin the rest of my life, she thought.

The phone rang again. It was Grace. “Nina, would you mind going over to makeup?” she asked. “They’ll be ready for your interview in about half an hour.”

 

From I’VE GOT YOU UNDER MY SKIN by Mary Higgins Clark. Copyright © 2014 by Mary Higgins Clark. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, LLC.