The Sleeping Beauty Killer

by Mary Higgins Clark

  14

  Four hours later, Laurie checked her watch once again from the backseat of the SUV. Usually, she loved the fact that Fisher Blake Studios was located in Rockefeller Center with a view of the iconic skating rink. But today, midtown traffic was at an absolute standstill. Livid at the thought of keeping Brett waiting, she finally hopped out three blocks from the building and practically jogged to it. It was three fifty-five when she stepped from the elevator on the sixteenth floor. She was out of breath, but she was here.

  She spotted Jerry and Grace lurking outside her office door. Grace, as usual, had a full face of expertly applied makeup. She wore a ­V-neck purple sweater dress that hugged her curves but was long enough to skim the top of her thigh-high black boots. For Grace, the outfit was practically demure. Tall, thin Jerry towered over her, looking dapper in what Laurie knew he liked to call his “skinny suit.”

  They both perked up at the sight of her.

  “What are you two conspiring about?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” Jerry said wryly.

  “The only conspiracy I know about was the traffic that tried to keep me from my four o’clock with Brett.”

  “Not only with Brett,” Grace said teasingly.

  “Will you please just tell me what’s going on?” Laurie demanded.

  Jerry spoke first. “We saw Brett’s secretary meet Ryan Nichols at reception fifteen minutes ago. He’s our new host, isn’t he? His résumé is perfect.”

  Grace pretended to fan herself. “Not just his résumé. I mean, we’ll all miss Alex, but that man is fine.”

  Great. Laurie hadn’t even met Ryan Nichols, but he already had the support of not only Brett, but now Grace and Jerry. And he had arrived fifteen minutes before their meeting was scheduled to begin.

  • • •

  She entered Brett’s office and found him seated next to Ryan Nichols on the sofa. She noticed a bottle of champagne on the coffee table and three glasses. Brett never asked her to sit on the couch for meetings, and the only time he’d offered her champagne was after their first special had dominated its time slot in the ratings. She resisted the urge to apologize for interrupting their “bromance.”

  Ryan stood to greet her. Grace hadn’t been exaggerating about his good looks. He had sandy blond hair and wide green eyes. His smile revealed perfect teeth. His handshake was so firm that it was almost painful. “It’s great to finally meet you, Laurie. I’m so excited to be joining the team. Brett was just telling me that you’re in the process of choosing our next case. I’m so grateful to be jumping in on the ground floor.”

  The team? Jumping in? More like jumping the gun, she thought.

  She tried to sound equally enthusiastic, but knew she was never a good liar. “Yes, Brett and I have a lot of decisions to make about the show’s direction, both the next case and the new host. But I’m so appreciative that you’re interested. With your background, your time must be in very high demand.”

  Ryan looked to Brett with a confused expression.

  “Laurie, I’m sorry if I wasn’t clearer when we spoke earlier. Ryan is your new host, so you can cross that off your to-do list.”

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “You know,” Ryan said, “I need to find the men’s room. Do you think Dana would mind pointing the way? I’ll learn my way around in no time.”

  Brett nodded, and Ryan shut the door on his way out.

  “Are you trying to sabotage this?” Brett sneered. “That was embarrassing.”

  “I didn’t mean to create a situation, Brett, but I had no idea that you’d already made this decision without any input from me. I thought Under Suspicion was my show.”

  “Every show made by this studio is my show. And I gave you ­Ryan’s résumé and heard no objection.”

  “I didn’t realize it was ‘speak now, or forever hold my peace.’ ”

  “Well, this is my call, and I’ve made it. We were lucky to have Alex, but Ryan’s even better. He’ll connect more with younger viewers. And frankly, with his credentials, he could be on a fast track to be the next attorney general. Fortunately, he wants to be a celebrity instead.”

  “And that’s a good thing in a journalist?”

  “Oh, enough with the high-horse rhetoric. You make a reality TV show, Laurie. Embrace it.”

  She shook her head. “We’re more than that, Brett, and you know it.”

  “Fine, you’ve done some good work. And you’ve helped people. But that’s only possible because of your ratings. You had a month to propose another host, and you kept dragging your feet. So you can thank me later for finding you someone as good as Ryan.”

  She heard a tap at the door, and then Ryan walked in again.

  She mustered her best smile. “Welcome to Under Suspicion,” she said, as Brett popped the champagne cork.

  • • •

  She had barely finished her first sip of champagne when Brett asked about her progress on the Casey Carter story.

  She began summarizing her meeting with Casey when Ryan interrupted. “It’s not an unsolved case. The entire premise of the show is to revisit unsolved cases from the perspective of people who have lived—quote, unquote—under suspicion.”

  Thanks for telling me the premise of my own show, Laurie thought.

  “Hunter Raleigh’s murder is solved,” he continued, “and the only person under suspicion was convicted and sent to prison. Case closed. What am I missing?”

  Laurie started to explain that she and Brett had already decided that a wrongful conviction case would be a good next move for the series.

  This time, it was Brett who interrupted. “Ryan has a point. That case was a slam dunk. The girl had too much to drink at that gala and embarrassed him in public. They probably had a fight at home. He was going to break things off, and she pulled a gun on him. As I recall, the evidence was overwhelming. The only issue, it seems, was whether she did it in cold blood or in the heat of the moment. I guess the jury gave her the benefit of the doubt on that score.”

  “With all due respect, Brett, the last time we spoke, you said you didn’t care whether she was innocent or not. Her name alone means viewers will tune in.”

  Ryan did not even wait for Brett to respond. “That’s an old media model,” he argued. “Fifteen minutes of fame is now more like fifteen seconds. By the time we air, she could be old news. And ratings are driven by young audiences. We need viewers who buzz about the show on social media. They’ve never even heard of Casey Carter.”

  Brett pointed his champagne flute in Ryan’s direction. “Again, he’s got a point. Do we have a fresh angle here, or is this just a rehash of her defense from fifteen years ago?”

  Laurie felt the urge to down the rest of her champagne in one gulp, but she set down her glass instead. She wanted to be clear-headed.

  She reached into her briefcase, pulled out the photograph she’d gotten from Casey, and handed it to Brett. “That’s our angle.”

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “Casey has had fifteen years to study the evidence in her case. She can recite every word of every police report from memory. But after we spoke on Wednesday, she went home and started looking through everything with a new eye, including the old crime scene photographs. She thinks being out of prison let her see the images in a different light. She let herself remember what it was like to be with Hunter in that house.”

  “Oh, please,” Ryan said sarcastically.

  “That’s when she noticed this,” Laurie said, gesturing toward the photograph.

  “It’s a nightstand,” Brett said. “So what?”

  “It’s not a matter of what’s there, but what isn’t there. Hunter’s favorite memento—a framed picture of himself with the President at a White House function recognizing the Raleigh Foundation—is missing. Acc
ording to Casey, it was always there. And she studied all the other crime scene photos. The police photographed every inch of that house. And Hunter’s picture with the President doesn’t appear anywhere. Where did it go?”

  “So you’re taking a killer’s word that there used to be a picture on that nightstand,” Ryan said.

  “Our show works because we give every participant’s version of events a fair shake,” she snapped. “It’s what we call research.”

  “Time out,” Brett said, forming his hands in a capital T. “So assuming she’s right about the missing picture, what’s the theory?”

  “That the real killer took it as a memento. Nothing else was missing from the house.”

  Laurie was relieved to see Brett nodding. “So whoever took it would have had to know how much it meant to Hunter,” he said.

  “Exactly.” Laurie was thinking again about the alternative suspects, especially Hunter’s friend, Mark Templeton. Hunter had trusted him to run the finances of his most important initiative—a foundation named for his mother. To embezzle money from that particular fund seemed personal. Hunter was wealthy, handsome, powerful, and beloved. She imagined years of resentment building within a man who worked in his shadow, capped off by an accusation of financial wrongdoing and the threat of exposure. Two shots in the bedroom. The photograph on the nightstand of Hunter and the President, as if mocking him.

  “Think of the ratings,” she said, nudging, knowing Brett’s bottom line. “The return of Sleeping Beauty: Casey Carter speaks on camera for the first time ever.”

  She was infuriated when Brett’s gaze shifted to Ryan for approval.

  “How do we know that picture frame even existed?” Ryan asked.

  “We don’t,” Laurie said, “not yet. But what if that changes?”

  “Then you might just have a story to tell, so get on it.” Brett suddenly set down his glass and stood up. “We better get going, Ryan. Don’t want to be late to the book signing.”

  “What’s that?” Laurie asked.

  “You know my historian friend, Jed?”

  “Of course.” Laurie knew him because every time Jed Nichols published a book, Brett pressured the news division to find time slots for him to promote it. She also knew that Jed was Brett’s best friend and college roommate from Northwestern. And then she made the connection. Nichols, as in Ryan Nichols.

  “Jed’s Ryan’s uncle,” Brett explained. “I thought I mentioned that.”

  No, she thought. I would definitely remember.

  •••

  Laurie stood on a stoop in front of a walk-up building on Ridge Street and Delancey, her index finger against one ear to block out the sound of traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. She could barely hear her father on the other end of the line.

  “Dad, I’m going to be late to Alex’s.” She felt like she’d run late more times in the past week than in the last five years put together. “Can you please take Timmy, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Where are you? You sound like you’re in the middle of the freeway. You’re not still with Casey Carter, are you? I’m telling you, Laurie: the woman is guilty.”

  “No, I’m downtown. But I need to talk to a witness.”

  “Right now? You’re still working?”

  “Yes, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be there by the kickoff.”

  When she hung up, there was a new text message on her screen. It was from Charlotte. Angela just got off the phone with Casey, who said you were there for hours. Angela told her not to get her hopes up. How’d it go from your end?

  She tapped a quick answer on the screen. Cautiously optimistic. Still much to do. She hit send and tucked her phone in her pocket.

  She didn’t want to think about how her father would feel if she wound up believing Casey was wrongly convicted. And she didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte by concluding her friend’s cousin was guilty of murder. But she did need to nail down a case for their next episode.

  As she pressed the buzzer for the apartment, she thought: I’ll go wherever the evidence leads me. That’s the only right answer.

  15

  The apartment was modest but sparkling clean. Not surprising, perhaps, given that its owner had spent decades as the Raleigh family’s most beloved housekeeper, Elaine Jenson.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Jenson.”

  “Please, call me Elaine.” The woman was just as tidy as her apartment, with a perfectly pressed turquoise blouse and black pants. She was five feet tall at most. “But I have to admit I’m not sure I would have agreed to this if I had known the nature of your television program. I assume it’s no coincidence that you called me with questions about Hunter shortly after the release of Casey Carter.”

  When Laurie had called while riding back from Connecticut, she had simply said that she worked for Fisher Blake Studios and wanted to speak to her about her former employer. “Not a coincidence. In fact, I got your name from Casey.” Elaine’s pursed lips made clear that she wasn’t happy about the connection. “I take it you’re not a fan.”

  “A fan? No. At one point, yes, but no longer.”

  “You believe she’s guilty.”

  “Of course. I didn’t want to, not at first. I adored Casey. She was young, but she was formidable, and I believed she was a fine choice to be Hunter’s wife, despite his father’s concerns. I’m glad I never spoke up, because it turned out the General was right about her. Not that he ever predicted murder, of course.”

  “Hunter’s father didn’t approve?”

  “Oh dear, see? I just assumed as a reporter you must have known. I don’t speak about the family. I think you should go, Ms. Moran.”

  “I’m not here to dig up old gossip,” Laurie said. “If the family disapproved of Casey before Hunter’s death, Casey didn’t mention that to me.”

  Elaine’s eyes dropped to her lap. “That’s because Hunter never told her,” she said quietly. “Now, please, that’s all I will say. I’m retired now, but the Raleighs have been wonderful to me. It’s not right for me to talk about this.”

  “I understand.” Laurie rose from her chair. “This is a lovely apartment,” she said, changing subjects. “Have you always lived in the city?”

  Elaine still had the same phone number listed in police reports after Hunter’s murder. Finding her had taken one phone call.

  “This has been my home since I married my husband twenty-six years ago, but Hunter knew how much my children loved the outdoors. I’d take them up to the country house for weeks at a time in the summer. We’d stay in the guest house and help out up there, but usually I worked for the family in the city.”

  “What about Mary Jane Finder? Did she ever go to the country house?”

  “Not to work per se, but she was at the General’s side more often than not,” she said, a slight edge in her voice. “She’d been to the house, of course.”

  Detecting disapproval, Laurie decided to press further. “I believe she even attended the foundation gala with him the night Hunter was killed. That seems unusual for an assistant.”

  “I thought so, too. Many of us did, but who am I to say?”

  Elaine might be protective of the Raleigh family, but not of the General’s assistant. “I’ve heard that Hunter didn’t approve.”

  Laurie could tell that Elaine was choosing her words carefully. “He was wary. His father was a widower. Powerful, moneyed. It’s not unheard of for outsiders to step in and take advantage.”

  “What about Hunter’s driver, Raphael? I’ve heard he and Mary Jane were friends. Are you still in contact with him?” Laurie had him on her list of people to interview. At the very least, he could describe Casey’s condition on the ride home from the gala.

  Elaine’s face saddened. “Such a lovely man. He passed away about five years ago. Raphael was a friend to all. Most
of the staff I knew are gone now. But not Mary Jane. If it were up to that woman, she’d be there until her last breath. Now I think I’ve said enough.”

  Laurie thanked Elaine for her time once again. As she neared the apartment door, Laurie offered one more observation. “Hunter sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

  Elaine’s eyes brightened. “A true gentleman. Not only generous and honorable, but a visionary. He would have made an excellent mayor, or even the President of the United States.”

  “I believe he even met the President, didn’t he?” Laurie asked.

  “Oh, he certainly did,” Elaine boasted. “At the White House. The Raleigh Foundation was one of five charities chosen to exemplify the value of private giving. That was all Hunter’s doing. The foundation had been around for years, but it was Hunter who decided to focus its mission on breast cancer prevention and treatment after his mother passed from the disease. Poor Miss Betsy. Oh, that was so horrible,” she said, her voice drifting off.

  “I’ve heard that Hunter was quite moved to be recognized by the White House.”

  “Very proud,” she said, sounding proud herself. “He even kept a picture from that night, right on his nightstand.”

  Bingo, Laurie thought. “At the country house?”

  She nodded. “Most people would keep something like that front and center on the office wall. But Hunter wasn’t one to brag. I think he kept it in a special place because it meant something to him personally.”

  “I know this seems like a strange question, but would the picture have been on the nightstand the night he was killed?”

  “That’s a strange question, indeed. But the answer is yes.”

  “Because that’s where it always was?”

  “No, I’m more certain than that. You see, I used to go to Hunter’s Connecticut house one day a week to clean. Raphael would drive me back and forth. But that night a car service took me home because Raphael was driving Hunter to the gala. I was dusting the picture of him and the President when he came into the bedroom. As he was about to leave for the gala, I asked Hunter whether he’d be getting another picture with the President there. He laughed and said, ‘No, the President will not be attending.’ I thought about that conversation after he left. I had no idea it would be the last thing I ever said to him.”