I've Got You Under My Skin

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Well, you haven’t had any problems that I couldn’t solve for you.” Then he added carefully, “At least as far as I know.”

  They were walking north on Lexington Avenue. The wind had shifted and felt raw against their faces. Leo stopped and firmly pulled Timmy’s woolen cap down over his forehead and ears.

  “One of the guys in the eighth grade was walking to school this morning and some guy on a bike tried to grab his cell phone out of his hand. A policeman saw it and pulled the guy over,” Timmy said.

  It hadn’t been an incident involving someone with blue eyes. Leo was ashamed to admit to himself how relieved that made him. Until Greg’s killer was apprehended, he needed to know that Timmy and Laurie were safe.

  Someday justice will be served, he vowed to himself.

  This morning, as she hurried out to work seconds after he arrived, Laurie had said that she was going to hear the verdict on the reality show she was proposing. Leo’s mind moved restlessly to that concern. He knew he would have to wait for the news until tonight. Over their second cup of coffee, when Timmy had finished dinner and was curled up in the big chair with a book, she would discuss it with him. Then he would leave for his own apartment a block away. At the end of the day, he wanted Laurie and Timmy to have their own space, and he was satisfied that no one would get past the doorman in their building without a phone call to the resident they claimed to be visiting.

  If she got the go-ahead to do that series, it’s going to be bad news, Leo thought.

  A man with a hooded sweatshirt, dark sunglasses, and a canvas bag on his shoulder, seeming to come out of nowhere, darted past him on roller skates, almost knocking over Timmy, then brushing a very pregnant young woman who was about ten feet ahead of them.

  “Get off the sidewalk,” Leo shouted as the skater turned the corner and disappeared.

  Behind the dark sunglasses, bright blue eyes glittered, and the skater laughed aloud.

  Such encounters fed his need for the sense of power he felt when he literally touched Timmy and knew that on any given day he could carry out his threat.

  3

  Robert Nicholas Powell was seventy-eight years old but looked and moved like a man ten years younger. A full head of white hair framed his handsome face. His posture was still erect, although he was no longer over six feet tall. He had an air of authority that was instantly apparent to anyone in his presence. Except for Fridays, he still put in a full day at his Wall Street office, chauffeured back and forth by his longtime employee, Josh Damiano.

  Today, Tuesday, March 16, Rob had made the decision to stay home and meet television producer Laurie Moran here in Salem Ridge instead of in his office. She had told him the reason for her visit and had couched it in an intriguing premise: “Mr. Powell, I believe that if you, your stepdaughter, and her friends agree to re-create the events of the Graduation Gala, the public will understand how incredible it is that any one of you could have been responsible for your wife’s death. You had a happy marriage. Everyone who knew you knew that. Your stepdaughter and her mother were very close. The other three graduates had been in and out of Betsy’s home from the time they were in high school, and then, when you and Betsy were married, you made them always feel welcome. You have a very large house, and with so many people at the party, there is every possibility that an intruder went undetected. Your wife was known to have beautiful and expensive jewelry. She was wearing her emerald earrings and necklace and ring that night.”

  “The tabloids turned a tragedy into a scandal.” Robert Powell remembered his bitter retort to Laurie Moran. Well, she’ll be here soon, he thought. So be it.

  He was sitting at the desk in his spacious downstairs office. Large windows looked out over the back gardens of the estate. A beautiful sight in spring and summer and early fall, Rob thought. When it was snowing, that bare and naked view was softened and sometimes magical but on a damp, cold, sunless winter day in March, when the trees were bare and the pool covered and the pool house was shuttered, no amount of expensive planting could soften the stark reality of the winter landscape.

  His padded desk chair was very comfortable, and Rob, smiling to himself, pondered the secret that he did not share with anyone. He was sure that sitting behind the impressive antique mahogany desk with the elaborate carvings on the sides and legs lent even more prestige to the image he had so carefully cultivated. It was an image that began the day he left Detroit at age seventeen to begin his freshman year as a scholarship student at Harvard. There, he referred to his mother as a college professor and his father as an engineer; in fact she was a kitchen worker at the University of Michigan and he was a mechanic at the Ford plant.

  Rob smiled, remembering how in his sophomore year he had bought a book on table manners, purchased a box of battered silver-plated table settings, and practiced using unfamiliar utensils such as a fish knife until he was sure he was comfortable with them. Following graduation, an internship at Merrill Lynch began his career in the financial world. Now, despite a few rocky years along the way, the R. N. Powell Hedge Fund was considered one of the best and safest investments on Wall Street.

  At precisely eleven o’clock the sound of the chimes at the front door announced the arrival of Laurie Moran. Rob straightened his shoulders. Of course he would get up when she was escorted into his office, but not until she had seen him seated at his desk. He realized how curious he was to meet her. It was hard to tell her age from her voice over the phone. There was a crisp, matter-of-fact note in the way she had introduced herself, but then her tone had become sympathetic when she spoke about Betsy’s death.

  After their conversation he had googled her. The fact that she was the widow of the doctor who had been shot in the playground and that she had an impressive background as a producer intrigued him. Her picture showed her to be a very attractive woman. I’m not too old to appreciate that, Rob thought.

  There was a tap on the door, and Jane, who had been his housekeeper from the time he married Betsy, opened it and stepped into the room, followed by Laurie Moran.

  “Thank you, Jane,” Rob said, and waited until Jane had left, closing the door behind her, before he got up. “Ms. Moran,” he said courteously. He extended his hand to Laurie and indicated the chair on the other side of the desk.

  • • •

  Robert Powell could not know that Laurie was thinking, Well, this is it, as with a warm smile she settled in the chair. The housekeeper had taken her coat when she arrived. She was wearing a navy pin-striped pantsuit, white shell blouse, and navy leather boots. Her only jewelry was a pair of small pearl earrings and her gold wedding band. She had pulled her hair back and pinned it into a French knot, a style that made her feel more efficient.

  Within five minutes she was sure that Robert Powell had already decided to go ahead with the program, but it took him ten minutes before he confirmed that fact.

  “Mr. Powell, I’m thrilled that you are willing to let us re-create the night of the Graduation Gala. Now, of course, we will need the cooperation of your stepdaughter and her friends. Will you help me persuade them to participate?”

  “I’m happy to do that, although obviously I can’t speak for any of them.”

  “Have you stayed close to your stepdaughter since your wife died?”

  “No. Not that I haven’t wanted to stay close. I was and am very fond of Claire. She lived here from the time she was thirteen until she was twenty-one. Her mother’s death was a terrible shock for her. I don’t know how much you studied her background, but her mother and father were never married. He took off when Betsy became pregnant with Claire. Betsy was doing bit parts on Broadway and when she wasn’t acting she worked as an usher there. It was hardscrabble for her and Claire until I came along.”

  Then he added, “Betsy was beautiful. I’m sure she could have easily married someone along the way, but after her experience with Claire’s father, I know she was
gun-shy.”

  “I can understand that,” Laurie said, nodding.

  “I can, too. Never having had children, I thought of Claire as my own daughter. It hurt when she moved out so quickly after Betsy’s death. But I think that between us there was too much grief to hold under one roof, and she sensed it immediately. As I’m sure you know, she lives in Chicago and is a social worker there. She never married.”

  “She never came back here?”

  “No, and never accepted my offer of generous financial help. She returned my letters torn up.”

  “Why do you think she did that?” Laurie asked.

  “She was fiercely jealous of my relationship with her mother. Don’t forget, it was just the two of them for thirteen years.”

  “Then do you think she’ll refuse to take part in the program?”

  “No, I don’t. Every so often an enterprising reporter has written about the case, and some of them have quoted Claire or one of the other girls. What they have said has been uniform. They all feel as though people look at them with questions in their eyes, and they’d all like an end to it.”

  “We’re planning to offer each of them $50,000 for being on the program,” Laurie told him.

  “I’ve kept track of all of them. There isn’t one who couldn’t use financial help. In order to ensure that they accept, I authorize you to say that I am prepared to pay each one of them a quarter of a million dollars for their cooperation.”

  “You would do that?” Laurie exclaimed.

  “Yes, and tell me anyone else you will want to interview on your program.”

  Laurie said, “Of course, I will want to interview your housekeeper.”

  “Give her the $50,000 you’re giving the others and I’ll give her another $50,000. I’ll make sure she does it. It is not necessary that she be paid the same as the others. I am seventy-eight years old and have three stents in the arteries leading to my heart. I know that, like the girls, I am under suspicion—or do you call it a ‘person of interest’ these days? Before I die, I want to sit in a courtroom and see Betsy’s murderer sentenced to prison.”

  “You never heard any sound from her room?”

  “No. As I’m sure you’re aware, we shared a suite. The sitting room was in the middle, our bedrooms on either side. I confess I am a heavy sleeper and snore very loudly. When we said good night, I went to my bedroom.”

  • • •

  That evening Laurie waited until Timmy was deep in his Harry Potter book before she told her father about her meeting with Powell.

  “I know I shouldn’t make any judgment yet, but I heard the ring of truth in Powell’s voice when he was talking,” Laurie said. “And his offer to pay the girls a quarter of a million dollars is wonderful.”

  “A quarter of a million dollars plus what you pay them,” Leo repeated. “You say that Powell knows all four women could use the money?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said.” Laurie realized that she sounded defensive.

  “Has Powell helped any of them out along the way, including his stepdaughter?”

  “He indicated that he didn’t.”

  “I think it’s a question you should look into. Who knows what his real motive may be to hand out all that money.” Leo couldn’t help but question these people’s intentions. It was the cop in him. And the father. And grandfather.

  With that, he decided to finish his coffee and go home. I’m getting too jumpy, he thought, and that won’t do either Laurie or Timmy any good. Even the way I shouted at that guy on skates. I was right, he could have hurt someone; but it was the fact that he actually brushed against Timmy that scared me. If he’d had a gun or a knife, even with my hand in Timmy’s, I couldn’t have protected him from an attack fast enough.

  Leo knew the grim reality that if a murderer had a grudge against someone, no order of protection or vigilance could keep them from satisfying his need to kill his target.

  4

  Claire Bonner settled at a table in the Seafood Bar of The Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach. She was facing the ocean and watched with detached interest as the waves crashed against the retaining wall directly below the Bar. The sun was shining but the winds were stronger than she had expected in Florida on an early spring day.

  She was wearing a newly purchased zippered jacket in a light shade of blue. She had bought it when she noticed that it carried the name of THE BREAKERS on the breast pocket. It was part of the fantasy of spending this long weekend here. Her short ash-blond hair framed a face that was half-hidden by oversized sunglasses. The glasses were seldom off, but when they were, Claire’s beautiful features were revealed, as well as the tranquil expression that had taken her years to achieve. In fact, a discerning observer might have realized that the expression was caused by the acceptance of reality rather than peace of mind. Her slender frame had an aura of fragility as though she had been recently ill. The same observer might have guessed her to be in her mid-thirties. In that case he would have been wrong. She was forty-one.

  In the past four days she had had the same polite young waiter and now was greeted by name as he approached her table. “Let me guess, Ms. Bonner,” he said. “Seafood chowder and two large stone crabs.”

  “You have it,” Claire said as a brief smile touched the corner of her lips.

  “And the usual glass of chardonnay,” he added as he jotted down the order.

  You do something for a few days in a row and it becomes the usual, she thought wryly.

  Almost instantly the chardonnay was placed on the table before her. She picked up the glass and looked around the room as she sipped.

  All of the diners were dressed in designer casual clothes. The Breakers was an expensive hotel, a retreat for the well-heeled. It was the Easter holiday week, and, nationwide, schools were closed. At breakfast in the dining room she had observed that families with children were usually accompanied by a nanny who skillfully removed a restless toddler so that the parents could enjoy the lavish buffet in peace.

  The lunchtime crowd in the bar was composed almost totally of adults. In walking around she had noticed that the younger families gravitated to the restaurants by the pool, where the choice of casual fare was greater.

  What would it have been like to vacation here every year from childhood? Claire wondered. Then she tried to brush away the memories of falling asleep each night in a half-empty theatre where her mother was working as an usher. That was before they met Robert Powell, of course. But by then Claire’s childhood was almost over.

  As those thoughts went through her head, two couples, still in travel clothes, took the table next to hers. She heard one of the women sigh happily, “It’s so good to be back.”

  I’ll pretend I’m coming back, she thought. I’ll pretend that every year I have the same oceanfront room and look forward to long walks on the beach before breakfast.

  The waiter arrived with the chowder. “Really hot, the way you like it, Ms. Bonner,” he said.

  The first day, she had asked for the chowder to be very hot and the crabs to be served as the second course. The waiter had also committed that request to memory.

  The first sip of the chowder almost burned the roof of her mouth and she stirred the rest of it inside the soup bowl that was a scooped-out loaf of bread to cool it a bit. Then she reached for her glass and took a long sip of the chardonnay. As she had expected, it was crisp and dry, exactly as it had tasted for the last few days.

  Outside an even stronger wind was churning the breaking waves into clouds of cascading foam.

  Claire realized that she felt like one of those surges of water, trying to reach shore but at the mercy of the powerful wind. It was still her decision. She could always say no. She’d said no to returning to her stepfather’s house for years. And she passionately didn’t want to go now. No one could force her to go on a national cable television show and take part
in reenacting the party and sleepover twenty years ago when the four of them, best friends, had celebrated their graduation from college.

  But if she did take part in the show, the production company would give her fifty thousand dollars, and Rob would give her two hundred fifty thousand dollars.

  Three hundred thousand dollars. It would mean that she could take a leave of absence from her job in Chicago’s youth and family services. The bout of pneumonia she had survived in January had come close to killing her, and she knew her body was still weak and tired. She had never accepted Powell’s offer of money. Not a single cent. She had torn up his letters and returned them to him. After what he did.

  They wanted to call it the “Graduation Gala.” It had been a beautiful party, a wonderful party, Claire thought. Then Alison and Regina and Nina had stayed overnight. And sometime during that night, my mother had been murdered. Betsy Bonner Powell, beautiful, vivacious, generous, funny, beloved Betsy.

  I thoroughly despised her, Claire thought quietly.

  I absolutely hated my mother, and I loathed her beloved husband, even though he kept trying to send me money.

  5

  Regina Callari was sorry she had gone to the post office and picked up the registered letter from Laurie Moran, a producer at Fisher Blake Studios. Take part in a reality program that would re­enact the night of the Graduation Gala! she thought, dismayed—and, frankly, shocked.

  The letter upset her so much that she knew she had lost a sale. She had to fumble for the features of the house she was showing, and in the middle of the walk-through the prospective client said, abruptly, “I think I’ve seen enough; this is not the house I’m looking for.”

  Then, after she got back to the office, she had to phone the owner, seventy-six-year-old Bridget Whiting, and tell her that she had been wrong. “I was sure we had a good prospect but it just didn’t happen,” she apologized.