I've Got You Under My Skin

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Jane carried in the tea tray, interrupting his reverie. She set it on the coffee table between the couch and Robert Powell’s chair. “Shall I pour, Mr. Powell?” she asked. She was already holding the teapot and pouring it into Laurie’s cup.

  Robert Powell raised his eyebrows and cast an amused glance at Laurie. After Jane had offered cream or lemon and sugar or sweetener, and then left the room, he said, “As you can see, Jane asked a rhetorical question. She does that all the time.”

  Laurie realized she had skipped lunch and was starved. She made herself take only a nibble of the quarter-sized crustless salmon sandwich. Her first instinct was to pop it into her mouth whole and reach for another one.

  But even as she made herself eat slowly, daintily, she had the feeling that Robert Powell was toying with her. Did he really guess that Nina Craig was the one looking for more money, or had Nina contacted him personally?

  And did he know how much she was going to demand?

  “Am I right about Nina?” Powell asked as he crossed his legs and began to sip his tea.

  “Yes,” Laurie said.

  “How much does she want for all the graduates?”

  “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars net each.”

  “She’s even greedier than I remembered,” Powell murmured. “So like her dear mother.” The amused tone left his voice. “Tell her I’ll pay it.”

  The abrupt change in his expression and tone shocked Laurie.

  “Ms. Moran,” he explained, “you need to understand something: like the four girls at the Gala, I have lived with the cloud of suspicion hanging over me for a long time. Today people are living to be one hundred, but many more don’t live past eighty or eighty-five. Before I die, I want to have a chance for a wide audience to see the girls and me, and perhaps understand how big this house is, and how many people were in and out that night. How it could have been an intruder. As you know, we have extensive films of the party.”

  “I do know that,” Laurie said. “I think I’ve read everything written about the case.”

  “Well, then, you can understand that except for some generous donations to charity and the schools Betsy, Claire, and I attended, I have a great deal of money to spend before I die, so the amount Nina is holding out for is quite insignificant.

  “But do me a favor. When you write to say we accept the conditions of their appearance, please tell Nina that I hope her mother is planning to come east with her. It would be a pleasure to see her again.”

  He anticipated Laurie’s protest. “Of course, I don’t mean for her to stay as a guest in my home. I will reserve a room for her at the St. Regis.”

  He’s going along with it. Laurie did not expect the tsunami of relief that swept over her. The possibility of the program had unexpectedly gathered momentum, and if Powell had flatly turned down Nina Craig’s demand, the show could easily have been doomed, and her job along with it. Two failed series, then a rejected proposal, after intense media interest, would easily have meant her dismissal.

  Brett Young did not tolerate failure.

  She started to thank Powell, then realized he was looking past her out onto the patio beyond the glass doors of his den. Her eyes followed to see what he was looking at that had caused the sudden expression of disapproval.

  She saw a landscaper standing on the patio outside the den, edging the grass around it with a clipper.

  Powell looked from the man to Laurie. “Sorry,” he said, “but I find it annoying that they’re working this late. I’ve made it clear that I want any work on the property completed by noon. If I have guests coming, I don’t want those big trucks in the driveway.”

  • • •

  Outside, Blue Eyes saw that Powell was looking at him. He finished clipping the last section around the patio and, without looking, carried his gardening equipment quickly back to the truck. It was his first day on the job for Perfect Estates. If Powell complained about him being there so late, Blue Eyes would say he stayed after hours to impress his new boss.

  The Graduation girls won’t be the only ones here when they are filming that show, he thought. I’ll be here, too.

  What a perfect scenario for him to take out Laurie Moran.

  He had already prepared the sign he wanted to put on her body.

  GOT GREG

  GOT YOU

  TIMMY’S NEXT

  10

  In June, preproduction for the “Graduation Gala” went into high gear. Laurie had already obtained all available film footage taken of the party, but then Robert Powell willingly turned over the extra footage other guests had captured that night.

  It was like watching Cinderella’s night at the ball. Only there were four Cinderellas, Laurie mused as she ran tape after tape.

  After Betsy died, George Curtis, a member of the Winged Foot Golf Club in Mamaroneck, had brought to the police the footage he had taken that evening. But it was mostly a duplicate of what the police already had. The tape was copied and given to Robert Powell, who had requested it. “It’s very similar to what I’ve already given you,” he had told the detective in charge of the investigation, “but there are some scenes of Betsy and me that are particularly precious to me.” He had pictures made of several of the frames in which he and Betsy had been together—one of them looking at each other, another of them dancing on the patio, another toasting the graduates.

  “These films sure give us a look into the party,” Laurie commented to Grace and Jerry as she played the copies over and over in the screening room of the office, trying to decide which scenes she wanted to include.

  I start with the body being discovered and the cops arriving, she thought. That was at 8 A.M. Powell went in to wake up Betsy. He was carrying a cup of coffee for her. He always brought her wake-up cup at that time, even if she had had a late night.

  Jane rushed in, screaming Betsy’s name, and yelling for the others to dial 911.

  We’ll end the first segment with Betsy and Powell toasting the graduates. We’ll have the narrator say, “At that moment, beautiful Betsy Bonner Powell had only four hours to live,” Laurie decided.

  • • •

  George Curtis knew that he might be caught on security cameras around the Powell estate, but it did not worry him. Half of Salem Ridge is driving past this house, he thought as he followed the stream of cars on the quiet road.

  So what if the cops think I’m a voyeur? he thought. Practically everyone else on this road is, too.

  He had chosen to drive the SUV rather than his red Porsche convertible. Unless security cameras photographed the license plate, he doubted very much that he would be recognized. Plenty of Salem Ridge residents had top-of-the-line SUVs. He was wearing a cap and dark glasses.

  Sixty-three years old, tall, with a full head of gray hair, George Curtis had the trim appearance of a seasoned athlete. Married for thirty-five years and with college-age twins, he had been the scion and sole heir of a big chain of fast-food restaurants. After his father’s death, when he was twenty-seven, he had taken over the business. A playboy until then, everyone expected him to sell the chain and live off his wealth. Instead he had married shortly afterward, and over time tripled the number of restaurants both in the United States and abroad until now the company boasted of serving a million meals a day.

  Unlike Robert Powell, he had gone to Harvard as a fourth-generation legacy. The welcome mat had been laid out for him, as was his admission to Hasty Pudding, the student theatrical society at Harvard.

  The fifteen-year difference in their ages had never interfered with his friendship with Robert Powell, even though, as he turned the car off Evergreen Lane, George thought, If he ever knew, if he ever guessed . . .

  But Rob Powell had never suspected. George was sure of that. George had never given him reason to.

  The phone rang, an unexpected and abrupt sound. He pressed the answ
ering button on the steering wheel.

  “George Curtis,” he said.

  “George, it’s Rob Powell.”

  My God, was he looking out the window? George felt his face flush. No, he couldn’t possibly have read the license plate, and certainly couldn’t have recognized me just driving by.

  “Rob, how are you, and when are we going to get together for a round of golf? I warn you, I broke eighty two Saturdays in a row.”

  “That means you’ll never do it three weeks in a row! Tee-off time nine o’clock?”

  “You’re on. I’ll make the reservation.” George felt a palpable sense of relief as he turned left onto his own street. Rob Powell was not one to stay on the line longer than necessary. That’s why when Rob said, “George, I have a favor to ask of you,” he was startled.

  “Whatever it is, the answer is yes,” George said, sounding rattled to his own ears.

  “I’ll take all your franchises in Europe,” Rob joked, then his tone became serious. “George, you can’t have missed the news that the anniversary of Betsy’s death in June is going to be the basis for a television program.”

  “No, I didn’t miss that,” Curtis said quietly.

  “The point is that, besides the girls, they’d like to have one of the friends who was there that night to comment on the party between excerpts from the films. I suggested you, and they leaped at the prospect of getting you on camera. Of course I should have asked you first, but you can always say no to them.”

  Go on camera to talk about that night to a national audience? He could feel his hands turning sweaty on the steering wheel.

  George Curtis found his throat constricting, but he kept his voice calm and warm as he said, “Rob, I told you a minute ago that whatever favor you wanted, it was yours. I meant it when I said it, and I mean it now.”

  “Thanks. It was hard for me to ask, and I’m sure hard for you to agree.”

  An abrupt click broke the connection. George Curtis realized that he was drenched with perspiration now. Was Rob Powell setting a trap for him? he asked himself as a feeling of dread engulfed him.

  Now utterly distracted, he almost drove past his own driveway.

  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.

  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.