I've Got You Under My Skin

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Seemed like heaven?” Alex asked quickly.

  “Was heaven,” Claire corrected herself.

  “That was quite a year for you, Claire, moving into a new area, starting high school, then your mother’s wedding and moving into this house.”

  “It was all quite a change,” Claire said with a faint smile. If you only knew, she thought. If you only knew!

  “Claire, were you close to Robert Powell?”

  Claire looked straight into Alex’s eyes. “Right from the beginning,” she said. Oh, I was close to him all right, she thought, remembering how she listened for the sound of her bedroom door opening.

  Alex Buckley knew that behind Claire’s smooth answers there was a land mine of smoldering anger she was trying to conceal. It wasn’t all sweetness and light in this house, he thought as he decided to change his questioning. “Claire, let’s talk about the Gala. What kind of night was it? How many people were here? We have that information, of course, but I’d like to hear it from your perspective.”

  Alex had foreseen that Claire would begin answering him in carefully rehearsed sentences. “It was a perfect night,” she said. “It was an absolutely balmy evening, about seventy-six degrees, I think. There was a band on the patio, and a dance floor. There were stations everywhere with all kinds of food. Near the pool a table was beautifully decorated. The centerpiece was a sheet cake with all of our names on it and the symbols of the four colleges we went to in their school colors.”

  “You chose to commute to Vassar, didn’t you, Claire?”

  Again Alex saw a look in Claire’s eyes that he could not identify. What was it? Anger, disappointment, or both? He took a shot at what he surmised. “Claire, were you disappointed that you didn’t go away to college as your other friends did?”

  “Vassar is a wonderful college. I may have missed out on a part of the college experience by commuting instead of boarding, but my mother and I were so close that I was happy to stay home.”

  Claire’s smile was more of a sneer, but then she recovered herself. “We all had a wonderful time at the party,” she said. “Then, as you know, the other girls slept over. When everyone was gone we put on our pajamas and robes, went to the den, and drank wine. Lots of wine. We gossiped about the party, as girls do.”

  “Were your mother and Mr. Powell with you in the den?”

  “Rob said good night to us right after the last guests left. My mother sat with us for a few minutes, but then she said, ‘I want to get comfortable, the way you all are.’ She went upstairs and came back down in her nightgown and robe.”

  “Did she stay long?”

  For a moment there was a real smile on Claire’s lips and in her eyes. “My mother wasn’t a drunk, never think that, but she did love to have a couple of glasses of wine in the evening. She had about three glasses that night before she went upstairs. She hugged and kissed us good night, which is why we all had DNA from her hair on our pajamas or robes the next morning.”

  “The other girls were very fond of your mother, weren’t they?”

  “I think they were in awe of her.”

  Alex knew that what Claire didn’t say was that each of the girls had a reason to hate Betsy Powell. Nina, because her mother tortured her about having introduced Robert to Betsy. Regina, because her father had lost all his money in one of Robert Powell’s investments. Alison, because she had lost out on a scholarship that she should have won but Betsy Bonner directed elsewhere. Robert Powell had donated a load of money to Alison’s college. That donation was not forgotten when the graduate scholarship was awarded to the daughter of a woman who chaired a club Betsy was desperate to join.

  “After your mother said good night to all of you, did you see her again?”

  “Do you mean did I see her again alive?” Claire did not wait for an answer. “My last memory of seeing my mother alive was when she turned and smiled and blew a kiss to all of us. Of course it’s a vivid memory. She was a very beautiful woman. She always wore beautiful matching nightgowns and robes. That night she was wearing a pale-blue satin set, edged in ivory lace. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, and she seemed so happy about how successful the party had been. The next time I saw her, either Rob or Jane had taken the pillow off of her face. Her eyes were wide open and staring. One hand was still clutching the pillow. I know she must have been sleepy because of all of the wine she had drunk, but I always had the feeling she put up a fight.”

  Alex listened as Claire spoke in a voice that seemed to be suddenly without emotion. Her hands were now clasped together, and her face had turned even paler than it had been.

  “How did you know that something was terribly wrong?” Alex asked quietly.

  “I heard the most terrifying shriek coming from my mother’s room. I later learned that it was Rob, who was bringing my mother her usual cup of morning coffee. I think all of us girls were in a heavy sleep—we had talked and drunk until three A.M. We all got to the room at about the same time. Jane must have heard Robert’s shout. She got to my mother’s room first. She was on her knees bending over Robert, who had collapsed and was writhing in pain. I guess he must have rushed to grab the pillow away from my mother’s face, and the hot coffee had spilled all over his hands. The pillow was to the side of my mother’s head and had coffee stains on it.”

  Alex saw that Claire’s expression suddenly turned cold. It was a startling difference from the way she had reacted to his questions about her grandmother.

  “Then what happened, Claire?” he asked.

  “I think it was Alison who picked up the phone and dialed 911. She shouted something like ‘We need an ambulance and the police! Betsy Bonner Powell is dead! I think she’s been murdered!’ ”

  “What did you do while you waited for them?”

  “I don’t think it was more than three minutes later that both the ambulance and the police arrived. Then it was chaos. We were literally chased out of her room. I remember the police chief ordering us to go back to our bedrooms and change our clothes. He had the nerve to say that he could see what we were wearing and we shouldn’t try to switch what we had slept in. Later we realized that those clothes would be tested for DNA as potential evidence.”

  “So you changed into jeans and T-shirts similar to the ones you were photographed in this morning?”

  “Yes. When we had changed we were escorted downstairs here to the den and told to wait until the police questioned us. They wouldn’t even allow us to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.”

  “You’re still very angry about that, aren’t you, Claire?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, her voice trembling with rage. “Think about it. We were all barely twenty-one. Looking back, I realize that even though we thought we were all grown up, having just graduated from college, in reality we were just frightened kids. The interrogation they put all of us through that day, and for weeks afterward, was a travesty of justice. They called us in to the police station over and over again. That’s the reason that the press began to refer to us as ‘suspects.’ ”

  “Who do you think killed your mother, Claire?”

  “There were three hundred people at that party. Some of them we can’t identify from the photos and film we have of that night. People were going in and out of the house to use the bathrooms. Jane had put a rope across the landing at the bottom of the staircase, but anyone could have sneaked up the stairs. My mother was wearing her emeralds that night. Anyone could have picked out her bedroom and even hidden in one of those walk-in closets. I think someone waited until he thought she would be in a deep sleep, then picked up the emeralds from her dressing table. Who knows if she started stirring and he panicked and tried to put them back? One emerald earring was found on the floor. I believe she woke up. Whoever was in that room tried to keep her from calling for help the only way that was available to him.”

  “And that person, you be
lieve, is your mother’s murderer?”

  “Yes, I do. And remember, we had left the patio door open. The four of us were smokers, and my stepfather absolutely forbade smoking in the house.”

  “Is that why you resent the media coverage of your mother’s death?”

  “That is why I am telling you that none of us here—not Rob, nor Jane, nor Nina, Regina, or Alison—had a thing to do with my mother’s death. And obviously neither did I.” Claire’s voice became shrill. “And neither did I!”

  “Thank you, Claire, for sharing your memory of that terrible day when you lost the mother you loved so dearly.”

  Alex reached across the table to shake Claire’s hand.

  It was drenched in perspiration.

  49

  On Tuesday morning, George Curtis got up at six thirty as was his custom and brushed Isabelle’s forehead softly with his lips, trying not to wake her. He felt a desperate need to touch her. He had woken often during the night and put his arm around her. Then the guilty memory would flood his brain: Betsy always wore satin nightgowns, too. Inevitably his next thought was, Isabelle, I almost lost you. I almost lost the joyful life I have been living with you and our children for nearly twenty years.

  That new life had begun the morning of the Gala when Isabelle told him that she was expecting twins. That incredible news was followed by Betsy demanding $25 million for her silence about their affair. I didn’t mind paying her, George thought, but I knew it would be only the beginning of her threats to go to Isabelle.

  These were the thoughts that were running through his head as he showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He carried the cup out to the car, placed it in the holder, and was on his way to his office, the international headquarters of Curtis Foods, ten miles away in New Rochelle.

  He loved his early morning hour-and-a-half alone time in the office. It was when he could concentrate on important mail and e-mails from his district managers all over the world. But today he could not concentrate. After going over the highly favorable earnings reports, his only reaction was that he could easily have found a way to pay Betsy and bury the payment without raising any suspicion.

  But I couldn’t have trusted her, was the refrain that ran through his head.

  When the office began to fill up just before nine, he greeted his longtime assistant Amy Hewes with his usual cordiality and crisply began to go over some e-mails he wanted answered immediately. But he knew he was too distracted to concentrate. At eleven-thirty he called home. “Any plans for lunch?” he asked Isabelle when she answered.

  “Not one,” she said promptly. “Sharon called and asked me to meet her for golf, but I’m too lazy today. I’m stretched out on the patio. Louis is preparing gazpacho and a chicken salad. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect. I’m on my way.”

  As he passed Amy’s desk and told her he wouldn’t be coming back this afternoon, she looked surprised. “Don’t tell me that you, the sought-after speaker who always wows the audience, is nervous about being interviewed this afternoon?”

  George tried to smile. “Maybe I am.”

  The short drive seemed interminably long to him. He was so impatient to see Isabelle that he left his car in the circular driveway, bounded up the steps, threw open the door, and rushed down the long hallway to the rear of the house. Before he opened the glass door to the patio he stopped and looked out. Isabelle was sitting in one of the padded chairs, her feet on a hassock, a book in her hands. Sixty years old on her last birthday, her hair was now completely silver. She wore it in a new shorter length and with bangs. The style framed her face perfectly, with her classic features that were the product of generations of fine breeding. Her ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. Her slender body was already tanned. She had kicked off her shoes, and her ankles were crossed.

  For a long minute George Curtis studied the beautiful woman who had been his wife for thirty-five years. They had met at a dance given by the senior class at Harvard. Isabelle had attended it with friends from Wellesley College. The minute she walked into the room, I made a beeline for her, George thought. But the first time I met her parents, I know they were underwhelmed. They would have preferred that our family had made its money on Wall Street, not by selling hot dogs and hamburgers.

  What would her mother and father have thought had they known I was having an affair with my best friend’s wife? They’d have told Isabelle to get rid of me.

  And if Isabelle had ever known, even though she was pregnant with our twins, she would have dropped me, too.

  And still would, George thought grimly as he slid open the patio door. Hearing the sound, Isabelle looked up and smiled warmly. “Was it me or the menu that inspired you to join me for lunch?” she asked as she got up and kissed him warmly.

  “It was you,” George replied fervently, returning her kiss and putting his arms around her.

  Louis, their chef, came out onto the patio carrying a tray with two iced teas.

  “Good to have you home for lunch, Mr. Curtis,” he said cheerfully.

  Louis had been with them for twenty-two years. He had been working as a chef in a nearby restaurant when one evening as they were having dinner there, he came to the table. “I heard that you are looking for a new chef,” he had said quietly.

  “Yes, our current chef is retiring,” George had verified.

  “I would very much like to try out for the job,” Louis said. “We serve mostly Italian food here, but I am a graduate of the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park, and I promise I can offer you a wide selection of menus.”

  And so he had, George thought, including preparing fresh baby food every day when the twins were born and letting them “help” him in the kitchen when they were little.

  George sat in a chair near Isabelle, but as Louis placed the glass next to him, he said, “Louis, will you put my tea on the table and bring me a Bloody Mary?”

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “That’s not like you, George. Are you nervous about the interview with Alex Buckley?”

  He waited until the patio door closed behind Louis, then answered, “Uncomfortable rather than nervous. To me the whole idea of this program seems bizarre. I get the feeling that this is not about proving people innocent as it is proving that someone in the group was guilty of Betsy’s death.”

  “Someone like you, George?”

  George Curtis stared at his wife, his blood running cold. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I overheard that interesting conversation you had with Betsy the night of the Gala. Even though you had pulled away from the crowd, I followed you. I was on the other side of those palms they had brought in for decoration. You didn’t realize how much you had raised your voice.”

  George Curtis knew that the nightmare he had feared was happening. Was Isabelle going to tell him, now that the twins were raised, that she wanted a divorce? “Isabelle, I’m sorrier than you can possibly imagine,” he said. “Please, please forgive me.”

  “Oh, I already have,” Isabelle said promptly. “Did you think that I was too stupid to suspect you were having an affair with that slut? When I overheard the two of you, I decided I wasn’t about to lose you. I realized we had grown apart, and I knew that some of it was my fault. I wasn’t going to forgive you too easily, but I’m still glad I made that decision. You’ve been a wonderful husband and father, and I love you dearly.”

  “I was so terribly worried and guilty all these years,” George Curtis said, his voice breaking.

  “I know you were,” Isabelle said crisply. “That was my way of punishing you. Oh, here’s Louis with your Bloody Mary. I’ll bet you’re ready for it now.”

  My God, I thought I knew my wife! George Curtis exclaimed to himself as he reached for the glass Louis was putting in front of him.

  “Louis, I think we’re ready to have lunch now,” Isabelle sa
id as she took a sip of her iced tea.

  When Louis went back to the kitchen, Isabelle said, “George, when you warned Betsy that if she ever told me about your affair with her you would kill her, I may not have been the only one who heard you. Like I said, you didn’t realize how loud you were speaking. Then, after we came home and went to bed, I fell asleep in your arms. When I woke up at four A.M. you weren’t in bed, and it was more than an hour before you returned. I just assumed that you were downstairs watching television. You always do, if you wake up and can’t go back to sleep. When I heard Betsy had been smothered, I begged God that if you had killed her, you didn’t leave any evidence that would lead to you. If anything comes up during the filming of this program, I’ll swear that you never left our bed that night.”

  “Isabelle, you don’t believe . . .”

  “George, we live only a few blocks away from them. You could have walked to their house in five minutes. You knew the layout. And frankly, I don’t care if you killed her. I know we can afford it, but I see no reason why you should have paid twenty-five million dollars in blackmail to that tramp.”

  As George held her chair for her at the table, Isabelle said, “I love you so dearly, George, and the twins adore you. Don’t say anything to spoil that. Now here comes Louis with the salad. I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  50

  “Okay, guys, that was great. Take a break now. Alison Schaefer is next. We’ll start in half an hour,” Laurie said briskly. Jerry, Grace, and the camera crew knew that was Laurie’s way of saying, “Get lost.” It was clear to them that she wanted to talk to Alex Buckley alone. As they filed out, they closed the door of the den without asking. Then Alex suggested, “Why don’t I get a cup of coffee for both of us? I know you like yours black, no sugar.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Laurie admitted.