I've Got You Under My Skin

by Mary Higgins Clark

  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.”

  71

  Laurie and Alex sat in the den and compared notes after Regina’s interview.

  “Was I too rough on Regina?” Alex asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Laurie said slowly. “But when you were finished, I don’t think anyone would doubt that there was a suicide note. But why would a fifteen-year-old have taken it?”

  “You have your own theory, I know,” Alex said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that whenever you ask me my theory, you already have one of your own.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Laurie smiled. “My theory is that there was something in that note that Regina didn’t want her mother to read—and that it involved Betsy. Maybe the fact that her father was having an affair with her. That’s what I see. Remember how Regina described her parents as being ‘one soul’?”

  “And that opens up the question—perhaps Betsy influenced her father’s reckless business decision to put everything he had into Powell’s hedge fund,” Alex suggested. “Doesn’t that give Regina a strong motive to take a God-given opportunity to punish Betsy?” he added.

  “If I were in her shoes and had lost my parents and everything I had because of Betsy Powell,” Laurie told him, “I could kill. I know I could.”

  “You think you could,” Alex corrected. “Now, tell me what you thought of Robert Powell’s speech at lunch. I’m telling you right now that I think he’s bluffing, but if one of the people at that table did murder Betsy Powell, he or she may believe his threat. He’s playing a dangerous game.”

  72

  Nina looked in the mirror as Meg clipped the vinyl sheet around her neck.

  “Now, Meg,” she cautioned, “this morning you were told to make us look like rag dolls.”

  “I was told to make you resemble the way you looked the morning Betsy’s body was discovered,” Meg said matter-of-factly. “Even then you looked better than anyone else.”

  “I looked passable, but for this interview I want you to make me look a little like her.” Nina held up a picture of Grant with his late wife, Kathryn.

  Meg studied it carefully. “You resemble her,” she observed.

  “I want to resemble her,” Nina said flatly.

  She had googled everything she could find on the subject of Grant Richmond. For a major producer, he led a quiet behind-the-scenes life. He had married at twenty-six. His wife had been twenty-one.

  They had been married for thirty years before she died two years ago of heart failure from a lifelong condition.

  No children, and not a whiff of scandal about them.

  So Grant had been a one-woman man, and he had been alone for two years. By now he was probably lonely.

  He was pushing sixty.

  Nina held up her camera and looked at a second picture. “Who does this look like?” she demanded.

  Meg studied it carefully. “This is the same lady, Nina. Is she a relative?”

  Nina nodded in satisfaction. It’s not just that I’m a good dancer, she thought. I resemble his wife.

  “Look, Meg,” she said. “She’s not a relative, but I want to look like her when you do the makeup.”

  “Then I can’t put that heavy liner and shadow on you.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  A half hour later Meg said, “That’s it.”

  Nina looked in the mirror. “I could be her sister,” she said. “Perfect.”

  “My turn, Nina, it’s getting late,” Courtney said briskly.

  “I know.” Nina moved into Courtney’s chair. Holding the picture, she said, “She had short hair. I don’t want to cut mine.”

  “Don’t,” Courtney said. “I’ll put it up in a twist; same effect.”

  Five minutes later, Jerry knocked on the door of the van. When he came inside, he was startled by the change in Nina’s appearance.

  “Ready, Nina?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am.” She gave herself a final look in the mirror before she got up. “These two are miracle workers,” she said. “Don’t you agree, Jerry?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said honestly. “By that I mean for giving you a different look, not a better one,” he added hastily.

  Nina laughed. “Good you added those last few words.”

  As they left the van, Jerry compared the graduates. He liked Nina best. The others seemed to be trapped in their own shells. For women who had been close friends until they were twenty-one, they seemed to have very little to say to each other. When they were on the patio in between shoots, they all grabbed for a book or their smartphones from their purses.

  Nina did, too, except when Muriel insisted on talking. She always paid attention when Muriel gushed about what a wonderful man Robert Powell was, and how Betsy had been her dearest friend.

  It’s as if Muriel is always hoping that Powell can hear her, Jerry thought. She’s overplaying her role. I’ve been around enough film sets to know that.

  He and Nina were walking past the pool. “I wouldn’t mind taking a swim on a day like this,” he commented. “How about you?”

  “I’d like to be taking a swim in the pool at my condo. I do that every day, or evening if I work late,” Nina said.

  What am I going to say? she was asking herself. What kind of questions are they going to ask me? What’s going to happen tomorrow when Robert Powell shows us the door? Would my own mother use that moment to swear that I confessed to killing Betsy to her and claim the reward?

  You bet she would!

  I won’t let it happen.

  Jerry did not attempt to keep up the conversation. Unlike Regina, Nina did not seem nervous, but he was sure she was preparing herself for the interview.

  But then she suddenly said, “There’s Creepy Crawly again.” She pointed to Bruno, who w
as at the far end of the grounds behind the house. “What’s he doing? Chasing bugs on the plants?”

  Jerry laughed. “Mr. Powell is a perfectionist. He wants every shot of the grounds to display them in their normal pristine condition. Yesterday when we were taking pictures of the four of you in different locations back here, he looked shocked when the equipment made tracks in the grass. Then, as you saw, Creepy Crawly, as you call him, came running to the rescue.”

  “Oh, God, do I remember that he was a perfectionist!” Nina exclaimed. That last night when we were all going back and forth from the den to the patio and Regina put out her last cigarette, she deliberately missed the ashtray on the table and ground it out on the tabletop. I don’t think anyone else saw her.

  Should I tell that story when I’m interviewed?

  Again the patio and kitchen were empty.

  Grant will be watching when this is on television, Nina told herself as she and Jerry walked down the hallway to the den. I certainly have the least reason to have killed Betsy. No sane person would think that I did it. The fact that my mother blames me for introducing them would never be a strong enough motive for murder.

  She stood for a moment at the door of the den. Well, this is it, she thought. Alex and Laurie were waiting for her. I wonder what the others were feeling when they walked in here? Nina asked herself. Could they possibly have been as terrified as I am now?

  Come on, I’m an actress. I can carry this off. She gave a brief smile and, with an air of confidence, took the seat opposite Alex.

  “Nina Craig was the final graduate being celebrated on the tragic night of the Graduation Gala,” Alex began. “Nina, thank you for being with us today.”

  Her mouth too dry to speak, Nina nodded.

  His voice friendly, his smile warm, Alex asked, “What does it feel like to be here again in Salem Ridge, reunited with your old friends after twenty years?”

  Be honest whenever you can, Nina warned herself. “It’s awkward, even strange. We all know why we’re here.”

  “And why is that, Nina?”

  “To try to prove that none of us murdered Betsy Powell,” she said. “And that she was killed by a stranger who came in. On the other hand, we all know that you’re hoping that one of us will blurt out a confession or give herself away. I certainly think that’s what Robert Powell is hoping. And, of course, in a way I can’t blame him.”

  “How does that make you feel, Nina?”

  “Angry. Defensive. But I think we all have been feeling like that for the last twenty years, so it’s nothing new. I’ve certainly learned the hard way that you can get used to anything.”

  Listening and observing, Laurie found it hard to conceal her surprise. Nina Craig was not responding to Alex’s questions the way she had expected at all. Somehow, she had expected a more belligerent response from her. After all, Nina had the least reason of all of them to have suffocated Betsy, but her attitude now was one of regret, even when she confessed to anger. And she looks different, too, Laurie thought. Softer. What’s the reason she had her hair styled in an upsweep? With all the research we’ve done on her, I’ve never seen one picture without the flowing locks. She’s playing a game, but what is it?

  Nina was taking Alex through her childhood.

  “Alex, as you obviously know, my mother, Muriel Craig, is an actress. I was kind of born in a trunk. We moved all over in those days.”

  “What about school?”

  “Somehow, between the East and West Coasts, I graduated from grammar school.”

  “What about your father? I know your parents were divorced when you were very young.”

  He couldn’t stand her, either, Nina thought. But he got away fast. “They married young and divorced when I was three.”

  “Did you see much of him after that?”

  “No, but he did contribute to my college education.” A little, she thought, a very little—what Mother could squeeze out of him in court.

  “Actually, you saw very little of him from the time of the divorce, isn’t that true, Nina?”

  “He tried his hand at acting, didn’t make it, then moved to Chicago, remarried, and had four more children. There wasn’t much room in that for me.”

  Where is he going with this? Nina asked herself frantically.

  “Then you never had a father in your growing-up years?”

  “I think that’s obvious.”

  “Why did you and your mother move to Salem Ridge, Nina?”

  “My mother was dating Robert Powell.”

  “Wasn’t she also offered the leading role in a pilot that became a series and ran for six years, and has been on reruns ever since?”

  “Yes, that’s true. But Powell told her that he didn’t want to be married to anyone who would be working all the time.”

  “Even when her relationship with Powell ended, the two of you stayed in Salem Ridge. That seems curious to me.”

  “I don’t know why. She had rented a condo. There was a very nice old couple next door, the Johnsons. When she broke up with Robert Powell, my mother was offered a flurry of jobs. I had started high school. She paid the Johnsons to look after me when she was working.”

  Don’t dwell on how lonesome it was after the Johnsons poked their heads in to say good night and I was left by myself for the night, Nina thought. And then when Mother got home from a job, she’d start ranting about how hard she was working, and how it was all my fault, over and over again. I’d miss her when she was away, then when she came home I’d wish she was away on a job anywhere else in the world.

  “Your mother kept the condo until you went to college, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. By then all the jobs were on the West Coast. She had bought a condo out there.”

  “So you spent your semester breaks and vacations with her?”

  “Whenever possible. But I was getting summer-stock jobs and grabbed them whenever they were offered.”

  “Nina, let’s talk about the Gala.”

  Laurie listened as, in different ways, Alex asked the same questions he had asked the other girls. Her answers were virtually the same as those of the other graduates. She, too, insisted that an intruder had to have been the culprit.

  “Let’s go back,” Alex suggested. “Were you surprised when Claire called and told you that her mother and Robert Powell wanted to have a Graduation Gala for the four of you?”

  “Yes, but it was a good chance to see the girls again.”

  “Your mother was invited to attend as well?”

  “Yes, but she didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She couldn’t take the time off. She had an audition coming up.”

  “Nina, wasn’t it because Betsy scrawled on the invitation that she and Robert couldn’t wait to see her, and how blessed she was that you had called her over to the table that wonderful day she and Robert met?”

  “How do you know that? Who told you that?”

  “Actually, your mother did,” Alex said amiably. “Shortly before lunch today.”

  She’s building up to saying that I confessed to her that I murdered Betsy, Nina thought. No matter whether anyone believes her or not, that will be the end of any chance I have with Grant.

  What was Alex Buckley asking her? How would she describe her feelings about Betsy Powell?

  Why not tell the truth? Why not?

  “I loathed her,” she said. “Especially after I read that note. She was mean. Make that cruel. There wasn’t a decent bone in her body, and when I looked down on her dead face, I had to force myself not to spit on it.”

  73

  George Curtis arrived at the Powell mansion at three-thirty. He had been asked to wear the same kind of evening attire he had worn at the Gala. He had a virtual replica of it in his closet. Because it was so warm, he carried his white dinner jacket, shirt, and
bow tie on a plastic-covered hanger.

  Before going to the club to play bridge with her friends, Isabelle had given him a cautionary note. “Just remember, you think you kept your little romance pretty quiet, but if I was suspicious, don’t you think anyone else was? Maybe even Rob Powell? Just be careful and don’t fall into a trap. You had the strongest motive of anyone to have Betsy dead.” Then, with a kiss and a wave of her hand, she stepped into her convertible.

  “Isabelle, I swear to you—” he had begun.

  “I know you do,” she said. “But remember, you don’t have to convince me, and I don’t care if you did it anyway. Just don’t let yourself get caught.”

  The temperature had dropped a little, but it was still very hot. George parked his car in the front driveway, picked up the clothes hanger, and walked around to the back of the house. A flurry of activity greeted him. The production crew had their cameras aimed at designated spots on the grounds. He guessed that was where the graduates would be standing while he talked in the foreground with Alex Buckley. He had been told that the background would be a rolling shot of scenes from the Gala.

  Laurie Moran approached as soon as she spotted him. “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this, Mr. Curtis. We’ll try not to keep you too long. Why don’t you wait inside with the others? It’s too hot out here.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he agreed. He crossed the patio with reluctant steps and went into the house. The four graduates were in the main dining room, dressed in the gowns that he recognized were replicas of the ones they had worn that night. Even with the skillfully applied makeup they were wearing, the tension in their faces was unmistakable.

  He did not have long to wait. Laurie’s assistant Grace came in to take the graduates outside. When she came back for him, he saw that they were all in place, standing like statues against what he knew would be the background of films of the Gala. He wondered what they were thinking. He wondered if every one of them didn’t feel as he had that night. I was terrified that Betsy had the power to ruin my marriage just as the children Isabelle and I had prayed for were becoming a reality, he thought. Alison had to have been bitter. She had lost out on her scholarship because of the donation Rob had made to her college. Occasionally I would pick up something in the grocery store where her father worked, and he would always brag about how hard Alison was studying . . .