I've Got You Under My Skin

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Robbie, do you mean you were glad when Betsy was smothered?”

  “Promise not to tell anyone that,” he whispered.

  “Of course not. It’s our secret. But you know how close my daughter, Nina, and I have always been?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, she was so upset with what Betsy wrote on my invitation, you know, how she wanted me to see how happy you two were and how glad she was that Nina had introduced you . . .”

  “I learned about it later, and I was shocked.”

  “I was hurt, but Nina was furious at her. She knew how much I loved you. Rob, I think Nina was the one who killed Betsy. She did it for me so that I would have another chance with you.”

  “Are you sure, or are you guessing, Muriel?” Robert Powell’s eyes were suddenly alert, his tone of voice sharp.

  Muriel Craig looked at him, vaguely aware of the change in his manner. “Of course I’m sure, Robbie. She called me. You remember, I was in Hollywood and she was crying over the phone. She said, ‘Mommy, I’m scared. They’re asking so many questions.

  “ ‘Mommy, I did it for you.’ ”

  82

  Jane checked the bedrooms for the last time before they all got back. She had opened the bar in the den and laid out a platter of hors d’oeuvres just as she had done the night Betsy was murdered. She thought, Oh, to be rid of all of them at last!

  After several days of all this activity, she was unused to the blessed silence in the house. Mr. Rob had taken that impossible Muriel Craig out to dinner. No question, she looked beautiful, but there was no doubt she already had a few under her belt.

  And there was a faint smell of smoke in her bathroom.

  Mr. Rob scorned anyone who drank too much or smoked.

  Mr. Rob was toying with Muriel. Jane knew the signs. It was similar to the way Betsy had toyed with Regina’s father, until she got him to sink every nickel he had into the hedge fund.

  Oh, they were quite the pair of experts at cheating people, she thought with admiration. Plus, Betsy was a two-faced fraud. She had skillfully hidden her little dalliances from Mr. Rob.

  That was why Betsy had slipped me little gifts to keep my mouth shut, Jane thought.

  But she was worried now. She had missed the fact that Josh had been playing his own little game, blackmailing people he taped in the car.

  If Mr. Rob knew she had covered for Betsy, she would be fired at once. He must never know. But who would tell him? Not Josh. He’d lose his job, too.

  I still have the jewelry that George Curtis gave Betsy, Jane thought as she turned down the beds for the visitors and lowered the shades in their rooms, a job she hadn’t done in twenty years—­except, of course, for Mr. Rob. Sometimes she put a chocolate on his pillow, just as they did in hotels.

  Mr. Curtis had been here this afternoon. Boy, he must have been squirming, she thought, talking to Alex Buckley about the Gala.

  After the Gala, Jane had fixed the platter of hors d’oeuvres for the girls and brought them to the den. I was in and out for the first half hour or so and listened to all of them until they really let go on Betsy. Then they started to look at me and I said good night.

  If push came to shove, I could make a case against any one of them, she told herself.

  She laid her head on Mr. Rob’s pillow, just for an instant. Then she pulled herself up and with rapid fingers plumped it again.

  Tomorrow night at this time she and Mr. Rob would be alone again.

  83

  “It’s time to get back,” Alex said reluctantly. For the last ninety minutes, in between thoroughly enjoying chatting with Laurie over an excellent dinner, he had found himself telling her stories of his own background—how his mother and then his father had died when he was in college, how at age twenty-one he had become his seventeen-year-old brother’s guardian.

  “He became my ‘little guy,’ ” he said, and then, appalled at his own words, said, “Laurie, I’m sorry. There’s no comparison with your situation.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Laurie said matter-of-factly. “But I hate it when people weigh and measure every word they say to me. It’s a continuing factor of my life. But your brother grew up and is a successful lawyer, and someday Blue Eyes will be captured and this awful burden will be gone. My one comfort is that Blue Eyes swore he’d get me first.” She sipped a taste of champagne. “I can drink to that!” she said.

  “Put down that glass,” Alex said forcefully. “Let’s drink to Blue Eyes being captured and rotting in prison for the rest of his life.” He did not add, Or being shot between the eyes in cold blood, as he murdered your husband, Dr. Greg Moran.

  Reluctantly, Alex signaled for the check.

  Fifteen minutes later they were driving toward Westchester on the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  Alex could see that Laurie was struggling to stay awake. “Look, why don’t you close your eyes?” he suggested. “You told me you didn’t sleep last night because you were worried about your dad, and I doubt you’ll sleep much tonight, either.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Laurie sighed. She closed her eyes and in less than a minute Alex heard the sound of her soft, even breathing.

  He glanced over at her from time to time. From the outside lights of the parkway he could see her profile, and then was pleased when, in her sleep, her head turned toward him.

  He thought about how worried Leo Farley was about her being under the same roof as these people, one of whom was surely a murderer—but which one?

  And there was something familiar about that gardener. What was it? He had snapped his picture yesterday when he was out on the patio and sent it to his investigator. He had also called Perfect Estates. He had told the person answering the phone that, for security reasons, he was just verifying the names of everyone on the property.

  Robert Powell’s speech at lunch was clearly an attempt to frighten one of them into making a move, Alex thought, and whoever that person is may take a last, desperate chance to stop him.

  Thirty minutes later he tapped Laurie’s arm. “Okay, ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ ” he said briskly. “Time to wake up. We’re here for the night.”

  84

  Bruno was in the office at the camp. The counselor on night duty had been summoned from his cabin.

  Toby Barber was twenty-six years old, a good sleeper, an early-to-bed type. Rubbing his eyes, he came into the office to confront Bruno, authoritative in his police uniform, a concerned look on his face. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Barber,” he told Toby, “but it’s very, very important. Commissioner Farley has had a major heart attack. He may not make it. He wants to see his grandson now.”

  Bruno was a good actor. He stared straight into the young counselor’s eyes.

  “We’ve been warned to take particular care of Timmy,” Toby said, trying to come fully awake, “but I do know that his grandfather called the head counselor today and told him he was in the hospital with a heart condition. I’ll call my boss right away on his cell to get his permission. He’s visiting friends at a birthday party.”

  “Commissioner Farley is dying,” Bruno said, his voice laced with fury. “He wants to see his grandson.”

  “I understand, I understand,” Toby said nervously. “Just one phone call.”

  There was no answer on the phone.

  “He probably doesn’t hear it,” Toby said worriedly. “I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  “I am not waiting a few minutes,” Bruno thundered. “The commissioner is a dying man who wants to see his grandson.”

  Thoroughly intimidated, Barber said, “I’ll get Timmy. Just let me help him change.”

  “Don’t change him. Put on his bathrobe and slippers!” Bruno ordered. “He has plenty of clothes at home.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’ll get him.”

  Ten minutes
later Bruno was holding the hand of a sleepy Timmy and putting him in his car.

  His mind was racing with a combination of triumph and anticipation.

  85

  Robert Powell arrived home to receive the first of his overnight guests.

  Muriel rushed upstairs to change her jacket. Horrified when she looked in the mirror, she freshened her makeup and brushed her hair. She walked downstairs trying not to show that she was unsteady on her feet. When she came into the den, she saw that Nina was the next to return. She saw the expression of contempt in her daughter’s eyes. Wait till you see, she thought as she went over to Rob to kiss his cheek. He put his arm around her tenderly.

  Claire, Regina, Alison, and Rod arrived within a few minutes of each other. Laurie and Alex were last, but within ten minutes all had gathered and were in the den.

  Jane stood at the bar to pass out wine and cordials.

  Robert Powell held up his glass. “I cannot thank you all enough for being with me, and I apologize that you have had to endure this ordeal for twenty years. As you know, I, too, have been under a terrible cloud of suspicion. But I am happy to say that tomorrow morning, during my interview, I will announce to the world that I now know who killed my beloved Betsy—and I will name that person. So let us have this final toast to the relief that is to come, and say good night to each other.”

  There was absolute silence in the room. The platter of hors d’oeuvres, so carefully prepared by Jane, was ignored.

  Everyone put their glasses down without speaking and began to leave the room.

  Josh was hovering in the hallway, ready to assist Jane with collecting the glasses and turning off the lights.

  Laurie and Alex waited until the others were upstairs to say good night to Robert Powell.

  “That was a pretty strong statement, Mr. Powell,” Alex said flatly. “And very provocative. Do you really think it was necessary?”

  “I think it was absolutely necessary,” Robert Powell said. “I have spent many years going from one to the other of those four young women, trying to imagine who went into my wife’s bedroom and stole the breath from her body. I know Betsy had her faults, but she was exactly right for me, and I have missed her for twenty years. Why do you think I never remarried? Because she is irreplaceable.”

  Where does that leave Muriel Craig? Laurie wondered.

  “And now I wish you a very good night,” Powell said briskly.

  Alex walked Laurie to the door of her room. “Keep your door locked,” he said. “If Powell is right, someone is right now trying to decide what to do. Crazy as it sounds, someone might blame you for setting up this program.”

  “Or blame you for driving every one of them to admit she hated Betsy, Alex.”

  “I’m not worried,” Alex said quietly. “Go to bed and lock your door.”

  86

  Regina sat on the edge of the bed. I know he means me, she thought. Josh must have given him the suicide note. I wonder if I’ll still get the money. I can use it for my defense. For twenty years I’ve wanted an end to this. Well, I have it now.

  In robotlike fashion she changed into pajamas, went into the bathroom, splashed water on her face, turned off the light, and went to bed. Then, sleepless, she stared into the dark.

  87

  Alison and Rod lay side by side, their hands clutched under the light covers.

  “I did do it,” Alison said. “I know I was in Betsy’s room, and I was in the closet watching.”

  “Watching what?” Rod asked quickly.

  “Someone holding the pillow over Betsy’s face. But Rod, it wasn’t someone, it was me.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “I know it’s true, Rod. I know it’s true.”

  “You don’t know it’s true. Stop saying that.”

  “Rod, I’m going to go to prison.”

  “No, you’re not. And for one reason: I couldn’t live without you.”

  Alison stared into the darkness and came to realize the truth that anger had hidden from her. She said, “Rod, I know that you have always felt that I married you so that you could send me to medical school. I may have believed that myself. But you weren’t the only one who fell in love the first day of kindergarten. I did, too. It’s a terrible thing, but I know I have wasted twenty years hating Betsy Powell.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “If only I had had the satisfaction of knowing what I was doing when I killed her.”

  88

  Claire sat on the couch in her bedroom, making no attempt to sleep.

  So he actually did love my mother, she thought. From the time he started coming into my room less than a month after we moved in here, I allowed it for her sake. I could see that she was so happy, and I wanted to keep her that way. I was sure that if I told her, she’d move out of here, and then where would we be?

  Back in a tiny apartment. She dated men along the way, looking for what Robert Powell could give her. We were so close when I was little. I felt I owed it to her. It was my big secret, making that sacrifice for my mother. Counting every night he didn’t come near me as a blessing. Then I overheard them talking. He was telling her about the night before, and she was pleased I was so responsive.

  Damn her, damn her, damn her.

  I smothered her in my mind from the time I was thirteen. If I was the one who did it that final night and somebody saw me and is saying so now, so be it, so be it.

  89

  Nina did not attempt to go to bed. Instead she sat, legs crossed, replaying in her mind the events of the day. Was it possible that her mother had carried out her threat? She’s a good actress, Nina thought, and who wouldn’t believe her?

  I didn’t know that Robert Powell was so bulldozed by Betsy that he didn’t see her for what she was. Or maybe he did see her for what she was and found it thrilling.

  If Rob has been playing up to my mother these couple of days, she’s obviously been fool enough to fall for it. If she’s said I confessed to killing Betsy, it’s impossible for me. And when Rob shows her the door tomorrow, she can go straight to the police chief to claim the reward. What, if anything, can I do about it?

  90

  As the last light went out in the house, Bruno got out of the car. He had given Timmy a sleeping pill and now had him slung over his shoulder. Carefully he climbed over the fence, moving slowly to be sure not to disturb him. He carried him into the pool house and opened the door of the utility room. He laid him on the pile of blankets he had prepared for him and loosely tied his hands and feet.

  Timmy stirred and murmured a protest when Bruno tied a relaxed gag around his mouth, then fell back into a deep sleep.

  Bruno knew he had to be picked up tomorrow morning by the landscaper’s truck. There would be no explanation for him not being there. But the kid should be okay until I get back, he thought. Even if he wakes up, he can’t get out and he can’t pull the gag off. His hands are tied behind him.

  Now that the end was near, he knew that he was not only deadly calm, but would stay deadly calm. He looked down at Timmy’s sleeping face. There was enough light from the full moon that he could see it clearly. “You would’ve looked just like your daddy someday,” he said, “and your mommy is right in that house and doesn’t know you’re here. Wait till she finds out you’re missing.”

  He knew he should leave but could not resist reaching into his pocket and taking out a tiny case. He opened it and took out shiny bright blue lenses and put them in his eyes. He had worn them that day because they would stand out just in case anyone got close enough to describe him. He remembered how he had heard Timmy’s wail five years ago: “Blue Eyes shot my daddy.”

  Yes, I did, he thought. Yes, I did.

  He took out the lenses, saving them for tomorrow.

  91

  Leo Farley could not sleep. The cop in him was sending him a warning. He tried to brush i
t off.

  Laurie is okay, he reminded himself. I’m glad Alex Buckley is in that house. It’s obvious that he likes Laurie, but more important, he knows she’s facing a potentially explosive situation tonight with that bunch in the same house.

  Timmy sounds great, and I’ll see him Sunday. Then why in hell am I so sure that something is seriously wrong? Maybe it’s just all these heart monitors on me. They’d drive anyone crazy.

  The nurse had left a sleeping pill on his night table. “It’s not strong, Commissioner,” she had told him, “but it will take the edge off and let you get some sleep.”

  Leo reached for it, then threw it back on the table. I don’t want to wake up half-groggy, he thought angrily.

  And anyhow, I know it won’t help me go to sleep.

  92

  At three o’clock in the morning, Jane got quietly out of bed, opened the door of her room, and padded along until she reached the room where Muriel Craig was sleeping.

  Her noisy snoring was sufficient proof that she was under the influence of excess liquid refreshment. Jane tiptoed over to the bed, bent over, and raised the pillow she was holding. Then, with a sudden quick movement, she jammed it over Muriel’s face and clasped it down.

  The snoring stopped with an abrupt gagging sound. The strong hands of her attacker held the pillow like a vise. Muriel began to gasp for breath.

  Her hands flew up and she tried to push the pillow away. “Don’t bother,” someone whispered.

  Any remnant of the fog in her brain disappeared.