I've Got You Under My Skin (6 page)

10

I
n 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 answering 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

F
rom 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

A
t 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.

Why not? It would be almost impossible to miss all the newspaper articles about the upcoming program. The gossip magazines were having a field day digging up everything they could find about Betsy Bonner Powell.
USHERED TO A FATAL NEW LIFESTYLE
was a particularly grating one that had appeared on the front page of the
Shocker,
a sensational weekly. The article detailed the first meeting of Betsy Bonner and Robert Powell. Betsy had taken her daughter, Claire, to lunch at a restaurant in Rye for her thirteenth birthday. Robert Powell, a widower, had been seated across the room with Claire’s friend Nina and her mother. As Betsy and Claire were leaving, Nina had called to them. They walked over to Powell’s table, where Nina introduced Betsy and Claire to the Wall Street hedge fund multimillionaire.

“The rest is, as they say, history,” was the trite introduction to the final columns of that story. Robert Powell claimed it was love at first sight. He and Betsy Bonner were married three months later.

“Actress Muriel Craig put up a brave front, but insiders say she was furious and blamed her daughter, Nina, for making it a point to call out to Claire in the restaurant.”

I know that’s true, Claire thought as she followed the bellman to the elevator. Poor Nina.

The suite consisted of a large bedroom and living room, a full bath, and a powder room furnished in pastel shades. It was both attractive and restful.

Claire tipped the bellman, phoned room service, and unpacked her one suitcase. It contained the three outfits she had selected to bring with her, as well as her supply of new cosmetics.

In one of her e-mails, Laurie Moran had requested Claire’s size and height, saying that she would have wardrobe changes available.

Wardrobe changes! Claire had thought when she read the e-mail. Why on earth would I need changes?

But then she had understood. Moran would provide gowns similar but not identical to the ones they had worn twenty years ago at the Gala.

They would reenact a few of the scenes in the films, like the one of the four of them clinking glasses or with arms around one another, posing for the cameras. And individually being questioned by the police.

I know I look good, Claire thought. Now I’m so like my dear mother.

A light tap at the door told her that room service had arrived with the chicken salad and iced tea she had ordered.

But as she nibbled at the salad and sipped the tea, Claire realized that she was not as brave as she had thought.

Something was telling her not to go forward with her plan.

Just nerves, she tried to reassure herself. Just nerves.

But it was more than that.

Like a drumbeat in her head, her inner voice was saying,
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. It is not worth the risk!