I've Got You Under My Skin (9 page)

19

M
uch to Nina Craig’s dismay, there was a message for her mother waiting at the desk at the St. Regis when they checked in.

As she had feared, it was from Robert Powell, inviting Muriel to the 9 
A.M.
breakfast.

Muriel smiled with delight, then waved the note in Nina’s face. “You thought he was toying with me,” she snapped. “You don’t, or won’t, understand that Rob and I were deeply in love. The fact that his head was turned by Betsy Bonner doesn’t mean he didn’t care about me.”

Nina realized that Muriel, having drunk a vodka and at least two glasses of wine on the plane, and after their argument in the car when she was screaming how much she hated Betsy, was out of control.

She could see the two desk clerks taking in the tirade. “Mother,
please
. . . ,” she began.

“Don’t ‘please’ me. Read the reviews I got. You’re nothing but an extra, a nobody. Didn’t that woman stop me on the street and tell me how wonderful I was in the remake of
Random Harvest
?”

Muriel’s voice was rising and her face was becoming flushed as she spat out the words. “As for you, you couldn’t make it to first base as an actress. That’s why you’re an extra, a member of the crowd scenes.”

Nina could see that the clerk had put the keys to the rooms in separate envelopes. She reached out her hand. “I’m Nina Craig,” she said quietly. “I apologize for the scene my mother is making.”

If Muriel had heard her, she did not indicate it. She was still finishing her sentence. “. . . and you’re always trying to put me down.”

The clerk was tactful enough not to offer any reply to Nina other than to murmur, “I’ll have your bags sent up to your room.”

“Thank you. I just have the large black one.” Nina pointed to it, then turned and brushed past Muriel, who had finally stopped talking. Furious and embarrassed by the curious eyes of the onlookers who were in line at the desk, she walked rapidly to the elevator and managed to get in as the door was closing.

On the sixth floor she got out, and following the arrow to the odd-numbered rooms, hurried to get into 621 before Muriel arrived and tried to follow her into her room.

Once inside, Nina sat down in the nearest chair with her hands clenched and whispered, “I can’t stand any more. I can’t stand it any more.”

Later she called for room service. It would have been typical of her mother, who was in the room next door, to phone her about dinner. But that didn’t happen. Nina would not have agreed to meet with her, but was denied the satisfaction of saying the words that were crowding her throat.
Go ahead. Make a fool of yourself tomorrow. I tried to warn you. You’re Muriel Craig, B-actress and a total failure as a mother
and
as a human being.

•   •   •

Hoping to hear more from them, Josh had arranged the car service so that he was the one who picked them up in the morning and again taped their angry conversation.

That morning, Josh had arrived half an hour early for an eight o’clock pickup. But when he phoned Nina Craig, she had said, “We’ll be right down.”

Nina had thought that there was nothing else her mother could possibly do to upset her, but she quickly realized she was wrong. Muriel wanted to arrive at the breakfast early so she could have time with Robert Powell before the others arrived. At least this time they rode in silence.

When they arrived at the estate, the door was opened by Powell’s longtime housekeeper, Jane. She eyed them up and down, greeted them by name, and said that Mr. Powell would be down at nine, and that the producer, Ms. Moran, was already in the dining room.

Nina watched as her mother hid her disappointment and became Muriel Craig, the actress. Her smile was gracious, her tone warm when she was introduced to Laurie Moran, and she thanked her for being invited to accompany Nina.

“Mr. Powell is your host, Ms. Craig,” Laurie said quietly. “I can’t take any credit for it. I understand that after the breakfast you’ll be driven back to the St. Regis?”

Wonderful, Nina thought with satisfaction. As she extended her hand to Laurie, she realized how surprised she was that the producer of the program was so young. Mid-thirties, Nina thought enviously. Nina’s forty-second birthday the previous week had made her keenly aware that her life was going nowhere, and this three-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall would only serve to buy her mother an apartment and get her out of her hair once and for all.

On the set of her last movie, Nina had been an extra in a ballroom scene, and the producer, Grant Richmond, had told her that she danced beautifully. “You put the others in the scene to shame,” he had said.

Nina knew he was pushing sixty and recently widowed. Then, the other night, he had invited her to meet him for cocktails. He had
taken the trouble to explain that he had promised to have dinner with the producer, but that “we’ll make it another time.” He sent her home in his car.

I wish my mother was right, that Robert Powell might still be interested in her, she thought. Then, as she accepted the housekeeper’s offer of coffee, Nina appraised Muriel carefully. Her mother did look good. She was wearing a white suit—very expensive, and bought with Nina’s American Express card—with white high-heeled shoes that showed off her long legs and excellent figure. At the pricey salon, she had accepted the beautician’s tactful suggestion that perhaps her fiery red hair could be toned down a bit. Now it was an attractive rust shade and had been cut and shaped so that it was barely touching her shoulders. She had always been skillful at applying her own makeup. In other words, Nina thought, my beloved mother looks great.

How do I look? she wondered. Okay, but it could be better. I want space. I want to be able to go home to a neat, restful apartment that isn’t choked with cigarette smoke and have a glass of wine on the deck looking over the pool by myself.

And be able to invite Grant Richmond in for a drink if he
does
invite me out for dinner, she thought.

With a cup of coffee in her hand, Muriel was telling Laurie Moran how vividly she remembered that terrible, tragic night twenty years ago when her dear, dear friend Betsy was viciously murdered. “My heart was broken,” she was saying. “We were
such
good friends.”

Disgusted, Nina walked to the windows overlooking the pool and, beyond it, the putting green.

The door of the pool house opened, and she could make out the figure of a man emerging onto the lawn.

Did Robert Powell have a guest staying there? she wondered,
then realized something was dangling from the man’s hand. As she watched, he began snipping at the bush nearest to the pool house.

Then the doorbell rang, and Nina turned from the window. One of the other suspects in the death of Betsy Bonner Powell had arrived.

20

G
eorge Curtis had become increasingly more nervous about why Robert Powell was drawing him into the Graduation Gala filming.

It was bad enough that he had been forced to agree to be on camera at some point, but why was he being invited to this breakfast, where, as Rob put it, “all the suspects will gather”? Then Rob quickly added, “Not that you’re one of the suspects, George.”

Now, as he parked his red Porsche in the driveway, George pulled out a handkerchief and patted his forehead dry, an unusual gesture for him. The convertible top was down and the air-conditioning was on. There was no reason to be sweating—except anxiety.

But George Curtis, billionaire, constant on the Forbes list, friend of presidents and prime ministers, at that moment acknowledged to himself that by the end of the week it was possible that he would be under arrest, in handcuffs. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief again.

Taking a long minute to steady his nerves, he got out of the car. The June morning was, as one television weatherman was prone to saying, “A gift. A perfect day.” And today he’d be right, George thought—blue skies, sun glowing warm, a soft breeze coming from nearby Long Island Sound. But he didn’t care.

He started to cross the driveway to the front door, then waited as a limousine rounded the curve. The limo stopped to allow him to walk in front of it.

He did not ring the bell, but waited until the chauffeur opened the back door and the occupants stepped out. Even though it had been twenty years, he immediately recognized Alison Schaefer. She hasn’t changed much, was George’s immediate impression—tall, slender, the dark hair not quite so long on her shoulders as it used to be. He remembered that on the night of the Gala he had chatted with her for a few moments and had the impression that there was repressed anger in her when she said something about the lavish party. “The money could be put to better use,” she said bitterly. Because it was such an unexpected statement coming from one of the honorees, George had never forgotten it.

Now Alison waited by the car until the other occupant got out with painfully slow movements. As George watched, Rod Kimball pulled himself to his feet and adjusted his crutches firmly under his arms.

Of course, George thought. Alison married the rookie football player who was struck by a hit-and-run driver.

He rang the bell as the couple negotiated the one step to the wide entrance. With polite constraint, Alison and George greeted each other, and Alison introduced Rod.

Then Jane was opening the door for them. She greeted the three with what for her was warmth and said, unnecessarily, “Mr. Powell is expecting you.”

•   •   •

After Alex Buckley parked in front of the Powell mansion, he took a moment to study the massive stone house before he left his car.

What had Betsy Bonner thought when she saw this house? he wondered. She had been renting a modest condo in Salem Ridge in the hope of meeting someone with money.

She sure struck it rich for a lady born in the Bronx and making a living as an usher in a theatre, Alex thought as he got out of the car and walked to the front door.

He was admitted by Jane, and introduced to the group already in the dining room. He was relieved to see Laurie Moran had arrived before him.

“Well, here we go,” she said when he walked over to her.

“Just what I was thinking,” he replied, his tone equally low.

•   •   •

Regina knew it was dangerous to carry her father’s suicide note with her to the breakfast. If anyone opened her purse and found it, she would become the most logical suspect to have murdered Betsy Powell. They might as well stop filming the show, she thought.

On the other hand, she had an almost paranoid fear that if she left the letter in the safe at the hotel, someone would steal it. It would be just like Robert Powell to pull off something like that, she thought. I should know! At least I can keep my pocketbook with me.

Then she had folded the note so that it fit inside the small billfold that held her credit and insurance cards.

As her limo turned into the familiar driveway, she saw the front door being opened and three people going into the house. One of the men was on crutches.

That has to be Alison’s husband, she thought. By the time she’d heard about the accident she’d been in Florida.

We were such dopes when we agreed to be her bridesmaids! she thought now. The press had had a field day taking pictures of Claire
and Nina and me walking down the aisle in front of Alison. One of the captions read, “The bride and her fellow suspects.”

Talk about a low blow!

Regina was so deep in her thoughts that for a moment she did not realize the car had stopped and the driver was holding the door open for her.

Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and climbed the steps to the door.

How many times have I been in this house? she asked herself as she pressed the bell. She’d been close to Claire in high school.

But why did I keep coming after Daddy killed himself? Was it morbid curiosity to look at Betsy throwing her charm around? Or was it that I always planned to get back at both of them someday?

In the few moments she waited until the door was opened, she nervously reassured herself about her appearance.

She had lost the twenty pounds she vowed to drop when she received that letter asking her to be in the series. She had bought some new clothes for this trip, and she knew that the black-and-white jacket and white slacks flattered her reclaimed figure and complemented her midnight-black hair.

Zach kept telling me how good I look, she thought as the door opened and Jane, a perfunctory welcome on her lips, stepped back to admit her into the house.

Regina’s unwelcome thought as she entered the mansion was to remember her promise to Zach to burn the letter before it provided a reason to suspect she had killed Betsy Bonner Powell.

•   •   •

Claire had thought she would be nervous and fearful at the meeting with her stepfather, Robert Powell. It had been years since they’d
seen each other. Instead she woke from a troubled sleep alert with icy calm. Her room service order arrived promptly at seven, and she ate her continental breakfast sitting in the chair in front of the television, watching the news.

But instead of seeing the latest report on a series of muggings in Manhattan, she flashed back to the television coverage of her mother’s body being carried out of the house.

We were all together, huddled in the den, she thought. We had robes on.

And then the police started to question us . . .

She turned off the television set and carried her second cup of coffee into the bathroom. There she drew a bath, and when the tub was nearly full, dropped the bath salts she had carried with her into it.

Dear Betsy’s favorite, she thought. I want to smell just like her when I get there.

She was in no hurry. I want to be sure they’re all there when I arrive. She smiled at the thought. Betsy was always late. It drove Rob crazy. He was a stickler for punctuality, no matter what the occasion.

I should know!

The outfit Claire had chosen was a sky-blue Escada cashmere and silk jacket and narrow gray slacks.

Betsy loved this color, she thought as she slipped on the jacket. She thought it brought out the color of her eyes. Well, let it bring out the color of mine.

The one piece of jewelry that she had taken when she left Robert Powell’s house for the last time was the simple strand of pearls that had originally belonged to the grandmother whom she only vaguely remembered. But I
do
remember loving her, she thought. Even though I was only three when she died, I remember sitting on her lap while she read books to me.

At eight thirty the driver called to announce that he was downstairs.

“I’ll be another half hour,” she told him. She had calculated that that would bring her to the house about 9:20. Again she reassured herself that all the others would be gathered there.

Then Betsy Bonner Powell’s daughter will make her entrance.