The Second Time Around (19 page)

“You were there around eleven-thirty?” Ken asked.

“Yes.”

“Did she give any indication of why she was frightened?”

“Not directly, but she did say that the accelerator on Spencer's car had jammed only a week before his plane crashed. She had begun to think neither one was an accident.”

I got up. “I'm going to drive up there,” I said. “And then I'm going back to Caspien. Unless this is a total charade, the fact that Vivian Powers called me to say that she thought she knew the identity of the reddishhaired man may mean that she had become a threat to someone.”

Ken nodded. “Go ahead. And I have a few connections. There aren't that many people who went into St. Ann's Hospice to die and then later walked out. It certainly shouldn't be that hard to identify this guy.”

I was still new on the job. Ken was the senior on this cover story. Even so, I had to say it: “Ken, when you find him, I'd like to be along when you talk to him.”

Ken considered for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

*   *   *

I have a pretty good sense of direction. This time I didn't need my road map to find my way to Vivian's
house. There was a lone cop stationed at the door, and he looked at me suspiciously. I explained that I had seen Vivian Powers the day before and had received a phone call from her.

“Let me check,” he said. He went into the house and came back quickly. “Detective Shapiro said it's okay for you to go in.”

Detective Shapiro turned out to be a soft-spoken, scholarly-looking man with a receding hairline and keen hazel eyes. He was quick to explain that the investigation was just beginning. Vivian Powers's parents had been contacted, and in view of the circumstances had given permission for entry to her home. The fact that the front door was open, the lamp and table overturned, and her car still in the driveway had left them gravely worried that she had been the victim of foul play.

“You were here yesterday, Miss DeCarlo?” Shapiro confirmed.

“Yes.”

“I realize that with the dismantling of the house and the mover's boxes, it's hard to be sure. But do you see anything different about the premises than when you were here yesterday?”

We were in the living room. I looked around, remembering that it had been the same jumble of packed boxes and bare tables that I was looking at now. But then I realized there
was
something different. There was a box on the coffee table that had not been there yesterday.

I pointed to it. “That box,” I said. “She either may
have been packing it or going through it after I left, but it wasn't here before.”

Detective Shapiro walked over to it and pulled out the file that was on top. “She worked for Gen-stone, didn't she?” he asked.

I found myself giving him only the information I was absolutely sure of and saying nothing of my suspicions. I could imagine the look on the detective's face if I told him, “Vivian Powers may have staged this disappearance because she's meeting Nicholas Spencer, whose plane crashed and is presumed dead.” Or would it make more sense to him if I said, “I am beginning to wonder if Nicholas Spencer was in fact the victim of foul play, that a doctor in Caspien was the victim of a hit-and-run driver because of laboratory records he was holding, and that Vivian Powers disappeared because she was able to identify the man who collected those records.”

Instead, I limited myself to saying that I had interviewed Vivian Powers because I was cowriting a cover story on her boss, Nicholas Spencer.

“She called you after you left, Miss DeCarlo?”

I guessed that Detective Shapiro was aware he was not getting the full story.

“Yes. I had discussed with Vivian the fact that some records of lab experiments belonging to Nicholas Spencer were missing. As far as she knew, the man who picked them up, saying he had been sent by Spencer, was not authorized to do so. From the brief message she left on my machine, I got the impression she might be able to identify that person.”

The detective was still holding the Gen-stone file folder, but it was empty. “Is it possible she made that connection when she was going through this file?”

“I don't know, but I certainly think it's possible.”

“Now the file is empty, and she's missing. What does that say to you, Miss DeCarlo?”

“I think there is the possibility that she may have been the victim of foul play.”

He gave me a sharp look. “On the drive from the city, did you happen to have your car radio on, Miss DeCarlo?”

“No, I did not,” I said. I didn't tell Detective Shapiro that when I'm working on an investigative story such as this, I treasure quiet time in the car to think and to weigh the possible alternative scenarios with which I've been presented.

“Then you didn't hear the report of a rumor that Nick Spencer has been spotted in Zurich, observed there by a man who had seen him a number of times at stockholders' meetings?”

It took me a long minute to digest that question. “Are you saying that you think the man who claims to have seen him is credible?”

“No, only that it's a new angle in the case. Naturally, they'll check out the story thoroughly.”

“If that story checks out, I wouldn't worry too much about Vivian Powers,” I said. “If it is true, my guess is that she's on her way to meet him right now, if she isn't there already.”

“They were involved?” Shapiro asked quickly.

“Nicholas Spencer's housekeeping couple believed
they were, which could mean that the so-called missing records are nothing but part of an elaborate cover-up.”

“Didn't I hear that the front door was open?” I asked Shapiro.

He nodded. “Which is why leaving that door open may have been an effort to draw notice to her absence,” he said. “I'll be honest, Miss DeCarlo. There's something phony about this setup, and I think you've told me what it is. I bet that right now she's winging her way to Spencer, wherever he is.”

M
illy greeted me like an old friend when I arrived at the diner, just in time for a late lunch. “I've been telling everyone about how you're writing a story on Nick Spencer,” she said, beaming. “How about today's news, that he's living it up in Switzerland? Two days ago those kids fished out the shirt he was supposed to be wearing, and everybody thought that meant he was dead. Tomorrow it'll be something else. I always said that anybody smart enough to steal that kind of money would figure out how to live long enough to spend it.”

“You may have a point, Milly,” I said. “How's the chicken salad today?”

“Awesome.”

Now there's a recommendation, I thought, as I ordered the salad and coffee. Because it was the tail end of lunch time, the diner was busy. I heard the name Nicholas Spencer mentioned several times from different
tables, but couldn't hear what was being said about him.

When Milly came back with the salad, I asked her what she had heard about Dr. Broderick's condition.

“He's doing a
little
better,” she said, dragging out the word so it sounded like “l-e-e-e-tle.” “I mean, he's still really critical, but I heard that he tried to talk to his wife. Isn't that good?”

“Yes, it is good. I'm very glad.” As I ate the salad, which indeed was awesomely filled with celery but somewhat short on chicken, my mind was leaping ahead. If Dr. Broderick recovered, would he be able to identify the person who had run him down, or would he have no memory at all of the accident?

By the time I'd had a second cup of coffee, the diner was rapidly emptying. I waited until I saw that Milly was finished clearing the other tables, then beckoned her over. I had brought along the photo taken the night Nick Spencer was honored, and I showed it to her.

“Milly, do you know these people?”

She adjusted her glasses and studied the group assembled on the dais. “Sure.” She began to point. “That's Delia Gordon and her husband, Ralph. She's nice; he's kind of a stiff. That's Jackie Schlosser. She's real nice. That's Reverend Howell, the Presbyterian minister. And there's the crook, of course. Hope they get him. That's the chairman of the board of the hospital. He has egg on his face since he persuaded the board to invest so much in Gen-stone. From what I hear, he'll be out of a job by the next board election, if not sooner. A lot of people think he should resign. I bet he does if
they prove Nick Spencer is alive. On the other hand, if they arrest him, then maybe they can find out where he hid the money. That's Dora Whitman and her husband, Nils. Both their families go way back in this town. Real money. I mean live-in help and everything. Everybody likes the fact that the family never shook the dust of Caspien off their feet, but I hear they have a fabulous summer home in Martha's Vineyard, too. Oh, and at the end on the right is Kay Fess. She's head of the volunteers at the hospital.”

I made notes, trying to keep up with Milly's rapid-fire commentary. When she was finished, I said, “Milly, I want to talk to some of those people, but Reverend Howell is the only one I've been able to reach so far. The others either have unlisted phone numbers or haven't returned my call. Any suggestions on how I can get to them?”

“Don't let on I told you, but Kay Fess is probably at the reception desk in the hospital right now. Even if she didn't call you back, she's easy to get to know.”

“Milly, you're a doll,” I said. I finished my coffee, paid the check, left a generous tip, and after consulting my map, drove the four blocks to the hospital.

I guess I expected to find a local community hospital, but Caspien Hospital was an obviously growing institution, with several smaller buildings adjacent to the main structure and a new area cordoned off and marked with a sign that read
SITE OF FUTURE PEDIATRIC CENTER
.

This, I was sure, was the planned construction now on hold thanks to the hospital's investment in Gen-stone.

I parked and went into the lobby. There were two women at the reception desk, but I was able to tell which was Kay Fess immediately. Deeply suntanned although it was only April, with short graying hair, dark brown eyes, granny glasses, an exquisitely shaped nose, and narrow lips, she had a very “in charge” air about her. I seriously doubted that anyone slipped through without a visitor's pass on
her
watch. She was the one nearest to the roped-off entrance to the elevators, which suggested that she was the head honcho.

There were four or five people waiting for passes when I entered the lobby. I waited as she and her associate took care of them, and then I went up to speak to her. “Miss Fess?” I said.

She was immediately on guard, as though suspecting I was going to ask to bring ten kids in to visit a patient.

“Miss Fess, I'm Carley DeCarlo with the
Wall Street Weekly.
I'd very much like to talk to you about the award dinner for Nicholas Spencer several months back. I understand that you were on the dais sitting quite close to him.”

“You phoned me the other day.”

“Yes, I did.”

The other woman at the reception desk was looking at us with curiosity, but then had to turn her attention to some newcomers.

“Miss DeCarlo, since I did not return your call, doesn't it suggest to you that I had no intention of talking to you?” Her tone was pleasant but firm.

“Miss Fess, I understand that you give a great deal of your time to the hospital. I'm also aware that the hospital
has had to put construction of the pediatric center on hold because of the investment in Gen-stone. The reason I want to talk to you is that I believe the true story of Nicholas Spencer's disappearance has not come out, and if it does, then that money may be traceable.”

I saw the hesitation and doubt in her expression. “Nicholas Spencer has been seen in Switzerland,” she said. “I wonder if he's buying a chalet with money that would have saved the lives of children for generations to come.”

“What appeared to be definitive proof of his death was making headlines only two days ago,” I reminded her. “Now this. The truth is, we still don't know the full story. Please, couldn't we talk for just a few minutes.”

Mid-afternoon was clearly not heavy-traffic visiting time at the hospital. Miss Fess turned to her coworker. “Margie, I'll be right back.”

We sat in a corner of the lobby. She was clearly of a “get-to-the-point” mind-set and was intent on keeping our discussion brief. I was not going to mention my suspicion that what had happened to Dr. Broderick might not have been an accident. What I
did
tell her was that I suspected Nicholas Spencer heard something at the award dinner that sent him rushing the next morning to collect his father's old research records from Dr. Broderick. Then I decided to go one step further: “Miss Fess, Spencer was visibly upset to find out that someone else had already collected those records, saying that he was getting them for him. I think that if I can find out who gave him disturbing information at the dinner, as well
as whom he visited after he left Dr. Broderick's office the next day, we might have some idea as to what
really
happened to him and to the missing money. Did you speak with Spencer at any length?”