You belong to me (10 page)

Jane Clausen stood up. It was time to go to the meeting. She wanted to take the time to study all the requests for grants thoroughly. This afternoon I'll phone Dr. Chandler and make an appointment to see her, she decided.

She smiled unconsciously as she thought, I know Regina would approve.

26

I must go down to the seas again-

The cadence of the words was a drumbeat in his head. He could see himself on the pier, showing his identification to a courteous member of the crew, hearing his greeting-"Welcome aboard, sir!"-walking up the metal gangway, being shown to his cabin.

He always took only the best accommodations, first class, with a private verandah. A penthouse suite would not be suitable-that would be too noticeable. He sought only to give the impression of impeccable taste, of substance, of the kind of reserve that comes with generations of breeding.

Of course it was easy to accomplish. And after gently rebuffing the first attempts at probing, he found that fellow passengers respected his privacy, perhaps even admired him for being so reserved, and turned their curiosity to more interesting subjects.

Once his presence had been established, he was free to prowl and select his prey.

The first voyage of that kind had been four years ago. Now the journey was almost over. Just one more to go. And now it was time to find her. There were a number of appropriate ships going to the place that had been ordained for the death of this last lonely lady. He had decided on the identity he would assume, that of an investor who had been raised in Belgium, the son of an American mother and British diplomat father. He had a new salt-and-pepper wig, part of so excellent a disguise that it somehow managed to give the visual effect of altering the contours of his face.

He couldn't wait to live the new role, to find the one, to let her fate be joined to Regina's, whose body, weighted with stones, rested beneath the busy waterway that was Kowloon Bay; to meld her story with that of Veronica, whose bones were rotting in the Valley of the Kings; with Constance, who had replaced Carolyn in Algiers; with Monica in London; with all these sisters in death.

I must go down to the seas again. But first there was unfinished business to be attended to. This morning, listening once more to Dr. Susan's program, he had decided that one of the feathers in the wind needed to be removed immediately.

27

It had been fifty years since Abdul Parki had first arrived in America, a shy, slender sixteen-year-old from New Delhi. Immediately he had begun working for his uncle; his job was sweeping the floors and polishing the brass knickknacks that filled the cluttered shelves of his uncle's tiny souvenir shop on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Now Abdul was the owner, but little else had changed. The store might have been frozen in time. Even the sign reading KHYEM SPECIALTY SHOP was an exact duplicate of the one that his uncle had hung.

Abdul was still slender, and though he had of necessity overcome his shyness, he had a natural reserve that kept him distant from his customers.

The only ones he ever talked to were those who appreciated the skill and effort he put into the small collection of inexpensive rings and bracelets he made himself. And though he, of course, had never inquired as to the reason, Abdul often wondered about the man who had come back on three different occasions to purchase turquoise rings with the inscription "You belong to me."

It amused Abdul, who himself had been married to his late wife for forty-five years, to think that this customer regularly changed girlfriends. The last time the man had been in, his business card had fallen from his wallet. Abdul had picked it up and glanced at it, then apologizing for being forward, he returned it. Seeing the look of displeasure on his customer's face, he had apologized again, calling the customer by name. Immediately he knew he had made a second mistake.

He doesn't want me to know who he is, and now he won't come back-that had been Abdul's immediate and regretful thought. And given the fact that a year had passed without a reappearance, he suspected that to be the case.

As his uncle had before him, Abdul closed the shop every day promptly at one o'clock, then went out for lunch. On this Tuesday afternoon he had the sign in his hand-CLOSED-RETURN AT 2 P.M.-and was just about to put it on the door, when his mysterious customer suddenly appeared, came inside, and greeted him warmly.

Abdul broke into a rare smile. "It's been a long time, sir. It's good to see you again."

"Good to see you, Abdul. I thought surely you'd have forgotten me by now."

"Oh, no, sir." He did not use the man's name, careful not to remind the customer of his mistake the last time they had been together.

"Bet you can't remember my name," his customer said, his tone genial.

I must have been wrong, Abdul thought. He wasn't angry at me after all. "Of course, I remember it, sir," he said. Smiling, he proved that indeed he did.

"Good for you," his customer said warmly. "Abdul, guess what? I need another ring. You know the one I mean. Hope you have one in stock."

"I think I have three, sir."

"Well, maybe I'll take them all. Here I'm keeping you from your lunch. Before any other customers show up, why don't we put the sign out and lock the door? Otherwise you'll never get out of here, and I know you're a creature of habit."

Abdul smiled again, pleased at the thoughtfulness of this remarkably friendly old customer. Willingly, he handed him the sign and watched him turn the lock. It was then that he noted with surprise that, even though it was a mild and sunny day, his customer was wearing gloves.

The handmade items were inside the glass-topped counter, near the cash register. Abdul went to the counter and removed a small tray. "Two of them are here, sir. There's one more in the back, on my workbench. I'll get it."

With quick steps he walked through the curtained area that led to the small stockroom, one corner of which he had made into a combination office and workplace. The third turquoise ring was in a box. He had finished the engraving on it only the day before.

Three girls at once, he thought, smiling to himself. This guy does get around.

Abdul turned, the ring in his hand, then gasped in surprise. His customer had followed him into the stockroom.

"Did you find the ring?"

"Right here, sir." Abdul held it out, not understanding why he suddenly felt nervous and cornered.

When he saw the sudden flash of the knife, he understood. I was right to be afraid, he thought, as he felt a sharp pain and then slipped into darkness.

28

At ten minutes of three, just as her two o'clock patient was leaving, Susan Chandler received a call from Jane Clausen. She immediately sensed the tension lurking beneath the quiet, well-bred voice and the request for an appointment.

"I mean a professional visit," Mrs. Clausen said. "I need to discuss some problems I'm having, and I feel that I'd be very comfortable talking them over with you."

Before Susan could respond, Jane Clausen continued: "I'm afraid it's very important that I see you as soon as possible, even today, if that can be arranged."

Susan did not need to consult her calendar to answer. She had clients coming in for appointments at three and four o'clock. After that she had intended to go immediately to Lenox Hill Hospital. Obviously that would have to wait.

"I'll be free at five o'clock, Mrs. Clausen."

As soon as she broke the connection, Susan dialed Lenox Hill Hospital, having already looked up the number. When she finally got through to an operator, she explained she was trying to reach the husband of a woman in intensive care.

"I'll put you through to the ICU waiting room," the operator told her.

A woman answered. Susan asked if Justin Wells was there.

"Who's calling?"

Susan understood the reason for the hesitation in the other woman's voice. The media must be hounding him, she thought. "Dr. Susan Chandler," she said. "Mr. Wells requested a tape of a radio program I did yesterday, and I wanted to bring it to him myself if he's still going to be at the hospital at six-thirty."

From the muffled sound in her ear, she could tell that the woman had covered the receiver with her hand. Even so, she could make out the question being asked: "Justin, did you request a tape of Dr. Susan Chandler's program yesterday?"

She could hear the answer distinctly: "That's ridiculous, Pamela. Someone's playing a sick joke."

"Dr. Chandler, I'm afraid there's been a mistake."

Before she could be disconnected, Susan said hurriedly, "I apologize. That was the message I received from my producer. I'm terribly sorry to have bothered Mr. Wells at a time like this. May I ask how Mrs. Wells is?"

There was a brief pause. "Pray for her, Dr. Chandler."

The connection was broken, and an instant later a computer voice was saying, "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again."

Susan sat for a long minute, staring at the phone. Had the request for the tape been intended as a practical joke, and if so, why? Or had Justin Wells made the call and now needed to deny it to the person he addressed as Pamela? And again, if so, why?

Susan realized these were questions that would have to wait. Janet was already announcing the arrival of her three o'clock client.

29

Doug Layton stood outside the partly opened door of the small office Jane Clausen kept for herself in the Clausen Family Trust suite in the Chrysler Building. He didn't even have to strain to hear what she was saying on the phone to Dr. Susan Chandler.

As he listened, he began to perspire. He was fairly certain that he was the problem she wanted to discuss with Chandler.

He knew he had bungled their meeting this morning. Mrs. Clausen had arrived early, and he had brought coffee to her, planning to smooth over any irritation she might still feel. He frequently had coffee with her before the trust meeting, using the time to discuss the various requests for grants.

When he had arrived this morning, she had the agenda spread out before her and looked up at him, her eyes cool and dismissive. "I don't care for any coffee," she had told him. "You go ahead. I'll see you in the boardroom."

Not even a cursory "Thank you, Doug."

There was one file that had drawn her attention in particular, because she brought it up at the meeting, asking a lot of tough questions. The file contained information on moneys marked for use at a facility for orphaned children in Guatemala.

I had everything under control, Doug thought angrily, and then I blundered. Hoping to head off any discussion, like an imbecile, he had said, "That orphanage was particularly important to Regina, Mrs. Clausen. She once told me that."

Doug shivered remembering the icy gaze Jane Clausen had directed at him. He had tried to cover himself by adding hastily, "I mean, you quoted her as saying that yourself at one of our first meetings, Mrs. Clausen."

As usual, Hubert March, the chairman, was half asleep, but Doug could see the faces of the other trustees, who stared at him appraisingly as Jane Clausen said coldly, "No, I never said any such thing."

And now she was making a date to see Dr. Chandler. Hearing the click of the telephone receiver on the cradle, Doug Layton tapped on the door and waited for Mrs. Clausen's response. For a long moment, she did not respond. Then as he was about to knock again, he heard a faint groan, and rushed in.

Jane Clausen was leaning back in the chair, her face contorted in pain. She looked up at him, shook her head, and pointed past him. He knew what she meant. Get out and close the door behind you.

Silently he obeyed. There was no question that her condition was worsening. She was dying.

He went directly to the receptionist. "Mrs. Clausen has a touch of a headache," he told the woman. "I think you should hold any calls until she's had a chance to rest."

Back in his own office, he sat at his desk Realizing that his palms were soaked, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dried them, then got up and went out to the men's room.

There he dashed cold water on his face, combed his hair, straightened his tie, and looked in the mirror. He always had been grateful that his appearance-dark blond hair, steel-gray eyes, and aristocratic nose-had been the product of the Layton genetic code. His mother was still vaguely pretty, but he winced at the memory of his maternal grandparents, with their plump, nondescript features.

Now he was sure that in his Paul Stuart jacket and slacks and maroon-and-blue tie, he looked the part of the trusted advisor who would handle the affairs of the late Jane Clausen in the manner she would have wanted. There was no question that on her death Hubert March would turn the running of the trust over to him.

Everything had gone so well until now. In her final days Jane Clausen could not be allowed to interfere with his master plan.

30

In Yonkers, twenty-five-year-old Tiffany Smith was still stunned that she actually had gotten through to Dr. Susan Chandler herself, and had talked to her, live, on air. A waitress on the evening shift at The Grotto, a neighborhood trattoria, she was famous for never forgetting a customer's face or what they had ordered at previous dinners.

Names, though, didn't matter, so she never bothered to remember them. It was easier to call everyone "doll" or "honey."

Since her roommate's marriage, Tiffany lived alone in a small apartment on the second floor of a two-family house. Her routine was to sleep till nearly ten each morning, then to listen to Dr. Susan in bed while she enjoyed her first cup of coffee.

As she put it, "Being between boyfriends, it's comforting to know that a lot of women are having problems with their fellows too." A wiry-thin, teased blonde, with narrow, shrewd eyes, Tiffany displayed a sardonic outlook on life that was appealing to some and off-putting to others.

Yesterday, when she heard the woman who called herself Karen talk with Dr. Susan about the turquoise ring some guy had given her on a cruise, she thought immediately about Matt Bauer, who had given her a similar ring. After they broke up she tried to pretend that the sentiment engraved on it, "You belong to me," was stupid and gooey, but she didn't really mean it.

The phone call to Dr. Susan this morning had been an impulse, and almost immediately she regretted telling her that Matt was a cheapskate, just because the ring had only cost ten dollars. It actually was pretty, and she admitted to herself that she made that remark only because Matt had dropped her.

As the day wore on, Tiffany thought more and more about that afternoon last year she had spent with Matt in Greenwich Village. By four o'clock, as she got ready for work, fluffing her hair and applying her makeup, she realized that the name of the shop where they bought the ring was not going to come to her.

"Let's see," she said aloud. "We went to the Village for lunch at a sushi bar first, then went to see that dumb movie Matt thought was so great, and that I pretended to like. Not a word of English, just a lot of jabbering. Then we were walking around and passed that souvenir shop, and I said, 'Let's stop in.'"

"Then Matt bought me a souvenir." That was back when Matt really acted as though he liked me, Tiffany thought. We were trying to decide between a brass monkey and a miniature Taj Mahal, and the owner was giving us all the time we needed. He was behind the glass counter where the cash register was when that classy guy came in.

She had noticed him right away, because she had just turned away from Matt, who had picked up something else and was reading the tag that said why it was special. The guy didn't seem to realize they were there, because they'd been standing behind a screen with camels and pyramids painted on it. She hadn't been able to hear what the man said, but the owner took something from the glass counter by the cash register.

The customer was a doll, Tiffany reflected, remembering still the attractive man she had seen in the shop that day. She figured he was the kind who went out with the people she only read about in the columns. Not like the jerks who stuff themselves at The Grotto, she thought. She remembered the look of surprise on his face when he turned around and saw her standing there. After the man left, the store owner said, "That gentleman has purchased several of these rings for his lady friends. Maybe you'd like to see one."

It was pretty, Tiffany thought, and she knew Matt could see by the amount rung up on the cash register that it cost only ten dollars, so she didn't mind telling him she'd like to have it.

Then the owner showed us the inscription, Tiffany remembered, and Matt blushed and said that was fine, and I thought maybe it was a sign that this time I'd met a guy who would last.

Tiffany penciled her eyebrows and reached for her mascara. But then we broke up, she thought ruefully.

Wistfully she looked at the turquoise ring that she kept in the little ivory box that her grandfather bought for her grandmother on their honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls. She took it out and held it up and admired it. I'm not going to send it to Dr. Susan, she thought. Who knows? Maybe Matt will call me up sometime. Maybe he still doesn't have a steady girlfriend.

But I promised Dr. Susan I'd send it, she reminded herself. So what shall I do? Wait a minute! Tiffany thought. What Dr. Susan really seemed interested in was the location of the shop. So instead of sending the ring, maybe I can just narrow down the location enough to help her. I remember that there was a porno shop across the street, and I'm pretty sure it was only a couple of blocks away from a subway station. She's smart. She should be able to find it with that information.

Relieved that she had made the proper decision, Tiffany put on her blue dangle earrings. Then she sat down and wrote Dr. Susan a note describing the location of the shop as she remembered it, and explaining why she was hanging on to the ring. She signed the note, "Your sincere admirer, Tiffany."

By then, she was running late, as usual, and didn't take the time to drop the letter in the mailbox.

She thought of that omission later, as she was plopping four orders of reheated lasagna in front of pain-in-the-neck customers at The Grotto. I hope they burn their mouths, she thought-they only use their tongues to complain.

Thinking about the customers' tongues gave her an idea. She would call Dr. Susan tomorrow instead of writing. Once she was on the air, she could explain that she wanted to apologize for making that crack about the ring being cheap, that she only said it because she missed Matt so much. He was such a nice guy, and could Dr. Susan suggest some way they might get together again? He hadn't answered her calls last year, but she was pretty sure he wasn't going around with anyone else yet.

Tiffany watched with satisfaction as one of her customers took a bite of lasagna and grabbed for the water glass. That way, maybe I'll get some free advice, she thought, or maybe Matt's mother or one of her friends will be listening and hear his name and tell him, and he'll be flattered and give me a call.

What's to lose? Tiffany asked herself as she turned to a table of newly seated diners, people whose names she didn't know but whom she recognized as always leaving a lousy tip.

31

Alex Wright lived in the four-story brownstone on East Seventy-eighth Street that had been his home since childhood. It was still furnished as his mother had left it, with dark, heavy Victorian tables, buffets, and bookcases; overstuffed couches and chairs upholstered in rich brocades, antique Persian carpets, and graceful objects d'art. Visitors exclaimed about the traditional beauty of the turn-of-the-century mansion.

Even the fourth floor, most of which had been designed as a play area for Alex, remained the same. Some of the built-ins, commissioned from F.A.O. Schwarz, were so distinctive that they had been part of a feature in Architectural Digest.

Alex said he had not redecorated the brownstone for one reason only: At some point he intended to get married, and when that happened he would leave any changes to his wife. On one occasion when he made that statement, a friend had teased, "Suppose she's into super modern designs, or even wants something retro and psychedelic?"

Alex had smiled and replied, "Wouldn't happen; she never would have gotten to fianc‚e status."

He lived relatively simply, never having been comfortable with a staff of servants in the house, perhaps because both his mother and father were known as difficult employers. The constant turnover of help, as well as the muttered comments he overheard about his parents, had distressed him as a child. Now he employed only Jim, as chauffeur, and Marguerite, a marvelously efficient and blessedly quiet housekeeper. She arrived at the Seventy-eighth Street house promptly at eight-thirty each morning, in time to prepare breakfast for Alex, and she stayed to cook dinner on those occasions when he planned to be home, which wasn't more than twice a week.

Single, attractive, and with the allure of the Wright fortune behind him, Alex had always been firmly entrenched on the social A list. Nonetheless he had maintained a relatively low public profile, because while he enjoyed interesting dinner parties, he abhorred personal publicity and always avoided the big society events that some people found exhilarating.

On Tuesday he spent the better part of the day at his desk in the foundation headquarters, then in the late afternoon played squash with friends at the club. He hadn't been sure of his evening plans and had instructed Marguerite to prepare what he called a "contingency dinner."

So, when he arrived home at six-thirty, his first stop was to check the refrigerator. A bowl of Marguerite's excellent chicken soup was ready for the microwave oven, and lettuce and sliced chicken were prepared for a sandwich.

Nodding his approval, Alex went to the drinks table in the library, selected a bottle of Bordeaux, and poured himself a glass. He had just begun to sip when the phone rang.

The answering machine was on, so he decided to let it screen his calls. He raised his eyebrows when Dee Chandler Harriman announced herself. Her voice, low and pleasing, was hesitant.

"Alex, I hope you don't mind. I asked Dad for your home number. I just wanted to thank you for being so nice to me the other day at Binky and Dad's cocktail party. I've been down a lot lately, and although you don't know it, you really helped, just by being a nice guy. I'm going to try to kill the blues by going on a cruise next week. Anyhow, thank you. I just had to let you know. Oh, by the way, just for the record, my phone number is 310-555-6347."

I guess she doesn't know I asked her sister out to dinner, Alex thought. Dee is gorgeous, but Susan is much more interesting. He took another sip of his wine and closed his eyes.

Yes, Susan Chandler was interesting. In fact, she had been on his mind all day.

32

Jane Clausen phoned Susan shortly before four o'clock to tell her that she could not keep their appointment. "I'm afraid I have to rest," she apologized.

"You don't sound very well, Mrs. Clausen," Susan had said. "Should you see your doctor?"

"No. An hour's nap does wonders. I'm just sorry to miss the chance to talk with you today."

Susan had told her that if she wanted to come later, it would be fine. "I'll be here for quite a while. I have a great deal of paperwork to catch up on," she assured her.

Thus, at six o'clock she was still in her office when Jane Clausen arrived for their meeting. The ashen complexion of her visitor reinforced Susan's realization of how seriously ill the woman was. The kindest thing that could happen to her would be to know the truth about Regina's disappearance, she thought.

"Dr. Chandler," Mrs. Clausen began, a touch of hesitation in her voice.

"Please call me Susan. Dr. Chandler sounds so formal," Susan said with a smile.

Jane Clausen nodded. "It's hard to break old habits. All her life, my mother called our neighbor, who was her closest friend, Mrs. Crabtree. Too much of that reserve rubbed off on me, I suppose. Maybe too much on Regina as well. She was quite reticent socially." She glanced down for a moment and then looked directly at Susan. "You met my lawyer yesterday. Douglas Layton. What did you think of him?"

The question surprised Susan. I'm the one who's supposed to gently prod, she thought wryly. "He seemed nervous," she said, deciding to be direct in her response.

"And you were surprised that he didn't wait with me?"

"Yes, I was."

"Why were you surprised?"

Susan did not have to consider her answer. "Because it was entirely possible that you were going to meet a woman who might have shed light on your daughter's disappearance-perhaps even a woman who could have described a man who might have been involved in that disappearance. It was potentially a very significant moment for you. I would have expected him to stay with you for support."

Jane Clausen nodded. "Exactly. Susan, Douglas Layton told me all along that he did not know my daughter. Now from something he said this morning, I think that he did know her."

"Why would he lie about that?" Susan asked.

"I don't know. I did some checking today. The Laytons of Philadelphia are indeed his second cousins, but they say they scarcely remember him. He, on the other hand, has spoken at length of his familiarity with them. It turns out that his father, Ambrose Layton, was a ne'er-do-well who went through his inheritance in a few years, then disappeared."