I've Got You Under My Skin

GOT GREG

TIMMY’S NEXT

In 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.