I've Got You Under My Skin

11

From 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.