I've Got You Under My Skin

20

George 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.