I've Got You Under My Skin

27

Josh Damiano lived across town, just fifteen minutes from the Powell estate, but in an entirely different world.

Salem Ridge was a village on Long Island Sound adjacent to the wealthy town of Rye.

It had been settled in the late 1960s by people of medium income, moving into the Cape Cod and split-level houses developers had built.

But the unique location, only twenty-two miles from Manhattan and on Long Island Sound, attracted the interest of Realtors. Property values began to soar. The modest homes were bought and torn down, replaced by replicas of the kind of mansion Robert Powell had built.

A few owners held out. One of them was Margaret Gibney, who liked her house and didn’t want to move. After her husband’s death, when she was sixty, Margaret renovated the upstairs floor of her Cape Cod into an apartment.

Josh Damiano was her first and only tenant. Now eighty, Margaret thanked heaven every day for the quiet, pleasant man who took out the garbage unasked and even used the snowblower for her if he was home.

For his part, Josh, after a young marriage to his high school sweetheart that had lasted fourteen unpleasant years, was delighted with his living arrangement and his life.

He respected and admired Robert Powell. He loved his job of driving for him. Even more, he loved taping the conversations of executives when Mr. Powell sent him in the Bentley to pick up one or more of them for meetings or luncheons. Even if alone, a passenger’s cell phone conversation was often helpful to Powell. When there was a particularly interesting conversation, like talking about insider trading, Josh would play it back for that executive and offer to sell it to him. He didn’t do it much, but it proved to be very lucrative.

Over time, instead of listening to the tapes, Mr. Powell would merely ask Josh if there was anything interesting on the tapes. When Josh said “no,” as he did with the graduates, Mr. Powell trusted him. “They all just said ‘hello’ and ‘thank you,’ sir,” was what Josh had told him about his trips to pick up the graduates at the airport. A disappointed Robert Powell had just shaken his head.

At moments like that Josh remembered how he had almost lost his job. He had been working for Mr. Powell for only a few months when Betsy Powell died. His impression of her had been instantly unfavorable. Who does she think she is, the Queen of England? he would think as she waited imperiously for him to extend his hand and help her into the car.

A week before she died, he heard her say to Mr. Powell that she thought Josh was too familiar and lacked the dignity required of a servant. “Haven’t you noticed how he slouches when he opens the door for us? He should know enough to stand up straight.”

That rattled Josh, who had settled into his new job and liked it. It had been all he could do to act shocked and saddened by Betsy’s demise. In fact he had breathed a sigh of relief that she was no longer around to fill Mr. Powell’s ears about his supposed lack of dignity.

The day of the breakfast, Mr. Powell had had him pick up Claire Bonner. Maybe I’ll be lucky and she’ll make a phone call.

That hadn’t worked. When he picked Claire up at the hotel, she got into the Bentley and promptly leaned back and closed her eyes-a definite signal that she was not going to be engaged in conversation.

Josh had been shocked to see how much Claire resembled her mother. He remembered her as a mousy-looking kid, young for her twenty-two years at the time.

That first day of filming, Josh had stayed at the mansion all day, helping Jane prepare sandwiches and dessert and serving them on the patio, where the breakfast group retreated between scenes.

When everyone left, Mr. Rob told him to go home and to pick up Claire again in the morning.

“Try to talk to her, Josh,” Mr. Rob instructed. “Say how much you liked her mother, even though I know you didn’t.” At six o’clock Josh drove his own car home.

It was one of the nights when Mrs. Gibney was in a talkative mood and invited him to share the roast chicken that she had prepared.

That happened about once a week, and usually Josh was happy to accept-Mrs. Gibney was a good cook. But tonight he had things on his mind and he thanked her, saying he had had an early dinner. It was a lie, but he wanted to think.

In his pocket he had copies of the tapes he had made in the car of Nina Craig and her mother, Alison Schaefer and her husband, and Regina Callari on the phone with her son.

It was obvious that none of those women would want the tapes to be heard by either Mr. Powell or the police. They had agreed to come here to try to finally clear themselves from being under suspicion in Betsy’s death, but each of the tapes revealed a motive for them to have killed Betsy.

They were all getting money for being on the program, a lot of money. Each would be horrified to know their motives were caught on tape, loud and clear. If they didn’t trust him to stick to his side of the agreement, he has an answer prepared.

“I’ll always have the master tape. You can destroy the copy I give you,” he would say. “You don’t want to go to Mr. Powell or the police with these tapes. Neither do I. Pay me and nobody will ever hear them.”

He had figured out his suggested price-fifty thousand dollars. Only one-sixth of the three hundred thousand they would all be collecting.

It should work. They were all scared. He could sense it while he was serving them on the patio.

Josh wanted to build up his nest egg. He’d taken Mr. Powell to the cancer doctor a number of times. He had a hunch that Mr. Powell was sicker than anyone suspected. If anything happened to him, Josh knew he was in the will for one hundred thousand dollars. But adding $150,000 to that wouldn’t hurt.

Now, if he could only get something on Claire!