I've Got You Under My Skin

62

Jane was next. She was not a heavy woman, but her broad shoulders and straight carriage gave her a formidable appearance. Her constant uniform of black dress and crisp white apron seems almost a caricature, Alex thought. Except for during formal dinners, none of his friends had their help dressed like that.

She sat in the chair vacated by Alison. “Ms. Novak,” Alex began. “You and Betsy Powell worked together in the theatre?”

Jane smiled thinly. “That sounds very glamorous. I cleaned the dressing rooms and mended the costumes. Betsy was an usher, and when a play closed, we would both be transferred to another theatre.”

“Then you were good friends.”

“Good friends? What does that mean? We worked together. I like to cook. I’d ask her and Claire to dinner some Sundays. I was sure everything they ate was takeout. Betsy was no cook. And Claire was such a sweet child.”

“Were you surprised when Betsy moved to Salem Ridge?”

“Betsy wanted to marry money. She decided living in a wealthy community was her best chance. Turns out she was right.”

“She was thirty-two when she married Robert Powell. Wasn’t there anyone before that?”

“Oh, Betsy dated, but no one had enough money for her.” Jane smirked. “You should have heard what she said about some of them.”

“Was there anyone who was especially close to her?” Alex asked. “Someone who might have been jealous when she married?”

Jane shrugged. “I wouldn’t say so. They came and they went.”

“Were you upset when she asked you to call her ‘Mrs. Powell’?”

“Was I upset? Of course not. Mr. Powell is a very formal man. I have a beautiful apartment of my own here. A cleaning service comes in twice a week, so I do no heavy work. I love to cook, and Mr. Powell loves gourmet food. Why would I be upset? I came from a little village in Hungary. We had only the barest modern conveniences-running water, sometimes electricity.”

“I can see why you have been very content here. But I understand that when you rushed into Betsy Powell’s room that morning, you screamed ‘Betsy, Betsy!’ ”

“Yes, I did. I was so shocked, I didn’t know what I was doing or saying.”

“Jane, do you have any theory about who killed Betsy Powell?”

“Absolutely,” Jane said firmly, “and in a way I blame myself for her death.”

“Why is that, Jane?”

“It is because I should have known those young women would have been in and out, smoking. I should have stayed up and made sure the door was locked after they went to bed.”

“Then you think it was a stranger who came in?”

“Either through the unlocked door or else during the party. Betsy had two walk-in closets. Someone could have hidden in one of them. She was wearing a fortune in emeralds, and don’t forget, one of the earrings was on the floor.”

Behind the camera, watching and listening, Laurie found herself wondering whether Jane was right. Claire had suggested the same thing. And from what she could see, it was entirely possible that someone might have slipped upstairs during the party.

Jane was telling Alex that she had put a velvet rope across both the main and back staircases of the first floor. “There are four powder rooms on the main floor,” she concluded. “There would be no need for anyone to go upstairs, unless he or she was planning to steal Betsy’s jewelry.”

It’s as if they all put their heads together and decided on that story, Laurie thought.

Alex was saying, “Thank you for talking to us, Ms. Novak. I know how difficult it is to relive that terrible night.”

“No, you don’t,” Jane contradicted him, her voice even and sad. “To know how beautiful Betsy looked that night, then to see her face covered by that pillow and know she was dead, and to hear Mr. Powell moaning in pain… You don’t and can’t understand how hard it is to relive it, Mr. Buckley. You just can’t.”