I've Got You Under My Skin

69

Bruno’s excitement rose to a fever pitch after he heard Laurie’s call to her father. Gleefully, he reflected on how everything was falling into place.

Leo Farley would be in the hospital until tomorrow morning.

Leo and Laurie would take the call from Timmy in the hospital room.

Two hours later, I pick up Timmy, Bruno thought. Leo had already told the director of the camp that he was in the hospital. I’ll be in a cop’s uniform.

I can pull it off.

I can probably even get away with it.

But if not, it’s worth it. The “Blue Eyes” murder case had been in the newspapers for years; still was. If they only knew that I spent five years rotting in prison after I shot Laurie’s husband. And all for a lousy parole violation. But in a way, it was worth it. Leo Farley and his daughter have spent these five years wondering and worrying about when I’ll strike again. Tomorrow their waiting will be over.

Bruno dropped the phone into his pocket and went outside in time to see the police chief’s car pulling up behind the studio vans. He was here for lunch.

Bruno walked to the putting green, as far from the chief’s line of vision as humanly possible. Here, the chief could not get a clear look at his face.

There was one thing Bruno knew-most cops have long-term memories of faces, even when people age or alter their facial hair.

Or are dumb enough to put themselves on Facebook.

Bruno laughed out loud at that thought.

An hour later he was carefully examining the flower beds alongside the pool when the police car drove away.

That meant the chief wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

Just in time for the Big Show, Bruno thought gleefully.

Nina and Muriel did not speak after lunch. Muriel had obviously asked Robert Powell to have a car ready for her for the afternoon, because it had parked at the front door and was waiting for her.

Nina knew what that meant. The expensive new outfits her mother bought on her credit card were about to be put aside in favor of new ones-ones that would also be purchased on Nina’s credit card.

Nina went up to her room to try to collect her thoughts until it was time for her own interview.

Like all the others it was a large bedroom, with a sitting area that offered a couch, an easy chair, a cocktail table, and a television.

Nina sat on the couch, taking in the cream-colored draperies behind the bed, the way their edgings picked up those on the panels at the window, and the way the rug and pillow shams coordinated and harmonized. An interior designer’s dream, Nina thought.

She remembered that about a year before her death, Betsy had commissioned a complete redecorating job. Claire had told the girls about it.

Claire had said, “I’ve been told to bring you over to see it. My mother is giving the grand tour to everyone.”

The “grand tour” came up after she died, Nina remembered. In fact, a college friend majoring in pre-law had warned me it would be a factor in the defense if anyone was accused of Betsy’s murder: many, many people knew the layout of the house exactly-and that Betsy and Robert had separate bedrooms.

What is going to happen? Nina asked herself. I’m sure Robert is bluffing. He’s making a fool of my mother, and she will turn on me again. Would she honestly be vindictive enough to claim I confessed to her that I killed Betsy?

No, even she couldn’t do that, Nina decided.

Or could she?

Nina’s cell phone rang. She picked it up, and her eyes widened as she saw the number. Quickly she answered, “Hello, Grant.”

His voice was warm as he spoke her name.

Nina listened as he told her she wasn’t to make any plans with anyone else for Saturday night. He wanted her to go to a dinner party with him at Steven Spielberg’s home.

To go with Grant to a dinner party at Steven Spielberg’s home! This was the crème de la crème of Hollywood society.

Suppose her mother accused Nina of confessing to Betsy’s murder? Or, almost as bad, returned to California with her and picked up where they had left off: living with her, screaming at her all the time, the condo always a mess, wineglasses all over the place, the smell of cigarette smoke heavy in the air.

“Can’t wait to see you Saturday night,” Grant said.

Don’t sound like Muriel, simpering and fawning, Nina warned herself. “I’m looking forward to it so much, too, Grant,” she said warmly, but without undue excitement in her tone.

After she disconnected, Nina sat, no longer even aware of her surroundings.

No matter which way she does it, my mother is going to ruin the rest of my life, she thought.

The phone rang again. It was Grace. “Nina, would you mind going over to makeup?” she asked. “They’ll be ready for your interview in about half an hour.”