George Curtis knew that he might be caught on security cameras around the Powell estate, but it did not worry him. Half of Salem Ridge is driving past this house, he thought as he followed the stream of cars on the quiet road.
So what if the cops think I’m a voyeur? he thought. Practically everyone else on this road is, too.
He had chosen to drive the SUV rather than his red Porsche convertible. Unless security cameras photographed the license plate, he doubted very much that he would be recognized. Plenty of Salem Ridge residents had top-of-the-line SUVs. He was wearing a cap and dark glasses.
Sixty-three years old, tall, with a full head of gray hair, George Curtis had the trim appearance of a seasoned athlete. Married for thirty-five years and with college-age twins, he had been the scion and sole heir of a big chain of fast-food restaurants. After his father’s death, when he was twenty-seven, he had taken over the business. A playboy until then, everyone expected him to sell the chain and live off his wealth. Instead he had married shortly afterward, and over time tripled the number of restaurants both in the United States and abroad until now the company boasted of serving a million meals a day.
Unlike Robert Powell, he had gone to Harvard as a fourth-generation legacy. The welcome mat had been laid out for him, as was his admission to Hasty Pudding, the student theatrical society at Harvard.
The fifteen-year difference in their ages had never interfered with his friendship with Robert Powell, even though, as he turned the car off Evergreen Lane, George thought, If he ever knew, if he ever guessed…
But Rob Powell had never suspected. George was sure of that. George had never given him reason to.
The phone rang, an unexpected and abrupt sound. He pressed the answering button on the steering wheel.
“George Curtis,” he said.
“George, it’s Rob Powell.”
My God, was he looking out the window? George felt his face flush. No, he couldn’t possibly have read the license plate, and certainly couldn’t have recognized me just driving by.
“Rob, how are you, and when are we going to get together for a round of golf? I warn you, I broke eighty two Saturdays in a row.”
“That means you’ll never do it three weeks in a row! Tee-off time nine o’clock?”
“You’re on. I’ll make the reservation.” George felt a palpable sense of relief as he turned left onto his own street. Rob Powell was not one to stay on the line longer than necessary. That’s why when Rob said, “George, I have a favor to ask of you,” he was startled.
“Whatever it is, the answer is yes,” George said, sounding rattled to his own ears.
“I’ll take all your franchises in Europe,” Rob joked, then his tone became serious. “George, you can’t have missed the news that the anniversary of Betsy’s death in June is going to be the basis for a television program.”
“No, I didn’t miss that,” Curtis said quietly.
“The point is that, besides the girls, they’d like to have one of the friends who was there that night to comment on the party between excerpts from the films. I suggested you, and they leaped at the prospect of getting you on camera. Of course I should have asked you first, but you can always say no to them.”
Go on camera to talk about that night to a national audience? He could feel his hands turning sweaty on the steering wheel.
George Curtis found his throat constricting, but he kept his voice calm and warm as he said, “Rob, I told you a minute ago that whatever favor you wanted, it was yours. I meant it when I said it, and I mean it now.”
“Thanks. It was hard for me to ask, and I’m sure hard for you to agree.”
An abrupt click broke the connection. George Curtis realized that he was drenched with perspiration now. Was Rob Powell setting a trap for him? he asked himself as a feeling of dread engulfed him.
Now utterly distracted, he almost drove past his own driveway.
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.”