Nina knew he was pushing sixty and recently widowed. Then, the other night, he had invited her to meet him for cocktails. He had taken the trouble to explain that he had promised to have dinner with the producer, but that “we’ll make it another time.” He sent her home in his car.
I wish my mother was right, that Robert Powell might still be interested in her, she thought. Then, as she accepted the housekeeper’s offer of coffee, Nina appraised Muriel carefully. Her mother did look good. She was wearing a white suit-very expensive, and bought with Nina’s American Express card-with white high-heeled shoes that showed off her long legs and excellent figure. At the pricey salon, she had accepted the beautician’s tactful suggestion that perhaps her fiery red hair could be toned down a bit. Now it was an attractive rust shade and had been cut and shaped so that it was barely touching her shoulders. She had always been skillful at applying her own makeup. In other words, Nina thought, my beloved mother looks great.
How do I look? she wondered. Okay, but it could be better. I want space. I want to be able to go home to a neat, restful apartment that isn’t choked with cigarette smoke and have a glass of wine on the deck looking over the pool by myself.
And be able to invite Grant Richmond in for a drink if he does invite me out for dinner, she thought.
With a cup of coffee in her hand, Muriel was telling Laurie Moran how vividly she remembered that terrible, tragic night twenty years ago when her dear, dear friend Betsy was viciously murdered. “My heart was broken,” she was saying. “We were such good friends.”
Disgusted, Nina walked to the windows overlooking the pool and, beyond it, the putting green.
The door of the pool house opened, and she could make out the figure of a man emerging onto the lawn.
Did Robert Powell have a guest staying there? she wondered, then realized something was dangling from the man’s hand. As she watched, he began snipping at the bush nearest to the pool house.
Then the doorbell rang, and Nina turned from the window. One of the other suspects in the death of Betsy Bonner Powell had arrived.
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.