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!
28
George Curtis drove the four blocks to his home, outwardly composed but inwardly in a state of emotional exhaustion.
Rob Powell was toying with him. Rob knew about him and Betsy, George was sure of it. He thought about Laurie Moran, the producer, discussing the sequence of filming the next day. She had thanked him in particular for participating in the program.
“I know how busy you must be, Mr. Curtis,” she said. “Thank you for giving up your day to be with us. I know there was a lot of waiting around while we set up for the shooting. Tomorrow we’ll film you standing in front of the backdrop of clips of the Gala, then being interviewed by Alex Buckley about your memories of that night.”
Memories, George thought as he turned into his driveway, memories. That was the night Betsy had given him an ultimatum. “Tell Isabelle you want a divorce like you promised, or pay me twenty-five million dollars to stay with Rob and keep my mouth shut. You’re a billionaire; you can afford it.”
And it was on the way to the Gala that Isabelle, her face radiant, had told him she was four months pregnant with twins.
“I waited to tell you, George,” she had said. “After four miscarriages I didn’t want to disappoint you again. But four months is a big milestone. After fifteen years of waiting and praying, this time we’ll have a family.”
“Oh my God,” was all he could say. “Oh my God.”
I was thrilled and terrified, George thought. I asked myself how I could ever let myself get involved with Betsy, my best friend’s wife.
It had all started in London. George was there for a business meeting with the European director of the Curtis fast-food restaurant chain that his father had founded in 1940. Rob and Betsy Powell were in London at the same time, and they, too, were staying at the Stanhope Hotel, in an adjoining suite. Rob flew to Berlin overnight.
I took Betsy to dinner, then back at the hotel she suggested having a nightcap in my suite, George remembered. She never left that night. It was the beginning of a two-year affair.
Isabelle and I were growing apart, George thought as he parked the car in front of the house. She was taken up with volunteering for a number of charities, and I was all over the world opening up new markets. When I was home, I didn’t want to go to the charity dinners with her.
Because anytime Rob was away, I met Betsy somewhere.
But after a year it began to wear off. I finally saw her for what she was: a manipulator. And then I couldn’t get rid of her. She kept hounding me to get a divorce.
At the Gala, Isabelle was telling her friends that she was pregnant.
When Betsy heard that, she told me she knew I wouldn’t get a divorce. Instead she wanted that twenty-five million dollars to keep her mouth shut. “You can afford it, George,” she had said, smiling, always aware of the audience around her. “You’re a billionaire. You won’t even miss it. Otherwise I tell Isabelle about us. Maybe the shock will cause her to miscarry again.”
George was sickened. “If you tell Isabelle or anyone else, Rob will divorce you.” George could hardly even manage to form the words. “And I know your prenup leaves you with almost nothing.”
Betsy had actually smiled. “I know that won’t happen, George, because you’re going to pay me. And I’ll keep living happily with Rob, and you and Isabelle will be in a state of bliss with your twins.”
She continued to smile as George heard himself say, “I’ll pay you, Betsy, but if you ever say anything to Isabelle or anyone else, I will kill you. I swear it.”
“Here’s to that agreement,” Betsy said as she clinked her glass against his.
Twenty years later, George thought as he unlocked the door of the car. His mind switched to what Laurie Moran had told him about the rest of his part in the filming.
“And then we’ll have you and Alex Buckley sitting together, and he’ll ask you your overall impressions of the party and of Betsy Powell,” Laurie had said. “Maybe you have some stories you could tell about Betsy. From what I understand, you were close friends of the Powells and frequently saw them socially.”
I told Moran that I saw Rob more on the golf course at the club than socially, as couples, George thought as he walked up the three steps to the charming brick house that he and Isabelle had built twenty years ago. He remembered how the architect had come in with pretentious renderings of houses in which the entrance hall was big enough for a skating rink and twin staircases led to a balcony “where you could put a full orchestra.”