The Second Time Around

  “There’s a little bathroom with a toilet and sink at the back of the garage. That’s for people like me. You don’t think they’re going to let us go into their house, even their pool house, do you? No way, Annie!

  “The guy and his wife who cleaned this place were nice people. If we’d run into them, I’d have said something like ‘I was just stopping by to say how sorry I was about the fire.’ I look nice today, so it would have been okay. But I had a feeling we wouldn’t run into them, and it turns out I was right. In fact, it looks as if they’re gone. There’s no car. The house they used to live in is dark. The shades are down. There’s no big house to take care of now. They had to use the service gate, too, you know. All those trees are there so you don’t have to look at that gate or the garage.

  “Annie, I was working out here a couple of years ago when I heard that guy Spencer on the phone telling people that he knew this vaccine worked, that it would change the world. Then last year when I was here for just those couple of weeks, I kept hearing the other guys saying they had bought the stock and that it had doubled in value and was still going up.”

  Ned looked at Annie. Sometimes he could see her very clearly; other times, like now, it was like seeing her shadow. “Anyhow, that’s the way it happened,” he said.

  He went to take her hand, but even though he knew it was there, he couldn’t feel it. He was disappointed, but he didn’t want to show it. She was probably still a little mad at him. “It’s time to go, Annie,” he said finally.

  Ned walked past the pool, past the English garden, and through the wooded area to the service road where he’d parked the car in front of the garage, which was where they stored the lawn furniture. “Want to take a look before we go, Annie?”

  The garage door wasn’t locked. That was somebody’s mistake, he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could easily have punched out a window. Ned went inside. The lawn furniture was stored there, but there was also a space where the housekeepers used to keep their car. The cushions for the furniture were piled on the shelves in the back. “See, Annie. You’d even like the garage for the working guys. Nice and neat.”

  He smiled at her. She knew he was teasing.

  “Okay, honey. Now let’s go to Greenwood Lake and take care of those people who were so mean to you.”

  * * *

  Greenwood Lake was in New Jersey, and it took Ned an hour and ten minutes to get there. He heard nothing on the news about Mrs. Morgan, so the police didn’t know about her yet. But a couple of times he heard them say that Nicholas Spencer’s girlfriend had been found. A wife and a girlfriend, Ned thought. Just what you’d expect of him. “The girlfriend’s real sick, honey,” he told Annie. “Real sick. She’s getting hers, too.”

  He didn’t want to get to Greenwood Lake too soon. The Harniks and Mrs. Schafley went to bed after the ten o’clock news, and he didn’t want to get there before then. He stopped at a diner and ate a hamburger.

  It was ten o’clock sharp when he drove down the block and parked in front of where their house used to be. Mrs. Schafley’s light was on, but the Harniks’ house was dark. “We’ll drive around for a while, honey,” he told Annie.

  But at midnight the Harniks still weren’t home, and Ned decided he couldn’t take a chance on waiting anymore. If he put the rifle inside Mrs. Shafley’s window, he could finish her off but then he couldn’t come back.

  “We’ll have to wait, honey,” he told Annie. “Where should we go now?”

  “Back to the mansion,” he heard her say. “Put the car in the garage and fix a nice bed for yourself on one of those long couches. You’ll be safe there.”

  FORTY

  I was the first to arrive at the Wall Street Weekly offices on Friday morning. Ken, Don, and I had arranged to meet at eight o’clock to go over everything before my 9:30 appointment with Adrian Garner. They were only a few minutes behind me, and, clutching our coffees, we filed into Ken’s office and got right down to business. I think we all felt from the get-go that the pace of events had changed, and not just because Gen-stone had closed its doors. We all instinctively knew that the developments were happening thick and fast, and that we needed to get a handle on them.

  I started by telling them about my rush to the hospital when I heard that Vivian Powers was there, and I described how I found her. Then it turned out that Ken and Don were also looking at the investigation with fresh eyes, but with conclusions quite different from mine.

  “There’s a scenario I see developing that’s starting to make sense,” Ken said, “and it’s not a pretty one. Dr. Celtavini phoned me yesterday afternoon and asked me if we could meet last night at his home.” He looked at us, paused, then continued. “Dr. Celtavini is well connected in the scientific community in Italy. He got a tip a few days ago that several labs there have been funded by an unknown source, and seem to be pursuing different phases of the Gen-stone research for a cancer vaccine.”

  I stared at him. “What unknown source would fund that?”

  “Nicholas Spencer.”

  “Nicholas Spencer!”

  “It’s not the name he used over there, of course. If it’s true, it probably means that Spencer was using Gen-stone money to fund research at separate labs. Then he fakes his disappearance. Gen-stone goes bankrupt. Nick gets himself a new identity, probably a new face, and becomes sole owner of the vaccine. Maybe the vaccine is promising after all, and he deliberately falsified the results to destroy the company.”

  “Then he may have been seen in Switzerland?” I wondered aloud. I can’t believe that, I thought, I simply cannot believe it.

  “I’m beginning to think that it’s not only possible but probable—” Ken began.

  “But, Ken,” I protested, interrupting him, “I’m sure Vivian Powers believes Nick Spencer is dead. And I believe they really were seriously involved with each other.”

  “Carley, you told me she was missing for five days, but the doctors say she wasn’t in the car that long and couldn’t have been. So what did happen? There are a couple of answers to all that. Either she’s a great actress or, far-fetched as it may seem, she has a dissociative personality. That would account for blackouts and a sixteen-year-old persona.”

  I was starting to feel like a voice crying in the wilderness. “The scenario I’m coming up with is quite different,” I said. “Let’s start from another point of view, shall we? Somebody stole Dr. Spencer’s records from Dr. Broderick. Somebody stole the X rays and MRI of Caroline Summers’s child. And if Vivian is to be believed, the letter that Caroline Summers wrote to Nick disappeared, and the answer that Caroline was supposed to receive was never sent. Vivian told me she left it to be handled by one of the clerks. She was quite definite about that.”

  I was just getting warmed up. “Vivian also said that after Dr. Spencer’s records disappeared, Nick Spencer got very secretive about his appointments and would disappear from the office for days at a time.”

  “Carley, I think you’re proving my point,” Ken said mildly. “It’s come out that he made two or three trips to Europe between mid-February and April 4 when his plane crashed.”

  “But maybe Nick Spencer was getting suspicious that something was going on in his own company,” I said. “Hear me out. Dr. Kendall’s twenty-year-old niece, Laura Cox, was a secretarial assistant at Gen-stone. Betty, the receptionist, told me that yesterday. I asked her if it was general knowledge that they were related, and she told me it wasn’t. She said that one day she just happened to remark to Laura Cox that she had the same first name as Dr. Kendall, and her answer was ‘I’m named after her. She’s my aunt.’ But then later she got terribly upset and begged Betty not to say a word to anyone. Apparently, Dr. Kendall did not want their relationship known.”

  “What would have been the harm?” Don asked crisply.

  “Betty told me that it was a company rule that family members of employees were not to apply for jobs. Dr. Kendall certainly knew that.”

  “Medical research comp
anies don’t believe in letting the left hand know what the right hand is doing,” Don said by way of agreement. “By even allowing her niece to take a secretarial assistant position, which is really a starter job, Dr. Kendall was breaking the rules. I would have thought she was more of a professional than that.”

  “She told me she was with Hartness Research Center prior to coming to Gen-stone,” I said. “What kind of reputation did she have there?”

  “I’ll run a check on her.” Ken made a note on his pad.

  “And while you’re doing it, keep in mind that everything you’re saying about Nicholas Spencer possibly deliberately trying to bankrupt his own company and have the vaccine to himself could also apply to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Charles Wallingford, for openers. What do you really know about him?”

  Ken shrugged. “A blueblood. Not a very effective one, but nevertheless a blueblood, and very proud of it. His ancestor started the furniture company as a philanthropic gesture to give employment to immigrants, but he was a heck of a businessman. The family fortunes declined in other areas, as they sometimes do, but the furniture business was very strong. Wallingford’s father expanded it; then when he died, Charles took it over and ran it into the ground.”

  “Yesterday, when I was in the Gen-stone office, his secretary was indignant about the fact that his sons sued him over the sale of the company.”

  Don Carter likes to look unflappable, but his eyes widened at that piece of information. “Interesting, Carley. Let’s see what I can find out about that.”

  Ken was doodling again. I hoped that was a sign that had opened him to the possibility of another scenario for what had happened at Gen-stone.

  “Have you been able to find out the name of the patient who checked out of the hospice at St. Ann’s?” I asked him.

  “My source at St. Ann’s is still trying to get it.” He grimaced. “The guy’s name has probably already appeared in the obit column.”

  I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to get on my way. God forbid I keep the mighty Adrian Garner waiting. Maybe he’ll break down and tell me the rescue plan that Lowell Drexel was hinting at yesterday.”

  “Let me guess what it is,” Don suggested. “With great fanfare, Garner’s public relations department is going to announce that Garner Pharmaceuticals will take over Gen-stone, and as a gesture of good will to the employees and stockholders, they’ll pay eight or ten cents on the dollar of the amounts they have lost. They’ll announce that Garner Pharmaceuticals will start all over on its never-ending fight to erase the scourge of cancer from the universe. And so on and so on . . .”

  I stood up. “I’ll let you know how the scenario checks out. See you guys.” I hesitated but bit back the words I was not yet ready to vocalize—that Nick Spencer, alive or dead, may have been the victim of a conspiracy within his company, and that two other people had already been caught up in it with him, Dr. Philip Broderick and Vivian Powers.

  * * *

  The executive offices of Garner Pharmaceuticals are in the Chrysler Building, that wonderful old New York landmark at Lexington and 42nd Street. I was ten minutes early for my appointment, but even so was barely in the reception area when I was ushered into the sanctum sanctorum, Adrian Garner’s private office. For some reason I was not surprised to see Lowell Drexel already ensconced there. I was surprised, however, at the sight of the third person in the room: Charles Wallingford.

  “Good morning, Carley,” he said, actually sounding genial. “I’m the surprise guest. We had a meeting scheduled for later, so Adrian was kind enough to invite me to be with you now.”

  I suddenly had an image of Lynn kissing the top of Wallingford’s head and mussing his hair as his secretary had described it yesterday. I think I’d always subconsciously been aware that Charles Wallingford was a lightweight, but that mental image reinforced it. If Lynn was involved with him, no doubt it was because she wanted another notch on her belt.

  Needless to say, Adrian Garner’s office was magnificent. It commanded a view from the East River to the Hudson River, and encompassed most of downtown New York. I have a passion for beautiful furniture, and I would swear that the library desk that dominated the room was an authentic Thomas Chippendale piece. It was a Regency design, but the heads of Egyptian figures on the side and center posts looked exactly like the desk I’d seen on a museum trip to England.

  I took a chance and asked Adrian Garner if I was right. At least he had the grace not to look surprised that I knew something about antique furniture, but then he did say, “Thomas Chippendale the Younger, Miss DeCarlo.”

  Lowell Drexel was the one who smiled. “You’re very observant, Miss DeCarlo.”

  “I hope so. That is my job.”

  As with most executive offices these days, there was a sitting room arrangement with a couch and several club chairs at the far end of the room. However, I was not invited there. Garner sat behind his Thomas Chippendale the Younger desk. Drexel and Wallingford had been seated in leather armchairs in a semicircle facing him when I was ushered into the office. Now Drexel indicated that I should sit in the chair between them.

  Adrian Garner got to the point immediately, something I’m sure he did in his sleep. “Miss DeCarlo, I did not want to cancel our appointment but you can understand that our decision to close Gem-stone yesterday has accelerated the need to make a number of other decisions which we had been debating.”

  Clearly this was not going to be the in-depth interview I’d hoped to have. “May I ask what kind of other decisions you will be making, Mr. Garner?”

  He looked directly at me, and I suddenly had a sense of the formidable power that emanated from Adrian Garner. Charles Wallingford was one hundred times better looking, but Garner was the real dynamic force in this room. I’d felt it at lunch last week, and I felt it again now, only much more intensely.

  Garner looked at Lowell Drexel. “Let me answer that question, Miss DeCarlo,” Drexel said. “Mr. Garner feels a deep sense of commitment to the thousands of investors who put money in Gen-stone because of Garner Pharmaceuticals’ announced decision to invest a billion dollars in the company. Mr. Garner is under no legal obligation to address their plight, but he has made an offer that we expect will be happily accepted. Garner Pharmaceuticals will give all employees and stockholders ten cents on every dollar they lost through the fraud and theft perpetrated in the company by Nicholas Spencer.”

  It was the speech Don Carter had told me to expect, with the slight variation that Garner delegated it to Lowell Drexel for delivery.

  Then it was Wallingford’s turn: “The announcement will be made on Monday, Carley. So you will understand if I ask to postpone your visit to my home. At a later date I will enjoy meeting with you, of course.”

  At a later date there won’t be any story, I thought. You three want to get this story off the table and into the shredder as fast as possible.

  I was not about to go gently into that good night. “Mr. Garner, I’m sure that your company’s generosity will be greatly appreciated. Speaking for myself, I gather it will mean that at some point I can expect a check for twenty-five hundred dollars in full compensation for the twenty-five thousand dollars I lost.”

  “That’s right, Miss DeCarlo,” Drexel said.

  I ignored him and stared at Adrian Garner. He stared back at me and nodded affirmatively. Then he did open his mouth: “If that’s all, Miss DeCarlo—”

  I interrupted him. “Mr. Garner, I would like to know for the record if you personally believe that Nicholas Spencer was seen in Switzerland.”

  “I never comment ‘for the record’ without factual knowledge. In this case, as you must know, I have no direct factual knowledge.”

  “Did you ever have occasion to meet Nicholas Spencer’s assistant, Vivian Powers?”

  “No, I did not. My meetings with Nicholas Spencer all took place in this office, not in Pleasantville.”

  I turned to Drexel. “But you sat on th
e board, Mr. Drexel,” I persisted. “Vivian Powers was Nicholas Spencer’s personal assistant. Surely you must have met her at least once or twice. You’d remember her. She’s a very beautiful woman.”

  “Miss DeCarlo, every executive I know has at least one confidential assistant, and many of them are attractive. I don’t make it a habit of becoming familiar with them.”

  “Aren’t you even curious as to what happened to her?”

  “I understand she attempted suicide. I have heard the rumors that she was romantically involved with Spencer, so perhaps the end of that relationship, whichever way it ended, brought on serious depression. It happens.” He stood up. “Miss DeCarlo, you’ll have to excuse us. We have a meeting in the conference room in less than five minutes.”

  I think he would have dragged me out of the chair if I had tried to say another word. Garner did not bother to lift his bottom off the seat when he said briskly, “Goodbye, Miss DeCarlo.” Wallingford took my hand and said something about my getting together with Lynn soon because she needed cheering up; then Lowell Drexel escorted me from the sanctum sanctorum.

  The largest wall of the reception area contained a map of the world that gave testimony to the global impact of Garner Pharmaceuticals. Key countries and locations were symbolized by familiar landmarks: the Twin Towers, the Eiffel Tower, the Forum, the Taj Mahal, Buckingham Palace. It was exquisite photography and got across the message to anyone who looked at it that Garner Pharmaceuticals was a worldwide powerhouse company.

  I stopped to glance at it. “It’s still painful to look at a picture of the Twin Towers. I guess it always will be,” I told Lowell Drexel.

  “I agree.”

  His hand was under my elbow. “Get lost” was the message.

  There was a picture on the wall by the door of what I took to be the hotshots at Garner Pharmaceuticals. If I had any thought of getting more than a passing glance at it, I wasn’t given the opportunity. Nor did I get a chance to pick up some of the giveaway literature stacked on the table there. Drexel propelled me into the corridor and even stood with me to make sure I got on the elevator.