I’m tired of working, Dee admitted to herself. I’m ready to move back to New York. But not to get another job. “I can’t even fix a decent scrambled egg,” she complained aloud, as she realized that the flame under the pan was too high and the egg was turning brown. She remembered how Jack had loved to fool around in the kitchen. That’s another thing Susan is better at than I am, she thought. She’s a good cook.
But that wasn’t always a necessary talent. Anyone who married Alex Wright wouldn’t have to worry about recipes and shopping lists, she told herself.
She decided to eat in the living room and was setting her tray on the coffee table when the phone rang. It was Alex Wright.
When she replaced the receiver ten minutes later, Dee was smiling. He had called because he was concerned. He said she sounded so down, and he thought she might want to chat. He explained that he had enjoyed his evening with Susan, and was about to invite her to a dinner Saturday night, celebrating a recent grant from the Wright Foundation to the New York Public Library.
Dee congratulated herself on her quick thinking. She had told him that, on the way to Costa Rica to board the cruise, she was going to stop in New York and would be there over the weekend. Alex had taken the hint and invited her to the dinner too.
After all, Dee told herself as she picked up the tray with the now-cold food, it isn’t as if Susan is really involved with him yet.
35
After Jane Clausen left her office on Tuesday evening, Susan went over paperwork until nearly seven, then phoned Jed Geany at home. “Problem,” she announced briskly. “I called Justin Wells to see about getting the tape to yesterday’s program to him, and he absolutely denies having requested it.”
“Then why would he have wanted it marked to his personal attention?” Geany asked, his tone reasonable. “Susan, I can tell you this. Whoever the guy was who called was nervous. Maybe Wells doesn’t want anyone to know about his interest in the tape. Or maybe the reason he wanted it doesn’t exist. That’s possible. He’s probably afraid now that we’ll send him a bill for it. In fact, at first he asked for just the call-in section of the program. I think that’s actually the only thing he was interested in.”
“The woman who was hit by a van on Park Avenue yesterday is his wife,” Susan said.
“See what I mean? He has other things on his mind, poor guy.”
“You’re probably right. See you tomorrow.” She hung up the phone and sat pondering the situation. One way or another, I’m going to meet Justin Wells, she decided, and right now I’m going to listen to the call-in section of yesterday’s program.
She took the cassette out of her shoulder bag, snapped it into the tape recorder with the second side up, and pushed the FAST-FORWARD button. At the call-in section, she stopped the tape, pushed PLAY, and began to listen intently.
All the calls were run-of-the-mill, except for the one from the woman with the low, strained voice who identified herself only as “Karen,” and who talked about the turquoise ring.
That has to be the call Justin Wells—or whoever it was—is interested in, she thought, but it’s been a long day, and I can’t figure out why now. She collected her coat, turned off the lights, locked the office door, and started down the corridor to the elevator.
They need to put in better lighting here, she decided. Nedda’s office was completely dark, and the long hallway was deeply shadowed. Unconsciously, she quickened her steps.
The day had been tiring, and she was tempted to hail a cab. She resisted, however, and feeling somewhat virtuous, she began to walk home. On the way she found herself thinking through Jane Clausen’s visit and the concern she had voiced about Douglas Layton. Mrs. Clausen was clearly very ill. Was that affecting her perception of Layton? Susan wondered.
It is possible that Layton had a meeting he couldn’t change yesterday, she thought, and he may simply have been waiting for Mrs. Clausen to get off the phone before going into her office this morning.
But what about Mrs. Clausen’s belief that he had known Regina and lied about it? Chris Ryan’s name jumped into Susan’s mind. A retired FBI agent she had worked with when she was in the Westchester County D.A.’s office, Chris now had his own security firm. He could do a little discreet digging about Layton. She decided that she would contact Mrs. Clausen in the morning and suggest that.
Susan looked about her as she walked. The narrow streets of Greenwich Village never failed to fascinate her. She loved the mix of turn-of-the-century townhouses on quiet streets, and the traffic-filled main arteries that suddenly twisted or changed direction like streams wandering through mountains.
As she walked, she found herself glancing around to see if she could catch a glimpse of a souvenir shop like the one today’s caller—Tiffany—had talked about. She hadn’t really thought much about her. Tiffany claimed she too had a turquoise ring similar to the one “Karen” had discussed, and she said that her boyfriend had bought it in Greenwich Village. Let her send it, please, Susan prayed. If I could just get to compare it with the one Mrs. Clausen gave me. Then, if it turned out that they were identical, and were made right around here, it might be a first step toward solving Regina’s disappearance.
Amazing how much a cold walk clears the brain, Susan thought as she finally reached her front door. Inside the apartment, she followed the at-home ritual she had planned for the night before. It was eight o’clock. She changed into a caftan, went to the refrigerator, and got out the salad makings she had begun to prepare before Alex Wright’s unexpected call.
Tonight is definitely stay-at-home time, she decided as she reached in the cupboard for a package of linguine. While the water for the pasta was heating, and the basil-and-tomato sauce was defrosting in the microwave, she turned on her home computer and checked her e-mail.
It was run-of-the-mill stuff except for a few comments on how interesting Dr. Richards was, and suggestions that Susan should have him back as a guest. On impulse, she checked to see if Richards had a website.
He did. With increasing interest, Susan zeroed in on the personal information: Dr. Donald J. Richards, born in Darien, Connecticut; raised in Manhattan; attended Collegiate Prep; B.A. Yale; M.D. and Ph.D. clinical psychology Harvard; M.A. criminology NYU. Father, late Dr. Donald R. Richards; mother, Elizabeth Wallace Richards, of Tuxedo Park, N.Y. No siblings. Married to Kathryn Carver (deceased).
A long list of published articles followed, as well as reviews of his book Vanishing Women. Then Susan found information that raised her eyebrows. A brief biography stated that Dr. Richards had spent a year between his junior and senior years in college, working on a round-the-world ocean liner as assistant cruise director, and under the heading of “recreation,” that he frequently took short cruises. As his favorite ship, he had named the Gabrielle. Noting that that was the one on which he had met his wife.
Susan stared at the screen. “But that’s the same ship Regina Clausen was on when she disappeared,” she said aloud.
36
Pamela stayed with Justin Wells in the waiting room of the ICU at Lenox Hill Hospital until nearly midnight. At that time a doctor came out and urged them both to go home. “Your wife has stabilized somewhat,” he told Justin. “Her condition may not change for weeks. You won’t do her any favor if you get sick yourself.”
“Has she tried to talk anymore?” Justin asked.
“No. Nor will she anytime soon. Not as long as she remains in this deep coma.”
Justin sounds almost afraid that she’ll talk—what’s that about? Pamela wondered, then decided that she was so tired her brain was playing tricks. She took Justin’s hand. “We’re going,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’ll get a cab, and I’ll drop you off.”
He nodded, and like an obedient child, let her lead him out. He did not talk on the short ride to Fifth and Eighty-first Street, but sat hunched forward, his hands clasped together, his neck drooping as though all the force of his powerful body had drained away.
“We’re her
e, Justin,” Pamela said when the taxi stopped and the doorman opened the door to let him out.
He turned and looked at her, his eyes dull. “All of this is my fault,” he said. “I called Carolyn a little while before the accident. I know I upset her. She probably wasn’t paying attention to the traffic. If she dies, I’ll feel like I killed her.”
Before Pamela could answer, he was out of the cab. But what could I tell him? she wondered. If Justin had reverted to one of his jealous or suspicious moods when he called, then indeed Carolyn would have been distracted and upset.
But she wouldn’t have been so foolish as to show him that turquoise ring and talk about the man who gave it to her, would she? And why in the name of God would he have wanted a tape of the Ask Dr. Susan program, she wondered. That made no sense at all.
As the cab waited behind a car trying to park, another scenario came to Pamela’s mind. Was it possible that the old woman on the television had been right, that Carolyn had been pushed? And if so, was Justin, for his own reasons, trying to set up the belief that she had been distracted and unwittingly stepped into the path of the van?
Then Pamela remembered something—something she had dismissed at the time. Two years ago, before she went on the cruise, Carolyn had said, “Justin’s insecurity about our relationship is so deep that sometimes I’m afraid of him.”
37
Sometimes at night he took long walks. He did it when everything built up to the point that it became necessary to ease the tensions. This afternoon had gone easily enough. The old man in the souvenir shop had died quietly. There’s been nothing about his death on the evening news programs, he thought, so the odds were that when the store didn’t reopen, nobody had cared enough to see if anything was wrong.
His goal tonight had been just to walk, however aimlessly, through the city streets, so he was almost surprised to find himself near Downing Street. Susan Chandler lived on Downing. Was she in now? he wondered. He realized that his walking here tonight, especially in a relatively unconscious state, was an indication that he could not allow her to keep making trouble. Since yesterday morning, he’d had to eliminate two people—Hilda Johnson and Abdul Parki, neither of whom he had ever intended to kill. A third, Carolyn Wells, was either going to die or would have to be eliminated should she ever recover. Even though she didn’t know his real name, if she were able to talk, he had no doubt she would tell the doctors and the police that the man she knew as Owen Adams on the cruise was the one who had pushed her.
Even though the potential risk was slight, since all the credentials for Owen Adams were untraceable to him, he couldn’t afford to let it go that far. The real danger was that Carolyn had recognized him, and if she recovered then there was no telling what could happen. They could conceivably meet at a cocktail party or in a restaurant. New York was a big city, but circles overlapped and paths crossed. Anything was possible.
Of course, as long as she was in a coma she posed no immediate danger. The real danger might be Tiffany, the girl who had called in to Dr. Susan Chandler’s program today. As he walked along Downing Street, he cursed himself. He remembered his visit last year to Parki’s shop—he had thought it was empty. From the sidewalk he hadn’t been able to see that young couple standing behind the screen.
The minute he had noticed them, he knew he had made a mistake. The girl, one of those boldly attractive young women, had been eyeing him, sending signals that she found him attractive. It wouldn’t matter, except he was sure she could recognize him if she saw him again. If Tiffany was the one who phoned in to Ask Dr. Susan today about the ring, and Tiffany and that girl from the shop were the same person, she had to be silenced. Tomorrow he would find a way to learn from Susan Chandler if this Tiffany person had sent the ring, and if so, what she had written to accompany it.
Another feather in the wind, he thought. When would it end? One thing for certain. By next week, Susan Chandler must be stopped.
38
On Wednesday morning, Oliver Baker was both nervous about being in the police station and thrilled by his role as witness. He had spent Monday night enthralling his wife and teenage daughters with his story of how if he had been a few feet nearer to the curb, he might have been the one to start across the street first and been hit by that van. Together they had watched the five, the six, and the eleven o’clock news on Monday night, on which Oliver had been one of the bystanders interviewed. “There but for the grace of God, go I, that was my feeling when I saw the van hit her,” he had told the reporter. “I mean, I could see the look on her face. She was lying on her back, and in that split second she knew she was going to get hit.”
A mild, eager-to-please man in his mid-fifties, Oliver was the produce manager at a D’Agostino’s supermarket, a position he thoroughly enjoyed. He delighted in knowing the store’s more upscale customers by name, and in being able to ask personal questions like, “Gordon enjoying his first year at prep school, Mrs. Lawrence?”
Seeing himself on television was one of the most exciting experiences Oliver had ever known, and now, to be asked to come into the police station to discuss the incident further, just added more drama.
He waited on a bench in the 19th Precinct station, the soft tweed hat his brother had brought him from Ireland in his hand. Looking around with downcast eyes, it occurred to him that someone might think he was in trouble himself, or perhaps had a relative in jail. That thought made his lips twitch, and he told himself to remember to tell that to Betty and the girls tonight.
“Captain Shea will see you now, sir.” The desk sergeant pointed to a closed door past his desk.
Oliver quickly stood, straightened the collar of his jacket, and walked with swift but timid steps to the captain’s office.
At Shea’s brisk command to “Come in,” he turned the handle and pushed the door slowly as though afraid of inadvertently hitting someone behind it. But a moment later, seated across the desk from the captain, Oliver lost his hesitancy in the exhilaration of telling his now-familiar story.
“You were not directly behind Mrs. Wells?” Shea interrupted.
“No, sir. I was somewhat to the left.”
“Had you noticed her at all prior to the incident?”
“Not really. There were a lot of people at the corner. The light had just changed to red when I got there, so by the time it was about to change again, there was a pretty good crowd at the corner.”
This is going nowhere, Tom Shea thought. Oliver Baker was the tenth witness they had interviewed, and like most of the accounts, his story differed somewhat from the others. Hilda Johnson had been the only one who definitely had insisted that Carolyn Wells had been pushed; now Hilda was dead. There was complete disagreement among the bystanders as to whether or not Mrs. Wells was carrying anything. Two were fairly certain they had noticed a manila envelope; three couldn’t be sure; the remainder were certain it had not existed. Only Hilda had been adamant, claiming someone had yanked a manila envelope from under the victim’s arm as she was pushed.
Oliver was eager to continue his story. “And let me tell you, Captain, I had bad dreams last night, thinking of that poor woman sprawled on the road.”
Captain Shea smiled sympathetically at Oliver, encouraging him to continue.
“I mean,” Oliver added, “as I was telling Betty—” He paused. “Betty’s my wife. As I was telling her, that poor woman was probably just doing an errand, maybe going to the post office, and never knew when she left her home that she might not see it again.”
“What makes you think she was going to the post office?” Shea snapped.
“Because she had a stamped manila envelope under her arm.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I think it started to slip, because just as the light changed, she began to turn, then lost her balance. The man behind her tried to steady her, I think, and that’s how he happened to take the envelope. The old woman was all wrong about the way it happened. I wonder if that man
mailed it for her? That’s what I would have done.”
“Did you get a look at him, at this man who took the envelope?” Shea asked.
“No. I couldn’t take my eyes off Mrs. Wells.”
“That man who took the envelope—did he try to help her?”
“No, I don’t think so. A lot of people turned away—one woman almost fainted. A couple of men did rush to help, but they seemed to know what they were doing and yelled at everyone else to stay back.”
“You have no impression of what this man looked like, the one who took the envelope as he was perhaps trying to steady Mrs. Wells?”
“Well, he had on a topcoat, a Burberry or one that looked like a Burberry.” Oliver was proud that he had said “Burberry” instead of just raincoat.
When Oliver Baker had left, Captain Shea leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. His gut instinct was still telling him that there was a connection between Hilda Johnson’s insistence that Carolyn Wells had been pushed and Hilda’s own death only hours later. But nobody else on the scene corroborated Hilda’s version. And there was always the possibility that Hilda’s television appearance had attracted some nut to her.
In that case, he told himself, like many victims of circumstance, both Hilda Johnson and Carolyn Wells had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
39
On Wednesday morning, Doug Layton set his strategy into place. He knew he had a long way to go to placate Jane Clausen before he left on the trip, but during the sleepless early morning hours he had worked out a plan.
How often over the years had his mother talked to him—worried, troubled and anxious, tearful in her pleas that he stay out of any more trouble. “Look at the way your dad threw his life away, Doug. Don’t be like him,” she would say. “Be like your cousins.”