“And you say this guy did a disappearing act when you expected that woman who called herself Karen to show up in your office?”
“Yes. And something Layton said to Mrs. Clausen on Tuesday suggested he knew her daughter—a fact he’s always denied.”
“I’ll get busy,” Ryan promised. “There hasn’t been anything interesting around lately. Just checking out guys for nervous brides-to-be. Nobody trusts anybody these days.” He reached for a pad and pen. “As of now the clock is ticking. Where do I bill Mrs. Clausen?”
He caught the hesitation in Susan’s voice. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. I found a message from Mrs. Clausen on my machine this morning, saying she had had to go into the hospital for more chemotherapy but felt she had been unfair when she mentioned her suspicions about Layton to me. Clearly the implication was that I should forget about it, but I can’t. I don’t think she was unfair at all, and I’m worried for her. So bill it to me,” Susan said.
Chris Ryan groaned. “Thank God for my pension. I kiss J. Edgar Hoover’s picture on the first of every month. Okay. Consider it done. I’ll get back to you, Susie.”
60
Doug Layton’s secretary, Leah, a no-nonsense woman in her early fifties, studied her boss with disapproving eyes. He looks as if he was out all night, she thought as Layton passed her and mumbled a perfunctory good morning greeting.
Without asking, she went to the coffeemaker, poured him a cup, tapped on his door, then opened it without waiting for a response. “I don’t mean to spoil you, Doug,” she said, “but you look like you could use this.”
Clearly he was not up to lighthearted banter today. There was a note of irritability in his tone as he said, “I know, Leah. You’re the only assistant who ever makes coffee for the boss.”
She was about to tell him that he looked exhausted but decided she already had said enough. He also looks as though he’s had a few too many drinks, she thought. He’d better watch his step—they won’t put up with that around here.
“Let me know when you want a refill,” she said tersely as she placed the cup in front of him.
“Leah, Mrs. Clausen is back in the hospital,” Doug said quietly. “I saw her last night. I don’t think she has very much time left.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Leah suddenly felt guilty. She knew that to Doug, Jane Clausen was a lot more than just another client. “Will you still go to Guatemala next week?”
“Oh, absolutely. But I’m not going to wait to show her the surprise I was planning for her when I came back with my report.”
“The orphanage?”
“Yes. She doesn’t realize how rapidly they’ve been working to renovate the old facility and build the new wing. Mr. March and I agreed that it would give her so much pleasure to see it actually completed. She still doesn’t know that the people running the orphanage begged us to name it after Regina.”
“I bet that was your suggestion, wasn’t it, Doug?”
He smiled. “Maybe. It was certainly my suggestion that we not only accept renaming the orphanage, but surprise Mrs. Clausen with the news. Even though the dedication isn’t till next week, I don’t think we should wait any longer to show the pictures to her. Get me the file, please.”
Together they studied the eight-by-ten photos that depicted the ongoing construction of the new section of the orphanage. The most recent picture showed the completed building, a handsome, L-shaped, whitewashed structure with a green tile roof. “Room for two hundred more children,” Doug said. “Equipped with a state-of-the-art clinic. You don’t know how many of those infants arrive there malnourished. Now I’m proposing to add a residence on the grounds so that prospective parents can get to spend time with the babies they’ll be adopting.”
He opened his desk drawer. “Here’s the sign we’re going to unveil at the dedication. It will be placed here.” He put his finger on a spot on the lawn in front of the building and drew a circle. “It will be clearly visible from the road and as you come up the driveway.”
His voice lowered. “I was going to have a local artist there do a rendering after the unveiling, but I think we should have one painted immediately. Get Peter Crown at the agency to take care of it.”
Leah studied the handsome sign, carved in the shape of a cradle. The engraved and gilded lettering read THE REGINA CLAUSEN HOME.
“Oh, Doug, that will make Mrs. Clausen so happy!” Leah said, her eyes misting over. “It means that at least something good is coming out of her tragedy.”
“Indeed it is,” Douglas Layton agreed fervently.
61
It was ten after nine when Susan’s secretary buzzed her on the intercom: “Dr. Pamela Hastings to see you, Doctor.”
She had begun to worry that Hastings might not show up, so it was with relief that Susan asked Janet to show her in.
That the woman was distressed, showed clearly in her face—her forehead creased with worry lines, her lips firmly clamped together. But when she spoke, Susan instinctively liked her, sensing that she possessed both warmth and intelligence.
“Dr. Chandler, I feel that I must have sounded very rude to you the other night when you called the hospital. It was just that I was so surprised when you introduced yourself.”
“And undoubtedly even more so when you heard why I was calling, Dr. Hastings.” Susan reached out her hand. “Please, let’s make it Susan and Pamela, if that’s all right.”
“Absolutely.” Hastings shook Susan’s hand, then glanced behind her as she sat down. Once seated, she pulled the chair a little closer to Susan’s desk, as though afraid other ears might pick up what she was going to say.
“I’m sorry to be late, and I can’t stay long. I’ve been at the hospital so much in the last two days that I’m really not prepared for my eleven-fifteen class.”
“And I go on the air in less than fifty minutes,” Susan said, “so I guess we’d better get to the heart of it. Have you heard the tape of the phone call Carolyn Wells made to my program on Monday?”
“The tape Justin denied requesting? No.”
“I left the copy I had with the police yesterday,” Susan told her. “I will have another one made for you, because, while I am confident that it was Carolyn Wells who called, I would like you to verify that it is indeed her voice on the tape. But let me tell you what she said.”
As she described talking about Regina Clausen’s disappearance from a cruise and the call she had received from a listener who called herself “Karen,” Susan watched the concern deepen on Pamela Hastings’s face.
When she was finished, the other woman said, “I don’t need to hear the tape. I saw a turquoise ring with that inscription last Friday night. Carolyn showed it to me.” Briefly she told Susan about the fortieth birthday party.
Susan opened the side drawer of her desk and pulled out her purse. “Regina Clausen’s mother was listening to the program and heard Carolyn’s call. Afterwards she phoned me and came here with a souvenir ring that she said had been found among her daughter’s possessions. Will you look at it, please?”
She opened her purse, reached in for her wallet, and extracted the turquoise ring. She held it out.
Pamela Hastings paled. She did not attempt to take the ring from Susan’s hand, but sat staring at it. Finally she said, “It looks exactly like the one Carolyn showed me. Is the inside of this band engraved with the sentiment ‘You belong to me’?”
“Yes. Here, look at it closely.”
Hastings shook her head. “No, I don’t want to touch it. As a psychologist you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I am gifted—or cursed, as the case may be—with very keen intuition, or second sight, or whatever you want to call it. When I touched the ring Carolyn had the other night, I warned her that it might be the cause of her death.”
Susan smiled reassuringly. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I absolutely respect the kind of gift you’re talking about. And while I don’t understand it, I am convinced that it exists. Please tell me.
What do you sense about this ring?” She held it out again.
Pamela Hastings shrank back and looked away. “I can’t touch it. I’m sorry.”
Susan knew she had the answer she was expecting: This ring was also a harbinger of death.
There was an awkward pause, then Susan said, “There was very real fear in Carolyn Wells’s voice when she called me on Monday. I’m going to be frank. She sounded as though she was afraid of her husband. The police captain who heard the tape had the same reaction.”
Pamela was silent for a while. “Justin is very possessive of Carolyn,” she said quietly.
It was obvious to Susan that Pamela Hastings was choosing her words carefully. “Possessive, and perhaps jealous enough to hurt her?”
“I don’t know.” The words were anguished, as though they had been wrung from her. Then she raised her hands in an almost pleading gesture. “Carolyn is unconscious. When she wakes up—if she wakes up—we may get an entirely different picture of what happened, but I think I should tell you that she seems to be calling for someone.”
“You mean someone you don’t know.”
“A number of times she’s very clearly said ‘Win.’ Then early this morning, according to the nurse, she said, ‘Oh, Win.”’
“You feel sure it was a name?”
“I asked her that yesterday, as I stood next to her, holding her hand, and she pressed my palm. In fact, for a moment there I really thought she was about to regain consciousness.”
“Pamela, I know we both have to go, but there’s one other question I have to ask you now,” Susan said. “Do you think that Justin Wells is capable of hurting his wife in a jealous rage?”
She thought for a moment. “I think he was capable of that,” she said. “Maybe he still is, I don’t know. He’s been absolutely distraught since Monday night, and now the police have been talking to him.”
Susan thought of Hilda Johnson, the elderly woman who had claimed she saw someone push Carolyn Wells in front of the van—and who was murdered a scant few hours later. “Were you at the hospital Monday night with Justin Wells?”
Pamela Hastings nodded. “I was there from five-thirty Monday evening to six o’clock Tuesday morning.”
“Was he there that entire time?”
“Of course,” she said, then hesitated. “No, actually not quite the whole time. I remember that after Carolyn came down from surgery—it was about ten-thirty that night—Justin went out for a walk. He was afraid of getting one of his migraine headaches and wanted fresh air. But I remember that he was gone for less than an hour.”
Hilda Johnson lived only blocks from Lenox Hill Hospital, Susan thought. “How did Justin seem when he came back to the hospital?” she asked.
“Much calmer,” she said, then paused. “Almost too calm, if you know what I mean. I would say he was almost in shock.”
62
On Thursday morning at nine-thirty, Captain Tom Shea was once again interviewing the witness Oliver Baker at his office in the 19th Precinct headquarters. This time Baker was visibly nervous. His first words were, “Captain, Betty—that’s my wife—has been a wreck ever since you phoned last night. She’s beginning to wonder if you think that I pushed that poor woman, and that this is your way of getting me to talk about the accident and trip myself up.”
Shea looked into Baker’s face, noting that the man’s lumpy cheeks, narrow mouth, and thin nose seemed all squished together this morning, as though he feared a blow. “Mr. Baker,” he said with weary patience, “you have been requested to come here only to see if there are any other details, however minor, that you may have remembered.”
“I’m not under suspicion?”
“Absolutely not.”
Baker heaved a dramatic sigh of relief. “Would it be all right if I called Betty right now? She was having an anxiety attack when I left.”
Shea picked up the phone. “What’s your number?” He dialed, and when there was an answer, said, “Mrs. Baker? Good, I’m glad to reach you. This is Captain Shea of the 19th Precinct. I wanted to personally assure you that I asked your husband to come in to see me again today only because he is a valuable witness who has been extremely helpful to us. Sometimes witnesses will remember little details days after an incident, and that’s what we’re hoping we may learn from Oliver. Now I’ll put him on for a minute, and you have yourself a good day.”
A beaming Oliver Baker took the phone Shea handed him. “Did you hear that, honey? I’m a valuable witness. Sure. If the girls phone from school you can tell them that their father isn’t going to end up in the clink. Ha-ha. You bet I’ll be home straight from work. Bye-bye.”
I should have let him worry, Shea thought as he replaced the receiver. “Now, Mr. Baker, let’s go over a few facts. You said you saw someone take the manila envelope from Mrs. Wells?”
Baker shook his head. “Not ‘take.’ As I told you, I thought he was trying to steady her and catch the envelope for her.”
“And you can’t remember anything about this man’s appearance? You never even glanced at his face?”
“No. The woman, Mrs. Wells, half turned. I was looking right at her because I could sense something was wrong, that she was off balance. And then that man, whoever he was, had the envelope.”
“You’re sure it was a man?” Shea asked quickly. “Why are you sure?”
“I saw his arm—you know, the sleeve of his coat, his hand.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Shea thought hopefully. “What kind of coat was he wearing?”
“An all-weather coat. But a good one, I could tell that much. Good clothes speak for themselves, don’t you think? I can’t be sure, but I bet his was a Burberry.”
“A Burberry?”
“Right.”
“I’ve got that in my notes. You said that last time. Did you notice if he was wearing a ring?”
Baker shook his head. “Positively no ring. You have to understand, Captain, this whole thing took place in a split second, and then my eyes were riveted on that poor woman. I just knew the van was going to hit her.”
An all-weather coat like a Burberry, Shea thought. We’ll check on what Wells wore to work that day. He got up. “Sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Baker, but thanks for coming in again this morning.”
Baker, assured he was a nonsuspect, now seemed reluctant to leave. “I don’t know if this is helpful, Captain, but . . .” He hesitated.
“Anything may be helpful,” Shea said quickly. “What is it?”
“Well, I may be wrong, but I did get the impression that the man who took the envelope was wearing a watch with a dark leather band.”
An hour later, Detective Marty Power was in Justin Wells’s office. Wells himself was not there, but the detective, sent there by Shea, had an informative chat with the friendly receptionist, Barbara Gingras. In less than three minutes he had learned all about how Barbara heard Carolyn Wells on the Ask Dr. Susan program on Monday, and how she had told Mr. Wells about it when he came back from lunch.
“I think it made him mad or upset or something,” she confided, “because later he went out without telling me when he’d be back.”
“Do you remember if he was wearing a coat when he left?” Power asked.
Barbara bit her lip and frowned thoughtfully. “Let’s see. In the morning he had on his tweed topcoat. He’s a sharp dresser, and I always notice what he’s wearing. You see, my boyfriend, Jake, is about Mr. Wells’s size and has dark hair too, so when I want to buy him clothing of some kind as a present, I try to find something like what I’ve seen Mr. Wells wear.”
Barbara smiled at the detective. “In fact, Jake’s birthday was just last week, and I got him a blue-and-white striped shirt with a white collar and cuffs, and Mr. Wells has one just like it. Cost a fortune but he loved it. And the tie . . .”
Not being interested in the tie Jake had received for his birthday, Marty Power interrupted, “You’re positive Justin Wells was wearing a tweed topcoat on Monday?”
r /> “Absolutely. But wait a minute. You know something? When Mr. Wells went out Monday afternoon, he was wearing the tweed topcoat, but when he came back, he had on his Burberry. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I guess he must have gone home.”
Her final piece of information that the detective found pertinent was that Mr. Wells always wore a watch with a dark leather strap.
63
Alex Wright had appointments scheduled for most of Thursday, so he had Jim Curley, his chauffeur, pick him up at quarter of nine in the morning. Jim always extended cheerful greetings to his boss, but then let him take the lead, speaking only when he sensed it was either desired or appropriate.
Sometimes Alex Wright obviously felt like talking, and they would bat the breeze about anything from the weather or politics, to scheduled events, to Jim’s grandchildren. On other days, Mr. Alex would greet him pleasantly, and then open his briefcase or The New York Times and sit silently for most of the trip.
Whichever way the day went was fine with Jim. His devotion to Alex Wright was unquestioning, ever since that day two years ago when he had made it possible for Jim’s granddaughter to go to Princeton. She had been accepted on her own, but even with a scholarship and the financial aid that was offered her, it was just too big a financial commitment for the family.
Mr. Alex, himself a Princeton graduate, had been adamant that she attend school there. “Are you kidding, Jim?” he had asked incredulously. “Sheila can’t turn down Princeton. Whatever the scholarship doesn’t cover, I’ll take care of. Tell her to wave to me at the football games.”
It certainly hadn’t been like that when Jim Jr. was going to college twenty-five years ago, Curley remembered. I asked Mr. Alex’s father for a raise, and he told me I was lucky to have a job.