I didn’t tell everybody that he was dead. You’re the fool.
Laurie pressed both hands to her ears. Oh God, had she dreamt it all? Was Allan Grant really dead? Could anyone believe that she had hurt him? The police station. That cell. Those cameras taking her picture. It hadn’t happened to her, had it? Where was Sarah? She got out of bed and ran to the door. “Sarah! Sarah!”
“She’ll be back soon.” It was Sophie’s familiar voice, reassuring, soothing. Sophie was coming up the stairs. “How do you feel?”
Relief flowed through Laurie. The voices in her head stopped quarreling. “Oh, Sophie. I’m glad you’re here. Where’s Sarah?”
“She had to go to her office. She’ll be back in a couple of hours. I have a nice lunch all fixed for you, consommé and tuna salad just the way you like it.”
“Just the consommé, Sophie. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Yesterday she had washed sheets and clothes while she showered. What a strange thing to do. She adjusted the shower head until the hot water was a needle-sharp waterfall massaging the knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders. The groggy headache brought on by the sedatives began to clear and the enormity of what had happened started to sink in. Allan Grant, that lovely, warm human being had been murdered with the missing knife.
Sarah asked me if I had taken the knife, Laurie thought as she turned off the taps and stepped from the shower. She wrapped one of the giant bath towels around her body. Then I found the knife in my tote bag. Somebody must have taken it from my room, the same person who wrote those disgusting letters.
She wondered why she didn’t feel more emotion for Allan Grant. He had been so kind to her. When she opened the closet door, trying to decide what to wear, she thought she understood. The shelves of sweaters. Mother had been with her when she bought most of them.
Mother, whose joy was to give and give. Daddy’s mock dismay when they arrived home with the packages. “I’m subsidizing the entire retail business.”
Laurie wiped tears from her eyes as she dressed in jeans and a pullover. After you’ve lost two people like them, you haven’t much grief left for anyone else.
She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. It really needed a trim. But she couldn’t make an appointment today. People would be staring at her, whispering about her. But I didn’t do anything, she protested to her reflection in the mirror. Again a sharp, focused memory of Mother. How many times had she said, “Oh, Laurie, you look so like me when I was your age.”
But Mother had never had that anxious, frightened look in her eyes. Mother’s lips always curved in a smile. Mother made people happy. She didn’t cause trouble and pain for everyone.
* * *
Hey, why should you take all the blame, a voice sneered. Karen Grant didn’t want Allan. She kept making excuses to stay in New York. He was lonesome. He had pizza for dinner half the time. He needed me. It was just that he didn’t know it yet. I hate Karen. I wish she was dead.
Laurie went over to the desk.
Minutes later, Sophie knocked and called in a worried voice, “Laurie, lunch is ready. Are you all right?”
“Will you please leave me alone? The damn consommé won’t evaporate will it?” Irritated, she finished folding the letter she’d just written and inserted it in an envelope.
The mailman came around twelve-thirty. She watched from the window until he started up the walk, then hurried downstairs and opened the door as he reached the porch.
“I’ll take it and here’s one for you.”
As Laurie closed the door, Sophie rushed from the kitchen. “Laurie, Sarah doesn’t want you to go out.”
“I’m not going out, silly. I just picked up the mail.” Laurie put her hand on Sophie’s arm. “Sophie, you’ll stay with me until Sarah comes back, won’t you? I don’t want to be alone here.”
51
EARLY WEDNESDAY evening a pale but composed Karen Grant drove back to New York with her partner, Anne Webster. “I’m better off in the city,” she said. “I couldn’t bear to stay in the house.”
Webster offered to stay overnight, but Karen refused. “You look more exhausted than I am. I’m going to take a sleeping pill and go right to bed.”
She slept long and deeply. It was nearly eleven when she awakened on Thursday morning. The three top floors of the hotel were residential apartments. In the three years she’d had her apartment, Karen had gradually added touches of her own: Oriental scatter rugs in tones of cardinal red, ivory and blue that transformed the bland off-white hotel carpeting; antique lamps; silk pillows; Lalique figurines; original paintings by promising new artists.
The effect was charming and luxurious and personal. Yet Karen loved the amenities of hotel living, especially the room service and maid service. She also loved the closet full of designer clothes, the Charles Jourdan and Ferragamo shoes, the Hermès scarves, the Gucci handbags. It was such a satisfying feeling to know that the uniformed desk clerks were always watching to see what she’d be wearing when she stepped off the elevator.
She got up and went into the bathroom. The thick terry-cloth robe that enveloped her from neck to toe was on the hook there. She pulled the belt tightly around her waist and studied herself in the mirror. Eyes still swollen a bit. Seeing Allan on that slab in the morgue had been awful. In one rush she’d thought of all the marvelous times they’d had together, of the way she used to thrill to the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall. The tears had been genuine. There would be more weeping when she looked at his face for the last time. Which reminded her, she’d have to make the necessary arrangements. Not now, however; now she wanted breakfast.
On the telephone, she pressed 4 for room service. Lilly was taking orders. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Grant,” she said. “We’re all just shocked.”
“Thank you.” Karen ordered her usual: fresh juice, fruit compote, coffee, hard roll. “Oh, and send all the morning papers.”
“Of course.”
She was sipping the first cup of coffee when there was a discreet knock on the door. She flew to open it. Edwin was there, his handsome patrician features set in an expression of solicitous concern. “Oh, my dear,” he sighed.
His arms closed around her, and Karen laid her face against the soft cashmere jacket she had given him for Christmas. Then she clasped her hands around his neck, careful not to dishevel his precisely combed dark blond hair.
52
JUSTIN DONNELLY met Laurie on Friday morning. He had seen newspaper pictures of her but still was not prepared for her striking good looks. Breathtaking blue eyes, shoulder-length golden blond hair that made him think of an illustration of a princess in a fairy tale. She was dressed simply in dark blue slacks, a white high-necked silk blouse and a blue-and-white jacket. There was an innate elegance despite the palpable fear he could sense emanating from her.
Sarah was sitting near her sister, but a little in back of her. Laurie had refused to come into the office alone. “I promised Sarah I’d talk to you, but I cannot do it without her.”
Perhaps it was Sarah’s reassuring presence, but even so, Justin was surprised to hear Laurie’s direct question. “Dr. Donnelly, do you think I killed Professor Allan Grant?”
“Do you think I have reason to believe that?”
“I would guess that everyone has good reason to suspect me. I quite simply did not and would not kill any human being. The fact that Allan Grant could possibly link me to the sort of anonymous trash he’d received was humiliating. But we don’t kill because someone misreads a nasty situation.”
“We, Laurie?”
Was it embarrassment or guilt that flickered in her expression for a fleeting moment? When she did not answer, Justin said, “Laurie, Sarah has talked with you about the serious charges against you. Do you understand what they are?”
“Certainly. They’re absurd, but I haven’t listened to my father and Sarah talk about the cases she was prosecuting or the sent
ences the defendants got without knowing what this can mean.”
“It would be pretty reasonable to be frightened of what’s ahead for you, Laurie.”
Her head went down. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face. Her shoulders rounded. She clasped her hands in her lap and drew up her feet so that they did not touch the floor but dangled above it. The soft weeping that Sarah had heard several times in the last few days began again. Instinctively, Sarah reached out to comfort Laurie, but Justin Donnelly shook his head. “You’re so scared, aren’t you, Laurie,” he commented kindly.
She shook her head from side to side.
“You’re not scared?”
Her head bobbed up and down. Then between sobs she said, “Not Laurie.”
“You’re not Laurie. Will you tell me your name?”
“Debbie.”
“Debbie. What a pretty name. How old are you, Debbie?”
“I’m four.”
* * *
Dear God, Sarah thought as she listened to Dr. Donnelly talking to Laurie as though he were speaking to a little child. He is right. Something terrible must have happened to her in those two years she was gone. Poor Mother, always determined to believe that some child-hungry couple took her and loved her. I knew there was a difference when she came home. If she had had help back then, would we be here now? Suppose Laurie has a totally separate personality that wrote those letters and then killed Allan Grant? Should I let him get to it? Suppose she confesses? What was Donnelly asking Laurie now?
“Debbie, you’re very tired aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to go to your room and rest? I’ll bet you have a pretty bedroom.”
“No! No! No!”
“That’s all right. You can stay right here. Why don’t you nap sitting in that chair, and if Laurie’s around will you ask her to come back and talk to me?”
Her breathing became even. A moment later she lifted her head. Her shoulders straightened. Her feet touched the floor and she brushed her hair back. “Of course I’m frightened,” Laurie told Justin Donnelly, “but since I had nothing to do with Allan’s death, I know I can count on Sarah to find the truth.” She turned, smiled at Sarah and then looked directly at the doctor again. “If I were Sarah, I’d wish I’d stayed an only child. But here I am, and she’s always been there for me. She’s always understood.”
“Understood what, Laurie?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“I really don’t.”
Justin knew it was time to tell Laurie what Sarah already knew. Something terrible had happened during the two years that she had been missing, something so overwhelming that as a little child she could not handle it alone. Others came to help her, maybe one or two, maybe more, and she had become in effect a multiple personality. When she was returned home, the loving environment had made it unnecessary for the alter personalities to come forward except perhaps very occasionally. The death of her parents had been so painful that the alters were needed again.
Laurie listened quietly. “What kind of treatment are you talking about?”
“Hypnosis. I’d like to videotape you during the sessions.”
“Suppose I confess that some part of me . . . some person, if you will—did kill Allan Grant? What then?”
It was Sarah’s turn to answer. “Laurie, I’m very much afraid that as it stands a jury will almost inevitably convict you. Our only hope is to prove extenuating circumstances or that you were incapable of knowing the nature of the crime.”
“I see. So it is possible that I killed Allan, that I wrote those letters? Not just possible. Probable. Sarah, have there been other people who claimed multiple personality as a defense against a murder charge?”
“Yes.”
“How many of them got off?”
Sarah did not answer.
“How many of them, Sarah?” Laurie persisted. “One? Two? None? That’s it, isn’t it? Not one of them got off. Oh my God. Well, let’s go ahead. We might as well know the truth even though it’s very clear the truth won’t set me free.”
She seemed to be fighting back tears, then her voice became strident, angry. “Just one thing, Doctor. Sarah stays with me. I will not be alone with you in a room with a closed door and I will not lie on that couch. Got it?”
“Laurie, I’ll do anything I can to make this easier for you. You’re a very nice person who’s had a very bad break.”
She laughed, a jeering laugh. “What’s nice about that stupid wimp? She’s never done anything but cause trouble since the day she was born.”
“Laurie,” Sarah protested.
“I think Laurie’s gone away again,” Justin said calmly. “Am I right?”
“You’re right. I’ve got my hands full with her.”
“What is your name?”
“Kate.”
“How old are you, Kate?”
“Thirty-three. Listen, I didn’t mean to come out. I just wanted to warn you. Don’t think you’re going to hypnotize Laurie and get her to talk about those two years. You’re wasting your time. See you.”
There was a pause. Then Laurie sighed wearily. “Would it be all right if we stopped talking now? I have such a headache.”
53
ON FRIDAY morning, Betsy Lyons received a firm offer of five hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for the Kenyon home from the couple who wanted to move in quickly because the wife was expecting a baby. She called Sarah but could not reach her until the afternoon. To her dismay, Sarah told her the house was off the market. Sarah was sympathetic but firm. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Lyons. First of all I wouldn’t entertain an offer that low, but anyhow there is no way I can worry about moving at this time. I know how much work you’ve put into this sale, but you do understand.”
Betsy Lyons did understand. On the other hand the real estate business was desperately slow and she was counting on the commission.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah repeated, “but I can’t see planning to leave this house before fall at the earliest. Now I do have someone here. I’ll talk to you another time.”
She was in the library with Brendon Moody. “I had decided it would be a good idea if Laurie and I moved to a condominium,” she explained to the detective, “but under the circumstances . . .”
“Absolutely,” Brendon agreed. “You’re better to take the place off the market. Once this case comes to trial, you’ll have reporters posing as potential buyers just to get a look inside.”
“I never thought of that,” Sarah confessed. Wearily she pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen on her forehead. “Brendon, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you want to take on this investigation.” She had just finished telling him everything, including what had happened during the session with Laurie at Justin Donnelly’s office.
Moody had been taking notes. His high forehead puckered in concentration, his rimless glasses magnifying his snapping brown eyes, his precise bow tie and conservative dark brown suit gave him the air of a meticulous auditor. It was an image that Sarah knew was both accurate and dependable. When he was conducting an investigation, Brendon Moody missed nothing.
She waited while he reread his notes carefully. It was a familiar procedure. That was the way they had worked together in the prosecutor’s office. She heard Sophie going up the stairs. Good. She was checking on Laurie again.
Sarah thought back for a moment to the drive home from Dr. Donnelly’s office. Laurie had been deeply despondent, saying, “Sarah, I wish I had been in my car when that bus hit it. Mom and Dad would still be alive. You’d be working at the job you love. I’m a pariah, a jinx.”
“No, you’re not,” Sarah had told her. “You were a four-year-old kid who had the hard luck to get kidnapped and be treated God only knows how badly. You’re a twenty-one-year-old who’s in a hell of a mess through no fault of her own, so stop blaming yourself!”
Then it was Sarah’s turn to cry. Bl
inding tears obscured her vision. Frantically she wiped them away, trying to focus on the heavy Route 17 traffic.
Now she reflected that in a way her outburst might have been a blessing in disguise. A shocked, contrite Laurie had said, “Sarah, I’m so damn selfish. Tell me what you want me to do.”
She’d answered, “Do exactly what Dr. Donnelly asks. Keep a journal. That will help him. Stop fighting him. Cooperate with the hypnosis.”
“All right, I think I have everything,” Moody said briskly, breaking Sarah’s reverie. “I have to agree. The physical aspects are pretty cut and dried.”
It gave Sarah a lift to hear him accentuate “physical aspects.” Clearly he understood where the defense was heading.
“You’re going for stress, diminished mental capacity?” he asked.
“Yes.” She waited.
“What kind of fellow was this Grant guy? He was married. Why wasn’t his wife home that night?”
“She works for a travel agency in New York and apparently stays in the city during the week.”
“Don’t they have travel agencies in New Jersey?”
“I would think so.”
“Any chance that the professor was the kind who compensated for the absence of his wife by leading on his students?”
“We’re on the same wavelength.” Suddenly the library, with its cheery mahogany bookcases, family pictures, paintings, blue Oriental rug, butter-soft leather couches and chairs, assumed the electric atmosphere of the stuffy cubicle that had been her domain in the prosecutor’s office. Her father’s antique English desk became the battered, shabby relic she’d worked at for nearly five years. “There’s a recent case where a defendant was convicted of raping a twelve-year-old,” she told Moody.
“I would hope so,” he said.
“The legal issue was that the victim is chronologically twenty-seven years old. She suffers from multiple personality disorder and convinced a jury that she’d been violated when she was in her twelve-year-old persona and not capable of giving informed consent. He was found guilty of statutory rape of a person who was found to be mentally defective. The verdict was overturned on appeal, but the point is, a jury believed the testimony of a woman with multiple personality disorder.”