“The little darlin’,” he sighed. “Remember how pretty she was and how nice she could sing. We taught her well.” He shook his head. “My, my.” Then he frowned. “But, she’s starting to talk.”
Bic had opened the hotel windows, allowing the warm May air to fill the room, the faint breeze rippling the curtains. He was letting his hair grow a little longer, and today it was disheveled. He was wearing only old slacks and a T-shirt, which exposed the thick curly hair on his arms that Opal called her favorite pillow. She stared at him, worshipping him with her eyes.
“What are you thinking, Opal?” he asked.
“You’ll say I’m crazy.”
“Try me.”
“It just occurred to me that right at this minute, with your hair mussed and you in your T-shirt and your jacket off, all you need is that gold earring you used to wear and the Reverend Hawkins would disappear. You’d be Bic the nightclub singer again.”
Bic stared at her for a long minute. I shouldn’t have told him that, she thought aghast. He won’t want to think that’s possible. But then he said, “Opal, the Lord directed you to that revelation. I was thinking on the old farmhouse in Pennsylvania and that rocking chair where I used to sit with that sweet baby in my arms, and a plan was forming. Now you’ve completed it.”
“What is it?”
The benevolent expression faded. “No questions. You know that. Never any questions. This is between me and the Blessed Lord.”
“I’m sorry, Bobby.” She deliberately addressed him that way, knowing it would mollify him.
“That’s all right. One thing I am learning from all that listening is that I don’t wear short sleeves around those people. The business of fuzzy arm hair is coming up pretty regular. And did you notice something else?”
She waited.
Bic smiled coldly. “This whole situation may be starting a little romantic brush fire. Listen to the way that doctor and Sarah talk to each other. Tone of voice, warmer and warmer. He’s more and more concerned about her. It will be nice for her to have someone for comfort after Lee joins the heavenly choir.”
78
KAREN GRANT glanced up from her desk and smiled brightly. The small, balding man with the wrinkled forehead looked vaguely familiar. She invited him to sit down. He presented his card, and she understood why she had recognized him. He was the investigator working for the Kenyons, and he’d been at the funeral. Louise Larkin had told her that he had been questioning people on the campus.
“Mrs. Grant, if this isn’t a good time, just say so.” Moody glanced around the office.
“Absolutely fine,” she assured him. “It’s a quiet morning.”
“I gather the travel business in general is pretty quiet these days,” Moody said casually. “At least that’s what my friends tell me.”
“Oh, like everything else, it’s gotten leaner and meaner. Can I sell you a trip?”
Sharp lady, Brendon thought, and just as attractive up close as across a grave site. Karen Grant was wearing a turquoise linen suit and matching blouse. The blue-green color brought out the green in her eyes. That outfit didn’t come from K Mart, Brendon decided. Neither did the crescent of jade and diamonds on her lapel. “Not today,” he said. “If I may I’d like to ask a few questions about your late husband.”
The smile faded. “It’s very hard to talk about Allan,” she said. “Louise Larkin told me about you. You’re working on Laurie Kenyon’s defense. Mr. Moody, I’m terribly sorry for Laurie, but she did take my husband’s life and she threatened mine.”
“She doesn’t remember anything about it. She’s a very sick girl,” Brendon said quietly. “It’s my job to try to help a jury to understand that. I’ve been going over copies of the letters she, or someone, sent to Professor Grant. How long were you aware that he was receiving them?”
“At first, Allan didn’t show them to me. I guess he was afraid I’d be upset.”
“Upset?”
“Well, they were patently ludicrous. I mean some of the ‘remembrances’ were of nights when Allan and I were together. It was obvious they were all fantasy, but even so, they were certainly unpleasant. I happened to see the letters in his desk drawer and I asked about them.”
“How well did you know Laurie?”
“Not well. She’s a marvelous golfer, and I’d seen write-ups about her in the papers. I met her parents at some college affairs, that sort of thing. I felt terribly sorry for her after they died. I know Allan thought that she was heading for a breakdown.”
“You were in New York the night he died?”
“I was at the airport meeting a client.”
“When did you last speak to your husband?”
“I called him at about eight o’clock that night. He was terribly upset. He told me about the scene with Laurie Kenyon. He felt he hadn’t handled the situation properly. He thought he should have sat down with Sarah and Laurie before having Laurie called in by the dean. He said that he honestly believed she had no recollection of writing those letters. She was so angry and shocked when she was accused.”
“You do realize that if you testify to that on the witness stand it could be helpful to Laurie.”
Now tears welled in Karen Grant’s eyes. “My husband was the nicest, kindest human being I’ve ever known. He of all people would not want me to hurt that girl.”
Moody’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Grant, was there any point when you had a few doubts about whether or not your husband was falling in love with Laurie?”
She looked astonished. “That’s ridiculous. She’s twenty or twenty-one. Allan was forty.”
“It’s been known to happen. I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to be sure, say maybe have it checked out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I mean possibly hire a private investigator like myself . . .”
The tears dried. Karen Grant was visibly angry. “Mr. Moody, I wouldn’t have insulted my husband like that. And you’re insulting me.” She stood up. “I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.”
Moody rose slowly. “Mrs. Grant, please forgive me. Try to understand that my job is to find some reason for Laurie’s actions. You said that Professor Grant thought Laurie was nearing a breakdown. If there was something going on between them, if he then betrayed her to the administration and she then snapped . . .”
“Mr. Moody. Do not try to defend the girl who murdered my husband by ruining his reputation. Allan was a private man and intensely embarrassed by student crushes. You cannot change that fact to save his murderer.”
As he nodded apologetically, Brendon Moody’s glance was sweeping the office. Attractively furnished with a red leather settee and chairs. Framed posters of exotic travel scenes on walls. Fresh flowers on Karen Grant’s desk and on the coffee table by the couch. Her desk, however, was clear of paperwork, and the phone had not rung since he’d been in the office. “Mrs. Grant, I’d like to leave on a happier note. My daughter is an American Airlines hostess. Loves the job. Says the travel business gets into your blood. I hope you feel that way and your job is helping you to adjust to the loss of your husband.”
He thought she seemed slightly mollified. “I’d be lost without it.”
There was no sign of anyone else. “How many people work here?” he asked casually.
“My secretary is on an errand. Anne Webster, the owner, is out ill today.”
“Then you’re in charge?”
“Anne is retiring soon. I’ll be taking over completely.”
“I see. Well, I’ve taken enough of your time.”
Moody did not leave the hotel immediately. Instead he sat in the lobby and observed the travel agency. Two hours later not a single person had entered it. Through the glass wall he could see that Karen did not pick up the phone even once. Putting down the newspaper he had used to disguise his presence, he moseyed over to the bell captain’s desk and began to chat with him.
79
r /> GREGG BENNETT drove up the Turnpike to the exit for the Lincoln Tunnel. It was a warm, hazy day, more like July than the last week in May. He rode with the top down on his new Mustang convertible, a graduation gift from his grandfather. The gift made him uncomfortable. “Granpa, I’m twenty-five, old enough to earn the money for my own cars,” he’d protested. Then his mother pulled him aside.
“For heaven’s sake, Gregg, don’t be such a stiffneck. Granpa is so proud that you’ve been accepted at Stanford that he’s busting his buttons.”
In truth, Gregg preferred the ten-year-old secondhand Ford he’d driven at Clinton. He could still see himself throwing the golf bags in the trunk, Laurie getting in beside him, teasing him about his game.
Laurie.
He turned the car onto the Route 3 approach to the tunnel. As usual traffic was backed up, and he glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Three-forty. It was okay. He’d left plenty of time to get to the clinic. He hoped he looked all right. He had debated about what to wear, then chosen a tan linen jacket, open-neck shirt, chinos and loafers. Laurie wouldn’t know him if he got too gussied up. His mouth went dry at the thought that after all these months he would be seeing her again.
* * *
Sarah was waiting for him in the reception area. He kissed her cheek. It was obvious to him that she’d been going through hell. Deep circles underlined her eyes. Her dark brows and lashes made her skin seem transparent. She immediately brought him in to meet Laurie’s doctor.
Donnelly was gravely honest. “Someday Laurie may be able to tell us about those years she was missing and about Allan Grant’s death, but as it stands now, she can’t tell us in time to prepare her defense. What we’re trying to do is to in effect go around her, to recreate a scene in which she had a dissociative reaction and see if we can learn what set her off. You’ve told Sarah and Detective Moody about the episode in your apartment a year ago—we’d like to recreate it.
“Laurie’s agreeable to the experiment. We’re going to videotape you with her. We need you to describe in her presence, what you were doing, what you were saying, where you were in relation to each other. Please, for her sake don’t edit or hide anything. I mean anything.”
Gregg nodded.
Dr. Donnelly picked up the phone. “Will you bring Laurie in, please?”
Gregg didn’t know what to expect. Certainly it wasn’t the attractive Laurie dressed in a short cotton skirt and T-shirt, a narrow belt cinching her slender waist, sandals on her feet. She stiffened when she saw him. Some instinct made Gregg decide not to get up. He waved at her casually. “Hi, Laurie.”
She watched him warily as she took a seat next to Sarah, then nodded but said nothing.
Justin turned on the camera. “Gregg, Laurie came to visit you about a year ago and for some unknown reason, she panicked. Tell us about it.”
Gregg had gone over that morning so often in his mind that there was no hesitation. “It was Sunday. I slept late. At ten o’clock Laurie rang the bell and woke me up.”
“Describe where you live,” Justin cut in.
“A rented studio over a garage a couple of miles from the campus. Compact kitchen, countertop with stools, convertible sofa bed, bookcases, dresser, two closets, decent-sized john. Actually it’s not bad as these things go.”
Sarah watched Laurie close her eyes as though remembering.
“All right,” Justin said. “Did you expect Laurie to drop in?”
“No. She was going home for the day. Actually she had invited me to go with her, but I had a term paper due. She’d been to the nine o’clock mass, then stopped at the bakery. When I opened the door, she said something like, ‘Coffee for a hot bagel? Fair trade?’ ”
“What was her attitude?”
“Relaxed. Laughing. We’d played golf on Saturday and it had been a close round. She’d beaten me by only a stroke. Sunday morning she was wearing a white linen dress and looked terrific.”
“Did you kiss her?”
Gregg glanced at Laurie. “On the cheek. I’d get signals from her. Occasionally she could be pretty responsive when I’d start to kiss her, but I was always careful. It was like you could scare her away. When I kissed her or put my arm around her, I’d do it slowly and casually and see if she’d tense up. If she did, I quit right away.”
“Didn’t you find that pretty frustrating?” Justin asked quickly.
“Sure. But I think I always knew there was something in Laurie that was afraid, and that I would have to wait for her to trust me.” Gregg looked directly at Laurie. “I’d never hurt her. I’d kill before I let anyone else hurt her.”
Laurie was staring at him, no longer avoiding his gaze. It was she who spoke next. “I sat next to Gregg at the counter. We had two cups of coffee and split the third bagel. We were talking about when we could get in another round of golf. I felt so happy that day. It was such a beautiful morning and everything felt so fresh and clean.” Her voice faltered as she said “clean.”
Gregg stood up. “Laurie said she had to be on her way. She kissed me and started to leave.”
“There was no sign of fear or panic at that point?” Justin interjected.
“None.”
“Laurie, I want you to stand near Gregg just as you did that day. Pretend you’re about to leave his apartment.”
Hesitantly Laurie stood up. “Like this,” she whispered. She reached out for an imaginary doorknob, her back to Gregg. “And he . . .”
“And I started to pick her up . . .” Gregg said. “I mean jokingly. I wanted to kiss her again.”
“Show me how,” Justin commanded.
“Like this.” Gregg stood behind Laurie, pressed his hands against her arms and started to raise her.
Her body stiffened. She began to whimper. Instantly Gregg released her.
“Laurie, tell me why you’re afraid,” Justin said swiftly.
The whimper changed into stifled, childlike weeping, but she did not answer.
“Debbie, you’re the one crying,” Justin said. “Tell me why.”
She pointed down and to the right. A frail, small voice sobbed, “He’s going to take me there.”
Gregg looked shocked and puzzled. “Wait a minute,” he said. “If we were in my apartment, she’d be pointing to the sofabed.”
“Describe it,” Justin snapped.
“I’d just gotten up, so it was still open and unmade.”
“Debbie, why were you afraid when you thought Gregg was taking you to the bed? What might happen to you there? Tell us.”
She had dropped her face in her hands. The soft childlike crying continued. “I can’t.”
“Why not, Debbie? We love you.”
She looked up and ran to Sarah. “Sare-wuh, I don’t know what happened,” she whispered. “Whenever we got to the bed, I floated away.”
80
VERA WEST was counting the days until the term ended. She was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up the calm façade that she knew was absolutely necessary. Now as she walked across the campus in the late afternoon, her leather zipbag bulging with final term papers clasped in her arms, she found herself praying that she would reach the sanctuary of her rented cottage before she began to cry.
She loved the cottage. It was on a wooded cul-de-sac and at one time had been the home of the gardener of the large manor house nearby. She had taken the job in the English Department at Clinton because after going back to school for her doctorate at age thirty-seven and receiving it at forty, she’d felt restless, ready for a change from Boston.
Clinton was the kind of jewellike smaller college she loved. A theater buff, she also enjoyed the nearness to New York.
Along the way, a few men had been interested in her. At times she wistfully wished she could find someone who would seem special but had decided she was destined to follow in the footsteps of her unmarried aunts.
Then she’d met Allan Grant.
Until it was too late, it never occurred to Vera that she was fal
ling in love with him. He was another faculty member, a very nice human being, a teacher whose intellect she admired, whose popularity she understood.
It had begun in October. One night Allan’s car wouldn’t start, and she’d offered him a ride home from a Kissinger lecture in the auditorium. He’d invited her in for a nightcap and she’d accepted. It hadn’t occurred to her that his wife wasn’t there.
His house was a surprise. Expensively furnished. Surprisingly so, considering what she knew to be his salary. But there was no sense of an effort having been made to pull it together. It looked as though it could stand a good cleaning. She knew that Karen, his wife, worked in Manhattan but didn’t realize that she had an apartment there.
“Hi, Dr. West.”
“What—oh, hello.” Vera tried to smile as she passed a group of students. From the air of buoyancy about them it was obvious that the term was nearly over. None of these students would be dreading the emptiness of the summer, the emptiness of the future.
That first evening at Allan’s home, she’d offered to get the ice while he prepared a scotch and soda for them. In the freezer individual packages of pizza, lasagna, chicken-pot pies and God knows what else were piled together. Good heavens, she’d wondered, is that the way this poor guy eats?
Two nights later, Allan dropped off a book at her place. She’d just roasted a chicken, and the inviting aroma filled the cottage. When he commented on it, she impulsively invited him to dinner.
Allan was in the habit of taking a long predinner walk. He began to stop by occasionally, and then more often on the nights Karen was in New York. He would phone, ask if she wanted company and if so, what could he bring? Calling himself the man who came to dinner, he’d arrive with wine or a wedge of cheese or some fruit. He always left by eight or eight-thirty. His manner toward her was always attentive, but no different than if the room had been filled with people.
Even so, Vera began to lie awake at night wondering how long it would be before people started to gossip about them. Without asking, she was sure that he did not tell his wife about their time together.