man’s hand. As she watched, he began snipping at the bush nearest to the pool house.
Then the doorbell rang, and Nina turned from the window. One of the other suspects in the death of Betsy Bonner Powell had arrived.
20
G eorge Curtis had become increasingly more nervous about why Robert Powell was drawing him into the Graduation Gala filming.
It was bad enough that he had been forced to agree to be on camera at some point, but why was he being invited to this breakfast, where, as Rob put it, “all the suspects will gather”? Then Rob quickly added, “Not that you’re one of the suspects, George.”
Now, as he parked his red Porsche in the driveway, George pulled out a handkerchief and patted his forehead dry, an unusual gesture for him. The convertible top was down and the air-conditioning was on. There was no reason to be sweating—except anxiety.
But George Curtis, billionaire, constant on the Forbes list, friend of presidents and prime ministers, at that moment acknowledged to himself that by the end of the week it was possible that he would be under arrest, in handcuffs. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief again.
Taking a long minute to steady his nerves, he got out of the car. The June morning was, as one television weatherman was prone to saying, “A gift. A perfect day.” And today he’d be right, George thought—blue skies, sun glowing warm, a soft breeze coming from nearby Long Island Sound. But he didn’t care.
He started to cross the driveway to the front door, then waited as a limousine rounded the curve. The limo stopped to allow him to walk in front of it.
He did not ring the bell, but waited until the chauffeur opened the back door and the occupants stepped out. Even though it had been twenty years, he immediately recognized Alison Schaefer. She hasn’t changed much, was George’s immediate impression—tall, slender, the dark hair not quite so long on her shoulders as it used to be. He remembered that on the night of the Gala he had chatted with her for a few moments and had the impression that there was repressed anger in her when she said something about the lavish party. “The money could be put to better use,” she said bitterly. Because it was such an unexpected statement coming from one of the honorees, George had never forgotten it.
Now Alison waited by the car until the other occupant got out with painfully slow movements. As George watched, Rod Kimball pulled himself to his feet and adjusted his crutches firmly under his arms.
Of course, George thought. Alison married the rookie football player who was struck by a hit-and-run driver.
He rang the bell as the couple negotiated the one step to the wide entrance. With polite constraint, Alison and George greeted each other, and Alison introduced Rod.
Then Jane was opening the door for them. She greeted the three with what for her was warmth and said, unnecessarily, “Mr. Powell is expecting you.”
• • •
After Alex Buckley parked in front of the Powell mansion, he took a moment to study the massive stone house before he left his car.
What had Betsy Bonner thought when she saw this house? he wondered. She had been renting a modest condo in Salem Ridge in the hope of meeting someone with money.
She sure struck it rich for a lady born in the Bronx and making a living as an usher in a theatre, Alex thought as he got out of the car and walked to the front door.
He was admitted by Jane, and introduced to the group already in the dining room. He was relieved to see Laurie Moran had arrived before him.
“Well, here we go,” she said when he walked over to her.
“Just what I was thinking,” he replied, his tone equally low.
• • •
Regina knew it was dangerous to carry her father’s suicide note with her to the breakfast. If anyone opened her purse and found it, she would become the most logical suspect to have murdered Betsy Powell. They might as well stop filming the show, she
Then the doorbell rang, and Nina turned from the window. One of the other suspects in the death of Betsy Bonner Powell had arrived.
20
G eorge Curtis had become increasingly more nervous about why Robert Powell was drawing him into the Graduation Gala filming.
It was bad enough that he had been forced to agree to be on camera at some point, but why was he being invited to this breakfast, where, as Rob put it, “all the suspects will gather”? Then Rob quickly added, “Not that you’re one of the suspects, George.”
Now, as he parked his red Porsche in the driveway, George pulled out a handkerchief and patted his forehead dry, an unusual gesture for him. The convertible top was down and the air-conditioning was on. There was no reason to be sweating—except anxiety.
But George Curtis, billionaire, constant on the Forbes list, friend of presidents and prime ministers, at that moment acknowledged to himself that by the end of the week it was possible that he would be under arrest, in handcuffs. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief again.
Taking a long minute to steady his nerves, he got out of the car. The June morning was, as one television weatherman was prone to saying, “A gift. A perfect day.” And today he’d be right, George thought—blue skies, sun glowing warm, a soft breeze coming from nearby Long Island Sound. But he didn’t care.
He started to cross the driveway to the front door, then waited as a limousine rounded the curve. The limo stopped to allow him to walk in front of it.
He did not ring the bell, but waited until the chauffeur opened the back door and the occupants stepped out. Even though it had been twenty years, he immediately recognized Alison Schaefer. She hasn’t changed much, was George’s immediate impression—tall, slender, the dark hair not quite so long on her shoulders as it used to be. He remembered that on the night of the Gala he had chatted with her for a few moments and had the impression that there was repressed anger in her when she said something about the lavish party. “The money could be put to better use,” she said bitterly. Because it was such an unexpected statement coming from one of the honorees, George had never forgotten it.
Now Alison waited by the car until the other occupant got out with painfully slow movements. As George watched, Rod Kimball pulled himself to his feet and adjusted his crutches firmly under his arms.
Of course, George thought. Alison married the rookie football player who was struck by a hit-and-run driver.
He rang the bell as the couple negotiated the one step to the wide entrance. With polite constraint, Alison and George greeted each other, and Alison introduced Rod.
Then Jane was opening the door for them. She greeted the three with what for her was warmth and said, unnecessarily, “Mr. Powell is expecting you.”
• • •
After Alex Buckley parked in front of the Powell mansion, he took a moment to study the massive stone house before he left his car.
What had Betsy Bonner thought when she saw this house? he wondered. She had been renting a modest condo in Salem Ridge in the hope of meeting someone with money.
She sure struck it rich for a lady born in the Bronx and making a living as an usher in a theatre, Alex thought as he got out of the car and walked to the front door.
He was admitted by Jane, and introduced to the group already in the dining room. He was relieved to see Laurie Moran had arrived before him.
“Well, here we go,” she said when he walked over to her.
“Just what I was thinking,” he replied, his tone equally low.
• • •
Regina knew it was dangerous to carry her father’s suicide note with her to the breakfast. If anyone opened her purse and found it, she would become the most logical suspect to have murdered Betsy Powell. They might as well stop filming the show, she
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