You Belong to Me Page 7

  Shea knelt beside Hilda. Her eyes were staring, her face frozen into an expression of panic. Gently he turned her palm toward him, observing the cuts where she had tried to shield herself from the fatal thrust that had entered her heart.

  Then he looked closely. There were smudges on several fingers of her right hand. Ink stains.

  Shea stood and turned his attention to the desk, observing that it was open. His grandmother had a desk like this, and she always kept the lid in that position, proud to reveal the little pigeonholes and drawers and the matching blotter and desk set that no one ever used.

  He thought back to the previous year, when Hilda had sprained her ankle on some broken pavement, and he had stopped by to see her. The desk was closed then. I bet she always left it closed, he thought.

  In the desk there was a box of stationery that obviously had just been opened—the cellophane that had sealed it was still there. He half smiled when he read the lettering: “A bon mot for you from Hilda Johnson.” An old-fashioned pen was lying next to the inkwell, the sort of pen people used for sketching. He touched it and then studied the smudge the pen left on his fingers. Next he counted the sheets of paper remaining in the box. There were eleven. Then he counted the envelopes—twelve.

  Had Hilda Johnson been writing or sketching on the missing sheet shortly before her death? he wondered. Why would she do that? According to Tony Hubbard, who had been on the desk when Hilda called yesterday, she told him she was going right to bed and would come by the station in the morning.

  Ignoring the cameramen, who were packing up their gear, and the fingerprint experts, who were reducing Hilda’s painfully neat apartment to a sooty mess, Tom went into the bedroom.

  Hilda had gone to bed—that was obvious. The pillow still bore the imprint of her head. It was now eight o’clock. The medical examiner estimated she had been dead between eight and ten hours. So sometime between 10 P.M. and midnight, Hilda got out of bed, put on her robe, went to her desk and wrote or sketched something, then put the kettle on.

  When Hilda, notoriously prompt, failed to show up, Captain Shea had tried to call her. Getting no answer, and alarmed, he asked the superintendent to check on her. If he hadn’t, it might have been days before her body was discovered. They had found no evidence of a break-in, so that meant that in all likelihood she had opened the door voluntarily. Had she been expecting someone? Or was a suspicious and sharp old bird like Hilda tricked into believing that her visitor was someone she could trust?

  The captain went back into the living room. How did she happen to be standing at the desk when she was murdered? he wondered. If she suspected that she was in danger, wouldn’t she at least have tried to run?

  Had she been showing something to her visitor when she died?—something her visitor took after he killed her?

  The two detectives who had accompanied him straightened up as he approached them. “I want everyone in this building interrogated,” Captain Shea snapped. “I want to know where each person was last night and what time they got home. I’m particularly interested in anyone who came or went between ten o’clock and midnight. I want to know if anyone is aware of Hilda Johnson writing notes to people. I’m on my way to the station.”

  There, the unfortunate Sergeant Hubbard, who had joked about Hilda’s phone call swearing that Carolyn Wells was pushed and a manila envelope stolen from her, endured the worst dressing-down of his life.

  “You ignored a call that could have been significant. If you had treated Hilda Johnson with the respect she deserved and sent someone to talk to her, it’s very possible that she’d be alive today, or at least that we’d be on a direct line to a mugger who may now be a murderer. Jerk.”

  He pointed an angry finger at Hubbard. “I want you to interview every person whose name was taken at the accident scene and find out if anyone noticed whether Carolyn Wells had a manila envelope under her arm before she fell into the street. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now I hope I don’t have to tell you not to specifically mention a manila envelope. Just ask if she had anything under her arm and what it was. Got that?”

  22

  He slept only fitfully, awaking several times during the night. Each time, he turned on the TV, which remained tuned to the local news station—New York 1—and each time he heard the same thing: Carolyn Wells, the woman who had been run over at Park Avenue and Eighty-first Street, was in a coma; her condition was critical.

  He knew that if by some unlucky circumstance she recovered, she would tell people that she had been pushed by Owen Adams, a man she had met while on a cruise.

  They couldn’t trace Owen Adams to him; of that he was certain. The British passport, like all the ones he had used on his special journeys, was a fake. No, the real danger lay in the fact that even without glasses, a mustache, and a wig, at close range he had been recognized by Carolyn Wells yesterday. Which meant that if she recovered, it wasn’t impossible that they might run into each other in New York again someday. In a face-to-face situation, she would recognize him again.

  That must never happen. So, clearly she could not be allowed to recover.

  There was no news about Hilda Johnson on any of the newscasts during the early hours, so her body hadn’t yet been discovered. On the news at nine, it was announced that an elderly woman had been found stabbed to death in her Upper East Side apartment. He braced himself for the anchorman’s next words.

  “As was reported yesterday, the murder victim, Hilda Johnson, had called the police claiming she had seen someone deliberately push the woman who was hit by a van at Park and Eighty-first yesterday afternoon.”

  Frowning, he pointed the remote control and turned off the television. Unless the police were extremely stupid, they would investigate the possibility that Hilda Johnson was not the victim of a random crime.

  If they tied Hilda Johnson’s death to Carolyn Wells’s supposed accident, there would be a media stampede. It might even come out that Carolyn Wells had been the one who phoned Susan Chandler’s program and talked about a souvenir ring with the inscription “You belong to me.”

  People would read about it, would discuss it, he mused. It was even possible that the little gnome who ran that rattrap of a cut-rate souvenir store in Greenwich Village might remember that on several occasions a particular gentleman whose name he knew had come in to purchase one of the turquoise rings with that inscription.

  When he was young he had heard the story of the woman who confessed to spreading scandal and was told that as her penance she was to cut open a feather pillow on a wind-swept day, then retrieve all of the feathers that were scattered. When she said that it was impossible, she was told that it was just as impossible to find and correct all the people who had heard her lies.

  It was a story that had amused him at the time. He had had a mental image of a particular woman he detested, bobbing and running hither and yon to recapture the elusive feathers.

  But now he thought of the feather pillow story in a different context. Pieces were escaping from the scenario he had planned so carefully.

  Carolyn Wells. Hilda Johnson. Susan Chandler. The gnome.

  He was safe from Hilda Johnson. But the other three were still like feathers in the wind.

  23

  It was one of those golden October mornings that sometimes follow a particularly chilly day. The air felt fresh, and everything seemed to glow. Donald Richards decided to enjoy the morning by walking the distance between Central Park West and Eighty-eighth Street, and the WOR studio at Forty-first and Broadway.

  He had already seen one client this morning, fifteen-year-old Greg Crane, who had been caught breaking into a neighbor’s home. When the police interrogated Crane, he had admitted trashing three other houses in the swank Westchester community of Scarsdale where he lived.

  He’s a kid who has everything, but steals and wrecks other people’s belongings apparently just for the thrill of it, Richards mused, as he walked at a brisk pace d
own the sidewalk adjacent to the park. He frowned at the thought that Crane was starting to fit the profile of one of those felons born without a conscience.

  The fault certainly didn’t appear to lie with the parents, he thought, as he nodded absently at a neighbor who was jogging in his direction. At least everything he had observed and learned about them indicated that they had been good and attentive parents.

  He thought again of his session this morning. Some kids who start to display antisocial behavior in their teens can be straightened out, he thought. Others can’t. I just hope we’ve gotten to him in time.

  Then his thoughts shifted to Susan Chandler. She had been a prosecutor in juvenile court; it would be interesting to get her reading on a kid like Crane. Actually it would be interesting to get her reading on a lot of things, Richards decided, as he circumnavigated Columbus Circle.

  He was twenty minutes early for the program and was told by the receptionist that Dr. Chandler was on her way and that he could wait in the green room. In the corridor he ran into the producer, Jed Geany.

  Geany gave him a quick greeting and was ready to rush past when Richards stopped him. “I didn’t think to ask for a tape of yesterday’s program for my files,” he said. “I’ll be glad to pay for it, of course. Oh, and could you run one today as well?”

  Geany shrugged. “Sure. Actually, I’m just about to make a tape of yesterday’s program for some guy who phoned in. Says he wants it for his mother. Come on, and I’ll run one for you as well.”

  Richards followed him into the engineer’s booth.

  “You could tell this guy felt like a jerk for asking,” Geany continued, “but he claims his mother never misses listening to Susan.” He held up the envelope he already had addressed. “Why does that name sound familiar? I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember where I’ve heard it.”

  Donald Richards opted not to reply, but had to force himself not to show how startled he was. “You can run off both tapes at once?”

  “Sure.”

  As he watched the reels spin, Donald Richards thought back to the one visit he had had from Justin Wells. It had been the usual exploratory session, and Wells never came back.

  Richards remembered that he had phoned Wells, urging him to get into treatment—with someone else—saying that he needed help, a lot of help.

  Then having made the appropriate gestures, he had been vastly relieved. The truth was that for a very personal reason he was better off avoiding contact with Justin Wells.

  24

  When she rushed into the studio at ten of ten, Susan saw the disapproving look on her producer’s face. “I know, Jed,” she said hurriedly, “but I had kind of a crisis. Someone phoned who seemed to have a genuine problem. I couldn’t just hang up on her.”

  She did not add that the “someone” was in fact her sister, Dee, who was back in California and sounded seriously depressed. I feel so alone here, she had said. I’m going to take a cruise next week. Daddy is treating me to it. Don’t you think that’s a good idea? Who knows? I might even meet someone interesting.

  Then finally Dee had asked, By the way, have you heard from Alex Wright?

  That was when Susan had realized the real reason for the call and had ended the conversation as quickly as possible.

  “You’re the one who’s going to have the problem if you’re not on time, Susan,” Geany said matter-of-factly. “Don’t blame me. I only work here.”

  Susan noticed the sympathetic glance Don Richards gave her. “You could have started the show with Dr. Richards,” she said. “I told him yesterday he was a natural.”

  For the first part of the program they discussed how women could protect themselves and avoid getting into potentially dangerous situations.

  “Look,” Richards said. “Most women realize that if they park their cars in a dark, unattended lot, six blocks from nowhere, they’re risking big trouble. On the other hand, those same women can be careless when at home. The way life is today, if you leave your doors unlocked, no matter how seemingly safe the neighborhood is, you’re increasing your chances that you’ll be the victim of a burglary, or perhaps worse.

  “Times have changed,” he continued. “I remember how my grandmother never used to lock her door. And if she did, she’d tape up a big sign, ‘key in window box.’ Those days, unfortunately, are over.”

  He has a nice manner, Susan thought as she listened to his friendly tone. He’s not preachy.

  At the next commercial she told him, “I wasn’t kidding. I think I’d better look over my shoulder if I want to keep my job. You’re darn good on air.”

  “Well, I’m finding I enjoy it,” he acknowledged. “It’s the ham in me, I guess. Although I have to admit that when I finish the publicity tour for this book, I’ll be glad to go back to my mundane world.”

  “Not too mundane, I bet. Don’t you do a lot of traveling?”

  “A fair amount. I testify as an expert witness internationally.”

  “Ten seconds, Susan,” the producer warned from the booth.

  It was time to take calls from the listeners.

  The first one was an inquiry about yesterday’s show: “Did Karen keep her appointment at your office, Dr. Susan?”

  “No, she did not,” Susan said, “but if she’s listening, I’m going to ask her please to get in touch with me, even if only by phone.”

  Several calls were directed to Donald Richards. One man had heard him testify in court and was impressed: “Doctor, you sounded like you really knew what you were talking about.”

  Richards raised his eyebrows to Susan. “I certainly hope I did.”

  The next call shocked Susan.

  “Dr. Richards, is the reason you wrote the book about vanishing women because your own wife disappeared?”

  “Doctor, you don’t have to answer . . .” Susan looked at Richards, waiting for a sign that she should cut off the call.

  Instead, Richards shook his head. “My wife didn’t actually ‘disappear,’ at least not in the sense we’ve been discussing. She died in an accident in front of witnesses. We have never been able to retrieve her body, but there is no connection between her death and my book.”

  His tone was controlled, but Susan could see raw emotion in the expression on his face. She could sense that he did not want her to comment on either the question or his answer, but her instant reaction was that whether he admitted it to himself or not, there had to be a connection between his wife’s death and the subject of his book.

  She looked at the monitor. “Our next call is from Tiffany in Yonkers. You’re on, Tiffany.”

  “Dr. Susan, I love your program,” the caller began. She had a young, animated voice.

  “Thank you, Tiffany,” Susan said briskly. “How can we help you?”

  “Well, I was listening to your program yesterday, and you remember how that woman, Karen, talked about getting a souvenir turquoise ring from some guy, and said that the inside of the band was inscribed ‘You belong to me’?”

  “Yes, I do,” Susan said quickly. “Do you know something about that man?”

  Tiffany began to giggle. “Dr. Susan, if Karen is listening, I just want her to know that she was lucky not to bother with that guy. He must have been some cheapskate. My boyfriend bought a ring just like that for me as a joke one day last year when we were in Greenwich Village. It looked good, but it cost all of ten dollars.”

  “Where in the Village did you buy it?” Susan asked.

  “Gee, I don’t remember exactly. One of those dumpy little souvenir stores, the kind that sell plastic Statue of Libertys and brass elephants. You know the kind of place.”

  “Tiffany, if you do remember where it was, or if any of our other listeners know about that shop, please call me,” Susan urged. “Or let me know about any other places that might carry that ring,” she added.

  “The little guy who runs the shop told us he made the rings himself,” Tiffany said. “Listen, I broke up with my boyfriend, so you ca
n have the ring. I’ll mail it to you.”

  “Commercial,” Jed warned into Susan’s earphone.

  “Many thanks, Tiffany,” Susan said hurriedly, “and now for a message from our sponsors.”

  The moment the program was over, Donald Richards stood up. “Again, thanks, Susan, and forgive me if I rush off. I have a client waiting.” Then he hesitated. “I’d really like to have dinner with you sometime,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to answer now. I’ll call you at your office.”

  He was gone. Susan sat for a moment, gathering her notes and thinking about the last call. Was it possible that the souvenir ring Jane Clausen had found among Regina’s possessions had been purchased in the city? If so, did that mean that the man responsible for her disappearance was from New York?

  Still deep in concentration, she got up and went into the control room. Geany was putting a cassette into an envelope. “Richards got out fast,” he said. “I guess he forgot he had asked me to make tapes of the programs.” He shrugged. “So I’ll mail them with this one.” He pointed to the envelope addressed to Justin Wells. “That guy phoned yesterday to get a tape of the program. Said his mother missed it.”

  “Flattering,” Susan observed. “See you tomorrow.”

  In the cab on the way back to the office, she opened the newspaper. On page three of the Post there was a picture of Carolyn Wells, an interior designer who had been injured in the accident yesterday afternoon, on Park Avenue. Susan read the story with keen interest. This was the case she had heard about on the news this morning—the one where the elderly woman claimed she had seen someone push Carolyn Wells.

  Further down the column, she read, “husband, well-known architect Justin Wells . . .”

  A moment later she was on the cell phone to the station. She caught Jed Geany just as he was leaving for lunch.