You Belong to Me Page 8

  By the time the cab reached her office, Susan knew that Jed was sending the package addressed to Justin Wells to her by messenger.

  Susan mentally reviewed her day. She had back-to-back appointments all afternoon. But after that she would take the tape to Lenox Hill Hospital, where, according to the chatty receptionist, Justin Wells was keeping vigil at his wife’s bedside.

  He may not want to talk to me, Susan thought as she paid the cabbie, but there’s no question—whatever reason he has for wanting a tape of yesterday’s program, it isn’t because his mother missed it.

  25

  Jane Clausen had not been sure if she would be well enough to attend the meeting of the Clausen Family Trust. It had been a difficult, pain-filled night, and she longed to spend the day resting quietly at home.

  Only the haunting knowledge that her time was running out gave her the drive necessary to get up at precisely the usual time, 7 A.M., to bathe, dress, and eat the light breakfast that Vera, her housekeeper of many years, had prepared for her.

  As she sipped coffee, she picked up The New York Times and began to read the front page, then set the paper down. She simply could not concentrate on the events that apparently commanded the attention of the rest of the world. Her own world was narrowing to the point of vanishing, and she knew it.

  She thought back to the previous afternoon. Her disappointment that “Karen” had not kept the appointment at Dr. Chandler’s office continued to grow. Jane realized she had many questions for the woman: What did the man you met look like? Did you have a sense of danger?

  The thought had come to her in the middle of the night. Regina had a keen intuition. Clearly if she had met a man and been attracted by him enough to change her itinerary, he must have appeared to be aboveboard.

  “Aboveboard.” And now that word was bothering her because it raised questions about Douglas.

  Douglas Layton, a member of the Layton family, bore a name of distinction, one that guaranteed his background. He had spoken with affection of his cousins in Philadelphia, the children of her now-deceased contemporaries. Jane Clausen had known those Philadelphia Laytons when they were quite young, but had lost touch over the years. Still, she remembered them well, and several times lately when he mentioned them Doug had mixed up their names. She had to wonder how close he really was to them.

  Doug’s scholastic background was excellent. There was no question he was very intelligent. Hubert March, who was grooming Doug to be his successor, had suggested electing him to the board of trustees of the foundation.

  So what is bothering me? Jane Clausen asked herself as she nodded her acceptance of the coffee refill that Vera was offering.

  It was what happened yesterday, she decided. It was the fact that Douglas Layton was too busy with someone else to wait with her at Dr. Chandler’s office.

  When he called last evening, I let him know I wasn’t pleased, Jane Clausen thought. She knew that should be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

  She considered what was beneath the surface. Douglas Layton knew he had a lot to lose by walking out of Dr. Chandler’s office with that trumped-up excuse.

  And clearly it was trumped up. She was sure he had been lying about his so-called appointment. But why?

  This morning at the trustees’ meeting they were going to decide on a number of substantial grants. It’s very hard to accept the recommendations of someone you are beginning to have doubts about, Jane Clausen thought. If Regina were here, we’d talk this over together. Two heads are better than one, Mother. We prove that, don’t we? Regina used to say. We were good problem solvers together.

  Susan Chandler. Jane thought of how strong a liking she had taken to the young psychologist. She’s both wise and kind, she thought, remembering the compassion in Susan’s eyes. She knew how disappointed I was yesterday, and she could see that I was in pain. Having that cup of tea with her was so comforting. I’ve never had much use for the business of rushing to therapists, but she came across immediately as a friend.

  Jane Clausen stood up. It was time to go to the meeting. She wanted to take the time to study all the requests for grants thoroughly. This afternoon I’ll phone Dr. Chandler and make an appointment to see her, she decided.

  She smiled unconsciously as she thought, I know Regina would approve.

  26

  I must go down to the seas again . . .

  The cadence of the words was a drumbeat in his head. He could see himself on the pier, showing his identification to a courteous member of the crew, hearing his greeting—“Welcome aboard, sir!”—walking up the metal gangway, being shown to his cabin.

  He always took only the best accommodations, first class, with a private verandah. A penthouse suite would not be suitable—that would be too noticeable. He sought only to give the impression of impeccable taste, of substance, of the kind of reserve that comes with generations of breeding.

  Of course it was easy to accomplish. And after gently rebuffing the first attempts at probing, he found that fellow passengers respected his privacy, perhaps even admired him for being so reserved, and turned their curiosity to more interesting subjects.

  Once his presence had been established, he was free to prowl and select his prey.

  The first voyage of that kind had been four years ago. Now the journey was almost over. Just one more to go. And now it was time to find her. There were a number of appropriate ships going to the place that had been ordained for the death of this last lonely lady. He had decided on the identity he would assume, that of an investor who had been raised in Belgium, the son of an American mother and British diplomat father. He had a new salt-and-pepper wig, part of so excellent a disguise that it somehow managed to give the visual effect of altering the contours of his face.

  He couldn’t wait to live the new role, to find the one, to let her fate be joined to Regina’s, whose body, weighted with stones, rested beneath the busy waterway that was Kowloon Bay; to meld her story with that of Veronica, whose bones were rotting in the Valley of the Kings; with Constance, who had replaced Carolyn in Algiers; with Monica in London; with all these sisters in death.

  I must go down to the seas again. But first there was unfinished business to be attended to. This morning, listening once more to Dr. Susan’s program, he had decided that one of the feathers in the wind needed to be removed immediately.

  27

  It had been fifty years since Abdul Parki had first arrived in America, a shy, slender sixteen-year-old from New Delhi. Immediately he had begun working for his uncle; his job was sweeping the floors and polishing the brass knickknacks that filled the cluttered shelves of his uncle’s tiny souvenir shop on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Now Abdul was the owner, but little else had changed. The store might have been frozen in time. Even the sign reading KHYEM SPECIALTY SHOP was an exact duplicate of the one that his uncle had hung.

  Abdul was still slender, and though he had of necessity overcome his shyness, he had a natural reserve that kept him distant from his customers.

  The only ones he ever talked to were those who appreciated the skill and effort he put into the small collection of inexpensive rings and bracelets he made himself. And though he, of course, had never inquired as to the reason, Abdul often wondered about the man who had come back on three different occasions to purchase turquoise rings with the inscription “You belong to me.”

  It amused Abdul, who himself had been married to his late wife for forty-five years, to think that this customer regularly changed girlfriends. The last time the man had been in, his business card had fallen from his wallet. Abdul had picked it up and glanced at it, then apologizing for being forward, he returned it. Seeing the look of displeasure on his customer’s face, he had apologized again, calling the customer by name. Immediately he knew he had made a second mistake.

  He doesn’t want me to know who he is, and now he won’t come back—that had been Abdul’s immediate and regretful thought. And given the fact that a year had passed witho
ut a reappearance, he suspected that to be the case.

  As his uncle had before him, Abdul closed the shop every day promptly at one o’clock, then went out for lunch. On this Tuesday afternoon he had the sign in his hand—closed—return at 2 P.M.—and was just about to put it on the door, when his mysterious customer suddenly appeared, came inside, and greeted him warmly.

  Abdul broke into a rare smile. “It’s been a long time, sir. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you, Abdul. I thought surely you’d have forgotten me by now.”

  “Oh, no, sir.” He did not use the man’s name, careful not to remind the customer of his mistake the last time they had been together.

  “Bet you can’t remember my name,” his customer said, his tone genial.

  I must have been wrong, Abdul thought. He wasn’t angry at me after all. “Of course, I remember it, sir,” he said. Smiling, he proved that indeed he did.

  “Good for you,” his customer said warmly. “Abdul, guess what? I need another ring. You know the one I mean. Hope you have one in stock.”

  “I think I have three, sir.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll take them all. Here I’m keeping you from your lunch. Before any other customers show up, why don’t we put the sign out and lock the door? Otherwise you’ll never get out of here, and I know you’re a creature of habit.”

  Abdul smiled again, pleased at the thoughtfulness of this remarkably friendly old customer. Willingly, he handed him the sign and watched him turn the lock. It was then that he noted with surprise that, even though it was a mild and sunny day, his customer was wearing gloves.

  The handmade items were inside the glass-topped counter, near the cash register. Abdul went to the counter and removed a small tray. “Two of them are here, sir. There’s one more in the back, on my workbench. I’ll get it.”

  With quick steps he walked through the curtained area that led to the small stockroom, one corner of which he had made into a combination office and workplace. The third turquoise ring was in a box. He had finished the engraving on it only the day before.

  Three girls at once, he thought, smiling to himself. This guy does get around.

  Abdul turned, the ring in his hand, then gasped in surprise. His customer had followed him into the stockroom.

  “Did you find the ring?”

  “Right here, sir.” Abdul held it out, not understanding why he suddenly felt nervous and cornered.

  When he saw the sudden flash of the knife, he understood. I was right to be afraid, he thought, as he felt a sharp pain and then slipped into darkness.

  28

  At ten minutes of three, just as her two o’clock patient was leaving, Susan Chandler received a call from Jane Clausen. She immediately sensed the tension lurking beneath the quiet, well-bred voice and the request for an appointment.

  “I mean a professional visit,” Mrs. Clausen said. “I need to discuss some problems I’m having, and I feel that I’d be very comfortable talking them over with you.”

  Before Susan could respond, Jane Clausen continued: “I’m afraid it’s very important that I see you as soon as possible, even today, if that can be arranged.”

  Susan did not need to consult her calendar to answer. She had clients coming in for appointments at three and four o’clock. After that she had intended to go immediately to Lenox Hill Hospital. Obviously that would have to wait.

  “I’ll be free at five o’clock, Mrs. Clausen.”

  As soon as she broke the connection, Susan dialed Lenox Hill Hospital, having already looked up the number. When she finally got through to an operator, she explained she was trying to reach the husband of a woman in intensive care.

  “I’ll put you through to the ICU waiting room,” the operator told her.

  A woman answered. Susan asked if Justin Wells was there.

  “Who’s calling?”

  Susan understood the reason for the hesitation in the other woman’s voice. The media must be hounding him, she thought. “Dr. Susan Chandler,” she said. “Mr. Wells requested a tape of a radio program I did yesterday, and I wanted to bring it to him myself if he’s still going to be at the hospital at six-thirty.”

  From the muffled sound in her ear, she could tell that the woman had covered the receiver with her hand. Even so, she could make out the question being asked: “Justin, did you request a tape of Dr. Susan Chandler’s program yesterday?”

  She could hear the answer distinctly: “That’s ridiculous, Pamela. Someone’s playing a sick joke.”

  “Dr. Chandler, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.”

  Before she could be disconnected, Susan said hurriedly, “I apologize. That was the message I received from my producer. I’m terribly sorry to have bothered Mr. Wells at a time like this. May I ask how Mrs. Wells is?”

  There was a brief pause. “Pray for her, Dr. Chandler.”

  The connection was broken, and an instant later a computer voice was saying, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

  Susan sat for a long minute, staring at the phone. Had the request for the tape been intended as a practical joke, and if so, why? Or had Justin Wells made the call and now needed to deny it to the person he addressed as Pamela? And again, if so, why?

  Susan realized these were questions that would have to wait. Janet was already announcing the arrival of her three o’clock client.

  29

  Doug Layton stood outside the partly opened door of the small office Jane Clausen kept for herself in the Clausen Family Trust suite in the Chrysler Building. He didn’t even have to strain to hear what she was saying on the phone to Dr. Susan Chandler.

  As he listened, he began to perspire. He was fairly certain that he was the problem she wanted to discuss with Chandler.

  He knew he had bungled their meeting this morning. Mrs. Clausen had arrived early, and he had brought coffee to her, planning to smooth over any irritation she might still feel. He frequently had coffee with her before the trust meeting, using the time to discuss the various requests for grants.

  When he had arrived this morning, she had the agenda spread out before her and looked up at him, her eyes cool and dismissive. “I don’t care for any coffee,” she had told him. “You go ahead. I’ll see you in the boardroom.”

  Not even a cursory “Thank you, Doug.”

  There was one file that had drawn her attention in particular, because she brought it up at the meeting, asking a lot of tough questions. The file contained information on moneys marked for use at a facility for orphaned children in Guatemala.

  I had everything under control, Doug thought angrily, and then I blundered. Hoping to head off any discussion, like an imbecile, he had said, “That orphanage was particularly important to Regina, Mrs. Clausen. She once told me that.”

  Doug shivered remembering the icy gaze Jane Clausen had directed at him. He had tried to cover himself by adding hastily, “I mean, you quoted her as saying that yourself at one of our first meetings, Mrs. Clausen.”

  As usual, Hubert March, the chairman, was half asleep, but Doug could see the faces of the other trustees, who stared at him appraisingly as Jane Clausen said coldly, “No, I never said any such thing.”

  And now she was making a date to see Dr. Chandler. Hearing the click of the telephone receiver on the cradle, Doug Layton tapped on the door and waited for Mrs. Clausen’s response. For a long moment, she did not respond. Then as he was about to knock again, he heard a faint groan, and rushed in.

  Jane Clausen was leaning back in the chair, her face contorted in pain. She looked up at him, shook her head, and pointed past him. He knew what she meant. Get out and close the door behind you.

  Silently he obeyed. There was no question that her condition was worsening. She was dying.

  He went directly to the receptionist. “Mrs. Clausen has a touch of a headache,” he told the woman. “I think you should hold any calls until she’s had a chance to rest.”

  Back in his o
wn office, he sat at his desk. Realizing that his palms were soaked, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dried them, then got up and went out to the men’s room.

  There he dashed cold water on his face, combed his hair, straightened his tie, and looked in the mirror. He always had been grateful that his appearance—dark blond hair, steel-gray eyes, and aristocratic nose—had been the product of the Layton genetic code. His mother was still vaguely pretty, but he winced at the memory of his maternal grandparents, with their plump, nondescript features.

  Now he was sure that in his Paul Stuart jacket and slacks and maroon-and-blue tie, he looked the part of the trusted advisor who would handle the affairs of the late Jane Clausen in the manner she would have wanted. There was no question that on her death Hubert March would turn the running of the trust over to him.

  Everything had gone so well until now. In her final days Jane Clausen could not be allowed to interfere with his master plan.

  30

  In Yonkers, twenty-five-year-old Tiffany Smith was still stunned that she actually had gotten through to Dr. Susan Chandler herself, and had talked to her, live, on air. A waitress on the evening shift at The Grotto, a neighborhood trattoria, she was famous for never forgetting a customer’s face or what they had ordered at previous dinners.

  Names, though, didn’t matter, so she never bothered to remember them. It was easier to call everyone “doll” or “honey.”

  Since her roommate’s marriage, Tiffany lived alone in a small apartment on the second floor of a two-family house. Her routine was to sleep till nearly ten each morning, then to listen to Dr. Susan in bed while she enjoyed her first cup of coffee.

  As she put it, “Being between boyfriends, it’s comforting to know that a lot of women are having problems with their fellows too.” A wiry-thin, teased blonde, with narrow, shrewd eyes, Tiffany displayed a sardonic outlook on life that was appealing to some and off-putting to others.