The Second Time Around (24 page)

“You saw a car there!”

“Just a glimpse of one.” He shrugged. “I noticed it when I stopped and rolled my window down, but I was there only a few seconds.”

“Marty, what did that car look like?”

“It was a dark sedan, that's as much as I could tell. It was parked off the driveway, behind the pillar, on the left side of the gate.”

I pulled the article I'd downloaded from the Internet out of my shoulder bag and found a picture of the estate taken from the road. “Show me.”

He leaned forward and studied the photograph. “See, this is where the car was parked,” he said, pointing to a spot just beyond the gate.

The caption under the picture stated, “A charming cobblestone walkway leads to a pond.”

“The car must have been on the cobblestones. The pillar just about hides it from the street,” Marty said.

“If whoever sent the e-mail did see a man in the driveway, that may have been his car,” I told them.

“Why wouldn't he have driven up to the house?” Rhoda asked. “Why park there and walk up the driveway?”

“Because whoever was there didn't want the car to be seen,” I said. “Marty, I know you have to talk to your lawyer about this, but I've read the accounts of the fire pretty darn carefully. No one mentioned anything about a car parked at the gate, so whoever was there was gone before the fire engines came.”

“Maybe he was the one who set the fire,” Rhoda said with something like hope creeping into her voice. “What was he doing there if he was hiding the car?”

“There are plenty of unanswered questions,” I said as I stood up. “The cops can trace the e-mails. That may prove to be a break for you, Marty. They promised to let me know who it is. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

As he got to his feet, Marty asked the question that was also on my mind. “Did Mrs. Spencer say she had company that night?”

“No, she did not.” Then out of loyalty I added, “You've seen the size of the place. Somebody could have been on those grounds without her ever knowing it.”

“Not with a car, unless he knew how to punch in the combination for the gate or someone in the house released it for him. That's how those things work. Have the cops checked out people who worked up there, or are they just concentrating on me?”

“I can't answer that. But I can tell you that I'm going to find out. Let's start with the e-mail and see where it takes us.”

The antagonism Rhoda had shown toward me when I got to the house had vanished. She said, “Carley, do you really think there's a chance that they will find the guy who did set the fire?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Maybe miracles still happen?”

She was talking about more than the fire. “I believe in them, Rhoda,” I said firmly, and I meant it.

But as I drove home, I was certain that the one miracle she wanted most of all was going to be denied her. I knew I couldn't help her there, but I would do everything I could to help Marty prove his innocence. It would be terrible enough for her to endure the death of her child, but it would be made that much worse if she couldn't have her husband at her side.

I should know, I thought.

“S
ufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” That was the way I felt when I got home from being with Marty and Rhoda Bikorsky. It was nearly nine o'clock. I was tired and hungry. I didn't want to cook. I didn't want pizza. I didn't want Chinese food. I looked in my refrigerator and was positively disconsolate. What greeted me was a pathetic jumble of cheese drying at the edges, a couple of eggs, a soft tomato, some brown lettuce, and a quarter loaf of French bread I'd forgotten about.

Julia Child could turn this into a gourmet delight, I reminded myself. Let's see what I can do.

Keeping that charmingly eccentric chef in mind, I set to work and didn't do a bad job of it at all. First I poured a glass of chardonnay. Then I stripped the brown leaves off the lettuce, tossed some garlic, oil, and vinegar together, and made a salad. I sliced the French bread thin, shook Parmesan cheese over it, and stuck it
under the broiler. The good part of the cheese and the tomato contributed to an omelet that tasted great.

Not everyone can make an omelet, I thought, congratulating myself.

I ate from a tray while sitting in the club chair that had been in our living room when I was growing up. I had my feet on a hassock; it was comforting to be home and unwind. I opened a magazine I'd been wanting to read, but I found I couldn't concentrate on it because the events of the day kept churning through my mind.

Vivian Powers. I could see her standing at the door of her home as I drove off. I can understand why Manuel Gomez commented that he was happy Nick had known her. Somehow I could not imagine those two people, both of whom had lost loved ones to cancer, living it up in Europe on money that should have been used for cancer research.

Vivian's father had sworn his daughter would not leave her family in anguish, wondering what had happened to her. Nick Spencer's son was clinging to the hope that his father was alive. Would Nick really allow a child who'd lost his mother to live hoping from day to day that he'd hear from his father?

The earliest local TV news came on at ten o'clock, and I tuned in, anxious to see if there were any updates about Spencer or Powers. I was in luck. Barry West, the stockholder who claimed he had seen Nick, was going to be interviewed. I couldn't wait. After the usual barrage of commercials, he was the lead story.

West certainly did not look the part of Sherlock Holmes. He was a medium-sized, pudgy guy, with
apple dumpling cheeks and a receding hairline. For the interview, he was seated in the outdoor cafe where he said he had spotted Nicholas Spencer.

The Fox News correspondent in Zurich got right to the point. “Mr. West, this is where you were seated when you believe you saw Nicholas Spencer?”

“I don't
believe
I saw him. I
saw
him,” West said emphatically.

I don't know why I expected him to have a voice that was either nasal or whiney. I was wrong—his voice was forceful, but modulated.

“My wife and I had to decide whether to cancel this vacation,” he went on. “It's our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and we planned it for a long time, but then we lost a lot of money in Gen-stone. Anyhow, we got here last Friday, and on Tuesday afternoon we were sitting here talking about how glad we were that we hadn't stayed home when I happened to look over there.”

He pointed to a table on the outside rim of the ones connected with the cafe. “He was right there. I couldn't believe it. I've been at enough Gen-stone stockholder meetings to know Spencer. He'd changed his hair—it used to be dark blond and it's black now—but it wouldn't be any different if he had a ski hat on. I know his face.”

“You tried to speak to him, didn't you, Mr. West?”

“Speak to him, I shouted to him, ‘Hey, Spencer, I want to talk to you.' “

“Then what happened?”

“I'll tell you exactly what happened. He jumped up,
threw some money on the table, and ran. That's what happened.”

The newscaster pointed to the table where Spencer allegedly had been sitting. “We'll leave it to you viewers. As we record this, the weather conditions and time are the same as they were on Tuesday evening when Barry West believes he saw Nicholas Spencer at that table. We have one of our staff, who is approximately Mr. Spencer's height and build, at that table now. How clearly can you see him?”

From that distance the staff member they had picked indeed could have been Nicholas Spencer. Even his features were the same type. But I didn't see how anyone looking at him from that distance and angle could make a positive identification.

The camera went back to Barry West. “I saw Nicholas Spencer,” he said positively. “My wife and I put one hundred and fifty thousand dollars into his company. I demand that our government send people to track this guy down and make him tell where he put all that money. I worked hard for it, and I want it back.”

The Fox correspondent continued, “According to the information we have, several different investigative bodies are following this lead, as well as looking into the disappearance of Vivian Powers, the woman who is reputed to be Nicholas Spencer's lover.”

The telephone rang, and I snapped off the television. Even if the phone hadn't rung, I was about to do that anyhow. I'd had more than enough of hearing people put their improbable spin on events.

I know my greeting sounded quick and impatient: “Hello.”

“Hey, did somebody walk on your grave today? You sound feisty.”

It was Casey.

I laughed. “I'm a bit weary,” I said. “Maybe a bit sad, too.”

“Tell me about it, Carley.”

“Doctor, you sound as though you're asking, ‘Where does it hurt?' “

“Maybe I am.”

I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the day and ended with “The bottom line is that I think Marty Bikorsky is being railroaded, and I think something very bad happened to Vivian Powers. The guy who said he saw Nick Spencer in Zurich may be right, but it's a long shot, a
very
long shot.”

“The cops can absolutely trace the e-mails you received?”

“Unless the guy is one of those whiz-kid cyber geniuses, they can, or so they say.”

“Then unless he's a crank, as you say yourself, you may have a breakthrough that will help Bikorsky. On another matter, we may not be going up to Greenwich on Sunday, so what else would you like to do? If the weather is good, a suggestion would be to take a drive and get a shore dinner somewhere.”

“Did your friends call off their party? I thought it was an anniversary or a birthday?”

I could hear the hesitation in Casey's voice. “No, but when I called Vince to tell him that you'd be able to
come with me, I bragged about your new job and the fact that you're writing a cover story on Nicholas Spencer.”

“And . . .”

“And I could tell something was wrong. He said that he was thinking of you as the financial advice columnist when he and I talked earlier about you coming. The problem is that Nick Spencer's first wife's parents, Reid and Susan Barlowe, are his neighbors, and they are coming to the party. Vince says that they're on a roller coaster as it is with all that's going on about Spencer.”

“They have Nick's son, don't they?”

“Yes. In fact, Jack Spencer is best friends with Vince's son.”

“Look, Casey,” I said, “I'm not going to stand in the way of you being at that dinner. I'll bow out.”

“Not an option,” he said flatly.

“We can go out Saturday or Monday or whenever. But having said that, I would absolutely give my eye teeth to talk to Nick's former in-laws. They refuse to talk to the media, and I don't think they're doing their grandson a favor. On my word of honor, I won't mention Nick Spencer if I'm at that party or ask them one single question, either leading or oblique, but maybe if they get some sense of me, they might give me a call later on.”

Casey didn't answer, and I heard my voice rise when I said, “Damn it, Casey, the Barlowes can't put their heads in the sand. Something big is going on, and they should be aware of it. I'd put my own life on the line that that jerk Barry West, who says he saw Spencer in
Zurich, only saw someone who happened to look a little like him!

“Casey, Vivian Powers, Nick's assistant, is missing. I told you about Dr. Broderick. He's still on the critical list. Nick's house in Bedford was burned down. Nick saw his former in-laws all the time. He entrusted his son to them. Isn't it possible he told them something that might shed some light on all this?”

“What you say makes a lot of sense, Carley,” Casey said quietly. “I'll talk to Vince. I gather from what he said that the Barlowes are pretty much at the end of their rope with all the conflicting reports about Nick Spencer. His son, Jack, is going to be in deep trouble if something isn't resolved. Maybe Vince can persuade them to talk to you.”

“I'll keep my fingers crossed.”

“Okay. But one way or the other, we're on for Sunday.”

“Terrific, Doctor.”

“One more thing, Carley.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Call me when you find out who sent those e-mails. I think you're right—I'll bet all of them came from the same source, and I don't like the one that talks about judgment day. That guy sounds wacky, and maybe he's getting fixated on you, which worries me. Just be careful.”

Casey sounded so serious that I wanted to cheer him up. “Judge not lest ye be judged,” I suggested.

“A word to the wise is sufficient,” he countered. “Good night, Carley.”