After he had lunch with Doug Langdon at the St. Regis, Dr. Clayton Hadley spent the rest of the weekend in a state of near panic. The memory of holding the pillow over Olivia Morrow’s face haunted his every waking moment. How did I let myself get into this? he wondered, frantically. I had a good practice. I was being paid well for my job at the foundation. I actually did steer money from the foundation into cardiac research. That, at least, would stand up, if anyone ever investigates where the foundation money really has gone . . .
When the money from Alex Gannon’s patents was still flowing in, it was easy for me to set up phony research centers that were little more than rented rooms with a so-called lab technician, Clay thought. Doug got me started on that. Now I have a fortune in my Swiss bank account.
A lot of good that will do me if I’m indicted for murder.
How about Doug? For the last ten years, since we’ve been on the foundation board, he’s been funneling small grants into worthwhile mental health projects, as well as pots of money into storefront clinics with one part-time attendant. The money flowed out the back door of those places, and straight into Doug’s pockets.
The Gannons were oblivious, Clay thought. They gave the okay to anything Doug or I proposed. They were too busy scooping out the foundation money themselves to maintain their own extravagances. They rubber-stamped us, and we rubber-stamped them.
Then, when Doug introduced Pamela to Greg eight years ago, Greg fell for her like a ton of bricks, divorced his wife, married her, and made her a member of the foundation board. For eight years, Pamela’s been playing Lady Bountiful all over Manhattan. If Greg wasn’t available to take the bows at any of those dreary dinners honoring the foundation for its legitimate grants, she was there doing it for him.
Greg’s spending has been out of control ever since he married Pamela, Clay thought nervously. And these past four years, Peter’s been boasting about his grants for his off-Broadway projects, while he’s been pouring foundation money into his own musical fiascos.
All these thoughts were torturing Clay as he sat trying to read the papers in his comfortable Gramercy Park apartment. Like Doug, he had been divorced for years, but as a welcome guest in the social world, he never lacked for female company. His solicitous manner, as well as his ability to make small talk, made him an excellent extra man, the kind hostesses were always trying to find. Unlike Doug, who escorted any number of different and very attractive women, Clay found his current status absolutely satisfactory. It’s taken me more than fifty years to realize that I’m a loner, he thought.
Olivia Morrow. I actually have the nerve to miss her. Olivia and I were friends. She trusted me. How many times over the years did we go out for dinner or to the theatre together? I knew her for such a long time. Her mother, Regina, was my patient. I’m sorry that her mother told us about Alex’s granddaughter, and gave Olivia that file. If only Olivia had buried it with her mother . . . If only! But what good does that do?
But did Olivia destroy it at the end? I’m almost sure she did. It wasn’t anywhere in the apartment, and her safety deposit box hasn’t been opened for years. If she hadn’t received that call from Monica Farrell Tuesday night, she’d have died and it would all be over. But instead Olivia saw that phone call from Catherine’s granddaughter as a sign from Catherine, of all things.
Now with Peter all over the newspapers, will it put the foundation in the spotlight? If they ever start digging into the finances, it’s all over. Doug seems to think that Greg can doctor up the paperwork to show that because of the present economic climate and some unwise investments, it’s necessary to close the foundation. Doug doesn’t believe that too many questions will be asked. But I’m not so sure it would be like that at all. I think I’m going to self-diagnose a heart condition, close down my practice, and get out of the country.
That decision made, Clayton Hadley felt somewhat better. At seven o’clock, he sent down for dinner from the in-house restaurant in his upscale condominium. As usual, he ate heartily, then managed to abolish Olivia Morrow’s face from his consciousness and fall into a deep sleep.
On Monday morning, he arrived at his office at nine thirty, as usual. His secretary reported that a Ms. Sophie Rutkowski had phoned and would call back in fifteen minutes.
Sophie Rutkowski, Clay thought. Who’s she? Oh, I know who she is—Olivia’s cleaning woman. Olivia left her five thousand dollars in her will. She probably knows about it and is waiting to get her hands on it.
But when Sophie phoned back, it was not about the money. “Dr. Hadley,” she began, her voice respectful. “Did you take the pillowcase with the blood on it from Ms. Morrow’s apartment? You see, if you did, I’d like to get it from you and wash it so that the complete set is in the linen closet just the way Ms. Morrow would like it to be. “Would that be all right with you, Doctor?”