No Place Like Home Part 11

"Have you got a key to the house?"

"Yes. I go in every couple of days to dry mop and make sure everything is shipshape.

Sometimes the realtors bring people in when it's raining, and they track in mud. I check it out, you know what I mean?"

"When was the last time you were in the house?"

"Monday. I always go in after the weekend. That's when the house gets the most traffic."

"What did you do at the house this past Monday?"

"Same as usual. I made it my first stop because I figured that if any broker was coming in, it should look nice."

"Did you know there was red paint in the storage room?"

"Sure, I did. There were a lot of paint cans there, not just red, but all different colors. I guess when the house was painted, the decorator ordered a lot more colors than they needed."

"Then you didn't know that the red paint from that storage room was stolen and used to vandalize the house on Old Mill Lane?"

"I read about Little Lizzie's Place being messed up, but I didn't know that the paint came from the Holland Road house. Who would do such a thing, Sarge?"

"I was hoping you'd have some suggestions, Charley."

Charley shrugged. "You better talk to all those real estate agents who keep marching in and out of that house. Maybe one of them had a grudge against Georgette Grove or against the people who were moving into Lizzie's Place."

"That's an interesting theory, Charley. A couple more questions, and then I'll let you head for that shower. The key to the storage room where that paint was kept is missing. Did you know that?"

"I know it was there last week. I didn't notice that it wasn't there on Monday."

Earley smiled. "I didn't say it was missing on Monday. I don't know that it was."

"Well that was the last time I was there," Charley said defensively. "That's what I meant."

"Last question, Charley. Is there any chance that anyone, a real estate agent, maybe, might have been careless and left a door unlocked after they were done showing the house?"

"Sure, it can happen, and it has happened. I've found the door from the kitchen to the backyard unlocked. Same thing with the sliding gla.s.s doors to the patio from the rec room. Some of these agents are so all-fired to make a sale that they get careless. They make a big thing of locking the front door and closing the lockbox, but in the meantime the Pope's army could be marching in by another entrance."

"Are you certain you always lock the doors after you've been in the house, Charley?"

"Listen, Sergeant, I make my living taking care of people's homes and property. You think any one of them would give me a second chance if I messed up that way? I'll answer that for you.

Not one of them would. They'd climb over my dead body if I didn't do everything just right."

Clyde Earley got up to go. "Looks like somebody climbed over Georgette Grove's dead body, Charley. Let me know if you think of anything that will help. The way I look at it, maybe the same person who did that job on Little Lizzie's Place got scared because Ms. Grove was onto him, so he just had to kill her. That's the real shame. The most time somebody would get for vandalizing the Old Mill Lane place would be a year or so, and if that person didn't have a record, it probably would be probation and some community service. But if that vandal killed Grove to keep her quiet, then he could get the death penalty. Well, I'll see you, Charley."

Earley stood, then let himself out.

Charley held his breath until the squad car drove away, then pulled out his cell phone and, in a panic, began to dial. Instead of a ring, a computerized voice announced that the number he was calling was out of service.

CHAPTER 30.

A t five o'clock, Thomas Madison entered the Grove Real Estate office. At the motel in which he had stayed overnight he had changed from the dark blue suit he wore when he had been interviewed on Channel 12 into slacks and a light sweater, which made him look younger than his fifty-two years. His lean frame was not the only genetic heritage he shared with his late cousin. Like Georgette, he was very clear about what he wanted.

Henry and Robin were just about to lock up when he arrived. "I'm glad I caught you," Madison said. "I originally thought I'd stay for the weekend, but there really isn't any point, so I'll go home and come back Sunday night. We'll all be here for the service-I mean by that, my wife, my sisters, and their husbands."

"We'll be open tomorrow," Henry told him. "As fate would have it, we seem to be about to close several sales. Have you been to Georgette's house yet?"

"No. The police haven't finished going through it. I don't know what they're looking for."

"I would imagine any personal correspondence that might give them a lead to her killer," Robin said. "They went through her desk here as well."

"It's a lousy business," Madison said. "I mean, they asked me if I wanted to see the body. In all honesty, I didn't want to, but it seemed wrong to say so. I did go to the morgue. I tell you I almost got sick. That bullet hit her right between the eyes."

He noticed that Robin winced. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just..." He shrugged, a gesture that conveyed his dismay at the circ.u.mstances. "I've really got to get home," he said. "I'm the coach of my kid's soccer team, and we have a game tomorrow." For a moment a smile played on his lips. "We have the best team in our division in all of Philadelphia, if I do say so myself."

Henry smiled politely. He had absolutely no interest in whether Georgette's cousin had the best or the worst soccer team in Philadelphia, or in the United States for that matter. What he did care about was immediately nailing down business details with Georgette's heir. "Tom," he said, "from what I understand, you and your two sisters will share in Georgette's estate."

"That's right. I dropped in on Orin Haskell, her lawyer, this morning. He's right down the block here, as you know. He has a copy of the will. He's submitting it for probate, but that's the way it reads."

Madison shrugged again. "My sisters are already arguing about who gets what. Georgette had some nice family pieces that go way back. Our great-grandmothers were sisters."

He looked at Henry. "I know that you own twenty percent of both this place and some property on Route 24. I'll tell you this, we have absolutely no interest in continuing the business. My suggestion is that we get three appraisals, then you buy us out, or if you're not interested in keeping the business going, we close the office and sell everything, including Georgette's house, which, of course, was completely in her name."

"You do know that Georgette intended to deed the property on Route 24 to the state," Robin said, ignoring Henry's angry glance.

"I know all about that. But fortunately she never got around to it, or maybe she couldn't because you didn't go along with it, Henry. Frankly we'd all like to kiss your feet for not letting her play Lady Bountiful to the state of New Jersey. I've got three kids, my sisters each have two, and whatever we get from the sale of Georgette's real estate will go a long way toward paying to educate them."

"I'll start getting appraisals immediately," Henry promised.

"The sooner, the better. I'll be on my way." Madison turned to leave, then stopped. "The family will be having lunch after the church service. We'd like to have you join us. I mean, you two were Georgette's other family."

Henry waited until the door closed behind Madison. "Are we her other family?" he asked dryly.

"I was very fond of Georgette," Robin said quietly. "As were you at one time, or so I gather,"

she added.

"Were you so fond of her that you don't mind the fact that when she stayed late Wednesday night she went through your desk?" Henry asked.

"I wasn't going to say anything about it. You mean she went through your desk as well?"

"She not only went through it, she removed a file that belonged to me. Did she take anything from yours?"

"Not that I've noticed. There's nothing in my desk that would be of any interest to her, unless she preferred my hair spray or perfume to hers."

"You're sure of that, Robin?"

They were still standing in the reception room. Henry was not a tall man, and Robin's three-inch heels put her at eye level with him. For a long moment they looked directly at each other.

"Want to play, I've Got a Secret?" he asked.

CHAPTER 31.

The weekend went unexpectedly well. Both days were very warm. Alex went for an early morning ride on Sat.u.r.day, and, when he returned, I suggested we go to Spring Lake. A client of mine had been married there in July. We had attended her wedding and stayed at the Breakers Hotel. Because we'd been there together, it was one place that I didn't have to worry too much about letting slip the fact that I was familiar with it.

"Now that Labor Day's over, I bet we can get a reservation," I said.

Alex liked the idea. Jack loved it. Alex called over to the club and was able to hire one of the kids who worked weekends at the stable to come over Sat.u.r.day evening and Sunday morning to take care of Star.

It worked out just as I had hoped. We got two connecting oceanfront rooms at the Breakers. We stayed on the beach all Sat.u.r.day afternoon. After dinner, we took a long stroll on the boardwalk, and the breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean. Oh, how the ocean calms my soul. I was even able to think about being here before, when I was a child, like Jack, my hand in my mother's, as his was now in mine.

In the morning, we went to early Ma.s.s at St. Catherine's, the beautiful church that never fails to comfort me. I prayed that I would find a way to clear my name, to change the impression the world has of Liza Barton. I prayed that we could someday be like the other young families I saw around me. I wanted the life they were leading.

In the pew directly ahead of us, there was a couple with two little boys I judged to be about four and three, and a baby girl less than a year old. At first the boys were well behaved, but then they started to fidget. The three-year-old began poking his older brother, who responded by leaning heavily against him. Their father noticed and separated them with a warning glance.

Then the baby, obviously on the verge of being able to walk, began struggling to get down from her mother's arms.

I wanted to be able to give Alex the family he wanted, with all the blessed aggravations that are part of that life.

Of course, Alex and Jack had noticed the kids in front of us. When we were walking back to the car after Ma.s.s, Alex asked Jack what he would do if a little brother started poking him.

"I'd give him a punch," Jack said matter-of-factly.

"Jack, you wouldn't! That's not the way a big brother acts," I told him.

"I'd give him a punch, too," Alex confirmed. They grinned at each other. I made myself push aside the thought that if Alex somehow learned the truth about my past before I could present a compelling defense, he might simply move out and disappear from our lives.

We spent the rest of the day on the beach, went to Rod's Olde Irish Tavern in Sea Girt for an early dinner, then, happily tired, started back to Mendham. On the way, I told Alex that I was going to sign up for riding lessons at the Washington Valley Riding Club.

"Why not at Peapack?" he asked.

"Because there's a guy named Zach at Washington Valley who is supposed to be a wonderful teacher."

"Who told you about him?"

"Georgette did," I said, my throat choking on the lie. "I called over there Friday afternoon and talked to him. He said he wasn't especially busy, and agreed to take me on. I kind of sweet-talked him into it, I guess. I told him my husband was a wonderful rider and that I was embarra.s.sed to be starting out at a place where his friends could see how inexperienced I was."

Lie after lie after lie. The truth, of course, was that riding a horse is like learning to ride a bicycle. Once you've learned it, you simply don't forget. I was afraid that it was my experience, not my inexperience, that would trip me up.

And of course, taking lessons from Zach would be the most natural way for me to be around a man whose name had been on my mother's lips seconds before she died.

CHAPTER 32.

Detective Paul Walsh was one of the first to arrive at Hilltop Presbyterian Church for Georgette Grove's memorial service on Monday morning. To be certain that he didn't miss seeing anyone who showed up, he chose a seat in the last pew. During the night, hidden cameras had been set up both inside the church and on the grounds outside. The tapes from them would be scrutinized later. Georgette's killer would not be the first to arrive at the victim's send-off, but it was likely that he, or she, would put in an appearance.

Walsh had absolutely dismissed the possibility that Georgette Grove had been murdered by a stranger who had followed her into the house with the intention of robbing her. So far as he was concerned, the presence of Celia Nolan's picture in Georgette's shoulder bag eliminated that consideration. It was obvious that the picture had been wiped clean of fingerprints for a reason.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Celia Nolan was an unbalanced woman, and that she had carried a gun with her to Holland Road. He could visualize her looking for Georgette, going from room to room, the pistol in her hand. You can bet she wasn't calling Georgette's name, Walsh thought. She found her on her knees with the turpentine-soaked rag in her hand, shot her, then put the picture from the newspaper in Georgette's shoulder bag. It was her way of explaining the reason for killing her. Even placing the pistol precisely in the center of the splash of paint was, in his opinion, another sign of an unbalanced mind.

The search of Georgette's house over the weekend had proven fruitful. One of the Mendham cops had found a file hidden in the closet of her bedroom that contained an exchange of E-mails between Henry Paley and Ted Cartwright. In one of them, Cartwright promised Paley a bonus if he could force Georgette to sell the property on Route 24. In several of Paley's E-mails to Cartwright, he had written that the agency was in a shaky financial situation and that he was doing everything possible to keep it that way by not actively pursuing clients.

Nice guy, Walsh thought; he was actively trying to put his partner out of business. I wouldn't be surprised if Paley didn't hire someone to mess up Little Lizzie's Place, too. MacKingsley's mind-set is that Paley was the killer, having panicked because Georgette somehow got her hands on his Cartwright file, but Walsh wasn't so sure. It was common knowledge that Jeff MacKingsley intended to make a run for the governor's office in two years, and a lot of people thought he would make it. This kind of high-profile case was just what he wanted. Well, solving this case would also be a nice feather in my cap, too, Paul Walsh thought. He wanted to retire soon and land a plush job doing security for some big corporation.

At ten minutes of ten, the organ began to play, and suddenly the church began to fill with people. Walsh recognized some members of the local media who, like him, stayed in the back pews. Dru Perry was easy to pick out with her mane of gray hair. Although too persistent for his taste, he thought she was a good newspaperwoman. He wondered if, like Samson, she got her strength from her hair.

He watched as Marcella Williams, the neighbor on Old Mill Lane, sat in the fourth pew.

Doesn't want to miss a trick, Walsh thought. It's a wonder she didn't go up and sit on the altar.

At five of ten, the family arrived. Walsh remembered that there were three of them: a brother, Thomas Madison, and his two sisters. Must be the sisters' husbands and Madison's wife with them, he figured. They went down the aisle and took seats in the front pew.

The relatives had been eliminated as persons of interest to those investigating Georgette Grove's murder. A quiet check had confirmed that they were well-respected, solid citizens in the Philadelphia area. Walsh loved the expression "persons of interest." Translated, it meant, we think you're guilty and we're breaking our necks to prove it.

Henry Paley, looking suitably mournful, and Robin Carpenter were the next to come down the aisle and take front seats. Robin had chosen to wear a black and white dress that was molded to her body. Henry's black tie was his only concession to the outward appearance of funeral dress, and it seemed ill-suited to his beige sports jacket and brown slacks. I bet that tie gets changed the minute he hears the last "Amen," Walsh decided.

Talk about people of interest, he thought when, just as the minister stepped before the altar, Celia and Alex Nolan entered the church and took seats across the aisle and only a few rows ahead of him. Celia was wearing an obviously expensive suit, light gray with a faint yellow pin stripe. Dark gla.s.ses shielded her eyes. Her long, dark hair was twisted loosely into a knot at the back of her head. When she turned to whisper something to her husband, Walsh had a full view of her profile.

Cla.s.sy looking, he admitted to himself, a killer with the face of an angel.

He watched as Alex Nolan, in a protective gesture, patted his wife's back, as if to relax or comfort her.

Don't do that, Walsh thought. I'd love to see her explode again.

A soloist began to sing "The Lord Is My Shepherd," and the congregation in the crowded church rose.

The pastor, in his eulogy, spoke of a woman who gave selflessly for the good of others: "Time after time, over the years, people who wanted to live in this beautiful community have told me how Georgette somehow managed to find them a house they could afford. We all know of her selfless efforts to preserve the tranquil beauty of our community...."

At the end of the ceremony, Walsh stayed in his pew, observing the expressions of the people as they filed out of the church. He was glad to see that a number of them were dabbing at their eyes, and that one of the relatives was clearly upset. In these few days since Georgette Grove's death, he had gotten the feeling that while she was admired, there weren't many people who were close to her. In her last moment of life, she had looked up at someone who had hated her enough to kill her. He wanted to believe that somehow Georgette was aware of the affection of those who had come here today to mourn her.

When Celia Nolan pa.s.sed him, Walsh could see that she was very pale, and was holding tightly onto her husband's hand. For a split second, their eyes locked. Read my thoughts, Walsh signaled. Be afraid of me. Sense that I can't wait to cuff you, lady.