No Place Like Home Part 12

As he left the church, he found Robin Carpenter waiting for him just outside. "Detective Walsh," she said hesitantly, "when we were sitting inside at the service, I kept thinking about Georgette, of course, and then of something she happened to say to me on Wednesday evening.

It was about six o'clock, and before I left the office I went in to say goodnight to her. She had her sc.r.a.pbook on her desk and she was looking at it so intently. She never even heard me push open the door, so she didn't know I was there. The door wasn't fully closed, you see. And while I was standing there, I heard her say something that maybe I should share with you."

Walsh waited.

"Georgette was talking to herself, but what she said was something like, 'Dear G.o.d, I'll never tell anyone I recognized her.'"

Walsh knew he was onto something. What it was, he couldn't be sure, but every instinct told him that Carpenter's information was important. "Where is that sc.r.a.pbook?" he demanded.

"Henry lent it to Dru Perry for the story she wrote about Georgette that ran in the Star-Ledger yesterday. He wasn't planning to lend it to her, but she persuaded him. She's returning it this afternoon."

"I'll be over to get it. Thank you, Ms. Carpenter."

Deep in thought, Paul Walsh walked to his car. This information has to do with Celia Nolan, he thought. I know it does.

CHAPTER 33.

Sue Wortman was the young woman who had taken care of the pony while we were in Spring Lake. She was in the barn with him when we got home Sunday evening. She explained she had stopped by to be sure Star was all right, just in case we were delayed.

Sue is a striking girl with golden-red hair, pale skin, and blue-green eyes. The oldest of four siblings, she has a way with children, and Jack took to her immediately. He explained to her why his pony used to be called Lizzie, but that wasn't a good name, so now she was Star. Sue told Jack that was a much nicer name for a pony, and that she would bet Jack that he was going to become a champion rider on a pony named Star.

On the way home from Spring Lake Alex had suggested that we ought to attend Georgette's service. "She gave me a lot of time showing houses before I bought this one," he said.

No thanks to her for finding this one, I thought, but I did agree with him. That was why, when Sue told me she was available for babysitting, I hired her on the spot. I had planned to go to the Washington Valley Riding Club while Jack was in school, but with Sue to take care of Jack, I was able to change my riding lesson with Zach from 10 A.M. to 2 P.M. on Monday.

Four hours wasn't much, but in a way I was glad to have that extra time before meeting Zach.

All Sunday night, I had disturbing dreams. In all of them I was afraid. In one, I was drowning and too weak to fight. In another, Jack was missing. Then he was near me in the water, and I couldn't reach him. In another dream, people without faces were pointing their index fingers at me, except that those fingers were shaped like guns. They were chanting, "J'accuse! J'accuse!"

I, with my high school French, was dreaming in the language.

I woke Monday morning feeling as if I had been in a battle. My eyes were heavy and tired. My shoulders and neck were tense and aching. I took a long, hot shower, letting the water splash over my head and face and body, as though I could wash away the bad dreams and the constant fear of exposure that haunted my waking hours.

I had a.s.sumed we would drive to the memorial service in separate cars because Alex was going to work afterward, but he said he'd drop me back home when it was over. Sitting there in that church, all I could think of was Georgette as I saw her for the first time, trying to drag the hose in her effort to wash away the paint. I thought of the distress I saw on her face, her frantic apologies. Then my mind jumped to that moment in the house on Holland Road when I turned the corner and almost tripped over her body. As I sat in that church, I could smell the turpentine that had spilled on the floor.

Of course, Alex sensed my distress. "This was a lousy idea, Ceil," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

On the way out of church, my hand in his, we pa.s.sed Detective Walsh. He and I looked at each other and I swear the hatred in his face was palpable. His disdain and contempt for me was apparent, and I knew he wanted me to see it. He was the Grand Inquisitor. He was all the voices of my nightmare: J'accuse! J'accuse!

Alex and I walked back to the car. I knew by now that he was concerned about the time. I said I was sorry I hadn't driven my car, that I knew he was running late. Unfortunately, Marcella Williams had walked up behind us in the parking lot and overheard our conversation. "Why should you waste time dropping off Celia?" she insisted. "I'm going straight home, and it will give us a chance to visit. I've been wanting to stop by and see how you are doing, but I never want to intrude."

Alex and I exchanged glances. Mine reflected dismay, I know, but as I climbed into Marcella's car, I comforted myself that it would only be a ten-minute ride.

I guess my training as an interior designer, which allows me to glance at a room and immediately take in both its good and bad points, extends to my immediate impressions of the appearance of the people I meet. I had known Marcella Williams when I was a child, and I'd met her again the day Alex and I moved in, but that day I was distraught. Today, as I reluctantly sat next to her and clipped on my seat belt, I found myself studying her.

Marcella is a good-looking woman, in a brittle kind of way. She has dark blond hair that's been brightened with skillfully applied streaks, good features, and an excellent figure. But I could also tell that she's had a lot of cosmetic surgery. Her mouth is pulled at the sides. The result, of course, of a facelift. I suspect Botox is the reason for the smoothness of her forehead and cheeks. What so many women don't understand is that smile lines around our eyes, and the little creases we all have at the sides of our lips, give us character and define us. But because she lacked the touches of time on her face, Marcella's eyes and mouth seemed to jump out at me. Her eyes, intelligent, piercing, questioning; her mouth slightly open, showing her sharp, too-white teeth. She was wearing a Chanel suit, a mixture of cream and light-green fabric edged with a deeper shade of green. It occurred to me that she had come to the service dressed to be seen and admired.

"I'm so glad to have the chance to be with you, Celia," she said warmly, as she steered her BMW convertible out of the parking lot. "That was a nice turnout, wasn't it? I think it was so good of you to come. You hardly knew Georgette. She sold that house to your husband without telling him the background, then you had the horror of being the one to find her body. Even with all that, you came to pay your respects."

"Georgette gave Alex a great deal of time when he was house hunting. He felt we should be there."

"I wish some other people felt that way. I could give you a list of longtime residents of Mendham who should have been there, but who at one time or another had fallen out with Georgette. Oh, well."

Marcella was driving along Main Street. "I understand that you were already looking for a different house, and that was why you went to Holland Road. I'd love to keep you for a neighbor, but I can certainly understand. I'm very good friends with Ted Cartwright. He's the stepfather Liza Barton shot after she killed her mother. I guess by now you know the full story of that tragedy?"

"Yes, I do."

"You wonder where that kid is now. Of course she isn't really a kid anymore. She'd be in her early thirties, I guess. It would be interesting to know what happened to her. Ted said he doesn't give a d.a.m.n. He hopes she fell off the earth."

Was she toying with me? "I can understand that he wants to put everything behind him," I said.

"In all these years, he never remarried. Oh, he's had girlfriends, of course. Plenty of them.

Ted's no hermit, far from it. But he sure was crazy about Audrey. When she dropped him for Will Barton, it just about broke his heart."

My mother dropped Ted for my father! I'd never known that. Mother was twenty-four when she married Daddy. I tried to sound casual when I asked, "What do you mean by saying she dropped him? Was Audrey serious about Cartwright before she married Barton?"

"Oh, my dear, was she ever. Big engagement ring, plans for a wedding. The whole nine yards.

She certainly seemed just as much in love as he was, but then she was maid of honor at a college friend's wedding in Connecticut. Will Barton was the best man. And as they say, the rest is history."

Why didn't I ever know that? I wondered. But, looking back, I could see why Mother would not have told me. With my intense loyalty to my father's memory. I would have resented the marriage even more had I felt Ted had been an intimate part of my mother's life, and was simply resuming the role after being sidetracked for a few years.

But why was Mother suddenly afraid of him, and why had he thrown her at me while I was pointing a gun?

We were turning down Old Mill Lane. "How about stopping at my house for a cup of coffee?"

Marcella asked.

I managed to get out of that one by saying I had some phone calls to make before I picked up Jack. Uttering the vaguest of promises to get together soon, I finally was able to get out of her car. With a sigh of relief I let myself in the kitchen door, then closed and locked it.

The message light was blinking on the phone. I picked up the receiver, pushed the PLAY b.u.t.ton and listened.

It was that same shadowy voice I had heard the other day. This time it whispered, "More about Little Lizzie...

"And when the dreadful deed was done, "She gave her father forty-one. "Thursday got another gun, Shot Georgette and began to run."

CHAPTER 34.

Jeff MacKingsley called a two o'clock meeting of the detectives a.s.signed to the investigation of Georgette Grove's death. Paul Walsh, Mort Sh.e.l.ley, and Angelo Ortiz were present and ready to give their reports.

Sh.e.l.ley went first: "The personal codes of eight local brokers were programmed into the lockbox on Holland Road. Two of those eight were Georgette Grove and Henry Paley. There's a computer record of which broker's code was punched in and the time it was punched. Paley told us he'd been out there once. The fact is, he was there three times. The last time was Sunday afternoon, a week ago. The paint in that storage room was used on the Nolan house sometime Monday night."

He glanced down at his notes. "I've checked with the other brokers who showed the house last week. They all swear they did not leave the kitchen or patio doors unlocked. But they did agree that somebody showing a house could leave a door unlocked-it's been known to happen. The alarm system is programmed for fire and carbon monoxide, not for entry or exit, the reason being that several times someone punched in the wrong code to disarm the alarm system, and the cops came rushing over. The owners decided that since the house was empty, and with Charley Hatch keeping an eye on things, it was more of a nuisance than a protection."

"Do any of the brokers you spoke to remember seeing the key in the door of the storage closet?" Jeff asked.

"One of them from the Mark Grannon Agency showed the house on Sunday morning. He said the key was there. He remembers because he opened the storage closet door. The cans of paint that were inside were all unopened. He put the key back in the door and locked the closet."

"Let's go step-by-step," Jeff suggested. "We know the key to the storage closet was there on Sunday morning. Paley showed the house on Sunday afternoon and claims he didn't notice if the key was there. Wednesday in the Black Horse Tavern, Georgette publicly accused Ted Cartwright of conniving with Henry to force her to sell her property on Route 24. Now that we found Henry's file in her closet, we know why she made that accusation. She had proof that they were working together."

"I gather that everybody in the tavern got that message," Mort Sh.e.l.ley commented.

"That's right," Jeff agreed. "Follow this reasoning. I don't see Henry Paley actually painting that lawn or carving that skull and crossbones on the door, but I can see that either he or Cartwright might pay someone else to do it. I can also understand why Henry might panic if Georgette had proof that he was connected to the vandalism. I can't see a judge letting him off with just a slap on the wrist on that one, especially since his purpose was to destroy his partner.

I think he'd get some jail time."

Jeff linked his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. "Henry knew the paint was there.

He wanted to get his money out of the office property. He also wanted his money out of the Route 24 parcel. Cartwright had promised him a hefty bonus if he forced the sale. If Georgette Grove knew all that, from what I hear of her, she was the kind of woman who'd have hung onto that property even if she was starving rather than let Henry get his hands on it. I say that Paley and Cartwright are our primary suspects in Grove's death, so let's keep the heat on both of them. Cartwright will never crack, but I bet we can put the squeeze on Paley."

"Jeff, respectfully, you're barking up the wrong tree." This time Paul Walsh's voice was devoid of its usual hint of sarcasm. "Georgette's death has everything to do with the pretty lady on Old Mill Lane."

"You were going to run Celia Nolan's fingerprints through the database," Jeff said. Even though his voice was quiet there was no mistaking the anger that was building in him. "I trust you did it, and what did you find?"

"Oh, she's clean," Walsh admitted freely. "She never committed a crime for which she's been caught. But there's something fishy there. Celia Nolan is scared. She's defensive, and she's hiding something. When I was leaving the service for Grove, Robin Carpenter stopped me outside the church."

"That is one good-looking lady," Ortiz injected. A glance from Jeff MacKingsley silenced him.

"As we know, Georgette worked late in her office on Wednesday night," Walsh continued. "My bet is that she was suspicious of Henry Paley, went through his desk, and found that file. Then, when she was having dinner at the Black Horse, she spotted Ted Cartwright and verbally attacked him. But I think those facts pale in significance when compared to what Georgette's other a.s.sociate, Robin, told me this morning."

He paused, wanting to emphasize his point. "She told me that on Wednesday evening, she went back to say goodnight to Georgette. The door to Georgette's office was slightly ajar, and Robin pushed it open. Georgette was looking at her sc.r.a.pbook, and, not realizing she was being overheard, said, "Dear G.o.d, I'll never tell anyone I recognized her."

"Who was she talking about?" Jeff asked. "My guess is that a picture of Celia Nolan may be in that book." "Have you got the sc.r.a.pbook?"

"No. Henry lent it to Dru Perry from the Star-Ledger for an article she is writing. According to Carpenter, she promised to return it by four o'clock this afternoon. I'm going to pick it up later.

I didn't call Perry, because I didn't want her to realize we were interested in the book."

"Once again, Paul, I think it's necessary for you to keep an open mind, or else you're going to miss the obvious just because it doesn't fit in with your theory," Jeff snapped. "We had this conversation on Friday. Let's move on. What about fingerprints?"

"They're all in the usual spots in the Holland Road house," Mort Sh.e.l.ley reported. "They're on doork.n.o.bs, light switches, kitchen drawers-you know, where you'd expect to find them.

We've run all of them through the database and we came up with zip. No criminal records on any of the people who left them there."

"How about the gun?"

"What you expected, Jeff," Sh.e.l.ley told him. "Sat.u.r.day night special, impossible to trace."

Angelo Ortiz was next: "Clyde Earley talked to the landscaper, Charley Hatch, Friday afternoon. He felt that Hatch was nervous-not nervous the way people are when a cop starts asking questions, but nervous, defensive, like he's got something to hide."

"Is Earley checking Hatch out?" Jeff asked.

"Yes. I talked to him this morning. He hadn't uncovered anything that would show any reason for Hatch to have a grudge against Georgette Grove. He gets paid by the owners of the houses, not by the real estate agent. But Earley's got one of his hunches. He's still sniffing around Hatch."

"Well, tell him not to pull any of his 'in plain view' tricks," Jeff said. "Remember, we lost a drug case a couple of years ago because the judge didn't believe Earley's story that the cocaine the guy was transporting was plainly visible on the front seat of the car."

"Earley has wonderful eyesight," Mort Sh.e.l.ley said mildly. "As I remember, he adjusted his story to tell the judge he spotted some traces of the drug on the door of the glove compartment."

"Warn him, Angelo," Jeff ordered. "The trouble with Clyde is that ever since he got publicity on the Barton case twenty-four years ago, he's been trying to find a way back into the spotlight again." He stood up. "Okay, that's it."

Ten miles away, Sergeant Clyde Earley was standing outside Charley Hatch's barn. He'd already established that Charley wasn't home, having seen his landscaping van in front of one of the houses on Kahdena Road. I'm just paying a little visit to go over Charley's schedule at the Holland Road house, Earley told himself. Sorry that he's not here.

The trash barrels by the barn were full. Wouldn't hurt to take a look, would it? Clyde thought.

The lid's practically off this one anyhow. I know I can't get a search warrant at this point, because I don't have probable cause on Charley Hatch, so I guess I'll just have to make do without one. I like it the way it used to be when the courts considered garbage abandoned property, and no warrant was needed. Now they've changed their minds. No wonder so many crooks are getting away with murder!

His conscience satisfied, Clyde Earley knocked the lid off the first barrel. It was stuffed with two black trash bags, each of them securely tied and knotted at the top. With a yank of his strong hands, Clyde opened the first one. It contained the unappetizing remains of Charley Hatch's most recent meals. With a muttered expletive, Clyde threw it back in the barrel, picked up the other bag and opened it. This one was stuffed with shabby clothes that suggested Charley had cleaned out his closet.

Clyde shook the contents onto the ground. The last items to fall out were sneakers, jeans, and a bag of carved figurines. With a satisfied smile, he examined the jeans and sneakers closely and found what he was looking for: drops of red paint on the jeans, a smear of red paint on the sole of the left-foot sneaker. Charley must have jumped into those corduroy pants when he saw me coming, Clyde thought. I wouldn't have suspected anything if he'd been smart enough to just wrap a towel around himself.

The figurines were a half-dozen statuettes of animals and birds, all intricately carved, all about six inches tall. These are good, Clyde thought; if Charley did them, he's been hiding his talent.

Why would he get rid of these? Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, he decided. He doesn't want them around because he didn't just do a paint job on Lizzie's place-he got creative and carved the skull and crossbones on the door. That's the way I'll get him.

Somebody has to know about his little hobby.

Thoroughly satisfied with his detective work, Sergeant Clyde Earley carefully placed the figurines, the sneakers, and the jeans in the squad car.

The sanitation department would have picked these up tomorrow morning if I hadn't been here, he thought virtuously. At least now we know who messed up Little Lizzie's Place. Next thing to prove is why he did it, and find out who he was working for.

Now that he had what he wanted, Earley was eager to get away. He stuffed the rest of the clothing Hatch had discarded back in the trash bag, retied it, but deliberately left it on the ground. Let him sweat blood when he sees someone's been here and taken the evidence he thought he was getting rid of. Wish I could be a little bird and see his expression, he thought.

Earley got back in the squad car and turned the key in the engine. I don't think I have to worry about Charley Hatch reporting a theft, he told himself. That ludicrous possibility made him snicker out loud as he drove away.

CHAPTER 35.

My first instinct was to erase that horrible message, but I didn't do it. Instead I took the answering tape out of the machine and brought it up to my office. I pulled out the file drawer of my desk and tapped in the combination that opened the hidden panel. As if my fingers were burning from touching it, I dropped the tape in the file, along with all the other material that has been written over the years about Little Lizzie Borden. When the panel was safely secured again, I sat at my desk, holding my hands down on my knees to keep them from trembling.

I simply could not believe what I had heard. Someone who knew I was Liza Barton was accusing me of murdering Georgette Grove. I've spent twenty-four years wondering when someone would point a finger at me and shout my real name, but even that fear could not compare with this attack. How could anyone think I would kill a woman whom I've met only once in my life, and for less than an hour?