No Place Like Home Part 9

On Thursday evening, Charley was settled in his imitation leather recliner, his feet on the ottoman, when his cell phone rang. He glanced at his watch as he took his phone from his pocket and was surprised to see that it was eleven thirty. I slept through the news, he thought.

He'd wanted to see it, knowing there probably would be a big story about the Grove murder. He recognized the number of his caller and mumbled a greeting.

The familiar voice, now crisp and angry, snapped, "Charley, you were a fool to leave those empty paint cans in the closet. Why didn't you get rid of them?"

"Are you crazy?" he answered heatedly. "With all that publicity, don't you think cans of red paint might be noticed in the trash? Listen, you got what you wanted. I did a great job."

"n.o.body asked you to carve the skull and crossbones in the front door. I warned you the other night to hide any of those carvings of yours that you have around. Have you done it yet?"

"I don't think-" he began.

"That's right. You don't think! You're bound to be questioned by the police. They'll find out you do the landscaping there."

Without answering, Charley snapped shut his cell phone, breaking the connection. Now fully awake, he pressed his feet against the recliner's ottoman, forcing it to retract, and stood up.

With growing anxiety, he looked around the cluttered room and counted six of his carved figures in plain view on the mantel and table tops. Cursing quietly, he picked them up, went into the kitchen, got a roll of plastic, wrapped them, and carefully stacked them in a garbage bag. For a moment he stood uncertainly, then carried the bag out to the barn, hiding it on a shelf behind fifty-pound bags of rock salt.

Sullenly, he went back into the house, opened his cell phone, and dialed. "Just so you can sleep tonight, I put my stuff away."

"Good."

"What did you get me into anyhow?" he asked, his voice rising. "Why would the police want to talk to me? I hardly even knew that real estate woman."

This time, it was the caller who had disturbed Charley's nap who broke the connection.

CHAPTER 24.

"The hour of death is nigh. 'Tis time to drop the mask..."

I don't know why that quote kept running through my head the rest of the day, but it did. Alex had to cancel appointments when he rushed home, so after the prosecutor and detective left, he went into his office and began to make phone calls. I took Jack outside and let him have a long ride on the pony. I didn't go through the farce of asking Alex to help me with the saddle. He had seen that I was perfectly capable of tacking up the pony myself.

After a few times of walking around the enclosure next to him, I gave in to Jack's pleadings and let him hold the reins without me. "Just sit on the fence and watch me, Mom," he begged. "I'm big."

Hadn't I asked my mother something like that when I was Jack's age? She started me on a pony when I was only three. It's funny how a flash of memory like that will come over me. I always tried not to think about my early life, even the happy times, because it hurt too much to remember it. But now I'm in the house where I lived for the first ten years of my life, and it feels as if the memories are crashing around me.

Dr. Moran, my psychologist, told me that suppressed memories never stay suppressed. But there's still something that I've tried to remember about that night, and it always seems as though I can't dig deep enough in my mind to find it. When I woke up, I thought the television was on, but it wasn't. It was my mother's voice I heard first, and I am sure she called my father's name or spoke of him. What did she say to Ted?

Then, as though I'd pushed a remote and changed channels, Georgette Grove's face loomed in my mind. I could see her expression as it was the first moment I laid eyes on her. She had been distressed and on the verge of tears. I now realize that much of her distress had been for herself, not for me. She didn't want to lose her sale. That was why she had rushed to make an appointment with me to see the house this morning.

Did that appointment cost Georgette her life? Did someone follow her in, or was someone already hiding in the house? She couldn't have suspected anything. She must have been on her knees working away on the stain when she was shot.

That moment, as Jack rode by, smiling joyfully, starting to wave to me then quickly putting his hand back on the rein, I made the connection. Was that paint on the floor of that house from the same batch of paint that someone had used on this house?

It was. I was sure of it. I was sure also that the police would not only come to that conclusion, they would be able to prove it. Then they would not only be questioning me because I found Georgette's body, but because her death may have been tied somehow to the vandalism of this house.

Whoever killed Georgette had carefully placed the pistol on that splotch of paint. The paint was supposed to be tied to her death. And tied to me, I thought.

The hour of death is nigh. 'Tis time to drop the mask.

The hour of death has come, I thought-Georgette's death. But unfortunately I can't drop the mask. I can't inquire about getting a transcript of my trial. I can't get a copy of Mother's autopsy report. How can I possibly be seen walking around the Morris County courthouse looking for that information?

If they find out who am I, will they think that I had a gun with me, that when I got to that house and saw Georgette cleaning up the paint that I connected her with the vandalism and shot her?

Beware! Little Lizzie's Place...

Lizzie Borden had an axe...

"Mom, isn't Lizzie a great pony?" Jack called.

"Don't call her Lizzie," I screamed. "You can't call her Lizzie! I won't have it!"

Frightened, Jack began to cry. I rushed over to him, encircled his waist with my arms and tried to comfort him. Then Jack pulled away. I helped him down from the pony. "You scared me, Mom," he said, and ran into the house.

CHAPTER 25.

On Friday morning, the day after Georgette Grove was murdered, Jeff MacKingsley called a meeting in his office for the team of detectives a.s.signed to solve her homicide. Joining Paul Walsh were two veteran investigators, Mort Sh.e.l.ley and Angelo Ortiz. It was apparent to all three that their boss was deeply concerned.

After the barest of greetings, Jeff went straight to the point.

"The red paint used to vandalize the Nolan home came from Tannon Hardware in Mendham and was custom mixed for the Carrolls, the people who own the house on Holland Road. It shouldn't have taken a phone call from me to Mrs. Carroll in San Diego to find that out."

Ortiz responded, his tone defensive: "I looked into that. Rick Kling, with the Mendham police, was a.s.signed to check out the paint stores there. The kid on duty at Tannon Hardware was new and didn't know anything about checking records on paint sales. Sam Tannon was on a business trip until yesterday. Rick was planning to see him, but then we found the empty cans in the Holland Road house.

"We knew Tuesday afternoon that whoever vandalized the Nolan home used Benjamin Moore paint," Jeff replied firmly. "Since Tannon Hardware is the only store in the area with the franchise to sell that brand of paint, it would seem to me that Detective Kling might have decided it was worth a phone call to Sam Tannon, wherever he was, to see if he would remember a purchase that involved mixing the Moore red color with burnt umber. I spoke to Mr. Tannon an hour ago. Of course he remembered the sale. He worked with the interior designer, mixing all the paints for the Carroll's home."

"Kling realizes that he dropped the ball," Ortiz concluded. "If we had known that the red paint was part of the overage on that redecoration, we would have been on Holland Road on Wednesday."

The weight of what he was saying hung in the air. "That doesn't mean we could have saved Georgette Grove's life," Jeff acknowledged. "She may have been the victim of a random robbery attempt, but if Detective Kling had followed through, we would have opened that storage closet and confiscated the remaining paint on Wednesday. It looked pretty stupid to acknowledge at the press conference that we couldn't trace the source of the red paint immediately when in fact it was purchased right here in Mendham."

"Jeff, in my opinion the importance of the paint is not when we found it, but that it was used on Little Lizzie's Place. I think that the murder weapon was centered on the splash of paint to emphasize that fact, which brings us back to Celia Nolan, a lady I think needs a whole lot of investigating." Paul Walsh's dry tone bordered on insolence.

"That gun was deliberately placed on the red paint," Jeff shot back. "That was obvious." He paused. His voice more emphatic, he said, "I do not agree with your theory that Mrs. Nolan is concealing something. I think the woman has had one shock after another in the past three days, and naturally she is nervous and distressed. Clyde Earley was in the squad car that rushed to the house after she dialed 911, and he said that she couldn't have faked the state of shock she was in. She couldn't even speak until she got to the hospital."

"We have her fingerprints on that picture she found in the barn and gave to you. I want to run them through the database file," Walsh said stubbornly. "I wouldn't be surprised if that lady has a past she might not want us to find out about."

"Go ahead," Jeff snapped. "But if you're going to be in charge of this investigation, I want you concentrating on finding a killer, not wasting your time on Celia Nolan."

"Jeff, don't you think it's funny that she talks about her kid being at St. Joe's?" Walsh persisted.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She said it like someone accustomed to saying it that way. I would think that someone new to the town and to the school would call it 'St. Joseph's'. I also think she was lying when she said Georgette Grove gave her directions to Holland Road. If you remember, Nolan contradicted herself when I asked her that question. First she said 'No,' then in a heartbeat said, 'Yes, of course.' She knew she had blundered. Incidentally, I checked the time she called 911 from her home. It was ten after ten."

"Your point is...?"

"My point is that according to her testimony, she went into the house on Holland Road at quarter of ten, and walked around the main floor calling Georgette's name. That's a big house, Jeff. Mrs. Nolan told us that she debated about going upstairs, but remembered the door in the kitchen to the lower level was open, went back to the kitchen, went downstairs, checked the doors to the patio and found them locked, then walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and found the body. She then ran back to her car, got in, and drove home."

Paul Walsh knew he was as much as telling his boss that he had missed the salient facts of a crime scene, but he forged ahead doggedly. "I went back last night and clocked the trip between Holland and Old Mill Road. Getting to Holland, and leaving it, can be confusing. I made a wrong turn on my way to Old Mill, went back, and started again. Normal driving, by which I mean about ten over the speed limit, it took me nineteen minutes from Holland Road to Old Mill Lane. So let's do the arithmetic."

Paul Walsh glanced at Sh.e.l.ley and Ortiz, as if to confirm that they were following his reasoning. "If Celia Nolan was correct about getting to the house on Holland Road at quarter of ten, and if she had to leave that house by nine minutes of ten to drive back home without flooring the gas pedal, it means that she was in the house only four to six minutes."

"Which is possible," Jeff said quietly. "Fast, but possible."

"That would also a.s.sume she drove straight as an arrow, and knew exactly when to turn on unfamiliar and confusing roads while she was in a state of severe shock."

"I would suggest you make your point," Jeff said grimly.

"My point is that she either got there much earlier and was waiting for Georgette, or that she has been at that house before and was sure of the roads she would take back and forth."

"Again, your point?"

"I believe Nolan when she said she didn't know about the real estate law that could have gotten her out of the sale. Her generous husband bought the house for her, and she wanted no part of it, but didn't dare tell him. She somehow learned about the vandalism the kids pulled last Halloween and decided to go it one better. She got someone to mess up the house for her, arrives, and pulls the fainting act, and now she has her way out. She's leaving the house she never wanted, and her nice new husband understands. Then somehow Georgette caught onto her act. She was carrying a picture of Celia Nolan doing her swan dive in her purse. I say she was going to show it to Nolan and tell her she wasn't going to get away with it."

"Then why weren't there any fingerprints on the picture, including Georgette's?" Ortiz asked.

"Nolan may have handled it but been afraid to take it with her in case other people had seen Georgette with it. Instead, she wiped it clean of any fingerprints and put it in Georgette's bag."

"You've missed your calling, Paul," Jeff snapped. "You should have been a trial attorney. You sound persuasive on the surface, but it's full of holes. Celia Nolan is a wealthy woman. She could have bought another house with a snap of her fingers, and sweet-talked her husband into going along with it. It's obvious he's crazy about her. Go ahead and check her prints in the database and then let's move on. What's happening, Mort?"

Mort Sh.e.l.ley pulled a notebook from his pocket. We're putting together a list of the people who might have had access to that house and then we're interviewing them. People like other real estate agents who have keys to the lockbox, and people who do any kind of service, like housecleaning or landscaping. We're investigating to see if Georgette Grove had any enemies, if she owed any money, if there's a boyfriend in the picture. We still haven't been able to trace the doll that was left on the porch of the Nolan house. It was expensive in its day, but my guess is it was picked up at a garage sale at some point and has probably been in someone's attic for years."

"How about the gun the doll was holding? It looked real enough to scare me if I was facing it,"

Jeff said.

"We checked out the company that makes them. It's not in business anymore. It got a lot of bad publicity because the gun is too realistic. The guy who owned the company destroyed all the records after seven years. That's a dead end."

"All right. Keep me posted." Jeff stood up, signifying the meeting was over. As they were leaving he called out to Anna, his secretary, to hold any calls for an hour.

Ten minutes later, she buzzed him on the intercom. "Jeff, there's a woman on the phone who claims she was in the Black Horse Tavern last night and heard Ted Cartwright threatening Georgette Grove. I knew you'd want to talk to her."

"Put her on," Jeff said.

CHAPTER 26.

After she left Marcella Williams, Dru Perry went directly to the Star-Ledger offices to write her story about the homicide on Holland Road. She then cleared it with her editor, Ken Sharkey, that she would work at home in the morning to put together a feature story on Georgette Grove for the weekend edition of the newspaper.

That was why, with a mug of coffee in her hand, and still dressed in her pajamas and robe, she was at her desk at home on Friday morning, watching local Channel 12, on which the news anchor was interviewing Grove's cousin, Thomas Madison, who had come from Pennsylvania when he received the news of Georgette's death. Madison, a soft-spoken man in his early fifties, expressed his family's grief at their loss and his outrage at her coldblooded murder. He announced the funeral arrangements he had made-Georgette would be cremated when her body was released by the coroner, and her ashes placed in the family plot in Morris County Cemetery. A memorial service would be held at 10 A.M. on Monday at Hilltop Presbyterian, the church she had attended all her life.

A memorial service so soon, Dru thought. That says to me cousin Thomas just wants to get things over with and go back home. As she pressed the remote b.u.t.ton and snapped off the television, she decided to attend the service.

She turned on her computer and began to search the Internet for references to Georgette Grove.

What she loved about the Internet was that when she combed it for research, she often stumbled across valuable information that she had not expected to find.

"Pay dirt," she said aloud an hour later, as she came across a school picture of Georgette Grove and Henry Paley when they were seniors in Mendham High. The photo caption said that they each had won a long distance race in the annual county compet.i.tion. They were holding their trophies. Henry's skinny arm was around Georgette, and while she smiled directly into the camera, his fatuous smile was only for her.

Boy, he looks lovesick, Dru thought, he must have been sweet on Georgette even then.

She decided to try to find more information on Henry Paley. The pertinent facts that turned up were that he had worked as a real estate agent after college, married Constance Liller at age twenty-five, and joined the newly formed Grove Real Estate Agency when he was forty. An obituary notice showed that Constance Liller Paley had been dead for six years.

Then, if one could believe Marcella Williams, he tried to romance Georgette again, Dru mused.

But she had wanted no part of it, and lately they had been quarreling because he wanted to cash out his interest in the business and the Route 24 property. I don't see Henry as a murderer she thought, but love and money are the two main reasons people kill or get killed. Interesting.

She leaned back in her creaking desk chair and looked up at the ceiling. When they had talked yesterday, did Henry Paley talk about his whereabouts when Georgette was killed? I don't think so, she decided. Her shoulder bag was on the floor beside her desk. Dru fished in it, pulled out her notebook, and jotted down the questions and facts that were jumping into her mind.

Where was Henry Paley the morning of the murder? Did he go to the office at the usual time or did he have any appointments with clients? Lockboxes have a computerized record. It should show how often Henry visited Holland Road. Was he aware of the paint cans in that storage closet? He wanted the agency to close. Would he deliberately sabotage the Old Mill property to embarra.s.s Georgette, or to kill the sale to the Nolans?

Dru closed her notebook, dropped it in her bag, and switched back to researching Georgette Grove on the Internet. In the next two hours she was able to form a clear picture of an independent woman who, judging from her many awards, was not only community minded but a dynamic force in preserving the quality of life, as she saw it, in Mendham.

Lots of people who applied for variances to the zoning board must have wanted to strangle her, Dru thought, as she came upon reference after reference to Georgette Grove eloquently and successfully arguing against loosening or bending the existing zoning guidelines.

Or maybe one of them wanted to shoot her, she amended. The record showed that Georgette had stepped on a lot of toes, especially during the last few years, but maybe her pro-community actions had affected n.o.body more directly than Henry Paley. She picked up the phone and dialed the agency, half-expecting it to be closed.

Henry Paley answered her call.

"Henry, I'm so glad to reach you. I didn't know if you'd open the agency today. I'm working on the article I'm writing about Georgette, and I was thinking how nice it would be to include some of those wonderful pictures in your sc.r.a.pbook. I'd like to drive over and borrow your sc.r.a.pbook, or at least make a copy of some of the pictures."

After some encouragement, Paley reluctantly agreed to allow her to photograph the pages. "I don't want the book to leave the office," he said, "and I don't want anything taken out of it."

"Henry, I want you to stand beside me when I'm doing it. Thanks very much. I'll see you around noon. I won't take too much of your time."

When she replaced the receiver, Dru stood up and pushed back her bangs. Got to get them cut, she thought. I'm starting to look like a sheep dog. She went down the hallway to her bedroom and began to dress. As she did, a question came to mind, an intuitive question that was partly hunch, the kind that made her a good investigative reporter. Does Henry still run or jog, and, if so, how would that fact fit into this whole scenario? It was something else to check out.

CHAPTER 27.