I Heard That Song Before (29 page)

“As I say, at this point, I don’t know what to think, but I’ll go along with you,” Kay said. “Vince, I might as well tell you, I have an appointment with Nicholas Greco, the investigator. He’s coming here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Vincent Slater then said something he would never have dreamed he could say to his employer’s wife: “The more fool you, Kay. I thought you loved your husband!”

R
etired ambassador Charles Althorp sat in his late wife’s study, a cup of coffee in his hand, an untouched breakfast tray beside him. Already the physical reality of Gladys’s death had brought about changes in the house. The hospital bed, oxygen tent, IVs, and seemingly endless medical supplies were all gone. Brenda, the housekeeper, tears flowing, had aired and vacuumed Gladys’s bedroom last night.

He had caught the sullen look in Brenda’s eyes when she served him breakfast that morning and hoped she had an inkling that she’d better be looking for another job.

His sons had phoned, sad that their mother had died, but glad that all the suffering she had endured was over. “If there’s a museum in heaven, Mom and Susan are probably debating the merits of a painting,” his younger son, Blake, had said.

Althorp knew his sons disliked him. After college, they both had chosen to accept jobs far away, giving them an excuse to show up at home only about twice a year. Now they would be back for the second time in a few months. The first had been to attend the funeral of their sister; now it was their mother.

Gladys’s body was in the funeral parlor. There would be no wake, but the funeral would not be until Friday, to accommodate his older son, whose daughter had just had an emergency appendectomy. The parents didn’t want to leave her.

Neighbors had been calling to express their regrets; he had told Brenda to take messages. But at a quarter of nine, she came into the study and hesitantly told him that a Mr. Greco was on the phone, and insisted on speaking with him.

Althorp was about to refuse, then wondered if Gladys had still owed the man money. It was possible. According to the nurse, the man had been to see her very recently. He picked up the phone. “Charles Althorp.” He knew his voice was intimidating. He took pride in that fact.

“Ambassador Althorp,” Nicholas Greco began, “let me first express my sincere condolences at the loss of your wife. Mrs. Althorp was a gracious and brave lady, and set in motion the wheels that I think will soon bring a killer to justice.”

“What are you talking about? Carrington is in jail.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Ambassador. Peter Carrington is in jail. But should he be? Or, to put it another way, should not someone else perhaps be sharing his jail cell? This is a dreadful time to intrude, but may I stop by for a few minutes later today? I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mrs. Kay Carrington. Would it be possible to call on you at twelve thirty?”

“Be here at noon. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.” Althorp slammed the phone into the cradle, put down his coffee cup, and stood up. He walked over to the desk where there were pictures of his wife and their daughter.

“I’m so sorry, Gladys,” he said aloud. “I’m so sorry, Susan.”

I
was in the kitchen when Vince stopped by for the gatehouse key at seven thirty. Then, as planned, he phoned at nine o’clock. Gary Barr was vacunning upstairs, and, on cue, I relayed the message to him. “Mr. Slater needs you to drive into the city and get some records from Peter’s office,” I told him. “There’s a possibility that one of the company executives will drive back with you, so take the Mercedes. Mr. Slater will tell you where in the garage to park.”

If Barr was suspicious, he didn’t show it. He got on one of the extensions and confirmed the parking arrangements with Vincent. A few minutes later, from an upstairs window, I watched Barr drive the Mercedes past the gatehouse and out onto the road.

Vincent must have been watching for him to leave, because almost immediately, his Cadillac pulled onto the driveway and turned left. I guessed he would be parking behind the gatehouse in a spot that couldn’t be seen from the mansion. Now it was my job to keep Jane from darting back home for some reason before her usual after-lunch break.

There was a simple way to do it. I told her that I had a headache and would she please answer the phone and take messages, except if Mr. Greco called.

“Mr. Greco?”

I heard the alarm in her voice and remembered that I had been told that after Mrs. Althorp had first hired Greco, he had talked to Gary Barr.

“Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment with him at eleven o’clock.”

The poor woman looked both frightened and confused. I felt very sure that if Vince was right, and Gary had stolen the shirt from Elaine’s home, Jane had no part in that theft. But then I also remembered that she had sworn Gary was home in bed the night Susan disappeared. Had she been lying? By now, I was almost certain that she had.

For the next hour and a half, I was too restless to settle down, so I spent my time on the third floor. I hadn’t been through even half the rooms because it took time to untie and remove the covers off the furniture that was stored up there. I was looking specifically for baby furniture, and finally found an antique wooden cradle. It was too heavy to pick up, so I squatted on the floor, rocking it to see if it was steady. It was exquisitely carved, and I checked to see if it had been signed. It had been, by someone named Eli Fallow, and the date was 1821.

I was sure the cradle must have been ordered by Adelaide Stuart, the posh lady who married a Carrington in 1820. I made a mental note to look up Eli Fallow and find out if he had a reputation as a craftsman. I was finding it fascinating to uncover these treasures, and it at least provided a diversion from my constant worrying about Peter.

That kind of exploring, however, is a dusty business. At 10:30, I went down to the suite and washed my face and hands, then changed into a fresh sweater and slacks. I was barely ready when the doorbell rang promptly at eleven o’clock, and Nicholas Greco entered the house.

The first time I met him had been at Maggie’s house, and I had resented his suggestion that my father might have staged his own suicide. He’d even hinted there might be a connection between him and Susan Althorp’s disappearance. When Greco spoke to me in the courthouse hallway after the bail hearing, I was so upset that I barely noticed him. But now, as I looked straight at him, I felt that I could detect both warmth and sympathy in his eyes. I shook his hand and led him back to Peter’s library.

“What a wonderful room this is,” Greco commented as we entered.

“That was my impression the first time I saw it,” I told him. Trying to overcome my sudden attack of nerves, brought on by the radical move I was making in meeting this man, I added, “I came here begging the chance to have a literacy cocktail party in the mansion. Peter was sitting in his chair.” I pointed to it. “I felt nervous, and not properly dressed. It was a windy day in October, and I was wearing a light summer suit. As I pleaded my case, I was taking in this room and loving it.”

“As well you might,” Greco said.

I sat behind Peter’s desk and Greco pulled up a chair across from it. “You told me you could be of service to me,” I told him. “Now explain to me how you would do that.”

“I can serve you best by trying to ascertain the entire truth of what has happened. As you are certainly aware, your husband is facing a strong probability that he will spend the rest of his life in prison. It may give him some personal vindication if the world comes to believe that he is innocent—and now I quote—‘owing to the act being a noninsane automatism.’ That is what might have happened if all this was taking place in Canada, but of course it is not.”

“I do not believe that my husband, sleepwalking or not, committed any of those crimes,” I said. “Last night I received what to me is convincing proof that he did not.”

I had already decided that I wanted to hire Nicholas Greco. I told him that, and then I unburdened myself, starting with my visit to the chapel when I was six years old. “It never occurred to me that I might have overheard Susan Althorp that day,” I said. “I mean, why would she need to beg or threaten to get money from anyone? Her family was wealthy. I’ve heard also that she had a substantial trust fund.”

“It would be interesting to establish exactly how much money she had at her disposal,” Greco said. “Not too many eighteen-year-olds have access to their trust funds, and Susan’s friends tell us that her father had been very angry at her the night of the dinner party.”

He asked about the time Peter had jumped bail and been found kneeling on the Althorps’ lawn.

“Peter was sleepwalking and doesn’t know why he went there, but he thinks it was the same sleepwalking dream that made him try to get out of the hospital room. That second time he thought Gary Barr was in the room watching him,” I explained.

I told Greco that I had begun to think that Peter might have been the one who was being blackmailed in the chapel. “Last night, I found out that wasn’t true,” I said, and, trying not to get emotional, repeated for him what Maggie had told me.

Greco’s expression became grave. “Mrs. Carrington,” he said, “I have been concerned for you ever since I heard you had gone to see Susan Althorp’s friend, Sarah North. Let us presume that your husband is innocent of these crimes. If so, then the guilty person is still around, and I believe—and fear—that person is in close proximity to you.”

“Have you any suggestion as to how I can draw out that person?” I asked, aware my frustration was showing. “Mr. Greco, I know I was only six years old at the time, but if I had told my father about being in the chapel, and had recounted what I heard there, he might have gone to the police when Susan disappeared. The same man I heard in the chapel has to have been the man my father heard whistling outside shortly afterwards. Don’t you think that knowledge is torturing me?”

“ ‘When I was a child, I thought as a child,’ ” Greco said, his voice gentle. “Mrs. Carrington, do not be so hard on yourself. This information opens up new avenues, but I beg you, do
not
share with anyone else what your grandmother told you last night, and please tell
her
not to repeat it. Someone might begin to fear both her memory and yours.”

He looked at his watch. “I must leave you in a few minutes. I asked Ambassador Althorp to spare me a little time today, and I suggested twelve thirty. Unfortunately, he told me to be there at noon. Is there anything else that you think would be helpful in my investigation?”

I didn’t know until that moment that I was going to tell him about Peter’s shirt, but then I decided I had to go for broke. “If I told you something that could seriously hurt Peter’s defense, would you feel it necessary to go to the prosecutor with that information?” I asked him.

“What you tell me is hearsay, and I would not be allowed to testify to it,” he said.

“All these years, Elaine Carrington has had Peter’s formal dress shirt with some stains that appear to be blood on it. A few days ago, she sold it to me for one million dollars, then, after she was paid, refused to give it to me. Since then it has been stolen from her home here on the estate. Vincent Slater believes Gary Barr is the one who took it, and right now he is searching the gatehouse, looking for it.”

If Nicholas Greco was astonished at that information, he did not show it. Instead, he asked me how Elaine got the shirt, and how sure I was that it had bloodstains on it.

“ ‘Stains’ is too strong a word,” I said. “From what I could see, it was more like a smudge, right here.” I touched my sweater just above my heart. “Elaine said she saw Peter come home in a sleepwalking state at two o’clock that morning, and while she claims she had no idea what may have happened, she recognized that it was a bloodstain on his shirt and didn’t want the maid to see it in the morning.”

“So now she uses the shirt to blackmail you, then reneges on the deal. Why did she come forward at this time?”

“Because her son Richard is a compulsive gambler, and she’s always bailing him out. This time he apparently needed more money than she could come up with, at least in time to keep him from getting in trouble.”

“I see.” Greco got up to leave. “You have given me a great deal to think about, Mrs. Carrington. Tell me something. If somebody were to leave something in this house, a personal item of some sort, and your husband thought it might be needed, what do you think he would do?”

“Return it,” I said, “and right away. I can give you an example. One night in December, Peter dropped me off at my apartment, then started driving home. He got over the bridge and realized I had left my wool scarf in the car. Can you believe he turned around and brought it back to me? I told him he was crazy, but he said that it was cold, and I had a walk to my car in the morning, and he thought I should have it.” I saw what Greco was driving at. “Susan’s evening purse,” I said. “Do you think that when Peter was sleepwalking that night, he was trying to return her purse?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Carrington. It is one of the many possibilities I shall consider, but it would explain your husband’s surprise and distress the next morning when the purse was not in his car, wouldn’t it?”

He did not wait for my answer, but instead opened his briefcase, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. It was a copy of a page from
People
magazine. “Does this have any significance to you?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s an article about Marian Howley,” I said. “She’s the most wonderful actress. I never miss one of her plays.”

“Apparently Grace Carrington shared your enthusiasm for this actress. She tore this page out of the magazine; it was in her pocket when her body was found in the pool.”

I started to hand the paper back to Greco, but he waved it away. “No, I downloaded several copies when I got a back issue of the magazine. Please keep this one. Perhaps you could show it to Mr. Carrington.”

The telephone rang. I reached for it, then remembered that Jane Barr was supposed to be taking messages. Moments later, as Greco and I were leaving the library, she came running down the hall. “It’s Mr. Slater, Mrs. Carrington,” she said, “He said it’s important.”