I Heard That Song Before (30 page)

Greco waited while I went back to the desk and picked up the receiver.

“Kay, I didn’t find it,” Vince said. “He must have hidden it somewhere else.”

There was something in his voice that made me feel sure he was lying. “I don’t believe you,” I told him.

The phone clicked in my ear.

“Vince Slater claims he didn’t find Peter’s shirt,” I told Nicholas Greco. “I don’t believe him. He has it. I’d stake my life on it.”

“Does Vincent Slater have a key to this house?” Greco asked me.

“I changed all the locks and gave him a key only to the door that goes from the terrace into his private office. But you can get into the house from the office.”

“Then he does have a key, Mrs. Carrington. Have that lock changed immediately. I believe that Vincent Slater may be a very dangerous man.”

I
’ve decided to close the gallery at the end of the week,” Richard Walker told Pat Jennings. “I know it’s short notice, but the building owner has someone who wants the space right away and will pay a bonus to get it.”

Jennings looked at him, dumbfounded. “Can you get other space yourself that fast?” she asked.

“No, I mean I’m going to close the gallery
permanently
. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m too fond of horse racing for my own good. I’d like to try a complete change of scenery. I have an elderly friend who has a small but most interesting gallery in London, and he’d very much like to have me go in with him.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Jennings said, trying to sound sincere. I wonder if Mama has pulled the plug on bailing him out, she thought. I wouldn’t blame her. And maybe he’s right. It would be a lot better to get away from all the bookies who supply him with all those hot tips. “What does your mother think of all this?” she asked. “I’m sure she’ll miss you.”

“Even with the Concorde gone, England is just a hop, skip, and jump away, and she has many friends there.”

Pat Jennings realized that she was going to not only miss her salary, but also the flexible hours she had here—they dovetailed perfectly with her kids’ school schedule. And it had been fun to see Trish regularly, to say nothing about having a seat on the fifty yard line of the Carrington family saga.

She decided to go for one more tidbit before it was too late. “How is Mrs. Peter Carrington doing?” she asked Richard, trying to sound concerned but not overly interested.

“How nice of you to ask! I haven’t seen Kay in several weeks, but my mother tells me they’ve been in close touch, and we’ll be having dinner together before I leave for England.”

With a dismissive smile, as if he realized he was being pumped for information, Richard Walker turned to go into his private office. The phone rang. When Pat Jennings answered it, an angry voice snapped, “This is Alexandra Lloyd. Is Richard there?”

Without even asking, Pat knew the answer to give, only this time, she made it more elaborate. “Mr. Walker is on his way to London, Ms. Lloyd. May I take a message?”

“Oh, indeed you can. Tell Mr. Walker that I am very disappointed in him, and he knows what I mean.”

This is one message I don’t want to give him, Pat thought. I had believed all along that this lady with the fancy name was an artist. Now I’m beginning to think she’s a bookie.

It was three o’clock, time to get uptown and pick up the kids. Richard’s door was closed, but she could hear the murmur of his voice, which meant he was on the phone. Pat wrote out Alexandra Lloyd’s message word for word, and, not happy with the way it looked on paper, tapped on Richard’s door, walked in, and placed it on the desk in front of him.

Then, with the haste of someone who knows that a firecracker might explode at her feet at any moment, she grabbed her coat and left.

W
hen Nicholas Greco was escorted by the housekeeper into the study where previously he had met with Gladys Althorp, he felt protectively annoyed that her husband had so quickly commandeered the space that so recently had been hers. He saw that her shawl was missing from the chair, and that the blinds were no longer tilted. Sunlight that hinted of an early spring was pouring into the room, destroying the dim and quiet intimacy he had experienced there.

“The ambassador will be with you shortly,” the housekeeper said.

Is this a power play? Greco wondered. I asked to come at 12:30; he insisted I be here at noon. Now is he going to keep me waiting?

Greco remembered how concerned the housekeeper had been about Gladys Althorp. What was her name? he asked himself, then remembered it. “Brenda, I witnessed how solicitous you were of Mrs. Althorp. I am sure you were a great comfort to her.”

“I hope I was. I haven’t been here that long, but I was very fond of her. And I do know she died happy, knowing that the man who killed her daughter was finally going to pay for his crime. Mrs. Althorp told me that the day she was in court watching Peter Carrington in chains was something she’d prayed for every single day for twenty-two years.”

Charles Althorp had come into the room while she was speaking, and had overheard her. “We’re delighted to have your opinion, Brenda,” he said sarcastically. “You may go now.”

Greco took an instant dislike to Althorp. Humiliating his housekeeper in front of another person was probably indicative of the employer-employee relationship that existed in this house, and given Althorp’s attitude on the phone, he expected nothing more.

Brenda reacted as though she had been slapped. Her body stiffened. Then, with quiet dignity, she turned and left the room.

Althorp indicated a chair for Greco and sat down himself. “I have a luncheon engagement,” he said, “so you do understand that fifteen minutes means fifteen minutes.”

“I am aware of the time constraints,” Greco said. Deliberately avoiding the use of Althorp’s courtesy title, he began, “Mr. Althorp, you were very angry at your daughter, Susan, that last evening. It was noticed and remarked upon by a number of people. Why were you so upset with her?”

“I don’t even remember, and it isn’t important. Naturally, I have always felt terrible that my last contact with Susan was under those circumstances.”

“You and Mrs. Althorp left the dinner party early the night Susan disappeared.”

“We left shortly after dinner. As had become usual, Gladys was not feeling well.”

“Before you left, you ordered your daughter to be home by midnight. The party, from what I understand, lasted well over an hour after that. Why the curfew?”

“Susan was overtired. I was concerned about her. I wanted her to leave with us. The dancing had just begun. Peter asked if she could stay for a little while; he offered to escort her home.”

“You liked Peter.”

“Very much, at that time.”

“Mr. Althorp, I will ask you again: why were you concerned about your daughter?”

“That is none of your business, Mr. Greco.”

“Oh, but I think it is. If what I believe is correct, it is the reason Susan is dead.”

Greco watched as Althorp’s face turned crimson. Rage or fear? Greco asked himself.

“When Mrs. Kay Carrington was a six-year-old child, she was sitting outside the Carrington mansion waiting for her father, Jonathan Lansing, who, as you know, was the landscaper there. It was the same day as the party. He was attending to a problem concerning the lighting. Kay had heard about the chapel, and, being a typically curious child, went into the house to look at it. While she was there, she heard the chapel door opening and hid between the pews. She did not see the people who entered, but she heard the words they exchanged. It was a couple, and the woman was demanding money from the man.”

Greco paused, then, his tone bitingly cold, said, “I believe that the woman in the chapel was your daughter, Susan. I believe that she had developed a drug problem, and that she needed money because she needed more drugs. I believe that you knew of the problem, but wanted to control it your own way, by making sure she had no money, and by keeping such a close watch on her that she would not have access to whoever was her supplier.”

“No wonder you have such a fine reputation as an investigator, Mr. Greco. But even if this were true, what does it prove? Why does it matter now?” Althorp’s voice was equally cold.

“Oh, I would say it matters very much, Mr. Althorp. If you had sought professional help for Susan, she might still be alive today.”

“When she disappeared, I thought she had run away with her dealer. I thought she’d show up again someday,” Althorp replied.

“And, thinking that, you committed the unpardonable sin of letting Peter Carrington be a suspect in her disappearance? Despite the fact that you actually thought there was a possibility she might still be alive?”

“I simply didn’t know. I couldn’t have opened up that possibility. It would have killed my wife,” Althorp said. “Susan’s mother thought she was a perfect child. The idea that Susan was a drug addict would have destroyed her.”

“When did you first suspect that Susan was using drugs?”

“Shortly after she returned from her freshman year at college. There was something different about her that last summer. She’d get irritable, or cry easily, and that was totally unlike her. I didn’t know what to believe, but then one evening when she was out, I passed her room and saw that she’d left all the lights on. I went in to turn them off, and spotted something on the floor. It was tinfoil and there was some white powder in it. It appeared to be cocaine. I knew then what was going on. When Susan came home, I confronted her and demanded to know where she was getting the drugs. She wouldn’t tell me. That was about a month before she disappeared.”

“If you had told the police about Susan’s problem, it would have immediately changed the nature of the investigation, and her dealer might have been apprehended. Why did your wife hire me six months ago? It was to find something that could bring your daughter’s presumed killer, Peter Carrington, to trial. The arrest and imprisonment of Susan’s killer surely would have brought her peace and closure.” Greco heard his voice rising. “Was it better to let your wife suffer every day of her life as she did? Was that your idea of being merciful? That is a comfortable excuse for your silence, isn’t it? Isn’t it true that you hoped to be appointed to another ambassadorship and didn’t want any hint of scandal attached to your name? The beautiful debutante presumed to have been murdered by a wealthy young man engendered public sympathy for the family. You were content to leave it at that.”

“That is your opinion and I will not dignify it by responding,” Althorp said. “Why are you here, Mr. Greco? What difference does any of this make now? It won’t bring Susan back, and as my son pointed out to me yesterday, if there is an art museum in heaven, Susan and her mother are there, discussing paintings. It is a scenario in which I find comfort.”

“You may find comfort in your scenario, but do you really have the nerve to ask what difference it would make if the truth were told now? Didn’t it ever occur to you that Susan may have been murdered by the drug dealer, and not by Peter Carrington?”

“Peter’s shirt was missing. I thought that he might have had an argument with Susan that got out of hand.”

“It was either a drug dealer or Peter who took her life, and you are content with either answer! I have another theory, Mr. Althorp. You may have heard Susan trying to sneak out that night. You may have been angry enough to harm her yourself. It was noon the next day before anyone realized that she was not in her room. You had plenty of time to hide the body until you could dispose of it permanently.”

Charles Althorp gripped the arms of his chair. “That is absolutely preposterous, Mr. Greco! And insulting. Your fifteen minutes are up. Get out!”

“I am going to leave now, Ambassador Althorp,” Greco said, emphasizing the title with contempt in his voice. “But I will be back,” he said. “I assure you, I will be back.”

I
spoke to Maggie a couple of times in the next few days, and I knew she was concentrating on trying to remember the name of the man my father had heard whistling the tune that was so nostalgic to him. Then something occurred to me. “Maggie, you said that Daddy was down in the dumps when he told you about it. His car was found so soon afterward, and you thought he had committed suicide, do you think you might have talked about that incident to your friends?”

“We certainly talked about how much he missed your mother. I probably did tell them about it. It was an example of how much he missed her.”

“Then there’s always a chance that you mentioned the man’s name, because you said Daddy mentioned it to you.”

“I may have, but, Kay, that was over twenty-two years ago. If I can’t remember, how do you expect anyone else would?”

“I really don’t. But it’s just one of those things that are easy for you to do, and may be so helpful to us. I want you to talk about Daddy to your friends. Tell them that, in a way, it’s been good for me to know that he didn’t willingly leave me. Then you can remind them of that story, and say that it’s been annoying you that you can’t come up with the name of the man who was whistling that song the day of the party. But talk about it
only
to your friends, please.”

“Kay, it’s really unlikely that someone will come up with a name after all these years, but I’d do anything to help. It’s a visiting day at the jail, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Will you congratulate your husband—I mean Peter—about the baby?”

“Thank you, Maggie. He’ll appreciate that.”

Two hours later, I was in the visiting room of the Bergen County Jail, looking at Peter through the Plexiglas. I wanted so much to touch him, to link my fingers with his. I wanted to bring him home and close the door on the rest of the world. I wanted our life back.

But, of course, to say any of that now would only make it harder for him. There were so many things I couldn’t say. I couldn’t talk about the shirt that I thought Gary Barr had stolen from Elaine, only to have it stolen again by Vincent Slater. Vince had continued to deny he found it when he searched the gatehouse and the SUV, but I didn’t believe him.