No Place Like Home (21 page)

S
ue 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 assumed 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 passed 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 damn. 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
button 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.”

J
eff MacKingsley called a two o'clock meeting of the detectives assigned to the investigation of Georgette Grove's death. Paul Walsh, Mort Shelley, and Angelo Ortiz were present and ready to give their reports.

Shelley 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 in 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 Shelley 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 associate, Robin, told me this morning.”