No Place Like Home (39 page)

“You see, Zach,” I said. “I've been timing this. We left the stable at ten after two. It's two nineteen now, and part of the time we've been going at a pretty good pace. So you really couldn't have
been only four or five minutes behind Will Barton, could you?”

I saw the way his mouth tightened.

“Zach, I'm going to level with you,” I began.

Of course, I was only going to level with him up to a point. “My grandmother's sister was Will Barton's mother. She went to her grave sure that there was more to his death than was reported. There was that gunshot that Herbert West swore he heard. That would have scared a horse, wouldn't it? Especially if the horse had a nervous rider who might have been pulling on its mouth too much, or jerking the reins. Don't you agree? I mean, I wonder if when you were looking for Will Barton, you might have seen him galloping down that dangerous trail on a horse that was out of control, and you knew you couldn't stop it. And maybe you saw the man who fired the gun. And maybe that man was Ted Cartwright.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Zach said. But I could see the perspiration on his forehead, and the nervous way he clenched and unclenched his hands.

“Zach, you told me you're a good friend of Ted Cartwright. I can understand how reluctant you'd be to get him in trouble. But Will Barton should not have died. Our family is pretty comfortable. I've been authorized to pay one million dollars to you if you will go to the police and tell them what really happened. The only thing that you did wrong was to lie to the police about what happened.
I really doubt that they could even charge you for this kind of offense after so many years. You'd be a hero, a man with a conscience trying to right a wrong.”

“Did you say one million dollars?”

“Cash. Wired to your bank.”

Zach's smile was merely a narrowing of his thin lips. “Is there a bonus if I tell the cops that I saw Cartwright charge his horse at Barton's, forcing it up that trail, and then that he fired the shot that panicked Barton's horse and made it bolt?”

I felt my heart begin to pound. I tried to keep my voice steady. “There'll be a ten percent bonus, an extra hundred thousand dollars. Is that the way it happened?”

“That's the way it happened all right. Cartwright had his old Colt pistol. That takes a special bullet. The second he fired it, he turned and went back out on the trail that connects to Peapack.”

“What did you do?”

“I heard Barton yell when he went over the edge. I knew he didn't have a chance. I guess I was pretty shocked. I just rode around on the different trails as if I was looking for Barton. Eventually, somebody spotted the body down in the ravine. In the meantime, I had gotten a camera and had gone back to the fork in the trail. I wanted to protect myself. It was May 9th. I'd grabbed a copy of the morning newspaper that contained an article on Ted that included a picture of him holding the Colt .22 he was planning to use in a marksmanship contest. I put
that picture next to the bullet he'd fired—which was sticking out of a tree trunk—and photographed it. I pried it out carefully with my hoof pick. I found the casing, too, right there on the bridle path. Then I walked onto the steep trail and took a picture of the scene below. You know, police cars, ambulances, vets for the horse. Useless of course. The moment the poor guy went over the edge, it was all over.”

“Will you show me those pictures? Do you still have the casing and the bullet?”

“I'll show you the photos. But I keep them until I get the money. And yes, I also have the bullet and the casing.”

I don't know why I asked Zach Willet this next question, but I did: “Zach, is money the only reason you're telling me this?”

“Mostly,” he said, “but there is another reason. I'm kind of sick of Ted Cartwright getting away with murder and then coming here and threatening me.”

“When can I get this proof you're talking about?”

“Tonight, when I go home.”

“If my babysitter is free, can I drive over to get it from you later, at about nine o'clock?”

“That's okay with me. I'll give you my address. Remember, you only get to see the pictures. The bullet, the casing, and the pictures I'll give to the cops—but only after I get the money and a promise of no prosecution.”

We rode back to the stable in silence. I tried to imagine how my father must have felt when Ted
charged at him, how he must have felt when the horse he could not control bolted, taking him to certain death. I was sure the feeling must be the same as I felt when Ted threw my mother at me, and then started lunging toward me.

Zach's cell phone rang as we were dismounting at the stable. He answered, then winked at me. “Hello,” he said. “What's up? Oh, the town house is worth seven hundred thousand furnished, but you don't want me living in it, so you'll give me the money instead? You're too late. I've had a better offer. Goodbye.”

“That felt real good,” Zach told me as he scrawled his address on the back of an envelope. “See you around nine. The house number is kind of hard to read from the street, but you can tell it by the kids swarming around and the drums banging.”

“I'll find it,” I said.

I left knowing that if Ted Cartwright ever went to trial, his lawyer would argue to the jury that Zach's testimony had been bought and paid for. That would be true on one level, but how could they refute the physical evidence that Zach had kept for all these years? And how different was this from what the police do all the time—post rewards for people to come forward with evidence?

I was just offering a lot more than they do.

A
t four o'clock, Sergeant Clyde Earley and Dru Perry were waiting outside Jeff MacKingsley's office. “I don't know if he's going to like the fact that you're with me,” Clyde groused.

“Listen, Clyde, I'm a newspaperwoman. This is my story. I'm going to protect my exclusive.”

Anna was at her desk. She could see the discomfort on Clyde Earley's face, and she was enjoying it. Whenever he phoned Jeff, she referred to him as “Wyatt Earp” when she announced him. She knew that his predilection for ignoring the law when it suited him to do so drove Jeff crazy. From the memo she had typed, she knew that Jeff seriously questioned Clyde's story on how he discovered Charley Hatch's incriminating possessions, and was concerned about whether or not he would be able to use that evidence if it became necessary at a criminal trial.

“Hope you're bringing good news to the prosecutor,”
she told Clyde in a friendly tone. “He's in one horrible mood today.”

As she watched Clyde's shoulders slump, her intercom went on. “Send them in,” Jeff said.

“Let me talk first,” Dru murmured to Clyde as he held the door to Jeff's office open for her.

“Dru, Clyde,” Jeff acknowledged them. “What can I do for you?”

“Thank you. I will sit down,” Dru said. “Jeff, you've made your point. You're busy, but you're going to be glad you're seeing us. What I have to tell you is very important, and I need to have your word that there'll be no leak to the press. I
am
the press in this story, and I'm bringing it to you because I think I have an obligation to do that. I'm worried that another life may be in danger.”

Jeff leaned forward, his arms crossed on his desk. “Go on.”

“I think Celia Nolan is Liza Barton, and thanks to Clyde, you may be able to prove it.”

Seeing the grave look on Jeff's face, Dru realized two things right away: Jeff MacKingsley had been aware of the possibility, and he would not be happy to have it verified. She took out the pictures of Liza that she had taken from Marcella Williams. “I was going to have a couple of these computer-aged,” she said. “But I don't think it's necessary. Jeff, look at them, and then think of Celia Nolan. She's a combination of her mother and father.”

Jeff took the pictures and laid them out on his
desk. “Where were you going to get them computer-aged?” he asked.

“A friend.”

“A friend in the state police, I'll bet. I can do it faster.”

“I want them or a copy of them back. And I want a copy of the computer-aged version,” Dru insisted.

“Dru, you know how unusual it is to make a promise like that to a reporter? But I know you're coming to me because you're afraid someone else may be killed. Because of that, I owe this to you.” He turned to Clyde. “Why are you here?”

“Well, you see—” Clyde began.

“Jeff,” Dru interrupted. “Clyde is here because Celia Nolan already may have killed two people, and she may be gunning for the man who was at least partially responsible for her father's accident. Take a look at what I got from the library today.”

As Jeff skimmed the articles, Dru said, “I went over to talk to Clyde. He was the one who booked Liza the night she killed her mother and shot Ted.”

“I kept her fingerprints,” Clyde Earley said bluntly. “I have them with me now.”

“You kept her fingerprints,” Jeff repeated. “I believe we have a law that says when a juvenile is acquitted of a crime, the record is expunged, including fingerprints.”

“It was just as a kind of a personal souvenir,”
Clyde said defensively, “but it does mean you can find out real fast if Celia Nolan is Liza Barton.”

“Jeff,” Dru began, “if I'm right, and Celia is Liza, she may be out for revenge. I interviewed the lawyer who defended her twenty-four years ago, and he told me he wouldn't be surprised if someday she came back and blew Ted Cartwright's head off. And a court clerk who's been around forever told me that she had heard that when Liza was in the juvenile detention center, still in a state of shock, she would say the name ‘Zach,' and then go into spasms of grief. Maybe these articles are showing us why that happened. I phoned the Washington Valley stables this afternoon and asked to speak to Zach. They told me he was giving a riding lesson to Celia Nolan.”

“All right. Thank you both,” Jeff said. “Clyde, you know what I think of your habit of ignoring the law to suit your purposes, but I'm glad you had the guts to give me these prints. Dru, it's your story. You have my word.”

When they were gone, Jeff sat for long minutes at his desk, studying the pictures of Liza Barton. She's Celia, he thought. We can make sure by checking her fingerprints against the ones on the picture that was in the barn. I know that in court I can never use the old fingerprints that Clyde kept, but at least I'll know who I'm dealing with. And hopefully this will be resolved before we find another body.

The picture that was taped in the barn.

Deep in thought, Jeff was now gazing blankly at the photos that were on his desk. Was this what he had been missing?

In Criminology 101 they tell us that the motive for most homicides is either love or money, he thought.

He turned on the intercom. “Is Mort Shelley around?”

“Yes, I can see he's at his desk. Clyde looked relieved when he went out,” Anna said. “I guess you didn't hang him by the thumbs.”

“Careful, I may hang
you
by the thumbs,” Jeff said. “Send Mort in, please.”

“You said ‘please.' You must be in a better mood.”

“Possibly I am.”

When Mort Shelley came in, Jeff said, “Drop whatever you're doing. There's someone else I want checked out from top to bottom.” He showed Mort the name he had written on his notepad.

Shelley's eyes widened. “You think?”

“I don't know what I think yet, but put as many of our people on it as you need. I want to know everything, including when this guy cut his first tooth and which one it was.”

As Mort Shelley got up, Jeff handed him the copies of the newspaper stories Dru had given him. “Give these to Anna, please.” He turned on the intercom. “Anna, there was a death at the Washington Valley Riding Club twenty-seven years ago. There
must have been an investigation by either the Mendham police or us. I want the complete file on the incident if it still exists. You'll get the details from the papers Mort is giving you. Also call that club and see if you can get Zach Willet on the phone.”