No Place Like Home (40 page)

W
hen I got home from the stable, the barn was empty, and Jack and Sue were gone. She was evidently taking him for a walk around the neighborhood on Star, and that was fine with me. I called my accountant and checked with him to be sure that I had at least one million one hundred thousand dollars at the ready in my cash account fund at the brokerage house.

Larry has been dead two years, but it still seems so odd to me to think in terms of such large amounts. Larry's investment counselor, Karl Winston, continues to advise me, and pretty much I go along with his suggestions about finances. He's conservative and so am I. But I could hear the question in his voice when I told him to be prepared to wire that sum of money to someone else's account.

“We can't take it as a charity deduction,” I told him, “or charge it to expenses, but, believe me, it's money that must be spent.”

“It's your money, Celia,” he said. “You certainly
can afford it. But I must warn you, wealthy as you are, a million one hundred thousand dollars is a very substantial sum.”

“I would pay ten times that to accomplish what I am hoping to with that money, Karl,” I said.

And it was true. If Zach Willet had the proof he claimed to have, evidence that Ted Cartwright was directly responsible for my father's death, and if Ted went on trial, I would happily take the witness stand and testify to those final words my mother screamed at Ted. And for the first time the world would hear
my
version of what happened that night. I would swear under oath that Ted meant to kill my mother by throwing her at me, and
would
have killed me that same evening if he'd had the chance. I would say that, because I know it is true. Ted loved my mother, but he loved himself more. He couldn't take the chance that someday she might decide to go to the police and tell them about his drunken revelation.

Alex phoned at dinnertime. He was staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Chicago, his favorite hotel there. “Ceil, I miss you and Jack so much. I'm definitely going to be stuck here till Friday afternoon but I was thinking, do you want to go into New York this weekend? We could see a couple of plays? Maybe your old babysitter would mind Jack on Saturday night, and then Sunday we could go to a matinee that he'd enjoy? How about it?”

It sounded wonderful to me and I told him that. “I'll make a reservation at the Carlyle,” I told him.
Then I took a deep breath. “Alex, you've said you feel there's something wrong between us, and there is. I have something to tell you that may change the way you feel about me, and if it does I will respect your decision.”

“Ceil, for God's sake. Nothing would ever change the way I feel about you.”

“We'll see, but I have to take the chance. I love you.”

When I replaced the receiver, my hand was trembling. I knew, though, I had made the right decision. I would tell Benjamin Fletcher the truth, too. I wonder if he would still be willing to represent me. If he did not, then I would find someone else.

I didn't know who killed Georgette or the landscaper, but the fact that I was Liza Barton was certainly not sufficient evidence to incriminate me in their deaths. It is all the furtive evasions that have made me look suspicious. Zach Willet is the instrument of my liberation.

Now I can tell Alex the truth about myself, speaking in the voice of someone who has been deeply wronged. I will ask him to forgive me for not trusting him with the truth but I will also ask of him the protection of a husband.

“Mommy, are you happy?” Jack asked when I was drying him after his bath.

“I'm always happy when I'm with you, Jack,” I said. “But I think I'm getting happy in a lot of other ways, too.” Then I told him that Sue was coming to
babysit for a little while because I had a couple of errands to run.

Sue arrived at eight thirty.

Zach lived in Chester. I had looked up his street on the map and marked the way to get there. He lived in a neighborhood of smaller houses, many of them obviously converted into two family homes. I found his house—the number was 358—but I had to drive to the next block before I could find a parking space. There were streetlights, but they were pretty well hidden by the heavy trees that lined the sidewalk. The evening had turned really cool, and I didn't see anyone else outside.

Zach had been right about one thing. You could identify his house by the sound of drums being played somewhere inside. I went up the stairs onto the porch. There were two doors, a center one and one to the side. I decided that the latter probably led to the upstairs apartment, so I went over to it. There was a name over the doorbell, and by squinting I was able to make out the letter
Z.
I rang the bell and waited, but there was no answer. I tried again and listened, but with the drums beating, I could not be sure if the bell was working.

I was uncertain of what to do. It was just nine o'clock. I decided that maybe he had gone out for dinner and wasn't home yet. I went down the steps of the porch and stood on the sidewalk looking up. The windows on the second floor, at least from the front of the house, were dark. I wouldn't let myself believe that Zach had changed his mind about
meeting me. I could tell he wanted that money so much he could taste it. Then I wondered if perhaps Ted Cartwright had made him a better offer? If he had, then I would double mine, I decided.

I didn't want to stand there any longer, but I didn't want to give up on the hope that Zach would be along any minute. I decided to get my car and double-park in front of Zach's house and wait for him in it. There was almost no traffic, so I knew I really wouldn't be too much in the way of any passing vehicles.

I don't know what made me turn around and look at the car that was parked directly in front of the house. I could see Zach sitting in it. The driver's window was open and he seemed to be asleep. He must have decided to meet me outside, I thought, as I walked over to his car. “Hi, Zach,” I said. “I was afraid you were standing me up.”

When he didn't respond, I touched his shoulder, and he fell forward, slumping against the steering wheel. My hand felt sticky. I looked down. It was covered with blood. I grabbed the door of his car to steady myself. Then I realized I had touched it and frantically wiped it with my handkerchief. Then I rushed back to my own car and drove home, trying to wipe the blood away by rubbing my hand on my slacks. I don't know what I was thinking during that drive. I just knew I had to escape.

When I walked in the house, Sue was watching television in the family room. Her back was to me. The light wasn't on in the hall. “Sue,” I called.
“I'm late phoning my mother. I'll be down in just a minute.”

Upstairs, I rushed into the bathroom, stripped, and turned on the shower. I felt as though my whole body had been washed with Zach's blood. I threw my slacks into the shower and watched as the water turned red at my feet.

I don't think I was acting rationally. I only knew that I had to establish some kind of alibi. I dressed hurriedly and went back downstairs. “The person I was supposed to see wasn't home,” I said.

I know Sue saw that I had changed clothes, but she was happy when I gave her the equivalent of three hours babysitting pay. After she left, I poured a stiff scotch into a cup and sat in the kitchen sipping it, wondering what I was going to do. Zach was dead, and I had no way of knowing if the evidence he had for me was gone.

I should not have run away. I knew it. But Georgette had sent my father to Zach for riding lessons. Zach had let my father ride out alone. Suppose they find out that I am Liza Barton? If I had called the police, how could I explain to them why I had once again come upon the body of a person who had contributed to my father's death?

I finished the scotch, went upstairs, undressed, got into bed, and realized I was facing a sleepless night of worry, even of despair. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, I took a sleeping pill. Somewhere around eleven, I was aware that the phone was ringing. It was Alex. “Ceil, you must be in a
dead sleep. I'm sorry I woke you up. I had to let you know that no matter what you say you have to tell me, it won't change one iota of the way I feel about you.”

I was so sleepy, but also so glad to hear his voice, to hear his words. “I believe that's true,” I whispered.

Then with a smile in his tone, Alex said, “I wouldn't even care if you told me you were Little Lizzie Borden. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

T
he body of Zachary Eugene Willet was found by a sixteen-year-old drummer, Tony “Rap” Corrigan, at 6
A.M
., as he was preparing to leave on his bicycle to do his morning paper route.

“I thought old Zach had tied one on,” he explained excitedly to Jeff MacKingsley and Angelo Ortiz, who had rushed to the scene after the Chester police notified them of the 911 call. “But then, I could see all that dried blood. Yuck. I thought I'd throw up.”

No one in the Corrigan family remembered seeing Zach park the car. “It had to be after dark,” said Sandy Corrigan, Rap's mother, a trim woman of about forty. “I know because there was an SUV parked there when I got home from work last evening at about quarter past seven. I'm a nurse at Morristown Hospital. The girls were with me when I came in. They go to my mother's after school, and I pick them up on the way home.”

The three girls, ten, eleven, and twelve, were sitting next to their mother. In response to Jeff's
questions, it was clear that none of them had noticed anything unusual when they returned home. They had dashed past the SUV and spent the rest of the evening watching television.

“We do our homework with Nana,” the twelve-year-old explained.

Sandy's husband, Steve, a fireman, had come home from work at ten o'clock. “I drove right into the garage without a glance at the street,” he explained. “We had a real busy shift, a fire in a house that was about to be pulled down. We think some kids did it. Thank God I've got four good kids. We encourage them to have their friends here. Rap is a great drummer. He practices all the time.”

“Zach was planning to move over the weekend,” Sandy Corrigan volunteered. “He was always complaining about Rap's drums, and anyhow I told him that when his lease was up, we wouldn't renew it. We need the room. This was my mother-in-law's house. We moved in after she died. I felt kind of sorry for Zach. He was such a loner. But I have to tell you, I was delighted when he said he was leaving.”

“Then he didn't have much company?” Jeff asked.

“Never,” Sandy Corrigan said emphatically. “He'd get here around six or seven at night, and almost never went out. Weekends he'd stay upstairs if he wasn't going back to the riding club, but as often as not, he was there. That was more his home than this place.”

“Did he tell you where he was moving?”

“Yes. He was taking the model unit at Cartwright Town Houses in Madison.”

“Cartwright?” Jeff exclaimed.

“Yes, Ted Cartwright, the developer, is building them.”

“What isn't he building?” her husband asked sourly.

“I would think that one of those town houses would be quite expensive,” Jeff said casually, trying not to let his excitement show. Cartwright, again, he was thinking.

“Especially if it comes furnished,” Sandy Corrigan agreed. “Zach claimed Mr. Cartwright was going to give it to him because he saved his life once.”

“Two moving men came by to pack for Zach yesterday, Mr. MacKingsley,” Rap volunteered. “I let them in at about three o'clock. I told them one of them could probably have done the whole job in an hour. Zach didn't have much stuff up there. They didn't stay long, and only took out a couple of boxes that didn't weigh much.”

“Did they give you their cards?” Jeff asked.

“Well, no. I mean they had uniforms on and a truck. Anyway, why would anyone come to pack for Zach who wasn't on the level?”

Jeff and Angelo looked at each other. “Can you describe these men?” Jeff asked.

“One of them was a big guy. He had dark glasses on, and had kind of funny looking blond hair. I think it was dyed. He was kind of old—I mean,
more than fifty. The other guy was short, and maybe about thirty or so. To be honest, I didn't pay too much attention to them.”

“I see. Well if anything comes back to you about them, I'm leaving my card with your mother.” Jeff turned to Sandy Corrigan. “Have you got a key to Zach's apartment, Mrs. Corrigan?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“May I have it please? Thank you all very much for your cooperation.”

The forensic unit was dusting the handle of the door to Zach's apartment and the doorbell. “Oh, we've got a nice clean one here,” Dennis from the lab commented. “We got a partial off the door of the car, too. That one someone tried to wipe off.”

“I haven't had a chance to tell you,” Jeff told Angelo as he turned the key in the door from the porch to the apartment and pushed it open. “I spoke to Zach Willet by phone at five o'clock last night.”