No Place Like Home (7 page)

I got up, pulled on a robe and walked down the hall to Jack's room. His bed was empty. I walked back into the hall and called his name, but he did not answer. Suddenly frightened, I began to call louder, “Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack”—and realized there was a note of panic in my voice. I forced my lips shut, scolding myself for being ridiculous. He probably just went downstairs to the kitchen and fixed himself some cereal. He's an independent little boy, and often did that in the apartment. But the house had a disconcerting silence about it as I raced down the stairs and from one room to the other. I couldn't find a trace of him. In the kitchen there was no cereal bowl or empty juice glass on the counter or in the sink.

Jack was adventurous. Suppose he had become tired of waiting for me to wake up, and had wandered outside and become lost? He didn't know this neighborhood. Suppose someone saw him alone and picked him up and drove off with him?

Even in the midst of those few but seemingly endless moments, I panicked at the realization that if I didn't find Jack immediately, I would have to call the police.

And then, in a moment of breathtaking release, I knew where he was. Of course. He would have hurried out to visit his new pony. I ran to the door that led from the kitchen to the patio and yanked it open, then sighed with relief. The barn door was open, and I could see Jack's small pajama-clad figure inside the barn, looking up at the pony's stall.

The relief was quickly followed by anger. Last night we had set the alarm after figuring out a four number code, 1023. We'd chosen those numbers because Alex and I met on October 23rd last year. But the fact that when Jack opened the door the alarm had not gone off meant that Alex had not reset it when he left this morning. If he had, I would have known that Jack was on the loose.

Alex was trying so hard, but he still was not used to being a parent, I reminded myself as I began walking toward the barn. Trying to calm down, I forced myself to concentrate on the fact that it was a perfectly beautiful early September morning, with just a touch of coolness that hinted of an early fall. I don't know why, but autumn has always been my favorite time of the year. Even after my father died and it was just Mother and me, I remember evenings sitting with her in the little library off the living room, the fire crackling and both of us deep in our books. I'd be propped up with my head on
the arm of the couch, close enough to her to touch her side with my toes.

As I made my way across the backyard, a thought flashed into my mind. On that last night, Mother and I had been in the study together, and had watched a movie that ended at ten o'clock. Before we went upstairs, she had turned on the alarm. Even as a child I was a light sleeper, so it surely would have awakened me if that piercing sound had gone off. But it had not gone off, so Mother had no warning that Ted was in the house. Had that ever come up in the police investigation? Ted was an engineer, and at the time had recently opened his own small construction company. It probably wouldn't have been difficult for him to disarm the system.

I'll have to start a notebook, I thought. I'll jot down anything that comes back to me that may help me to prove that Ted broke into the house that night.

I walked into the barn and tousled Jack's head. “Hey, you scared me,” I told him. “I don't want you to ever go out of the house again before I'm up. Okay?”

Jack caught the firmness in my voice and nodded sheepishly. As I spoke I turned and looked at the stall where the pony was standing.

“I just wanted to talk to Lizzie,” Jack said earnestly, then added, “Who are those people, Mom?”

I stared at the newspaper photo that had been
taped to the post of the stall. It was a copy of a snapshot of my mother and father and me on the beach in Spring Lake. My father was holding me in one arm. His other arm was around my mother. I remember that photo because it had been taken at the end of that day when the wave had thrown Daddy and me on the shore. I had a copy of the picture and the newspaper article in my secret file.

“Do you know that man and woman and that little girl?” Jack asked.

And, of course, I had to lie: “No, Jack, I don't.”

“Then why did someone leave their picture here?”

Why indeed? Was this another example of malicious mischief, or had somebody already recognized me? I tried to keep my voice calm. “Jack, we won't tell Alex about the picture. He'd be very mad if he thinks anyone came here and put it up.”

Jack looked at me with the penetrating wisdom of a child who senses something is very wrong.

“It's our secret, Jack,” I said.

“Did whoever put the picture near Lizzie come while we were asleep?” Jack asked.

“I don't know.” My mouth went dry. Suppose whoever had taped it on the post had been in the barn when Jack walked in here alone? What kind of sick mind had planned the defacing of the house and lawn, and how did this picture fall into his hands? What might he have done to my son if Jack had walked in while he was here?

Jack was standing on tiptoes, stroking the pony's muzzle. “Lizzie's pretty, isn't she, Mom?” he asked,
his attention completely diverted from the picture that was now in the pocket of my robe.

The pony was rust-colored with a small white marking on the bridge of its nose that, at a stretch, could be interpreted as a star. “Yes, she is, Jack,” I said, trying not to show the fear that was making me want to snatch Jack in my arms and run away. “But I think she's too pretty to be called Lizzie. Let's think up another name for her, shall we?”

Jack looked at me. “I like to call her Lizzie,” he said, a stubborn note creeping into his voice. “Yesterday you said I could call her any name I wanted.”

He was right, but maybe there was a way I could change his mind. I pointed to the white marking. “I think any pony with a star on its face should be called ‘Star,' ” I said. “That will be my name for Lizzie. Now we'd better get you ready for school.”

Jack was starting pre-K at ten o'clock at St. Joseph's, the school I had attended until the fourth grade. I wondered if any of my old teachers were still there, and if so, would meeting me stir something in their memories.

B
y pleading, cajoling, and offering a handsome bonus, Georgette Grove managed to find a landscaper who would cut out the damaged grass and lay sod on the front lawn of the Nolans' house. She also secured a painter that same afternoon to cover the red paint splattered on the shingles. She had not yet been able to hire a mason to repair the stone, nor a woodwork expert to remove the skull and crossbones carved in the front door.

The events of the day had resulted in an almost sleepless night. At six o'clock when Georgette heard the sound of the newspaper delivery service in her driveway, she leapt out of bed. Every night before retiring, she prepared the coffee pot so that in the morning she could simply flip the switch. Without even thinking, she did exactly that as she hurried to the side door of the kitchen, opened it, and retrieved the newspapers from the driveway.

The dreadful worry that was sitting like a slab of concrete on her head was that Celia Nolan
would demand that the sale of the house be voided. This is the fourth time in twenty-four years that I've sold that house, Georgette reminded herself. Jane Salzman got it cheap because of all the publicity about it, but she was never happy there. She claimed that there was a popping sound when the heat went on that no plumber could fix, a sound that reminded her of shots being fired. After ten years she'd had enough.

It took two years before it was sold to the Greens. They stayed nearly six years, then listed it with her. “It's a beautiful house, but no matter how much I try, I can't get over the feeling that something terrible will happen here again, and I don't want to be around for it,” Eleanor Green had said when she called Georgette to give her the listing.

The last owners, the Harrimans, had a home in Palm Beach and spent most of their time there. When the kids pulled their Halloween trick last year, they abruptly decided to move to Florida fulltime instead of waiting another year or so. “There's such a different feeling in our house there,” Louise Harriman had told Georgette when she handed her the key. “Around here, I feel as though everyone is thinking of me as the lady who lives in ‘Little Lizzie's Place.' ”

In the last ten months, when Georgette again had been showing the house and reciting its history, most prospective buyers said they were uneasy at the thought of owning a home in which there had been a fatal shooting. If they lived in the
area and were aware of the house being called “Little Lizzie's Place,” they flatly refused even to look at it. It had taken a special buyer like Alex Nolan to brush aside her admittedly sketchy attempt to discuss the background of the home he was considering.

Georgette sat at the breakfast bar and opened the newspapers—the
Daily Record,
the
Star-Ledger,
and the
New York Post.
The
Daily Record
gave the picture of the house its entire front page. The follow-up story deplored the vandalism that refused to let go of the local tragedy. On the third page of the
Star-Ledger
there was a picture of Celia Nolan, caught at the exact moment she began to faint. It showed her head bent, her knees buckling, and her dark hair drifting behind her. The picture next to it showed the front of the vandalized house and the inscription on the lawn. The
New York Post,
on page three, had a close-up of the skull and crossbones on the front door with the initials
L
and
B
in the eye sockets. Both the
Post
and
Star-Ledger
rehashed the sensational case. “Unhappily, ‘Little Lizzie's Place' has acquired a sinister mythology in our community over the years,” the reporter for the
Daily Record
wrote.

That reporter had interviewed Ted Cartwright about the vandalism. He had posed for the picture in his home in nearby Bernardsville, his walking stick in his hand. “I have never recovered from the death of my wife, and I am shocked that someone would be vicious enough to remind us of that terrible incident,”
he was quoted as saying. “Both physically and emotionally, I certainly don't need a reminder. I still have nightmares about the expression on that child's face when she went on her shooting spree. She looked like the devil incarnate.”

It's the same story he's been telling for nearly a quarter of a century, Georgette thought. He doesn't want anyone to forget it. It's a damn shame Liza was too traumatized to defend herself. I'd give anything to hear her version of what happened that night. I've seen the way Ted Cartwright conducts business. If he had his way, we'd have strip malls instead of riding trails in Mendham and Peapack, and he'll keep trying until the day he's lowered into the ground. He may fool a lot of people, but I've been on the zoning board and I've seen him in action. Behind that phony country-gentleman, bereaved-husband façade, he's ruthless.

Georgette continued reading. Dru Perry of the
Star-Ledger
had obviously done research on the Nolans. “Alex Nolan, a partner in Ackerman and Nolan, a New York law firm, is a member of the Peapack Riding Club. His wife, Celia Foster Nolan, is the widow of Laurence Foster, former president of Bradford and Foster investment firm.”

Even though I did try to tell Alex Nolan about the stigma on the house, Georgette thought for the hundredth time, it's in his wife's name, and she knew nothing about it. If she finds out about the stigma law, she could demand that the sale be voided.

Tears of frustration in her eyes, Georgette studied the picture of Celia Nolan as she was caught in the process of fainting. I could probably claim that I did tell her husband and let her take me to court, but that picture would have a big impact on a judge.

As Georgette got up to refill her coffee cup, her phone rang. It was Robin: “Georgette, I suppose you've seen the newspapers.”

“Yes, I have. You're up early.”

“I was worried about you. I know how upset you were yesterday.”

Georgette was grateful for the concern she heard in Robin's voice.

“Thanks. Yes, I read all the articles.”

“What scares me is that some other real estate broker is bound to contact Celia Nolan and let her know that she could easily break the contract, and then tell her they'd be happy to help her find a new home,” Robin said.

The last hope Georgette had that somehow everything would work out vanished.

“Of course. You're right; someone is likely to do that,” she said slowly. “I'll see you at the office, Robin.”

Georgette replaced the phone on the receiver. “There's no out,” she said aloud. “There's simply no out.”

Then her mouth tightened. This is my livelihood somebody's ruining, she thought. Maybe the Nolans don't want to file charges, but if I lose that sale,
somebody's going to suffer. She picked up the phone, called the police station and asked for Sergeant Earley. Even as she was told that he would not be in for another hour, she realized that it was not seven o'clock yet. “This is Georgette Grove,” she told Brian Shields, the desk officer whom she had known since he was a child. “Brian, as you must certainly be aware, I sold the house on Old Mill Lane that was vandalized. I may lose that sale because of what happened there, and I want Clyde Earley to understand that you people have got to find out who has done this and make an example of them. Mike Buckley admitted he painted the sign on the lawn and left the doll last Halloween. I want to know if you've questioned him yet.”