The judge returned. He began by saying that in nearly twenty years as a criminal judge, he’d never had an application that included these kinds of circumstances. He said that while the state was concerned about the risk of flight, the prosecutor did not dispute the police report that indicated Mr. Carrington was in a dazed condition when apprehended on the Althorp lawn. He said that on the condition that a member of the defense counsel would always be present, and private security ready to restrain Peter if he attempted to leave, a twenty-four-hour stay at a sleep disorder center was approved.
Peter considered the judge’s ruling a victory. His lawyers did not. I knew that even if the medical cause for his sleepwalking was confirmed by experts, it would not make a difference in the verdict at trial. So in that sense, it was a no-win.
After court recessed, I wanted to talk to Banks and Markinson, and asked them to meet me back at the house. Once again I received permission to visit Peter in the holding cell before leaving.
“I know you consider this a Pyrrhic victory, Kay,” he said.
“There’s only one victory, Peter,” I told him fiercely. “We want you home with us. And it’s going to happen.”
“Oh, love, you look like Joan of Arc. Everything but the sword.” For just a moment Peter’s smile was genuine, a reminder of the look I saw when we were on our honeymoon.
I wanted so much to tell him that I was digging into every aspect of the evidence surrounding the deaths of Susan and my father, and that I was beginning with the premise that perhaps it had been Susan I overheard in the chapel that day. But I knew that to put those thoughts into words would have a negative effect—he’d only start worrying about me.
Instead, I told him that I was spending time going through the third floor of the mansion. “Peter, those rooms are a refined version of Maggie’s attic,” I said. “Who was the art collector?”
“My grandmother, I think, although my great-grandmother was responsible for some of it, too. Anything that’s any good is on the walls downstairs. My father had everything appraised way back.”
“Who collected the china? There’s a ton of it up there.”
“My great-grandmother collected most of it.”
“There’s a set of Limoges that’s really gorgeous. It’s still in the crate. I unpacked a few pieces. I absolutely love the pattern. That’s the china I want to use at our dinner parties.”
The guard was standing in the doorway. “Mrs. Carrington.”
“I know.” I looked at Peter. “Of course, if you don’t like that pattern, we’ll look at the others. Plenty to choose from.”
I could see the expression of sympathy in the guard’s eyes as I passed him. He might as well have been shouting, “Lady, he’s no more going to eat off that china than I am.” I wish he had said it aloud. I would have told him that when Peter comes home, I’ll invite him for dinner.
Conner Banks and Walter Markinson were already at the mansion when Vincent dropped me off. There was a meeting later that day of the board of directors of Carrington Enterprises, and he was sitting in as Peter’s representative. Peter now referred to Vincent Slater as “my eyes and ears.” He had no voting power, of course, but he did keep Peter apprised of everything that was going on in the multifaceted corporation.
As usual, Jane Barr had brought the lawyers to the dining room, where I joined them. I decided to share with them my growing belief that it was possible that Susan Althorp had been the woman I overheard in the chapel twenty-two years ago.
They had not known about my escapade as a six-year-old, but when they did, their response stunned me. They looked horrified. “Kay, do you know what you are saying?” Banks asked.
“I am saying that it may have been Susan in the chapel that day, and that she may have been blackmailing someone.”
“Maybe she was blackmailing your husband,” Markinson snapped. “Have you any idea what the prosecutor could do with that information?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely baffled.
“What we’re talking about,” Conner Banks said gravely, “is that, if your supposition is true, you have just provided a motive for Peter to kill Susan.”
“Did you ever tell Peter about being in the chapel and overhearing that conversation?” Markinson asked.
“Yes, I did. Why?”
“When did you tell him, Kay?” Banks demanded.
I was beginning to feel as if I were being cross-examined by two hostile prosecutors. “I told him the night of the literacy benefit reception in this house. My grandmother fell. Peter went with me to the hospital and waited until she was all right, then brought me home. He came in for a while and we talked.”
“That reception was held on December sixth, as I recall,” Markinson said, flicking through his notes.
“That’s right.” I was beginning to feel defensive.
“And you and Peter Carrington were married on January eighth, less than five weeks later?”
“Yes.” I realized I was becoming both frustrated and angry. “Will you please tell me what you’re driving at?” I demanded.
“What we’re driving at, Kay,” Conner Banks said—and now his tone was both serious and regretful—“is that we’ve all wondered about your whirlwind romance. Now you’ve just given the reason for it. If that was Susan Althorp in the chapel that day, and she was blackmailing Peter, the minute you told him you had overheard the quarrel, you became a threat.
“He couldn’t take the chance that you might talk about that encounter to someone else who would put two and two together. Remember, that reception was right after Celeb magazine did that big story on him. By rushing you into marriage, he made you unavailable as a witness in case he was ever brought to trial. He could invoke the marital privilege in court, and besides that, he probably worked to make you fall in love with him so that emotionally you’d never give him up.”
As I listened, I become so enraged that if I had had something to throw at both of them, I would have done it. Instead I shouted at them. “Get out! Get out and don’t come back. I’d rather have the prosecutor defending my husband than either one of you. You don’t believe that even if he did kill Susan and my father, he did it while he was unaware of what he was doing. Now you’re saying that his marrying me was pure calculation, just a way to shut me up. Go to hell, both of you!”
They got up to leave. “Kay,” Banks said quietly, “if you go to a doctor, and he finds a cancer, but tells you that you’re doing just fine, he’sa liar. The only way we can defend Peter is to know every possible factor that could influence a jury. You’ve just delivered a blockbuster that fortunately we are not obliged to share with the prosecutor because it’s something that we uncovered. We only have to tell the prosecutor if we plan to use it as defense evidence at the trial. Obviously, we won’t do that. But for the love of God, please don’t tell anyone else what you’ve just told us.”
The fight went out of me. “I already have,” I said. “The night Peter came home after he was arraigned.”
“You told someone you thought that it might have been Susan in the chapel? Who heard you say that?”
“Elaine and Richard and Vincent Slater were here. I didn’t say I thought it might have been Susan. In fact, I told them I didn’t know who it was. Elaine even joked that it might have been her and Peter’s father because they had been fighting all day about the money she was spending on the party.”
“That’s a relief. But never mention your visit to the chapel again to anyone. If one of them brings it up, stress the fact that you have no idea who was there because in truth you don’t know.”
I saw the two lawyers exchange glances. “We’ll have to talk to Peter about this,” Banks said. “I’d like to persuade him to cancel that sleep center business. His only prayer of ever getting home is ‘reasonable doubt.’ ”
I had confided to the lawyers that I was expecting a baby. As they left, Markinson said “Maybe now that he knows he’s going to become a father, h
e’ll let us take control of his defense and have a shot at getting him acquitted.”
52
Nicholas Greco sat in the reception room of the Joined-Hands Fund, a charity created to benefit the victims of disasters. Jeffrey Hammond was vice president of the organization, and according to Greco’s research, his chief responsibility was not to give away money, but to raise it.
The offices of the charity were in the new Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle in Manhattan, an expensive address that certainly added to the overhead, Greco thought. Hammond made one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, a princely salary to average Americans, but not so for those who had a child in a prep school that cost forty thousand dollars a year.
Jeffrey’s wife, Nancy, worked part-time in the local congressman’s office in New Jersey. Without knowing her actual salary, Greco knew that the amount had to be minimal. He knew also that the congressman’s own salary was far too low to allow him to be generous to his staff. It was no wonder that, without personal wealth, many members of congress shared apartments in Washington.
All these thoughts were going through Greco’s mind as he sat waiting until the perky young receptionist invited him into Hammond’s office. Ninety-nine percent of receptionists were born cheerful, he thought, as he walked down the corridor.
The smile wrinkles at the corners of Jeffrey Hammond’s eyes were not in evidence today. His greeting had a forced heartiness to it, and his palm was slightly damp when he shook Greco’s hand and invited him to sit down. Then he made sure the door to his office was tightly closed before he went back behind his desk and settled in his swivel chair.
“Mr. Hammond, I asked to see you in your office because I thought it better not to discuss the subject I want to raise in front of your wife,” he began.
Hammond nodded without replying.
“I have done a little homework, shall we call it, and find that Grace Carrington had been a great supporter of your charitable fund.”
“Mrs. Carrington was very generous to many charities.” His voice was carefully neutral.
“Of course. However, she was chairman of your fund for two years, and helped to raise a considerable amount of money, all of which was very beneficial for your position here. To be frank, your job depends on your success in bringing in donations, does it not?”
“I’d like to think that my job is to raise money because that money benefits so many needy people, Mr. Greco.”
Perhaps, Greco thought. “Peter Carrington did not attend the many formal dinners that his wife enjoyed, did he?” he asked.
“Peter hated them. He didn’t mind what Grace donated to those events as long as he didn’t have to attend.”
“Then, for several years, you were her escort of choice at a number of these affairs?”
“Yes.”
“What did Mrs. Hammond think of that?”
“She thought of it as part of my job. She understood.”
Greco sighed. “I think we are beating around the bush. I’m afraid you would not make a very good spy, Mr. Hammond. The inscrutable expression is not in your makeup. When I visited you at your home and we talked about Grace Carrington’s death, I looked into your eyes and saw an expression that was nothing short of anguish.”
Hammond looked past him. His voice a monotone, he said, “It’s true. Grace and I were very much in love. In so many ways we were alike—good family background, good schools, and no money. She never loved Peter. She liked him well enough, and God knows she enjoyed his wealth. She was coming to terms with her drinking problem and wanted to overcome it. In fact, she had joined AA.
“If she had divorced Peter, she would have received a twenty-million-dollar settlement, wonderful money to you and me, but certainly the income on that sum would not have maintained the lifestyle she had come to love: the private jet, the palazzo in Tuscany, the apartment in Paris, all the trappings that Peter Carrington doesn’t even bother with, except for the jet, which he uses for business.”
“So you intended to have a long-term affair?”
“No. I decided I had to break it off. I know how my behavior must look to you, but believe it or not, I never wanted to be a gigolo. I loved Grace with all my heart, but I also recognized how unfair we were being to both Peter and Nancy.”
Jeffrey Hammond bit his lip, got up, and walked to the window, turning his back on Greco. After a moment, he went on: “I called Grace and told her that it had to be ended. She hung up on me, but then called the next morning. She said that she was going to ask Peter for a divorce, that all his money wasn’t, after all, what she wanted for the rest of her life. She joked that she was giving up a guy who has money for one who raises money. Peter was away on one of his long trips at the time. My son was graduating from grammar school. We agreed to wait a month before we told Peter and Nancy what we had decided. Before that happened, Grace realized she was pregnant.”
“She was planning to divorce Peter before she knew she was pregnant?” Greco asked. “That was quite a change of heart.”
“It was Grace’s decision. She had been unhappy, and I guess decided that fantastic luxury wasn’t compensation for feeling lonely and unfulfilled. But of course, learning that she was pregnant changed everything. She had had three miscarriages in the past and had given up hope of having a baby. But she realized that now, when she gave birth to Peter Carrington’s child, she would have not only the baby she had wanted, but would be able to divorce Peter and still have the lifestyle she wanted. So prior to all that, I had been about to tell Nancy that I wanted my freedom, and Grace had been about to tell Peter the same thing. But then we decided to wait.”
“Was there any chance that the baby Grace was carrying was yours?”
“Absolutely none. We took every possible precaution to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Do you think your wife suspected your relationship with Grace?”
“Toward the end, yes, I think she did,” Hammond admitted.
“I would believe that is true. Your wife seems to me to be a very astute woman. Yet she never challenged you about it, either before or after Grace Carrington’s death?”
“Never. Early in our marriage, Nancy told me that her father had had a couple of affairs. She believed that her mother was right to pretend she wasn’t aware of them. When he was in his fifties he settled down, and he and his wife had a good life together. I think after Grace died, Nancy was hoping that she and I would get closer again.”
“Had Grace been drinking much during her pregnancy?”
“In the beginning, yes, but she was trying to stop. She had not had a single drink for the month before she died.”
“And then, in the presence of other people, the night of the dinner party, she fell off the wagon. Mr. Hammond, if, as you have just suggested, your wife was aware of your affair, is it possible that she spiked Grace’s club soda that night?”
“Unlikely, but I guess it’s possible. Somebody did, that’s for sure. Grace would never have risked drinking in front of Elaine and Vincent Slater. Either one of them would have told Peter—she knew that.”
“You have told me that you went home minutes after Peter went up to bed. Were the gates in the driveway open?”
“Yes. Of course, they can be closed, but they seldom were, even at night. I doubt if Peter and Grace even remembered to turn on the alarm system half the time.”
Greco wondered if that was really true, or if Hammond was indicating, for some reason of his own, that both the grounds and the house were easily accessible. “You would have gone home about what time?” he asked.
“A little after eleven. As you have seen, we live quite close to the Carringtons, even though we’re not in the estate section of town.”
“What did you do after you got home?”
“I went up to bed. Nancy wasn’t tired and stayed downstairs to read.”
“Do you remember what time she came to bed?”
Jeffrey Hammond’s face turned red. “I wouldn?
??t know,” he said. “We had had a pretty big row, and I was sleeping in my son’s room. He was away at a sleepover with a friend.”
“You have been more than candid with me, Mr. Hammond,” Greco said. “Frankly, I wonder why.”
“I’ll tell you why.” Suddenly Jeffrey Hammond’s voice was filled with the controlled fury Greco had heard earlier when he expressed the wish that the death penalty would be kept in New Jersey. “I loved Grace. We could have had a lifetime of happiness together. I want her killer found. If there’s one thing I don’t have it’s a motive for killing her. I think you can see that, so I don’t have to worry about being a suspect in her death. Maybe she got up, went outside, and lost her balance at the edge of the pool. I know that’s possible. But if someone did take her life, I want that person found and convicted, even if it means publicly acknowledging our relationship, with all that implies. I love my son, but not enough to let a beautiful woman’s life be snuffed out by someone who gets away with it.”
“Do you think Peter Carrington killed Grace?”
“I do and I don’t. Not over the issue of the money—that wouldn’t have mattered to him. Peter is not his father’s son in that respect. I don’t think he’d kill her out of pride, either, the cuckolded-husband outrage. I just don’t see Peter doing that. He was frustrated rather than furious when he grabbed the glass out of her hand. From what I know now, I do think it’s possible he might have killed her in a sleepwalking state. After seeing that tape of him attacking that policeman, I think that’s entirely possible.”
“Do you also think it’s possible that your wife went back to the mansion, perhaps woke up Grace, and suggested they go outside for a breath of air, and then pushed her into the pool?”
“Nancy never would have done that,” Hammond said vehemently. “She’s far too clearheaded to lose control that way. She’d never risk going to prison, because then she’d surely be separated from me and our son for good. The ultimate irony has been that she feels about me the way that I felt about Grace. She still hopes that in time I’ll fall in love with her again.”