I Heard That Song Before

  “Peter Carrington did something to that girl. I bet he was jealous of her.” Now Maggie sounded like the Lord Chief Justice of the United Kingdom pronouncing a verdict. “I gave him the benefit of the doubt until his wife drowned, but it just goes to show that if you kill someone, you’re capable of doing it again. As for my son-in-law, I think he was depressed enough to believe he was doing Kay a favor by insuring her education.”

  That night the pasta stuck in my throat, and it wasn’t any comfort when Maggie rehashed Greco’s visit. “He’s supposed to be smart, but he was way off the mark in even thinking that your dad would just walk out on you.”

  No, he wouldn’t just walk out on me, I thought, but that’s not where Greco is going. He’s wondering if Daddy had to stage his own disappearance because of what happened to Susan Althorp.

  7

  It had begun to snow. Nicholas Greco was barely aware of the light wet flakes that drifted onto his face as he looked up at the windows of the second-floor art gallery on West Fifty-seventh Street, the one that bore the name of Richard Walker.

  Greco had done his homework on Walker. Forty-six years old, twice divorced, the son of Elaine Walker Carrington, an indifferent reputation in the art world, and undoubtedly supported by the luck of having his mother marry into the Carrington family fortune. Walker had been at the formal dinner the night Susan Althorp vanished. According to the reports in the prosecutor’s files, he had left for his apartment in Manhattan when the party ended.

  Greco opened the door to the building, was checked by a security guard, and walked up the single flight of stairs to the gallery. He was immediately clicked inside by a smiling receptionist.

  “Mr. Walker is expecting you,” she said. “It will be just a few minutes since he’s on a conference call at the moment. Why don’t you look at our new exhibit? We’re displaying a wonderful young artist the critics are raving about.”

  If ever I heard a canned speech, I’m listening to one now, Greco thought. Walker is probably doing the crossword puzzle in his office. The gallery, dreary to him with its stark white walls and dark gray carpeting, was devoid of visitors. He walked from painting to painting, pretending to study them, all scenes of urban blight. He was at the next to the last of the twenty or so paintings when a voice at his shoulder asked, “Doesn’t this one particularly remind you of an Edward Hopper?”

  Not even remotely, Greco thought, and with a grunt that could be taken as assent, he turned to face Richard Walker. He looks younger than forty-six—was Greco’s first thought. Walker’s eyes were his most remarkable feature—sapphire, and set far apart. His features were rugged. He was medium in height, with a boxer’s solid body and thick arms. He would not have looked out of place in a gym, Greco decided. Walker’s dark blue suit was obviously expensive but with his thick frame was not shown off to advantage.

  When it was clear that Greco had no intention of discussing art, Walker suggested they go into his private office. On the way he kept up a running commentary on how many family fortunes were based on people having the ability to spot genius in an unknown painter. “Of course, you hear it in every field,” he said as he went around to his desk and waved Greco to a chair opposite it. “My grandfather used to tell the story of how Max Hirsch, the legendary horse trainer, turned down the chance to buy the greatest racehorse in history, Man O’ War, for one hundred dollars. Do you enjoy racing, Mr. Greco?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much time for hobbies,” Greco said, his voice sounding regretful.

  Walker smiled amiably. “Nor for small talk, either, I would gather. Very well. What can I do for you?”

  “First I want to thank you for agreeing to let me drop in. As you may know, Susan Althorp’s mother has hired me to investigate her daughter’s disappearance.”

  “I’d guess that, at least in Englewood, everybody’s heard about it,” Walker replied.

  “Do you spend much time in Englewood, Mr. Walker?”

  “I don’t know what ‘much time’ means. I live in Manhattan, on East Seventy-third Street. As you certainly know, my mother, Elaine Carrington, has a home on the Carrington estate, and I visit her there. She also comes into Manhattan frequently.”

  “You were at the estate the night Susan Althorp disappeared?”

  “I was at the party with some two hundred other people. My mother had married the present Peter Carrington’s father three years earlier. The real purpose of the party was that Carrington senior had turned seventy that year. He was very sensitive about the fact that my mother was so much younger, twenty-six years to be exact, so the party wasn’t called a birthday celebration.” Walker raised an eyebrow. “If you do your arithmetic, you’ll see that old man Carrington specialized in young women. He was forty-nine when Peter was born. Peter’s mother was much younger as well.”

  Greco nodded and looked around. Walker’s office was not large, but it was tastefully furnished with a striped blue and red love seat, creamy-white walls, and a deep-blue carper. He found the painting over the couch of old men gathered around a table playing cards more interesting than the scenes of squalor he’d seen in the gallery exhibit. A corner cabinet held several photos of Walker on the polo field, as well as a golf ball on an engraved silver tray. “A hole in one?” he asked, pointing to the ball.

  “At Saint Andrew’s,” Walker said, not attempting to conceal the pride in his voice.

  Greco could see that the memory of that achievement had relaxed Walker, which was what he had hoped to achieve. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “I’m trying to form a kind of overall picture of Susan Althorp. What were your impressions of her?”

  “Let’s start with the fact that I knew her only slightly. She was eighteen or nineteen. I was twenty-four, had a full-time job at Sotheby’s, and lived in the city. Besides that, to be perfectly blunt, I was not particularly fond of my mother’s husband, Peter Carrington IV, nor was he of me.”

  “Why did you clash?”

  “We didn’t exactly clash. He offered me a trainee job in a brokerage firm he owned, where, as he put it, I could eventually make real money and not live on a shoestring. He was contemptuous of me when I declined the offer.”

  “I see. But you did visit your mother frequently at his home?”

  “Of course. That summer, twenty-two years ago, was very warm, and there were frequent pool parties. My mother loved to entertain. She would have their friends over regularly. Peter and Susan both attended Princeton, and their Princeton friends were around a lot. I was usually invited to bring a guest or two. It was very pleasant.”

  “Were Peter and Susan considered a couple?”

  “They’d been dating quite a lot. From what I saw, I thought they were falling in love, or, at least, that he was falling in love with her.”

  “You mean it was one-sided?” Greco asked, his voice mild.

  “I don’t mean anything. She was very outgoing. Peter was always quiet. But whenever I stopped by on weekends it seemed as though she was on the estate, playing tennis or lounging by the pool.”

  “Did you stay at the Carrington home the night of the party?”

  “No. I was scheduled to play in a golf foursome early the next morning, and left when the dinner ended. I didn’t stay around for the dancing.”

  “Susan’s mother is convinced that your stepbrother was responsible for Susan’s death. Do you believe that?”

  There was a hint of anger in Richard Walker’s eyes when he looked directly at Greco. “No, I do not,” he said crisply.

  “What about Grace Carrington? You were at dinner at the estate the night she drowned. Actually the dinner was in your honor, wasn’t it?”

  “Peter traveled a great deal. Grace was the sort of outgoing woman who didn’t like to be alone. She was always inviting people to dinner. When she realized my birthday was coming up, she decided that dinner that night would be a birthday celebration for me. There were just six of us there. Peter didn’t arrive until nearly the end. His plane was del
ayed coming home from Australia.”

  “I understand that Grace drank a lot that evening.”

  “Grace always drank a lot. She was in rehab several times, but could never quite make it stick. Then, when she was finally able to sustain a pregnancy after several miscarriages, we were all worried about fetal alcohol syndrome.”

  “Did anyone try to stop her from drinking that evening?”

  “She was great at faking it. People thought she was drinking club soda, but it was straight vodka. She was really bombed when Peter got home, and, of course, it drove him crazy to find her in that condition. But when he grabbed the drink out of her hand, poured it on the carpet, and had that outburst, it sort of shook her up. When he stormed upstairs, I remember she said, ‘I guess the party’s over.’ ”

  “ ‘The party’s over’ can mean the end of more than a party,” Greco said.

  “I suppose so. Grace looked very sad. My mother and I were the last to leave. I was staying at Mother’s house that night. Grace said she was going to lie down on the couch for a while. I don’t think she wanted to face Peter.”

  “You and your mother left together?”

  “We walked to Mother’s house. The next morning the housekeeper phoned, hysterical. She had found the body.”

  “Do you believe that Grace Carrington either fell into the pool accidentally or committed suicide?”

  “I can only answer that question one way.” Grace wanted that baby, and she knew Peter wanted it. Would she have deliberately taken her own life? No, unless she felt overwhelmed by her inability to stop drinking, and was panicked at the possibility that she had already damaged the fetus.”

  Nicholas Greco’s manner became even friendlier as he casually asked, “Do you think Peter Carrington was angry enough to have helped his wife to end her life, perhaps after she passed out on the couch?”

  This time, it was obvious to him that Richard Walker’s angry reply was both phony and forced: “That’s utterly ridiculous, Mr. Greco.”

  That’s not what he believes, Greco thought as he got up to leave. But it’s what he wants me to think he believes.

  8

  Peter Carrington and I were married in the Lady Chapel of St. Patrick’s Cathedral where thirty years ago my mother and father exchanged their vows.

  The irony for Maggie was that she had been the catalyst that brought us together.

  The literacy reception at the estate was a complete success. The housekeeping couple, Jane and Gary Barr, had worked with me and the caterer to be sure that everything was perfect.

  Elaine Walker Carrington and Peter’s stepbrother, Richard, were very much present, oozing genteel charm as they greeted guests. Except for those beautiful eyes, I was startled at how unalike mother and son were physically. Somehow I had expected that Elaine Carrington’s son would resemble Douglas Fairbanks Jr., but nothing could be further from the truth.

  Vincent Slater was omnipresent but remained in the background. With my usual need to figure everything out, I played guessing games with myself as to how he had entered Peter’s life. The son of someone who worked for Peter’s father? I wondered. After all, I’m the daughter of someone who worked for Peter’s father. Or perhaps he was a college friend invited to join the family business? Nelson Rockefeller invited his roommate at Dartmouth, a scholarship student from the Midwest, to work for the family. That man ended up a multimillionaire.

  When the brief program began, I introduced Peter. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest the pressure he was under when he welcomed the guests and talked about the importance of our literacy program. “It’s fine to give money to help,” he said, “but it’s equally important to have people—people like all of you—to volunteer a little time, on a one-to-one basis, in helping others learn to read. As you all probably know, I travel a lot, but I’d like to be a literacy volunteer in a different way. So let’s make this an annual event at my home.” Then, as the crowd applauded, he turned to me. “Is that all right with you, Kathryn?”

  Was that the moment I fell in love with him, or was I already there? “That would be wonderful,” I said, as my heart melted. Just that day there’d been another item in the business section of the New York Times that asked the question. “Is it time for Peter Carrington to go?”

  Peter gave me a thumbs-up, and then, smiling at people and shaking hands with a few of them, he walked down the corridor toward his library. I noticed he didn’t go into it, though. I thought he either escaped up the back staircase or even left the house completely.

  I had been in and out of the house all day to oversee the caterer and the florist, and to make sure that the people who were rearranging furniture didn’t break or scratch anything. The Barrs became my friends that day. At lunchtime, over a cup of tea and a quick sandwich in the kitchen, they made me see the Peter Carrington they knew: the twelve-year-old boy who was sent to Choate after his mother died, the twenty-year-old Princeton senior who was relentlessly questioned about Susan Althorp’s death, the thirty-eight-year-old husband whose pregnant wife was found dead in a pool.

  Thanks in no small part to the couple’s help, everything went perfectly. I waited to be sure the last of the guests were on their way, the cleanup complete, and the furniture put back in place before I left. Though I kept hoping he would, Peter didn’t reappear, and in my head I was already trying to frame a way to see him again soon. I didn’t want to wait until it was time to plan a reception next year.

  But then, inadvertently, and certainly unwillingly, Maggie brought us together. I had driven her to the reception, so of course she waited for me to drive her home. Then, as Gary Barr opened the front door for us, Maggie caught the tip of her shoe in the slightly elevated rim of the door frame and fell hard, almost bouncing off the marble floor of the entrance hall.

  I screamed. Maggie is my mother and father and grandmother and friend and mentor, all in one. She is all I have. And she’s eighty-three years old. As the years pass, I worry more and more, facing the inevitable fact that she is not immortal, even though I know that she will put up a fight before she goes gentle into that good night.

  Then, from the floor, Maggie snapped, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kay, be quiet. I didn’t do any damage except maybe to my dignity.” She raised herself on one elbow and began to struggle up, then she fainted.

  The events of the next hour are a blur. The Barrs called an ambulance, and I guess they let Peter Carrington know what had happened because suddenly he was there, kneeling beside Maggie, his fingers feeling for the pulse in her throat, his voice reassuring. “Kathryn, her heart seems strong. I think her forehead took the impact. It’s swelling.”

  He followed the ambulance to the hospital, and waited with me in the emergency room until I was reassured by the doctor that Maggie had only a mild concussion, though they wanted to keep her overnight. After she was settled in a room, Peter drove me home to Maggie’s house. I guess I was trembling so much from both relief and shock that he had to take the key from my hand and open the door. Then he came in with me, found the light switch, and said, “You look as though you could use a drink. Does your grandmother keep any liquor in the house?”

  That question made me start to laugh, a little hysterically, I think. “Maggie claims if everyone followed her regimen of a nightly hot toddy, Ambien would be out of business.”

  That was when I felt myself trying to blink back tears of relief. Peter handed me his handkerchief and said, “I can understand how you feel.”

  We both had a scotch. The next day he sent flowers to Maggie and called me to suggest we have dinner together. After that I saw him every day. I was in love and so was he. Maggie, though, was heartsick. She was still sure he was a murderer. Peter’s stepmother suggested we wait, warning us that it was much too soon to be sure of ourselves. Gary and Jane Barr, however, were delighted for us. Vincent Slater brought up the subject of a prenuptial agreement and was obviously relieved when I told him that I would sign one. Peter became furious, and Slate
r stalked out. I told Peter that I had read about agreements where, if the marriage was brief, the settlement would be very limited. I said that was fine with me. I also told him that I wasn’t worried about it, because I knew that we would always be together and that we would have a family.

  Later, of course, Peter and Slater made peace, and Peter’s lawyer drew up a generous agreement. Peter insisted that I have a lawyer of my own review it so that I could be sure that it was fair. This was done, and, a few days later, I signed the document.

  The following day, we went to New York and quietly made our wedding arrangements. On January 8th, we were married in the Lady Chapel of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where we solemnly vowed to love, honor, and cherish each other until death do us part.

  9

  Prosecutor Barbara Krause studied the picture the paparazzi had snapped of Peter Carrington and his new wife, Kay, walking on a beach in the Dominican Republic. Happy is the bride the sun shines on today, she thought sarcastically as she pushed aside the newspaper.

  Now fifty-two years old, Barbara had graduated from law school and began her career as a clerk for a Bergen County criminal judge; after one year she moved across the courthouse to become an assistant prosecutor. For the next twenty-seven years, she worked her way up in that office, becoming trial chief, first assistant, and finally, upon the retirement of her predecessor three years ago, was named prosecutor. It was a world she loved, an enthusiasm she shared with her husband, a civil court judge in nearby Essex County.

  Susan Althorp had disappeared when Barbara had only been in the office a few years. Because of the prominence of both the Althorp and the Carrington families, the case had been investigated from every possible angle. The inability to solve it or even to be able to indict the number one suspect, Peter Carrington, had been a bone in the throat to Barbara’s predecessors, as it was to her.