I Heard That Song Before

  From time to time, over the years, she had taken out the Susan Althorp file and reviewed it, trying to take a fresh look, circling some testimony, putting a question mark after certain statements. Unfortunately, none of it had ever led anywhere. Now, as she sat at her desk, some of Peter Carrington’s statements ran through her mind.

  He claimed that he had dropped Susan at her door that night: “She didn’t wait for me to open the car door. She ran up the steps to the porch, turned the handle, waved to me, and went inside.”

  “That was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went home. There were still some people dancing on the terrace. I’d been playing tennis all afternoon and was tired. I parked my car in the garage and went into the house through the side door, straight upstairs to my room and to bed. I fell asleep instantly.”

  See no evil, hear no evil, Barbara thought. Interestingly enough, he used the same story the night his wife drowned in the pool.

  She glanced at her watch. It was time to go. She had been sitting in on a homicide trial, just observing. Closing arguments were about to begin. In this case, the identity of the killer was not in question; rather it was a matter of whether the jury would find the defendant guilty of murder or of manslaughter. A domestic quarrel had turned violent, and now the father of three young children would probably spend at least the next twenty-five to thirty years in prison for killing their mother.

  Let him! Because of him, these kids have nothing, Barbara thought as she stood up to head back to the courtroom. He should have taken the twenty-year plea we offered him. Nearly six feet tall, and always fighting a weight problem, she knew her nickname around the courthouse was “the linebacker.” She reached for a final sip of coffee from the cup on her desk.

  As she did, the newspaper picture of Peter Carrington and his new wife again came into her line of vision. “You’ve had twenty-two years of freedom since Susan Althorp disappeared, Mr. Carrington,” she said aloud. “If I ever get a chance to get my hands on you, I can promise you one thing: There won’t be any plea to manslaughter. I’ll try you for murder and I’ll get a conviction.”

  10

  The two weeks we spent on our honeymoon were idyllic. We had married so quickly that we were finding out new things about each other every day, little things, like me always wanting a midmorning cup of coffee, or the fact that he loves truffles and I hate them. I hadn’t realized how basically lonely I had been until Peter was there with me all the time. Sometimes I would wake up at night and listen to his even breathing, and think how incredible it was that I was now his wife.

  I had fallen so intensely in love with him, and Peter seemed to feel exactly the same way about me. When we’d started to see each other daily, he had asked, “Are you sure you can be interested in a man who is a ‘person of interest’ in two deaths?”

  My answer was that long before I knew him, I absolutely believed that he was a victim of circumstances, and I knew how horrible that must have been, and, of course, continued to be for him.

  “It is,” he said, “but let’s not talk about it. Kay, you give me so much joy that I can really believe there is a future, a time when the answer to Susan’s disappearance will be solved and people will know with certainty that I had nothing to do with it.” And so, during our courtship, we never talked about either Susan Althorp or Peter’s first wife, Grace. He did talk lovingly about his mother—it was obvious they had been very close. “My father was constantly traveling on business. My mother had always accompanied him. But after I was born she stayed home with me,” he reminisced.

  I wondered if it was after he lost her that the look of pain had settled into his eyes.

  On our honeymoon I was somewhat surprised that there were no calls to or from his office. Later I learned the reason.

  The paparazzi hung around the gates of the villa he had rented, and, except for one brief walk on the public beach, we stayed on the grounds. I called to check on Maggie every day, and she grudgingly admitted that the stories about Peter had disappeared from the tabloid magazines. I began to hope that Nicholas Greco had run into a blank wall in his investigation of the Susan Althorp disappearance; a blank wall at least as far as Peter was concerned.

  I found out soon enough that I was living on false hope.

  Home: It seemed impossible to me that I would ever call the Carrington mansion home. As we were driven through the gates on the return from our honeymoon, I thought of the child I had been when I crept upstairs to the chapel, and the trepidation I had felt in late October when I came to ask Peter to allow me to hold a reception here.

  I was uneasy when, on the flight back, Peter had become more and more quiet, but I thought I knew the reason. He would once again be in the glare of publicity, and with the demands of his position would not be able to avoid it. I had resigned from the library regretfully, because I loved my job. On the other hand, I had done some serious thinking about how best I could help Peter. I was going to suggest to him that he plan to do a lot of traveling for his company. There would be less interest in Greco’s ongoing investigation if the prime target was not around to be followed all the time by the media. Of course I would travel with him.

  “Does one still carry a bride over the threshold?” Peter asked as the car stopped at the front door.

  I sensed immediately that he would be very uncomfortable if the answer was yes, and wondered if he had carried Grace over the threshold when they were married twelve years ago. “I’d rather walk in hand in hand,” I said, and I knew my answer pleased him.

  After our blissful two weeks in the Caribbean, that first evening in the mansion was oddly uncomfortable. In a mistaken gesture of “welcome home,” Elaine had ordered a gourmet dinner served by a caterer, relegating the Barrs to the kitchen. Instead of the small dining room that looked out over the terrace, she had ordered it served in the large formal one. Even though she had been wise enough to have us placed opposite each other in the center of the banquet-sized table, with the two waiters hovering around us the dinner felt stilted and awkward.

  We were both glad when it was over and we could go upstairs. Peter’s suite consisted of two very large bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, divided by a beautiful sitting room. Everything about the bedroom to the right of the parlor made it unmistakably a man’s domain. It had two massive hand-carved dressers, a handsome maroon leather couch and matching chairs by the fireplace, a king-sized bed with bookshelves over it, and a television screen that could be lowered from the ceiling at the push of a button. The walls were white, the coverlet had black and white squares, the carpet was charcoal gray. Several paintings depicting different scenes from fox hunting in the English countryside adorned the walls.

  The bedroom on the other side of the parlor had always been occupied by the Carrington lady of the house. Peter’s wife, Grace, had been the last one to use it. Before that, Elaine had slept there, and before that, Peter’s mother, and all his maternal ancestors back to 1848. It was very feminine, with pale peach walls and peach and green draperies, headboard, and bedspread. A love seat and lady chairs near the fireplace made the room look cozy and welcoming. A truly beautiful painting of a garden scene was above the mantel of the fireplace. I knew that soon I would want to put my own stamp on the room because I like more vibrant colors, but it amused me to think that I could have tucked my little studio into it.

  Peter had already warned me that he had frequent spells of insomnia, and that when that was happening he would slip over to the other room to read. Since I am sure I will sleep through Gabriel’s horn when it finally sounds, I told him that wasn’t necessary, but whatever made him more comfortable and more likely to sleep was fine with me.

  That night we went to sleep in my room, I with sugarplums dancing in my head at the prospect of really beginning my life as Peter’s wife. I don’t know what woke me up during the night, but something did. Peter was gone. Even though I kne
w he was probably in his room reading, I suddenly felt a tremendous sense of anxiety. I slipped my feet into slippers, pulled on a robe, and padded through the sitting room. His door was closed. I opened it very quietly. It was dark, but there was enough early-morning light flickering around the window shades to see that the room was empty.

  I don’t know what made me do it, but I hurried over to the window and looked down. From there the pool was clearly visible. Of course, in February the pool was covered, but Peter was there, kneeling beside it, resting one hand on the edge, and slipping the other hand under the heavy vinyl covering into the water. His whole arm was moving back and forth as if he was either trying to push something into the pool or drag something out of it.

  Why? What was he doing? I wondered. Then, as I watched, he stood up, turned, and came slowly back toward the house. A few minutes later he opened the door to the bedroom, went into the bathroom, turned on the light, dried his arm and hand on a towel, and rolled down the sleeve of his pajama top. He then turned out the light, walked back into the bedroom, and stood facing me. It was obvious he was not aware of my presence, and I realized what was happening. Peter was walking in his sleep. A girl in our dormitory in college had been a sleepwalker, and we’d been warned never to wake her suddenly.

  As Peter made his way through the sitting room, I followed him silently. He got back into bed in my room. I slipped off my robe, kicked off my slippers, and gently got in beside him. A few minutes later, his arm went around me and his drowsy voice murmured, “Kay.”

  “I’m here, dear,” I said.

  I could feel his body relax, and soon his even breathing told me that he was asleep. But for the rest of the night I lay awake. Peter was a sleepwalker, I now realized, but how often did that happen? And far more important, why, in that altered state, did he go through the motions of trying to push something into the pool or pull something from it?

  Something—or someone?

  11

  Nicholas Greco drove through Cresskill, a town near Englewood, watching for street signs and reminding himself once again that it was time to get a navigation system for his car. Frances always tells me that for someone who is so good at solving crimes, I can’t make it to the grocery store without getting lost, he thought. She’s right.

  Nice town, he thought as, following the directions he had taken from MapQuest, he turned right on County Road. He was on his way to interview Vincent Slater, the man who had been called “indispensable” by Peter Carrington’s father.

  Greco had done exhaustive research on Slater before he’d requested the meeting, but there hadn’t been much of interest to learn from it. Slater was now fifty-four years old, a bachelor, still living in the childhood home he had bought from his parents when they moved to Florida. He had commuted to a local college. His first and only job was with Carrington Enterprises. Within a couple years of his employment he had gained the attention of Peter’s father and had become a kind of aide-de-camp to him. After Peter’s mother died, Slater became a combination of trusted employee and surrogate parent for Peter. A dozen years older than Peter, during the Carrington heir’s adolescent years Slater would drive him to Choate, his prep school in Connecticut, and visit him there regularly, stay in the mansion with him on vacations, and take him skiing and sailing during holidays.

  Slater’s background was interesting, but it was the fact that he had been a guest at the party the night Susan Althorp disappeared that was of primary interest to Greco. He had grudgingly consented to the interview but insisted that it be conducted at his home. He doesn’t want any part of me at the mansion, Greco thought. He should know that I’ve already been there, at least to the guesthouse to talk to the Barrs.

  He watched the house numbers and stopped in front of Slater’s house, which turned out to be a split-level, the kind so popular in the fifties. When he rang the bell, Slater answered the door instantly. I wonder if he was standing behind it, Greco thought. And without having laid eyes on him before, why do I think he’s that kind of guy? “Very good of you to see me, Mr. Slater,” he said mildly, reaching out his hand.

  Slater ignored it. “Come in,” he said curtly.

  I could make my way around here blindfolded, Greco thought. Kitchen straight ahead at the end of the foyer. Living room to the right of the entrance, opening into a small dining room. Three bedrooms upstairs. The family room a half level below the kitchen. Greco knew because he had been brought up in the mirror image of this house in Hempstead, Long Island.

  It was immediately obvious that Slater’s taste ran to the minimal. The beige walls were dull above the brown carpet. Greco followed Slater into the sparsely furnished living room. A modernistic couch and chairs were arranged in a seating group around a wide glass coffee table with steel legs.

  Nothing warm and fuzzy about this place or this guy, Greco thought as he sat down in the chair Slater had indicated.

  It was too low for his taste. A subtle way of putting me at a disadvantage, he thought.

  Before he could make his usual remarks thanking Slater for agreeing to meet him, Slater said, “Mr. Greco, I know why you are here. You are investigating the disappearance of Susan Althorp at the request of her mother. That is praiseworthy, except for one serious problem—your mandate is to somehow prove that Peter Carrington is criminally responsible for Susan’s disappearance.”

  “My mandate is to find out what happened to Susan, and if possible to give her mother peace,” Greco said. “I recognize that because he was the last known person to see her before her disappearance, Peter Carrington has lived under a cloud of suspicion for twenty-two years. As his friend and assistant, I would think you would be interested in dispelling that cloud if it were at all possible to do so.”

  “That obviously goes without saying.”

  “Then help me. What is your recollection of the events of that evening?”

  “I am certain that by now you know exactly what testimony I gave when the investigation was opened initially. I was a guest at the dinner. It was a very pleasant affair. Susan arrived with her parents.”

  “She arrived with them, but Peter drove her home.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave the party?”

  “As you surely know, I stayed over that night. For years I have had my own room in the mansion. Ninety-nine percent of the time I come home to this house, but that night I decided to stay over, as did a number of other guests. Elaine, Peter’s stepmother, was planning a ten A.M. brunch, and it was easier to stay there than to drive back and forth.”

  “When did you retire to your room?”

  “When Peter left to drive Susan home.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with the Carrington family?”

  “Exactly as you must have gathered from your various interviews. I never forget the fact that I am their employee, but I am also, I hope, a trusted friend.”

  “So trusted that you would do anything to help them, especially Peter, who is almost a surrogate son or brother to you?”

  “I have never had to worry about doing anything for Peter that would not stand the light of day, Mr. Greco. Now, if you have no more questions, I need to get to Englewood now.”

  “Just one. You were also present the night Grace Carrington died, weren’t you?”

  “The night Grace died in an accident, you mean. Yes. Peter had been away in Australia for several weeks. He was expected home in time for dinner, and his wife, Grace, had asked Elaine, her son, Richard, a few local friends, and myself for dinner. Because Richard’s birthday was coming up, Grace called it a birthday party for him.”

  “When Peter came in, he was quite angry at what he saw?”

  “Mr. Greco, there is nothing more to add to what you obviously already know about that situation. Peter was understandably upset to see that Grace had been drinking heavily.”

  “He was very angry.”

  “I would say upset rather than angry.”

  “Did you st
ay over at the mansion that night?”

  “No. It was about eleven o’clock when Peter arrived. We were all about to leave anyhow. Peter went upstairs. Elaine and Richard stayed with Grace.”

  “Were there servants in the house?”

  “Jane and Gary Barr had been hired after Peter’s mother died. Elaine let them go when she married Peter’s father. After his father’s death, however, Elaine moved to the smaller house on the grounds, and Peter rehired the Barrs. They’ve been there ever since.”

  “But if they had been fired, why were they at the mansion the night Susan disappeared? Peter’s father was still alive. In fact, the dinner was really to celebrate his seventieth birthday.”

  “Elaine Walker Carrington has no hesitation in using people to suit her convenience. Even though she had let the Barrs go because she wanted to hire a fancy chef and butler and a couple of maids, she asked them to help with the serving that evening, and then work the brunch the next morning. They were ten times more efficient than the new staff, and I’m sure she paid them very well.”

  “Then they were rehired and I presume they served the dinner the night of Grace Carrington’s death. Would they still have been up when Peter returned?”

  “Both Peter and Grace were very considerate. After coffee had been served, and the cups collected, the Barrs retired to their own place. They had moved back to the former gatehouse on the estate.”

  “Mr. Slater, I spoke with Gary and Jane Barr last week. We went over their recollection of the dinner party and the brunch the next day. I discussed with Gary something I had noticed in the files. Twenty-two years ago he told investigators that the morning of the brunch, he overheard Peter Carrington tell you that Susan had left her handbag in his car the night before and he asked you to deliver it to her because there might be something she needed in it. He remembered making that statement and having heard that exchange between you and Peter.”