“He may remember it, but if you continued to look in the notes, you’d know that at that time I said his recollection was only partially true,” Vincent Slater said evenly. “Peter did not tell me Susan had left her purse in the car. He said that she might have left her purse there. It wasn’t in the car, so obviously he was mistaken. In any case, I don’t get your point.”
“It’s only a comment. Mrs. Althorp is sure she heard Susan close the door of her room that night. Obviously she didn’t intend to stay there long. But by then if she had realized her purse was in Peter’s car, and she was planning to meet him, she wouldn’t be concerned. Otherwise, if she were meeting someone else, wouldn’t it seem natural for her to select another purse, get a compact and handkerchief, the usual things women carry?”
“You’re wasting my time, Mr. Greco. You’re not seriously suggesting that Susan’s mother knew exactly how many handkerchiefs, or, for that matter, how many evening purses were in her daughter’s room?”
Nicholas Greco got up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Slater. I’m afraid there is a development you need to know about. Mrs. Althorp has been interviewed by Celeb magazine; the issue will be on the stands tomorrow. In it, Mrs. Althorp specifically accuses Peter Carrington of the murder of her daughter, Susan.”
He watched as Vincent Slater’s complexion took on a sickly yellow tint.
“That’s libel,” Slater snapped. “Slander and out-and-out libel.”
“Exactly. And the normal reaction of an innocent man like Peter Carrington will be to instruct his lawyers to sue Gladys Althorp. This would be followed by the usual process of interrogatories and depositions until there was either a retraction, settlement, or public trial. In your opinion, will Peter Carrington demand an immediate retraction from Gladys Althorp and, if it is not received, institute a suit against her to clear his name?”
Slater’s eyes had turned icy, but not before Greco caught a sudden look of fear in them. “You were about to leave, Mr. Greco,” he said.
Neither man exchanged another word as Nicholas Greco left the house. Greco walked down the path, got into his car, and started it. Who is Slater on the phone with now? he wondered as he drove down the street. Carrington? The lawyers? The new Mrs. Carrington?
An image of Kay’s heated defense of Peter Carrington when he met her in her grandmother’s home came into his mind. Kay, you should have listened to your grandmother, he thought.
12
In the morning, Peter showed no sign of being aware that he had been sleepwalking during the night. I wasn’t sure whether or not to bring it up to him. What could I say? That it looked as if he was trying to push something or someone into the pool or pull something or someone from it?
I thought I had the explanation. He was having a nightmare about Grace drowning in the pool. He was trying to rescue her. It made sense, but talking to him about it seemed pointless. He wouldn’t remember any of it.
We got up at seven. The Barrs would come in at eight to prepare breakfast, but I squeezed juice and made coffee because we decided to take a quick jog through the grounds of the estate. Oddly enough, up until now we had spoken very little about my father’s role as landscaper here. I had told Peter how hard my mother’s death must have been on Daddy, and how his suicide had devastated me. I did not, of course, mention the appalling things Nicholas Greco had said. I was infuriated by his suggestion that Daddy might have chosen to disappear because he had something to do with Susan Althorp’s disappearance.
As we jogged, Peter began to talk about my father. “My mother never changed the landscaping after my grandmother died,” he said. “Then, in fairness to Elaine, when she married my father, she said the whole place looked as if it had been designed as a cemetery. She said it had everything but a sign reading ‘rest in peace.’ Your father did a beautiful job in creating the gardens that are here now.”
“Elaine fired him because of his drinking,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
“That’s her story,” Peter said mildly. “Elaine always fooled around, even when my father was alive. She made a play for your dad and he brushed her off. That’s really why she fired him.”
I stopped so suddenly that he was six strides ahead of me before he slowed and came back. “I’m sorry, Kay. You were a child. How could you possibly have known?”
It had been Maggie, of course, who told me that it was Daddy’s drinking that cost him the job. She blamed everything that happened on Daddy’s drinking: the loss of the job here, even his suicide. I realized I was suddenly furious at her. My father had been too much of a gentleman to give her the real reason he’d been fired, and then, being a know-it-all, she’d decided she knew the reason. Not fair, Maggie, I thought, not fair.
“Kay, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Peter’s hand was in mine and our fingers intertwined.
I looked up at him. Peter’s aristocratic face was strengthened by his firm jaw, but always it was his eyes that I saw when I looked at him. Now they were concerned, troubled that he had inadvertently hurt me.
“No, you didn’t upset me, not at all. In fact, you’ve cleared up something important. All these years I’ve had a mental image of my father stumbling around this place in a drunken stupor, and I’ve been embarrassed for him. Now I can erase it forever.”
Peter could tell that I didn’t want to discuss the subject any further.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Shall we pick up the pace?”
By running down the stone walks that wind through the gardens, and then reversing a couple of times, we got in a mile, then decided to do a final loop to the end of the west path that ended at the street. High hedges had been planted there. Peter explained that the state had installed a gas line near the curb many years ago, and when my father had prepared the landscaping design, he had suggested moving the fences fifty feet back. Then, if repairs were ever needed, it wouldn’t damage any of the plantings.
When we reached the hedges we could hear voices and the sound of machinery beyond the fence. By peeking through we could make out that a Public Service crew was creating a detour on the road and unloading equipment out of trucks. “I guess this is exactly what my father anticipated,” I said.
Peter said, “I guess so,” then turned and began to run again. “Race you to the house?” he called over his shoulder.
“Not fair,” I yelled, as he took off. A few minutes later, out of breath but feeling good about ourselves—at least so I thought—we went back into the house.
The Barrs were in the kitchen, and I could smell corn muffins baking. For someone whose normal breakfast is black coffee and half a toasted bagel minus either butter or cream cheese, I realized that firm discipline would be in order if I was going to stay in shape. But I wouldn’t worry about it today, our first breakfast at home.
There’s one thing about a mansion: You do get your choice of locations. The breakfast room is like a cozy indoor garden, with painted green and white lattice walls, a round glass top table, cushioned wicker chairs, and a breakfront filled with lovely green and white china. Glancing at the china made me realize again that there were so many treasures in this house, collected since the early nineteenth century. I had a fleeting thought of wondering who, if anyone, kept track of them.
I could tell that there was something troubling Jane Barr. Her warm greeting did not conceal the worry in her eyes. Something was wrong, but I did not want to ask her what it was in front of Peter. I know that he sensed it, too.
The New York Times was on the table next to his place. He started to pick it up, then pushed it aside. “Kay, I’ve been so used to reading the newspapers at breakfast that I forgot for a moment that now I have a very good reason to let them wait.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “You can have the first section. I’ll take the Metro section.”
It was after she had poured our second cup of coffee that Jane Barr came back into the breakfast room. This time she did not attempt to hide the concern she was feeling.
She addressed Peter. “Mr. Carrington, I’m not one to be the bearer of bad news, but when I stopped at the supermarket this morning they were delivering copies of Celeb magazine. The cover story is about you. I know you’ll be getting calls, so I wanted to warn you, but I also wanted you to have your breakfast in peace first.”
I saw that she was holding the copy of the magazine, still folded in half, under her arm. She handed it to Peter.
He unfolded it, looked at the front page, then his eyes closed as though he was turning away from a sight that was too painful to watch. I reached across the table and grabbed the tabloid. The banner-sized headline read, PETER CARRINGTON MURDERED MY DAUGHTER. There were two side-by-side pictures beneath it. One was a formal picture of Peter, the kind of stock photo newspapers use when they’re running a story on an executive. He was unsmiling, which didn’t surprise me. My innately shy Peter is not the kind of man who smiles for a camera. Nevertheless, in this particular unfortunate shot, he did look cold, even haughty and disdainful.
Susan Althorp’s picture was next to his, a radiant Susan in her debutante gown, her long blond hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes sparkling, her beautiful young face joyous. Not daring to look at Peter, I turned the page. The double spread inside pages were just as bad. DYING MOTHER DEMANDS JUSTICE. There was a photo of an emaciated, grief-stricken Gladys Althorp, surrounded by pictures of her daughter at every stage of Susan’s brief life.
I know enough about the law to understand that if Peter did not demand a retraction and get it, his only alternative would be to sue Gladys Althorp. I looked at him and now could not read his expression. But I was sure that the last thing he wanted was to hear useless cries of outrage from me. “What are you going to do?” I asked.
Jane Barr vanished into the kitchen.
Peter looked as if he were in pain, as if he’d been physically attacked. His eyes glistened and his voice was agonized when he said, “Kay, for twenty-two years I have answered every question they ever asked about Susan’s disappearance. Only hours after they realized she was missing, the prosecutor’s office descended upon us, questioning me. Twenty-four hours later, even before they asked, my father gave permission to have bloodhounds sniff the grounds. He allowed a search of the house. They impounded my car. They couldn’t come up with one single iota of evidence that suggested I knew what happened to Susan after I dropped her off that night. Have you any idea what a nightmare it would be if I demand a retraction from Susan’s mother, don’t get it, and institute a suit? I’ll tell you what will happen. It will be a three-ring circus for the media and that poor woman will be dead long before it even gets near a court date.”
He stood up. He was shaking and fighting back tears. I rushed around the table and put my arms around him. The only way I could possibly help was to tell him how much I loved him.
I think my words gave him some comfort, so that at least he didn’t feel totally alone. But then, in a voice that was sad, even a little remote, he said, “I’ve done you no favor by marrying you, Kay. You don’t need this mess.”
“Neither do you,” I said. “Peter, I think that, horrible as it is, you’ve got to demand a retraction from Mrs. Althorp, and if necessary file suit against her for libel and slander. I’m sorry for her, but she’s done it to herself.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”
Vincent Slater came in as Peter was showering. I knew they were going to Peter’s office together that morning. “You’ve got to convince Peter that he must demand a retraction,” I told him.
“That’s a subject we’ll take up with our lawyers, Kay,” he said, his tone dismissive.
We looked at each other. From the first minute I met him, when I came here begging to have the reception in the mansion, I had sensed Slater’s animosity toward me. But I knew I had to be careful. He was an important part of Peter’s life.
“Peter has been given the chance to clear his name, to show that there isn’t a shred of evidence to tie him to Susan’s disappearance,” I told Vincent. “If he doesn’t demand a retraction, he might as well hang a sign around his neck saying, ‘I did it. I’m guilty.’ ”
He did not answer. Then Peter came downstairs, kissed me good-bye, and they were gone.
That afternoon, as they were digging to lay new underground cables, the Public Service crew unearthed the skeleton of a woman, tightly wrapped in plastic bags, buried in the unfenced area at the edge of the Carrington estate. Traces of what appeared to be blood were visible on the front of her decaying white chiffon gown.
Gary Barr was the one who rushed in to tell me what was happening. On his way back from a shopping trip, he had passed the excavation site and was there when the first shout came from the workman whose equipment uncovered the body. Gary told me that he had parked and watched as police cars began to arrive on the scene, sirens blaring.
From the security cameras outside the mansion, I could see a crowd gathering. I don’t think that for a minute I doubted that the body would be identified as that of Susan Althorp.
The ringing of the front door reminded me of the pealing of the church bells at the memorial Mass for my father. I can still remember the mournful sound as, my hand in Maggie’s, we left the church and stood with friends on the steps of St. Cecilia’s. I remember Maggie saying something like, “When and if they find Jonathan’s remains, there will be a proper burial, of course.” But it had never happened.
As a flustered Jane Barr rushed in to inform us that detectives were here to speak to Mr. Carrington, I had the incongruous thought that soon there would be a proper burial for Susan Althorp.
13
We know he did it, but do we have enough to indict him?” Barbara Krause threw the question out to Assistant Prosecutor Tom Moran, the head of her homicide squad. Six days had passed since the remains of Susan Althorp had been found on the unfenced grounds of the Carrington estate. An autopsy had been performed and positive identification had been established. The cause of death was strangulation.
Moran, a balding and somewhat overweight twenty-five-year veteran of the prosecutor’s office, shared his boss’s frustration. Since the body had been discovered, the wealth and power of the Carrington family had become evident. Carrington had lined up a team of nationally known criminal defense attorneys, and they were already at work preparing to defend a possible indictment. The cold hard facts were that the Bergen County prosecutor did have enough evidence to establish probable cause to file a murder complaint against Carrington, and a grand jury would almost certainly indict him. But the odds were that a trial jury, with the burden of proof being beyond a reasonable doubt, would either acquit him or end up a hung jury.
Nicholas Greco was expected at the prosecutor’s office momentarily. He had called and requested an appointment with Barbara Krause, and she had invited Moran to sit in on it.
“He says he may have come across something useful,” Krause told Moran. “Let’s hope so. I’m not crazy about outsiders involved in our cases, but in this instance I’ll be happy to give him any credit he wants if he helps us convict Carrington.”
She and Moran had spent the morning discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the case, and found nothing new. The fact that Carrington had driven Susan home and had been the last person known to see her was diminished by the fact that both her mother and father heard her come into the house, and that she had called out “good night” to them. When foul play was suspected, Carrington, then twenty years old, had answered all of the questions their office had thrown at him. When he realized that his son was a suspect, Carrington’s father had allowed, even demanded, a thorough search of the mansion, the grounds, and Peter’s car. The search had yielded nothing.
By the end of the first day that Susan had not contacted her family, Carrington’s summer tuxedo and shoes had been tested for any possible evidence, with negative results. The formal shirt he had been wearing could not be found. He claimed he had put it in the hamper as usual and the ne
w maid had sworn that she had given it to the dry cleaner’s pickup service the next morning. The cleaner claimed to have received only one dress shirt, the one belonging to Carrington’s father, but that lead had gone nowhere. Investigation showed that the particular cleaner had a long history of mishandling clothing and mixing up orders.
“In fact, the delivery they made when they supposedly picked up the shirt had a neighbor’s jacket in it,” Krause said, exasperation evident in her voice. “That shirt Carrington was wearing is the piece of evidence we’ve always needed. Dollars to donuts it had blood on it.”
The buzzer on Krause’s intercom sounded. Nicholas Greco had arrived.
Greco had met Tom Moran when he initially reviewed the files of the Althorp case. Now he wasted no time in getting to the reason for his visit. “You can imagine how Mrs. Althorp is feeling,” he said. “She told me that at least she knows that before too long she and Susan will be lying side by side in the cemetery. But of course the discovery of the body on Carrington property has reinforced her need to see Peter Carrington brought to justice.”
“Exactly our reaction,” Krause said bitterly.
“As you know, I have been interviewing people close to the Carringtons, including some of the staff. Sometimes memories can be jogged long after the excitement of the initial investigation has taken place. I saw in your files that at the time of the disappearance, you questioned Gary and Jane Barr, the former and present Carrington housekeepers.”
“Of course we did.” Barbara Krause leaned forward slightly, an indication that she sensed she was about to hear something of interest.
“It’s noted in your files that Barr mentioned that the morning of the brunch he overheard Carrington tell Vincent Slater that Susan had left her pocketbook in his car, and he asked Slater to run it over to her home in case she needed anything from it. It seemed to me to be a very unusual request, since Susan was expected at the brunch, and her mother remembers that she was carrying a very small evening bag at the dinner. Slater reported that he looked in the car; the purse was not there. When I pressed Barr, he told me he recalled that when Carrington got that response from Slater, he said, ‘That’s impossible. It has to be there.’ ”