In the morning, we went to early Mass at St. Catherine’s, the beautiful church that never fails to comfort me. I prayed that I would find a way to clear my name, to change the impression the world has of Liza Barton. I prayed that we could someday be like the other young families I saw around me. I wanted the life they were leading.
In the pew directly ahead of us, there was a couple with two little boys I judged to be about four and three, and a baby girl less than a year old. At first the boys were well behaved, but then they started to fidget. The three-year-old began poking his older brother, who responded by leaning heavily against him. Their father noticed and separated them with a warning glance. Then the baby, obviously on the verge of being able to walk, began struggling to get down from her mother’s arms.
I wanted to be able to give Alex the family he wanted, with all the blessed aggravations that are part of that life.
Of course, Alex and Jack had noticed the kids in front of us. When we were walking back to the car after Mass, Alex asked Jack what he would do if a little brother started poking him.
“I’d give him a punch,” Jack said matter-of-factly.
“Jack, you wouldn’t! That’s not the way a big brother acts,” I told him.
“I’d give him a punch, too,” Alex confirmed. They grinned at each other. I made myself push aside the thought that if Alex somehow learned the truth about my past before I could present a compelling defense, he might simply move out and disappear from our lives.
We spent the rest of the day on the beach, went to Rod’s Olde Irish Tavern in Sea Girt for an early dinner, then, happily tired, started back to Mend-ham. On the way, I told Alex that I was going to sign up for riding lessons at the Washington Valley Riding Club.
“Why not at Peapack?” he asked.
“Because there’s a guy named Zach at Washington Valley who is supposed to be a wonderful teacher.”
“Who told you about him?”
“Georgette did,” I said, my throat choking on the lie. “I called over there Friday afternoon and talked to him. He said he wasn’t especially busy, and agreed to take me on. I kind of sweet-talked him into it, I guess. I told him my husband was a wonderful rider and that I was embarrassed to be starting out at a place where his friends could see how inexperienced I was.”
Lie after lie after lie. The truth, of course, was that riding a horse is like learning to ride a bicycle. Once you’ve learned it, you simply don’t forget. I was afraid that it was my experience, not my inexperience, that would trip me up.
And of course, taking lessons from Zach would be the most natural way for me to be around a man whose name had been on my mother’s lips seconds before she died.
32
Detective Paul Walsh was one of the first to arrive at Hilltop Presbyterian Church for Georgette Grove’s memorial service on Monday morning. To be certain that he didn’t miss seeing anyone who showed up, he chose a seat in the last pew. During the night, hidden cameras had been set up both inside the church and on the grounds outside. The tapes from them would be scrutinized later. Georgette’s killer would not be the first to arrive at the victim’s send-off, but it was likely that he—or she—would put in an appearance.
Walsh had absolutely dismissed the possibility that Georgette Grove had been murdered by a stranger who had followed her into the house with the intention of robbing her. So far as he was concerned, the presence of Celia Nolan’s picture in Georgette’s shoulder bag eliminated that consideration. It was obvious that the picture had been wiped clean of fingerprints for a reason.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Celia Nolan was an unbalanced woman, and that she had carried a gun with her to Holland Road. He could visualize her looking for Georgette, going from room to room, the pistol in her hand. You can bet she wasn’t calling Georgette’s name, Walsh thought. She found her on her knees with the turpentine-soaked rag in her hand, shot her, then put the picture from the newspaper in Georgette’s shoulder bag. It was her way of explaining the reason for killing her. Even placing the pistol precisely in the center of the splash of paint was, in his opinion, another sign of an unbalanced mind.
The search of Georgette’s house over the weekend had proven fruitful. One of the Mendham cops had found a file hidden in the closet of her bedroom that contained an exchange of E-mails between Henry Paley and Ted Cartwright. In one of them, Cartwright promised Paley a bonus if he could force Georgette to sell the property on Route 24. In several of Paley’s e-mails to Cartwright, he had written that the agency was in a shaky financial situation and that he was doing everything possible to keep it that way by not actively pursuing clients.
Nice guy, Walsh thought; he was actively trying to put his partner out of business. I wouldn’t be surprised if Paley didn’t hire someone to mess up Little Lizzie’s Place, too. MacKingsley’s mind-set is that Paley was the killer, having panicked because Georgette somehow got her hands on his Cartwright file, but Walsh wasn’t so sure.
It was common knowledge that Jeff MacKingsley intended to make a run for the governor’s office in two years, and a lot of people thought he would make it. This kind of high-profile case was just what he wanted. Well, solving this case would also be a nice feather in my cap, too, Paul Walsh thought. He wanted to retire soon and land a plush job doing security for some big corporation.
At ten minutes of ten, the organ began to play, and suddenly the church began to fill with people. Walsh recognized some members of the local media who, like him, stayed in the back pews. Dru Perry was easy to pick out with her mane of gray hair. Although too persistent for his taste, he thought she was a good newspaperwoman. He wondered if, like Samson, she got her strength from her hair.
He watched as Marcella Williams, the neighbor on Old Mill Lane, sat in the fourth pew. Doesn’t want to miss a trick, Walsh thought. It’s a wonder she didn’t go up and sit on the altar.
At five of ten, the family arrived. Walsh remembered that there were three of them: a brother, Thomas Madison, and his two sisters. Must be the sisters’ husbands and Madison’s wife with them, he figured. They went down the aisle and took seats in the front pew.
The relatives had been eliminated as persons of interest to those investigating Georgette Grove’s murder. A quiet check had confirmed that they were well-respected, solid citizens in the Philadelphia area. Walsh loved the expression “persons of interest.” Translated, it meant, We think you’re guilty and we’re breaking our necks to prove it.
Henry Paley, looking suitably mournful, and Robin Carpenter were the next to come down the aisle and take front seats. Robin had chosen to wear a black and white dress that was molded to her body. Henry’s black tie was his only concession to the outward appearance of funeral dress, and it seemed illsuited to his beige sports jacket and brown slacks. I bet that tie gets changed the minute he hears the last “Amen,” Walsh decided.
Talk about people of interest, he thought when, just as the minister stepped before the altar, Celia and Alex Nolan entered the church and took seats across the aisle and only a few rows ahead of him. Celia was wearing an obviously expensive suit, light gray with a faint yellow pin stripe. Dark glasses shielded her eyes. Her long, dark hair was twisted loosely into a knot at the back of her head. When she turned to whisper something to her husband, Walsh had a full view of her profile.
Classy looking, he admitted to himself—a killer with the face of an angel.
He watched as Alex Nolan, in a protective gesture, patted his wife’s back, as if to relax or comfort her.
Don’t do that, Walsh thought. I’d love to see her explode again.
A soloist began to sing “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and the congregation in the crowded church rose.
The pastor, in his eulogy, spoke of a woman who gave selflessly for the good of others: “Time after time, over the years, people who wanted to live in this beautiful community have told me how Georgette somehow managed to find them a house they could afford. We all know of
her selfless efforts to preserve the tranquil beauty of our community . . . . ”
At the end of the ceremony, Walsh stayed in his pew, observing the expressions of the people as they filed out of the church. He was glad to see that a number of them were dabbing at their eyes, and that one of the relatives was clearly upset. In these few days since Georgette Grove’s death, he had gotten the feeling that while she was admired, there weren’t many people who were close to her. In her last moment of life, she had looked up at someone who had hated her enough to kill her. He wanted to believe that somehow Georgette was aware of the affection of those who had come here today to mourn her.
When Celia Nolan passed him, Walsh could see that she was very pale, and was holding tightly onto her husband’s hand. For a split second, their eyes locked. Read my thoughts, Walsh signaled. Be afraid of me. Sense that I can’t wait to cuff you, lady.
As he left the church, he found Robin Carpenter waiting for him just outside. “Detective Walsh,” she said hesitantly, “when we were sitting inside at the service, I kept thinking about Georgette, of course, and then of something she happened to say to me on Wednesday evening. It was about six o’clock, and before I left the office I went in to say goodnight to her. She had her scrapbook on her desk and she was looking at it so intently. She never even heard me push open the door, so she didn’t know I was there. The door wasn’t fully closed, you see. And while I was standing there, I heard her say something that maybe I should share with you.”
Walsh waited.
“Georgette was talking to herself, but what she said was something like, ‘Dear God, I’ll never tell anyone I recognized her.’ ”
Walsh knew he was onto something. What it was, he couldn’t be sure, but every instinct told him that Carpenter’s information was important. “Where is that scrapbook?” he demanded.
“Henry lent it to Dru Perry for the story she wrote about Georgette that ran in the Star-Ledger yesterday. He wasn’t planning to lend it to her, but she persuaded him. She’s returning it this afternoon.”
“I’ll be over to get it. Thank you, Ms. Carpenter.”
Deep in thought, Paul Walsh walked to his car. This information has to do with Celia Nolan, he thought. I know it does.
33
Sue Wortman was the young woman who had taken care of the pony while we were in Spring Lake. She was in the barn with him when we got home Sunday evening. She explained she had stopped by to be sure Star was all right, just in case we were delayed.
Sue is a striking girl with golden-red hair, pale skin, and blue-green eyes. The oldest of four siblings, she has a way with children, and Jack took to her immediately. He explained to her why his pony used to be called Lizzie, but that wasn’t a good name, so now she was Star. Sue told Jack that was a much nicer name for a pony, and that she would bet Jack that he was going to become a champion rider on a pony named Star.
On the way home from Spring Lake Alex had suggested that we ought to attend Georgette’s service. “She gave me a lot of time showing houses before I bought this one,” he said.
No thanks to her for finding this one, I thought, but I did agree with him. That was why, when Sue told me she was available for babysitting, I hired her on the spot. I had planned to go to the Washington Valley Riding Club while Jack was in school, but with Sue to take care of Jack, I was able to change my riding lesson with Zach from 10 A.M. to 2 P.M. on Monday.
Four hours wasn’t much, but in a way I was glad to have that extra time before meeting Zach. All Sunday night, I had disturbing dreams. In all of them I was afraid. In one, I was drowning and too weak to fight. In another, Jack was missing. Then he was near me in the water, and I couldn’t reach him. In another dream, people without faces were pointing their index fingers at me, except that those fingers were shaped like guns. They were chanting, “J’accuse! J’accuse!” I, with my high school French, was dreaming in the language.
I woke Monday morning feeling as if I had been in a battle. My eyes were heavy and tired. My shoulders and neck were tense and aching. I took a long, hot shower, letting the water splash over my head and face and body, as though I could wash away the bad dreams and the constant fear of exposure that haunted my waking hours.
I had assumed we would drive to the memorial service in separate cars because Alex was going to work afterward, but he said he’d drop me back home when it was over. Sitting there in that church, all I could think of was Georgette as I saw her for the first time, trying to drag the hose in her effort to wash away the paint. I thought of the distress I saw on her face, her frantic apologies. Then my mind jumped to that moment in the house on Holland Road when I turned the corner and almost tripped over her body. As I sat in that church, I could smell the turpentine that had spilled on the floor.
Of course, Alex sensed my distress. “This was a lousy idea, Ceil,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
On the way out of church, my hand in his, we passed Detective Walsh. He and I looked at each other and I swear the hatred in his face was palpable. His disdain and contempt for me was apparent, and I knew he wanted me to see it. He was the Grand Inquisitor. He was all the voices of my nightmare: J’accuse! J’accuse!
Alex and I walked back to the car. I knew by now that he was concerned about the time. I said I was sorry I hadn’t driven my car, that I knew he was running late. Unfortunately, Marcella Williams had walked up behind us in the parking lot and overheard our conversation. “Why should you waste time dropping off Celia?” she insisted. “I’m going straight home, and it will give us a chance to visit. I’ve been wanting to stop by and see how you are doing, but I never want to intrude.”
Alex and I exchanged glances. Mine reflected dismay, I know, but as I climbed into Marcella’s car, I comforted myself that it would only be a ten-minute ride.
I guess my training as an interior designer, which allows me to glance at a room and immediately take in both its good and bad points, extends to my immediate impressions of the appearance of the people I meet. I had known Marcella Williams when I was a child, and I’d met her again the day Alex and I moved in, but that day I was distraught. Today, as I reluctantly sat next to her and clipped on my seat belt, I found myself studying her.
Marcella is a good-looking woman, in a brittle kind of way. She has dark blond hair that’s been brightened with skillfully applied streaks, good features, and an excellent figure. But I could also tell that she’s had a lot of cosmetic surgery. Her mouth is pulled at the sides. The result, of course, of a facelift. I suspect Botox is the reason for the smoothness of her forehead and cheeks. What so many women don’t understand is that smile lines around our eyes, and the little creases we all have at the sides of our lips, give us character and define us. But because she lacked the touches of time on her face, Marcella’s eyes and mouth seemed to jump out at me. Her eyes, intelligent, piercing, questioning; her mouth slightly open, showing her sharp, too-white teeth. She was wearing a Chanel suit, a mixture of cream and light-green fabric edged with a deeper shade of green. It occurred to me that she had come to the service dressed to be seen and admired.
“I’m so glad to have the chance to be with you, Celia,” she said warmly, as she steered her BMW convertible out of the parking lot. “That was a nice turnout, wasn’t it? I think it was so good of you to come. You hardly knew Georgette. She sold that house to your husband without telling him the background, then you had the horror of being the one to find her body. Even with all that, you came to pay your respects.”
“Georgette gave Alex a great deal of time when he was house hunting. He felt we should be there.”
“I wish some other people felt that way. I could give you a list of longtime residents of Mendham who should have been there, but who at one time or another had fallen out with Georgette. Oh, well.”
Marcella was driving along Main Street. “I understand that you were already looking for a different house, and that was why you went to Holland Road. I’d love to keep you for a neighbor, but I can ce
rtainly understand. I’m very good friends with Ted Cartwright. He’s the stepfather Liza Barton shot after she killed her mother. I guess by now you know the full story of that tragedy?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You wonder where that kid is now. Of course she isn’t really a kid anymore. She’d be in her early thirties, I guess. It would be interesting to know what happened to her. Ted said he doesn’t give a damn. He hopes she fell off the earth.”
Was she toying with me? “I can understand that he wants to put everything behind him,” I said.
“In all these years, he never remarried. Oh, he’s had girlfriends, of course. Plenty of them. Ted’s no hermit, far from it. But he sure was crazy about Audrey. When she dropped him for Will Barton, it just about broke his heart.”
My mother dropped Ted for my father! I’d never known that. Mother was twenty-four when she married Daddy. I tried to sound casual when I asked, “What do you mean by saying she dropped him? Was Audrey serious about Cartwright before she married Barton?”
“Oh, my dear, was she ever. Big engagement ring, plans for a wedding. The whole nine yards. She certainly seemed just as much in love as he was, but then she was maid of honor at a college friend’s wedding in Connecticut. Will Barton was the best man. And as they say, the rest is history.”
Why didn’t I ever know that? I wondered. But, looking back, I could see why Mother would not have told me. With my intense loyalty to my father’s memory, I would have resented the marriage even more had I felt Ted had been an intimate part of my mother’s life, and was simply resuming the role after being sidetracked for a few years.