But why was Mother suddenly afraid of him, and why had he thrown her at me while I was pointing a gun?
We were turning down Old Mill Lane. “How about stopping at my house for a cup of coffee?” Marcella asked.
I managed to get out of that one by saying I had some phone calls to make before I picked up Jack. Uttering the vaguest of promises to get together soon, I finally was able to get out of her car. With a sigh of relief I let myself in the kitchen door, then closed and locked it.
The message light was blinking on the phone. I picked up the receiver, pushed the PLAY button and listened.
It was that same shadowy voice I had heard the other day. This time it whispered, “More about Little Lizzie . . .
“And when the dreadful deed was done,
“She gave her father forty-one.
“Thursday got another gun,
“Shot Georgette and began to run.”
34
Jeff MacKingsley called a two o’clock meeting of the detectives assigned to the investigation of Georgette Grove’s death. Paul Walsh, Mort Shelley, and Angelo Ortiz were present and ready to give their reports.
Shelley went first: “The personal codes of eight local brokers were programmed into the lockbox on Holland Road. Two of those eight were Georgette Grove and Henry Paley. There’s a computer record of which broker’s code was punched in and the time it was punched. Paley told us he’d been out there once. The fact is, he was there three times. The last time was Sunday afternoon, a week ago. The paint in that storage room was used on the Nolan house sometime Monday night.”
He glanced down at his notes. “I’ve checked with the other brokers who showed the house last week. They all swear they did not leave the kitchen or patio doors unlocked. But they did agree that somebody showing a house could leave a door unlocked—it’s been known to happen. The alarm system is programmed for fire and carbon monoxide, not for entry or exit, the reason being that several times someone punched in the wrong code to disarm the alarm system, and the cops came rushing over. The owners decided that since the house was empty, and with Charley Hatch keeping an eye on things, it was more of a nuisance than a protection.”
“Do any of the brokers you spoke to remember seeing the key in the door of the storage closet?” Jeff asked.
“One of them from the Mark Grannon Agency showed the house on Sunday morning. He said the key was there. He remembers because he opened the storage closet door. The cans of paint that were inside were all unopened. He put the key back in the door and locked the closet.”
“Let’s go step-by-step,” Jeff suggested. “We know the key to the storage closet was there on Sunday morning. Paley showed the house on Sunday afternoon and claims he didn’t notice if the key was there. Wednesday in the Black Horse Tavern, Georgette publicly accused Ted Cartwright of conniving with Henry to force her to sell her property in Route 24. Now that we found Henry’s file in her closet, we know why she made that accusation. She had proof that they were working together.”
“I gather that everybody in the tavern got that message,” Mort Shelley commented.
“That’s right,” Jeff agreed. “Follow this reasoning. I don’t see Henry Paley actually painting that lawn or carving that skull and crossbones on the door, but I can see that either he or Cartwright might pay someone else to do it. I can also understand why Henry might panic if Georgette had proof that he was connected to the vandalism. I can’t see a judge letting him off with just a slap on the wrist on that one, especially since his purpose was to destroy his partner. I think he’d get some jail time.”
Jeff linked his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “Henry knew the paint was there. He wanted to get his money out of the office property. He also wanted his money out of the Route 24 parcel. Cartwright had promised him a hefty bonus if he forced the sale. If Georgette Grove knew all that, from what I hear of her, she was the kind of woman who’d have hung onto that property even if she was starving rather than let Henry get his hands on it. I say that Paley and Cartwright are our primary suspects in Grove’s death, so let’s keep the heat on both of them. Cartwright will never crack, but I bet we can put the squeeze on Paley.”
“Jeff, respectfully, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” This time Paul Walsh’s voice was devoid of its usual hint of sarcasm. “Georgette’s death has everything to do with the pretty lady on Old Mill Lane.”
“You were going to run Celia Nolan’s fingerprints through the database,” Jeff said. Even though his voice was quiet there was no mistaking the anger that was building in him. “I trust you did it, and what did you find?”
“Oh, she’s clean,” Walsh admitted freely. “She never committed a crime for which she’s been caught. But there’s something fishy there. Celia Nolan is scared. She’s defensive, and she’s hiding something. When I was leaving the service for Grove, Robin Carpenter stopped me outside the church.”
“That is one good-looking lady,” Ortiz injected.
A glance from Jeff MacKingsley silenced him.
“As we know, Georgette worked late in her office on Wednesday night,” Walsh continued. “My bet is that she was suspicious of Henry Paley, went through his desk, and found that file. Then, when she was having dinner at the Black Horse, she spotted Ted Cartwright and verbally attacked him. But I think those facts pale in significance when compared to what Georgette’s other associate, Robin, told me this morning.”
He paused, wanting to emphasize his point. “She told me that on Wednesday evening, she went back to say goodnight to Georgette. The door to Georgette’s office was slightly ajar, and Robin pushed it open. Georgette was looking at her scrapbook, and, not realizing she was being overheard, said, ‘Dear God, I’ll never tell anyone I recognized her.’”
“Who was she talking about?” Jeff asked.
“My guess is that a picture of Celia Nolan may be in that book.”
“Have you got the scrapbook?”
“No. Henry lent it to Dru Perry from the Star-Ledger for an article she is writing. According to Carpenter, she promised to return it by four o’clock this afternoon. I’m going to pick it up later. I didn’t call Perry, because I didn’t want her to realize we were interested in the book.”
“Once again, Paul, I think it’s necessary for you to keep an open mind, or else you’re going to miss the obvious just because it doesn’t fit in with your theory,” Jeff snapped. “We had this conversation on Friday. Let’s move on. What about fingerprints?”
“They’re all in the usual spots in the Holland Road house,” Mort Shelley reported. “They’re on doorknobs, light switches, kitchen drawers—you know, where you’d expect to find them. We’ve run all of them through the database and we came up with zip. No criminal records on any of the people who left them there.”
“How about the gun?”
“What you expected, Jeff,” Shelley told him. “Saturday night special, impossible to trace.”
Angelo Ortiz was next: “Clyde Earley talked to the landscaper, Charley Hatch, Friday afternoon. He felt that Hatch was nervous—not nervous the way people are when a cop starts asking questions, but nervous, defensive, like he’s got something to hide.”
“Is Earley checking Hatch out?” Jeff asked.
“Yes. I talked to him this morning. He hadn’t uncovered anything that would show any reason for Hatch to have a grudge against Georgette Grove. He gets paid by the owners of the houses, not by the real estate agent. But Earley’s got one of his hunches. He’s still sniffing around Hatch.”
“Well, tell him not to pull any of his ‘in plain view’ tricks,” Jeff said. “Remember, we lost a drug case a couple of years ago because the judge didn’t believe Earley’s story that the cocaine the guy was transporting was plainly visible on the front seat of the car.”
“Earley has wonderful eyesight,” Mort Shelley said mildly. “As I remember, he adjusted his story to tell the judge he spotted some traces of the drug on the door of the glove compartment.”
“Warn him, Angelo,” Jeff ordered. “The trouble with Clyde is that ever since he got publicity on the Barton case twenty-four years ago, he’s been trying to find a way back into the spotlight again.” He stood up. “Okay, that’s it.”
* * *
Ten miles away, Sergeant Clyde Earley was standing outside Charley Hatch’s barn. He’d already established that Charley wasn’t home, having seen his landscaping van in front of one of the houses on Kahdena Road. I’m just paying a little visit to go over Charley’s schedule at the Holland Road house, Earley told himself. Sorry that he’s not here.
The trash barrels by the barn were full. Wouldn’t hurt to take a look, would it? Clyde thought. The lid’s practically off this one anyhow. I know I can’t get a search warrant at this point, because I don’t have probable cause on Charley Hatch, so I guess I’ll just have to make do without one. I like it the way it used to be when the courts considered garbage abandoned property, and no warrant was needed. Now they’ve changed their minds. No wonder so many crooks are getting away with murder!
His conscience satisfied, Clyde Earley knocked the lid off the first barrel. It was stuffed with two black trash bags, each of them securely tied and knotted at the top. With a yank of his strong hands, Clyde opened the first one. It contained the unappetizing remains of Charley Hatch’s most recent meals. With a muttered expletive, Clyde threw it back in the barrel, picked up the other bag and opened it. This one was stuffed with shabby clothes that suggested Charley had cleaned out his closet.
Clyde shook the contents onto the ground. The last items to fall out were sneakers, jeans, and a bag of carved figurines. With a satisfied smile, he examined the jeans and sneakers closely and found what he was looking for: drops of red paint on the jeans, a smear of red paint on the sole of the left-foot sneaker. Charley must have jumped into those corduroy pants when he saw me coming, Clyde thought. I wouldn’t have suspected anything if he’d been smart enough to just wrap a towel around himself.
The figurines were a half-dozen statuettes of animals and birds, all intricately carved, all about six inches tall. These are good, Clyde thought; if Charley did them, he’s been hiding his talent. Why would he get rid of these? Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out, he decided. He doesn’t want them around because he didn’t just do a paint job on Lizzie’s place—he got creative and carved the skull and crossbones on the door. That’s the way I’ll get him. Somebody has to know about his little hobby.
Thoroughly satisfied with his detective work, Sergeant Clyde Earley carefully placed the figurines, the sneakers, and the jeans in the squad car.
The sanitation department would have picked these up tomorrow morning if I hadn’t been here, he thought virtuously. At least now we know who messed up Little Lizzie’s Place. Next thing to prove is why he did it, and find out who he was working for.
Now that he had what he wanted, Earley was eager to get away. He stuffed the rest of the clothing Hatch had discarded back in the trash bag, retied it, but deliberately left it on the ground. Let him sweat blood when he sees someone’s been here and taken the evidence he thought he was getting rid of. Wish I could be a little bird and see his expression, he thought.
Earley got back in the squad car and turned the key in the engine. I don’t think I have to worry about Charley Hatch reporting a theft, he told himself. That ludicrous possibility made him snicker out loud as he drove away.
35
My first instinct was to erase that horrible message, but I didn’t do it. Instead I took the answering tape out of the machine and brought it up to my office. I pulled out the file drawer of my desk and tapped in the combination that opened the hidden panel. As if my fingers were burning from touching it, I dropped the tape in the file, along with all the other material that has been written over the years about Little Lizzie Borden. When the panel was safely secured again, I sat at my desk, holding my hands down on my knees to keep them from trembling.
I simply could not believe what I had heard. Someone who knew I was Liza Barton was accusing me of murdering Georgette Grove. I’ve spent twenty-four years wondering when someone would point a finger at me and shout my real name, but even that fear could not compare with this attack. How could anyone think I would kill a woman whom I’ve met only once in my life, and for less than an hour?
Detective Walsh. His name sprang into my mind. “Have you ever fired a gun?” It was the kind of question you ask a person you view as a suspect, not something you’d say to an innocent woman who has just had the shock of discovering a murder victim. Was it possible that Walsh was the one who had left that phone message, and was now playing a cat-and-mouse game with me?
But even if he knows I’m Liza Barton—and how would he know?—why would he think I would kill Georgette Grove? Did Walsh imagine that I was angry enough at Georgette to kill her because she had sold Alex this house? Could Walsh possibly believe my mind is so twisted that being brought back to this house, plus the cruel reminders of the tragedy, would send me over the edge? That possibility made me sick with fear.
Even if Walsh is not the one who knows I am Liza Barton, he’s still suspicious of me. I’ve already lied to him. And if he comes around again, I’ll be forced into a continuing series of lies.
I thought about last week. Last week at this time I was in my Fifth Avenue apartment. All was right with my world. It felt like one hundred years ago.
It was time to pick up Jack. As always, his need for me is the focus of my life. I got up, went into my bathroom and washed my face, splashing it with cold water, trying to shock myself into some kind of reality. For some incongruous reason, I remembered Henry Paley pointing out the advantage of having his-and-her bathrooms in the master bedroom suite. At the time, I’d wanted to be able to tell him that my father had figured that one out.
I changed from the suit I had worn to the church service into jeans and a cotton sweater. As I got in the car, I reminded myself that I had to buy a new tape for the answering machine. Otherwise Alex would surely ask why the one that had been there this morning was missing.
I collected Jack at St. Joe’s and suggested we have lunch at the coffee shop. I realized that a new fear factor had been added to being in the house—from now on I was going to panic whenever the phone there rang.
I managed to persuade Jack to eat a grilled cheese sandwich instead of his inevitable choice of peanut butter and jelly. He was filled with stories about pre-K, including the fact that a girl had tried to kiss him.
“Did you let her kiss you?” I asked.
“No, it’s stupid.”
“You let me kiss you,” I teased.
“That’s different.”
“Then you’ll never let a girl in your class kiss you?”
“Oh, sure. I let Maggie kiss me. I’m going to marry her someday.”
His fourth day in class, and his future is already settled. But for now, in this diner, over a grilled cheese sandwich, he is perfectly content with me.
And I with him, of course. It’s funny how my love for Jack was the root cause of my marrying Alex. I had met Alex for the first time at Larry’s funeral two years ago. Larry had been one of those men whose business associates become their primary family. I’d met a few of his relatives, but only when, as Larry put it, “We can’t get out of the damn family get-together.”
Even standing at my husband’s casket, I couldn’t help being aware that Alex Nolan was a very attractive man. I didn’t see him again until he came up and introduced himself to me at a charity dinner a year ago. We had lunch the next week, and went to dinner and the theatre a few nights later. From the beginning, it was obvious that he was interested in me, but I had no intention of getting involved with anyone at that time. I had genuinely loved Larry, but the realization of just how disturbed he had been about my past had unsettled me terribly.
Larry was the man who had told me that the happiest part of his life began the day he met me. Larry was the man who put his arms aro
und me and said, “My God, you poor kid,” when I showed him the sensational stories of Little Lizzie. Larry was the man who shouted with joy the day I told him I was pregnant, and who did not leave me for one single minute of my long and difficult delivery. Larry was the man who, in his will, left me one third of his wealth, and made me residual heir of Jack’s estate.
Larry was also the man who on his deathbed, his weakened hand clutching mine, his eyes opaque with the nearness of impending death, begged me not to disgrace his son by revealing my past.
Alex and I began to date with the understanding that this was going nowhere, that this was all platonic, a word that today I’m sure many people find amusing. “I’ll be platonic as long as you want, Ceil,” he would joke, “but don’t for a minute believe I think platonic.” Then he’d turn to Jack. “Hey, guy, we’ve got to work on your mother. How can I make her like me?”
We’d been in that mode for four months when one night everything changed. Jack’s babysitter was late. By the time she got to the apartment, it was ten of eight, and I was expected at an eight o’clock dinner party on the West Side. The doorman was getting a cab for someone else. I saw another cab coming down Fifth and rushed out to hail it. I didn’t see the limo that was just pulling out from the curb.
I woke up in the hospital two hours later, battered and bruised, and with a concussion, but basically okay. Alex was sitting by my bedside. He answered my question before I asked: “Jack’s fine. Your babysitter called me when the police tried to reach someone at the apartment. They couldn’t get in touch with your mother and father in Florida.”
He ran his hand across my cheek. “Ceil, you could have been killed!” Then he answered my next unasked question. “The babysitter will wait till I get there. I’ll stay at your place with Jack tonight. If he wakes up, you know he’ll be comfortable with me.”
Alex and I were married two months later. The difference, of course, is that while we were simply seeing each other without commitment, I owed him nothing. Now that I am his wife—no, before I became his wife, I owed him the truth.