No Place Like Home Page 8

  “Mrs. Nolan, if you find any evidence of someone being on this property, please give us a call. I’m also going to ask the police to ride past the house regularly.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  I had not heard Alex come in, and I guess MacKingsley hadn’t either, because we both turned abruptly to find Alex standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I introduced the two men, and MacKingsley repeated to him that he would check the picture I’d found in the barn for fingerprints.

  To my relief, Alex did not ask to see it. Surely MacKingsley would have found it odd if he had known that I hadn’t shown it to my husband. He left immediately after that, then Alex and I looked at each other. He put his arms around me. “Peace, Ceil,” he said. “I’m sorry I blew up. It’s just that you’ve got to let me in on things. I am your husband, remember? Don’t treat me as a stranger who has no business knowing what’s going on.”

  He took up my offer to get out the salmon that he had left on the lunch table. We ate together on the patio and I told him about the offer Georgette Grove had made. “Certainly, start looking,” he agreed. “And if we end up with two houses for a while, so be it.” Then he added, “Who knows, we may end up needing both of them.”

  I knew he meant it as a joke, but neither one of us smiled, and the old truism rushed through my mind. “Many a true word is spoken in jest.” The doorbell rang. I opened the door, and the Mendham police officer with the fingerprint kit stepped inside. As I rolled the tips of my fingers in the ink, I thought of having done this before—the night I killed my mother.

  15

  When she arrived at the office, Georgette Grove sensed the tension in the air between Henry and Robin. Henry’s habitual timid Casper Milquetoast expression was now one of petulance, and his thin lips were set in a stubborn line.

  Robin’s eyes were sending angry darts at him, and her body language suggested that she was ready to spring out of her chair and throw him a punch.

  “What’s up?” Georgette asked brusquely, hoping that she would signal to the two of them that she was not in a mood for petty co-worker hissy fits.

  “It’s very simple,” Robin snapped. “Henry is in one of his doom-and-gloom moods, and I told him you had enough on your plate without him hanging out the crepe and wringing his hands.”

  “If you call the potential of a law suit that would finish this agency ‘doom and gloom,’ you ought not to come into the real estate business,” Henry snapped back. “Georgette, I assume you’ve read the newspapers? I ask you to remember that I have a stake in this agency, too.”

  “A twenty percent stake,” Georgette said levelly, “which, if my arithmetic hasn’t failed me, means that I own eighty percent.”

  “I also own twenty percent of the property on Route 24 and I want my money from it,” Henry continued. “We have an offer. Either sell it or buy me out.”

  “Henry, you know perfectly well that the people who want to buy that property are fronting for Ted Cartwright. If he gets his hands on it, he’ll have enough land to press for commercial zoning. Long ago, we agreed that we’d eventually deed that property to the state.”

  “Or that you would buy me out,” Henry insisted stubbornly. “Georgette, let me tell you something. That house on Old Mill Lane is cursed. You’re the only real estate agent in town who would accept the exclusive listing on it. You’ve wasted this firm’s money advertising it. When Alex Nolan asked to see it, you should have told him the truth about it right then and there. The morning I showed that place to Celia Nolan, there was something positively chilling in the atmosphere of the room where the murder took place. She felt it and it upset her. As I also told you, the damn place smelled like a funeral parlor.”

  “Her husband ordered the flowers. I didn’t,” Georgette replied hotly.

  “I saw the picture in the newspaper of that poor girl collapsing, and you are responsible for it. I hope you realize that.”

  “All right, Henry, you’ve had your say,” Robin said, suddenly speaking up, her tone even and firm. “Why don’t you calm down?” She looked at Georgette. “I was hoping to spare you from getting hit with this the minute you walked in.”

  Georgette looked gratefully at Robin. I was her age when I opened this agency, she thought. She’s got what it takes to make people want the houses she shows them. Henry doesn’t give a damn anymore whether or not he makes a sale. He wants to retire so much that he can taste it. “Look, Henry,” she said, “there is a potential solution. Alex Nolan did publicly admit that he cut me off when I tried to tell him about the background of the house. The Nolans want to live in the area. I’m going to go through every listing I can find and line up some houses to show Celia Nolan. If I find something she likes, I’ll waive the commission. Alex Nolan didn’t even want to press a complaint against whoever vandalized the house. I have a feeling they’ll both be amenable to settling this matter quietly.”

  Henry Paley shrugged and, without answering, turned and walked down the hall to his office.

  “I swear he’ll be disappointed if you manage to pull that rabbit out of the hat,” Robin commented.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Georgette agreed, “but I am going to pull it out.”

  It was an unexpectedly busy morning with a young drop-in couple who seemed seriously interested in buying a home in the Mendham area. Georgette spent several hours driving them to view places in their price range, then calling the owners and getting permission to go through the ones they liked. They left after promising to come back with their parents to look at a house they seemed to have fallen in love with.

  Georgette had a quick sandwich and coffee at her desk, and for the next two hours went through the multiple-broker listing of residences for sale and studied it carefully in the hope that one of them would jump out as an attractive prospect for Celia Nolan.

  She finally culled the list down to four possibilities. She would push the two she had an exclusive on, but show Celia the others if necessary. She was friends with the agent who had those two listings, and could count on making some kind of arrangement about her share of the commission.

  Her fingers crossed, she called the Nolans’ number and was relieved and delighted that Celia seemed totally amenable to looking at other houses in the area. Next, she made phone calls to the owners of the houses she had selected and asked to see them immediately.

  At four o’clock she was on her way. “I’ll be back,” she told Robin. “Wish me luck.”

  Three of the houses she eliminated from consideration. All were charming in their own way, but not, she was sure, what Celia Nolan would be interested in. The one she had saved for last seemed, from the description, to be a real possibility. It was a farmhouse that had been restored, and was vacant now because the owner had been transferred by his employer on short notice. She remembered that she had heard that the house showed well because it had just been redecorated. It was near the town line of Peapack, in the same area in which Jackie Kennedy once had a home. I never did get to see this one because it received an immediate offer last month, but then the sale fell through, Georgette reflected.

  A beautiful piece of property, she thought as she drove up to the entrance. It has twelve acres, so there’s plenty of room for the pony. She stopped to open the gate of the split-rail fence. This kind of fence is so in harmony with the surroundings, she decided as she pushed the gate back. Some of those gaudy gates and fences they’re putting on the Mc-Mansions are an insult to the eye.

  She got back in the car, then drove up the long driveway and parked at the house’s front door. She opened the lockbox and was glad to see that the key was there, meaning that no one else was showing the house. Of course, nobody is around, she thought, otherwise there’d be a car here. She let herself in and walked through the rooms. The house was immaculate. Every room had been repainted recently. The kitchen was state-of-the-art, while retaining the look of an old-fashioned country kitchen.

  It’s in move-in conditi
on, she thought. Even though it’s more expensive than Old Mill Lane, my guess is that if Celia Nolan likes it, the price wouldn’t be a problem.

  With growing hope, she inspected the house from attic to basement. In the finished basement, a storage closet near the stairs was locked and the key for it was missing. I know Henry showed this house the other day, Georgette thought with growing irritation. I wonder if he absentmindedly pocketed the key. Last week he couldn’t find his key to the office, and then later was searching everywhere for his car key. It doesn’t have to be his fault, of course; right now I’m ready to blame him for everything, she admitted to herself.

  There was a splotch of red on the floor outside the closet. Georgette knelt down to examine it. It was paint—she was sure of that. The dining room was a rich, deep shade of red. This was probably the storage closet for leftover cans of paint, she decided.

  She went back upstairs, closed and locked the door, and returned the house key to the lockbox. As soon as she reached the office, she called Celia Nolan and raved about the farmhouse.

  “It does sound worth taking a look at.”

  Celia sounds low-key, Georgette thought, but at least she’s willing to see it. “It won’t last on the market, Mrs. Nolan,” she assured her. “If ten o’clock tomorrow morning is all right with you, I’ll be happy to pick you up.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’d rather drive myself. I always like to have my own car. That way I can be sure I’ll be on time to pick up Jack at school.”

  “I understand. Let me give you the address,” Georgette said. She listened as Celia repeated it, then was about to give directions, but Celia interrupted.

  “There’s another call coming in. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp.”

  Georgette snapped shut her cell phone and shrugged. When Celia Nolan has time to think, she’ll probably call back for directions. That house isn’t the easiest place to find. She waited expectantly for her phone to ring, but it did not. She probably has a navigation system in her car, she decided.

  “Georgette, I want to apologize.” Henry Paley was standing at the door to her office.

  Georgette looked up.

  Before she could answer, Paley continued: “That is not to say I didn’t mean every word, but I apologize for the way I said it.”

  “Accepted,” Georgette told him, then added, “Henry, I’m taking Celia Nolan to see the farmhouse on Holland Road. I know you were there last week. Do you remember if the key to the storage closet in the basement was there?”

  “I believe it was.”

  “Did you look in the closet?”

  “No. The couple I took out were obviously not interested in the house. It was too pricey for them. We stayed only a few minutes. Well, I’ll be on my way. Goodnight, Georgette.”

  Georgette sat for long minutes after he left. I always said I could smell a liar, she thought, but what in the name of God has Henry got to lie about? And why, after he viewed it, didn’t he tip me off to the fact the house is sure to move fast?

  16

  After she had viewed the vandalism on Old Mill Lane, Dru Perry went straight back to the Star-Ledger office and wrote up the story. She was pleased to see that her picture of Celia Nolan fainting had been picked to run with it.

  “Trying to put me out of business?” Chris, the newspaper’s photographer who had rushed to the scene, asked jokingly.

  “No. Just lucky enough to be there and catch the moment.” That was when Dru had told Ken Sharkey, her editor, that she wanted to do a feature story on the Barton case. “It’s absolutely perfect for my ‘Story Behind the Story’ series,” she said.

  “Any idea where Barton is now?” Sharkey asked.

  “No, not a clue.”

  “What will make it a real story is if you can track Liza Barton down and get her version of what happened in that house that night.”

  “I intend to try.”

  “Go ahead with it. Knowing you, you’ll find something juicy.” Ken Sharkey’s quick smile was a dismissal.

  “By the way, Ken. I’m going to work at home tomorrow.”

  “Okay with me.”

  When she had moved from Washington five years earlier, Dru had found the perfect home. A small house on Chestnut Street in Montclair, it was a reasonable commute to the Star-Ledger in Newark. Unlike people who bought condos and town houses to avoid landscaping and snow-plowing problems, Dru loved tending her own lawn and having a small garden.

  Another plus was that the train station was down the block, so she could be in midtown Manhattan in twenty minutes without the hassle of driving and parking. Dru, a film and theatre buff, went there three or four evenings a week.

  Early in the morning, comfortably dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, coffeepot plugged in beside her, she settled at her desk in the office she had created in what would have been a second bedroom for most people. The wall in front of her desk was covered with a corkboard. When she was writing a feature story, she tacked all the information she downloaded from the Internet on it. By the time she had completed a “Story Behind the Story” feature for the Sunday Star-Ledger, the wall was a jumble of pictures, clippings, and scrawled notes that made sense only to her.

  She had downloaded everything available about the Liza Barton case. Twenty-four years ago, it had stayed in the news for weeks. Then, as with all sensational stories, it had quieted down until the trial. When the verdict was released, the story hit the headlines again. Psychiatrists, psychologists, and pseudo–mental health experts had been invited to comment on Liza’s acquittal.

  “Rent-a-Psychiatrist,” Dru mumbled aloud as she read the quotes attributed to several medical professionals who agreed that they were gravely concerned by the verdict and believed that Liza Barton was one of those children capable of planning and executing a cold-blooded murder.

  She found one interview particularly grating. “Let me give you an example,” that psychiatrist had said. “Last year I treated a nine-year-old who smothered her baby sister. ‘I wanted her to be dead,’ she told me, ‘but I didn’t want her to stay dead.’ That is the difference between my patient and Liza Barton. My patient simply didn’t understand the finality of death. What she wanted was to stop the infant’s crying. From every indication I see, Liza Barton wanted her mother dead. She thought her mother was betraying her deceased father when she remarried. The neighbors attested to the fact that Liza was always antagonistic to her stepfather. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was intelligent enough to be able to fake that so-called trauma when she didn’t say a word for months.”

  It’s people like that windbag who helped perpetuate the “Little Lizzie” myth, Dru thought.

  When she began to put together a feature article for her series, Dru always listed on the board any name she came across that had been mentioned as being connected in any way with the story. Now two columns on the board were already full. The list began with Liza, Audrey Barton, and Ted Cartwright. The next name Dru added after that was Liza’s father, Will Barton. He had died in a riding accident. How idyllic had his marriage to Audrey been? She intended to find out.

  A name that jumped out at her as being of special interest was that of Diane Wesley. Described in the newspapers as “a model and former girlfriend of Cartwright,” at the time of the trial, she had posed for the photographers and willingly discussed her testimony even though she was under a gag order from the judge. She told reporters that she had dinner with Ted Cartwright the evening of the tragedy, and that he told her he’d been seeing his wife secretly, and that the child’s hatred of him was the cause of the rift.

  Diane’s testimony could have helped convict Liza except for the fact that a former friend of hers went to court and said that Diane had complained that Ted had been physically abusive to her during their relationship. If so, then why was she so willing to back up his story at the trial? Dru wondered. I’d love to interview her now.

  Benjamin Fletcher, the lawyer who had been appointed to defe
nd Liza Barton, was another one who set Dru’s antenna quivering. When she looked him up, she found that he had gotten a law degree when he was forty-six, had worked as a public defender for only two years, then quit to open a one-man office handling divorces, wills, and house closings. He was still in practice in Chester, a town not far from Mendham. Dru calculated his age now to be seventy-five. He’d be a good starting point, she decided. The court probably won’t open any juvenile files. But it’s obvious Fletcher never specialized in juvenile defense. So why was someone who was relatively inexperienced appointed to defend a child on a murder charge? she wondered.

  More questions than answers, Dru thought. She leaned back in her swivel chair, took off her glasses, and began twirling them—a sign her friends compared to a fox picking up a scent.

  17

  Marcella hasn’t changed a bit, Ted Cartwright thought bitterly as he sipped a scotch in his office in Morristown. Still the same nosy gossip and still potentially dangerous. He picked up the glass paperweight from his desk and hurled it across the room. With satisfaction he watched as it slammed into the center of the leather chair in the corner of his office. I never miss, he thought, as he visualized the faces of the people he wished were sitting in that chair when the paperweight landed.

  What was Jeff MacKingsley doing on Old Mill Lane today? The question had been repeating itself in his mind ever since he saw MacKingsley drive past Marcella’s house. Prosecutors don’t personally investigate vandalism, so there had to be another reason.

  The phone rang—his direct line. His sharp bark of “Ted Cartwright” was greeted by a familiar voice.

  “Ted, I saw the newspapers. You take a good picture and tell a good story. I can vouch for how broken-hearted a husband you were. I can prove it, too. And, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m calling because I’m a little short of cash.”