I Heard That Song Before Read online

  We cried together. “Maggie, I’m so scared,” I admitted. “I’m so scared of what may happen to Peter.”

  She didn’t answer, but she might just as well have shouted what she was thinking: Kay, I’m scared of what may happen to you.

  I called Peter on his cell phone. He was still in the city and wasn’t going to be home until at least ten o’clock. “Take Maggie out for dinner,” he said. Then he even laughed when he added, “Tell her it’s on me.”

  Maggie and I went out for “a plate of pasta,” as she puts it. Our conversation led her to reminiscences about my mother, and once again she told me the story about how she had stopped the show when she sang that song. She sounded so poignant when she sang that last line, “I heard that song before,” Maggie said, her eyes glistening as she hummed the tune, off-key. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about my visit to the chapel that afternoon long ago, but I held back. I didn’t want a lecture about how foolish I’d been.

  Following dinner, I dropped her off at her door, watched until she was inside, then drove home. There were some lights on in the gatehouse, so I assumed that the Barrs were there. I never can tell if Elaine is in, though. Her house is too far away from either the front gate or the mansion to see any lights coming from it.

  It was only nine o’clock. The mansion felt really scary to go into alone. I could almost imagine someone hiding inside the suit of armor in the entrance hall. The outside lights sent muted shadows through the stained-glass windows. For an instant I wondered if they were the same lights my father had installed, the ones he’d rushed over here to check that afternoon when he brought me with him.

  I got comfortable in a robe and slippers and waited for Peter to get home. I was reluctant to turn on the television, afraid I’d come across another story about the Althorp case and the newest development, the maid who had changed her testimony. I had started a book on the plane coming home and picked it up again. It was no use; the words were meaningless.

  I was thinking about my father. All the good memories were flooding my mind. I still missed him.

  Peter came in a little after eleven. He looked exhausted. “As of today, I’ve resigned from the board,” he said. “I’ll maintain an office at the company.”

  He said that Vincent had ordered dinner brought into the office, but admitted he hadn’t touched it. We went down to the kitchen, and I got some of Jane Barr’s homemade chicken soup out of the refrigerator and heated it for him. He seemed to perk up a bit and got up and brought a bottle of red wine and two glasses from the bar. He poured the wine and held up his glass. “Let’s offer each other the same toast every night,” he said. “We will get through this. The truth will come out.”

  “Amen,” I said fervently.

  Then Peter looked directly at me, and his eyes were thoughtful and sad. “Here we are alone, Kay,” he said. “If anything happened to you tonight, they’d be sure to blame it on me, wouldn’t they?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I told him. “Whatever would make you say that?”

  “Kay, do you know if I have been sleepwalking since we’ve been home?”

  His question surprised me. “Yes, you were, that first night. You’ve never told me that you knew you were a sleepwalker, Peter.”

  “I was as a kid. It started after my mother died. The doctor gave me some medicine, and for a while it pretty much stopped. But I had a nightmare about putting my arm in the pool and trying to get at something, and it keeps sticking in my mind. You wouldn’t know if that happened, would you?”

  “It did happen, Peter. I woke up at about five o’clock and you weren’t there. I looked for you in the other bedroom and happened to glance out the window. I could see you at the pool. You were kneeling beside it and your arm was in the water. Then you came back into the house and got into bed. I knew enough not to wake you.”

  “Kay,” he began, his voice hesitant. Then he said something in so low a tone that I could not hear him clearly. His voice broke, and he bit his lip. I could tell he was close to tears.

  I got up, went around the table, and cradled him in my arms. “What is it, Peter? What do you want to tell me?”

  “No…it’s nothing.”

  But it was something, and it was terribly important. I could swear that Peter had whispered, “I’ve had other nightmares, and maybe they really happened…”

  22

  Barbara Krause, Tom Moran, and Nicholas Greco did not arrive back from Lancaster until late afternoon. Krause and Moran went directly to their offices in the Bergen County Courthouse and spent the next several hours preparing an affidavit that summarized the evidence gathered so far in the investigation. The affidavit would be submitted in support of their request that a criminal complaint be docketed and a search warrant be issued. The criminal complaint would charge Peter Carrington with the murder of Susan Althorp, and the warrant would authorize the search of the homes and grounds of the Carrington estate.

  “I want them to scour the grounds with the cadaver dogs,” Krause told Moran. “How could they have missed finding her twenty-two years ago, when the scent would have been much stronger? Could he have buried her somewhere else and then moved her to the grounds when he believed they would never be searched again?”

  “Maybe,” Moran said. “I was standing there when those dogs went through the area where she was just found. I don’t see how the dogs would have missed the scent, and I can’t imagine how our guys, and I include myself, would have missed freshly disturbed soil.”

  “I’ll alert Judge Smith right now,” Barbara Krause said, “and request that we be permitted to go to his home at five o’clock tomorrow morning, so he can review the warrants.”

  “The judge will love that,” Moran commented, “but it will give us time to assemble our team tonight and get over there with the warrant by 6:30 A.M., when we’re pretty sure Carrington will be snuggled in bed with his new bride. I’ll enjoy being his wake-up call.”

  It was after two A.M. when they completed the paperwork. Moran stood up and stretched. “I don’t think we remembered to get any dinner,” he said.

  “We’ve both had about eight cups of coffee,” Krause told him. “I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow night, after we get this guy in custody.”

  23

  I don’t think I closed my eyes that night. Peter was so tired that he went to sleep immediately, but I lay beside him, my arm around him, trying to make sense of what I believed I had heard him say. Did he mean that events that he thought were nightmares were actually things that had happened while he was sleepwalking?

  Peter woke at six o’clock. I suggested we go for an early-morning jog. I almost never get headaches but was feeling the beginning of one. He agreed, and we dressed quickly. We went down to the kitchen, and he squeezed fresh juice while I made coffee and put a slice of bread in the toaster for Peter. We didn’t bother to sit at the table, just stood while we sipped the juice and coffee.

  That was the last somewhat normal minute we were to have together.

  The insistent pealing of the doorbell made both of us jump. We looked at each other; we both knew what was going to happen. The police were here to arrest him.

  It’s crazy what you do when something catastrophic happens. I ran to the toaster and grabbed the toast as it popped up. I wanted Peter to eat something before they took him away.

  He shook his head when I handed it to him. “Peter, you may not get to eat anything for a long time,” I said. “You had almost nothing yesterday.”

  The door chimes were echoing through the house, and we were talking about food. But he did take the slice of toast from me and began to eat it. With the other hand he refilled his coffee cup and, hot as the coffee was, began to gulp it down.

  I ran to open the door. There were at least six men and a woman standing there. I could hear the sound of dogs barking from inside one of the fleet of cars and vans parked in the driveway.

  “Mrs. Carrington?”

  “Y
es.”

  “I am Assistant Prosecutor Tom Moran. Is Mr. Carrington here?”

  “Yes, I am.” Peter had followed me into the entrance hall.

  “Mr. Carrington, I have a warrant authorizing the search of the houses and grounds of this estate.” Moran handed it to Peter and then continued. “You are also under arrest for the murder of Susan Althorp. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to have an attorney present while you are being questioned. If you choose to answer questions, you can stop the questions at any time. I know you can afford an attorney, so I won’t go into the details of having an attorney appointed by the court to represent you.”

  Intellectually, I had known since yesterday that this probably would happen. But to anticipate something, and then to see it actually take place, is the difference between nightmare and reality. Two detectives walked past me to stand on either side of Peter. Realizing what they were going to do, Peter gave me the search warrant, then brought his hands forward. I heard the click of the handcuffs. Peter’s face was dead white, but he was calm.

  One of the detectives opened the front door again. It was clear that they were going to take Peter away immediately. “Let me get his coat,” I told Moran. “It’s cold out.”

  Jane and Gary Barr had just arrived. “I’ll get it, Mrs. Carrington,” Jane said, her voice trembling.

  “Where are you taking my husband?” I asked Moran.

  “To the Bergen County Jail.”

  “I’ll follow you in my car,” I told Peter.

  “Mrs. Carrington, I would suggest you wait,” Moran said. “Mr. Carrington will be fingerprinted and photographed. During that time you will not be allowed to see him. An arraignment before Judge Harvey Smith is scheduled for three P.M. this afternoon in the Bergen County Courthouse. At that time, bail will be set.”

  “Kay, call Vincent and tell him to be ready to post bail,” Peter said. As the detectives urged Peter forward, Gary Barr put a coat over his shoulders, and Peter leaned down to kiss me. His lips were cold on my cheek, and his voice was husky as he said, “Three o’clock. I’ll see you there, Kay. I love you.”

  Moran and one of the detectives went out with him. When the door closed behind them, I stood there, unable to move.

  The atmosphere changed. There were at least six detectives still in the foyer. As I watched, all but the female officer put on plastic gloves—the search of the house was beginning. From outside, the barking of the dogs was getting louder; they were starting the search of the grounds. I felt Jane Barr take my arm. “Mrs. Carrington, come back to the kitchen with me,” she said.

  “I’ve got to call Vincent. I’ve got to call the lawyers.” My voice sounded odd to me, low, but shrill.

  “I’m Detective Carla Sepetti,” the officer said pleasantly enough. “I’ll need the three of you to stay together, and I’ll stay with you. If you wish, we can wait in the kitchen until they are finished searching the rest of the house. Then, we’ll have to move. They will want to look through the kitchen, also.”

  “Let Jane fix you something to eat, Mrs. Carrington,” Gary Barr urged.

  Food is perceived to be a comfort, to give strength in time of trial, I thought wildly. They’re trying to feed me for the same reason I shoved a piece of toast at Peter. I nodded and walked with the Barrs down the long corridor to the kitchen; Detective Sepetti was right behind us. We passed Peter’s library. Two of the detectives were there—one of them was pulling books off the shelves, the other rummaging through his desk. I thought of how content Peter had looked that day less than four months ago when I sat in that room with him, admiring its ambiance.

  In the kitchen, I tried to drink a cup of coffee, but my hand was trembling so much that the coffee spilled into the saucer. Jane put her hand on my shoulder for a quick second as she removed the saucer and replaced it with a clean one. I knew how much she loved Peter. She had known him since he was a motherless boy. I was sure her heart was breaking, too.

  I phoned Vincent Slater. He took the news calmly. “It was inevitable,” he said quietly. “But he’ll be home tonight, I can promise you that. In New Jersey a judge has to give bail. I’m sure they’ll set it in the millions, but we’ll have it available.”

  The lawyers were due to arrive at nine o’clock. For no particular reason, I called Conner Banks rather than any of the other three. “We did expect this, Kay,” he said, “but I know it’s awful for both of you. We’ll get a copy of the arrest warrant, and Markinson and I will be in court at three o’clock. We’ll see you then.”

  When I hung up, I walked over to the window. Rain and sleet had been predicted by noon, but as I watched, I saw the first drops of rain begin to fall. Then pellets of sleet began to hit the window. “Didn’t I read somewhere that police dogs don’t work if it’s raining?” I asked Detective Sepetti.

  “It depends on what they’re looking for,” she said. “If it keeps up like this, I’d guess they’ll bring them in.”

  “What are they looking for?” I asked her. I knew there was anger in my voice. The question I really wanted to ask was if they thought Peter was a serial killer and were expecting to find bodies buried all over the estate.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Carrington,” she said quietly, and I looked at her. She was in her late forties, I would guess. Her chin-length brown hair had a natural wave that softened her somewhat round face. She was wearing a dark blue jacket and black slacks. Earrings in the shape of X’s were the only jewelry I could see, although I’m sure she must have been wearing a watch that was covered by her sleeve.

  It was so crazy to focus on details like that, of absolutely no importance to anyone. I turned away from the window. There was a small television in the kitchen, and I turned it on just in time to see Peter leaving the police car and being led into the Bergen County Jail.

  “As Carrington is arrested on a charge of murder, evidence continues to pile up against him, our sources tell us,” the reporter was saying. “The former maid, Maria Valdez Cruz, has not only confessed that she lied when she claimed she saw Carrington’s dress shirt in the hamper, but also has proof that Carrington’s father paid her off with a five-thousand-dollar bribe.”

  I snapped off the television. “Oh, my God,” Jane Barr was saying. “I don’t believe it. It would never have happened. Mr. Carrington senior was an honorable man. He’d never bribe anyone.”

  Even to save his son’s life? I asked myself. What would I have done if I were in his place?

  I wasn’t sure I knew the answer.

  24

  Elaine Carrington was still in bed when detectives from the prosecutor’s office rang the doorbell of her home shortly after 6:30 A.M. Startled, she threw on a robe and rushed to answer it. Had something happened to Richard? she wondered frantically. Hadn’t he satisfied those gambling debts in time? Terrified at what she might hear, she yanked open the door.

  When she was handed the search warrant, her immediate reaction was something approaching relief. Then, accompanied by a detective whose presence she ignored, she went to the study and turned on the television.

  A few minutes later, the sight of Peter getting out of a car in handcuffs at the Bergen County Jail made her cringe. He’s always been good to me, she reflected as she watched him trying to turn his face away from the photographers.

  “At age twenty-two, upon his father’s sudden death, Peter Carrington became head of the family empire,” the TV anchor was saying.

  A picture of father and son, taken shortly before the elder man’s fatal heart attack, flashed on the screen, immediately triggering an angry reaction from Elaine. Young as Peter was, he understood what it was like for me to live with that miserable tightwad, she thought. One of the richest men in the world, yet we even argued about money the day of his own birthday party. He was always threatening not to pay bills. “You run them up. You figure out a way to pay them.” That was his big speech. In the five years I was m
arried to him, he complained about every nickel I spent, she thought bitterly.

  When the segment of the program about Peter was over, Elaine pushed the power button on the remote control. When I married him, everything about this place had been let go for years, she remembered. The only thing he didn’t begrudge was the landscaping. Nature boy himself.

  She realized that whenever she was nervous or upset, her mind flooded with anger at the stinginess of the prenuptial agreement she had been pressured to sign. Then, a sound from outside made her hurry to the window. Sleet was starting to pound against the panes, but she was hearing something else. “Are there dogs out there?” she asked incredulously of the young detective who was sitting on a chair in the doorway of the study.

  “Those are the dogs searching the grounds, Mrs. Carrington,” he answered, his tone businesslike.

  “They already found Susan Althorp’s body. What are they looking for now? Do they think this place is a cemetery?” she snapped.

  The detective did not respond.

  By noon, the search team had left her house, and Elaine went upstairs to her bedroom. As she showered and dressed, her mind raced with the possibilities raised by Peter’s arrest. What will happen if Peter goes to prison for the rest of his life? she asked herself. Would he and Kay decide to sell this place? Can they do it while I’m alive? That might violate my prenup, or at the very least they’d have to buy me out.

  The prenuptial she had signed had been the best her lawyer could do. Ten million dollars when Carrington senior died; lifetime residency both on the estate and in the smaller of the two Carrington Park Avenue apartments. Income of a million dollars a year for the rest of her life. But of course there was a catch: the availability of the house and apartment as well as the income would cease upon her remarriage. The ten million has been gone for years, most of it lost in that one lousy investment, Elaine thought bitterly. I should have gotten millions more.