I'll Walk Alone

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Detectives Collins and Dean are expecting you,” the sergeant said, ignoring the hostility in Carpenter’s voice. “I’ll let them know that you’re here.”

  Less than five minutes later, Ted was sitting at a conference table in a small office, facing Billy Collins and Jennifer Dean.

  Billy thanked him for coming in. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Carpenter. I know that when your secretary phoned yesterday to make an appointment, she said you were ill.”

  “I was and I am,” Ted replied. “And it’s not just physical. Knowing what I’ve gone through for almost two years, to see those photos and realize that my ex, Matthew’s mother, has been guilty of abducting my son, just about drove me over the edge.”

  An unmistakable note of anger crept into his voice. “I have wasted my time blaming that babysitter who fell asleep when she was supposed to be minding my son. Now I have begun to wonder if she wasn’t in collusion with my ex-wife. I know Zan regularly gave Tiffany clothes she no longer wore.”

  Billy Collins and Jennifer Dean were trained not to show surprise at anything that was said to them, but each knew the other’s thoughts. Was this an angle they had not considered? And if there was any truth to it, what made Tiffany Shields turn on Zan to the point of suggesting that both she and Matthew had been deliberately drugged that day?

  Billy chose not to follow up on Ted Carpenter’s reasoning that Shields was involved. “Mr. Carpenter, you and Ms. Moreland were married for how long?”

  “Six months. What has that got to do with it?”

  “Her mental health is what we’re getting at. At the time of Matthew’s disappearance, she told us that after her parents’ death, you flew to Rome and saw her through the funeral, the packing of their personal items, the usual details following a demise. She made it clear that she was very grateful to you.”

  “Grateful! That’s one way of putting it. She didn’t want me out of the room. She had hysterical crying fits and fainting spells. She blamed herself for not having visited her parents sooner. She blamed Bartley Longe for not letting her take a vacation. She blamed the traffic in Rome for causing her father’s heart attack.”

  “But with that kind of emotional baggage, you still chose to marry her?” Jennifer Dean asked quietly.

  “Zan and I had been dating, somewhat casually, but we were definitely becoming interested in each other. I guess I was half in love with her then. She is a beautiful woman, as I’m sure you’ve observed, and very intelligent. She is a gifted interior designer, thanks, I might add, to the fact that Bartley Longe took her on after she graduated from FIT and gave her the chance to be his right-hand apprentice.”

  “Then you don’t feel that Ms. Moreland was fair when she blamed Bartley Longe for making it impossible to visit her parents earlier?”

  “No, I don’t. She knew perfectly well that much as he might rant and rave if she took a few weeks off, he never would have fired her. She was far too valuable to him.”

  “You say you were dating and half in love with Ms. Moreland during that time. Did you express your feelings about her job with Longe at that time?”

  “Of course I did. The fact is, Longe had given her the chance of a lifetime for a young designer. He had taken on a high-profile job to decorate the TriBeCa penthouse of Toki Swan, the rock star, but because he was up to his elbows doing a Palm Beach mansion, he virtually turned the job over to Zan. She was thrilled. You couldn’t have dragged her onto a plane at that point.”

  “Did Ms. Moreland show any signs of overwork, or of approaching a breakdown, before she flew to Rome?”

  “From what I understand, after she finished that job Longe wanted her to stay a few weeks longer and help him finish the Palm Beach place. That’s when the big quarrel took place and she quit. As I just told you, that so-called firing was a joke.”

  “After her parents’ death, couldn’t you have helped her without marrying her?” Jennifer Dean asked.

  “That’s like asking a bystander watching someone trapped in a burning car, why didn’t you dial 911 instead of taking immediate action? Zan needed to feel as if she had a home and a family. I gave that to her.”

  “But she left you very quickly.”

  Ted bristled. “I didn’t come in here to have a consultation about my brief marriage to the woman who abducted my son. Zan felt that she had taken advantage of me, and decided to move out. It was only after she was gone that she realized she was pregnant.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “I was pleased. By then I realized there was nothing between us, and I told her I would give her generous support so that she could always live comfortably and raise our child. She told me she intended to open her own interior design business. I understood that, but after my son was born, I did insist on meeting the nanny she planned to hire so I could judge for myself if that person was competent.”

  “Did you do that?”

  “Yes. And the nanny, Gretchen Voorhees, was a blessing. Frankly, I would say that she was more of a mother to Matthew than Zan. Zan was consumed with her need to beat out Bartley Longe for jobs. I can tell you the amount of time she spent working to get that job with Nina Aldrich was unconscionable.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Gretchen told me that on the last day she worked for Zan. I was picking Matthew up for the afternoon. Gretchen was flying back to Holland because she was getting married.”

  “Had Ms. Moreland hired a new nanny, and if so, did you meet her?”

  “I met her once. Her references were good. She seemed perfectly pleasant. However, she was obviously not reliable. She didn’t show up the first day for work, and Zan grabbed Tiffany Shields to take my son to Central Park so she could fall asleep on the grass, if indeed she did fall asleep.”

  Ted Carpenter’s face turned a deep crimson red. He swallowed, unable to go on. Then, his hands clenched into fists, his voice raised, he said, “I’ll tell you what happened that day. Zan realized that Matthew was going to be in her way. Maybe she had realized it for a long time before that. Gretchen told me of the many times she had to work on her day off because Zan was too busy to stay home with her child. Zan was, and is, all about becoming a famous interior designer. That’s it! She’s well on her way to it. That baloney about spending every cent she can scrimp to have private detectives search for Matthew is strictly PR. If anyone should know, it’s me. I’m in the business. Take a look at that article People magazine did on her last year on the first anniversary of Matthew’s disappearance. She’s showing them her modest three-room apartment, whining about how she walks rather than take cabs so that every cent she makes is saved to try to find Matthew and so on … Then notice how she always talks about what a great interior designer she is.”

  “You are saying that you believe your ex-wife got rid of your child because he had become a liability?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. She’s a born martyr. How many people have lost their parents in an accident and even though they’re grieving, have gone on with their lives? If she had asked me to take full custody of Matthew, I would have done it in a heartbeat.”

  “Did you request full custody?”

  “That would have been like asking the earth to stop revolving around the sun. How would that have looked in the newspapers?”

  Ted stood up. “I have nothing more to say to you except this. I assume that by now you have checked out those photos that were taken in Central Park. Unless they are doctored — and you have given me no indication that you think that is the case — then I want to know why Alexandra Moreland has not been arrested. You have proof positive that she stole my son. Clearly she lied to you every step of the way. I’m sure there is a law about withholding a child from the other parent who has visitation rights. But the charge you really should be pursuing now is that Matthew was abducted and murdered by his own mother. What are you waiting for?”

  As he pushed back his chair and stood up, Ted Carpenter, tears running down
his cheeks, again demanded, “What are you waiting for?”

  39

  It was not just the pain in his arthritic knees, which he ruefully referred to as his nocturnal visitor, that kept Fr. Aiden awake for a good part of Wednesday night. It was the woman who had confessed to being part of an ongoing crime and an impending murder, the woman whose name he now knew: Alexandra Moreland.

  The incredible irony of meeting her at Alvirah and Willy’s apartment! Between two and four in the morning, Fr. Aiden relived every second of those few moments they had been together. It was apparent to anyone that Zan, as Alvirah had called her, was suffering. The expression in her eyes was like that of a soul in hell, if such a comparison could be imagined. She had said, “God has forgotten that I exist.”

  She truly believes that, Fr. Aiden thought. But she did ask me to pray for her child. If only I could help her! When she confessed, she was clear about what she was doing, and about what was being planned. No mistake about it, and no mistake that it was her.

  Alvirah, who knew Zan well, had recognized her face on the security camera in the church and said that she was absolutely the person in those Central Park pictures. If I could only broach the subject that if Zan has a split personality, they might try to have a doctor give her some medication to release what is hidden in her mind, Fr. Aiden thought. But I cannot reveal anything, even if it would help her… .

  He would pray that in another way, some way, somehow, the truth would come out to save her child, if it was not already too late. After a while his eyes began to close. Just before dawn, he woke again. Zan’s face filled his mind. But there was something else. Something he had dreamed. And it troubled him. There was a seed of doubt in him, and he didn’t know where it was coming from.

  Once again he whispered a prayer for her and her little boy, then mercifully fell back asleep until his alarm woke him in time to be ready to celebrate the eight o’clock Mass in the lower church.

  At almost half past ten, while Fr. Aiden was going through the mail on his desk, a call was put through to him. It was Alexandra More-land. “Father,” she said, “I’ll have to make this quick. My attorney is going to be here in a minute to go with me to the police station. The detectives on Matthew’s case want to talk to me. For all I know, I’m going to be arrested. I apologize for being so rude to you last night, and thank you for praying for Matthew. And I want you to know this: I was as close as you can get to swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills early this morning, and something about the kind way you looked at me and then took my hands in yours stopped me. Anyhow, I won’t think of that again. I had to say thank you and please keep praying for Matthew, but if you don’t mind, say a word for me as well.”

  Then there was a click in his ear. Stunned, Fr. Aiden sat quietly at his desk. That’s what I’ve been trying to remember, the feel of her hands when I held them, he thought.

  But what is it?

  What could it possibly be?

  40

  After the cozy dinner she had shared with her friend Rebecca, and the fact that they both had enjoyed several glasses of wine, Penny had slept soundly through the night and even allowed herself the luxury of bringing her morning cup of coffee back to bed. Propped up on pillows, she had watched the news on television. Once again the Central Park photos of Zan Moreland taking her child out of the stroller and the others of her being carried to the ambulance were briefly shown.

  “Unless those photos are proven to be doctored, in my opinion, the arrest of Alexandra Moreland is imminent,” the network’s legal expert explained on the Today show.

  “Should have happened yesterday!” Penny barked to the television screen. “What are they waiting for, a sign from heaven?” Shaking her head, she got out of bed a second time, put on a warm robe, and carried the coffee cup to the kitchen, where she began to prepare her usual generous breakfast.

  Bernie phoned as she was running the last scrap of toast over the plate to catch the remnants of the yolk of her fried egg. His voice sounded disgruntled as he told her that it would be another couple of hours before the truck was fixed, so he wouldn’t get home till midafternoon. “Hope you and Rebecca didn’t eat all the pot roast,” he told her.

  “More than plenty for you,” Penny assured him before saying good-bye. Men, she thought, shaking her head indulgently. He’s upset because he’s stuck in a gas station in King of Prussia, and he’s trying to find a reason to get mad so he can have a fight with me and get it off his chest. I should have told him that Rebecca and I ate the whole thing and tonight we’re having frozen pizza.

  As she loaded the dishwasher, Penny saw that the mailman was delivering to their box at the end of the driveway. After his van disappeared, she tightened the belt on her robe and hurried outside. Spring may have just arrived, but boy you’d never know it, she thought, as she opened the box, closed her hand on the small pile of letters, and at an even quicker pace made her way back to the warmth of the house.

  The first few envelopes were solicitations from various charities. The next contained a fingernail-sized sample of a new facial cream. The last envelope brought an unconscious smile to Penny’s face. It was from Alvirah Meehan. Quickly she ripped it open. It was a notice that the semiannual meeting of the Lottery Winners’ Support Group was being held the following week in Alvirah and Willy’s apartment.

  Alvirah had written a personal note on the notice. “Dear Penny, hope you and Bernie can make it. Always so good to be with you.”

  We can make it, Penny thought happily, as she mentally reviewed Bernie’s schedule. I’d love to get her opinion on that More-land woman now. I know Alvirah’s been friendly with her.

  The sense of pleasant anticipation wore off as Penny went upstairs, showered, and dressed. Something was gnawing at her and it had to do with that snippy Gloria Evans, who was renting the Owens farmhouse. It wasn’t just the fact that Gloria Evans had been so rude when I gave her the blueberry muffins, and it wasn’t just the toy truck on the floor, Penny decided. That woman was supposed to be finishing a book, but even writers who want privacy don’t practically slam the door in a person’s face, do they?

  Penny was by nature thrifty. That was why another thing that Rebecca had told her about Gloria Evans—that Evans didn’t bat an eye about paying for a year’s lease when she only planned to stay for three months—seemed strange.

  There’s something going on with that lady, she decided. She wasn’t just being rude. She was downright nervous when she answered the door. I wonder if she’s doing something illegal, like selling drugs out of there? No one would know if someone came late at night and turned onto that dead-end road. Sy’s is the only house on it.

  I’d love to keep an eye on the place, she thought. The trouble is, if Gloria Evans happens to be at the window she’ll see me driving past, then turning around and coming back. If she is up to anything, I’d be tipping her off.

  As Penny, her lips pursed, applied bright red lipstick, her only tribute to glamour, she began to laugh, smearing the lipstick on her cheek. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said aloud. “I know what’s bugging me about that Evans bird. She reminds me of the Moreland woman. Isn’t that a riot? Wait till I tell Alvirah that I was trying to hatch a mystery. She’ll get a real laugh out of that!”

  41

  Charley Shore could not conceal his look of astonishment when Josh opened the door of Moreland Interiors and he saw the rolls of carpet stacked against the walls and covering the floor of half the office.

  “It’s a misunderstanding with one of our suppliers,” Josh began to explain.

  “No, it isn’t,” Zan corrected him. “Mr. Shore, or Charley, since we’ve agreed we’re on a first-name basis, somebody is ordering materials on a contract that we don’t have yet and has hacked into my bank account.”

  She really is out of it, Shore thought, but was careful not to show any reaction except concern. “When did you find out about this, Josh?”

  “The first indication was the other day, w
hen someone bought a first-class one-way ticket to South America in Zan’s name for next week and charged it to our business account,” Josh said, his tone carefully matter-of-fact. “Then there are bills for expensive clothes charged to Zan’s store accounts. Now we’re hearing from our suppliers about carpets and fabrics and wall hangings that we didn’t order.”

  “Josh is trying to convey to you that he thinks I’m delusional and doesn’t believe that there’s a computer hacker at work,” Zan said, calmly, “but there is, and that shouldn’t be too hard to prove.”

  “How did the orders to the suppliers get placed?” Charley Shore asked.

  “By phone, and — ,” Josh began.

  “Give Charley the letter, Josh,” Zan interrupted.

  Josh handed it to the attorney, who read it carefully. “This is your stationery,” Charley Shore asked.

  “Yes,” Zan said.

  “Is this your signature, Zan?”

  “It looks like mine, but I didn’t sign that letter. In fact, I’d like to take it to the police station with us. I believe that someone is impersonating me and trying to ruin my life and my business, and I think that person has taken my son.”

  Charles Robert Shore was an experienced criminal lawyer with an impressive list of verdicts that favored his clients to the point that he was a thorn in the side of many prosecutors. But now for a split second he regretted that his friendship with Alvirah Meehan had put him in the position of defending her clearly psychotic friend.

  Choosing his words carefully, he asked, “Zan, have you reported this identity theft crime to the police?”

  Josh answered for her. “No, we haven’t. Too much has been going on in the past few days. You can understand that.”