No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Memories flood my mind. Weekend mornings in this room. I used to get in bed with Mother and Daddy. Daddy would bring up coffee for Mother and hot chocolate for me.

  Their king-size bed with the tufted headboard is gone, of course. The soft peach walls are now painted dark green. Looking out the back windows I can see that the Japanese maple tree Daddy planted so long ago is now mature and beautiful.

  Tears are pressing against my eyelids. I want to run out of here. If necessary I will have to break my promise to Larry and tell Alex the truth about myself. I am not Celia Foster, nee Kellogg, the daughter of Kathleen and Martin Kellogg of Santa Barbara, California. I am Liza Barton, born in this town and, as a child, reluctantly acquitted by a judge of murder and attempted murder.

  “Mom, Mom!” I hear my son’s voice as his footsteps clatter on the uncarpeted floorboards. He hurries into the room, energy encapsulated, small and sturdy, a bright quickness about him, a handsome little boy, the center of my heart. At night I steal into his room to listen to the sound of his even breathing. He is not interested in what happened years ago. He is satisfied if I am there to answer when he calls me.

  As he reaches me, I bend down and catch him in my arms. Jack has Larry’s light brown hair and high forehead. His beautiful blue eyes are my mother’s, but then Larry had blue eyes, too. In those last moments of fading consciousness, Larry had whispered that when Jack attended his prep school, he didn’t want him to ever have to deal with the tabloids digging up those old stories about me. I taste again the bitterness of knowing that his father was ashamed of me.

  Ted Cartwright swears estranged wife begged for reconciliation . . .

  State psychiatrist testifies ten-year-old Liza Barton mentally competent to form the intent to commit murder . . . .

  Was Larry right to swear me to silence? At this moment, I can’t be sure of anything. I kiss the top of Jack’s head.

  “I really, really, really like it here,” he tells me excitedly.

  Alex is coming into the bedroom. He planned this surprise for me with so much care. When we came up the driveway, it had been festooned with birthday balloons, swaying on this breezy August day—all painted with my name and the words “Happy Birthday.” But the exuberant joy with which he handed me the key and the deed to the house is gone. He can read me too well. He knows I’m not happy. He is disappointed and hurt, and why wouldn’t he be?

  “When I told the people at the office what I’d done, a couple of the women said that no matter how beautiful a house might be, they’d want to have the chance to make the decision about buying it,” he said, his voice forlorn.

  They were right, I thought as I looked at him, at his reddish-brown hair and brown eyes. Tall and wide-shouldered, Alex has a look of strength about him that makes him enormously attractive. Jack adores him. Now Jack slides from my arms and puts his arm around Alex’s leg.

  My husband and my son.

  And my house.

  2

  The Grove Real Estate Agency was on East Main Street in the attractive New Jersey town of Mendham. Georgette Grove parked in front of it and got out of the car. The August day was unusually cool, and the overhead clouds were threatening rain. Her short-sleeved linen suit was not warm enough for the weather, and she moved with a quick step up the path to the door of her office.

  Sixty-two years old, Georgette was a handsome whippet-thin woman with short wavy hair the color of steel, hazel eyes, and a firm chin. At the moment, her emotions were conflicted. She was pleased at how smoothly the closing had gone on the house she had just helped sell. It was one of the smaller houses in town, its selling price barely breaking the seven figure mark, but even though she had split the commission with another broker, the check she was carrying was manna from heaven. It would give her a few months’ reserve until she landed another sale.

  So far it had been a disastrous year, saved only by her sale of the house on Old Mill Lane to Alex Nolan. That one had caught her up on overdue bills at the office. She had very much wanted to be present that morning when Nolan presented the house to his wife. I hope she likes surprises, Georgette thought for the hundredth time. She worried that what he was doing was risky. She had tried to warn him about the house, about its history, but Nolan didn’t seem to care. Georgette worried also that since he’d put the house in his wife’s name only, if his wife didn’t like it, she, Georgette, might be wide open to a non-disclosure suit.

  It was part of the real estate code of New Jersey that a prospective buyer had to be notified if a house was a stigmatized property, meaning one that might be impacted by a factor that, on a psychological level, could cause apprehension or fears. Since some people would not want to live in a house in which a crime had been committed, or in which there had been a suicide, the real estate agent was obliged to make a prospective client aware of any such history. The statute even required the agent to reveal if a house had the reputation of being haunted.

  I tried to tell Alex Nolan that there had been a tragedy in the house on Old Mill Lane, Georgette thought defensively as she opened the office door and stepped into the reception room. But he had cut her off, saying that his family used to rent a two-hundred-year-old house on Cape Cod, and the history of some of the people who lived in it would curl your hair. But this is different, Georgette thought. I should have told him that around here the house he bought is known as “Little Lizzie’s Place.”

  She wondered if Nolan had become nervous about his surprise. At the last minute he had asked her to be at the house when they arrived, but it had been impossible to change the other closing. Instead she had sent Henry Paley to greet Nolan and his wife, and to be there to answer any questions Mrs. Nolan might have. Henry had been reluctant to cover for her, and in the end she had been forced to remind him, rather sharply, not only to be there, but to be sure to emphasize the many desirable features of the house and property.

  At Nolan’s request, the driveway had been decorated with festive balloons, all painted with the words “Happy Birthday, Celia.” The porch had been draped with festive papier-mâché, and he also had asked that champagne and a birthday cake and glasses and plates and silverware and birthday napkins be waiting inside.

  When Georgette pointed out that there was absolutely no furniture in the house, and offered to bring over a folding table and chairs, Nolan had been upset. He had rushed to a nearby furniture store and ordered an expensive glass patio table and chairs, and instructed the salesman to have them placed in the dining room. “We’ll switch them to the patio when we move in, or if Celia doesn’t like them, we’ll donate them to a charity and take a deduction,” he had said.

  Five thousand dollars for a patio set and he’s talking about giving it away, Georgette had thought, but she knew he meant it. Yesterday afternoon he had phoned and asked her to be sure there were a dozen roses in every room on the main floor, as well as in the master bedroom suite. “Roses are Ceil’s favorite flowers,” he explained. “When we got married, I promised her that she’d never be without them.”

  He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s charming. And he’s clearly devoted to his wife, Georgette thought as she stepped inside and automatically glanced around the reception room to see if any potential clients were waiting there. From half the marriages I’ve seen, she’s a damn lucky woman.

  But how will she react when she starts hearing the stories about the house?

  Georgette tried to push the thought away. Born with a natural ability to sell, she had progressed rapidly from being a secretary and part-time real estate agent, to founding her own company. Her reception room was a matter of special pride to her. Robin Carpenter, her secretary-receptionist, was positioned at an antique mahogany desk to the right of the entrance. On the left, a brightly upholstered sectional couch and chairs were grouped around a coffee table.

  There, while clients sipped coffee or soft drinks or a glass of wine in the early evening, Georgette or Henry would run tapes showing available properties. The tapes provided
meticulous details of every aspect of the interior, the exterior, and the surrounding neighborhood.

  “Those tapes take a lot of time to do properly,” Georgette was fond of explaining to clients, “but they save you a lot of time, and by finding your likes and dislikes, we can get a very good idea of what you’re really looking for.”

  Make them want it before they set foot in it—that was Georgette’s game plan. It had worked for nearly twenty years, but in the last five it had gotten tougher, as more and more high-powered agencies had opened in the area, their young and vigorous brokers panting for every listing.

  Robin was the only person in the reception area. “How did the closing go?” she asked Georgette.

  “Smoothly, thank God. Is Henry back?”

  “No, I guess he’s still drinking champagne with the Nolans. I still can’t believe it. A gorgeous guy buys a gorgeous house for his wife for her thirty-fourth birthday. That’s exactly my age. She’s so lucky. Did you ever find out if Alex Nolan has a brother?” Robin sighed. “But on the other hand, there can’t be two men like that,” she added.

  “Let’s all hope that after she gets over the surprise, and has heard the story of that house, Celia Nolan still considers herself lucky,” Georgette snapped nervously. “Otherwise, we might have a real problem on our hands.”

  Robin knew exactly what she meant. Small, slender, and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a penchant for frilly clothes, the initial impression she gave was that of the air-headed blonde. And so Georgette had believed when she applied for the job a year ago. Five minutes of conversation, however, had led her not only to reversing that opinion but to hiring Robin on the spot and upping the salary she had intended to pay. Now, after a year, Robin was about to get her own real estate license, and Georgette welcomed the prospect of having her working as an agent. Henry simply wasn’t pulling his weight anymore.

  “You did try to warn the husband about the history of the house. I can back you up on that, Georgette.”

  “That’s something,” Georgette said, as she headed down the hall to her private office at the rear of the building. But then she turned abruptly and faced the younger woman. “I tried to speak to Alex Nolan about the background of the house one time only, Robin,” she said emphatically. “And that was when I was alone in the car with him on our way to see the Murray house on Moselle Road. You couldn’t have heard me discussing it with him.”

  “I’m sure I heard you bring it up one of the times Alex Nolan was in here,” Robin insisted.

  “I mentioned it to him once in the car. I never said anything about it to him here. Robin, you’re not doing me or, in the long run, yourself any favors by lying to a client,” Georgette snapped. “Keep that in mind, please.”

  The outside door opened. They both turned as Henry Paley came into the reception room. “How did it go?” Georgette asked, her anxiety apparent in the tone of her voice.

  “I would say that Mrs. Nolan put up a very good act of seeming to be delighted by her husband’s birthday surprise,” Paley answered. “I believe she convinced him. However, she did not convince me.”

  “Why not?” Robin asked before Georgette could frame the words.

  Henry Paley’s expression was that of a man who had completed a mission he knew was doomed to failure. “I wish I could tell you,” he said. “It may just be that she was overwhelmed.” He looked at Georgette, obviously afraid that he might be giving the impression that he had somehow let her down. “Georgette,” he said apologetically, “I swear, when I was showing Mrs. Nolan the master suite, all I could visualize was that kid shooting her mother and stepfather in the sitting room years ago. Isn’t that weird?”

  “Henry, this agency has sold that house three times in the last twenty-four years, and you were involved in at least two of those sales. I never heard you say that before,” Georgette protested angrily.

  “I never got that feeling before. Maybe it’s because of all those damn flowers the husband ordered. It’s the same scent that hits you in funeral homes. I got it full force in the master suite of Little Lizzie’s Place today. And I have a feeling that Celia Nolan had a reaction like that, too.”

  Henry realized that unwittingly he had used the forbidden words in describing the house on Old Mill Lane. “Sorry, Georgette,” he mumbled as he brushed past her.

  “You should be,” Georgette said bitterly. “I can just imagine the kind of vibes you were sending out to Mrs. Nolan.”

  “Maybe you’ll take me up after all on my offer to back you up on what you told Alex Nolan about the house, Georgette,” Robin suggested, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  3

  “But, Ceil, it’s what we were planning to do. We’re just doing it a little faster. It makes sense for Jack to start pre-K in Mendham. We’ve been cramped for these six months in your apartment, and you didn’t want to move downtown to mine.”

  It was the day after my birthday, the day following the big surprise. We were having breakfast in my apartment, the one that six years ago I had been hired to decorate for Larry, who became my first husband. Jack had rushed through a glass of juice and a bowl of cornflakes, and hopefully was now getting dressed for day camp.

  I don’t think I had closed my eyes all night. Instead I lay in bed, my shoulder brushing against Alex, staring into the dark, remembering, always remembering. Now wrapped in a blue and white linen robe, and with my hair twisted into a bun, I was trying to appear calm and collected as I sipped my coffee. Across the table, impeccably dressed as always in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and figured blue and red tie, Alex was rushing through the slice of toast and mug of coffee that was his everyday breakfast.

  My suggestion that, while the house was beautiful, I would want to be able to completely redecorate it before we moved in had met with resistance from Alex. “Ceil, I know it was probably insanity to buy the house without consulting you, but it was exactly the kind of place we both had in mind. You had agreed to the area. We talked about Peapack or Basking Ridge, and Mendham is only minutes from both of them. It’s an upscale town, convenient to New York, and, besides the fact the firm is moving me to New Jersey, the added plus is that I can get in some early morning rides. Central Park just doesn’t do it for me. And I want to teach you how to ride. You said you’d enjoy taking lessons.”

  I studied my husband. His expression was both contrite and pleading. He was right. This apartment really was too small for the three of us. Alex had given up so much when we married. His spacious apartment in SoHo had included a large study, with room for his splendid sound system and even a grand piano. The piano was now in storage. Alex had a natural gift for music, and thoroughly enjoyed playing. I know he misses that pleasure. He’s worked hard to accomplish all he has. Though a distant cousin of my late husband, who himself had come from wealth, Alex was decidedly a “poor relation.” I knew how proud he was to be able to buy this new house.

  “You’ve been saying that you want to get back to decorating,” Alex reminded me. “Once you’re settled, there’d be plenty of opportunity for that, especially in Mendham. There’s a lot of money there, and plenty of big houses being built. Please give it a try, for me, Ceil. You have a standing offer from the people next door to purchase this apartment at a nice profit to you. You know that.”

  He came around the table and put his arms around me. “Please.”

  I hadn’t heard Jack come into the dining room. “I like the house, too, Mom,” he piped up. “Alex is going to buy me my own pony when we move there.”

  I looked at my husband and son. “It looks as though we have a new home,” I said, trying to smile. Alex is desperate to have more space, I thought. He loves the idea of being near the riding club. Eventually I’ll find a different house in one of the other towns. It won’t be hard to persuade him to move. He did admit that it was a mistake to buy without consulting me, after all.

  One month later the moving vans were pulling away from 895 Fifth Avenue and heading for the Lincoln
Tunnel. Its destination was One Old Mill Lane, Mendham, New Jersey.

  4

  Her eyes ablaze with curiosity, fifty-four-year-old Marcella Williams stood to one side of the front window of her living room watching the long moving van chug slowly past her home. Twenty minutes ago, she had seen Georgette Grove’s silver BMW go up the hill. Georgette had been the agent who sold the house. Marcella was sure that the Mercedes sedan that arrived shortly after that belonged to her new neighbors. She had heard that they were rushing to move in because the four-year-old was starting prekindergarten. She wondered what they’d be like.

  People didn’t tend to stay in that house long, she reflected, and it wasn’t surprising. Nobody likes to have their home known as “Little Lizzie’s Place.” Jane Salzman was the first buyer of the house when it was sold after Liza Barton went on her shooting spree. Jane picked it up dirt cheap. She always claimed the house had a creepy feeling, but then, Jane was into parapsychology which Marcella thought was a lot of nonsense. But no question, the fact that the house was known as “Little Lizzie’s Place” eventually got on the nerves of all the owners, and last year’s Halloween prank was the finish for the last owners, Mark and Louise Harriman. She flipped out when she saw the sign on her lawn, and the life-size doll with a pistol in its hand on her porch. She and Mark had been planning to relocate to Florida next year anyhow, so she simply moved up the timing. They moved out in February, and the house had been empty since then.

  That train of thought led Marcella to wonder where Liza Barton was now. Marcella had been living there when the tragedy occurred, and she still could picture Little Liza at age ten, with the blond, curly hair, round Kewpie doll face, and quiet, mature manner. She was certainly a smart child, Marcella thought, but she had a way of looking at people, even adults, as if she were sizing them up. I like a child to act like a child, she thought. I went out of my way to be nice to Audrey and Liza after Will Barton died. Then I was happy when Audrey married Ted Cartwright. I said to Liza that she must be thrilled to have a new father, and I’ll never forget the way that little snip looked at me when she said, “My mother has a new husband. I don’t have a new father.”