No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

  I told them that at the trial, Marcella reminded herself with some satisfaction. And I told them that I was in the house when Ted collected all the personal stuff that Will Barton left in his study and put it in boxes to store in the garage. Liza was screaming at him, and kept dragging the boxes into her room. She wouldn’t give Ted an inch. She made it so hard for her mother. And it was clear that Audrey was crazy about Ted.

  At least in the beginning, she was crazy about him, Marcella thought, mentally correcting herself as she watched a second van follow the first one up the hill. Who knows what happened there? Audrey certainly didn’t give the marriage much time to work out and that restraining order she got against Ted was absolutely unnecessary. I believed Ted when he swore that Audrey had phoned and asked him to come over that night.

  Ted was always so grateful for my support, Marcella remembered. My testimony helped him in the civil case he filed against Liza. Well, the poor fellow should have been compensated. It’s pretty nasty to go through life with a shattered knee. He still has a limp. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed that night.

  When Ted got out of the hospital following the shooting, he had moved a few towns away to Bernardsville. Now a major New Jersey developer, the logo for his construction company was frequently seen on malls and highways. His latest venture had been to take advantage of the fitness craze by opening gyms across the state and building town houses in Madison.

  Over the years, Marcella had bumped into him at various functions. The last time had been only a month ago. Ted had never remarried, but he’d had a string of girlfriends along the way, and, according to the gossip, the last break-up had been very recent. He always claimed that Audrey was the love of his life, and that he’d never get over her. But he certainly looked great, and he even said something about our getting together sometime. He might be interested to know that new people are moving into the house.

  Marcella admitted to herself that since her casual meeting with Ted, she’d been casting around for a reason to call him. Last Halloween, when some kids wrote LITTLE LIZZIE’S PLACE. BEWARE! on the lawn with white paint, the newspapers had called Ted for a comment.

  I wonder if those kids will pull a stunt like that on the new owner. If there are any kind of shenanigans, it’s a given the newspapers will contact Ted for a comment. Maybe I’ll let him know that the house has changed hands again.

  Pleased at the excuse to call Ted Cartwright, Marcella headed for the phone. As she crossed the spacious living room, she gave a brief smile of approval to her reflection in the mirror. Her shapely body showed the daily regimen of exercise. Her frosted blond hair framed a smooth face, tightened by several recent Botox treatments. She was confident that the new liner and mascara she was using enhanced her hazel eyes.

  Victor Williams, the husband from whom she’d been divorced for ten years, was still dining out on his sardonic comment that Marcella was so afraid she’d miss getting the dirt on someone that she slept with her eyes open and receivers in her ears.

  Marcella called information and got the number for Ted Cartwright’s office. After instructions to “dial one for this, dial two for that, dial three for . . . ” she finally reached his voicemail. He has such a nice speaking voice, she thought as she listened to his message.

  Her own voice distinctly coquettish, she said, “Ted, this is Marcella Williams. I thought you’d be interested to hear that your former home has changed hands again, and the new owners are in the process of moving in. Two vans just passed my house.”

  The sound of a police siren interrupted her. An instant later she watched as a police car hurtled past her window. There’s already a problem there, she thought with a shiver of delight. “Ted, I’ll call you back,” she said, breathlessly. “The cops are on the way to your old house. I’ll let you know what develops.”

  5

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Nolan,” Georgette stammered. “I just got here myself. I’ve called the police.”

  I looked at her. She was trying to drag a hose across the bluestone walk, hoping, I suppose, to wash away some of the defacing of the lawn and house.

  The house was set back one hundred feet from the road. In thick billboard-sized letters, the words

  LITTLE LIZZIE’S PLACE.

  BEWARE!

  were painted in red on the lawn.

  Splashes of red paint stained the shingles and limestone on the front of the house. I saw that a skull and crossbones were carved in the mahogany door. A straw doll with a toy gun in its hand was propped against the door. I guessed it was supposed to represent me.

  “What’s this supposed to be about?” Alex snapped.

  “Some kids, I guess. I’m so sorry,” Georgette Grove explained nervously. “I’ll get a clean-up crew here right away, and I’ll call my landscaper. He’ll come over and cut this grass out and resod the lawn today. I can’t believe . . . ”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked at us. It was a hot and muggy day. We were both dressed in casual clothes, short-sleeved shirts and slacks. My hair was pulled back, falling loose on my shoulders. Thank God I was wearing dark glasses. I was standing beside the Mercedes, my hand on the door. Next to me, angry and upset, Alex was clearly not going to be satisfied with the offer to get rid of the mess. He wanted to know why this had happened.

  I can tell you what it’s about, Alex, I thought. Hang on, I told myself desperately. I knew that if I let go of the car door, I would fall. The August sun was streaming down, making the red paint glisten.

  Blood. It wasn’t paint. It was Mother’s blood. I could feel my arms and neck and face becoming sticky with her blood.

  “Celia, are you okay?” Alex had his hand on my arm. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what in hell would make anyone do this.”

  Jack had scrambled out of the car. “Mommy, are you okay? You’re not sick are you?”

  History repeating itself. Jack, who had only a dim memory of his own father, was instinctively frightened that he would lose me, too.

  I forced myself to try to focus on him, on his need for reassurance. Then I looked at the concern and distress on Alex’s face. A terrible possibility rushed through my mind. Does he know? Is this some terrible, cruel joke? As quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. Of course Alex had no idea that I had ever lived here. That real estate agent, Henry Paley, had told me that Alex had been on his way to see a house three blocks away when he spotted the FOR SALE sign on this house. It was one of those terrible events that just happens, a horrible coincidence. But my God, what shall I do?

  “I’ll be all right,” I told Jack, managing to force the words out through lips that felt numb and spongy.

  Jack ran past the car and onto the lawn. “I can read that,” he said proudly. “L-i-t-t-l-e L-i-z-z-i-e . . . ”

  “That’s enough, Jack,” Alex said firmly. He looked at Georgette. “Is there any explanation for this?”

  “I tried to explain something to you when we first viewed the house,” Georgette said, “but you weren’t interested. A tragedy took place here nearly twenty-five years ago. A ten-year-old child, Liza Barton, accidentally killed her mother and shot her stepfather. Because of the similarity of her name to the infamous Lizzie Borden, the tabloids called her, ‘Little Lizzie Borden.’ Since then from time to time, there have been incidents here, but never anything like this.”

  Georgette was clearly on the verge of tears. “I should have made you listen.”

  The first moving van was pulling into the driveway. Two men jumped out and ran behind it to open the door and begin to unload.

  “Alex, tell them to stop,” I demanded, then was frightened to hear my voice rising to a near shriek. “Tell them to turn around and go back to New York right now. I can’t live under this roof.” Too late, I realized that Alex and the real estate agent were staring at me, their expressions shocked.

  “Mrs. Nolan, don’t think like that,” Georgette Grove protested. “I am so sorry this has happened. I can’t apologize enough.
I assure you that some kids did this as a joke. But they’ll know it’s not a joke when the police get through with them.”

  “Honey, you’re overreacting,” Alex protested. “This is a beautiful home. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to Georgette about what happened here, but I would have bought the house for you anyhow. Don’t let some stupid kids spoil it for you.” He put his hands on my face. “Look at me. I promise that before the day is over, this mess will be gone. Come on around the back. I want to show Jack the surprise I have for him.”

  One of the moving men was heading for the house, Jack scampering behind him. “No, Jack, we’re going around to the barn,” Alex called. “Come on, Ceil,” he urged. “Please.”

  I wanted to protest, but then I saw the blinking lights of a patrol car rushing up the road.

  When they pulled my arms away from my mother’s body they made me sit in the patrol car. I was wearing my nightgown and someone got a blanket and tucked it around me. And then the ambulance came and they took Ted out on a stretcher.

  “Come on, honey,” Alex coaxed. “Let’s show Jack his surprise.”

  “Mrs. Nolan, I’ll take care of talking to the police,” Georgette Grove volunteered.

  I couldn’t bear having to come face-to-face with the police, so to avoid an encounter with them, I walked quickly along the path with Alex. We headed to the spacious grounds behind the house. I realized that the blue hydrangeas Mother had planted along the foundation of the house were gone, and then I was startled to see that in the month since I had been here, a riding enclosure had been built.

  Alex had promised Jack a pony. Was it here already? The same thought must have occurred to Jack because he began running across the lawn toward the barn. He pulled open the door, and then I heard a whoop of joy. “It’s a pony, Mom,” he shouted. “Alex bought me a pony!”

  Five minutes later, his eyes shining with delight, his feet firmly secure in the stirrups of his new saddle, and Alex at his side, Jack was walking the pony around the enclosure. I stood at the split-rail fence, watching them, taking in the expression of pure bliss on Jack’s face and the satisfaction in Alex’s smile. I realized that Jack had the reaction to his pony that Alex had expected of me about the house.

  “This is another reason why I knew this place would be perfect, sweetheart,” Alex said as he passed me. “Jack has the makings of being a terrific rider someday. Now he can ride every single day, right, Jack?”

  There was somebody clearing his throat behind me. “Mrs. Nolan, I’m Sergeant Earley. I very much regret this incident. This is no way to welcome you to Mendham.”

  I hadn’t heard the police officer and Georgette Grove approaching me. Startled, I turned around to face them.

  He was a man who appeared to be in his late fifties, with an outdoorsman’s complexion and thinning sandy hair. “I know just which kids to question,” he said grimly. “Trust me. Their parents will pay for whatever has to be done to restore the house and lawn.”

  Earley, I thought. I know that name. When I packed my files last week I read the hidden one again, the file that began with the night I killed my mother. There had been a cop named Earley mentioned in the article.

  “Mrs. Nolan, I’ve been on the police force in this town for over thirty years,” he continued. “It’s as friendly a town as you’ll find anywhere in the world.”

  Alex, having seen the sergeant and Georgette Grove, left Jack on the pony to join us. Grove introduced him to Sergeant Earley.

  “Sergeant, I know I speak for my wife when I say that we don’t want to start our life in this town by signing complaints against neighborhood kids,” Alex said. “But I do hope that when you find those vandals you’ll make them understand that they’re damn lucky that we’re being this generous. Actually, I’m going to fence in the property and put up security cameras immediately. That way if any kids have ideas of more mischief they won’t get very far.”

  Earley, I thought. In my mind I was rereading the articles in the tabloids about me, the ones that had made me heartsick when I looked at them again only a week ago. There had been a picture of a cop tucking a blanket around me in the back of the police car. Officer Earley had been his name. Afterward he had commented to the press that he’d never seen a kid as composed as I had been. “She was covered with her mother’s blood, yet when I put the blanket around her, she said, ‘Thank you very much, officer.’ You’d think I had given her an ice cream cone.”

  And now I was facing this same man again, and once more expected, I guess, to thank him for the service he would now perform on my behalf.

  “Mom, I love my pony,” Jack called. “I want to name her Lizzie, after the name on the grass. Isn’t that a good idea?”

  Lizzie!

  Before I could respond, I heard Georgette Grove murmur in dismay, “Oh, Lord, I should have known. Here comes the busybody.”

  A moment later I was being introduced to Marcella Williams, who, as she grabbed and shook my hand, told me, “I’ve been living next door for twenty-eight years, and I’m delighted to welcome my new neighbor. I’m looking forward to getting to know you and your husband and little boy.”

  Marcella Williams. She still lives here! She testified against me. I looked from one to the other: Georgette Grove, the real estate agent who had sold Alex this house; Sergeant Earley, who long ago tucked a blanket around me and then as good as told the press that I was some kind of unfeeling monster; Marcella Williams, who had verified everything Ted told the court, helping him to get the financial settlement that had left me with almost nothing.

  “Mom, is it all right if I name her Lizzie?” Jack called.

  I have to protect him, I thought. This is what would follow me if they knew who I am. For an instant the dream I sometimes have about being in the ocean and trying to save Jack rushed into my mind. I’m in the ocean again, I thought frantically.

  Alex was looking at me, his expression puzzled. “Ceil, is it okay with you if Jack calls the pony Lizzie?”

  I felt the eyes of my husband, my neighbor, the police officer and the real estate agent watching me intently. I wanted to run away from them. I wanted to hide. Jack, in his innocence, wanted to name his pony after the infamous child I was reputed to be.

  I had to get rid of all the memories. I had to act the part of a newcomer annoyed by vandalism. Only that, and nothing more. I forced a smile that must have come through as a grimace. “Let’s not spoil the day because of some dumb kids,” I said. “I agree. I don’t want to sign a complaint. Georgette, please get the damage repaired as fast as possible.”

  I felt as though Sergeant Earley and Marcella Williams were taking my measure. Were either one of them asking themselves, “Who does she remind me of?” I turned and leaned on the fence. “You call your pony any name you want, Jack,” I called.

  I’ve got to get inside, I thought. Sergeant Earley, Marcella Williams—how soon will it be before they see something familiar about me?

  One of the moving men, a burly-shouldered, baby-faced guy in his early twenties, was hurrying across the lawn. “Mr. Nolan,” he said, “the media is out front taking pictures of the vandalism. One of them is a reporter from a television station, and he wants you and Mrs. Nolan to make a statement on camera.”

  “No!” I looked at Alex imploringly. “Absolutely not.”

  “I have a key to the back door,” Georgette Grove said quickly.

  But it was too late. As I tried to escape, the reporters came hurrying around the corner of the house. I felt light bulbs flashing, and as I raised my hands to cover my face, I felt my knees crumble and a rush of darkness envelop me.

  6

  Dru Perry had been on Route 24 on her way to the courthouse in Morris County when she got the call to cover the story of the vandalism of “Little Lizzie’s Place” for her newspaper, the Star-Ledger. Sixty-three years old, a seasoned veteran of forty years as a reporter, Dru was a big-boned woman with iron-gray, shoulder-length hair that always looked somewhat unkempt. Wide
glasses exaggerated her penetrating brown eyes.

  In the summer, her normal attire was a short-sleeved cotton shirt, khaki slacks, and tennis shoes. Today, because the air-conditioned courtroom was likely to be chilly, she had taken the precaution of stuffing a light sweater in the shoulder bag that held her purse, notebook, water bottle, and the digital camera she carried to help her recall specific details of a breaking story.

  “Dru, forget the courthouse. Keep going to Mendham,” her editor ordered when he reached her on her car phone. “There’s been more vandalism at that house they call ‘Little Lizzie’s Place’ on Old Mill Lane. I’ve got Chris on his way to get pictures.”

  Little Lizzie’s Place, Dru thought as she drove through Morristown. She had covered the story last Halloween when the kids had left a doll with a toy gun on the porch of that house, and painted the sign on the lawn. The cops had been tough on them then; they had ended up in juvenile court. It was surprising that they’d be bold enough to try it again.

  Dru reached for the bottle of water that was her constant traveling companion and sipped thoughtfully. This was August, not Halloween. What would make kids suddenly decide to stir up mischief again?

  The answer became obvious when she drove up Old Mill Lane and saw the moving vans and the workers carrying furniture into the house. Whoever did this wanted to rattle the new owners, she thought. Then she caught her breath as the full impact of the vandalism registered.

  This is serious damage, Dru thought. I don’t think you can just cover those shingles. They’ll all have to be repainted, and the limestone will have to be professionally treated, to say nothing of the destruction to the lawn.