“Are you saying that Audrey was having an affair with him while she was married?” Dru asked quickly.
“No, I’m not saying that, because I don’t know if it’s true. I am saying that she saw him at the club practically every day, that they’d often go on the trails together or take the jumps together. At the time, Ted was expanding his construction business and starting to make lots of money.”
“You’re suggesting that Audrey may have regretted her marriage to Will Barton?”
“I’m not suggesting it. I’m saying it. I heard that from a half-dozen people at the club when I was preparing for the trial. If it was such an open secret, wouldn’t a smart kid like Liza have caught on to it, too?”
Fletcher picked up the unlit cigar from the ashtray at his elbow, put it between his lips and took it out again. “Trying to break the habit,” he remarked, then continued his explanation to Dru. “From the time Audrey buried her husband, she was seeing Ted Cartwright. She waited a couple of years to marry him because the kid resented him from the get-go.”
“Then why did Audrey file for divorce? Why was she so afraid of him?”
“We’ll never know for sure, but my guess is that life with the three of them under the same roof was unbearable, and obviously Audrey couldn’t dump her child. But don’t forget one more point that kept coming up.” Benjamin Fletcher looked sharply at Dru, challenging her scholarship on the Barton case.
“I understand there was a question about the alarm system,” Dru suggested.
“That’s right, the alarm, Ms. Perry. One of the things we managed to get out of Liza was that her mother set the alarm that night before the two of them went upstairs. But when the cops came, the alarm was turned off. Cartwright didn’t break in. If he’d disconnected the alarm from the outside, there’d be a record of a malfunction. I believed him when he said Audrey had called him and invited him over to discuss a reconciliation. And now, Ms. Perry, I have to tell you I’m planning to leave a little early today.”
“Just one more thing, Mr. Fletcher. I read an article that was printed in one of those trashy tabloids about two years after the trial. It was an interview with Julie Brett. She testified at the trial that Ted Cartwright physically abused her.”
Fletcher chuckled. “She sure did, but the abuse she got from Cartwright was that he dropped her for another woman. Don’t get me wrong. That guy has an explosive temper and has been known to swing a punch, but not at Julie.”
“You mean she was lying?”
“Now I didn’t say that, did I? I think the real truth is that they’d had an argument. He was on his way out. She grabbed him and he shoved her. But in sympathy for Liza, Julie dressed up her story a little. She’s got a good heart. That’s off the record, of course.”
Dru looked at Fletcher. The elderly lawyer had a satisfied smile on his face. Clearly he was amused by his memory of Julie Brett. Then his face became stern. “Ms. Perry, Julie made a big impression on the judge. Trust me, if it wasn’t for her, Liza Barton would have been confined in a juvenile detention center until she was twenty-one.”
“What about Diane Wesley, another of Cartwright’s girlfriends?” Dru asked quickly. “She told the media that Ted had dinner with her the night before the tragedy, during which he blamed Liza for the problem he was having with Audrey.”
“She told that to the press, but she didn’t get to say it in court. But anyhow, she was just another voice confirming that Liza caused the rift.” Fletcher stood up and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Perry. When you write up your article, have some kind words for this former underpaid public defender. That little girl got one hell of a good defense from me.”
Dru shook his hand. “Many thanks for your time, Mr. Fletcher. Have you any idea where Liza is now?”
“No. I wonder about her from time to time. I just hope she got the psychiatric help she needed. If she didn’t, I wouldn’t put it past her to sneak back around here someday and blow Ted’s brains out. Good luck to you, Ms. Perry.”
37
Late Monday afternoon, Charley Hatch sat in his living room, drinking a beer and waiting nervously for the call he’d been told to expect. He was going over in his mind how he would explain that there was a problem.
It’s not my fault, he thought. After that cop, Earley, left on Friday afternoon, I tried to call the usual number, but it had been disconnected, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Then, a minute later, my phone rings. I’m told to go out and buy one of those cell phones with minutes on it so nobody can trace it.
Then, in an effort to show that I was being careful, I mentioned that I’d noticed some spots of paint on my jeans and sneakers, and had managed to change them before I let the cop in. I thought that would show that I’m on the ball, but instead I’m told to get rid of the jeans and sneakers, and to make sure there’s no paint spots on the truck. Then I have to listen to more bull about how dumb I was to do the carving in that door.
So over the weekend I left the jeans and sneakers bundled with my carvings on a shelf in the garage, and then, trying to be extra careful, I decided I’d better get rid of them for good. I even took the trouble to pull out some old clothes I’ve been meaning to throw out, and dumped them, along with the jeans and sneakers and my nice carvings, in a big trash bag. Then I tied up the bag real tight and put it in the barrel. I even cleaned out the refrigerator so that the bag on top of the one with the clothes was gloppy with things like old Chinese food, and slices of dried up pizza, and coffee grinds, and those oranges that had turned green.
My garbage is supposed to be picked up every Tuesday and Friday. I thought putting it in the garbage bin Sunday night would be okay. How am I supposed to know that some jerk is going to rummage through my stinking garbage? I’ll bet it was that nosy cop, Sergeant Earley, who did it and found my jeans and sneakers and carvings. Anyway, now they’re gone. I admit I was a dope to put on those heavy corduroy pants on a hot day. Earley noticed it; he even said something about it.
Charley’s regular cell phone rang. His throat suddenly tight, he took a deep breath, then answered. “Hello.”
“Did you buy the other phone?”
“You told me to buy it. I bought it.”
“Give me the number.”
“973-555-0347.”
“I’ll call you on it.”
Charley took a long swig of beer, draining the bottle. When his new phone rang, he picked it up. Instead of giving his carefully rehearsed explanation, he nervously blurted out, “I threw my sneakers, jeans, and my carved figures in the garbage. Someone fished them out. I think it was that cop who came to see me Friday.”
The long silence that followed was worse than the angry tirade he’d been subjected to because of the skull and crossbones he’d carved into the door of the house on Old Mill Lane.
When his caller spoke, the voice was calm and even. “Why did you put that stuff in the garbage?”
“It was supposed to be picked up tomorrow. I was too nervous having the stuff in the barn,” Charley said defensively.
“I didn’t ask for the garbage pickup schedule. Putting those items in your own trash bin more than a day before collection was idiotic. You should have just thrown them in a Dumpster behind some store, and that would have been the end of it. Listen and try to keep straight what I’m telling you. I don’t know who shot Georgette Grove, but if the cops have evidence that shows that you did the job on the Nolan house, they’ll blame you for it.”
“Blame us for it,” Charley corrected.
“Don’t threaten me, Charley. I’m pretty sure that cop had no right to go through your garbage and remove anything from it without a search warrant, so even if they found something incriminating, they can’t use it against you. They can, however, try to wear you down. So get a lawyer, and refuse to answer any questions.”
“A lawyer! Who’s going to pay for a lawyer?”
“You know damn well, I’ll pay for it.”
There was a p
ause, then his caller said, “Charley, you’ll never have to worry about money again if you can get through this without messing it up.”
“That’s the kind of news I like to hear.” Charley snapped the phone shut. Vastly relieved, he went to the refrigerator and got another beer. If they couldn’t use the jeans and sneakers against him, what did they have? My little statues may show that I’m really talented, he thought, but that doesn’t make me the only person in the world who could have carved the skull and crossbones in that door.
He carried his beer outside, walked around to the barn, and looked at his landscaping equipment—the power mower and hedge cutter and rakes and shovels, all of them representing hours and days and months and years of boring hard work.
Pretty soon I’ll be paying someone to mow my lawn, he promised himself.
38
On Monday night Zach had a hamburger and a couple of drinks at Marty’s Bar and debated in his mind about calling Ted Cartwright. The picture he had mailed him must have arrived at his office by now. Straight to him, Zach thought. No chance of a secretary deciding it wasn’t important enough to put that one through to the big boss.
In the lower left corner of the envelope Zach had written, “Personal, Please.”
It tickled Zach to add that little touch. It was so la-de-da. A couple of years ago, one of the women who owed him for a riding lesson had sent a check to him at the club and written that on the envelope. Ever since that day, Zach had been marking everything he mailed “Personal, Please,” even the telephone bill.
The cops had to be questioning Ted Cartwright about Georgette Grove, he figured. Everyone in town knew how furious he was that she was always blocking his building plans. The case against him would be a lot stronger if a certain Zach Willet had an attack of conscience and decided to share a certain memory with the police.
But that would happen only after he got immunity from prosecution, or whatever it was they call it, he warned himself.
I’m the little minnow who can lead them to the shark, Zach thought, savoring the power he held.
He decided against having a third scotch and got into his car to drive home. Home! He used to really like his place. It wasn’t big, but it was big enough for him. Three rooms and a back porch, where on nice days, when he wasn’t working, he could settle down with the papers and his portable TV. But last year, Old Lady Potters died, and her daughter moved into the downstairs apartment. She had four kids, and one of them had a set of drums. The racket was driving Zach nuts. Sometimes he suspected she paid the kid to play them. She wanted to take over his apartment, but Zach’s lease had two years to go, so she couldn’t get rid of him yet.
Ted’s building town houses in Madison, Zach thought. His name is all over the construction site. They’re about finished and they look real nice. Must be seventy or eighty of them. I wouldn’t mind having a little more room. And a place to park, he added to himself, as he drove down his street and found every spot taken. It was clear the landlady’s kids were having a gang of their friends over.
Zach finally parked a block and a half away, and sullenly walked back to the house. It was a warm evening, and when he went up the steps to the porch, kids were everywhere. A few of them said, “Hi, Zach,” a greeting he ignored. He was sure he caught a whiff of pot as he unlocked the door that led to the second-floor apartment and climbed the stairs with a deliberately heavy foot. He had looked forward to sitting outside on his back porch and settling down with a cigar, but there were more kids in the backyard, all shouting at each other.
The fact that one of the neighbors was sure to call the cops soon did little to soothe Zach. He felt unsettled and put upon. He got out his cell phone and put it on the table, trying to decide whether or not to make the call. He’d hit Ted up only a week or so ago, so normally he wouldn’t try again so soon. But that was before Georgette took a bullet in the head. Ted must be real nervous now, Zach told himself, feeling reassured.
The sudden beat of the drums came from downstairs, making Zach jump. Muttering a curse, he dialed Ted’s cell phone.
“The customer you are trying to reach is unavailable . . . . If you wish to leave a message . . . ”
Zach waited impatiently until the computerized voice had finished, then said, “Sorry to miss you, Ted. Know how upset you must be about Georgette’s death. I bet you’re taking it real hard. Hope you can hear me. The racket downstairs is driving me nuts. I really need another place to live, like one of those town houses you’re building. I hope you got that nice picture I sent you.”
He was about to hang up when a thought occurred to him. “By the way, I have a new lady taking riding lessons. She’s Celia Nolan, the one who lives in your old house. She was asking all about Will Barton’s accident. Thought you’d want to know.”
39
All Monday evening, I struggled to tell Alex that I wanted to hire a criminal defense lawyer, but the words kept dying in my throat. The pleasant weekend at Spring Lake had relaxed some of the tension between us, and I was coward enough to want that good feeling to last a little while longer.
On the way home from the riding lesson, I had of necessity gone food shopping. Kathleen, my adoptive mother, is the kind of cook who can concoct a feast out of whatever she finds in the refrigerator. I can’t compete with her, but I do enjoy cooking, and I actually find it calming.
Jack and his babysitter, Sue, had gotten along splendidly while I was gone. She had taken him for a long walk on his pony, and he excitedly told me about the kids he’d met on the next street, one of whom was in his class. “The Billy who doesn’t cry. And remember, Mom, you have to call his mother to say I can go over for a play date tomorrow after school.”
Jack helped me mix the flour and butter and milk for biscuits, and turn the salad spinner to dry the lettuce, and make a mustard sauce to coat the salmon, and by himself he put the asparagus in the poacher.
When Alex got home at six thirty, we all sat together in the living room. Alex and I had a glass of wine and Jack a soft drink. Then we had dinner in the dining room, our first meal there. Alex told me about his aging client who finally did make it in to change her will. “This time the grandniece gets the house in the Hamptons, which is going to start the third world war in the family,” he said. “I really think that old gal gets her jollies torturing her relatives. But if she doesn’t mind running up billable time, I’m happy to help her play her game.”
Alex had changed into a sport shirt and chinos. As usual, I found myself thinking what an absolutely great-looking guy he is. I love the shape of his hands and his long, sensitive fingers. If I were asked to sketch how I envision a surgeon’s hands, I would sketch his. Still, I know how strong they are. If he’s in the kitchen when I’m struggling to open a jar, all I have to do is to hand it to him. With one easy motion of his hands, the lid begins to turn.
It was a pleasant dinner, a normal family dinner. Then, when Alex said he had to go to Chicago tomorrow afternoon to take a deposition in a case he was handling, and would be there for at least one night, possibly two, I almost was relieved. If any more of those terrible calls came in, he wouldn’t be around to answer the phone and hear them. I wanted to call Dr. Moran, who had treated me when I was young. He’s retired now, but I have his number. I needed his advice. I spoke to him last when I decided to marry Alex. He warned me that I was taking a terrible risk by not being truthful about my past. “Larry had no right to demand that of you, Celia,” he had said.
Now, if I called Dr. Moran and didn’t reach him, I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving a message for him to call me back. I could ask his advice also on how to tell Alex that I felt I needed a lawyer.
All this I was thinking while I was getting Jack ready for bed. I read him a story, then left him to read one himself before it was time to turn off the light.
The room that once was mine, and is now Jack’s, at least for now, is big, but there is really only one place for the bed—the long wall between the windows. When
the movers went to set up the bed there, I had asked them to try positioning it on the opposite wall, but it was out of place.
As a child, I had white furniture, perfect for a little girl’s room, and a blue and white bed coverlet and window treatments. Jack’s furniture is more suitable for a boy, maple and sturdy. On his bed is a patchwork quilt that I made while I was expecting him. The colors are vivid, red and yellow and green and blue. When I tuck it around him after he has fallen asleep, I think of the joy with which I stitched it, how at that time I really thought I could go through life as Celia Kellogg Foster.
Before I went downstairs, I lingered in the doorway, looking back into the room, remembering myself at that age, in this room, reading my book, secure and happy, unaware of what the future had in store for me.
What did the future hold for Jack? I wondered. In my wildest dreams, could I have imagined myself at his age, thinking that in a few years I would be the instrument, if not the cause, of my own mother’s death? It was an accident, but still, I have killed, and I know what it is like to experience the moment in which a life ends. My mother’s eyes began to stare. Her body sagged. She gasped, making a small gurgling sound. And then, while the gun continued to go off, while Ted was crawling, trying to reach me, she slid down onto the carpet, her hand resting on my foot.
These were crazy, dark thoughts. But as I start down the stairs, I am filled with the sense that Jack needs to be protected. He loves to answer the phone. He runs for it at the first ring. Suppose he heard that shadowy voice talking about Little Lizzie. Because of the pony episode, he has been told that Lizzie was a very bad girl. I know he sensed the evil that is implied in that statement. The vandalism, the excitement of the police arriving, and the media and the ambulance—all that has got to have made an impression on him. He seems to be all right, but I have to wonder what is going on in that intelligent little mind.
No Place Like Home Page 17
