No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Cartwright looked across the table at Henry. “I do feel somewhat better, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve hired a lawyer, and the reason for this lunch is not only to let people see we have nothing to hide, but to tell you you’d better hire a lawyer, too. The prosecutor’s office wants to solve this case, and one approach they’re going to take is to try to prove that we agreed to get rid of Georgette, and that one of us actually shot her, or hired someone else to do it.”

  Henry stared at Cartwright, but said nothing until the waiter returned with the drinks. Then he took a sip of the Merlot and said reflectively, “I had not even considered that the prosecutor would be looking at me as a possible suspect in Georgette’s death. Not, to be perfectly honest, that I am burdened with grief about it. At one time I was quite fond of her, but the older Georgette got, the more set in her ways she became, as you well know. However, it simply isn’t in my nature to hurt anyone. I have never even held a gun in my hand.”

  “Are you practicing for your defense?” Cartwright asked. “If so, you’re wasting it on me. I know your type, Henry. You’re a sneak. Were you behind what happened to the house on Old Mill Lane? It’s just the sort of trick I’d expect of you.”

  “Shall we order?” Henry suggested. “I have an appointment to take some people house hunting this afternoon. It’s quite interesting that Georgette’s death gave our agency a shot in the arm. We’ve suddenly had quite a few drop-ins who are interested in buying a home in this area.”

  The two men did not speak again until the steak sandwiches they both ordered were served. Then, in a conversational tone, Henry said, “Ted, now that I’ve persuaded Georgette’s nephew to sell the Route 24 property, I’d appreciate the bonus check you offered me. I believe the sum we agreed on is one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Cartwright stopped the fork he was holding in midair. “You have got to be kidding,” he said.

  “No, I am not kidding. We made a deal, and I expect you to uphold your end of it.”

  “The deal was that you would persuade Georgette to sell that property instead of deeding it to the state.”

  “The deal was, and is, that the property is for sale. Somehow, I anticipated that you might not wish to pay the bonus you owe me. Over the weekend I have been in touch with Georgette’s nephew, Thomas Madison. I pointed out to him that while your offer was reasonable, other offers for that property have also been made over the past few years. I suggested to Tom that I go over those offers, contact the people who made them and see if they would like to begin negotiations with us.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Cartwright said, anger rising in his face.

  “I really am not bluffing, Ted. But you are. You’re scared to death that you’ll be arrested for Georgette’s murder. You were horseback riding near the house on Holland Road. You’re a proud member of the National Rifle Association and have a pistol permit. You had a quarrel with Georgette in this very room the night before her death. Now, shall I pursue those other interested parties in the Route 24 property, or shall I expect your check within forty-eight hours?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Henry stood up. “I really must get back to the office, Ted. Thanks for lunch. Oh, by the way, why not satisfy my curiosity? Are you still seeing Robin, or was she only last year’s diversion for you?”

  42

  Lorraine Smith was the woman whose hysterical 911 call about Charley Hatch had brought not only the police, but an ambulance, the medical examiner, the media, and the team from the Morris County prosecutor’s office, including the prosecutor himself, Jeffrey MacKingsley.

  Fifty years old and the mother of eighteen-year-old twins, Lorraine gradually regained her composure sufficiently to join the investigative team in the breakfast room of her Federal-style home on Sheep Hill Road. “Charley got here about one o’clock,” she told Jeff, Paul Walsh, Angelo Ortiz, and Mort Shelley. “He comes every Tuesday to do the lawn.”

  “Did you talk to him at all?” Jeff asked.

  “Today I did. Normally I might not run into him for a month at a time. I mean, he just arrives, unloads his equipment, and gets to work. In a couple of weeks he’ll be, I mean, he would have been, taking out the impatiens and the other annuals and putting in the fall flowers, and normally I’d go over everything with him then. But when he’s just doing the lawn, I don’t necessarily talk to him.”

  Lorraine knew she was talking rapidly and excessively. She took a sip of coffee and resolved to calm down and just answer the questions the prosecutor was asking.

  “Why did you go out to speak to him today?”

  “Because I was annoyed at him for being late. Charley’s supposed to come at nine o’clock in the morning, and I had friends over for lunch today. We were on the patio and had to listen to the roar of his power mower. I finally went outside and told him to come back and finish tomorrow.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He kind of laughed and said something like, ‘You know, Mrs. Smith, it’s okay for me to be tired and sleep in once in a while. You better take advantage of my services while you still have the chance.’ ”

  “Then what happened?”

  “His cell phone rang.” Lorraine Smith paused. “Or I should say, one of his cell phones rang.”

  “He had two of them?” Paul Walsh asked quickly.

  “I was surprised, too. He took one phone out of his breast pocket, but then, when the ringing kept going, he rushed to get the other one out of his back pocket.”

  “Did you happen to hear the name of the person who called him?”

  “No. In fact he obviously did not want to talk in front of me. He told the person who called him to wait a minute, then said, ‘I’ll load my stuff and get out of here now, Mrs. Smith.’ ”

  “That was at one thirty?”

  “Twenty-five of two at the latest. Then I went back inside. My friends and I finished lunch, and they left at about two fifteen. They were parked in the circular driveway in the front of the house, so I didn’t realize that Charlie’s pickup truck was still in the back by the garage. When I saw it, I went looking to see where he was.”

  “How long was that after your friends left, Mrs. Smith?” Angelo Ortiz asked.

  “Only a few minutes. I could see he wasn’t in the backyard, so I walked around the fenced area where the pool and tennis court are. Just past them is that row of boxwoods that we planted for privacy, because on that side, our property ends at Valley Road. Charley was lying on his back in the little space between two of them. His eyes were open and staring, and there was a lot of blood on the right side of his face.” Smith rubbed her hand over her forehead as if to erase the memory.

  “Mrs. Smith, when you dialed 911, you said you thought he was dead. Was there any reason why you thought he might still be alive when you found him?”

  “I don’t think I knew what I was saying.”

  “That’s understandable. Let’s go back to one thing, Mrs. Smith. You say that Charley Hatch made some reference to your taking advantage of his services while you still had the chance. Have you any idea what he meant by that?”

  “Charley was a very touchy guy. He did a good job, but I never had the feeling that he enjoyed what he did. You know how some landscapers love working with growing things? To Charley it was a job, and I think the fact that I was annoyed with him meant he was going to quit working for us.”

  “I see.” Jeff stood up. “We’ll ask you to sign a statement later, but thank you for being so helpful. It makes our job easier.”

  “Mom, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

  Two identical teenage girls who, like their mother, had auburn hair and slim athletic bodies rushed into the room. Lorraine Smith jumped up as they ran to embrace her. Both were traumatized. “When we saw the police cars and all the people here, we thought something happened to you,” one of them said.

  “She may have been lucky that she wasn’t talking to Charley Hatch when he was hit,” Mort Shelley commented to Jeff as they walked th
rough the foyer to the front door. “What do you think?”

  “I think that whoever paid Charley Hatch to mess up the house on Old Mill Lane got nervous and was afraid that if we started putting the screws on Charley, he’d tell us who he was working for.”

  Detective Lola Spaulding from the forensic unit had been gathering evidence. She met the four men as they came out of the house. “Jeff, his wallet is in the truck. Doesn’t look touched. No sign of a cell phone. But we did find something in his pocket that I think you’ll find interesting. It hasn’t been tested for fingerprints yet.”

  The photograph she was offering him, like the one that had been in Georgette Grove’s shoulder bag, had been cut out of a newspaper. It showed a stunningly attractive woman in her early thirties. She was wearing riding breeches and a hunt coat and holding a silver trophy.

  “This was in Charley Hatch’s vest pocket,” Lola said. “Any idea who it is?”

  “Yes,” Jeff said. “This is Liza Barton’s mother, Audrey, and this is one of the pictures the newspapers used last week when they carried the story of the vandalism.”

  He gave the picture back to Spaulding and walked to the yellow crime scene tape that had been strung up to hold the media back. Audrey Barton lived in the house on Old Mill Lane, he thought. The key to what is going on has to do with that house. The psycho who killed two people is leaving those pictures, and is either playing a game with us, or is begging to be stopped.

  What are you trying to tell us? Jeff mentally asked the killer as light bulbs began to flash at his approach. And how can we stop you before you kill again?

  43

  On the way home from shopping in Bedminster, I kept looking out the rearview mirror to see if Detective Walsh was still following me. I decided he wasn’t, because I couldn’t see any trace of that black Chevrolet sedan. I picked up Jack at school, brought him home, washed his face and hands, and drove him around the corner for his play date with the Billy who didn’t cry.

  I met Billy’s mother, Carolyn Browne, and liked her immediately. She was about my age, with curly dark hair, brown eyes, and a warm, cheerful manner. “Billy and Jack have gotten thick as thieves this past week,” she told me. “I’m glad he has a friend living so near. There are no other children his age on this street.”

  Carolyn invited me to have a cup of coffee with her while she gave the boys lunch, but I begged off, saying that I had phone calls to make. Unlike yesterday, when I’d given Marcella Williams that excuse, this time I was being honest. I had to talk to Dr. Moran. It was about ten o’clock in California, a good time to reach him. And I also wanted to call Kathleen. Now that Martin was failing mentally, she was the only one other than Dr. Moran in whom I could confide. Unlike Dr. Moran, who thought I should have told Alex the truth about myself, Kathleen adamantly believed I should leave the past buried.

  Jack gave me a hurried kiss before I left, and, after promising to be back at four o’clock, I went home. As soon as I was inside the house, I ran to the answering machine. When Jack and I stopped at the house after I picked him up, I’d noticed the light was blinking, but I was afraid to play the message while he was in earshot, for fear it was one of the Lizzie Borden calls.

  The message was from Detective Walsh. He said he was looking forward to going over my statement with me. He thought that possibly I had been wrong about the time I found Georgette’s body, saying it was impossible that someone who didn’t know the route from the house on Holland Road to my house could have made the trip so quickly. “I understand how traumatized you were, Mrs. Nolan,” he said, his voice smooth but sarcastic, “but by now I imagine you could sort the time element out a little better. I’d like to hear from you.”

  I pushed the delete button, but erasing Walsh’s voice from my answering machine could not erase the implication of what he was saying. He was implying that I had lied about either the time I got to Holland Road, or about not knowing exactly how to get back from there.

  Now I was even more anxious to talk to Dr. Moran. He had told me to call him anytime, day or night, but I hadn’t called him since the wedding. I hadn’t wanted to admit to him that he was right—I should not have married Alex without being completely honest with him.

  I started to pick up the receiver in the kitchen, then put it down and got my cell phone out of my pocketbook. In the apartment, the household bills had gone directly to my accountant, but Alex had said that when we moved he would have them sent to his office. I could imagine him glancing at the phone bill and casually asking who I had called in California. My cell phone bill still went to my accountant.

  Dr. Moran answered on the second ring. “Celia,” he said, his voice as warm and reassuring as always, “you’ve been on my mind a lot lately. How is everything going?”

  “Not that great, Doctor.” I told him about Alex buying this house, about the vandalism, about Georgette’s death, the bizarre phone calls, and the threatening way Detective Walsh was treating me.

  His voice became increasingly grave as he asked questions of me. “Celia, you should trust Alex, and tell him the truth now,” he said.

  “I can’t, not now, not yet, not until I can show him that what they say about me isn’t true.”

  “Celia, if that detective is trying to tie you to the real estate agent’s death, there’s a chance that they’ll dig into your past and find out who you are. I think you should get a lawyer and protect yourself.”

  “The only lawyers I know are like Alex, in the financial sector.”

  “Is the lawyer still practicing who defended you when you were a child?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you remember his name? If not, I’m sure I have it in your file.”

  “It was Benjamin Fletcher. I didn’t like him.”

  “But he got you acquitted. From what I understand, he did a very good job in light of the way your stepfather was testifying. Have you got a business telephone directory nearby?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Get it and look him up.”

  The telephone books were in the cabinet under the phone. I pulled out the yellow pages directory and turned to the section on lawyers. “He’s listed here,” I told Dr. Moran. “He practices in Chester. That’s only twenty minutes away from here.”

  “Ceil, I think you should consult him. Anything you tell him will be protected by attorney-client privilege. At the very least, he could recommend a suitable lawyer to you.”

  “I’ll call him, Doctor, I promise.”

  “And keep in touch with me?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  I called Kathleen next. She has always understood that calling her “Mother” or “Mom” was difficult for me. She did not, could not replace my mother, but she is very dear to me. We talk every few weeks on the phone. She had been upset when she heard about the house, but then agreed that I could probably get Alex to move to a different one. “As for Mendham,” she said, “your maternal ancestors came from that area, Celia. One of them fought in the Revolutionary War in Washington’s army. Your roots are there, even if you can’t let that fact be known.”

  When Kathleen answered, I could hear Martin in the background. “It’s Celia,” she called to him. I heard his response, and it chilled my blood.

  “Her name is Liza,” he called back. “She made up the other name.”

  “Kathleen,” my voice was now a whisper. “Does he tell that to people?”

  “He’s gotten so much worse,” she whispered back. “I never know what he’s going to say. I’m at the end of my rope. I took him to a nursing home that is really wonderful and only a mile away, but he sensed that I was looking at it with the possibility of putting him there. First he started shouting at me, then when we got home, he cried like a baby. For a little while he was perfectly lucid, and begged me to keep him home.”

  I could hear the despair in her voice. “Oh, Kathleen,” I said. Then I insisted that she immediately find a live-in aide and told her that I would gladly take
care of the expense. I think that by the time the conversation ended, I had cheered her a little. Of course, I didn’t talk to her about what was going on in my life. It was clear she had enough on her plate without having to listen to my problems. But suppose Martin blurted out my story to someone who would have read about Little Lizzie Borden, and that person talked to friends or wrote about it on an Internet chat room.

  I could hear the conversation. “There’s an old guy who lives near us. He has an adopted daughter. He’s in the early stage of Alzheimer’s now, but he claims she’s Little Lizzie Borden, the kid who shot her mother years ago.”

  I took the only action open to me. I dialed Benjamin Fletcher’s phone number. He answered himself. I told him I was Celia Nolan. I said that he had been recommended to me and I would like to make an appointment to speak with him.

  “Who recommended me, Celia?” he asked with a laugh that sounded almost as if he didn’t believe me.

  “I’d rather discuss it when I see you.”

  “That’s fine with me. How’s tomorrow for you?”

  “I’d prefer between nine and ten, when my little boy is in school.”

  “You got it. Nine o’clock. You have my address?”

  “If it’s the one in the book, I do.”

  “That’s it. See you then.”

  The phone clicked in my ear. I put the receiver down, wondering if I had made a mistake. Upon hearing his voice, even though it had become somewhat husky with age, I could see him clearly in my mind—that hulking giant of a man whose size had made me shrink from him when he visited me at the juvenile detention center.

  For a few moments I stood irresolutely in the center of the kitchen. During another sleepless night I had decided that I had to do something to make this house more livable until we could move. I had decided that I owed that much to Alex. Except for the piano, he had sold his apartment furnished, because he’d said that when we bought a house he’d be delighted to have his wife, a fabulous interior designer, start from scratch.