No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

  I had decided to go out and buy some sectionals for the library and a few extra pieces for the living room, and to have some draperies made. At least I’d try to pull together the downstairs floor. I knew Alex was right: even if we found another house, it might be months before we could move into it.

  But I did not feel like going shopping. I was sure that if I did, I would look in the rearview mirror and see Detective Walsh’s car. I did remember to phone the housekeeper who had been so well recommended by Cynthia Granger. We agreed that she would come to meet me next week.

  That was when I made the decision that was to throw me into an even deeper nightmare. I called the Washington Valley Riding Club, reached Zach, and asked if he was free for another lesson at two o’clock.

  He agreed, and I rushed upstairs to change into the breeches and boots and a long-sleeved shirt that I’d just bought. As I pulled the riding jacket out of the closet, I thought how similar it was to the ones my mother had worn years ago. In a detached way, I thought about how Zach Willet had been the last human being my father spoke to before he died. In one way I loved my father for trying to overcome his fear of horses so that he could share my mother’s passion for them; in another, I realized I was angry at him for riding off alone without Zach. We would never know why he did that, and what really happened.

  And that was the unanswered question. My mother must have demanded to know the exact circumstances of my father’s death. She could hardly blame Zach Willet for the fact that my father rode off without him, or that he got on the dangerous trail. So then why did she hurl Zach’s name at Ted Cartwright less than a minute before she died?

  I had a premonition that if I spent enough time with Zach, whatever else my mother screamed at Ted that night might come back to me.

  I drove to the club, arriving there at ten of two, and was rewarded by Zach’s grunt of approval at my appropriate new outfit. We went out on the trail, and I thought of how my mother enjoyed riding on an afternoon like this. In thinking of her, the riding expertise I had gained as a child was returning, becoming second nature to me again. Zach was much quieter today, but obviously was in a good mood. On the way back to the stable, he apologized for not saying much, but added that I was doing just fine, and he was tired since he’d lost sleep last night because the kids downstairs were having a party.

  When I sympathized that it must be a problem to have noisy neighbors, he smiled and said that at least he wouldn’t be stuck with them much longer because he was planning to move to a new town house. Then, as we hit the open field, with the clubhouse in the distance, he said, “Let’s go,” and began to canter. Biscuit immediately followed him, and we raced across the grass until we pulled up at the barn.

  We slid off the horses, and Zach’s eyes were wary when he faced me. “You’ve done a lot of riding,” he said flatly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I told you my friend had a pony.”

  “Uh-huh. Well unless you want to waste your money, why don’t we figure out exactly how good you are, and start your lessons from there.”

  “That would be fine, Zach,” I said quickly.

  “Ted, you admitted that Zach . . . ”

  Suddenly, I was hearing my mother’s voice—those were a few of the words I had heard her screaming when I woke up that night.

  What had Ted admitted to her? Trying not to let my face give me away, I mumbled to Zach that I would call him, and then I went straight to the car.

  As I drove down Sheep Hill Road, I could see that something must have happened at the corner house. When I had passed a little over an hour before there had been no sign of activity around it. Now there were squad cars and media trucks parked in the driveway, and I could see police milling around the grounds. It was a sight that I wanted to avoid, and I stepped on the gas, then tried to take a right turn onto Valley Road. It was closed to traffic and I could see a mortuary van and people gathered at a break in the hedge. I kept going straight, not caring where the road took me, because all I wanted to do was to get away from the sight of police cars and all the trappings of death.

  It was quarter of four when I got home. I was anxious to shower and change, but I didn’t want to be late picking up Jack. Still dressed in my riding outfit, I walked over to the next street, thanked Carolyn, asked Billy if he’d come over soon and have a ride on Jack’s pony, and then strolled home hand in hand with Jack.

  We were barely inside and having a soda together in the kitchen when the bell rang. My heart in my throat, I went to answer it. Even before I opened the door, I knew that I would be looking at Detective Paul Walsh.

  I was right. But this time he was accompanied not only by the prosecutor, but also by two other men who were introduced to me as Detectives Ortiz and Shelley.

  There was something about the way they all stared at me as I stood there in my riding clothes that made me know that my appearance had startled them. As I would later learn, all four of them were mentally comparing me with the newspaper picture of my mother that they had found in Charley Hatch’s breast pocket.

  44

  Dru Perry went to the Morris County courthouse late Tuesday morning to search through old records. At first, she thought she was wasting her time. Liza Barton’s adoption records were sealed. The record of Liza’s trial in Juvenile Court was sealed. She’d expected that, but wanted to see if there was any point in the Star-Ledger testing the public’s “right to know” law.

  “Forget it,” she was told matter-of-factly by a clerk. “Juvenile and adoption cases don’t come under that law.”

  Then, as she was leaving the courthouse, a grandmotherly-type woman who introduced herself as Ellen O’Brien caught her at the door. “You’re Dru Perry. I have to tell you I love when your “Story Behind the Story” series is in the Star-Ledger. Are you going to do one of them again soon?”

  “I’d like to do one on the Liza Barton case,” Dru admitted. “I thought I’d do some research here, but I’m hitting a stone wall.”

  “That case would make a great story for you,” O’Brien enthused. “I’ve been at this courthouse thirty years, and I’ve seen a lot of cases, but nothing like that one.”

  Thirty years, Dru thought. That means she worked here when that case was going on. She noticed it was twelve o’clock. “By any chance, are you on your way to lunch, Ellen?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am. I’m just popping into the cafeteria. The food there really isn’t bad at all.”

  “Then, unless you have other plans, is it all right if I join you?”

  Fifteen minutes later, over a Cobb salad, Ellen O’Brien was willingly sharing her recollections about what happened from the time Liza Barton was taken into custody. “You can imagine how curious we all were about her,” she said. “My son was a teenager then, and you know how kids are. If I yelled at him for anything, he’d say, ‘Hey, Mom, be careful or you’ll end up like that Audrey Barton.’ ”

  Ellen glanced across the table at Dru, obviously expecting her to get a chuckle out of her son’s gallows humor. Not getting that response, she continued lamely, “Anyhow, the night she shot her mother and stepfather, Liza was taken to the local police station. That would be in Mendham, of course. They photographed and fingerprinted her there. She was cool as a cucumber. Never once asked about her mother or stepfather. I know with absolute certainty that no one had told her that her mother was dead. Then she was taken to the juvenile detention center and examined by a state psychiatrist.”

  O’Brien broke off a piece of roll and buttered it. “I always say I won’t have bread at a meal, but it tastes so good, doesn’t it? The so-called food experts write about diets, but they change their minds more than the weatherman, don’t they? When I was a kid, I had an egg every morning. My mother thought she was giving me a good start for the day. No, that’s not the way it is, the experts suddenly decide. Eggs give you cholesterol. Eat them and you’ll keel over with a heart attack. Now eggs are kind of back in again. Then they tell us a low carbohydrat
e diet will keep you alive till you’re one hundred, so forget the pasta and bread. On the other hand, someone else says we need carbs, so eat more of them. Eat a lot of fish, but don’t forget fish has a lot of mercury, so don’t eat it if you’re pregnant. A body doesn’t know what to do.”

  While heartily agreeing, Dru tried to get the conversation back on track. “From the accounts I read, I understand that Liza didn’t say a word for the first several months she was in custody.”

  “That’s right, except my friend, who was a friend of one of the aides in the detention center and got this straight from her, said that Liza used to say the name ‘Zach’ sometimes. And then she’d start shaking her head and moving her body. Do you know what ‘keening’ is?”

  “Yes, it’s a lament for the dead, a kind of wailing,” Dru said. “It’s a word you see particularly in Irish history.”

  “That’s exactly right. I’m Irish and it’s a word I remember my grandmother using. Anyhow, my friend says she overheard the psychiatrist describe Liza’s emotions that way whenever she said that name.”

  Important, Dru thought. Very important. She made a single notation in her book: “Zach.”

  “She was examined by state psychiatrists,” O’Brien continued. “Now if they had decided she was no danger to herself or others, they could have sent her to the juvenile shelter. But that didn’t happen. She was kept in the detention center. It leaked out that she was profoundly depressed and on a suicide watch for months.”

  “Her trial took place six months after her mother’s death,” Dru said. “What would have been going on at the detention center?”

  “Psychiatric counseling. A social worker would have arranged for some schooling. Then when Liza was acquitted, DYFS—you certainly know that stands for the Division of Youth and Family Services—tried to find a suitable home for her. She had been moved to the juvenile shelter while they were trying to figure out what to do with her. I mean a kid who shot two people, killing one of them, is not exactly the kind of person most people want sleeping under their roof. Then some relatives showed up and adopted her.”

  “Has anybody any idea who they were?”

  “It was very hush-hush. I gather whoever they are, they felt Liza’s chance for a normal life meant burying the past. The court agreed with them.”

  “I think anyone in the tristate area at least would have known her the minute they looked at her face,” Dru said. “I bet whoever these people are, they weren’t local.”

  “From what I understand, there weren’t any very close relatives. Audrey and Will Barton were both only children. It’s almost ironic. Audrey’s ancestors settled here before the Revolutionary War. Liza’s mother’s maiden name was Sutton. You see that name over and over again in the Morris County archives. But the family has died out around here. So God knows how far distant the cousin might have been who took her in. Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve always felt kind of sorry for Liza. On the other hand, remember that movie The Bad Seed. It was about a kid without a conscience. Have I got it wrong, or did she kill her mother, too?”

  Ellen O’Brien took a final sip of her iced tea and looked at her watch. “The State of New Jersey calls,” she announced. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it has been talking to you, Dru. You said you were doing a story on the case. Maybe it’s better if you don’t mention my name. You know what I mean. They’d just as soon we don’t pass on any information we pick up around here.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” Dru agreed. “I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been a great help, Ellen.”

  “I didn’t tell you anything that anyone else in the office couldn’t have told you,” O’Brien protested modestly.

  “Yes, you did. When you talked about the Suttons, you gave me an idea. Now if you’ll point me to where the marriage records are kept, I’ll get back to work.”

  I’ll trace Liza’s ancestry back at least three generations, Dru thought. My hunch is that it’s more likely she was adopted by a member of her mother’s family than her father’s. I’ll collect the names of the people the Sutton family members married and trace their descendants to see if one of them has a thirty-four-year-old daughter. It’s worth a shot, she thought.

  My story depends on tracking down Liza Barton, Dru concluded as she paid the check. Something else that I’m going to do right now is get a computerized image of what she might look like today. And I’m going to find out who Zach is and why, when she couldn’t say any other word, Liza was keening over his name.

  45

  I knew that I had to take a stand. I could not have these four men come into my house and question me about the death of a woman I had met only once. These people from the prosecutor’s office did not know I was Liza Barton, and I want to keep it that way. They were trying to tie me to Georgette’s death only because I had not dialed 911 from Holland Road, and because I had driven home so quickly.

  Jack had followed me out to answer the doorbell, and now he slipped his hand in mine. I’m not sure if he was seeking reassurance from me, or trying to give me reassurance. My anger at what all this might be doing to him gave me the backbone to go on the attack.

  I directed my first question to Jeffrey Mac-Kingsley. “Mr. MacKingsley, will you please explain to me why Detective Walsh was following me around this morning?”

  “Mrs. Nolan, I apologize for any inconvenience,” MacKingsley said. “Would you mind if we stepped in to speak with you for a few minutes? Let me explain what it’s about. The other day, you showed me a photograph of the Barton family that was taped to the post in the barn. There were no fingerprints on it except yours, which, as you can understand, is unusual. You took it off the post and gave it to me, but someone had to have handled it first. We have not released this information publicly, but in Georgette Grove’s shoulder bag we found a newspaper clipping with a picture of you taken just as you fainted. That also had no fingerprints on it. Today we found a picture of Audrey Barton at another crime scene.”

  I almost blurted out, “A picture of my mother at a crime scene!” My nerves were just that raw. Instead I asked, “What has that got to do with me?” trying to sound as calm as possible.

  I was still standing in the doorway, and Mac-Kingsley saw that I had no intention of either answering his questions or inviting them in. When he had begun speaking, his manner had been courteous and apologetic. Now, whatever warmth I had felt from him was gone. “Mrs. Nolan, the landscaper for the house on Holland Road was shot to death a few hours ago. We have proof that he was the person who vandalized this property. He had a picture of Audrey Barton in his pocket, and I doubt that he put it there himself. What I am trying to say is that Georgette Grove’s murder, and this homicide, are somehow connected to this house.”

  “Did you know Charley Hatch, Mrs. Nolan?” Walsh asked me, point-blank.

  “No, I did not.” I looked at him. “Why were you in the coffee shop this morning, and why did you follow me to Bedminster?”

  “Mrs. Nolan,” Walsh said, “I believe you either left the Holland Road house where you discovered the body of Georgette Grove much earlier than you have admitted, or that you are so familiar with these roads you could make a number of rather confusing turns and still make that phone call to 911 at the time it was received.”

  Before I could respond, MacKingsley said, “Mrs. Nolan, Georgette Grove sold this house to your husband. Charley Hatch vandalized it. You live in it. Georgette had your picture. Charley Hatch had Audrey Barton’s picture. You found a picture of the Barton family. There’s an obvious connection and we are trying to solve two homicides. That is why we are here.”

  “Are you sure you never met Charley Hatch, Mrs. Nolan?” Walsh asked.

  “I have never even heard of the man.” My anger put steel in my voice.

  “Mom.” Jack tugged at my hand. I knew he was frightened by the tone of my voice, and by the insinuating attitude of Detective Walsh.

  “It’s all right, Jack. These nice people ju
st want us to know how happy they are that we moved into this town.” I ignored Walsh and the other two and looked straight at Jeff MacKingsley. “I arrived here last week to find this house vandalized. I had an appointment to meet Georgette Grove, a woman I had seen only once before in my life, and found her dead. I think the doctor at the hospital can testify to the state of shock I was in when I reached the emergency room. I do not know what is going on, but I suggest that you concentrate on trying to find whoever is guilty of these crimes, and have the decency to leave me and my family alone.”

  I began to close the door. Walsh put his foot forward to block it from closing. “One more question, Mrs. Nolan. Where were you between one thirty and two o’clock this afternoon?”

  That one seemed easy to answer: “I had a two o’clock appointment for a riding lesson at the Washington Valley Riding Club. I arrived there at five of two. Why don’t you clock the distance from here to there, Mr. Walsh? That way you can figure out all by yourself what time I left this house.”

  I slammed the door against his shoe and he withdrew it, but as I turned the lock, a horrible possibility occurred to me. The police activity at the corner house on Sheep Hill and Valley Roads—could that have anything to do with the death of the landscaper who had vandalized this house? And if so, by answering that last question I had placed myself directly in the area where he died.

  46

  On Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock, Henry Paley returned to the realty office.

  “How did it go?” Robin asked.

  “I think we have a sale. As you know, this is the third time the Muellers have looked at the house, and the second time his parents came with them. His father is obviously the one with the checkbook. The owner was there, too, pulled me aside, and asked me about shaving my commission.”