No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I agreed. Then I added, “I’m not being much of a wife to you these days.”

  Alex kissed me. “There are thousands of days ahead of us.” He kissed me again. “And nights.”

  The sleeping pill worked. It was nearly eight o’clock when I woke up. My first awareness was that sometime during my dreams I had heard the first part of what my mother screamed at Ted that night.

  “You admitted it when you were drunk.”

  52

  Jeff MacKingsley was at his desk promptly at eight thirty on Wednesday morning. He had a sense that it was going to be a long day and not a good one. Both his Scottish and his Irish grandmothers had cautioned him that everything comes in threes, especially death.

  First Georgette Grove, then Charley Hatch. The superstitious part of Jeff’s Celtic nature warned him that the specter of violent death was still hovering over Morris County, waiting to claim a third victim.

  Unlike Paul Walsh, who remained fixated on the belief that Celia Nolan had murdered Georgette for her own unbalanced reasons, and that she had both motive and opportunity to kill Charley Hatch, Jeff believed that Celia Nolan was a victim of circumstance.

  That was why, when Anna came into his office to tell him a Mr. Alex Nolan was at her desk, insisting that he had to see the prosecutor, Jeff’s immediate instinct was to welcome the opportunity to have a talk with Celia Nolan’s husband. On the other hand, he did not want to have a meeting after which he might be misquoted. “Is Mort Shelley in his office?” he asked Anna.

  “He just went by with a container of coffee.”

  “Tell him to put it down and come in here at once. Ask Mr. Nolan to wait five minutes, then send him in.”

  “Fine.”

  As Anna turned to go, Jeff added, “If Walsh stops at your desk, I don’t want him to know that Alex Nolan is here. Understood?”

  Anna’s response was to raise her eyebrows and put her finger to her lips. Jeff knew that Walsh was no favorite of hers. Barely a minute later, Mort Shelley came in.

  “Sorry to tear you away from your coffee, but Celia Nolan’s husband is here, and I need a witness to the conversation,” Jeff told him. “Don’t take notes in front of him. I get the feeling that this is not going to be a friendly chat.”

  It was clear from the moment Alex Nolan entered the room that he was both angry and spoiling for a fight. He barely acknowledged Jeff’s greeting and the introduction to Shelley, and then demanded, “Why is one of your detectives following my wife around?”

  Jeff admitted to himself that if he had been Celia Nolan’s husband, he would have reacted exactly the same way. Even given his total focus on Celia Nolan, Walsh had been grandstanding by openly following her when she was shopping. He thought making her aware of his scrutiny would rattle her enough to make her confess to killing Georgette. Instead it had produced hostility, and now Nolan’s lawyer husband was on the attack.

  “Mr. Nolan, please sit down and let me explain something,” Jeff said. “Your new home was vandalized. The agent who sold it to you was murdered. We have evidence that seems to prove that the man who was shot yesterday committed the vandalism. I’m going to lay my cards on the table. You know, of course, the history of your house—that Liza Barton fatally shot her mother and wounded her stepfather in it twenty-four years ago. There was a picture of the Barton family taped to a post in your barn the day after you moved in.”

  “The one of them on the beach?” Alex asked.

  “Yes. There were no fingerprints on it except those of your wife, which was to be expected since she was the one who took it down and gave it to me.”

  “That’s impossible,” Alex Nolan protested. “Whoever put it up must have left fingerprints.”

  “That’s exactly the point. That picture had been wiped clean of fingerprints. Georgette Grove had a picture in her shoulder bag of your wife in the process of fainting. It had been cut out of the Star-Ledger. It also had no fingerprints on it. Finally, Charley Hatch, the landscaper who was shot yesterday in the yard of a house very close to the Washington Valley Riding Club where your wife was taking a riding lesson, had a picture of Audrey Barton in the pocket of his vest. Like the others, it had no fingerprints on it.”

  “I still fail to see what that has to do with my wife,” Alex Nolan said flatly.

  “It may not have anything to do with your wife, but it has everything to do with your house, and we have to find the connection. I assure you that we are pursuing this investigation on a very broad scale, and we have a number of people we are questioning.”

  “Celia seems to feel that a great deal is being made of the fact that she got home quickly after finding Georgette Grove’s body. Mr. MacKingsley, I’m sure you are aware of the feats of physical strength that people have been known to perform when under great stress. I remember an incident of a man lifting a car to rescue his child who was trapped under it. My wife is a young woman who was absolutely shocked by the vandalism. Two days later she found the body of a woman she barely knew in a house she had never set foot in. For all she knew, the person who shot Georgette Grove was still in that house. Don’t you think it is possible that, in a catatonic state, and with a terrible sense of being in danger, her subconscious mind retraced her route?”

  “I take your point,” Jeff said candidly. “But the fact remains, two people are dead, and we are questioning anyone who might contribute any information at all to help us solve these crimes. We know Mrs. Nolan had to have driven past the house on Sheep Hill Road where Charley Hatch was shot. We know that she was on that road within the time frame of his death. We have checked at the riding club. She arrived there at approximately eight minutes of two. She may have seen another car when she came down that road. She may have seen someone walking on it. She told us yesterday that she’s never met Charley Hatch. Don’t you think it’s reasonable that we question her for any impressions she may have subconsciously registered?”

  “I am sure that Celia would want to cooperate in any way with your investigation,” Alex Nolan said. “Obviously she has nothing to hide. My God, she was never even in this town until her birthday last month, and the second time was last week when we moved in. But I insist that you call off this Detective Walsh. I will not have her harassed and distressed. Last night when we were out for dinner, Celia broke down. Of course, I blame myself for being so shortsighted as to buy a house without showing it to her.”

  “It is a rather curious thing to do in this day and age,” Jeff commented.

  Alex Nolan’s narrow hint of a smile had no mirth in it. “Maybe idealistic rather than curious,” he said. “Celia has gone through a lot in the last several years. Her first husband was terminally ill for almost a year before he died. Eight months ago she was hit by a limousine and suffered a severe concussion. Her father has Alzheimer’s, and she just heard yesterday that he’s declining rapidly. She was perfectly happy to move out of the city into this area, but kept delaying house hunting. She wanted me to do it. When I saw the one I bought, I thought it was exactly what she would enjoy. It’s everything we were looking for—a fine, spacious older house, with large rooms, in good condition and with a lot of property.”

  Jeff noticed that Nolan’s eyes softened when he spoke about his wife.

  “Ceil told me about a beautiful house she had visited years ago, and it sounded just like this one. Should I have brought her out to see it before I bought it? Of course. Should I have listened to the history of the house? Of course. But I’m not here to second guess myself, or to explain why we’re in the house. I’m here to make sure my wife is not bullied by people on your staff.”

  He got up and extended his hand. “Mr. Mac-Kingsley, do I have your word that Detective Walsh will stay away from my wife?”

  Jeff got up. “Yes, you do,” he said. “I do need to ask her about driving past the house on Sheep Hill Road where Charley Hatch died, but I will do it myself.”

  “Do you consider my wife to be a suspect in
either of these homicides?”

  “Based upon the evidence we have now, I do not.”

  “In that case, I will advise my wife to talk with you.”

  “Thank you. That will be very helpful. I’ll try to arrange a meeting for later today. Will you be around, Mr. Nolan?”

  “Not for the next few days. I’ve been taking depositions in Chicago on a case I’m involved in pertaining to a will. I just came home last evening, and I’m going straight back to Chicago now.”

  The door had barely closed behind Nolan when Anna came in. “That is one good-looking guy,” she said. “All the girls under the age of fifty were asking if he’s single. I told them to forget it. He seemed a lot calmer when he left than when he came in.”

  “I think he was,” Jeff agreed, even as he wondered if he had played it fair with Celia Nolan’s husband. He looked at Mort Shelley. “What do you think, Mort?”

  “I agree with you. I don’t consider her a suspect, but I think there’s something she hasn’t told us yet. I swear, when she opened the door yesterday dressed in those riding clothes, I thought for a minute that she had posed for the picture we found in Charley Hatch’s pocket.”

  “I had the same reaction, but, of course, when you compare that picture of Audrey Barton with Mrs. Nolan, the difference is obvious. Nolan is much taller, her hair is darker, the shape of her face is different. She just happened to be wearing exactly the same kind of outfit that Barton was wearing in the picture—the riding coat, breeches, and boots. Even the way she wore her hair was similar.”

  The difference was obvious, Jeff told himself, but there was still something about Celia Nolan that reminded him of Audrey Barton. And it was more than the fact that they were both beautiful women in riding clothes.

  53

  On Wednesday morning, Ted Cartwright made a stop at the Cartwright Town Houses Corporation in Madison. At ten thirty, he opened the door into the reception area that led to his office. There, a smiling Amy Stack greeted him by chirping, “How are things at the North Pole, Santa Claus?”

  “Amy,” Cartwright said irritably, “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and I’m not interested in finding out. I’ve got a busy day lined up and I had to take time to come over here and talk to Chris Brown again. He doesn’t seem to be able to get it into his head that I’m not paying any more overtime to that crew of his.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cartwright,” Amy said apologetically. “It’s just that I can’t help thinking how few people would be so generous, even to someone who saved their life.”

  Cartwright had been about to pass her desk to go into his office, but stopped suddenly. “What are you talking about?”

  Amy looked up at him and swallowed nervously. She liked working for Ted Cartwright, but she was always mentally moving on tiptoe, trying to do everything exactly the way he wanted it. Sometimes he could be relaxed and funny, but she sensed she should have known better than to try to joke with him this morning without first testing his mood. He usually was happy with her work, but the few times she had ever done anything wrong, his biting sarcasm had rattled her.

  Now he was demanding an explanation for teasing him about Mr. Willet.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. She sensed that whatever she told Mr. Cartwright, he was not going to be happy. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted Mr. Willet to talk to her about why he was being given the town house. “Mr. Willet didn’t tell me that it was a secret you were giving him the model town house because he saved your life years ago.”

  “He saved my life and I am giving him the model town house! Are you telling me that is what Zach Willet told you?”

  “Yes, and if it isn’t true, we may have already lost a sale. The couple from Basking Ridge, who were looking at it, the Matthews, called a little while ago, and I told them it was sold.”

  Cartwright continued to stare down at Amy, his normally ruddy complexion draining of all color, his eyes boring into her face.

  “Mr. Willet phoned a little while ago. He said that he intended to move in over the weekend,” she went on, gaining courage from the fact that none of this was her fault. “I told him that since that unit is our furnished model, maybe he could wait a few months until we’re sold out, but he said that wouldn’t be possible.”

  Ted Cartwright had been leaning forward, looking down at Amy. He straightened up and stood for a moment in perfect silence. “I’ll talk to Mr. Willet,” he said quietly.

  In the year she’d been sales agent for the Cartwright Town Houses Corporation, Amy had suffered through her boss’s rages about construction delays and cost overruns. In none of his outbursts had she seen his usually blustery red face become pale with anger.

  But then Cartwright unexpectedly smiled. “Amy, I have to tell you that for a few minutes, I was just as taken in as you were. All this is Zach’s idea of a joke. A lousy joke, I admit. We have been friends for many years. Last week we made a bet on the Yankee–Red Sox game. He’s a passionate Red Sox fan. I’m for the Yankees. Our bet was a hundred bucks, but Zach threw in that if the difference in the score was over ten runs, I owed him a town house.” Ted Cartwright chuckled. “I laughed it off, but I guess Zach decided to test the waters. I’m sorry he wasted your time.”

  “He did waste it,” Amy agreed resentfully. Taking Zach Willet around last evening had made her late for her date with her new boyfriend, and she’d had to listen to his complaints that they’d have to rush through dinner to make the movie. “I should have known from the way he dressed that he couldn’t afford that unit. But I’ll be honest, Mr. Cartwright, it does make me mad that we may have lost the other sale because of him.”

  “Get back to the Matthews right away,” Cartwright ordered. “If they only called this morning, it may not be too late. Charm them for me, and there’ll be a bonus in it for you. As for Zach Willet, let’s keep that story between us, shall we? Falling for it makes the two of us look like fools.”

  “Will do,” Amy agreed, immensely cheered at the possibility of a bonus. “But, Mr. Cartwright, when you talk to Mr. Willet, tell him for me that he’s not funny, and he shouldn’t play practical jokes on a good friend like you.”

  “No, he shouldn’t, Amy,” Ted Cartwright said softly. “No, he absolutely shouldn’t.”

  54

  It was another quick goodbye between Alex and me. He was going directly from the prosecutor’s office to the airport. His promise to “straighten the bunch of them out” caused me to both hope and fear. If they stopped asking me questions, I’d be all right. But if they didn’t, and I refused to answer, I knew I’d become their prime suspect. As I kissed Alex, I whispered, “Make them leave me alone.”

  His grim, “You bet I will,” was reassuring. Besides that, I had the appointment with Benjamin Fletcher. If I told him I was Liza, he would be bound to secrecy by attorney-client privilege. But he might be the best person to guide me through the investigation—if he knew the truth. I told myself I would have to wait until I saw him face-to-face to make that decision.

  I dropped Jack off at school at eight fifteen. There was no way I was going to go into the coffee shop this morning, especially with the possibility that Detective Walsh would be sitting there, waiting for me. Instead, I went behind the church into the cemetery grounds. I’ve been wanting to visit my mother’s and father’s graves, but was afraid that I might be noticed, and would arouse curiosity. But no one was around, so I was able to stand at the foot of the graves where they lie side by side.

  The tombstone is very simple, with a leaf design in the form of a frame on the polished marble, with the words “Love Is Eternal” carved above the base. My parents’ names and the dates they were born and died are inscribed on it. Generations of my family are buried in other parts of the cemetery, but when my father died, my mother bought this plot and had this stone erected. I remember his funeral clearly. I was seven years old, and wearing a white dress and carrying a long-stemmed rose that I was told to place on the casket. I understood th
at my father was dead, but I was beyond tears. I was too busy shutting out the prayers of the priest and the murmured responses of the people who were gathered there.

  In my mind I was trying to reach out to my father, to hear his voice, to figuratively grasp his hand and make him stay with us. My mother was composed throughout the funeral mass, and also at the grave, until that final moment when, the last one to place a flower on the casket, she cried out, “I want my husband. I want my husband!” and collapsed to her knees in heartbreaking sobs.

  Is it possible that my memory is accurate, and that Ted Cartwright started forward to support her, then thought better of it?

  I believe that love is eternal. And as I stood there, I prayed for and to both of my parents. Help me, please help me. Let me get through this. Guide me. I don’t know what to do.

  Benjamin Fletcher’s office is in Chester, a town a twenty-minute ride from Mendham. My appointment with him was for nine o’clock. I drove directly there from the cemetery, parked, and managed to find a delicatessen around the corner from his office where I could get hot coffee and nibble at a piece of bagel.

  There was the tang of fall in the clear, crisp air. I was wearing a cable stitch cardigan sweater with a wide shawl in a shade that was somewhere between burnt-orange and cinnamon. The sweater felt warm against my body, which had been feeling chilled these past few days even when the sun was strong. I felt that the cheerful color of the sweater brightened my face, which I knew looked drawn and troubled.

  At one minute of nine I was climbing the steps to Benjamin Fletcher’s second-floor office. I walked into a small anteroom which held a shabby desk that I guess accommodated a secretary if and when he had one. The walls were badly in need of painting. The wooden floors were dull and scarred. Two small armchairs covered in vinyl were pushed against the wall opposite the desk. The small table between them held a haphazard pile of dog-eared magazines.