No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

Of course, I was only going to level with him up to a point. “My grandmother’s sister was Will Barton’s mother. She went to her grave sure that there was more to his death than was reported. There was that gunshot that Herbert West swore he heard. That would have scared a horse, wouldn’t it? Especially if the horse had a nervous rider who might have been pulling on its mouth too much, or jerking the reins. Don’t you agree? I mean, I wonder if when you were looking for Will Barton, you might have seen him galloping down that dangerous trail on a horse that was out of control, and you knew you couldn’t stop it. And maybe you saw the man who fired the gun. And maybe that man was Ted Cartwright.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zach said. But I could see the perspiration on his forehead, and the nervous way he clenched and unclenched his hands.

  “Zach, you told me you’re a good friend of Ted Cartwright. I can understand how reluctant you’d be to get him in trouble. But Will Barton should not have died. Our family is pretty comfortable. I’ve been authorized to pay one million dollars to you if you will go to the police and tell them what really happened. The only thing that you did wrong was to lie to the police about what happened. I really doubt that they could even charge you for this kind of offense after so many years. You’d be a hero, a man with a conscience trying to right a wrong.”

  “Did you say one million dollars?”

  “Cash. Wired to your bank.”

  Zach’s smile was merely a narrowing of his thin lips. “Is there a bonus if I tell the cops that I saw Cartwright charge his horse at Barton’s, forcing it up that trail, and then that he fired the shot that panicked Barton’s horse and made it bolt?”

  I felt my heart begin to pound. I tried to keep my voice steady. “There’ll be a ten percent bonus, an extra hundred thousand dollars. Is that the way it happened?”

  “That’s the way it happened all right. Cartwright had his old Colt pistol. That takes a special bullet. The second he fired it, he turned and went back out on the trail that connects to Peapack.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I heard Barton yell when he went over the edge. I knew he didn’t have a chance. I guess I was pretty shocked. I just rode around on the different trails as if I was looking for Barton. Eventually, somebody spotted the body down in the ravine. In the meantime, I had gotten a camera and had gone back to the fork in the trail. I wanted to protect myself. It was May 9th. I’d grabbed a copy of the morning newspaper that contained an article on Ted that included a picture of him holding the Colt .22 he was planning to use in a marksmanship contest. I put that picture next to the bullet he’d fired—which was sticking out of a tree trunk—and photographed it. I pried it out carefully with my hoof pick. I found the casing, too, right there on the bridle path. Then I walked onto the steep trail and took a picture of the scene below. You know, police cars, ambulances, vets for the horse. Useless of course. The moment the poor guy went over the edge, it was all over.”

  “Will you show me those pictures? Do you still have the casing and the bullet?”

  “I’ll show you the photos. But I keep them until I get the money. And yes, I also have the bullet and the casing.”

  I don’t know why I asked Zach Willet this next question, but I did: “Zach, is money the only reason you’re telling me this?”

  “Mostly,” he said, “but there is another reason. I’m kind of sick of Ted Cartwright getting away with murder and then coming here and threatening me.”

  “When can I get this proof you’re talking about?”

  “Tonight, when I go home.”

  “If my babysitter is free, can I drive over to get it from you later, at about nine o’clock?”

  “That’s okay with me. I’ll give you my address. Remember, you only get to see the pictures. The bullet, the casing, and the pictures I’ll give to the cops—but only after I get the money and a promise of no prosecution.”

  We rode back to the stable in silence. I tried to imagine how my father must have felt when Ted charged at him, how he must have felt when the horse he could not control bolted, taking him to certain death. I was sure the feeling must be the same as I felt when Ted threw my mother at me, and then started lunging toward me.

  Zach’s cell phone rang as we were dismounting at the stable. He answered, then winked at me. “Hello,” he said. “What’s up? Oh, the town house is worth seven hundred thousand furnished, but you don’t want me living in it, so you’ll give me the money instead? You’re too late. I’ve had a better offer. Goodbye.”

  “That felt real good,” Zach told me as he scrawled his address on the back of an envelope. “See you around nine. The house number is kind of hard to read from the street, but you can tell it by the kids swarming around and the drums banging.”

  “I’ll find it,” I said.

  I left knowing that if Ted Cartwright ever went to trial, his lawyer would argue to the jury that Zach’s testimony had been bought and paid for. That would be true on one level, but how could they refute the physical evidence that Zach had kept for all these years? And how different was this from what the police do all the time—post rewards for people to come forward with evidence?

  I was just offering a lot more than they do.

  63

  At four o’clock, Sergeant Clyde Earley and Dru Perry were waiting outside Jeff MacKingsley’s office. “I don’t know if he’s going to like the fact that you’re with me,” Clyde groused.

  “Listen, Clyde, I’m a newspaperwoman. This is my story. I’m going to protect my exclusive.”

  Anna was at her desk. She could see the discomfort on Clyde Earley’s face, and she was enjoying it. Whenever he phoned Jeff, she referred to him as “Wyatt Earp” when she announced him. She knew that his predilection for ignoring the law when it suited him to do so drove Jeff crazy. From the memo she had typed, she knew that Jeff seriously questioned Clyde’s story on how he discovered Charley Hatch’s incriminating possessions, and was concerned about whether or not he would be able to use that evidence if it became necessary at a criminal trial.

  “Hope you’re bringing good news to the prosecutor,” she told Clyde in a friendly tone. “He’s in one horrible mood today.”

  As she watched Clyde’s shoulders slump, her intercom went on. “Send them in,” Jeff said.

  “Let me talk first,” Dru murmured to Clyde as he held the door to Jeff’s office open for her.

  “Dru, Clyde,” Jeff acknowledged them. “What can I do for you?”

  “Thank you. I will sit down,” Dru said. “Jeff, you’ve made your point. You’re busy, but you’re going to be glad you’re seeing us. What I have to tell you is very important, and I need to have your word that there’ll be no leak to the press. I am the press in this story, and I’m bringing it to you because I think I have an obligation to do that. I’m worried that another life may be in danger.”

  Jeff leaned forward, his arms crossed on his desk. “Go on.”

  “I think Celia Nolan is Liza Barton, and thanks to Clyde, you may be able to prove it.”

  Seeing the grave look on Jeff’s face, Dru realized two things right away: Jeff MacKingsley had been aware of the possibility, and he would not be happy to have it verified. She took out the pictures of Liza that she had taken from Marcella Williams. “I was going to have a couple of these computer-aged,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s necessary. Jeff, look at them, and then think of Celia Nolan. She’s a combination of her mother and father.”

  Jeff took the pictures and laid them out on his desk. “Where were you going to get them computer-aged?” he asked.

  “A friend.”

  “A friend in the state police, I’ll bet. I can do it faster.”

  “I want them or a copy of them back. And I want a copy of the computer-aged version,” Dru insisted.

  “Dru, you know how unusual it is to make a promise like that to a reporter? But I know you’re coming to me because you’re afraid someone else may be killed. Because of that, I owe t
his to you.” He turned to Clyde. “Why are you here?”

  “Well, you see—” Clyde began.

  “Jeff,” Dru interrupted. “Clyde is here because Celia Nolan already may have killed two people, and she may be gunning for the man who was at least partially responsible for her father’s accident. Take a look at what I got from the library today.”

  As Jeff skimmed the articles, Dru said, “I went over to talk to Clyde. He was the one who booked Liza the night she killed her mother and shot Ted.”

  “I kept her fingerprints,” Clyde Earley said bluntly. “I have them with me now.”

  “You kept her fingerprints,” Jeff repeated. “I believe we have a law that says when a juvenile is acquitted of a crime, the record is expunged, including fingerprints.”

  “It was just as a kind of a personal souvenir,” Clyde said defensively, “but it does mean you can find out real fast if Celia Nolan is Liza Barton.”

  “Jeff,” Dru began, “if I’m right, and Celia is Liza, she may be out for revenge. I interviewed the lawyer who defended her twenty-four years ago, and he told me he wouldn’t be surprised if someday she came back and blew Ted Cartwright’s head off. And a court clerk who’s been around forever told me that she had heard that when Liza was in the juvenile detention center, still in a state of shock, she would say the name ‘Zach,’ and then go into spasms of grief. Maybe these articles are showing us why that happened. I phoned the Washington Valley stables this afternoon and asked to speak to Zach. They told me he was giving a riding lesson to Celia Nolan.”

  “All right. Thank you both,” Jeff said. “Clyde, you know what I think of your habit of ignoring the law to suit your purposes, but I’m glad you had the guts to give me these prints. Dru, it’s your story. You have my word.”

  When they were gone, Jeff sat for long minutes at his desk, studying the pictures of Liza Barton. She’s Celia, he thought. We can make sure by checking her fingerprints against the ones on the picture that was in the barn. I know that in court I can never use the old fingerprints that Clyde kept, but at least I’ll know who I’m dealing with. And hopefully this will be resolved before we find another body.

  The picture that was taped in the barn.

  Deep in thought, Jeff was now gazing blankly at the photos that were on his desk. Was this what he had been missing?

  In Criminology 101 they tell us that the motive for most homicides is either love or money, he thought.

  He turned on the intercom. “Is Mort Shelley around?”

  “Yes, I can see he’s at his desk. Clyde looked relieved when he went out,” Anna said. “I guess you didn’t hang him by the thumbs.”

  “Careful, I may hang you by the thumbs,” Jeff said. “Send Mort in, please.”

  “You said ‘please.’ You must be in a better mood.”

  “Possibly I am.”

  When Mort Shelley came in, Jeff said, “Drop whatever you’re doing. There’s someone else I want checked out from top to bottom.” He showed Mort the name he had written on his notepad.

  Shelley’s eyes widened. “You think?”

  “I don’t know what I think yet, but put as many of our people on it as you need. I want to know everything, including when this guy cut his first tooth and which one it was.”

  As Mort Shelley got up, Jeff handed him the copies of the newspaper stories Dru had given him. “Give these to Anna, please.” He turned on the intercom. “Anna, there was a death at the Washington Valley Riding Club twenty-seven years ago. There must have been an investigation by either the Mendham police or us. I want the complete file on the incident if it still exists. You’ll get the details from the papers Mort is giving you. Also call that club and see if you can get Zach Willet on the phone.”

  64

  When I got home from the stable, the barn was empty, and Jack and Sue were gone. She was evidently taking him for a walk around the neighborhood on Star, and that was fine with me. I called my accountant and checked with him to be sure that I had at least one million one hundred thousand dollars at the ready in my cash account fund at the brokerage house.

  Larry has been dead two years, but it still seems so odd to me to think in terms of such large amounts. Larry’s investment counselor, Karl Winston, continues to advise me, and pretty much I go along with his suggestions about finances. He’s conservative and so am I. But I could hear the question in his voice when I told him to be prepared to wire that sum of money to someone else’s account.

  “We can’t take it as a charity deduction,” I told him, “or charge it to expenses, but, believe me, it’s money that must be spent.”

  “It’s your money, Celia,” he said. “You certainly can afford it. But I must warn you, wealthy as you are, a million one hundred thousand dollars is a very substantial sum.”

  “I would pay ten times that to accomplish what I am hoping to with that money, Karl,” I said.

  And it was true. If Zach Willet had the proof he claimed to have, evidence that Ted Cartwright was directly responsible for my father’s death, and if Ted went on trial, I would happily take the witness stand and testify to those final words my mother screamed at Ted. And for the first time the world would hear my version of what happened that night. I would swear under oath that Ted meant to kill my mother by throwing her at me, and would have killed me that same evening if he’d had the chance. I would say that, because I know it is true. Ted loved my mother, but he loved himself more. He couldn’t take the chance that someday she might decide to go to the police and tell them about his drunken revelation.

  Alex phoned at dinnertime. He was staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Chicago, his favorite hotel there. “Ceil, I miss you and Jack so much. I’m definitely going to be stuck here till Friday afternoon but I was thinking, do you want to go into New York this weekend? We could see a couple of plays? Maybe your old babysitter would mind Jack on Saturday night, and then Sunday we could go to a matinee that he’d enjoy? How about it?”

  It sounded wonderful to me and I told him that. “I’ll make a reservation at the Carlyle,” I told him. Then I took a deep breath. “Alex, you’ve said you feel there’s something wrong between us, and there is. I have something to tell you that may change the way you feel about me, and if it does I will respect your decision.”

  “Ceil, for God’s sake. Nothing would ever change the way I feel about you.”

  “We’ll see, but I have to take the chance. I love you.”

  When I replaced the receiver, my hand was trembling. I knew, though, I had made the right decision. I would tell Benjamin Fletcher the truth, too. I wonder if he would still be willing to represent me. If he did not, then I would find someone else.

  I didn’t know who killed Georgette or the landscaper, but the fact that I was Liza Barton was certainly not sufficient evidence to incriminate me in their deaths. It is all the furtive evasions that have made me look suspicious. Zach Willet is the instrument of my liberation.

  Now I can tell Alex the truth about myself, speaking in the voice of someone who has been deeply wronged. I will ask him to forgive me for not trusting him with the truth but I will also ask of him the protection of a husband.

  “Mommy, are you happy?” Jack asked when I was drying him after his bath.

  “I’m always happy when I’m with you, Jack,” I said. “But I think I’m getting happy in a lot of other ways, too.” Then I told him that Sue was coming to babysit for a little while because I had a couple of errands to run.

  Sue arrived at eight thirty.

  Zach lived in Chester. I had looked up his street on the map and marked the way to get there. He lived in a neighborhood of smaller houses, many of them obviously converted into two family homes. I found his house—the number was 358—but I had to drive to the next block before I could find a parking space. There were streetlights, but they were pretty well hidden by the heavy trees that lined the sidewalk. The evening had turned really cool, and I didn’t see anyone else outside.

  Zach had been right
about one thing. You could identify his house by the sound of drums being played somewhere inside. I went up the stairs onto the porch. There were two doors, a center one and one to the side. I decided that the latter probably led to the upstairs apartment, so I went over to it. There was a name over the doorbell, and by squinting I was able to make out the letter Z. I rang the bell and waited, but there was no answer. I tried again and listened, but with the drums beating, I could not be sure if the bell was working.

  I was uncertain of what to do. It was just nine o’clock. I decided that maybe he had gone out for dinner and wasn’t home yet. I went down the steps of the porch and stood on the sidewalk looking up. The windows on the second floor, at least from the front of the house, were dark. I wouldn’t let myself believe that Zach had changed his mind about meeting me. I could tell he wanted that money so much he could taste it. Then I wondered if perhaps Ted Cartwright had made him a better offer? If he had, then I would double mine, I decided.

  I didn’t want to stand there any longer, but I didn’t want to give up on the hope that Zach would be along any minute. I decided to get my car and double-park in front of Zach’s house and wait for him in it. There was almost no traffic, so I knew I really wouldn’t be too much in the way of any passing vehicles.

  I don’t know what made me turn around and look at the car that was parked directly in front of the house. I could see Zach sitting in it. The driver’s window was open and he seemed to be asleep. He must have decided to meet me outside, I thought, as I walked over to his car. “Hi, Zach,” I said. “I was afraid you were standing me up.”

  When he didn’t respond, I touched his shoulder, and he fell forward, slumping against the steering wheel. My hand felt sticky. I looked down. It was covered with blood. I grabbed the door of his car to steady myself. Then I realized I had touched it and frantically wiped it with my handkerchief. Then I rushed back to my own car and drove home, trying to wipe the blood away by rubbing my hand on my slacks. I don’t know what I was thinking during that drive. I just knew I had to escape.