After Josie hung up, Alan slammed his cell phone down on the table. What next? Even if he got the whole fifteen million, he had already promised Scott twenty percent of it. And he had botched the job, Alan thought. He was supposed to go back to the house after the dinner and inject Dad with something that would make it look like a heart attack. Instead Dad woke up and started to strangle him. Scott grabbed the pestle and smashed the back of his head.
Alan picked up the phone and called his lawyer. After that he called Josie back and told her to meet him at his lawyer’s office at four o’clock.
64
Delaney wanted to go to court on Thursday morning to watch Tony Sharkey testify but was even more interested in meeting Lisa Clifton. She had been surprised when she received an 8 A.M. call suggesting that instead of meeting at her house they have coffee at a restaurant in Allendale, two towns away.
If Lisa Clifton’s expression had been compassionate when she attended to Betsy, today it was anxious. Lisa’s eyes scanned the room as though she were looking for someone.
At ten o’clock, when Delaney arrived at the restaurant, most of the breakfast crowd had left. Lisa was sitting in a booth near the back.
The reporter in Delaney always studied the appearance of anyone she was interviewing. She had observed in court that Lisa had a slender body and short dark blonde hair. Now she could see that her angular face was attractive. There was no mistaking the tension in her voice.
“Delaney,” she began, “as I’m sure you noticed yesterday, I am very concerned about Betsy Grant. She is my dear friend, and she no more killed her husband than you or I did.”
“I absolutely agree,” Delaney said. “It’s very clear to me that Dr. Clifton believes Betsy Grant is guilty. I’ll be honest. I’ve wondered if that has caused tension between you two.”
Lisa Clifton’s eyes scanned the room. “Delaney, my marriage is over. It was a mistake from day one. I saw a real estate agent. I signed a lease on an apartment in Morristown. I have my old job back at Johnson & Johnson. I’m moving my things out of the Ridgewood house tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry,” Delaney said.
“Don’t be,” Lisa said. “Before I say anything, Delaney, tell me who you think killed Ted.”
Delaney didn’t hesitate. “Alan Grant. I know he has a perfect alibi, but that’s the point. It’s too perfect. He arranges to see an old girlfriend for a drink on the night of the dinner party. He prevails on her to let him stay the night at her apartment because he’s lonely. In the process he gets the security cameras in her building and her as his alibi. Alan didn’t kill his father, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he was working with whoever did.”
Lisa paused and looked around the room again, but said nothing.
Lisa knows something, Delaney thought. This might be my only chance to get her to talk. “Lisa, you have heard that a burglar is swearing he was in Betsy’s house and stole her bracelet the night her husband was murdered and that he saw a black Mercedes leaving the property.”
“Yes, I heard that on the radio.”
“His testimony is too vague. I have enough experience in court to know the prosecutor is going to blow this guy away.”
“I’m afraid that’s what is going to happen.”
“And tomorrow the prosecutor and Betsy’s defense lawyer are going to sum up, then the case goes to the jury and Betsy Grant is going to be convicted,” Delaney said, her voice rising.
She waited. When Lisa said nothing, Delaney burst out, “Lisa, I’m sure you don’t know that I’m adopted. I had some friends try to see if they could trace my birth parents. On Monday night these friends told me that Betsy Grant is my mother and Peter Benson is my father.”
Startled, Lisa studied Delaney’s face. “I can see your resemblance to them,” she said. Again she looked fearfully around the small dining room. “Delaney, I swore my husband was home all night, the night Ted died. And I thought he was. But I went upstairs to bed and he said he was going to watch television in the den, have a scotch and unwind. When I went down in the morning he was asleep on the couch fully dressed. He could have gone out and come back in the middle of the night, I simply don’t know. And he has a feeling I’m up to something. When I came back from seeing the real estate agent he had come home early from the office and wanted to know where I had been. That’s why I asked you to meet me here instead of at my house.”
Delaney stared at her. “You think your husband might have murdered Dr. Grant?”
“I think it’s more than a possibility. In the weeks before Ted died, Scott and Alan Grant met for lunch several times. Now I’m wondering if Alan offered him money to kill Ted. Alan could easily have found out the alarm code from his father and taken that missing key and given it to Scott.”
None of this will be allowed in court, Delaney thought. It’s all supposition. Lisa already testified that Scott was home that night. When it comes out that they’re divorcing, it will look like a spiteful ex-wife trying to damage her former husband’s reputation by adding these extra details about him sleeping on the couch that night.
“Lisa,” she asked, “would you consider staying with Scott until an investigator tries to find if there is any reason he might have wanted to kill Dr. Grant?”
Lisa shook her head vehemently. “I can’t. There’s something about Scott. I’m afraid of him. I can’t stay there anymore.”
Delaney knew there was no way she could ask Lisa not to move. “I understand, but please keep in touch with me.”
“I will. I promise.”
Delaney had to settle for that.
65
Betsy’s blazing hope, that Tony Sharkey’s testimony would make a difference, had faded away. That night, lying in bed, she tried to make sense of the day’s events.
Even if Sharkey proved he was in the house, she thought, it doesn’t mean that he was here at the same time as whoever was in the black Mercedes. Scott has one. So does Kent. So do a lot of the residents of Alpine. And what if there never was a black Mercedes?
I am going to prison. I know I am. Her mouth went dry as she pictured being told to stand and listen to the foreman of the jury give the verdict. If it’s murder, I’ll be sentenced to thirty years to life. If it’s manslaughter, it will be ten years.
I know I am innocent. Would it be so bad to decide not to go that route? Some of Ted’s pills are still in the bathroom in the library. Would it be too awful to take a handful of them and be finished with it?
The thought was oddly comforting and she fell asleep.
66
Peter Benson could not just sit home and watch media reports of the final two days of the trial. If he couldn’t be with Betsy, he had to be near her. He looked up a hotel near the courthouse, and wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap over his dark hair, he checked in early Thursday morning. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, he turned on the television. There had been such widespread interest in the trial that the closing two days of it were being broadcast live on the local channel, News 12 New Jersey.
Filled with hope, he watched Tony Sharkey begin to testify. That hope was shattered when the prosecutor with biting sarcasm tore apart Sharkey’s story of seeing a black Mercedes exit the driveway the night Dr. Grant was murdered.
When the camera was on Betsy, Peter was anguished to see how impassive she seemed to the testimony, as though she were building a shock wall around her. But she seemed much more emotional as he watched her testify about the lost bracelet.
After the judge adjourned court for the day and said that closing arguments would begin in the morning, Peter tried to decide whether or not to drive to Alpine and see Betsy. Caution prevailed. If the media got a picture of him going into her house the day before the summations, it would look terrible for her.
But he could phone her. At 10 P.M. he assumed she would be alone and he made the call. He knew his name would come up on her cell phone, but she did not answer. And the answer message she always had on her
phone was turned off.
He kept calling every few minutes until a sleepy voice answered, “Peter.”
“Betsy, why didn’t you answer? Are you all right?”
“I took a sleeping pill. I needed it.”
“Of course you did. But are you sure you’re all right?”
Betsy looked at the bottle of pills on the night table that she had been trying to get up the courage to swallow.
“Yes, I am, Peter, I promise.”
Betsy was falling back to sleep. “Yes, I am, Peter, I promise I’m okay.”
67
“Why are you so jumpy?” Scott asked Lisa Friday morning. “You can’t even swallow a bite of toast and your hands are shaking.”
Lisa was sure that the truth was the best way of answering. “Scott, you certainly know that either today or next week Betsy will probably be found guilty of murder or manslaughter. And you should know I’m very fond of her and sure she is innocent.”
“And you surely know that she killed my close friend, partner and colleague of thirty years when she smashed his head in?”
Across the table they looked at each other, then Scott said, “Lisa, despite the fact that we bitterly disagree on this subject, I love you dearly and I’m looking forward to having this behind us and going away together.”
“I am too,” Lisa answered and tried to smile. Especially, the going away part, she thought to herself. She wanted to scream. Go to the office and please God, stay there! The movers will be here at ten o’clock, she thought.
“I’m surprised you’re not going to court to hear the summations,” Scott said, his eyes searching her face.
“I can’t,” she said simply. “I don’t want to listen to that prosecutor trying to put Betsy in prison.”
“Well, the next time you’ll get a chance to see her will be in the state prison.” Scott downed a final gulp of coffee and got up. “In a way I admire your loyalty, even when it’s misplaced.”
Lisa hoped he did not feel her body stiffen as he caressed her cheek and kissed her forehead.
Then he was gone. She rushed upstairs to shower and dress. Her suitcases were in the attic. She had to get out of here. She hurried up to the attic and turned on the light. The matching pieces of luggage were stacked in a far corner, past the rugs and furniture she was planning to take. As she picked up the largest suitcase, she saw a glint on something overhead in the rafter. Curious, she reached up, took it down, then gasped.
It was a black marble pestle.
She knew beyond doubt that it was the one missing from Ted Grant’s bedroom.
68
At 9:15 A.M. Delaney, running late after being stuck in a traffic jam, was being driven to the courthouse in an Uber car when her cell phone rang. Surprised, she greeted her quickly. “Hello, Lisa.”
Lisa’s voice was high-pitched and nervous. “Delaney, I was packing to leave. I’ve got to get out of here today. The movers are coming in an hour. When I was getting my suitcases from the attic, I saw something on a rafter right across the room. Delaney, it’s the pestle. I’m sure it’s the one that matches the mortar bowl in Ted’s room. That’s why Scott stayed downstairs the night Ted died. He was planning to kill Ted.”
“Lisa, calm down. Where is Scott now?”
“He’s at the office. He had a patient at nine o’clock.”
“Get in your car and drive to the courthouse,” Delaney said. Then she thought, Lisa’s so upset she might have an accident.
“No, don’t do that,” she said quickly, “I’m on Route 4. I can be at your house in ten minutes. I’ll pick you up and take you to the courthouse. While I’m on the way, take a picture of the pestle with the background of something in the house so we can prove it was there. I’ll call you back with a number to send it to.”
She dialed the prosecutor’s office and reached the homicide unit. After tersely explaining who she was, she said, “I’m going to send a text with a picture. It’s critical to the outcome of the Betsy Grant trial. It’s the murder weapon.”
The skeptical assistant prosecutor shot back, “Send it to this number. We’ll look at it. The defense summation has already begun.”
Seconds later she was back on the phone with Lisa.
“Send the picture to the prosecutor. Can you remember this number?”
“I think I can remember but I’ll write it down. And please get here fast.”
Should I have her get out of the house and go to a neighbor? Delaney wondered. But it was only nine twenty-five and she said that Scott has a nine o’clock patient in his office in Fort Lee.
At nine thirty, the driver stopped in front of 522 Cleveland Avenue. “I’ll only be a minute,” she said. “Please wait.”
As she hurried up the walk, Lisa threw the door open. She was holding her phone and her pocketbook. “Delaney, I didn’t get that number you gave me right. I tried to send but it didn’t go through.”
“It’s all right. I can send it.”
Lisa reached into her pocketbook and took out the pestle. “The cell phone reception here is bad,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s better in the kitchen.”
I’m holding the murder weapon, Delaney thought, as she rushed down the hall. In the kitchen she propped the pestle against the row of decorative canisters and took the picture. When she tried sending, the first attempt did not go through, nor did the second one. Finally, the third try was successfully sent to Holmes’ office.
Before she started back down the hall, she heard the front door open and then Scott Clifton ask, “Are you going out, Lisa?”
Delaney dialed 911. “Help. Killer at 522 Cleveland Avenue. Stay on the line. Record what’s happening here.”
Before the operator could answer and without breaking the connection, Delaney held the phone out toward where they were speaking.
Delaney could hear their voices clearly. Lisa was trying not to sound upset. “Oh, Scott, I thought you had a patient.”
“He changed the time of the appointment. Where were you going?” His voice was rising.
“To the hairdresser. Silver threads among the gold.”
He looked at her. “Not that many, Lisa. I asked you, where are you going?”
Delaney thought to herself, good job, Lisa. Keep stalling him. “Scott, I hoped to avoid this scene. The moving van will be here at ten to take all my things from the attic out of here. I left my wedding and engagement rings on the dresser.”
“I thought there was something up. Why don’t we go check the attic to make sure you haven’t helped yourself to anything of mine.”
As he pushed Lisa up the stairs, Delaney crept silently into the hall as she heard Scott shout, “I know you have it. Where is it?”
Lisa ran down from the attic screaming, “You murderer. You would let Betsy go to prison for something you did. You killed Ted.” Delaney stepped back into the living room to avoid being seen. Her heart racing, she prayed, “Please get here fast. Please.”
Lisa tried to open the front door but Scott yanked her back. He had his hands on her throat, shouting as he was choking her. “Give it to me. Why couldn’t you just stay out of it?”
Delaney slipped the cell phone into her jacket pocket and rushed back into the foyer.
Scott’s hands tightened on Lisa’s throat. “Alan promised me over a million dollars. It would have been twice that when Betsy was convicted.”
Delaney knew there was only one thing she could do. She lifted the pestle and slammed it on the side of Scott’s head. He dropped his grip on Lisa, turned and lunged at her. Blood was spewing from a gash on his forehead.
Desperately, she swung the pestle again, this time hitting the side of his face. With a snarl he tore the pestle out of her hand and raised it to strike her.
She stumbled back and the pestle missed her by inches. Then, as Scott raised it again, the door burst open and three cops, their guns drawn, rushed in.
“Freeze, and put your hands up,” one of them shouted.
Delaney pulled her phone out of her jacket. Her voice almost incoherent, she asked, “Did you get all that? Did you get that?”
The 9-1-1 operator’s voice was adamant, “I sure did, loud and clear, ma’am. I sure did.”
Delaney exhaled. “Send your recording of this call to the following number right now. It’s the prosecutor’s office.”
69
Elliot Holmes, tasting victory in the most publicized case in his career, was listening to Robert Maynard’s fiery summation. He was itching for it to finish so that he could get up and deliver his own.
All of a sudden, the door to the courtroom flew open and an assistant prosecutor rushed to where he was sitting. Furious, he snarled, “This had better be important.”
Visibly annoyed, Judge Roth said, “This is an unfair distraction to the defense attorney and to the jury.”
Prosecutor Holmes stood up. “I most sincerely apologize to the court, the jury and the defense counsel. Please give me just one moment.”
Holmes took the cell phone from the assistant and looked at a picture of Scott Clifton surrounded by Ridgewood policemen. One of the police officers was holding the pestle. The text explained what had occurred. Elliot Holmes knew that his case was over.
“Your Honor, I request a fifteen-minute break to listen to a recording that is on this phone. This may be critical to the outcome of this case.”
The judge realized that something enormous must have happened. “We will take a brief break. I instruct the jury not to discuss what you have just seen.”
As Time Goes By Page 22
