No Place Like Home Part 16

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 s.p.a.ce 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. .h.i.t," Mort Sh.e.l.ley commented to Jeff as they walked through 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?

CHAPTER 43.

On the way home from shopping in Bedminster, I kept looking out the rear view 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 rea.s.suring 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 Was.h.i.+ngton'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.

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 rear view 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 pa.s.sion 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 circ.u.mstances 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 Sh.e.l.ley.

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.

CHAPTER 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."