No Place Like Home Part 17

"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 cuc.u.mber. 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 b.u.t.tered 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 carbohydrate 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 Country archives. But the family has died out around here. So G.o.d 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 theother 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 pa.s.s 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 descendents 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.

CHAPTER 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 rea.s.surance from me, or trying to give me rea.s.surance. 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 MacKingsley. "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 MacKingsley 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 att.i.tude of Detective Walsh.

"It's all right, Jack. These nice people just 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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.

CHAPTER 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."

"Knowing you, I'm sure that went over like a lead balloon," Robin commented.

Henry smiled at her. "That's exactly the way it went over, but I would call it a test balloon. I bet the senior Mr. Mueller talked to him, seeing a reduced commission as a way of lowering the price. He's the kind of guy who probably bargains to get a penny off a quart of milk."

He walked over and stood at her desk. "Robin, did I tell you that you're looking quite provocative today? I don't think Georgette would have approved of that rather revealing sweater, but then she wouldn't have approved of your boyfriend if she'd known about him, would she?"

"Henry, I'm not very comfortable with this subject," Robin said matter-of-factly.

"I'm sure you're not. Simply thinking out loud, of course, but I wonder if at the end Georgette wasn't onto you. But maybe not. She certainly never got wind of the fact that you and Cartwright were seeing each other last year. If she had, you'd have been out on your ear."

"I knew Ted Cartwright before I started to work here. I do not have a personal relations.h.i.+p with him. The fact that I knew him never undermined my loyalty to Georgette."

"Robin, you're the one who fielded phone call inquiries about available properties. You're the one who handled the drop-ins. I admit that I haven't worked hard for a while, but you're something else. Was Ted paying you to turn away potential business?"

"You mean something like the bonus he was paying you to get Georgette to sell the Route 24 property?" Robin asked sarcastically. "Of course not."

The door that fronted East Main Street opened. Startled, they both looked up to see a grim-faced Sergeant Clyde Earley come into the office.

Clyde Earley had been in the first squad car that went screeching up the driveway of Lorraine Smith's home on Sheep Hill Road. After her frantic description of finding Charley Hatch's body, he had ordered the officer who accompanied him to stay with Mrs. Smith while he ran across the lawn and around the pool area. It was there that he found himself standing over the lifeless form of the landscaper.

At that moment, Clyde had permitted himself a feeling of genuine regret. He had no intention of admitting that he had deliberately tormented Charley Hatch by leaving the retied bag of garbage on the ground so that when he got home from work yesterday, Charley couldn't help but become aware that his jeans and sneakers and carvings were missing. But as he looked down at the dead man's b.l.o.o.d.y face, Clyde saw the inevitability of what had happened. Charley must have panicked and called whoever had paid him to vandalize the house. Whoever that is then decided that Charley was an unacceptable risk, Clyde thought. Poor Charley. He didn't seem like a bad guy. I wouldn't be surprised if that wasn't the first time he ever did anything illegal. He must have gotten paid well for it.

Careful not to disturb the gra.s.s around Charley's body, Earley took in the scene. His power mower is over behind the house, he noted. My bet is that he walked over here to meet someone.

But how was the meeting set up? I'm sure Jeff will have Charley's phone records checked out right away. His bank account, too. Or they may find a wad of cash hidden in his closet somewhere.

That house on Old Mill Lane sure does have a curse on it, Clyde thought. Charley vandalized it, and now he's dead. Georgette sold it, and now she's dead. That Nolan woman looked like she was having a nervous breakdown over it. Where does it stop?

More squad cars arrived. Clyde had taken charge of closing Sheep Hill Road, of having the crime scene roped off, of stationing a cop at the gate to make sure no unauthorized vehicles tried to enter the grounds. "And that means the media," he'd instructed firmly.

Clyde liked being in charge. It irritated him that the minute the prosecutor's people arrived, the local police were shunted aside. Jeff MacKingsley was more considerate than most of the others in keeping him in the loop, but even so, there was no question that in the pecking order, the locals lost out.

When Jeff did arrive, his greeting to Clyde had been brusque. No more telling me about my great police work in finding Charley's stuff with the paint on it, Clyde thought.

After the body was removed, and the forensic team had taken over, Clyde started back to the precinct, but then changed his mind and parked in front of Grove Realty on East Main Street.

He could see Robin Carpenter sitting at her desk and Henry Paley talking to her. He wanted to be the one to tell them about Charley Hatch's death and to ask if for any reason either one of them had been in touch with him.

It wouldn't surprise me if Charley had been reporting to Paley, Clyde thought grimly as he opened the door. I don't like that guy. "I'm glad to catch both of you together," he said. "You know Charley Hatch, the landscaper who took care of the Holland Road property?"

"I've seen him around," Paley answered.

"This afternoon, sometime between one thirty and two o'clock, he was shot to death while he was working at Sheep Hill Road."

Robin jumped up, her face turning pale. "Charley! That can't be!"

Both men stared at her. "Charley was my half-brother," she wailed. "He can't be dead."

CHAPTER 47.

At five o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, Zach Willet drove to the neighboring town of Madison and parked in front of the sales office of the Cartwright Town Houses Corporation. He went inside, where he found a sales clerk, a woman in her thirties, tidying up in preparation for closing down for the day. He noted the nameplate on her desk: AMY STACK.

"Hi, Amy," Zach said as he looked around the room. "I can see you're getting ready to skedaddle out of here, so I won't take but two minutes of your time."

On the walls were sketches of different models of the town houses, and the artist's conception of how they might look when furnished. Zach walked from one to the other, examining them closely. Brochures on the table listed the prices and sizes and particular features of the various units. He picked up one of the brochures and read aloud some of the selling features of the most expensive model. "Four-story town house, four bedrooms, master bedroom suite, state-of-theart kitchen, three fireplaces, four baths, washer and dryer, double garage, private patio and yard, all services." Zach smiled appreciatively. "Looks as though you just can't go wrong with that one," he said. He dropped the brochure back on the table, walked over to the biggest picture, and pointed to it. "Now, Amy, I know you're probably rus.h.i.+ng to meet your husband or your boyfriend, but how about indulging a nice fellow like me and show me that fancy homestead."

"I'll be glad to take you over, Mr...." Amy hesitated. "I don't think you introduced yourself."

"That's right. I didn't. I'm Zach Willet, and unless you borrowed somebody else's nameplate, you're Amy Stack."

"You've got it." Amy opened the top drawer of her desk and fished inside for her key ring.

"That's 8 p.a.w.nee Avenue. I have to warn you that is our top-of-the-line town house. It's fully loaded with every conceivable extra, and naturally that is reflected in the cost. It's also the furnished model."

"Sounds better and better," Zach said genially. "Let's take a look at it."

On the way through the development, Amy Stack pointed out that the landscaping was almost finished, and was scheduled to be featured in a national gardening magazine, and that the driveways were heated to prevent ice from forming in the winter. "Mr. Cartwright has thought of everything," she said proudly. "He's one of those hands-on builders who is involved in every detail, every step of the way."

"Ted's a good friend of mine," Zach said expansively. "Has been for forty years, since we were both kids riding bareback at the stable." He looked around. Some of the handsome red brick town houses were already occupied. "Expensive cars in the driveways," he commented. "Nice cla.s.s of neighbors. I can see that."

"Absolutely," Amy a.s.sured him. "The nicest people you'd ever want to meet." She walked a few steps more, then said, "Here we are at number 8. As you can see, it's a corner unit, and it really is the crown jewel of the development."

Zach's smile broadened as Amy turned the key, opened the door, and led him into the family room on the entry level. "Raised-hearth fireplace, wet bar-what's not to like?" he asked rhetorically.

"Some people use the room on the other side for a gym, and, of course, there's a full bath with a hot tub right beside it. It's such a convenient arrangement," Amy said, her voice crackling with professional enthusiasm.

Zach insisted on riding the elevator to each of the floors. Like a child opening presents, he took obvious pleasure in every detail of the house. "Plate-warmer drawer! My, oh my, Amy. I remember my momma putting the plates on top of the burners on the stove to keep them warm.

She always ended up with blistered fingers.