No Place Like Home Part 3

"Ceil, what is wrong?"

I put my arms around him. "Nothing and everything, Alex," I said.

"But that doesn't mean that things can't change."

He stepped back and put his hands on my shoulders. "Ceil, there's something not working between us. I know that. Frankly, living in the apartment that was yours and Larry's made me feel like a visitor. That's why when I saw this house, and thought it was the perfect place for us, I couldn't resist. I know I shouldn't have bought it without you. I should have let Georgette Grove tell me the background of the place instead of cutting her off, although, in my own defense, from what I know now, she would have glossed over the facts even if I had listened to her."

There were tears in Alex's eyes. This time it was I who brushed them dry. "It's going to be all right," I said. "I promise I'm going to make it be all right."

CHAPTER 8.

Jeffrey MacKingsley, Prosecutor of Morris County, had a particular interest in seeing that the mischief that had once again flared up at the Barton home be squelched once and for all. He had been fourteen and in his first year in high school when the tragedy happened twenty-four years ago. At that time, he lived less than a mile away from the Barton home, and when the news spread through town about the shooting, he'd rushed over and been standing there when the cops carried out the stretcher with the body of Audrey Barton.

Even then he'd been avidly interested in crime and criminal law, so as a kid he'd read everything he could about the case.

Over the years, he had remained intrigued with the question of whether ten-year-old Liza Barton had accidentally killed her mother and shot her stepfather in defense of her mother, or was one of those kids who are born without a conscience. And they exist, Jeff thought with a sigh. They sure do exist.

Sandy-haired, with dark brown eyes, a lean athletic body, six feet tall, and quick to smile, Jeff was the kind of person law-abiding people instinctively liked and trusted. He'd been Prosecutor of Morris County for four years now. As a young a.s.sistant prosecutor, he'd understood that if he'd been defending instead of prosecuting a case, he often could have found a loophole that would allow a felon, even a dangerous felon, to walk. That was why, when he'd been offered potentially lucrative positions in defense attorney firms, he elected instead to stay in the prosecutor's office, where he'd quickly become a star.

The result was that four years ago, when the prosecutor he'd worked for retired, Jeff was immediately appointed by the governor to take his place. On both sides of the courthouse he was known as a straight arrow, tough on crime, but with the ability to understand that many offenders, with the right combination of supervision and punishment, could be rehabilitated.

Jeff had his next goal in mind-to run for governor after the inc.u.mbent's second term ended. In the meantime, he intended to exercise his authority as prosecutor to make sure that Morris County was a safe place to live. That was why the repeated vandalisms of property at the Barton home infuriated and challenged him.

"Those kids, privileged as they are, have nothing better to do than to rake up that old tragedy and turn that beautiful home into the local haunted house," Jeff fumed to Anna Malloy, his secretary, when the incident was reported to him. "Every Halloween they tell wild stories about seeing a ghost looking out at them from the upstairs window. And last year they left a big doll on the porch, holding a toy gun."

"I wouldn't want to live in that house," Anna said matter-of-factly. "I believe that places have vibes. Maybe the kids do see ghosts."

The remark made Jeff think, not for the first time, that Anna had a way of sometimes setting his teeth on edge. This was one of those times. Then he was quick to remind himself that she was probably the most hardworking and efficient secretary in the courthouse. Nearly sixty years old, and happily married to a clerk of the court, she never wasted a minute with personal phone calls, as most of the younger secretaries were guilty of doing.

"Put me through to police headquarters in Mendham," he said, not adding "please," which was unusual for him, but signaled to her that he was annoyed.

Sergeant Earley, whom Jeff knew well, brought him up to date. "I answered the phone call from the real estate agent. A couple named Nolan bought the house."

"How did they react when they saw what had happened?"

"He was furious. She was really upset, actually fainted."

"How old are they?"

"He's mid to late thirties. She is probably about thirty. Cla.s.sy. You know what I mean. They have a four-year-old boy who found a pony waiting for him in the barn. Get this. The boy was able to read the writing on the lawn and wants to name the pony Lizzie."

"I'm sure that went over big with the mother."

"She seemed okay with it."

"I understand that this time whoever did it wasn't satisfied with wrecking the lawn."

"This goes beyond anything that's ever been pulled before. I went straight over to the school to talk to the kids who pulled the Halloween trick last year. Michael Buckley was the ringleader.

He's twelve and a smart aleck. He swears he had nothing to do with it, but then had the nerve to say that he thinks it was only fair for somebody to warn the new owners that they bought a creepy house."

"Do you believe he wasn't involved?"

"His father backs him up, says they were both home last night." Earley hesitated. "Jeff, I believe Mike, not because he isn't capable of pulling the wool over his father's eyes and sneaking out in the middle of the night, but because this just wasn't a kid's trick."

"How do you know?"

"This time they used real paint, not that stuff that washes off. This time they did a job on the front of the house, and from the height of the carving it's clear that someone a lot taller than Michael did it. Something else-the skull and crossbones on the door were done by someone who is artistic. When I looked up close, I could see that it had initials in the eye sockets. L and B. For Lizzie Borden, I guess."

"Or Liza Barton," Jeff injected.

Earley reconsidered. "Oh, sure. I didn't think about that. Finally, the doll that was left on the porch wasn't a beat-up rag doll like the other one was. This one cost money."

"That should make it easier to trace."

"I hope so. We're working on it."

"Keep me posted."

"The problem is that even if we track down the culprits, the Nolans refuse to sign a complaint,"

Earley continued, frustration evident in his voice. "But Mr. Nolan plans to fence in the property and put up security cameras, so I don't think there should be any more problems."

"Clyde," Jeff cautioned, "if there's one thing that you and I know, it's that, no matter what the situation, you can never a.s.sume there aren't going to be any more problems."

Clyde Earley, like many other people, tended to raise his voice when he was on the phone. As Jeff replaced the receiver, it was clear that Anna had caught every word. "Jeff," she said, "a long time ago, I read a book called Psychic Explorations. In it, the author said that when there has been a tragedy in a house, the walls retain the vibrations, and when someone with a similar background moves into the house, the tragedy will have to be completed. The Bartons were a young, upscale couple, with a four-year-old child when they moved into the house on Old Mill Lane. From what I heard Sergeant Earley say, the Nolans are an upscale couple about that age, with a four-year-old child. Kind of makes you wonder what's next, doesn't it?"

CHAPTER 9.

The next morning when I awoke, I looked at the clock and was startled to realize that it was already quarter past eight. In a reflex gesture, I turned my head. The pillow beside me was still indented from where Alex's head had rested on it, but the room had the feeling of being empty.

Then I saw that he had propped a note against the lamp on his bedside table. I read it quickly.

"Darling Ceil, Woke at 6 A.M. So glad to see that you were sleeping after all that you went through yesterday.

Took off for an hour's ride at the club. Will make it a short day and be home by three. Hope Jack takes well to his first day at school. I want to hear all about it. Love you both, A."

Years ago I read a biography of the great musical comedy star, Gertrude Lawrence, written by her husband, the producer Richard Aldrich after her death. He had t.i.tled it Gertrude Lawrence as Mrs. A. In the six months we'd been married, whenever Alex happened to jot off a note to me, he invariably signed it "A." I had rather enjoyed thinking of myself as Mrs. A, and even now, with the weight of awareness of where I was, I felt a lift of the heart. I wanted to be Mrs.

A. I wanted a normal life in which I could smile indulgently, taking pleasure in the fact that my husband was an early bird so that he could have time for the horseback ride that he enjoyed so much.

I got up, pulled on a robe and walked down the hall to Jack's room. His bed was empty. I walked back into the hall and called his name, but he did not answer. Suddenly frightened, I began to call louder, "Jack...Jack...Jack"-and realized there was a note of panic in my voice.

I forced my lips shut, scolding myself for being ridiculous. He probably just went downstairs to the kitchen and fixed himself some cereal. He's an independent little boy, and often did that in the apartment. But the house had a disconcerting silence about it as I raced down the stairs and from one room to the other. I couldn't find a trace of him. In the kitchen there was no cereal bowl or empty juice gla.s.s on the counter or in the sink.

Jack was adventurous. Suppose he had become tired of waiting for me to wake up, and had wandered outside and become lost? He didn't know this neighborhood. Suppose someone saw him alone and picked him up and drove off with him?

Even in the midst of those few but seemingly endless moments, I panicked at the realization that if I didn't find Jack immediately, I would have to call the police.

And then, in a moment of breathtaking release, I knew where he was. Of course. He would have hurried out to visit his new pony. I ran to the door that led from the kitchen to the patio and yanked it open, then sighed with relief. The barn door was open, and I could see Jack's small pajama-clad figure inside the barn, looking up at the pony's stall.

The relief was quickly followed by anger. Last night we had set the alarm after figuring out a four number code, 1023. We'd chosen those numbers because Alex and I met on October 23rd last year. But the fact that when Jack opened the door the alarm had not gone off meant that Alex had not reset it when he left this morning. If he had, I would have known that Jack was on the loose.

Alex was trying so hard, but he still was not used to being a parent, I reminded myself as I began walking toward the barn. Trying to calm down, I forced myself to concentrate on the fact that it was a perfectly beautiful early September morning, with just a touch of coolness that hinted of an early fall. I don't know why, but autumn has always been my favorite time of the year. Even after my father died and it was just Mother and me, I remember evenings sitting with her in the little library off the living room, the fire crackling and both of us deep in our books. I'd be propped up with my head on the arm of the couch, close enough to her to touch her side with my toes.

As I made my way across the backyard, a thought flashed into my mind. On that last night, Mother and I had been in the study together, and had watched a movie that ended at ten o'clock.

Before we went upstairs, she had turned on the alarm. Even as a child I was a light sleeper, so it surely would have awakened me if that piercing sound had gone off. But it had not gone off, so Mother had no warning that Ted was in the house. Had that ever come up in the police investigation? Ted was an engineer, and at the time had recently opened his own small construction company. It probably wouldn't have been difficult for him to disarm the system.

I'll have to start a notebook, I thought. I'll jot down anything that comes back to me that may help me to prove that Ted broke into the house that night.

I walked into the barn and tousled Jack's head. "Hey, you scared me," I told him. "I don't want you to ever go out of the house again before I'm up. Okay?"

Jack caught the firmness in my voice and nodded sheepishly. As I spoke I turned and looked at the stall where the pony was standing.

"I just wanted to talk to Lizzie," Jack said earnestly, then added, "Who are those people, Mom?"

I stared at the newspaper photo that had been taped to the post of the stall. It was a copy of a snapshot of my mother and father and me on the beach in Spring Lake. My father was holding me in one arm. His other arm was around my mother. I remember that photo because it had been taken at the end of that day when the wave had thrown Daddy and me on the sh.o.r.e. I had a copy of the picture and the newspaper article in my secret file.

"Do you know that man and woman and that little girl?" Jack asked.

And, of course, I had to lie: "No, Jack, I don't."

"Then why did someone leave their picture here?"

Why indeed? Was this another example of malicious mischief, or had somebody already recognized me? I tried to keep my voice calm. "Jack, we won't tell Alex about the picture. He'd be very mad if he thinks anyone came here and put it up."

Jack looked at me with the penetrating wisdom of a child who senses something is very wrong.

"It's our secret, Jack," I said.

"Did whoever put the picture near Lizzie come while we were asleep?" Jack asked.

"I don't know." My mouth went dry. Suppose whoever had taped it on the post had been in the barn when Jack walked in here alone? What kind of sick mind had planned the defacing of the house and lawn, and how did this picture fall into his hands? What might he have done to my son if Jack had walked in while he was here?

Jack was standing on tiptoes, stroking the pony's muzzle. "Lizzie's pretty, isn't she, Mom?" he asked, his attention completely diverted from the picture that was now in the pocket of my robe.

The pony was rust-colored with a small white marking on the bridge of its nose that, at a stretch, could be interpreted as a star. "Yes, she is, Jack," I said, trying not to show the fear that was making me want to s.n.a.t.c.h Jack in my arms and run away. "But I think she's too pretty to be called Lizzie. Let's think up another name for her, shall we?"

Jack looked at me. "I like to call her Lizzie," he said, a stubborn note creeping into his voice.

"Yesterday you said I could call her any name I wanted."

He was right, but maybe there was a way I could change his mind. I pointed to the white marking. "I think any pony with a star on its face should be called 'Star,' " I said. "That will be my name for Lizzie. Now we'd better get you ready for school."

Jack was starting pre-K at ten o'clock at St. Joseph's, the school I had attended until the fourth grade. I wondered if any of my old teachers were still there, and if so, would meeting me stir something in their memories.

CHAPTER 10.

By pleading, cajoling, and offering a handsome bonus, Georgette Grove managed to find a landscaper who would cut out the damaged gra.s.s and lay sod on the front lawn of the Nolans'

house. She also secured a painter that same afternoon to cover the red paint splattered on the s.h.i.+ngles. She had not yet been able to hire a mason to repair the stone, nor a woodwork expert to remove the skull and crossbones carved in the front door.

The events of the day had resulted in an almost sleepless night. At six o'clock when Georgette heard the sound of the newspaper delivery service in her driveway, she leapt out of bed. Every night before retiring, she prepared the coffee pot so that in the morning she could simply flip the switch. Without even thinking, she did exactly that as she hurried to the side door of the kitchen, opened it, and retrieved the newspapers from the driveway.

The dreadful worry that was sitting like a slab of concrete on her head was that Celia Nolan would demand that the sale of the house be voided. This is the fourth time in twenty-four years that I've sold that house, Georgette reminded herself. Jane Salzman got it cheap because of all the publicity about it, but she was never happy there. She claimed that there was a popping sound when the heat went on that no plumber could fix, a sound that reminded her of shots being fired. After ten years she'd had enough.

It took two years before it was sold to the Greens. They stayed nearly six years, then listed it with her. "It's a beautiful house, but no matter how much I try, I can't get over the feeling that something terrible will happen here again, and I don't want to be around for it," Eleanor Green had said when she called Georgette to give her the listing.

The last owners, the Harrimans, had a home in Palm Beach and spent most of their time there.

When the kids pulled their Halloween trick last year, they abruptly decided to move to Florida full-time instead of waiting another year or so. "There's such a different feeling in our house there," Louise Harriman had told Georgette when she handed her the key. "Around here, I feel as though everyone is thinking of me as the lady who lives in 'Little Lizzie's Place.'"

In the last ten months, when Georgette again had been showing the house and reciting its history, most prospective buyers said they were uneasy at the thought of owning a home in which there had been a fatal shooting. If they lived in the area and were aware of the house being called "Little Lizzie's Place," they flatly refused even to look at it. It had taken a special buyer like Alex Nolan to brush aside her admittedly sketchy attempt to discuss the background of the home he was considering.

Georgette sat at the breakfast bar and opened the newspapers-the Daily Record, the Star- Ledger, and the New York Post. The Daily Record gave the picture of the house its entire front page. The follow-up story deplored the vandalism that refused to let go of the local tragedy. On the third page of the Star-Ledger there was a picture of Celia Nolan, caught at the exact moment she began to faint. It showed her head bent, her knees buckling, and her dark hair drifting behind her. The picture next to it showed the front of the vandalized house and the inscription on the lawn. The New York Post, on page three, had a close-up of the skull and crossbones on the front door with the initials L and B in the eye sockets. Both the Post and Star-Ledger rehashed the sensational case. "Unhappily, 'Little Lizzie's Place' has acquired a sinister mythology in our community over the years," the reporter for the Daily Record wrote.

That reporter had interviewed Ted Cartwright about the vandalism. He had posed for the picture in his home in nearby Bernardsville, his walking stick in his hand. "I have never recovered from the death of my wife, and I am shocked that someone would be vicious enough to remind us of that terrible incident," he was quoted as saying. "Both physically and emotionally, I certainly don't need a reminder. I still have nightmares about the expression on that child's face when she went on her shooting spree. She looked like the devil incarnate."

It's the same story he's been telling for nearly a quarter of a century, Georgette thought. He doesn't want anyone to forget it. It's a d.a.m.n shame Liza was too traumatized to defend herself.

I'd give anything to hear her version of what happened that night. I've seen the way Ted Cartwright conducts business. If he had his way, we'd have strip malls instead of riding trails in Mendham and Peapack, and he'll keep trying until the day he's lowered into the ground. He may fool a lot of people, but I've been on the zoning board and I've seen him in action. Behind that phony country-gentleman, bereaved-husband faade, he's ruthless.

Georgette continued reading. Dru Perry of the Star-Ledger had obviously done research on the Nolans. "Alex Nolan, a partner in Ackerman and Nolan, a New York law firm, is a member of the Peapack Riding Club. His wife, Celia Foster Nolan, is the widow of Laurence Foster, former president of Bradford and Foster investment firm."

Even though I did try to tell Alex Nolan about the stigma on the house, Georgette thought for the hundredth time, it's in his wife's name, and she knew nothing about it. If she finds out about the stigma law, she could demand that the sale be voided.

Tears of frustration in her eyes, Georgette studied the picture of Celia Nolan as she was caught in the process of fainting. I could probably claim that I did tell her husband and let her take me to court, but that picture would have a big impact on a judge.

As Georgette got up to refill her coffee cup, her phone rang. It was Robin: "Georgette, I suppose you've seen the newspapers."