I Heard That Song Before (10 page)

Conner Banks initially had strongly suspected that Peter Carrington was guilty of the death of Susan Althorp. Now, adding up the evidence, he was virtually certain. No one had seen Carrington return to the house the night of the party. Twenty years old, he goes straight to bed when there are still guests in the house dancing on the terrace. Nobody sees him park the car. Nobody sees him come in. Susan is missing the next morning, and so is the dress shirt Carrington was wearing. Now her body has been found on his property. The prosecutor is bound to arrest him. Peter, I’ll do my best to help get you off, he thought as he looked at the man who was now holding hands with his wife, but I saw some of the footage of that funeral on the news last night. In a way, I wish that I was
prosecuting
this case. And I know that my colleagues feel the same way.

Kay was blinking back tears. She’ll stand by her man, Banks thought. That’s good. But if he’s responsible for Susan Althorp’s death, then maybe everyone is right to be suspicious about his first wife’s drowning. Is he a psychopath, and, if so, will his new bride get in his way?

Why did he also feel that there was something odd—and perhaps oddly suspicious—about Carrington’s rush to the altar with a woman he’d known for such a short time?

H
e’s nervous, Pat Jennings decided, as she looked at her boss, Richard Walker. I’ll bet anything he’s been playing the horses again. For all the money he makes on this place—or
doesn’t
make on this place—he might just at well try his luck on the ponies.

Pat had been working six months as receptionist and secretary at the Walker Art Gallery. When she took the job, it seemed like the perfect part-time situation for a woman with two kids in elementary school. Her hours were from nine until three, with the understanding that if a cocktail party was given for a new exhibit, she would come back later. There had been only one such event since she’d been working there, and it had been poorly attended.

The problem was that the gallery wasn’t selling enough to even cover the overhead. Richard would be sunk without his mother, Pat thought, as she watched him go restlessly from one painting to another, straightening them.

He’s really jumpy today, she decided. I heard him placing bets these last few days; he must have lost a lot of money. Of course, the business of that girl’s body being found on his stepbrother’s property is pretty upsetting. Yesterday, Richard had turned on the TV to watch live coverage of Susan Althorp’s funeral. He knew her, too, Pat thought. Even though it’s been a long time, seeing her casket carried into church must bring back a lot of painful memories.

That morning she asked Walker how his stepbrother was reacting to all the publicity.

“I haven’t seen Peter,” he told her. “I did call and let him know I was thinking about him. All this is happening with him just back from his honeymoon. It’s got to be difficult.”

Later it had been so quiet in the gallery that when the phone rang, Pat jumped. This place is getting on my nerves, she thought as she reached for the receiver.

“Walker Art Gallery. Good afternoon.”

She looked up to see Richard Walker running toward her, waving his arms. She could read his lips: “I’m not here. I’m not here.”

“Put Walker on.” It was a command not a request.

“I’m afraid he’s out on an appointment. I don’t expect him back this afternoon.”

“Give me his cell phone number.”

Pat knew what to say: “When he’s at a meeting, he won’t turn it on. If you give me your name and number, I’ll—”

The slamming of the phone at the other end of the connection made her yank the receiver from her ear. Walker was standing next to her desk, perspiration on his forehead, his hands trembling. Before he asked, Pat volunteered, “He didn’t give a name, but I can tell you this, Richard. He sounds awfully angry.” Then, because she felt sorry for him, she offered some unsolicited advice: “Richard, your mother has a lot of money. If I were you, I’d tell her to give you what you need. That guy was scary. And then, a final piece of advice—quit playing the ponies.”

Two hours later, Richard Walker was in his mother’s home at the Carrington estate. “You’ve got to help me,” he pleaded. “They’ll kill me if I don’t pay. You know they will. This is the last time, I swear it.”

Elaine Carrington looked at her son, fury in her eyes. “Richard, you’ve drained me dry. I get one million dollars a year from the estate. Last year, between your gambling and the expense of the gallery, you got nearly half of it.”

“Mother, I’m begging you.”

She looked away. He knows I have to give it to him, Elaine thought. And he knows where, if I’m desperate, I can get whatever amount I need.

F
ormer ambassador Charles Althorp knocked at the door of his wife’s bedroom. Yesterday, after the funeral, she had come home and gone straight to bed. He did not yet know whether or not she had heard that Maria Valdez, the former maid at the Carrington estate, had recanted the version of events she had given at the time of Susan’s disappearance.

He found her propped up in bed. Even though it was nearly noon, Gladys Althorp had clearly not attempted to get up. Her breakfast tray, virtually untouched, was on the bedside table. The television was on, although the sound was turned down so low it was only a murmur.

Looking at the emaciated woman from whom he had been estranged for years, Althorp felt an unexpected and overwhelming wave of tenderness toward her. At the funeral parlor, the casket had been surrounded by pictures showing moments from Susan’s nearly nineteen years. I traveled so much, he thought. So many of the pictures, especially the later ones, were just of Gladys and Susan.

He pointed to the television. “You’ve obviously heard about Maria Valdez.”

“Nicholas Greco phoned me, and then I saw it on CNN. He said that her testimony could be the key to convict Peter Carrington of Susan’s death. I only wish I could be in court to see him led away in handcuffs.”

“I hope you are there, my dear. And I can assure you that I will be.”

Gladys Althorp shook her head. “You know perfectly well that I am dying, Charles, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Now that I know where Susan is, and that I’ll be with her soon, I have to confess something. I’ve always believed that Peter took Susan’s life, but there’s also been one tiny doubt in my mind. Did you hear her go out that night? Did you follow her? You were very angry with her. Had the two of you quarreled because she learned that you were involved with Elaine? Susan was so protective of me.”

“Elaine was a mistake, and it was over by the time she married Peter’s father,” Charles said bitterly. “When I saw her, she was divorced and unattached, and that is the truth.”

“
She
may have been unattached, but
you
weren’t, Charles.”

“Isn’t it a bit late in the game to discuss that, Gladys?”

“You still haven’t answered me. What did you and Susan quarrel about that night?”

“Try to rest, Gladys,” Charles Althorp said as he turned and left his wife’s room.

F
or the first time, the lawyers were staying for lunch. With skilled fingers, Jane Barr prepared a tray of sandwiches and made fresh coffee. Aghast, she had watched the television reports that Maria Valdez had changed her story. It’s all Elaine’s fault, she thought. If she hadn’t let us go, I’d have been here to pick up the laundry that morning. I would have known
exactly
what was or wasn’t in the hamper, and what did or didn’t go to the cleaner. How can that Valdez woman dare to change her story now? Who is paying her? she wondered.

It’s too bad that I wasn’t here when that detective, Nicholas Greco, came by and spoke to Gary. He’s been nervous ever since. He thinks he may have done some harm to Peter by telling Greco that Peter was shocked when he learned Susan’s purse wasn’t in his car.

“What harm can that do?” she had asked Gary at the time, but now she wondered. Maybe that bit of information did have significance. But she knew Peter Carrington, and it wasn’t as though he could ever hurt anyone.

She and Gary had attended Susan Althorp’s funeral Mass. Such a sweet, pretty girl she was, Jane thought as she took plates and cups from the cupboard. I used to love to see her dressed up and going out when we would work the dinner parties for Mrs. Althorp.

Outside the church, before the hearse and family limousines left for the private burial, the Althorps had stood in the vestry and accepted the condolences of their friends. Why did Gary duck around behind the crowd instead of speaking to them? Jane wondered. Susan was always so nice to him. At least a half dozen times that last year he chauffeured her to parties when the ambassador didn’t want her or her friends to be driving home late on their own. But she knew her husband was not one to show emotion, and perhaps he felt it wasn’t his place to be talking to the Althorps with all the dignitaries in the church around them.

Gary had been vacuuming the upstairs hallways while Jane was preparing the lunch. He came into the kitchen in time to save her the trouble of getting him. “Good timing,” Jane said. “You can take the plates and cups and silverware inside now. But be sure to knock before you open the door.”

“I think I know enough to do that,” he said sarcastically.

“Of course you do,” she said, sighing. “I’m sorry. I don’t have my wits about me. I keep thinking about yesterday and the funeral. Susan was such a beautiful girl, wasn’t she?”

As she watched, her husband’s face turned a deep shade of red and he turned away. “Yes, she was,” he mumbled as he took the tray and left the kitchen.

T
he lawyers didn’t leave until three o’clock, following five straight hours of questioning Peter in preparation for what seemed to be the inevitable—a charge of murder in the death of Susan Althorp. We didn’t even take a break for lunch, only pausing to nibble on sandwiches and to sip coffee. All the while, every detail of the dinner party and the brunch all those years ago was dragged out.

Occasionally Vincent Slater contradicted Peter about some detail. One in particular surprised me. “Peter, Susan was sitting next to you at the dinner and Grace was at another table.”

Until then I hadn’t realized that Grace Meredith, the woman Peter married when he was thirty years old, had been at that party. But then, why not? Some twenty of Peter’s friends from Princeton had been there. Peter explained that she had come as someone else’s date.

“Who was that someone else?” Conner Banks asked.

“Gregg Haverly, an eating-club brother at Princeton.”

“Had you met Grace Meredith at any point before that evening?” Banks asked.

I could tell by then that Peter was getting worn down by the constant barrage of questions. “I never met Grace before that evening,” he said, his tone frosty. “In fact, I didn’t see her again for over nine years. I bumped into her at a Princeton-Yale game. We were both with a group of friends, but neither one of us had a specific date and we paired off.”

“Are there other people who know that you hadn’t seen her in all those years?” Banks asked.

I guess that Banks saw the expression on Peter’s face because he added, “Peter, I’m trying to anticipate the prosecutor. This is the kind of question they’ll be asking you. Since your first wife was at the party, they could think that maybe you became interested in her and Susan noticed. Then maybe you and Susan had a fight about it later on and it turned violent.”

That was when Peter pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think it’s time to call it a day.” I noticed that he was deliberately cool to Conner Banks when good-byes were being exchanged.

After the lawyers were gone, Peter said, “I don’t think I want that Banks character on my defense team. Get rid of him, Vince.”

I knew Peter was making a mistake, and fortunately Vincent did, too. He understood that Banks was only preparing Peter for the kind of stinging questions that were coming his way. “Peter, they’ll question you about everything,” he said. “And they’ll make insinuations. You have to get used to it.”

“What you’re telling me is that the fact that I met Grace that night can be used against me, that maybe I fell madly in love with her and decided to kill Susan?” He obviously didn’t expect an answer.

I hoped Vincent Slater would go home; I wanted some quiet time, alone with Peter. We both needed it. But then Peter announced that he was going into the office. “Kay, I have to step aside as CEO and chairman of the company although I will continue to have a major voice in decisions. All my attention has to be given to trying to stay out of prison.” Then he added almost helplessly, “That woman is lying. I swear to you, I remember putting my dress shirt in that hamper.”

He came over to kiss me. I guess I looked pretty worn out myself because he suggested, “Why don’t you try to take a nap, Kay? It’s been one hell of a day.”

Resting was the last thing on my mind. “No,” I said. “I’m going to see Maggie.”

I guess the day had really gotten to Peter, because he said, “Be sure to give her my best, and ask her if she’d like to be a character witness for me at my trial.”

J
oining Nicholas Greco and Tom Moran, Barbara Krause flew to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where they rented a car and drove to Maria Valdez Cruz’s home, a modest ranch-style house not far from the airport. It had been snowing there and the roads were slippery, but Greco, because he had already visited the former maid, did the driving. Krause was furious that information about Maria Valdez recanting her previous statement had been leaked to the press. She had vowed to discover the source of the leak and fire the person responsible for it.

“When I was here two days ago, I advised Maria to have her own attorney with her when we come to see her,” Greco reminded them as they rang the doorbell.

And it was that lawyer, Duncan Armstrong, a tall, thin man in his early seventies, who answered the door. Once the visitors were inside, he stood protectively next to his petite client and immediately expressed outrage at the leak to the press.