I Heard That Song Before (11 page)

Moran had been present when they questioned Maria Valdez twenty-two years ago. She was a kid then, he thought, nineteen or so, the same age as Susan Althorp. But she had been stubborn, and wouldn’t budge from her story that she gave that shirt to the cleaner.

Oddly, the firmness and determination she had shown then was missing now. She seemed nervous as she invited her visitors to sit down in the cozy, spotlessly clean living room. “My husband took our daughters to the movies,” she said. “They’re teenagers. I told them you were coming, and explained to them that I had made a mistake and lied to the authorities when I was a young girl, but that it’s never too late to set the record straight.”

“Maria means that she may have been mistaken when you questioned her at the time Susan Althorp disappeared,” Armstrong interjected. “Before we do any further talking, I must see what papers you have prepared.”

“We are offering Mrs. Cruz immunity from prosecution for her full and truthful cooperation regarding this investigation,” Barbara Krause said firmly.

“I’ll take a look at those papers,” Armstrong said. He read them carefully. “Now, Maria, you know this means that at a trial you’ll be called to testify, and the defense attorneys will argue that you’re lying now. But the important thing is that you will not be prosecuted on a charge of giving a false statement originally.”

“I have three daughters,” Cruz replied. “If one of them disappeared and then was found dead, my heart would be broken. When I heard that girl’s body had been found, I felt terrible that my statement may have helped her murderer go free. I admit, though, that I would not have had the courage to speak up if Mr. Greco had not found me.”

“Are you saying you never saw that shirt, and that you did not give it to the cleaner?” Moran asked.

“I never saw the shirt. I knew Mr. Peter Carrington had said it was in the hamper, and I was afraid to contradict him. I was new in the country, and I didn’t want to lose my job. I sent the shirts that were in the hamper to the cleaners, but I was almost certain that his dress shirt had not been there. At that time the police were questioning me, and I thought I could be wrong, but deep down I knew I wasn’t. There was no dress shirt in his hamper. But I told the police that it was there, and that it must have been lost by the cleaner.”

“The man who owned the laundry always swore they never received that shirt,” Barbara Krause said. “Let’s hope he’s still around.”

“If I have to testify, will they think I’m lying now?” Maria asked timidly. “Because I can prove I’m not.”

“Prove? What do you mean prove?” Moran asked.

“I quit the job about a month after I was questioned by the police. I went back to Manila because my mother was very sick. Mr. Carrington senior knew that, and gave me a five thousand dollars ‘bonus,’ as he called it, before I left. He was so grateful I had backed up his son’s story. In fairness to him, I believe he really thought I was telling the truth.”

“I think you’re being too charitable,” Krause said. “That money was a payoff.”

“I cashed the check, but I was afraid that when I came home with so much money, people might say that I had stolen it, so I made a copy of the check, front and back, before I took it to the bank.” Maria reached into the pocket of her jacket. “Here it is,” she said.

Barbara Krause took the copy of the check, reviewed it intently, then handed it to Moran. It was obvious to Greco that they believed it to be bombshell evidence. “Now we know that shirt never went into the hamper,” Krause said. “It’s time to arrest him and go to the grand jury.”

F
or the first time in days, there was no media hanging around the main gate when I left. I guess if there had been, they had seen Peter and Vincent leave, maybe even had followed them. I had called Maggie and told her I was on my way to see her. She sounded chastened, probably having realized that what she said to the reporter was a low blow, and that I’d be furious.

But it had been over three weeks now since I’d seen her, and the minute I walked in the door I realized how much I’d missed her. The living room was even more cluttered than usual, but Maggie looked great. She was sitting in her favorite chair, watching Judge Judy, nodding in agreement with the just-rendered verdict, a smile on her face. She loved Judge Judy’s outbursts to defendants. The TV was loud because Maggie never will put in her hearing aid, but she heard the door close behind me and sprang up so we could hug each other.

Of course, being Maggie, she got in the first word. “How is he?” she asked.

“By ‘he,’ I assume you mean my husband, Peter. He’s under a great deal of stress and handling it beautifully.”

“Kay, I’m worried about you. He’s a…”

I interrupted her. “Maggie, if you ever use the word to describe Peter that I think you were about to use, I’m out of here, for good.”

She knew I meant what I said. “Let’s have a cup of tea,” she suggested.

A few minutes later I was propped up on the couch and she was back in her chair. We were both holding teacups, and it felt familiar and comfortable and good. I asked about her friends and told her about our honeymoon.

We didn’t talk about Gladys Althorp’s accusation, or the fact that the former maid had changed her story. I was sure Maggie would be on top of those facts. But I did lead the conversation where I wanted it to go. “Maggie, as awful as it is for the Althorps, I’m glad Susan’s body was found. At least it will give her mother some measure of peace.”

“It was found on Carrington property.” Maggie couldn’t resist that one.

“Technically on the property, but outside the fence. Anyone could have put it there.” I didn’t give Maggie a chance to respond before I said, “Did you know it was Daddy’s idea to move the fence back so that none of the landscaping would be affected if there was any public work in that area?”

“Yes. I remember your dad talking about that at the time. He intended to do something with that property outside the fence, but he never got to do it.”

“Maggie, you were wrong about something. Daddy was not fired because he had a drinking problem. He was fired because Elaine Carrington started flirting with him, and when he didn’t respond she got rid of him. Peter told me that. Where did you get the idea that it was because of his drinking?”

“I don’t care what your husband told you. Your father had a drinking problem, Kay.”

“Well, according to Peter, he certainly wasn’t drinking when he was working.”

“Kay, when your father told me that he’d been fired, he was upset, terribly upset.”

“That was only a few weeks after Susan Althorp disappeared, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, as I remember it was exactly fifteen days later.”

“Then the police must have questioned Daddy as well. He was still working there.”

“They questioned everybody who worked on the estate or even visited it. You were staying here with me the night Susan disappeared. Your father had some of his friends in for a poker game at your house. They were at it till midnight, and I gather when it broke up they were all feeling pretty good. That Greco fellow was way off base insinuating your father’s suicide had anything to do with Susan Althorp.”

“I’m sure of that, but he did have a point. Daddy’s body was never recovered. Why were you so sure he committed suicide?”

“Kay, I went with him to the cemetery on the sixth anniversary of your mother’s death. That was only a month before he killed himself. Six years and still he broke down and cried like a baby. He told me he missed her every single day, and it wasn’t letting up. Something else. He loved working on the Carrington estate. Sure, he had other families up there he worked for, but the Carringtons were the only one who would let him do exactly what he wanted. It was a terrible blow to be thrown out of that job.”

Maggie got up from her chair, walked over, and put her arms around me. “Kay, he loved you like crazy, but your dad was in serious depression, and when you drink and are depressed, terrible things happen.”

We cried together. “Maggie, I’m so scared,” I admitted. “I’m so scared of what may happen to Peter.”

She didn’t answer, but she might just as well have shouted what she was thinking: Kay, I’m scared of what may happen to
you.

I called Peter on his cell phone. He was still in the city and wasn’t going to be home until at least ten o’clock. “Take Maggie out for dinner,” he said. Then he even laughed when he added, “Tell her it’s on me.”

Maggie and I went out for “a plate of pasta,” as she puts it. Our conversation led her to reminiscences about my mother, and once again she told me the story about how she had stopped the show when she sang that song. She sounded so poignant when she sang that last line, “I heard that song before,” Maggie said, her eyes glistening as she hummed the tune, off-key. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about my visit to the chapel that afternoon long ago, but I held back. I didn’t want a lecture about how foolish I’d been.

Following dinner, I dropped her off at her door, watched until she was inside, then drove home. There were some lights on in the gatehouse, so I assumed that the Barrs were there. I never can tell if Elaine is in, though. Her house is too far away from either the front gate or the mansion to see any lights coming from it.

It was only nine o’clock. The mansion felt really scary to go into alone. I could almost imagine someone hiding inside the suit of armor in the entrance hall. The outside lights sent muted shadows through the stained-glass windows. For an instant I wondered if they were the same lights my father had installed, the ones he’d rushed over here to check that afternoon when he brought me with him.

I got comfortable in a robe and slippers and waited for Peter to get home. I was reluctant to turn on the television, afraid I’d come across another story about the Althorp case and the newest development, the maid who had changed her testimony. I had started a book on the plane coming home and picked it up again. It was no use; the words were meaningless.

I was thinking about my father. All the good memories were flooding my mind. I still missed him.

Peter came in a little after eleven. He looked exhausted. “As of today, I’ve resigned from the board,” he said. “I’ll maintain an office at the company.”

He said that Vincent had ordered dinner brought into the office, but admitted he hadn’t touched it. We went down to the kitchen, and I got some of Jane Barr’s homemade chicken soup out of the refrigerator and heated it for him. He seemed to perk up a bit and got up and brought a bottle of red wine and two glasses from the bar. He poured the wine and held up his glass. “Let’s offer each other the same toast every night,” he said. “We will get through this. The truth will come out.”

“Amen,” I said fervently.

Then Peter looked directly at me, and his eyes were thoughtful and sad. “Here we are alone, Kay,” he said. “If anything happened to you tonight, they’d be sure to blame it on me, wouldn’t they?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I told him. “Whatever would make you say that?”

“Kay, do you know if I have been sleepwalking since we’ve been home?”

His question surprised me. “Yes, you were, that first night. You’ve never told me that you knew you were a sleepwalker, Peter.”

“I was as a kid. It started after my mother died. The doctor gave me some medicine, and for a while it pretty much stopped. But I had a nightmare about putting my arm in the pool and trying to get at something, and it keeps sticking in my mind. You wouldn’t know if that happened, would you?”

“It
did
happen, Peter. I woke up at about five o’clock and you weren’t there. I looked for you in the other bedroom and happened to glance out the window. I could see you at the pool. You were kneeling beside it and your arm was in the water. Then you came back into the house and got into bed. I knew enough not to wake you.”

“Kay,” he began, his voice hesitant. Then he said something in so low a tone that I could not hear him clearly. His voice broke, and he bit his lip. I could tell he was close to tears.

I got up, went around the table, and cradled him in my arms. “What is it, Peter? What do you want to tell me?”

“No…it’s nothing.”

But it
was
something, and it was terribly important. I could swear that Peter had whispered, “I’ve had other nightmares, and maybe they really happened…”

B
arbara Krause, Tom Moran, and Nicholas Greco did not arrive back from Lancaster until late afternoon. Krause and Moran went directly to their offices in the Bergen County Courthouse and spent the next several hours preparing an affidavit that summarized the evidence gathered so far in the investigation. The affidavit would be submitted in support of their request that a criminal complaint be docketed and a search warrant be issued. The criminal complaint would charge Peter Carrington with the murder of Susan Althorp, and the warrant would authorize the search of the homes and grounds of the Carrington estate.

“I want them to scour the grounds with the cadaver dogs,” Krause told Moran. “How could they have missed finding her twenty-two years ago, when the scent would have been much stronger? Could he have buried her somewhere else and then moved her to the grounds when he believed they would never be searched again?”

“Maybe,” Moran said. “I was standing there when those dogs went through the area where she was just found. I don’t see how the dogs would have missed the scent, and I can’t imagine how our guys, and I include myself, would have missed freshly disturbed soil.”

“I’ll alert Judge Smith right now,” Barbara Krause said, “and request that we be permitted to go to his home at five o’clock tomorrow morning, so he can review the warrants.”

“The judge will love that,” Moran commented, “but it will give us time to assemble our team tonight and get over there with the warrant by 6:30
A.M.,
when we’re pretty sure Carrington will be snuggled in bed with his new bride. I’ll enjoy being his wake-up call.”

It was after two
A.M.
when they completed the paperwork. Moran stood up and stretched. “I don’t think we remembered to get any dinner,” he said.