I Heard That Song Before (7 page)

Peter had already warned me that he had frequent spells of insomnia, and that when that was happening he would slip over to the other room to read. Since I am sure I will sleep through Gabriel’s horn when it finally sounds, I told him that wasn’t necessary, but whatever made him more comfortable and more likely to sleep was fine with me.

That night we went to sleep in my room, I with sugarplums dancing in my head at the prospect of really beginning my life as Peter’s wife. I don’t know what woke me up during the night, but something did. Peter was gone. Even though I knew he was probably in his room reading, I suddenly felt a tremendous sense of anxiety. I slipped my feet into slippers, pulled on a robe, and padded through the sitting room. His door was closed. I opened it very quietly. It was dark, but there was enough early-morning light flickering around the window shades to see that the room was empty.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I hurried over to the window and looked down. From there the pool was clearly visible. Of course, in February the pool was covered, but Peter was there, kneeling beside it, resting one hand on the edge, and slipping the other hand under the heavy vinyl covering into the water. His whole arm was moving back and forth as if he was either trying to push something into the pool or drag something out of it.

Why? What was he doing? I wondered. Then, as I watched, he stood up, turned, and came slowly back toward the house. A few minutes later he opened the door to the bedroom, went into the bathroom, turned on the light, dried his arm and hand on a towel, and rolled down the sleeve of his pajama top. He then turned out the light, walked back into the bedroom, and stood facing me. It was obvious he was not aware of my presence, and I realized what was happening. Peter was walking in his sleep. A girl in our dormitory in college had been a sleepwalker, and we’d been warned never to wake her suddenly.

As Peter made his way through the sitting room, I followed him silently. He got back into bed in my room. I slipped off my robe, kicked off my slippers, and gently got in beside him. A few minutes later, his arm went around me and his drowsy voice murmured, “Kay.”

“I’m here, dear,” I said.

I could feel his body relax, and soon his even breathing told me that he was asleep. But for the rest of the night I lay awake. Peter was a sleepwalker, I now realized, but how often did that happen? And far more important, why, in that altered state, did he go through the motions of trying to push something into the pool or pull something from it?

Something
—or
someone?

N
icholas Greco drove through Cresskill, a town near Englewood, watching for street signs and reminding himself once again that it was time to get a navigation system for his car. Frances always tells me that for someone who is so good at solving crimes, I can’t make it to the grocery store without getting lost, he thought. She’s right.

Nice town, he thought as, following the directions he had taken from MapQuest, he turned right on County Road. He was on his way to interview Vincent Slater, the man who had been called “indispensable” by Peter Carrington’s father.

Greco had done exhaustive research on Slater before he’d requested the meeting, but there hadn’t been much of interest to learn from it. Slater was now fifty-four years old, a bachelor, still living in the childhood home he had bought from his parents when they moved to Florida. He had commuted to a local college. His first and only job was with Carrington Enterprises. Within a couple years of his employment he had gained the attention of Peter’s father and had become a kind of aide-de-camp to him. After Peter’s mother died, Slater became a combination of trusted employee and surrogate parent for Peter. A dozen years older than Peter, during the Carrington heir’s adolescent years Slater would drive him to Choate, his prep school in Connecticut, and visit him there regularly, stay in the mansion with him on vacations, and take him skiing and sailing during holidays.

Slater’s background was interesting, but it was the fact that he had been a guest at the party the night Susan Althorp disappeared that was of primary interest to Greco. He had grudgingly consented to the interview but insisted that it be conducted at his home. He doesn’t want any part of me at the mansion, Greco thought. He should know that I’ve already been there, at least to the guesthouse to talk to the Barrs.

He watched the house numbers and stopped in front of Slater’s house, which turned out to be a split-level, the kind so popular in the fifties. When he rang the bell, Slater answered the door instantly. I wonder if he was standing behind it, Greco thought. And without having laid eyes on him before, why do I think he’s that kind of guy? “Very good of you to see me, Mr. Slater,” he said mildly, reaching out his hand.

Slater ignored it. “Come in,” he said curtly.

I could make my way around here blindfolded, Greco thought. Kitchen straight ahead at the end of the foyer. Living room to the right of the entrance, opening into a small dining room. Three bedrooms upstairs. The family room a half level below the kitchen. Greco knew because he had been brought up in the mirror image of this house in Hempstead, Long Island.

It was immediately obvious that Slater’s taste ran to the minimal. The beige walls were dull above the brown carpet. Greco followed Slater into the sparsely furnished living room. A modernistic couch and chairs were arranged in a seating group around a wide glass coffee table with steel legs.

Nothing warm and fuzzy about this place or this guy, Greco thought as he sat down in the chair Slater had indicated.

It was too low for his taste. A subtle way of putting me at a disadvantage, he thought.

Before he could make his usual remarks thanking Slater for agreeing to meet him, Slater said, “Mr. Greco, I know why you are here. You are investigating the disappearance of Susan Althorp at the request of her mother. That is praiseworthy, except for one serious problem—your mandate is to somehow prove that Peter Carrington is criminally responsible for Susan’s disappearance.”

“My mandate is to find out what happened to Susan, and if possible to give her mother peace,” Greco said. “I recognize that because he was the last known person to see her before her disappearance, Peter Carrington has lived under a cloud of suspicion for twenty-two years. As his friend and assistant, I would think you would be interested in dispelling that cloud if it were at all possible to do so.”

“That obviously goes without saying.”

“Then help me. What is your recollection of the events of that evening?”

“I am certain that by now you know exactly what testimony I gave when the investigation was opened initially. I was a guest at the dinner. It was a very pleasant affair. Susan arrived with her parents.”

“She arrived with them, but Peter drove her home.”

“Yes.”

“What time did you leave the party?”

“As you surely know, I stayed over that night. For years I have had my own room in the mansion. Ninety-nine percent of the time I come home to this house, but that night I decided to stay over, as did a number of other guests. Elaine, Peter’s stepmother, was planning a ten
A.M
. brunch, and it was easier to stay there than to drive back and forth.”

“When did you retire to your room?”

“When Peter left to drive Susan home.”

“How would you describe your relationship with the Carrington family?”

“Exactly as you must have gathered from your various interviews. I never forget the fact that I am their employee, but I am also, I hope, a trusted friend.”

“So trusted that you would do anything to help them, especially Peter, who is almost a surrogate son or brother to you?”

“I have never had to worry about doing anything for Peter that would not stand the light of day, Mr. Greco. Now, if you have no more questions, I need to get to Englewood now.”

“Just one. You were also present the night Grace Carrington died, weren’t you?”

“The night Grace died in an accident, you mean. Yes. Peter had been away in Australia for several weeks. He was expected home in time for dinner, and his wife, Grace, had asked Elaine, her son, Richard, a few local friends, and myself for dinner. Because Richard’s birthday was coming up, Grace called it a birthday party for him.”

“When Peter came in, he was quite angry at what he saw?”

“Mr. Greco, there is nothing more to add to what you obviously already know about that situation. Peter was understandably upset to see that Grace had been drinking heavily.”

“He was very angry.”

“I would say upset rather than angry.”

“Did you stay over at the mansion that night?”

“No. It was about eleven o’clock when Peter arrived. We were all about to leave anyhow. Peter went upstairs. Elaine and Richard stayed with Grace.”

“Were there servants in the house?”

“Jane and Gary Barr had been hired after Peter’s mother died. Elaine let them go when she married Peter’s father. After his father’s death, however, Elaine moved to the smaller house on the grounds, and Peter rehired the Barrs. They’ve been there ever since.”

“But if they had been fired, why were they at the mansion the night Susan disappeared? Peter’s father was still alive. In fact, the dinner was really to celebrate his seventieth birthday.”

“Elaine Walker Carrington has no hesitation in using people to suit her convenience. Even though she had let the Barrs go because she wanted to hire a fancy chef and butler and a couple of maids, she asked them to help with the serving that evening, and then work the brunch the next morning. They were ten times more efficient than the new staff, and I’m sure she paid them very well.”

“Then they were rehired and I presume they served the dinner the night of Grace Carrington’s death. Would they still have been up when Peter returned?”

“Both Peter and Grace were very considerate. After coffee had been served, and the cups collected, the Barrs retired to their own place. They had moved back to the former gatehouse on the estate.”

“Mr. Slater, I spoke with Gary and Jane Barr last week. We went over their recollection of the dinner party and the brunch the next day. I discussed with Gary something I had noticed in the files. Twenty-two years ago he told investigators that the morning of the brunch, he overheard Peter Carrington tell you that Susan had left her handbag in his car the night before and he asked you to deliver it to her because there might be something she needed in it. He remembered making that statement and having heard that exchange between you and Peter.”

“He may remember it, but if you continued to look in the notes, you’d know that at that time I said his recollection was only partially true,” Vincent Slater said evenly. “Peter did not tell me Susan had left her purse in the car. He said that she
might
have left her purse there. It wasn’t in the car, so obviously he was mistaken. In any case, I don’t get your point.”

“It’s only a comment. Mrs. Althorp is sure she heard Susan close the door of her room that night. Obviously she didn’t intend to stay there long. But by then if she had realized her purse was in Peter’s car, and she was planning to meet him, she wouldn’t be concerned. Otherwise, if she were meeting someone else, wouldn’t it seem natural for her to select another purse, get a compact and handkerchief, the usual things women carry?”

“You’re wasting my time, Mr. Greco. You’re not seriously suggesting that Susan’s mother knew exactly how many handkerchiefs, or, for that matter, how many evening purses were in her daughter’s room?”

Nicholas Greco got up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Slater. I’m afraid there is a development you need to know about. Mrs. Althorp has been interviewed by
Celeb
magazine; the issue will be on the stands tomorrow. In it, Mrs. Althorp specifically accuses Peter Carrington of the murder of her daughter, Susan.”

He watched as Vincent Slater’s complexion took on a sickly yellow tint.

“That’s libel,” Slater snapped. “Slander and out-and-out libel.”

“Exactly. And the normal reaction of an innocent man like Peter Carrington will be to instruct his lawyers to sue Gladys Althorp. This would be followed by the usual process of interrogatories and depositions until there was either a retraction, settlement, or public trial. In your opinion, will Peter Carrington demand an immediate retraction from Gladys Althorp and, if it is not received, institute a suit against her to clear his name?”

Slater’s eyes had turned icy, but not before Greco caught a sudden look of fear in them. “You were about to leave, Mr. Greco,” he said.

Neither man exchanged another word as Nicholas Greco left the house. Greco walked down the path, got into his car, and started it. Who is Slater on the phone with now? he wondered as he drove down the street. Carrington? The lawyers? The new Mrs. Carrington?

An image of Kay’s heated defense of Peter Carrington when he met her in her grandmother’s home came into his mind. Kay, you should have listened to your grandmother, he thought.

I
n the morning, Peter showed no sign of being aware that he had been sleepwalking during the night. I wasn’t sure whether or not to bring it up to him. What could I say? That it looked as if he was trying to push something or someone into the pool or pull something or someone from it?

I thought I had the explanation. He was having a nightmare about Grace drowning in the pool. He was trying to rescue her. It made sense, but talking to him about it seemed pointless. He wouldn’t remember any of it.

We got up at seven. The Barrs would come in at eight to prepare breakfast, but I squeezed juice and made coffee because we decided to take a quick jog through the grounds of the estate. Oddly enough, up until now we had spoken very little about my father’s role as landscaper here. I had told Peter how hard my mother’s death must have been on Daddy, and how his suicide had devastated me. I did not, of course, mention the appalling things Nicholas Greco had said. I was infuriated by his suggestion that Daddy might have chosen to disappear because he had something to do with Susan Althorp’s disappearance.