No Place Like Home (10 page)

The picture of Celia Nolan fainting as she tried to run from the media particularly distressed and irritated him. If this had been a bias crime, we'd be combing the town to find out who did it, he kept thinking. Unlike the last episode this is no Halloween prank. This is
vicious.

By the end of the morning he had lost to all of his three golfing companions. The result was that he paid for a round of Bloody Marys at the bar before the festive luncheon.

The club was decorated with sketches and
paintings borrowed from the museum at George Washington's headquarters at Morristown. Jeff, a history buff, never failed to appreciate the fact that so much of the surrounding countryside had been fought over during the Revolutionary War.

But today during the luncheon he glanced unseeingly at the historical artifacts. Before coffee was served he called his office and was assured by Anna that it was a quiet day. She did not let him end the call until she commented on the newspapers she had read that morning: “The pictures they took of Little Lizzie's Place show that somebody really did a job on it this time,” she said, with a certain amount of relish in her voice. “I'm going to drive by and take a look at it on my way home.”

Jeff did not let her in on the fact that he was planning to do the exact same thing. He only hoped that he would not bump into his omnipresent secretary, but then consoled himself with the realization that he'd be there around three o'clock, and Anna wouldn't dream of leaving her desk until five.

The luncheon finally over, and with a last apology for his dismal game, Jeff escaped to his car, and less than ten minutes later was turning onto Old Mill Lane. As he drove he was remembering the night twenty-four years ago when he'd been at his desk exceptionally late catching up on school assignments, and on impulse had turned on the radio that was his prize possession. It was equipped with the police shortwave band the squad cars used. That was when he heard the intense report. “Male calling
for help at One Old Mill Lane. Says he's been shot and his wife murdered. Neighbors reporting sounds of gunshots.”

It had been about one in the morning, Jeff remembered. Mom and Dad were asleep. I got on my bicycle and rode over there and stood with some of the Bartons' neighbors on the road. God, it was a lousy, cold night, October 28th, twenty-four years ago. Within minutes, the media was swarming around the place. I saw the stretcher with Ted Cartwright being carried out of the house, two EMTs holding IVs that were attached to him. Then they brought out the body bag with Audrey Barton's corpse and put it in the meat wagon. I even remember what I was thinking—seeing her ride in the horse show and how she took first prize in jumping.

He had stayed at the scene until he saw the squad car with Liza Barton inside speeding away. Even then I wondered what was going through her mind, Jeff recalled.

He still wondered that same thing. From what he understood, after she had thanked Clyde Earley for the blanket he wrapped around her, she didn't say another word for months.

As he passed the house at 3 Old Mill Lane, he saw a man and a woman standing in the driveway. The next-door neighbor, he thought, the one who had so much to say to the reporters. And that's Ted Cartwright with her. Wonder why he's around here?

Jeff was tempted to stop and talk to them, but he
decided against it. It was obvious from the way she'd talked to the media that Marcella Williams was a gossip. I don't need her spreading the word that I have some kind of personal interest in this case, Jeff thought.

He slowed the car down almost to a crawl. Here it was, the Barton house. Little Lizzie's Place. A commercial-type van was in the driveway, and a man dressed in overalls was ringing the doorbell.

At first blush, the eighteenth-century, two-story mansion, with its unusual combination of a frame structure and a limestone foundation, did not seem damaged. But after Jeff stopped the car and got out, he could see where a base coat had been applied to many vandalized shingles, and splashes of red were still visible on the foundation. The newly laid sod also stood out from the rest of the lawn, and Jeff grimaced as he realized just how large the lettering of the painted message must have been.

He watched as the door opened and a woman appeared. She looked to be fairly tall and very slender. It had to be Celia Nolan, the new owner. She spoke to the workman for a moment, then closed the door, and the workman returned to the van and began to pull out a drop cloth and tools.

Jeff had not intended to do more than drive past the vandalized house, but on a sudden impulse decided to walk up the driveway and see for himself the remaining damage before it was repaired. That, of course, meant that he would have to speak to the new owners. He hated to disturb them, but
there was no way the Morris County prosecutor could be walking around on their property without an explanation.

The workman turned out to be a mason who had been hired by the real estate agent to polish the limestone. Skinny, in his late sixties, with weathered skin and a prominent Adam's apple, he introduced himself as Jimmy Walker.

“Like the mayor of New York in the 1920s,” he said with a hearty laugh. “They even wrote a song about him.”

Jimmy Walker was a talker. “Last Halloween, Mrs. Harriman, she was the owner then, had me here, too. Boy, was she mad. The stuff the kids used that night came right off, but I guess the doll with the gun in its hand sitting in a chair on the porch really spooked her. When she opened the door in the morning that was the first thing she saw.”

Jeff turned to go up to the porch, but Walker kept talking. “Guess the women who own this house all get nervous living here. I seen the newspaper this morning. We get the
Daily Record
delivered. It's good to get the local paper. You know what's going on. They had a big story about this house. Did you read it?”

I wonder if he gets paid by the hour, Jeff thought. If so, the Nolans are being ripped off. I bet if he doesn't catch somebody's ear, he talks to himself.

“I have the newspapers,” he said shortly as he walked up the final step to the porch. He had seen
the picture of the skull and crossbones in the papers, but even so, to be standing in front of it was entirely different. Someone had dug into the beautiful mahogany doors, someone talented enough to have carved the skull with excellent symmetry, to have placed the letters
L
and
B
exactly in the middle of the eye sockets.

But why? He pushed the doorbell and heard the faint sound of chimes echoing inside the house.

I
tried to calm myself down after Alex left and to calm Jack as well. I could see that the events of the past few days were overwhelming him—the move from the only home he'd ever known, the police and reporters here, the pony, my fainting, the first day of pre-K, and now the tension between Alex and me.

I suggested that instead of having another ride on Lizzie—how I hated that name!—he should curl up on the couch in the den and I would read to him. “Lizzie wants a nap, too,” I added, and maybe that did it. He helped me take off her saddle, and then willingly selected one of his favorite books. Within minutes he was asleep. I covered him with a light blanket, then sat watching him as he slept.

Minute by minute, I went over the mistakes I had made today. A normal wife, finding that picture in the barn, would have called her husband and told him about it. A normal mother would not have attempted a conspiracy with a four-year-old
to keep his father or stepfather in ignorance. No wonder Alex had been both angry and disgusted. And what could I say to him by way of explanation that would make sense?

The sound of the telephone ringing in the kitchen did not cause even a stir in Jack. He was in the deep sleep that tired four-year-olds can achieve so easily. I ran from the den to the kitchen. Let it be Alex, I prayed.

But it was Georgette Grove. Her voice hesitant, she said that if I decided that I did not want to live in this house, she had several others in the area that she wanted to show me. “If you saw one of them you liked, I would forego my sales commission,” she offered. “And I will make every effort to sell your house also without commission.”

It was a very generous offer. Of course it did assume that we could afford to buy a second house without first having the money that Alex had put in this one, but then I am sure Georgette realized that as Laurence Foster's widow, I had my own resources. I told Georgette that I'd be very interested in looking at other houses with her and was surprised at the relief I could hear in her voice.

When I hung up the phone, I felt more hopeful. When Alex came back, I would tell him about the conversation with Georgette, and that if she found a suitable house, I would insist on laying out the money to purchase it myself. Alex is generous to a fault, but after growing up with adoptive parents who had to watch their money carefully, and then
living with a wealthy husband who never wasted money, I could understand why Alex might not want to buy another house until this one was sold.

I was too restless to read, so I just wandered through the first-floor rooms. Yesterday the movers had arranged the furniture marked for the living room before I came downstairs, and the placement was all wrong. I am not into
feng shui,
but I am, after all, an interior designer. Before I was even aware of what I was doing, I was shoving the couch across the room and rearranging the chairs and tables and area carpets so that the room, though still stark, no longer looked like a furniture store. Fortunately the movers had happened to place the antique highboy that had been Larry's favorite piece of furniture against the appropriate wall. That I could never have moved.

After Alex left without having lunch, I hadn't bothered to eat, either. I'd covered both plates and put them in the refrigerator, but now I realized I had the beginning of a headache. I wasn't hungry, but I knew a cup of tea would help stave it off.

The doorbell rang before I could take my first step toward the kitchen, and I stopped in my tracks. Suppose it was a reporter? But then I remembered that before she hung up, Georgette Grove had told me that a mason was on his way to repair the limestone. I looked out the window and with relief saw the commercial vehicle parked in the driveway.

I opened the door, spoke to the man who introduced
himself as Jimmy Walker—“The same name as a mayor of New York in the 1920s. They even wrote a song about him.” I told him that he was expected and closed the door, but not before I had to see from inches away the damage that was on the open side of the double door.

For a moment after I closed the door, I kept my hand on the handle. With every fiber of my being I wanted to open it again and shout out to Jimmy Walker and the whole world that I was Liza Barton, the ten-year-old child who was terrified for her mother's life, and to tell them that there had been a split second when Ted Cartwright had looked at me and seen the pistol in my hand and
then decided to throw my mother at me, knowing the gun might go off.

That split second had made the difference between Mother's life and her death. I leaned my head against the door. Even though the house was pleasantly cool, I could feel perspiration on my forehead. Was that interval something I actually remembered, or merely something I wanted to remember? I stood there, transfixed. Till this moment, my memory had been of Ted turning and yelling “Sure,” then throwing Mother in a single motion.

The door chimes sounded again. The mason had a question, I was sure. I waited for half a minute, the time it would take to answer if I'd been in the next room, and then opened the door to find a man in his late thirties with an air of authority about him. He introduced himself as Jeffrey
MacKingsley, the prosecutor of Morris County, and, almost witless with worry, I invited him in.

“I would have phoned if I had planned to stop by, but I was in the vicinity and decided to express my personal regrets at the unfortunate incident yesterday,” he said, following me into the living room.

As I mumbled, “Thank you, Mr. MacKingsley,” his eyes were darting around the living room and I was glad that I had rearranged the furniture. The slipper chairs were facing each other on either side of the couch. The love seat was in front of the fireplace. The area carpets are all mellow with age, and their muted but rich colors were caught in the rays of the afternoon sun. The highboy with its fine lacquering and intricate carving is a beautiful example of eighteenth-century craftsmanship. The room needed more furniture, and, despite the fact that there were no window treatments or paintings or bric-a-brac in place, it still suggested that I was a normal owner with good taste settling into a new home.

That realization calmed me, and I was able to smile when Jeffrey MacKingsley said, “This is a lovely room, and I only hope that you will be able to get past what happened yesterday and enjoy it and this home. I can assure you that my office and the local police department will work together to find the culprit, or culprits. There won't be any more incidents, Mrs. Nolan, if we can help it.”