No Place Like Home (20 page)

T
he weekend went unexpectedly well. Both days were very warm. Alex went for an early morning ride on Saturday, and, when he returned, I suggested we go to Spring Lake. A client of mine had been married there in July. We had attended her wedding and stayed at the Breakers Hotel. Because we'd been there together, it was one place that I didn't have to worry too much about letting slip the fact that I was familiar with it.

“Now that Labor Day's over, I bet we can get a reservation,” I said.

Alex liked the idea. Jack loved it. Alex called over to the club and was able to hire one of the kids who worked weekends at the stable to come over Saturday evening and Sunday morning to take care of Star.

It worked out just as I had hoped. We got two connecting ocean-front rooms at the Breakers. We stayed on the beach all Saturday afternoon. After dinner, we took a long stroll on the board-walk,
and the breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean. Oh, how the ocean calms my soul. I was even able to think about being here before, when I was a child, like Jack, my hand in my mother's, as his was now in mine.

In the morning, we went to early Mass at St. Catherine's, the beautiful church that never fails to comfort me. I prayed that I would find a way to clear my name, to change the impression the world has of Liza Barton. I prayed that we could someday be like the other young families I saw around me. I wanted the life they were leading.

In the pew directly ahead of us, there was a couple with two little boys I judged to be about four and three, and a baby girl less than a year old. At first the boys were well behaved, but then they started to fidget. The three-year-old began poking his older brother, who responded by leaning heavily against him. Their father noticed and separated them with a warning glance. Then the baby, obviously on the verge of being able to walk, began struggling to get down from her mother's arms.

I wanted to be able to give Alex the family he wanted, with all the blessed aggravations that are part of that life.

Of course, Alex and Jack had noticed the kids in front of us. When we were walking back to the car after Mass, Alex asked Jack what he would do if a little brother started poking him.

“I'd give him a punch,” Jack said matter-of-factly.

“Jack, you wouldn't! That's not the way a big brother acts,” I told him.

“I'd give him a punch, too,” Alex confirmed. They grinned at each other. I made myself push aside the thought that if Alex somehow learned the truth about my past before I could present a compelling defense, he might simply move out and disappear from our lives.

We spent the rest of the day on the beach, went to Rod's Olde Irish Tavern in Sea Girt for an early dinner, then, happily tired, started back to Mend-ham. On the way, I told Alex that I was going to sign up for riding lessons at the Washington Valley Riding Club.

“Why not at Peapack?” he asked.

“Because there's a guy named Zach at Washington Valley who is supposed to be a wonderful teacher.”

“Who told you about him?”

“Georgette did,” I said, my throat choking on the lie. “I called over there Friday afternoon and talked to him. He said he wasn't especially busy, and agreed to take me on. I kind of sweet-talked him into it, I guess. I told him my husband was a wonderful rider and that I was embarrassed to be starting out at a place where his friends could see how inexperienced I was.”

Lie after lie after lie. The truth, of course, was
that riding a horse is like learning to ride a bicycle. Once you've learned it, you simply don't forget. I was afraid that it was my experience, not my inexperience, that would trip me up.

And of course, taking lessons from Zach would be the most natural way for me to be around a man whose name had been on my mother's lips seconds before she died.

D
etective Paul Walsh was one of the first to arrive at Hilltop Presbyterian Church for Georgette Grove's memorial service on Monday morning. To be certain that he didn't miss seeing anyone who showed up, he chose a seat in the last pew. During the night, hidden cameras had been set up both inside the church and on the grounds outside. The tapes from them would be scrutinized later. Georgette's killer would not be the first to arrive at the victim's send-off, but it was likely that he—or she—would put in an appearance.

Walsh had absolutely dismissed the possibility that Georgette Grove had been murdered by a stranger who had followed her into the house with the intention of robbing her. So far as he was concerned, the presence of Celia Nolan's picture in Georgette's shoulder bag eliminated that consideration. It was obvious that the picture had been wiped clean of fingerprints for a reason.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced
he was that Celia Nolan was an unbalanced woman, and that she had carried a gun with her to Holland Road. He could visualize her looking for Georgette, going from room to room, the pistol in her hand. You can bet she wasn't calling Georgette's name, Walsh thought. She found her on her knees with the turpentine-soaked rag in her hand, shot her, then put the picture from the newspaper in Georgette's shoulder bag. It was her way of explaining the reason for killing her. Even placing the pistol precisely in the center of the splash of paint was, in his opinion, another sign of an unbalanced mind.

The search of Georgette's house over the weekend had proven fruitful. One of the Mendham cops had found a file hidden in the closet of her bedroom that contained an exchange of E-mails between Henry Paley and Ted Cartwright. In one of them, Cartwright promised Paley a bonus if he could force Georgette to sell the property on Route 24. In several of Paley's e-mails to Cartwright, he had written that the agency was in a shaky financial situation and that he was doing everything possible to keep it that way by not actively pursuing clients.

Nice guy, Walsh thought; he was actively trying to put his partner out of business. I wouldn't be surprised if Paley didn't hire someone to mess up Little Lizzie's Place, too. MacKingsley's mind-set is that Paley was the killer, having panicked because Georgette somehow got her hands on his Cartwright file, but Walsh wasn't so sure.

It was common knowledge that Jeff MacKingsley intended to make a run for the governor's office in two years, and a lot of people thought he would make it. This kind of high-profile case was just what he wanted. Well, solving this case would also be a nice feather in my cap, too, Paul Walsh thought. He wanted to retire soon and land a plush job doing security for some big corporation.

At ten minutes of ten, the organ began to play, and suddenly the church began to fill with people. Walsh recognized some members of the local media who, like him, stayed in the back pews. Dru Perry was easy to pick out with her mane of gray hair. Although too persistent for his taste, he thought she was a good newspaperwoman. He wondered if, like Samson, she got her strength from her hair.

He watched as Marcella Williams, the neighbor on Old Mill Lane, sat in the fourth pew. Doesn't want to miss a trick, Walsh thought. It's a wonder she didn't go up and sit on the altar.

At five of ten, the family arrived. Walsh remembered that there were three of them: a brother, Thomas Madison, and his two sisters. Must be the sisters' husbands and Madison's wife with them, he figured. They went down the aisle and took seats in the front pew.

The relatives had been eliminated as persons of interest to those investigating Georgette Grove's murder. A quiet check had confirmed that they were well-respected, solid citizens in the Philadelphia area. Walsh loved the expression “persons of
interest.” Translated, it meant, We think you're guilty and we're breaking our necks to prove it.

Henry Paley, looking suitably mournful, and Robin Carpenter were the next to come down the aisle and take front seats. Robin had chosen to wear a black and white dress that was molded to her body. Henry's black tie was his only concession to the outward appearance of funeral dress, and it seemed illsuited to his beige sports jacket and brown slacks. I bet that tie gets changed the minute he hears the last “Amen,” Walsh decided.

Talk about people of interest, he thought when, just as the minister stepped before the altar, Celia and Alex Nolan entered the church and took seats across the aisle and only a few rows ahead of him. Celia was wearing an obviously expensive suit, light gray with a faint yellow pin stripe. Dark glasses shielded her eyes. Her long, dark hair was twisted loosely into a knot at the back of her head. When she turned to whisper something to her husband, Walsh had a full view of her profile.

Classy looking, he admitted to himself—a killer with the face of an angel.

He watched as Alex Nolan, in a protective gesture, patted his wife's back, as if to relax or comfort her.

Don't do that, Walsh thought. I'd love to see her explode again.

A soloist began to sing “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and the congregation in the crowded church rose.

The pastor, in his eulogy, spoke of a woman who gave selflessly for the good of others: “Time after time, over the years, people who wanted to live in this beautiful community have told me how Georgette somehow managed to find them a house they could afford. We all know of her selfless efforts to preserve the tranquil beauty of our community . . . . ”

At the end of the ceremony, Walsh stayed in his pew, observing the expressions of the people as they filed out of the church. He was glad to see that a number of them were dabbing at their eyes, and that one of the relatives was clearly upset. In these few days since Georgette Grove's death, he had gotten the feeling that while she was admired, there weren't many people who were close to her. In her last moment of life, she had looked up at someone who had hated her enough to kill her. He wanted to believe that somehow Georgette was aware of the affection of those who had come here today to mourn her.

When Celia Nolan passed him, Walsh could see that she was very pale, and was holding tightly onto her husband's hand. For a split second, their eyes locked. Read my thoughts, Walsh signaled. Be afraid of me. Sense that I can't wait to cuff you, lady.

As he left the church, he found Robin Carpenter waiting for him just outside. “Detective Walsh,” she said hesitantly, “when we were sitting inside at the service, I kept thinking about Georgette, of course,
and then of something she happened to say to me on Wednesday evening. It was about six o'clock, and before I left the office I went in to say goodnight to her. She had her scrapbook on her desk and she was looking at it so intently. She never even heard me push open the door, so she didn't know I was there. The door wasn't fully closed, you see. And while I was standing there, I heard her say something that maybe I should share with you.”

Walsh waited.

“Georgette was talking to herself, but what she said was something like, ‘Dear God, I'll never tell anyone I recognized her.' ”

Walsh knew he was onto something. What it was, he couldn't be sure, but every instinct told him that Carpenter's information was important. “Where is that scrapbook?” he demanded.

“Henry lent it to Dru Perry for the story she wrote about Georgette that ran in the
Star-Ledger
yesterday. He wasn't planning to lend it to her, but she persuaded him. She's returning it this afternoon.”

“I'll be over to get it. Thank you, Ms. Carpenter.”

Deep in thought, Paul Walsh walked to his car. This information has to do with Celia Nolan, he thought. I
know
it does.