No Place Like Home (25 page)

“A lawyer! Who's going to pay for a lawyer?”

“You know damn well, I'll pay for it.”

There was a pause, then his caller said, “Charley, you'll never have to worry about money again if you can get through this without messing it up.”

“That's the kind of news I like to hear.” Charley snapped the phone shut. Vastly relieved, he went to the refrigerator and got another beer. If they couldn't use the jeans and sneakers against him, what did they have? My little statues may show that I'm really talented, he thought, but that doesn't make me the only person in the world who could have carved the skull and crossbones in that door.

He carried his beer outside, walked around to the barn, and looked at his landscaping equipment—the power mower and hedge cutter and rakes and shovels, all of them representing hours and days and months and years of boring hard work.

Pretty soon I'll be paying someone to mow my lawn, he promised himself.

O
n Monday night Zach had a hamburger and a couple of drinks at Marty's Bar and debated in his mind about calling Ted Cartwright. The picture he had mailed him must have arrived at his office by now. Straight to him, Zach thought. No chance of a secretary deciding it wasn't important enough to put that one through to the big boss.

In the lower left corner of the envelope Zach had written, “Personal, Please.”

It tickled Zach to add that little touch. It was so la-de-da. A couple of years ago, one of the women who owed him for a riding lesson had sent a check to him at the club and written that on the envelope. Ever since that day, Zach had been marking everything he mailed “Personal, Please,” even the telephone bill.

The cops had to be questioning Ted Cartwright about Georgette Grove, he figured. Everyone in town knew how furious he was that she was always blocking his building plans. The case against him would be a lot stronger if a certain
Zach Willet had an attack of conscience and decided to share a certain memory with the police.

But that would happen only after he got immunity from prosecution, or whatever it was they call it, he warned himself.

I'm the little minnow who can lead them to the shark, Zach thought, savoring the power he held.

He decided against having a third scotch and got into his car to drive home.
Home!
He used to really like his place. It wasn't big, but it was big enough for him. Three rooms and a back porch, where on nice days, when he wasn't working, he could settle down with the papers and his portable TV. But last year, Old Lady Potters died, and her daughter moved into the downstairs apartment. She had four kids, and one of them had a set of drums. The racket was driving Zach nuts. Sometimes he suspected she paid the kid to play them. She wanted to take over his apartment, but Zach's lease had two years to go, so she couldn't get rid of him yet.

Ted's building town houses in Madison, Zach thought. His name is all over the construction site. They're about finished and they look real nice. Must be seventy or eighty of them. I wouldn't mind having a little more room. And a place to park, he added to himself, as he drove down his street and found every spot taken. It was clear the landlady's kids were having a gang of their friends over.

Zach finally parked a block and a half away, and
sullenly walked back to the house. It was a warm evening, and when he went up the steps to the porch, kids were everywhere. A few of them said, “Hi, Zach,” a greeting he ignored. He was sure he caught a whiff of pot as he unlocked the door that led to the second-floor apartment and climbed the stairs with a deliberately heavy foot. He had looked forward to sitting outside on his back porch and settling down with a cigar, but there were more kids in the backyard, all shouting at each other.

The fact that one of the neighbors was sure to call the cops soon did little to soothe Zach. He felt unsettled and put upon. He got out his cell phone and put it on the table, trying to decide whether or not to make the call. He'd hit Ted up only a week or so ago, so normally he wouldn't try again so soon. But that was before Georgette took a bullet in the head. Ted must be real nervous now, Zach told himself, feeling reassured.

The sudden beat of the drums came from downstairs, making Zach jump. Muttering a curse, he dialed Ted's cell phone.

“The customer you are trying to reach is unavailable . . . . If you wish to leave a message . . . ”

Zach waited impatiently until the computerized voice had finished, then said, “Sorry to miss you, Ted. Know how upset you must be about Georgette's death. I bet you're taking it real hard. Hope you can hear me. The racket downstairs is driving me nuts. I really need another place to live, like
one of those town houses you're building. I hope you got that nice picture I sent you.”

He was about to hang up when a thought occurred to him. “By the way, I have a new lady taking riding lessons. She's Celia Nolan, the one who lives in your old house. She was asking all about Will Barton's accident. Thought you'd want to know.”

A
ll Monday evening, I struggled to tell Alex that I wanted to hire a criminal defense lawyer, but the words kept dying in my throat. The pleasant weekend at Spring Lake had relaxed some of the tension between us, and I was coward enough to want that good feeling to last a little while longer.

On the way home from the riding lesson, I had of necessity gone food shopping. Kathleen, my adoptive mother, is the kind of cook who can concoct a feast out of whatever she finds in the refrigerator. I can't compete with her, but I do enjoy cooking, and I actually find it calming.

Jack and his babysitter, Sue, had gotten along splendidly while I was gone. She had taken him for a long walk on his pony, and he excitedly told me about the kids he'd met on the next street, one of whom was in his class. “The Billy who doesn't cry. And remember, Mom, you have to call his mother to say I can go over for a play date tomorrow after school.”

Jack helped me mix the flour and butter and milk for biscuits, and turn the salad spinner to dry the lettuce, and make a mustard sauce to coat the salmon, and by himself he put the asparagus in the poacher.

When Alex got home at six thirty, we all sat together in the living room. Alex and I had a glass of wine and Jack a soft drink. Then we had dinner in the dining room, our first meal there. Alex told me about his aging client who finally did make it in to change her will. “This time the grandniece gets the house in the Hamptons, which is going to start the third world war in the family,” he said. “I really think that old gal gets her jollies torturing her relatives. But if she doesn't mind running up billable time, I'm happy to help her play her game.”

Alex had changed into a sport shirt and chinos. As usual, I found myself thinking what an absolutely great-looking guy he is. I love the shape of his hands and his long, sensitive fingers. If I were asked to sketch how I envision a surgeon's hands, I would sketch his. Still, I know how strong they are. If he's in the kitchen when I'm struggling to open a jar, all I have to do is to hand it to him. With one easy motion of his hands, the lid begins to turn.

It was a pleasant dinner, a normal family dinner. Then, when Alex said he had to go to Chicago tomorrow afternoon to take a deposition in a case he was handling, and would be there for at least one night, possibly two, I almost was relieved. If any more of those terrible calls came in, he wouldn't be
around to answer the phone and hear them. I wanted to call Dr. Moran, who had treated me when I was young. He's retired now, but I have his number. I needed his advice. I spoke to him last when I decided to marry Alex. He warned me that I was taking a terrible risk by not being truthful about my past. “Larry had no right to demand that of you, Celia,” he had said.

Now, if I called Dr. Moran and didn't reach him, I wouldn't have to worry about leaving a message for him to call me back. I could ask his advice also on how to tell Alex that I felt I needed a lawyer.

All this I was thinking while I was getting Jack ready for bed. I read him a story, then left him to read one himself before it was time to turn off the light.

The room that once was mine, and is now Jack's, at least for now, is big, but there is really only one place for the bed—the long wall between the windows. When the movers went to set up the bed there, I had asked them to try positioning it on the opposite wall, but it was out of place.

As a child, I had white furniture, perfect for a little girl's room, and a blue and white bed coverlet and window treatments. Jack's furniture is more suitable for a boy, maple and sturdy. On his bed is a patchwork quilt that I made while I was expecting him. The colors are vivid, red and yellow and green and blue. When I tuck it around him after he has fallen asleep, I think of the joy
with which I stitched it, how at that time I really thought I could go through life as Celia Kellogg Foster.

Before I went downstairs, I lingered in the doorway, looking back into the room, remembering myself at that age, in this room, reading my book, secure and happy, unaware of what the future had in store for me.

What did the future hold for Jack? I wondered. In my wildest dreams, could I have imagined myself at his age, thinking that in a few years I would be the instrument, if not the cause, of my own mother's death? It was an accident, but still, I have killed, and I know what it is like to experience the moment in which a life ends. My mother's eyes began to stare. Her body sagged. She gasped, making a small gurgling sound. And then, while the gun continued to go off, while Ted was crawling, trying to reach me, she slid down onto the carpet, her hand resting on my foot.

These were crazy, dark thoughts. But as I start down the stairs, I am filled with the sense that Jack needs to be protected. He loves to answer the phone. He runs for it at the first ring. Suppose he heard that shadowy voice talking about Little Lizzie. Because of the pony episode, he has been told that Lizzie was a very bad girl. I know he sensed the evil that is implied in that statement. The vandalism, the excitement of the police arriving, and the media and the ambulance—all that has got to have made an impression on him. He seems
to be all right, but I have to wonder what is going on in that intelligent little mind.

Trying to recapture the warmth we had shared at the dinner table, I gave myself a mental shake, hoping to clear my head of all the darkness. Then I went into the kitchen. Alex had volunteered to clear the table and to put the dishes in the dishwasher, while I put Jack to bed.

“Just in time,” he said with a smile. “Espresso's ready. Let's have it in the living room.” We sat opposite each other in the fireside chairs. By then, I had a feeling he was picking the right moment to bring up something. “What time did you tell Jack he has to turn out the light?” Alex asked.

“Eight thirty. But you know the routine. He'll be asleep before that.”

“I'm still getting used to the way a kid begs for more time, then falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.” Then Alex looked at me, and I knew something was up. “Ceil, my piano is being delivered on Saturday,” he said.

He raised a hand before I could protest. “Ceil, I miss having the piano. It's been six months since I gave up my apartment and put it in storage. You may find a different house tomorrow, or it could be a year from tomorrow. Even if you do find one, the odds are that it's not going to be available immediately.”

“You want to stay here in this house, don't you?” I asked.

“Yes, I do, Ceil. I know that with your talent, if
you decorated it, this would be a showplace, as well as a very comfortable home. We can put up a security fence to be sure we never have a vandalism episode again.”

“But it will still be ‘Little Lizzie's Place' in people's minds,” I protested.

“Ceil, I know a way to put a stop to that. I've been going through some of the books written about the history of this area. A lot of the owners of the larger country homes used to name their houses. This house was originally called Knollcrest. Let's call it that again, and have a sign made to put at the gate. Then, when we're ready, we could have a cocktail party, have a picture of the house on the invitation, and welcome people to Knollcrest. I believe the name would begin to stick. How about it?”