No Place Like Home (29 page)

It was quarter of four when I got home. I was anxious to shower and change, but I didn't want to be late picking up Jack. Still dressed in my riding outfit, I walked over to the next street, thanked Carolyn, asked Billy if he'd come over soon and have a ride on Jack's pony, and then strolled home hand in hand with Jack.

We were barely inside and having a soda together in the kitchen when the bell rang. My heart in my throat, I went to answer it. Even before I opened the door, I knew that I would be looking at Detective Paul Walsh.

I was right. But this time he was accompanied not only by the prosecutor, but also by two other men who were introduced to me as Detectives Ortiz and Shelley.

There was something about the way they all stared at me as I stood there in my riding clothes
that made me know that my appearance had startled them. As I would later learn, all four of them were mentally comparing me with the newspaper picture of my mother that they had found in Charley Hatch's breast pocket.

D
ru Perry went to the Morris County courthouse late Tuesday morning to search through old records. At first, she thought she was wasting her time. Liza Barton's adoption records were sealed. The record of Liza's trial in Juvenile Court was sealed. She'd expected that, but wanted to see if there was any point in the
Star-Ledger
testing the public's “right to know” law.

“Forget it,” she was told matter-of-factly by a clerk. “Juvenile and adoption cases don't come under that law.”

Then, as she was leaving the courthouse, a grandmotherly-type woman who introduced herself as Ellen O'Brien caught her at the door. “You're Dru Perry. I have to tell you I love when your “Story Behind the Story” series is in the
Star-Ledger.
Are you going to do one of them again soon?”

“I'd like to do one on the Liza Barton case,” Dru admitted. “I thought I'd do some research here, but I'm hitting a stone wall.”

“That case would make a great story for you,” O'Brien enthused. “I've been at this courthouse thirty years, and I've seen a lot of cases, but nothing like that one.”

Thirty years, Dru thought. That means she worked here when that case was going on. She noticed it was twelve o'clock. “By any chance, are you on your way to lunch, Ellen?” she asked.

“Yes, I am. I'm just popping into the cafeteria. The food there really isn't bad at all.”

“Then, unless you have other plans, is it all right if I join you?”

Fifteen minutes later, over a Cobb salad, Ellen O'Brien was willingly sharing her recollections about what happened from the time Liza Barton was taken into custody. “You can imagine how curious we all were about her,” she said. “My son was a teenager then, and you know how kids are. If I yelled at him for anything, he'd say, ‘Hey, Mom, be careful or you'll end up like that Audrey Barton.' ”

Ellen glanced across the table at Dru, obviously expecting her to get a chuckle out of her son's gallows humor. Not getting that response, she continued lamely, “Anyhow, the night she shot her mother and stepfather, Liza was taken to the local police station. That would be in Mendham, of course. They photographed and fingerprinted her there. She was cool as a cucumber. Never once asked about her mother or stepfather. I know with absolute certainty that no one had told her that her
mother was dead. Then she was taken to the juvenile detention center and examined by a state psychiatrist.”

O'Brien broke off a piece of roll and buttered it. “I always say I won't have bread at a meal, but it tastes so good, doesn't it? The so-called food experts write about diets, but they change their minds more than the weatherman, don't they? When I was a kid, I had an egg every morning. My mother thought she was giving me a good start for the day. No, that's not the way it is, the experts suddenly decide. Eggs give you cholesterol. Eat them and you'll keel over with a heart attack. Now eggs are kind of back in again. Then they tell us a low carbohydrate diet will keep you alive till you're one hundred, so forget the pasta and bread. On the other hand, someone else says we need carbs, so eat more of them. Eat a lot of fish, but don't forget fish has a lot of mercury, so don't eat it if you're pregnant. A body doesn't know what to do.”

While heartily agreeing, Dru tried to get the conversation back on track. “From the accounts I read, I understand that Liza didn't say a word for the first several months she was in custody.”

“That's right, except my friend, who was a friend of one of the aides in the detention center and got this straight from her, said that Liza used to say the name ‘Zach' sometimes. And then she'd start shaking her head and moving her body. Do you know what ‘keening' is?”

“Yes, it's a lament for the dead, a kind of wailing,”
Dru said. “It's a word you see particularly in Irish history.”

“That's exactly right. I'm Irish and it's a word I remember my grandmother using. Anyhow, my friend says she overheard the psychiatrist describe Liza's emotions that way whenever she said that name.”

Important, Dru thought. Very important. She made a single notation in her book: “Zach.”

“She was examined by state psychiatrists,” O'Brien continued. “Now if they had decided she was no danger to herself or others, they could have sent her to the juvenile shelter. But that didn't happen. She was kept in the detention center. It leaked out that she was profoundly depressed and on a suicide watch for months.”

“Her trial took place six months after her mother's death,” Dru said. “What would have been going on at the detention center?”

“Psychiatric counseling. A social worker would have arranged for some schooling. Then when Liza was acquitted, DYFS—you certainly know that stands for the Division of Youth and Family Services—tried to find a suitable home for her. She had been moved to the juvenile shelter while they were trying to figure out what to do with her. I mean a kid who shot two people, killing one of them, is not exactly the kind of person most people want sleeping under their roof. Then some relatives showed up and adopted her.”

“Has anybody any idea who they were?”

“It was very hush-hush. I gather whoever they are, they felt Liza's chance for a normal life meant burying the past. The court agreed with them.”

“I think anyone in the tristate area at least would have known her the minute they looked at her face,” Dru said. “I bet whoever these people are, they weren't local.”

“From what I understand, there weren't any very close relatives. Audrey and Will Barton were both only children. It's almost ironic. Audrey's ancestors settled here before the Revolutionary War. Liza's mother's maiden name was Sutton. You see that name over and over again in the Morris County archives. But the family has died out around here. So God knows how far distant the cousin might have been who took her in. Your guess is as good as mine. I've always felt kind of sorry for Liza. On the other hand, remember that movie
The Bad Seed.
It was about a kid without a conscience. Have I got it wrong, or did she kill her mother, too?”

Ellen O'Brien took a final sip of her iced tea and looked at her watch. “The State of New Jersey calls,” she announced. “I can't tell you what a pleasure it has been talking to you, Dru. You said you were doing a story on the case. Maybe it's better if you don't mention my name. You know what I mean. They'd just as soon we don't pass on any information we pick up around here.”

“That's perfectly understandable,” Dru agreed. “I can't thank you enough. You've been a great help, Ellen.”

“I didn't tell you anything that anyone else in the office couldn't have told you,” O'Brien protested modestly.

“Yes, you did. When you talked about the Suttons, you gave me an idea. Now if you'll point me to where the marriage records are kept, I'll get back to work.”

I'll trace Liza's ancestry back at least three generations, Dru thought. My hunch is that it's more likely she was adopted by a member of her mother's family than her father's. I'll collect the names of the people the Sutton family members married and trace their descendants to see if one of them has a thirty-four-year-old daughter. It's worth a shot, she thought.

My story depends on tracking down Liza Barton, Dru concluded as she paid the check. Something else that I'm going to do right now is get a computerized image of what she might look like today. And I'm going to find out who Zach is and why, when she couldn't say any other word, Liza was keening over his name.

I
knew that I had to take a stand. I could not have these four men come into my house and question me about the death of a woman I had met only once. These people from the prosecutor's office did not know I was Liza Barton, and I want to keep it that way. They were trying to tie me to Georgette's death only because I had not dialed 911 from Holland Road, and because I had driven home so quickly.

Jack had followed me out to answer the doorbell, and now he slipped his hand in mine. I'm not sure if he was seeking reassurance from me, or trying to give me reassurance. My anger at what all this might be doing to him gave me the backbone to go on the attack.

I directed my first question to Jeffrey Mac-Kingsley. “Mr. MacKingsley, will you please explain to me why Detective Walsh was following me around this morning?”

“Mrs. Nolan, I apologize for any inconvenience,” MacKingsley said. “Would you mind if
we stepped in to speak with you for a few minutes? Let me explain what it's about. The other day, you showed me a photograph of the Barton family that was taped to the post in the barn. There were no fingerprints on it except yours, which, as you can understand, is unusual. You took it off the post and gave it to me, but someone had to have handled it first. We have not released this information publicly, but in Georgette Grove's shoulder bag we found a newspaper clipping with a picture of you taken just as you fainted. That also had no fingerprints on it. Today we found a picture of Audrey Barton at another crime scene.”

I almost blurted out, “A picture of my mother at a crime scene!” My nerves were just that raw. Instead I asked, “What has that got to do with me?” trying to sound as calm as possible.

I was still standing in the doorway, and Mac-Kingsley saw that I had no intention of either answering his questions or inviting them in. When he had begun speaking, his manner had been courteous and apologetic. Now, whatever warmth I had felt from him was gone. “Mrs. Nolan, the landscaper for the house on Holland Road was shot to death a few hours ago. We have proof that he was the person who vandalized this property. He had a picture of Audrey Barton in his pocket, and I doubt that he put it there himself. What I am trying to say is that Georgette Grove's murder, and this homicide, are somehow connected to this house.”

“Did you know Charley Hatch, Mrs. Nolan?” Walsh asked me, point-blank.

“No, I did not.” I looked at him. “Why were you in the coffee shop this morning, and why did you follow me to Bedminster?”

“Mrs. Nolan,” Walsh said, “I believe you either left the Holland Road house where you discovered the body of Georgette Grove much earlier than you have admitted, or that you are so familiar with these roads you could make a number of rather confusing turns and still make that phone call to 911 at the time it was received.”

Before I could respond, MacKingsley said, “Mrs. Nolan, Georgette Grove sold this house to your husband. Charley Hatch vandalized it. You live in it. Georgette had your picture. Charley Hatch had Audrey Barton's picture. You found a picture of the Barton family. There's an obvious connection and we are trying to solve two homicides. That is why we are here.”

“Are you
sure
you never met Charley Hatch, Mrs. Nolan?” Walsh asked.

“I have never even
heard
of the man.” My anger put steel in my voice.