No Place Like Home (30 page)

“Mom.” Jack tugged at my hand. I knew he was frightened by the tone of my voice, and by the insinuating attitude of Detective Walsh.

“It's all right, Jack. These nice people just want us to know how happy they are that we moved into this town.” I ignored Walsh and the other two and looked straight at Jeff MacKingsley. “I arrived here
last week to find this house vandalized. I had an appointment to meet Georgette Grove, a woman I had seen only once before in my life, and found her dead. I think the doctor at the hospital can testify to the state of shock I was in when I reached the emergency room. I do not know what is going on, but I suggest that you concentrate on trying to find whoever is guilty of these crimes, and have the decency to leave me and my family alone.”

I began to close the door. Walsh put his foot forward to block it from closing. “One more question, Mrs. Nolan. Where were you between one thirty and two o'clock this afternoon?”

That one seemed easy to answer: “I had a two o'clock appointment for a riding lesson at the Washington Valley Riding Club. I arrived there at five of two. Why don't you clock the distance from here to there, Mr. Walsh? That way you can figure out all by yourself what time I left this house.”

I slammed the door against his shoe and he withdrew it, but as I turned the lock, a horrible possibility occurred to me. The police activity at the corner house on Sheep Hill and Valley Roads—could that have anything to do with the death of the landscaper who had vandalized this house? And if so, by answering that last question I had placed myself directly in the area where he died.

O
n Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock, Henry Paley returned to the realty office.

“How did it go?” Robin asked.

“I think we have a sale. As you know, this is the third time the Muellers have looked at the house, and the second time his parents came with them. His father is obviously the one with the checkbook. The owner was there, too, pulled me aside, and asked me about shaving my commission.”

“Knowing you, I'm sure that went over like a lead balloon,” Robin commented.

Henry smiled at her. “That's exactly the way it went over, but I would call it a test balloon. I bet the senior Mr. Mueller talked to him, seeing a reduced commission as a way of lowering the price. He's the kind of guy who probably bargains to get a penny off a quart of milk.”

He walked over and stood at her desk. “Robin, did I tell you that you're looking quite provocative today? I don't think Georgette would have approved of that rather revealing sweater, but
then she wouldn't have approved of your boyfriend if she'd known about him, would she?”

“Henry, I'm not very comfortable with this subject,” Robin said matter-of-factly.

“I'm sure you're not. Simply thinking out loud, of course, but I wonder if at the end Georgette wasn't on to you. But maybe not. She certainly never got wind of the fact that you and Cartwright were seeing each other last year. If she had, you'd have been out on your ear.”

“I knew Ted Cartwright before I started to work here. I do not have a personal relationship with him. The fact that I knew him never undermined my loyalty to Georgette.”

“Robin, you're the one who fielded phone call inquiries about available properties. You're the one who handled the drop-ins. I admit that I haven't worked hard for a while, but you're something else. Was Ted paying you to turn away potential business?”

“You mean something like the bonus he was paying you to get Georgette to sell the Route 24 property?” Robin asked sarcastically. “Of course not.”

The door that fronted East Main Street opened. Startled, they both looked up to see a grim-faced Sergeant Clyde Earley come into the office.

Clyde Earley had been in the first squad car that went screeching up the driveway of Lorraine Smith's home on Sheep Hill Road. After her frantic description of finding Charley Hatch's body, he
had ordered the officer who accompanied him to stay with Mrs. Smith while he ran across the lawn and around the pool area. It was there that he found himself standing over the lifeless form of the landscaper.

At that moment, Clyde had permitted himself a feeling of genuine regret. He had no intention of admitting that he had deliberately tormented Charley Hatch by leaving the retied bag of garbage on the ground so that when he got home from work yesterday, Charley couldn't help but become aware that his jeans and sneakers and carvings were missing. But as he looked down at the dead man's bloody face, Clyde saw the inevitability of what had happened. Charley must have panicked and called whoever had paid him to vandalize the house. Whoever that is then decided that Charley was an unacceptable risk, Clyde thought. Poor Charley. He didn't seem like a bad guy. I wouldn't be surprised if that wasn't the first time he ever did anything illegal. He must have gotten paid well for it.

Careful not to disturb the grass around Charley's body, Earley took in the scene. His power mower is over behind the house, he noted. My bet is that he walked over here to meet someone. But how was the meeting set up? I'm sure Jeff will have Charley's phone records checked out right away. His bank account, too. Or they may find a wad of cash hidden in his closet somewhere.

That house on Old Mill Lane sure does have a curse on it, Clyde thought. Charley vandalized it,
and now he's dead. Georgette sold it, and now she's dead. That Nolan woman looked like she was having a nervous breakdown over it. Where does it stop?

More squad cars arrived. Clyde had taken charge of closing Sheep Hill Road, of having the crime scene roped off, of stationing a cop at the gate to make sure no unauthorized vehicles tried to enter the grounds. “And that means the media,” he'd instructed firmly.

Clyde liked being in charge. It irritated him that the minute the prosecutor's people arrived, the local police were shunted aside. Jeff MacKingsley was more considerate than most of the others in keeping him in the loop, but even so, there was no question that in the pecking order, the locals lost out.

When Jeff did arrive, his greeting to Clyde had been brusque. No more telling me about my great police work in finding Charley's stuff with the paint on it, Clyde thought.

After the body was removed, and the forensic team had taken over, Clyde started back to the precinct, but then changed his mind and parked in front of Grove Realty on East Main Street. He could see Robin Carpenter sitting at her desk and Henry Paley talking to her. He wanted to be the one to tell them about Charley Hatch's death and to ask if for any reason either one of them had been in touch with him.

It wouldn't surprise me if Charley had been reporting
to Paley, Clyde thought grimly as he opened the door. I don't like that guy. “I'm glad to catch both of you together,” he said. “You know Charley Hatch, the landscaper who took care of the Holland Road property?”

“I've seen him around,” Paley answered.

“This afternoon, sometime between one thirty and two o'clock, he was shot to death while he was working at Sheep Hill Road.”

Robin jumped up, her face turning pale. “Charley! That can't be!”

Both men stared at her. “Charley was my half brother,” she wailed. “He
can't
be dead.”

A
t five o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, Zach Willet drove to the neighboring town of Madison and parked in front of the sales office of the Cartwright Town Houses Corporation. He went inside, where he found a sales clerk, a woman in her thirties, tidying up in preparation for closing down for the day. He noted the nameplate on her desk:
AMY STACK
.

“Hi, Amy,” Zach said as he looked around the room. “I can see you're getting ready to skedaddle out of here, so I won't take but two minutes of your time.”

On the walls were sketches of different models of the town houses, and the artist's conception of how they might look when furnished. Zach walked from one to the other, examining them closely. Brochures on the table listed the prices and sizes and particular features of the various units. He picked up one of the brochures and read aloud some of the selling features of the most expensive model. “Four-story town house, four bedrooms,
master bedroom suite, state-of-the-art kitchen, three fireplaces, four baths, washer and dryer, double garage, private patio and yard, all services.” Zach smiled appreciatively. “Looks as though you just can't go wrong with that one,” he said. He dropped the brochure back on the table, walked over to the biggest picture, and pointed to it. “Now, Amy, I know you're probably rushing to meet your husband or your boyfriend, but how about indulging a nice fellow like me and show me that fancy homestead.”

“I'll be glad to take you over, Mr . . . . ” Amy hesitated. “I don't think you introduced yourself.”

“That's right. I didn't. I'm Zach Willet, and unless you borrowed somebody else's nameplate, you're Amy Stack.”

“You've got it.” Amy opened the top drawer of her desk and fished inside for her key ring. “That's 8 Pawnee Avenue. I have to warn you that is our top-of-the-line town house. It's fully loaded with every conceivable extra, and naturally that is reflected in the cost. It's also the furnished model.”

“Sounds better and better,” Zach said genially. “Let's take a look at it.”

On the way through the development, Amy Stack pointed out that the landscaping was almost finished, and was scheduled to be featured in a national gardening magazine, and that the driveways were heated to prevent ice from forming in the winter. “Mr. Cartwright has thought of everything,” she said proudly. “He's one of those hands-on
builders who is involved in every detail, every step of the way.”

“Ted's a good friend of mine,” Zach said expansively. “Has been for forty years, since we were both kids riding bareback at the stable.” He looked around. Some of the handsome red brick town houses were already occupied. “Expensive cars in the driveways,” he commented. “Nice class of neighbors. I can see that.”

“Absolutely,” Amy assured him. “The nicest people you'd ever want to meet.” She walked a few steps more, then said, “Here we are at number 8. As you can see, it's a corner unit, and it really is the crown jewel of the development.”

Zach's smile broadened as Amy turned the key, opened the door, and led him into the family room on the entry level. “Raised-hearth fireplace, wet bar—what's not to like?” he asked rhetorically.

“Some people use the room on the other side for a gym, and, of course, there's a full bath with a hot tub right beside it. It's such a convenient arrangement,” Amy said, her voice crackling with professional enthusiasm.

Zach insisted on riding the elevator to each of the floors. Like a child opening presents, he took obvious pleasure in every detail of the house. “Plate-warmer drawer! My, oh my, Amy. I remember my momma putting the plates on top of the burners on the stove to keep them warm. She always ended up with blistered fingers.

“Two guest bedrooms,” he joked. “I don't have
close family, but with those two bedrooms, I'd better look up those cousins of mine in Ohio and have them out for a weekend.”

They rode back down in the elevator, went outside, and, as Amy locked the front door, Zach said, “I'll take it. As is. Furnished.”

“That's wonderful,” Amy Stack exclaimed. “Are you prepared to make a deposit now?”

“Didn't Ted Cartwright tell you that he's giving me this unit?” Zach asked, his tone astonished. “I saved his life once, and now that I have to get out of where I've been living, he told me to come over and choose my space. Ted never forgets a favor. You must be proud to be in his employ.”