No Place Like Home (31 page)

A
lex called shortly after the prosecutor and his entourage left. He was at the airport in Chicago. “I'm going to have to go back tomorrow for a couple of days more,” he said. “But I miss you guys and just want to get back for the night. Why don't you see if Sue is available to babysit, so you and I can go out for a late dinner at The Grand Cafe?”

The Grand Cafe in Morristown is another one of the restaurants from the past. Mother and Daddy went there frequently, and on weekends, they'd often take me with them. I knew I'd enjoy going there with Alex. “Sounds great,” I told him. “Jack had a play date, so he'll be ready for bed early, and I'll call Sue right away.”

I was still in my riding clothes. I phoned Sue. She was free to come over. I made the reservation at the restaurant. I gave Jack a ride on Star, then settled him in front of the television with a Muppet tape and went upstairs. For the week we had been here, I'd been showering in the
morning. But now, in the bathroom that my father had designed for my mother, I luxuriated in her deep English tub, trying to wash away the bewildering events of the day. So many things had happened: Detective Walsh following me. The fact that I must have passed the place where the landscaper was shot at right around the time of the shooting. The prosecutor, previously so courteous, becoming cold and formal when I refused to let him and his associates in. My appointment with Benjamin Fletcher tomorrow.

How much should I tell Alex?
Or should I just say nothing, and try to have a stress-free evening with him? He has to go back to Chicago tomorrow morning. Maybe in the next few days they would solve these two crimes and the prosecutor's office would lose interest in me. I tried hard to believe that's what would happen, because it was the only thing I could believe and stay sane.

When I got out of the tub, I put on a robe, fed Jack, bathed him, and put him to bed. Then I went back to the master bedroom to get changed. A memory suddenly came to me, and it was not a pleasant one. I had gone to this bedroom to say goodnight to my mother before she and Ted went out to dinner. I thought he was downstairs, and I knew she was dressing. The door was open, and I saw she was untying her robe. Then, before I could speak, Ted came out of his bathroom pulling on a tie. He reached his arms behind her and slid the robe off her shoulders. She turned to him, and the
kiss she gave him was as ardent as the ones he showered on her.

That was only days before she threw him out.

What happened? What caused her to change so dramatically? From the time she started dating him until the day they separated, she was always pleading with me to be friends with Ted. “I know how much you loved Daddy, Liza, and how much you miss him, but it's okay to love Ted in a different way. Daddy would be happy to know that Ted is taking care of us.”

I remember my answer: “All Daddy wanted to do was to live with us forever and ever.”

How different it is with Jack. Of course, he can barely remember his father, but he truly loves Alex.

I have a dark green silk shantung pant suit that's dressy without being fussy. I decided to wear it tonight. While living in New York, Alex and I had gotten in the habit of going out a couple of times a week for a late dinner. The babysitter would come in as I was reading Jack his story, then Alex and I would go to Neary's, our favorite Irish pub, or, if we were in the mood for pasta, to Il Tennille. Sometimes we'd go with friends, but more often it would be just the two of us.

The feeling of being a newlywed certainly has been erased since we moved in here last week, I thought, as I touched my eyelids with mascara and applied blush to my lips. I had washed my hair, and decided to let it hang loose, knowing that Alex likes it that way. I clipped on my favorite emerald
and gold earrings, given to me by Larry on our first wedding anniversary. Larry—how sad it is that the memory of those few contented years I had with him is forever marred by the fact that he extracted that promise from me on his deathbed.

I hadn't heard Alex come in, and didn't know he was there until I felt his arms around me. He laughed at my startled gasp, then turned me to him. His lips found mine and I responded, eager for his embrace.

“I've missed you,” he said. “Those stupid depositions are turning out to be endless. I simply had to get home, even if only overnight.”

I smoothed his hair back. “I'm so glad you did.”

Jack came running in. “You didn't say hello to me.”

“I thought you were asleep,” Alex said as he laughed and scooped him up, so that now his strong arms were hugging both of us. It felt so good. It felt so right, and for a few hours, I was able to pretend that it was.

Several people stopped by our table at The Grand Cafe. They turned out to be friends of Alex's from the Peapack Riding Club. All of them offered their regrets about the vandalism and my experience of having found Georgette's body. Alex's response was that we were thinking of giving the house its old name again, “Knollcrest,” and he promised each visitor, “When Ceil does her magic on it we'll have the mother of all cocktail parties.”

When we were alone at our table, Alex smiled and said, “You can't blame me for hoping.”

That was when I told him about the prosecutor coming to the house, and about Detective Walsh following me and telling me that there was something suspicious about the fact I made it home so quickly from Holland Road.

I watched as the muscles in Alex's face tightened, and a dark red flush stained his cheekbones. “Do you mean to tell me that those people have nothing better to do than worry about the fact that you managed to get home quickly in a catatonic state?”

“It gets worse,” I said, and told him about the murder of the landscaper, and the fact that I must have passed the property about the time he was killed. “Alex, I don't know what to do.” I was practically whispering now. “They say it all has to do with our house, but I swear to you, they're looking at me as though I was responsible for Georgette's death.”

“Oh, Ceil, that's ridiculous,” Alex protested, but then he saw that once again I was on the verge of breaking down. “Honey,” he said, “I'll get a later plane to Chicago tomorrow. I'm going over to Morristown tomorrow morning and talk to that prosecutor. He has one hell of a nerve to let one of his detectives follow you around. He also has one hell of a nerve to show up at your doorstep and ask you where you were when that landscaper was killed. I'll straighten the bunch of them out fast.”

On the one hand, I felt gratitude. My husband wants to fight my battles, I thought. On the other hand, what will Alex think when, the next time Walsh or Jeff MacKingsley shows up, I refuse to answer their questions on the grounds that I might incriminate myself? I have already lied to them about firing a gun, and about Georgette giving me directions to Holland Road.

I cannot answer even the simplest of questions, like, “Mrs. Nolan, were you ever in Mendham before your birthday last month? Were you ever on Holland Road before last Thursday?” To answer those questions would lead to so many others.

“Ceil, you have nothing to be concerned about. This is ridiculous,” Alex said. He reached across the table to take my hand, but I pulled it away, fishing in my purse for my handkerchief.

“Maybe this isn't the best time for me to stop by, Celia. You seem to be upset.”

I looked up at Marcella Williams. Her voice was kindly and soothing, but her eyes, alive with curiosity, betrayed her excitement at happening upon us when we both were visibly upset.

The man standing at her side was Ted Cartwright.

A
t four thirty on Tuesday afternoon, Jeff MacKingsley had barely returned to his office when Sergeant Earley phoned to tell him that he'd just learned that Robin Carpenter was Charley Hatch's half sister. “I've called a press conference for five o'clock,” Jeff told him. “Ask her to come to my office at six. Or better yet, maybe you'd better drive her over.”

As he had expected, the press conference was confrontational. “There have been two homicides in Morris County in less than one week, both at million-dollar-plus homes. Were the deaths connected?” the
Record
reporter asked.

“Charley Hatch had been the landscaper at the Holland Road house. The man who collected his garbage claims that this afternoon Sergeant Earley confiscated a bag he'd collected from Hatch's trash barrel and took jeans and sneakers and figurines out of it? Was Charley Hatch a suspect in Georgette Grove's death?” That was the question from the
New York Post
reporter.

“Did these homicides have anything to do with the vandalizing of Little Lizzie's Place on Old Mill Lane, and does the prosecutor's office have any leads?” the
Asbury Park Press
stringer demanded.

Jeff cleared his throat. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Charley Hatch, a landscaper, was shot sometime between one forty and two ten this afternoon. We believe his assailant was known to him, and possibly had arranged to meet him. No one reported hearing the shot, which was not unusual since there was a power mower in use on a neighboring property on Valley Road.” He had not intended to say anything more, but then changed his mind, realizing that he could not stop without giving some additional information to the media. “We believe the deaths of Charley Hatch and Georgette Grove were connected, and also may be linked to the vandalism on Old Mill Lane. We are pursuing several leads, and will keep you informed.”

He made his way back to his office, aware that his frustration and irritation were landing squarely on Clyde Earley. I'll bet anything that he didn't wait to go through Charley Hatch's garbage until it was off the premises, he fumed. I'll bet Charley knew it had been disturbed and panicked. If Earley was suspicious, he should have waited until the garbage got to the dump to go through it. Then we could have put a tap on Charley's phone and found out who he was working for. That way, we wouldn't have the guy who picked up the garbage blabbing about it to everybody.

And where does that sexy receptionist from Grove's office, who claims to be Charley Hatch's half sister, fit into the picture? he wondered.

At six o'clock, Robin Carpenter, escorted by Sergeant Earley, arrived at Jeff's office. Walsh, Ortiz and Shelley sat in on the meeting, and Jeff was sure that all of them were aware that Robin was the kind of woman who could get whatever she wanted from a man. Funny, Jeff thought. She kept herself fairly low-key last week when we talked to her, after Grove's body was found. Now she's openly playing to the field. And to my staff, he thought, noticing that Ortiz could not keep his eyes off her.

“Ms. Carpenter, I'd like to extend my sympathy at your brother's death. I'm sure this has been quite a shock for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacKingsley, but I don't want to give the wrong impression. I am very sorry about Charley, but I must explain that I never even knew he existed until a year ago.”

Jeff listened intently as Robin explained that at age seventeen her mother had given birth to a baby. In a private adoption, she had signed him over to a childless couple to raise. “My mother's been dead for ten years. Then one day last year, Charley showed up on my father's doorstep and introduced himself. He had his birth certificate and pictures of himself in my mother's arms, so there was no doubt he was who he said he was.

“My father's remarried, so he wasn't at all interested
in Charley. In all honesty, he may be my half brother, but the little I got to know him, I didn't much care for him. I mean he was always whining. He complained that he had to pay too much to his wife when they were divorced. He said he hated landscaping, but that once he got into that business, he was kind of stuck with it. He couldn't stand most of the people he worked for. He just wasn't the kind of person anyone would seek out to try to make a friend.”

“Did you have much contact with him?” Jeff asked.

“Quite frankly, I didn't want any. Occasionally he'd call and ask me to have a cup of coffee with him. The divorce was fairly recent, and he was at loose ends.”

“Ms. Carpenter, we have reason to believe Charley Hatch was the person who vandalized the house on Old Mill Lane.”

“That's absolutely impossible,” Robin protested. “Why would Charley do that?”

“That's exactly what we want to know,” Jeff replied. “Did Charley ever come into your office to see you?”

“No, never.”

“Did Georgette know he was related to you?”

“No. There was no reason to talk about him.”

“Would Georgette or Henry have had any contact with him?”

“Possibly. I mean sometimes the people who are selling houses are away, and of course the
houses and properties must be maintained. Charley was a landscaper and also had a snow-plowing service in the winter. If Georgette had an exclusive listing on a property, she'd be the one making sure that it was being kept up, so it's entirely possible that she knew Charley if he was working on one of those properties. But his name never came up in the year I worked with her.”