No Place Like Home (34 page)

“Amy,” Cartwright said irritably, “I don't know what that's supposed to mean, and I'm not interested in finding out. I've got a busy day lined up and I had to take time to come over here and talk to Chris Brown again. He doesn't seem to be able to get it into his head that I'm not paying any more overtime to that crew of his.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Cartwright,” Amy said apologetically. “It's just that I can't help thinking how few people would be so generous, even to someone who saved their life.”

Cartwright had been about to pass her desk to go into his office, but stopped suddenly. “What are you talking about?”

Amy looked up at him and swallowed nervously. She liked working for Ted Cartwright, but she was always mentally moving on tiptoe, trying to do everything exactly the way he wanted it. Sometimes he could be relaxed and funny, but she sensed she should have known better than to try to joke with him this morning without first testing his mood. He usually was happy with her work, but the few times she had ever done anything wrong, his biting sarcasm had rattled her.

Now he was demanding an explanation for teasing him about Mr. Willet.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. She sensed that whatever she told Mr. Cartwright, he was not going to be happy. Maybe he wouldn't have wanted Mr. Willet to talk to her about why he was being given the town house. “Mr. Willet didn't tell me that it was a secret you were giving him the model town house because he saved your life years ago.”

“He saved my life and I am giving him the model town house! Are you telling me that is what Zach Willet told you?”

“Yes, and if it isn't true, we may have already lost a sale. The couple from Basking Ridge, who were looking at it, the Matthews, called a little while ago, and I told them it was sold.”

Cartwright continued to stare down at Amy, his normally ruddy complexion draining of all color, his eyes boring into her face.

“Mr. Willet phoned a little while ago. He said that he intended to move in over the weekend,”
she went on, gaining courage from the fact that none of this was her fault. “I told him that since that unit is our furnished model, maybe he could wait a few months until we're sold out, but he said that wouldn't be possible.”

Ted Cartwright had been leaning forward, looking down at Amy. He straightened up and stood for a moment in perfect silence. “I'll talk to Mr. Willet,” he said quietly.

In the year she'd been sales agent for the Cartwright Town Houses Corporation, Amy had suffered through her boss's rages about construction delays and cost overruns. In none of his outbursts had she seen his usually blustery red face become pale with anger.

But then Cartwright unexpectedly smiled. “Amy, I have to tell you that for a few minutes, I was just as taken in as you were. All this is Zach's idea of a joke. A lousy joke, I admit. We have been friends for many years. Last week we made a bet on the Yankee–Red Sox game. He's a passionate Red Sox fan. I'm for the Yankees. Our bet was a hundred bucks, but Zach threw in that if the difference in the score was over ten runs, I owed him a town house.” Ted Cartwright chuckled. “I laughed it off, but I guess Zach decided to test the waters. I'm sorry he wasted your time.”

“He
did
waste it,” Amy agreed resentfully. Taking Zach Willet around last evening had made her late for her date with her new boyfriend, and she'd had to listen to his complaints that they'd have to
rush through dinner to make the movie. “I should have known from the way he dressed that he couldn't afford that unit. But I'll be honest, Mr. Cartwright, it does make me mad that we may have lost the other sale because of him.”

“Get back to the Matthews right away,” Cartwright ordered. “If they only called this morning, it may not be too late. Charm them for me, and there'll be a bonus in it for you. As for Zach Willet, let's keep that story between us, shall we? Falling for it makes the two of us look like fools.”

“Will do,” Amy agreed, immensely cheered at the possibility of a bonus. “But, Mr. Cartwright, when you talk to Mr. Willet, tell him for me that he's not funny, and he shouldn't play practical jokes on a good friend like you.”

“No, he shouldn't, Amy,” Ted Cartwright said softly. “No, he absolutely shouldn't.”

I
t was another quick goodbye between Alex and me. He was going directly from the prosecutor's office to the airport. His promise to “straighten the bunch of them out” caused me to both hope and fear. If they stopped asking me questions, I'd be all right. But if they
didn't,
and I refused to answer, I knew I'd become their prime suspect. As I kissed Alex, I whispered, “Make them leave me alone.”

His grim, “You bet I will,” was reassuring. Besides that, I had the appointment with Benjamin Fletcher. If I told him I was Liza, he would be bound to secrecy by attorney-client privilege. But he might be the best person to guide me through the investigation—if he knew the truth. I told myself I would have to wait until I saw him face-to-face to make that decision.

I dropped Jack off at school at eight fifteen. There was no way I was going to go into the coffee shop this morning, especially with the possibility that Detective Walsh would be sitting there, waiting for me. Instead, I went behind the church
into the cemetery grounds. I've been wanting to visit my mother's and father's graves, but was afraid that I might be noticed, and would arouse curiosity. But no one was around, so I was able to stand at the foot of the graves where they lie side by side.

The tombstone is very simple, with a leaf design in the form of a frame on the polished marble, with the words “Love Is Eternal” carved above the base. My parents' names and the dates they were born and died are inscribed on it. Generations of my family are buried in other parts of the cemetery, but when my father died, my mother bought this plot and had this stone erected. I remember his funeral clearly. I was seven years old, and wearing a white dress and carrying a long-stemmed rose that I was told to place on the casket. I understood that my father was dead, but I was beyond tears. I was too busy shutting out the prayers of the priest and the murmured responses of the people who were gathered there.

In my mind I was trying to reach out to my father, to hear his voice, to figuratively grasp his hand and make him stay with us. My mother was composed throughout the funeral mass, and also at the grave, until that final moment when, the last one to place a flower on the casket, she cried out, “I want my husband. I want my husband!” and collapsed to her knees in heartbreaking sobs.

Is it possible that my memory is accurate, and that Ted Cartwright started forward to support her, then thought better of it?

I believe that love is eternal. And as I stood
there, I prayed for and to both of my parents. Help me, please help me. Let me get through this.
Guide
me. I don't know what to do.

Benjamin Fletcher's office is in Chester, a town a twenty-minute ride from Mendham. My appointment with him was for nine o'clock. I drove directly there from the cemetery, parked, and managed to find a delicatessen around the corner from his office where I could get hot coffee and nibble at a piece of bagel.

There was the tang of fall in the clear, crisp air. I was wearing a cable stitch cardigan sweater with a wide shawl in a shade that was somewhere between burnt-orange and cinnamon. The sweater felt warm against my body, which had been feeling chilled these past few days even when the sun was strong. I felt that the cheerful color of the sweater brightened my face, which I knew looked drawn and troubled.

At one minute of nine I was climbing the steps to Benjamin Fletcher's second-floor office. I walked into a small anteroom which held a shabby desk that I guess accommodated a secretary if and when he had one. The walls were badly in need of painting. The wooden floors were dull and scarred. Two small armchairs covered in vinyl were pushed against the wall opposite the desk. The small table between them held a haphazard pile of dog-eared magazines.

“That's got to be Celia Nolan,” a voice from the inner office yelled.

Just hearing that voice made my palms begin to sweat. I was sure I had made a mistake coming here. I wanted to turn and run down the stairs. But I was too late. That giant of a man was filling the doorway, his hand extended, his smile as mirthless and wide as it had been that first day years ago when I'd met him and he'd said, “So this is the little girl who's in lots of trouble?”

Why hadn't I remembered that?

He was walking toward me, taking my hand, saying, “Always glad to help a pretty lady in trouble. Come on in.”

There was nothing I could do except follow him into the cluttered room that was his private office. He settled himself behind his desk, his wide hips jutting out past the arm rests, beads of perspiration on his face even though the window was open. I believe the shirt he was wearing was fresh when he dressed that morning, but with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons opened, he looked like what I suspect he was, a retired lawyer who kept his shingle out because it gave him a place to go.

But he was not stupid. I could tell that the minute I reluctantly took the seat he offered me and he began to talk. “Celia Nolan of One Old Mill Lane in Mendham,” he said. “That's a very exciting address you have.”

When I made the appointment, I had given him my name and phone number, nothing else. “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “That's why I'm here.”

“I read all about you. Your husband bought that
house for you as a surprise. Some surprise, I might add. That man of yours doesn't understand much about the way women think. Then you arrived to find it all messed up, and a couple of days later you happen upon the body of the lady who sold it to you. That's a lot going on in your life. Now how did you hear about me and why are you here?”

Before I could even attempt to answer, he raised his hand. “We're putting the cart before the horse. I charge three fifty an hour plus expenses and require a ten thousand dollar retainer before you get to say, ‘Help me counselor for I have sinned.' ”

Without speaking, I pulled out my checkbook and I wrote the check. Benjamin Fletcher did not know it, but by looking up information about me, he had made it easier for me to get him to give me the protection I needed without having to tell him that I am Liza.

Threading my way through what I wanted him to know and what I didn't want to tell him, I said, “I'm glad you looked me up. Then you'll understand how it feels to have the prosecutor's office practically accuse me of murdering Georgette Grove.”

Fletcher's eyelids had seemed to be permanently settled halfway down over his eyes, but now they lifted. “Why would they even begin to think that?”

I told him about the three pictures found without fingerprints, about how I had managed to drive home quickly after I found Georgette, and that I
might have driven past the house on Sheep Hill Road around the time the landscaper was killed. “I never met Georgette Grove until the day I moved into the house,” I protested. “I never heard of the landscaper until the prosecutor asked me about him, but I know they think I'm involved in some way, and it's all because of that house.”

“Surely you must know the history of it by now,” Fletcher said.

“Of course. My point is that because of those three pictures, the prosecutor's office feels all this has to do with the house or the Barton family.” I don't know how I managed to say my surname so matter-of-factly, and all the while looking right at him.

And then he said something that chilled me to the bone. “I always thought that kid, Liza, would come back here someday and shoot her stepfather, Ted Cartwright. But it's crazy that those birds in the prosecutor's office are bothering you, a stranger who had the hard luck to get that house as a birthday present. Celia, I promise you, we'll take care of them, because you know what will happen? I'll tell you. You start answering their questions, and they'll trip you up and turn you around and confuse you so much that in a day or so
you'll
believe you killed those people simply because you didn't like the house.”

“Do you mean I shouldn't answer questions?” I asked.

“That's exactly what I mean. I know that Paul
Walsh. He's out to make a name for himself. You ever read the philosophers?”

“I took several philosophy courses in college.”

“I don't suppose you read St. Thomas More? He was a lawyer, the Lord Chancellor of England. He wrote a book called
Utopia.
In it he wrote, ‘There are no lawyers in heaven,' and though Walsh is a detective, More meant it for him, too. That guy's out to feather his own nest and nobody better get in his way.”

“You're making me feel a bit better,” I said.

“At my age, you say it like it is. For instance, Monday afternoon, this lady from the
Star-Ledger,
Dru Perry, came to see me. She writes a feature called ‘The Story Behind the Story.' Thanks to all the publicity about your house, she's doing a feature piece on the Barton case. I filled her in as best I could. I suspect she's something of a bleeding heart for Liza, but I told her she was wasting her sympathy. Liza knew what she was doing when she kept firing that pistol at Ted Cartwright. He'd been romancing her mother before, during, and after the time she was married to Will Barton.”