No Place Like Home (36 page)

O
n Wednesday morning, Dru Perry phoned into the newspaper office and spoke to Ken Sharkey. “I'm onto something big,” she told him. “Get someone else to cover the courthouse.”

“Sure. Want to talk about it?”

“Not on the phone.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

Dru had a friend, Kit Logan, whose son Bob was a New Jersey State Trooper, working in the computer lab. She called Kit, exchanged pleasantries, promised to get together very soon, then asked for Bob's home phone. “I'm going to ask him to do me a favor, Kit, and I don't want to call him at headquarters.”

Bob lived in Morristown. She caught him on his way to work. “Sure, I can use the computer to age a picture for you, Dru,” he promised. “If you drop it in my mailbox today, I'll have it for you tomorrow night. It goes without saying, get the clearest picture you can find.”

Dru mulled over that problem as she spread
marmalade on whole wheat toast and sipped coffee. The photographs the newspapers had reprinted after the vandalism had been mostly of Liza with her mother and father. There'd been one of the three of them on the beach at Spring Lake, another at the Peapack Riding Club when Audrey won a trophy, and another at some kind of party at the golf club. None of them, however, had been particularly clear. Audrey was married to Ted a little over a year, Dru thought. I'll bet the local paper, the
Daily Record,
covered the wedding.

She considered how to go about getting access to other photos, then got up and popped another piece of bread in the toaster. “Why not?” she asked herself out loud. There's somebody else who might just have some pictures of Liza. When I talked to Marcella Williams last week, she said something about how sour Liza looked at her mother's wedding to Ted Cartwright. I'll make her house my first stop today. Maybe I'd better call to be sure I don't miss her. She'll wait for me if she knows I'm coming. Otherwise she might get on her broom and fly away, off to dig up dirt on someone else.

Dru caught her reflection in the glass door of the dish cabinet. Seeing it, she stuck out her tongue and began to pant. With these bangs I really do look like a sheepdog, she thought. Well, I haven't got time to waste at the salon, so I'll cut them myself. Who cares if they're uneven? One thing about hair is that it grows back.
Some
people's hair grows back, she
added with a silent chuckle as she thought of her editor, Ken Sharkey.

The toast sprang up. As usual, it was brown on only one side. She spun it around and dropped it back in. Something else, I've got to get a new toaster, she decided as she pushed down the lever. This one is getting to be a pain in the neck.

The second slice of toast in front of her, Dru continued to mentally lay out her day. I've got to find out who Zach is. Maybe I'll stop at the police station and see if Clyde Earley is around. Not that I'm going to tell him who I think Celia Nolan really is, but maybe I can start talking about her and see what happens. Clyde loves the sound of his own voice. It would be interesting to see if he has even a clue that Celia Nolan is possibly or even probably Liza Barton.

Possibly or probably—those were the key words. The Kelloggs
might
be distant cousins, and
might
have an adopted daughter Celia's age, but that still wasn't conclusive proof that Celia was Liza. There was something else, Dru thought. Clyde Earley responded to Ted Cartwright's 911 call the night of the shooting. He might know if there was a guy named Zach in the picture. Whoever he is, Zach has to have been significant at that time, otherwise why would Liza have been so traumatized when she spoke his name?

Her mind made up, Dru quickly did the little tidying up that her coffee and toast breakfast required, went upstairs, tossed the quilt over her bed
in some attempt to restore it to order, went into the bathroom and showered. Wrapped in a terrycloth robe that almost concealed her generous proportions, she opened the window, tested the air, and decided that a running suit was just about perfect for the temperature. The running suit that's never been run in, she thought. Well, nobody's perfect, she told herself by way of consolation.

At nine o'clock she phoned Marcella Williams. Bet anything by now she's been on the treadmill for an hour, Dru thought, as the phone rang for the third time. Maybe she's in the shower.

Marcella picked up the receiver just as the answering machine clicked on. “Hold on,” she said above the recorded message.

She sounds irritated, Dru thought. Maybe I
did
catch her in the shower.

The recorded message stopped. “Mrs. Williams, this is Dru Perry of the
Star-Ledger.
I do hope I'm not calling too early.”

“Oh, not at all, Ms. Perry. I've been on the treadmill for an hour, and was stepping out of the shower when the phone rang.”

The thought of Marcella Williams with a towel wrapped around her and dripping on her carpet made Dru feel good about the timing of her call. “I write a feature called ‘The Story Behind the Story' for the Sunday edition of the
Star-Ledger,”
she explained.

“I know that feature. I always look forward to reading it,” Marcella interrupted.

“I'm preparing one on Liza Barton, and I know you knew the family intimately. I wonder if I could come and interview you about the Bartons and, of course, Liza particularly.”

“I'd be delighted to be interviewed by a fine writer like you.”

“Do you happen to have any pictures of the Bartons?”

“Yes, of course I do. We were great friends, you know. And when Audrey married Ted, the reception was in the garden of her home. I took a slew of pictures of all of them, but I have to warn you, there isn't a single one where you'll see Liza smiling.”

This is my lucky day, Dru thought. “Would eleven o'clock be convenient for you?”

“Perfect. I do have a lunch date at 12:30.”

“An hour will be more than enough. And Mrs. Williams . . . ”

“Oh, please, call me Marcella, Dru.”

“How nice. Marcella, will you just think and try to remember if Audrey or Will Barton or Ted Cartwright had a friend named Zach.”

“Oh, I know who Zach is. He's the riding instructor Will Barton had at Washington Valley stables. That last day, the day he died, Will rode out ahead of him and got on the wrong trail. That's why he had that fatal accident. Dru, I'm standing here dripping. I'll see you at eleven.”

Dru heard the click of the phone, but stood for a long minute before the mechanical voice reminded
her to either make another call or hang up. The fatal accident, she thought. Zach was Will Barton's riding teacher. Was it Zach's fault that Will Barton died? Had he been careless to let Barton ride off without him?

A final possibility occurred to Dru as she started down the stairs. Suppose Barton's death was
not
an accident and, if it wasn't, when did Liza learn the truth about it?

A
t one o'clock, Ted Cartwright rounded the corner of the Washington Valley Club House and headed to the stable. “Is Zach around?” he asked Manny Pagan, one of the grooms.

Manny was brushing a skittish mare that had been given a too-strenuous workout by its insensitive owner. “Easy, easy, girl,” he was muttering soothingly.

“Are you deaf? I asked if Zach is around,” Cartwright shouted.

An annoyed Manny was about to snap, “Find him yourself,” but when he looked up, he realized that Cartwright, whom he knew by sight, was trembling with fury. Instead, he said, “I'm pretty sure he's eating his lunch at the picnic table over there,” and pointed to a grove of trees about a hundred yards away.

Ted Cartwright covered the ground with rapid strides in seconds. Zach was eating the second half of a baloney sandwich when he arrived. Ted sat down opposite him. “Who the hell do you
think you are?” he asked, his voice now a menacing whisper.

Zach took another bite of the sandwich and a swig of soda before he replied. “Now that's no way for a friend to talk to a friend,” he said mildly.

“What makes you think you can go over to my town houses and tell my sales rep that I am giving you the model unit?”

“Did she tell you that I called, and that I'm planning to move in over the weekend?” Zach asked. “I tell you, Ted, that place where I'm living has turned out to be sheer hell. The landlady's kids are having parties every night, playing the drums till I think my ears are gonna bust, and here you have that nice place in the middle of all those other nice places, and I just know you want me to have it.”

“I'll call the police if you try to set one
foot
inside it.”

“Now why do I think that won't happen?” Zach asked, as he looked pensively past Cartwright.

“Zach, you've been bleeding me for over twenty years now. You've got to stop or you won't be around to bleed me any more.”

“Ted, that constitutes a threat, and I'm sure you don't mean it. Maybe
I
should be going to the police. The way I look at it, I've been keeping you out of prison for all these years. Of course, if I'd spoken up back then, you'd probably have served your time by now and would be starting all over—without your road and bridge construction company
and your town-house developments and your business complexes and your string of gyms. You could be giving speeches to school kids as part of the Scared Straight program.”

“There is also a penalty for blackmail.” Cartwright spat out the words.

“Ted, that town house is a drop in the bucket to you, but it would be a comfort to me. These old bones are developing aches and pains. Much as I love taking care of my horses, they're a lot of work. And then there's the matter of my conscience. Suppose I were to wander down to the Mendham police station and say that I knew about an accident that wasn't an accident at all, and tell them that I have proof, but before I say another word, I'll have to be guaranteed immunity from prosecution. I think I mentioned this before.”

Ted Cartwright stood up. The veins in his temples were bulging. His hands were gripping the edge of the picnic table as if that was the only way he could keep them from flailing at the man he was facing. “Be careful, Zach. Be very careful.” His words were clipped, and sharp as a dagger.

“I am being careful,” Zach assured him cheerfully. “That's why, if anything happens to me, the proof of what I'm saying will be found immediately. Well, gotta get back. I have a nice lady coming in for a riding lesson. She lives in your old house—you know, the one where you were shot? She's kind of intriguing. Claims she had a ride on a pony only once in a while, but she's fibbing. She's a
pretty good horsewoman. And what's more, for some reason, she's real interested in that accident you and I know about.”

“Have you been talking to her about it?”

“Oh, sure. Everything but the good stuff. Think it over, Ted. Maybe you'll even want your sales rep, Amy, to have the refrigerator stocked for me when I move in on Saturday. That would be a nice welcoming gesture, don't you think?”

A
t two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, Paul Walsh, Angelo Ortiz, and Mort Shelley gathered in Jeff MacKingsley's office to review their findings in what the media was now calling the “Little Lizzie Homicides.” They had all brought paper bags with sandwiches and coffee or a soft drink.

At Jeff's request, Ortiz started with his report. He gave them a quick rundown of his interview with Lena Santini, Charley Hatch's ex-wife, and what she had told him about Robin Carpenter's relationship with Charley.

“You mean Carpenter's story yesterday was a bold-faced lie?” Jeff asked. “How stupid does she think we are?”

“I saw Carpenter this morning,” Mort Shelley said. “She sticks by her statement that she hasn't spoken to Charley in three months. She explained away the so-called birthday date by saying it was his idea and she left a message for him that it wouldn't happen. She absolutely denies being in Patsy's that night.”