No Place Like Home (9 page)

Alex had opened the top button of his shirt and pulled down his tie. I kissed the nape of his neck and his arm tightened around me. I love the outdoorsy look he has, with his tanned skin and the sun-bleached highlights in his brown hair.

“Tell me about your first day at school,” he teasingly demanded of Jack.

“First, can I have a ride on Lizzie?”

“Sure. And then you're going to tell me about your day.”

“I'll tell you about how they asked us to talk about our most exciting day this summer, and I talked about moving here and the cops coming and everything and how today I went out to see Lizzie and there was a picture—”

“Why don't you tell Alex all about it after your ride, Jack?” I interrupted.

“Good idea,” Alex said. He checked the saddle, but found nothing to adjust. I thought he looked at
me quizzically, but didn't make any comment. “Jack just had a sandwich, but I'll start lunch for us,” I said.

“How about having it on the patio?” Alex suggested. “It's too nice to be inside.”

“That would be fun,” I said hurriedly and headed into the house. I rushed upstairs. My father had redesigned the second floor to have two large corner rooms that could be used for any purpose. When I was little, one of them was his office, the other a playroom for me. I had directed the movers to place my desk in Daddy's office. The desk is a nondescript antique I purchased when I had my interior decorating business, and I chose it for one primary reason. One of the large file drawers has a concealed panel that is secured by a combination lock that looks like a decoration. The panel can only be opened if you know the combination.

I yanked the files out of the drawer, tapped out the code with my index finger, and the panel opened. The thick file about “Little Lizzie Borden” was there. I pulled it out, opened it, and grabbed the newspaper photo that had been taped to the post in the barn.

If Jack ended up telling Alex about it, Alex, of course, would ask to see it. If Jack then realized he had promised me not to talk about it to Alex, he'd probably blurt that out, too. “I forgot, I promised Mommy I wouldn't tell . . . ”

And I would have to cover with yet more lies.

Putting the picture in the pocket of my slacks, I went downstairs. Knowing Alex loved it, I had
bought smoked salmon at the supermarket. In these six months, he'd given Jack a taste for it, too. Now I fixed it on salad plates with capers and onions and slices of the hard boiled eggs I had prepared while Jack was having his sandwich. The wrought-iron patio set Alex had bought so that we could celebrate my birthday with champagne and tea sandwiches was now on the patio. I set out place mats and silver, then the salads and iced tea, along with heated French bread.

When I called out that everything was ready, Alex left the pony tethered to a post of the enclosure. She was still saddled, so that meant that he was planning to give Jack more time with the pony.

When they came to the patio, I could have cut with a knife the change in the emotional atmosphere. Alex looked serious, and Jack was on the verge of tears. There was a moment of silence, then, in a level tone, Alex asked, “Was there any reason you weren't planning to tell me about the picture you found in the barn, Ceil?”

“I didn't want to upset you,” I said. “It's only one of the pictures of the Barton family that was in the newspaper.”

“You don't think it upsets me to learn by chance that someone was trespassing here during the night? You don't think the police should know about that?”

There was only one answer that might be plausible: “Have you seen today's papers?” I asked Alex quietly. “Do you think I want any follow-up on it? For God's sake, give me a break.”

“Ceil, Jack tells me he went out to see his pony before you woke up. Suppose he had come across someone in the barn? I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't some kind of nut loose around here.”

Exactly the worry I had but could not share. “Jack wouldn't have been able to get out if you had reset the alarm,” I said sharply.

“Mommy, why are you mad at Alex?” Jack asked.

“Why indeed, Jack?” Alex asked as he pushed back his chair and went into the house.

I didn't know whether to follow him and apologize, or to offer to show him the crumpled newspaper picture that was in my pocket. I simply didn't know what to do.

T
he morning after her new neighbors moved in, Marcella Williams was enjoying a second cup of coffee and devouring the newspapers when her phone rang. She picked it up and murmured, “Hello.”

“By any chance, would a beautiful lady be free for lunch today?”

Ted Cartwright! Marcella felt her pulse begin to race.

“No beautiful ladies around here,” she said coyly, “but I do know someone who would very much enjoy lunching with the distinguished Mr. Cartwright.”

Three hours later, having carefully dressed for the date in tan slacks and a vivid, printed silk shirt, Marcella was sitting opposite Ted Cartwright in the pub of the Black Horse Tavern on West Main Street. In breathless detail she told him all about her new neighbors. “When they saw the vandalism, Alex Nolan was furious, and his wife, Celia, was
really
upset. I mean it's obvious isn't it? She
fainted,
for heaven's sake. I can understand that she probably was worn out from getting ready for the move. No matter how much help you have, there's always so much you have to do yourself.”

“It still seems to be a pretty strong reaction,” Cartwright observed skeptically.

“I agree, but on the other hand, it was a shocking sight. Ted, I tell you, that skull and crossbones on the door with Liza's initials in the eye sockets was just plain chilling, and you'd swear that red paint on the lawn and on the house was real blood. And that doll on the porch with the gun in its hand was scary, too.”

Marcella bit her lip when she saw the expression on Cartwright's face. For God's sake, she told herself, it was
his
blood all over the place, as well as Audrey's, the night Liza shot them. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I mean how stupid can anyone be?” Impulsively she reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

Smiling wryly, Cartwright reached for his glass and took a long sip of pinot noir. “I can skip hearing those details, Marcella,” he said. “I saw the pictures in the newspapers and that was enough for me. Tell me more about your new neighbors.”

“Very attractive,” Marcella said emphatically. “She could be anywhere from twenty-eight to early thirties. I'd guess he's in his late thirties. The little boy, Jack, is really cute. Very concerned about his mother. He kept hanging on to her when she was lying on the couch. The poor kid was scared that she was dead.”

Again Marcella had the feeling of stepping into dangerous territory. Twenty-four years ago, the cops had had to pry Liza away from her mother's body, while Ted was lying on the floor a few feet away. “I dropped over to Georgette Grove's office yesterday afternoon to see how she was feeling,” Marcella said hastily. “I mean she was so upset about the vandalism, and I was a little concerned about her.”

Marcella took the last bite of her Cobb salad and the final sip of her Chardonnay.

Seeing Ted's raised eyebrows and the amused smile on his face, she decided to acknowledge that she knew what he was thinking. “You know me too well,” she laughed. “I wanted to see what was going on. I figured the cops would let Georgette know if they'd talked to any of the kids who might have pulled that stunt. Georgette wasn't there so I chatted with Robin, her secretary or receptionist or whatever she is.”

“What did you find out?”

“Robin told me that the Nolans have only been married six months and that Alex bought the house as a surprise for Celia's birthday.”

Cartwright again raised his eyebrows. “The only surprise a man gives a woman should be measured in carats,” he said. “And I don't mean the kind that you find in the vegetable bin.”

Marcella smiled across the table at him. The pub at the Black Horse Tavern had been a favorite lunch spot of people in the area for generations.
She remembered a day when she and Victor and Audrey and Ted had had lunch here together. It was only a few months before Audrey and Ted had separated. It was obvious then that he was crazy about her, and she certainly acted as if she was in love with him, too. Whatever broke it up? she wondered. But that was twenty-four years ago, and as far as she knew, Ted's last girlfriend was history.

Ted was studying her, too. I know I look darn good, Marcella thought, and if I can judge a man's expression, he thinks so, too.

“Want to know what I'm thinking?” she challenged him.

“Of course.”

“I'm thinking that a lot of men pushing sixty are starting to lose their looks. Their hair gets thin or disappears. They put on weight. They just go all-around blah. But you're even more attractive now than way back when we were neighbors. I love it that your hair has turned white. With those blue eyes of yours, it makes a great combination. You've always been a big man, without having an ounce of fat on you. I like that. Victor was such a wimpy-looking guy.”

With a shrug she dismissed her husband of twenty-two years, along with the annoying fact that only months after their divorce ten years ago, Victor had remarried, was now the father of two children, and, according to her pipeline, was divinely happy.

“You flatter me and I don't mind a bit,” Ted said. “Now how about a cup of coffee, and then,
after I drop you off, I've got to get back to the office.”

Ted had suggested that she meet him at the Black Horse, but she had asked him to pick her up. “I know I'll have a glass of wine, and I don't want to drive afterwards,” she had explained. The fact was that she wanted the intimacy of being in a car with him and the opportunity to prolong the time they spent together.

Half an hour later, Ted was pulling into her driveway. He parked, got out of the car and walked around to open the door for her. As she stood up, a car passed slowly along the road. They both recognized the driver, the Morris County prosecutor, Jeff MacKingsley.

“What's that all about?” Cartwright asked sharply. “The prosecutor doesn't usually get involved with simple vandalism.”

“I can't imagine. Yesterday, Sergeant Earley certainly acted as if he was running the show. I wonder if anything else happened. I'll try to find out. I was planning to make some cinnamon rolls tomorrow morning and take them up to the Nolans,” Marcella told him. “I'll give you a call if I hear anything.” She looked at him, trying to decide if it was too soon to invite him to dinner. I don't want to scare him away, she thought. Then something in Ted Cartwright's expression took her breath away. He was staring at the prosecutor's car as it disappeared around the bend, and it was as if a mask had dropped. The expression on his face was somber
and worried. Why should seeing Jeff MacKingsley's car around here bother him? she wondered. Then it occurred to her that maybe the only reason Ted had invited her to lunch was to pump information from her about what was going on next door.

Well, two can play at that game, she thought. “Ted, this has been so pleasant,” she said. “Why don't you come over for dinner Friday night? I don't know whether you remember, but I'm a great cook.”

The mask was back. His expression affable, Ted kissed her on the cheek. “I remember, Marcella,” he said. “Is seven o'clock good for you?”

J
eff MacKingsley spent the better part of the day at Roxiticus Golf Club, participating in a golf outing that benefited the Morris County Historical Society. An excellent golfer with a six handicap, it was the kind of event that on a normal day he thoroughly enjoyed. Today, despite the perfect weather and the good friends in his foursome, he could not keep his mind on his game. The stories in the morning newspapers about the vandalism at One Old Mill Lane had gotten under his skin.