Two Little Girls in Blue (43 page)

I knew he was forty-two years old. That meant he would have been about twenty the day that I stole into this house. Of course, as the whole world knows, he was at the party that evening.

He invited me to sit down in one of the two matching armchairs near the fireplace. “I've been wanting an excuse to have a fire,” he said. “This afternoon the weather cooperated.”

I was more than ever conscious of the fact that my lime-green jacket was more suitable to an August afternoon than to mid-autumn. I felt a strand of hair slip over my shoulder and tried to twist it back into the bun that was supposed to anchor it.

I have a masters in library science, my passion for books having made that a natural career choice. Since graduation five years ago, I've been working at the Englewood Library, and am heavily involved in the literacy project in our community.

Now I was in this impressive library, “with my hat in my hand,” as my grandmother would say. I was planning an event for our literacy program and wanted to make it spectacular. There was one way I was sure I could get people to pay three hundred dollars for a cocktail reception, and that would be if it were held in
this house. The Carrington Mansion had become part of the folklore of Englewood and the surrounding communities. Everyone knew its history and that it had been transported from Wales. I was certain that the prospect of being inside it would make the difference in whether or not we could have a sellout event.

I usually feel pretty comfortable in my own skin, but sitting there, sensing that those gray eyes were taking my measure, I felt flustered and ill at ease. Suddenly I felt once again like the daughter of the landscaper who drank too much.

Get over it, I told myself, and stop with the “gee-whiz” nonsense. With a mental shake, I began my well-rehearsed solicitation. “Mr. Carrington, as I wrote you, there are many good causes, meaning many reasons for people to write checks. Of course it's impossible for anyone to support everything. Quite frankly, these days even well-off people feel tapped out. That's why it's essential to our event to find a way to get people to write a check for us.”

That was when I launched into my plea for him to allow us to have a cocktail party in this house. I watched as his expression changed, and I saw the “no” word forming on his lips.

He put it gracefully. “Miss Lansing,” he began.

“Please call me Kay.”

“I thought your name was Kathryn.”

“On my birth certificate and to my grandmother.”

He laughed. “I understand.” Then he began his polite refusal. “Kay, I'd be happy to write a check . . .”

I interrupted him. “I'm sure you would. But as I wrote, this is more than just about money. We need volunteers to teach people how to read, and the best way to get them is to make them want to come to an affair and then sign them up. I know a great caterer who has promised to donate his services if the event is held here. It will be just two hours, and it would mean so much to so many people.”

“I have to think about it,” Peter Carrington said as he stood up.

The meeting was over. I thought quickly and decided there was nothing to lose by adding one final thing: “Mr. Carrington, I've done of lot of research about your family. For generations this was one of the most hospitable homes in Bergen County. Your father and grandfather and great-grandfather supported local community activities and charities. By helping us now, you could do so much good, and it would be so easy for you.”

I had no right to feel so terribly disappointed, but I did. He didn't respond, and without waiting for him or his secretary to show me out, I retraced my steps to the door. I did pause to take a quick glance to the back of the house, thinking of the staircase I had sneaked up all those years ago. Then I left, sure that I had made my second and final visit to the mansion.

Two days later Peter Carrington's picture was on the cover of
Celeb,
a national weekly gossip rag. It showed him coming out of the police station twenty-two years ago, after being questioned about the disappearance of
nineteen-year-old Susan Althorp, who had vanished following the formal dinner dance she had attended at the Carrington mansion.

That dinner was the reason my father had gone back to the estate, to check on the garden lighting, providing me the opportunity to sneak into the chapel.

The blaring headline,
IS SUSAN ALTHORP STILL ALIVE
? was followed by the caption under Peter's picture: “Industrialist still a suspect in the disappearance of debutante Susan Althorp, who would be celebrating her fortieth birthday this week.”

The magazine had a field day rehashing details of the search for Susan and, since her father had been an ambassador, comparing the case to the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby.

The article concluded with a summary of the death of Peter Carrington's pregnant wife, Grace, four years ago. Grace Carrington, known for drinking heavily, had given a birthday party for Carrington's stepbrother, Richard Walker. Carrington had arrived home after a twenty-two-hour flight from Australia, observed her condition, grabbed the glass out of her hand, dumped the contents on the carpet and angrily demanded, “Can't you have a little mercy on the child you're carrying?” Then claiming exhaustion, he went up to bed. In the morning, the housekeeper found the body of Grace Carrington, still dressed in a satin evening suit, at the bottom of the swimming pool. An autopsy showed she was three times over the limit of being legally drunk. The article concluded, “Carrington claimed he went to
sleep immediately and did not awaken until the police responded to the 911 call. MAYBE. We're conducting an opinion poll. Go to our Web site and let us know what you think.”

*   *   *

A week later, at the library, I received a call from Vincent Slater, who reminded me that I had met him when I had an appointment with Peter Carrington.

“Mr. Carrington,” he said, “has decided to permit the use of his home for your fund-raiser. He suggests that you coordinate the details of the event with me.”

Photograph by Bernard Vidal

MARY HIGGINS CLARK
is the author of twenty-six suspense novels; three collections of short stories; a historical novel,
Mount Vernon Love Story
; and a memoir,
Kitchen Privileges
.

She is also the coauthor with Carol Higgins Clark of four suspense novels:
Deck the Halls, He Sees You When You're Sleeping, The Christmas Thief
, and
Santa Cruise
. More than eighty-five million copies of her books are in print in the United States alone, and her books are worldwide bestsellers.

B
Y
M
ARY
H
IGGINS
C
LARK

I've Heard That Song Before

Two Little Girls in Blue

No Place Like Home

Nighttime Is My Time

The Second Time Around

Kitchen Privileges

Mount Vernon Love Story

Silent Night/All Through the Night

Daddy's Little Girl

On the Street Where You Live

Before I Say Good-bye

We'll Meet Again

All Through the Night

You Belong to Me

Pretend You Don't See Her

My Gal Sunday

Moonlight Becomes You

Silent Night

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

The Lottery Winner

Remember Me

I'll Be Seeing You

All Around the Town

Loves Music, Loves to Dance

The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories

While My Pretty One Sleeps

Weep No More, My Lady

Stillwatch

A Cry in the Night

The Cradle Will Fall

A Stranger Is Watching

Where Are the Children?

B
Y
M
ARY
H
IGGINS
C
LARK AND
C
AROL
H
IGGINS
C
LARK

Santa Cruise

The Christmas Thief

He Sees You When You're Sleeping

Deck the Halls

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by Mary Higgins Clark

Originally published in hardcover in 2006 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc.,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-9729-9
ISBN-10:        0-7434-9729-5
ISBN: 978-0-7432-8897-2 (eBook)

This Pocket Books paperback edition April 2007

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Front cover photo by Debra Lill