“Knowing you, I’m sure that went over like a lead balloon,” Robin commented.
Henry smiled at her. “That’s exactly the way it went over, but I would call it a test balloon. I bet the senior Mr. Mueller talked to him, seeing a reduced commission as a way of lowering the price. He’s the kind of guy who probably bargains to get a penny off a quart of milk.”
He walked over and stood at her desk. “Robin, did I tell you that you’re looking quite provocative today? I don’t think Georgette would have approved of that rather revealing sweater, but then she wouldn’t have approved of your boyfriend if she’d known about him, would she?”
“Henry, I’m not very comfortable with this subject,” Robin said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sure you’re not. Simply thinking out loud, of course, but I wonder if at the end Georgette wasn’t on to you. But maybe not. She certainly never got wind of the fact that you and Cartwright were seeing each other last year. If she had, you’d have been out on your ear.”
“I knew Ted Cartwright before I started to work here. I do not have a personal relationship with him. The fact that I knew him never undermined my loyalty to Georgette.”
“Robin, you’re the one who fielded phone call inquiries about available properties. You’re the one who handled the drop-ins. I admit that I haven’t worked hard for a while, but you’re something else. Was Ted paying you to turn away potential business?”
“You mean something like the bonus he was paying you to get Georgette to sell the Route 24 property?” Robin asked sarcastically. “Of course not.”
The door that fronted East Main Street opened. Startled, they both looked up to see a grim-faced Sergeant Clyde Earley come into the office.
Clyde Earley had been in the first squad car that went screeching up the driveway of Lorraine Smith’s home on Sheep Hill Road. After her frantic description of finding Charley Hatch’s body, he had ordered the officer who accompanied him to stay with Mrs. Smith while he ran across the lawn and around the pool area. It was there that he found himself standing over the lifeless form of the landscaper.
At that moment, Clyde had permitted himself a feeling of genuine regret. He had no intention of admitting that he had deliberately tormented Charley Hatch by leaving the retied bag of garbage on the ground so that when he got home from work yesterday, Charley couldn’t help but become aware that his jeans and sneakers and carvings were missing. But as he looked down at the dead man’s bloody face, Clyde saw the inevitability of what had happened. Charley must have panicked and called whoever had paid him to vandalize the house. Whoever that is then decided that Charley was an unacceptable risk, Clyde thought. Poor Charley. He didn’t seem like a bad guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t the first time he ever did anything illegal. He must have gotten paid well for it.
Careful not to disturb the grass around Charley’s body, Earley took in the scene. His power mower is over behind the house, he noted. My bet is that he walked over here to meet someone. But how was the meeting set up? I’m sure Jeff will have Charley’s phone records checked out right away. His bank account, too. Or they may find a wad of cash hidden in his closet somewhere.
That house on Old Mill Lane sure does have a curse on it, Clyde thought. Charley vandalized it, and now he’s dead. Georgette sold it, and now she’s dead. That Nolan woman looked like she was having a nervous breakdown over it. Where does it stop?
More squad cars arrived. Clyde had taken charge of closing Sheep Hill Road, of having the crime scene roped off, of stationing a cop at the gate to make sure no unauthorized vehicles tried to enter the grounds. “And that means the media,” he’d instructed firmly.
Clyde liked being in charge. It irritated him that the minute the prosecutor’s people arrived, the local police were shunted aside. Jeff MacKingsley was more considerate than most of the others in keeping him in the loop, but even so, there was no question that in the pecking order, the locals lost out.
When Jeff did arrive, his greeting to Clyde had been brusque. No more telling me about my great police work in finding Charley’s stuff with the paint on it, Clyde thought.
After the body was removed, and the forensic team had taken over, Clyde started back to the precinct, but then changed his mind and parked in front of Grove Realty on East Main Street. He could see Robin Carpenter sitting at her desk and Henry Paley talking to her. He wanted to be the one to tell them about Charley Hatch’s death and to ask if for any reason either one of them had been in touch with him.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Charley had been reporting to Paley, Clyde thought grimly as he opened the door. I don’t like that guy. “I’m glad to catch both of you together,” he said. “You know Charley Hatch, the landscaper who took care of the Holland Road property?”
“I’ve seen him around,” Paley answered.
“This afternoon, sometime between one thirty and two o’clock, he was shot to death while he was working at Sheep Hill Road.”
Robin jumped up, her face turning pale. “Charley! That can’t be!”
Both men stared at her. “Charley was my half brother,” she wailed. “He can’t be dead.”
47
At five o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Zach Willet drove to the neighboring town of Madison and parked in front of the sales office of the Cartwright Town Houses Corporation. He went inside, where he found a sales clerk, a woman in her thirties, tidying up in preparation for closing down for the day. He noted the nameplate on her desk: AMY STACK.
“Hi, Amy,” Zach said as he looked around the room. “I can see you’re getting ready to skedaddle out of here, so I won’t take but two minutes of your time.”
On the walls were sketches of different models of the town houses, and the artist’s conception of how they might look when furnished. Zach walked from one to the other, examining them closely. Brochures on the table listed the prices and sizes and particular features of the various units. He picked up one of the brochures and read aloud some of the selling features of the most expensive model. “Four-story town house, four bedrooms, master bedroom suite, state-of-the-art kitchen, three fireplaces, four baths, washer and dryer, double garage, private patio and yard, all services.” Zach smiled appreciatively. “Looks as though you just can’t go wrong with that one,” he said. He dropped the brochure back on the table, walked over to the biggest picture, and pointed to it. “Now, Amy, I know you’re probably rushing to meet your husband or your boyfriend, but how about indulging a nice fellow like me and show me that fancy homestead.”
“I’ll be glad to take you over, Mr . . . . ” Amy hesitated. “I don’t think you introduced yourself.”
“That’s right. I didn’t. I’m Zach Willet, and unless you borrowed somebody else’s nameplate, you’re Amy Stack.”
“You’ve got it.” Amy opened the top drawer of her desk and fished inside for her key ring. “That’s 8 Pawnee Avenue. I have to warn you that is our top-of-the-line town house. It’s fully loaded with every conceivable extra, and naturally that is reflected in the cost. It’s also the furnished model.”
“Sounds better and better,” Zach said genially. “Let’s take a look at it.”
On the way through the development, Amy Stack pointed out that the landscaping was almost finished, and was scheduled to be featured in a national gardening magazine, and that the driveways were heated to prevent ice from forming in the winter. “Mr. Cartwright has thought of everything,” she said proudly. “He’s one of those hands-on builders who is involved in every detail, every step of the way.”
“Ted’s a good friend of mine,” Zach said expansively. “Has been for forty years, since we were both kids riding bareback at the stable.” He looked around. Some of the handsome red brick town houses were already occupied. “Expensive cars in the driveways,” he commented. “Nice class of neighbors. I can see that.”
“Absolutely,” Amy assured him. “The nicest people you’d ever want to meet.” She walked a few steps more, then said, �
��Here we are at number 8. As you can see, it’s a corner unit, and it really is the crown jewel of the development.”
Zach’s smile broadened as Amy turned the key, opened the door, and led him into the family room on the entry level. “Raised-hearth fireplace, wet bar—what’s not to like?” he asked rhetorically.
“Some people use the room on the other side for a gym, and, of course, there’s a full bath with a hot tub right beside it. It’s such a convenient arrangement,” Amy said, her voice crackling with professional enthusiasm.
Zach insisted on riding the elevator to each of the floors. Like a child opening presents, he took obvious pleasure in every detail of the house. “Plate-warmer drawer! My, oh my, Amy. I remember my momma putting the plates on top of the burners on the stove to keep them warm. She always ended up with blistered fingers.
“Two guest bedrooms,” he joked. “I don’t have close family, but with those two bedrooms, I’d better look up those cousins of mine in Ohio and have them out for a weekend.”
They rode back down in the elevator, went outside, and, as Amy locked the front door, Zach said, “I’ll take it. As is. Furnished.”
“That’s wonderful,” Amy Stack exclaimed. “Are you prepared to make a deposit now?”
“Didn’t Ted Cartwright tell you that he’s giving me this unit?” Zach asked, his tone astonished. “I saved his life once, and now that I have to get out of where I’ve been living, he told me to come over and choose my space. Ted never forgets a favor. You must be proud to be in his employ.”
48
Alex 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 bat
tles, 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.
49
At 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.
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