No Place Like Home

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “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.”

  The biblical phrase, “I will vomit you from my mouth,” ran through my mind, and I felt a powerful urge to reach over Benjamin Fletcher’s desk, grab the check I had just written out, and tear it up. But I knew I needed him. Instead, I said, “Mr. Fletcher, I am the wife of an attorney. I do know something about attorney-client privilege, and if I’m going to hire you, let’s make something clear. I want no part of a lawyer who will spread gossip about his client’s family, even if it is nearly a quarter of a century later.”

  “The truth isn’t gossip, Celia,” he said, “but I hear you. Now if Jeff MacKingsley or Paulie Walsh or any one else in that crowd tries to question you, send them to me. I’ll take good care of you. And listen, don’t think I was being too hard on Little Lizzie. She never meant to kill her Momma, and that skunk Ted Cartwright deserved what she gave him.”

  55

  Lena Santini, the divorced wife of the late Charley Hatch, agreed to speak to Detective Angelo Ortiz at eleven o’clock in Charley’s home in Mendham. A small, thin woman of about forty-five, with flaming red hair that had not been granted to her naturally, she seemed genuinely sorry about the death of her former husband. “I can’t believe anyone would shoot him. Doesn’t make sense. Why would they? He never hurt anybody.”

  “I’m sad for Charley, not for myself,” she explained. “I can’t pretend that there was ever much between us. We got married ten years ago. I’d been married before, but it hadn’t worked. That guy was a drinker. It could have been good between Charley and me. I’m a waitress, and I make pretty decent money, and I like my job.”

  They were sitting in the living room. Lena took a puff of her cigarette. “Look at this place,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s so messy it makes my skin crawl. That’s the way it was when I was living with Charley. I used to say that it doesn’t take a nanosecond to put your underwear and socks in the hamper, but no, he always dropped them on the floor. Guess who picked them up? I’d say, ‘Charley, all you have to do when you have a snack is to rinse off the plate and glass and knife or whatever and put it in the dishwasher.’ It never happened. Charley left stuff on the table or on the rug near where he’d been sitting. And he’d complain. Let me tell you, he was a prize winner in the complaint department. I bet if he won ten million bucks in the lottery, he’d have been mad because the week before it had been worth ten times that. I finally couldn’t take it any more, and we split a year ago.”

  Lena’s face softened. “But you know, he was really talented with his hands. Those figures he carved were beautiful. I used to tell him that he should start a little business selling them, but of course he wouldn’t listen. He only felt like carving them once in a while. Oh well, God rest him. I hope he likes
heaven.” A brief smile appeared and then disappeared on her lips. “Wouldn’t it be a joke if St. Peter makes Charley head landscaper up there?”

  Ortiz, perched on the edge of Charley’s lounge chair, had been listening sympathetically. Now he decided it was time to move into the questioning. “Did you see much of Charley in this year since you’ve been divorced?”

  “Not much. We sold the house we had, and split the money we’d saved. I got the furniture and he got the car. It was even-steven. Every once in a while he’d give me a call and we’d have coffee for old times’ sake. He dated a little, I think.”

  “Do you know if he was close to his half sister, Robin Carpenter?”

  “That one!” Lena raised her eyes to the ceiling. “That was another thing. The people who adopted Charley were real nice folks. Very good to him. The father died about eight years ago. When the mother was dying, she gave Charley pictures of him as a baby, and told him his real name. I’m telling you, no one could have been more excited. I guess he hoped his birth family would turn out to be worth a lot of money. Boy, was he disappointed. His birth mother was dead and her husband wanted no part of him. But he met his half sister Robin, and ever since then she’s been playing him like a fiddle.”

  Ortiz tensed and straightened up, but then, not wanting to alert Santini to be careful of what she told him, relaxed his posture again. “Then they saw each other regularly?”

  “Did they ever! ‘Charley, can you drive me into the city? Charley, would you mind taking my car to be serviced?’ ”

  “Did she pay him?”

  “No, but she made him feel important. You’ve met her, I guess. She’s the kind that guys look at, liking what they see.” Lena looked over at Ortiz. “You’re a good-looking guy. Has she shined up to you yet?”

  “No,” the detective answered honestly.

  “Give her time. Anyhow, she used to take Charley out for dinner in New York sometimes. That made him feel special. She didn’t want anyone around here to know he was her half brother, and she didn’t want to be seen with him around here either, because she’s got a rich boyfriend. Oh, and get this. Charley told her that he sometimes stayed in the houses of people who were away. I mean, he had the keys to those houses because he was a caretaker for them and knew the security codes so he could go in and out of them. So Robin had the nerve to ask him to let her use those houses when she was with her boyfriend. Can you imagine that?”

  “Ms. Santini, have you heard about the vandalism on Old Mill Lane in Mendham last week?”

  “At Little Lizzie’s Place? Sure, everybody knows about it.”

  “We have reason to believe that Charley was the one who committed that act of vandalism.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Santini said, astonished. “Charley would never do that. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Would he do it if he was paid to do it?”

  “Who would ask him to do a crazy thing like that?” Lena Santini crushed the butt of the cigarette she was holding into the ashtray and slid a new cigarette out of the open pack in front of her on the table. “Come to think of it, the only person I know who could get Charley to do a stupid trick like that is Robin.”

  “Robin Carpenter told us that she has not been in touch with Charley for three months.”

  “Then why did she have dinner with him in New York recently at Patsy’s Restaurant on West 56th Street?”

  “Do you happen to remember the exact date?”

  “It was Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I remember because it was Charley’s birthday, and I called and offered to buy him dinner. He told me Robin was taking him out to Patsy’s.”

  Lena’s eyes suddenly glistened. “If that’s all you want to ask me, I have to go. Charley left this place to me, you know. Not that it’s worth much, what with the mortgage so high. This morning I asked you to meet me here because I wanted to get a couple of Charley’s carvings to put in the casket with him, but they’re all gone.”

  “We have them,” Ortiz told her. “Unfortunately, since these items are evidence, we have to keep them.”

  56

  Detective Mort Shelley walked into the Grove Real Estate Agency with the late Georgette Grove’s scrapbook under his arm. He and everyone else on the investigative team, including Jeff, had gone through every page of the book, and found not one newspaper clipping in it that might be tied to Georgette having suddenly recognized someone. The scrapbook covered many years, and most of the pictures were of Georgette at civic affairs, or receiving an honor, or smiling with minor celebrities to whom she had sold property in the area.

  “She may have had the scrapbook on her desk, but whoever she recognized isn’t in it,” was Jeff’s conclusion.

  But it’s serving its purpose, Shelley thought. Returning it gives me a good reason to have another chat with Robin and Henry. Robin was at her desk, and looked up immediately on hearing the door open. Her professional welcoming smile vanished, however, when she saw who her visitor was.

  “Just returning the scrapbook, like I promised,” Mort said mildly. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

  “I hope it was useful,” Robin said. She had papers on her desk and dropped her eyes to them, her body language making it clear that she was too busy to be interrupted.

  With the air of a man who has nothing to do and plenty of time to do it in, Mort sat down on the sectional sofa that faced Robin’s desk.

  Clearly annoyed, she looked up at him. “If you have a question, I’ll be glad to answer it.”

  Mort hoisted his ample body to his feet. “That couch is comfortable, but too deep for my taste. Can hardly get out of it. Maybe I’d better pull up a chair by you.”

  “Mr, uhmm . . . I’m sorry. I know we’ve been introduced, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Shelley. Like the poet. Mort Shelley.”

  “Mr. Shelley, I went to the prosecutor’s office yesterday to tell Mr. MacKingsley everything I knew that might be helpful to your investigation. I can’t add a single word to what I said earlier, and while this agency is still functioning I have a job to do.”

  “And so do I, Ms. Carpenter, and so do I. It’s half-past twelve. Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No. I’ll wait till Henry returns. He’s out with a client.”

  “Henry’s a busy man, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I guess he is.”

  “Now suppose he didn’t come back till, let’s say, four o’clock? Would you have something sent in? I mean, you wouldn’t wait to have lunch till four o’clock would you?”

  “No. I’d put the sign with the clock on the door and run across the street and grab something.”

  “Isn’t that what you did yesterday, Ms. Carpenter?”

  “I already told you that I brought my lunch in yesterday because Henry was going to take a client out.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t tell us that you put that little clock on the door sometime before two o’clock did you? According to that sweet, elderly lady in the curtain shop down the street, she happened to notice that sign on the door when she passed here at 2:05.”

  “What are you talking about? Oh, I see what you’re getting at. With all that’s been going on, I had a dreadful headache. I ran to the drugstore to get some aspirin. I was in and out in a few minutes.”

  “Uh-huh. On another subject, my partner, Detective Ortiz, was talking to your ex-half-sister-in-law, if that’s the proper way to put it, a little while ago.”

  “Lena?”

  “That’s right, Lena. Now you told us you hadn’t talked to Charley in three months or so. Lena says you had dinner with him at Patsy’s in New York less than two weeks ago. Who’s right?”

  “I am. About three months ago he just happened to phone when my car wouldn’t start. He offered to get it started, then run it over to the dealer. I was meeting a friend in New York at Patsy’s, and he drove me in. That night he said he wanted me to take him there for his birthday, and I jokingly said, ‘It’s a date.’ Then, when he
left a message to remind me about it, I left a return message on his phone saying it wouldn’t work out. The poor guy thought I was serious about going.”

  “Are you involved with any one particular man at this time?”

  “No, I am not. I presume you’re inferring that the ‘one particular man’ is Ted Cartwright. As I told all of you yesterday, he is just a friend. We dated a few times. Period.”

  “One last question, Ms. Carpenter. Your half brother’s former wife tells us that you asked Charley to allow you and your rich boyfriend to stay overnight in some of the houses he was looking after for people who were away. Is that true?”

  Robin Carpenter stood up. “That does it, Mr. Shelley. Tell Mr. MacKingsley that if he or any of his lackeys want to ask me any more questions, they can contact my lawyer. You’ll have his name tomorrow.”

  57

  On 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.