Part 13 (1/2)

Detective Walsh. His name sprang into my mind. ”Have you ever fired a gun?” It was the kind of question you ask a person you view as a suspect, not something you'd say to an innocent woman who has just had the shock of discovering a murder victim. Was it possible that Walsh was the one who had left that phone message, and was now playing a cat-and-mouse game with me?

But even if he knows I'm Liza Barton, and how would he know?, why would he think I would kill Georgette Grove? Did Walsh imagine that I was angry enough at Georgette to kill her because she had sold Alex this house? Could Walsh possibly believe my mind is so twisted that being brought back to this house, plus the cruel reminders of the tragedy, would send me over the edge? That possibility made me sick with fear.

Even if Walsh is not the one who knows I am Liza Barton, he's still suspicious of me. I've already lied to him. And if he comes around again, I'll be forced into a continuing series of lies.

I thought about last week. Last week at this time I was in my Fifth Avenue apartment. All was right with my world. It felt like one hundred years ago.

It was time to pick up Jack. As always, his need for me is the focus of my life. I got up, went into my bathroom and washed my face, splas.h.i.+ng it with cold water, trying to shock myself into some kind of reality. For some incongruous reason, I remembered Henry Paley pointing out the advantage of having his-and-her bathrooms in the master bedroom suite. At the time, I'd wanted to be able to tell him that my father had figured that one out.

I changed from the suit I had worn to the church service into jeans and a cotton sweater. As I got in the car, I reminded myself that I had to buy a new tape for the answering machine.

Otherwise Alex would surely ask why the one that had been there this morning was missing.

I collected Jack at St. Joe's and suggested we have lunch at the coffee shop. I realized that a new fear factor had been added to being in the house-from now on I was going to panic whenever the phone there rang.

I managed to persuade Jack to eat a grilled cheese sandwich instead of his inevitable choice of peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly. He was filled with stories about pre-K, including the fact that a girl had tried to kiss him.”Did you let her kiss you?” I asked.

”No, it's stupid.”

”You let me kiss you,” I teased.

”That's different.”

”Then you'll never let a girl in your cla.s.s kiss you?”

”Oh, sure. I let Maggie kiss me. I'm going to marry her someday.”

His fourth day in cla.s.s, and his future is already settled. But for now, in this diner, over a grilled cheese sandwich, he is perfectly content with me. And I with him, of course. It's funny how my love for Jack was the root cause of my marrying Alex. I had met Alex for the first time at Larry's funeral two years ago. Larry had been one of those men whose business a.s.sociates become their primary family. I'd met a few of his relatives, but only when, as Larry put it, ”We can't get out of the d.a.m.n family get-together.”

Even standing at my husband's casket, I couldn't help being aware that Alex Nolan was a very attractive man. I didn't see him again until he came up and introduced himself to me at a charity dinner a year ago. We had lunch the next week, and went to dinner and the theatre a few nights later. From the beginning, it was obvious that he was interested in me, but I had no intention of getting involved with anyone at that time. I had genuinely loved Larry, but the realization of just how disturbed he had been about my past had unsettled me terribly.

Larry was the man who had told me that the happiest part of his life began the day he met me.

Larry was the man who put his arms around me and said, ”My G.o.d, you poor kid,” when I showed him the sensational stories of Little Lizzie. Larry was the man who shouted with joy the day I told him I was pregnant, and who did not leave me for one single minute of my long and difficult delivery. Larry was the man who, in his will, left me one third of his wealth, and made me residual heir of Jack's estate.

Larry was also the man who on his deathbed, his weakened hand clutching mine, his eyes opaque with the nearness of impending death, begged me not to disgrace his son by revealing my past.

Alex and I began to date with the understanding that this was going nowhere, that this was all platonic, a word that today I'm sure many people find amusing. ”I'll be platonic as long as you want, Ceil,” he would joke, ”but don't for a minute believe I think platonic.” Then he'd turn to Jack. ”Hey, guy, we've got to work on your mother. How can I make her like me?”

We'd been in that mode for four months when one night everything changed. Jack's babysitter was late. By the time she got to the apartment, it was ten of eight, and I was expected at an eight o'clock dinner party on the West Side. The doorman was getting a cab for someone else. I saw another cab coming down Fifth and rushed out to hail it. I didn't see the limo that was just pulling out from the curb.

I woke up in the hospital two hours later, battered and bruised, and with a concussion, but basically okay. Alex was sitting by my bedside. He answered my question before I asked: ”Jack's fine. Your babysitter called me when the police tried to reach someone at the apartment.

They couldn't get in touch with your mother and father in Florida.”

He ran his hand across my cheek. ”Ceil, you could have been killed!” Then he answered my next unasked question. ”The babysitter will wait till I get there. I'll stay at your place with Jack tonight. If he wakes up, you know he'll be comfortable with me.”

Alex and I were married two months later. The difference, of course, is that while we were simply seeing each other without commitment, I owed him nothing. Now that I am his wife- no, before I became his wife, I owed him the truth.

All these thoughts and memories were leaping through my mind as I watched Jack finish the last crumb of his sandwich, a hint of a smile on his lips. Was he thinking about Maggie, the four-year-old he was planning to marry?

It's strange how, in the midst of having my life dissolve into chaos, I can still find moments of peace and normalcy, like having lunch with Jack. When I signaled for the check, he told me that he had been invited for a play date the next day, and would I call his friend Billy's mom. He fished in his pocket and gave me the number.

”Isn't Billy the little boy who was crying the first day?” I asked.

”That was another Billy. He's still crying.”

We started to drive home, but then I remembered I hadn't bought the new answering machine tape. We backtracked, and as a result, it was twenty of two by the time we got to the house. Sue was already there, and I rushed upstairs to trade my sneakers for boots that would work well enough for my first riding lesson.

It's funny that it didn't occur to me to cancel the lesson. I was distraught at the dual threat that somebody knew I was Liza Barton, and that Detective Walsh, even if he was not aware of my other ident.i.ty, was suspicious of me.

But every instinct in my being said that by getting to know Zach, I might learn why my mother had screamed his name that night she and Ted fought.

On the way to the Was.h.i.+ngton Valley Riding Club, I was flooded with vivid memories of my mother. I remember her impeccably outfitted in her beautifully tailored black jacket and cream-colored breeches, her smooth blond hair in a chignon, mostly hidden under her riding helmet, as my father and I watched her take the jumps at Peapack.

”Doesn't Mommy look like a princess?” I remember my father asking as she cantered by. Yes, she did. I wondered now if by then he had begun to take riding lessons.

I left the car in the parking lot of the club, went inside, and told the receptionist I had an appointment with Zach Willet. I caught her disapproval of my makes.h.i.+ft riding gear and made a silent promise to myself that I would be more suitably dressed in the future.

Zach Willet came into the reception room to fetch me. I judged him to be about sixty. His lined face suggested long exposure to the elements, and the broken capillaries in his cheeks and nose made me suspect that he liked his liquor. His eyebrows were bushy, and drew attention to his eyes. They were an odd shade of hazel, more green than brown, almost faded in color, as though they, too, had known long years under bright suns.h.i.+ne.

As he looked me over, I detected a hint of insolence in his manner. I was sure I knew what he was thinking: I was one of those people who thought it would be glamorous to learn how to ride a horse, and I probably would end up being a nervous wreck and quitting after a couple of lessons.

Introductions over, he said, ”Come on back. I tacked up a horse that's used to beginners.” As we walked back to the stables, he asked, ”Ever ridden before, and I don't mean one pony ride when you were a kid?”

I had my answer ready for him, but now it sounded stupid: ”My friend had a pony when I was little. She'd let me have rides on it.”

”Uh-huh.” Clearly he was unimpressed.

There were two horses saddled and tied to the hitching post. The large mare was obviously his.

A smaller, docile-looking gelding was there for me. I listened attentively to Zach's first instructions about riding: ”Remember, you always mount a horse from the left side. Here, I'll boost you up. Get your foot in the stirrup, then point your heel down. That way it won't slip.

Hold the reins between these fingers and, remember, don't ever yank on them. You'll hurt his mouth His name is Biscuit, short for Sea Biscuit. That was the original owner's idea of a joke.”

It had been a long time since I had sat on a horse, but I immediately felt at home. I held the reins in one hand and patted Biscuit's neck, then turned to Zach for approval. He nodded, and we started to walk the horses side by side around the ring.

I was with him for an hour, and while he was far from gregarious, I did get him to talk. He told me about working at the club from the time he was twelve, how being around horses was a lot more satisfying than being around most of the people he knew. He told me that horses were herd animals and liked each other's company, that often they will calm down a racehorse by putting a familiar stablemate near it before a race.

I remembered to make the mistakes new riders do, like letting the reins slide, letting out a squeal when Biscuit unexpectedly picked up the pace.

Of course Zach was curious about me. When he realized that I lived on Old Mill Lane, he immediately connected me with Little Lizzie's Place. ”Then you're the one who found Georgette's body!”

”Yes, I am.”

”Lousy experience for you. Georgette was a nice lady. I read that your husband bought that house as a birthday present. Some present! Ted Cartwright, the stepfather the kid shot that night, used to keep his horses here,” Zach went on. ”We're old friends. Wait till I tell him I'm giving you lessons. Have you seen any ghosts yet in that house?”