Part 21 (1/2)
”Just returning the sc.r.a.pbook, 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.”
”Sh.e.l.ley. Like the poet. Mort Sh.e.l.ley.”
”Mr. Sh.e.l.ley, 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 pa.s.sed 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. Sh.e.l.ley. 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.”
CHAPTER 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.
She considered how to go about getting access to other photos, then got up and popped another piece of bread in the toaster. ”Why not?” she asked herself out loud. There's somebody else who might just have some pictures of Liza. When I talked to Marcella Williams last week, she said something about how sour Liza looked at her mother's wedding to Ted Cartwright. I'll make her house my first stop today. Maybe I'd better call to be sure I don't miss her. She'll wait for me if she knows I'm coming. Otherwise she might get on her broom and fly away, off to dig up dirt on someone else.
Dru caught her reflection in the gla.s.s door of the dish cabinet. Seeing it, she stuck out her tongue and began to pant. With these bangs I really do look like a sheep dog, she thought. Well, I haven't got time to waste at the salon, so I'll cut them myself. Who cares if they're uneven?
One thing about hair is that it grows back. Some people's hair grows back, she added with a silent chuckle as she thought of her editor, Ken Sharkey.
The toast sprang up. As usual, it was brown on only one side. She spun it around and dropped it back in. Something else, I've got to get a new toaster, she decided as she pushed down the lever. This one is getting to be a pain in the neck.
The second slice of toast in front of her, Dru continued to mentally lay out her day. I've got to find out who Zach is. Maybe I'll stop at the police station and see if Clyde Earley is around.
Not that I'm going to tell him who I think Celia Nolan really is, but maybe I can start talking about her and see what happens. Clyde loves the sound of his own voice. It would be interesting to see if he has even a clue that Celia Nolan is possibly or even probably Liza Barton.
Possibly or probably-those were the key words. The Kelloggs might be distant cousins, and might have an adopted daughter Celia's age, but that still wasn't conclusive proof that Celia was Liza. There was something else, Dru thought. Clyde Earley responded to Ted Cartwright's 911 call the night of the shooting. He might know if there was a guy named Zach in the picture.
Whoever he is, Zach has to have been significant at that time, otherwise why would Liza have been so traumatized when she spoke his name?
Her mind made up, Dru quickly did the little tidying up that her coffee and toast breakfast required, went upstairs, tossed the quilt over her bed in some attempt to restore it to order, went into the bathroom and showered. Wrapped in a terrycloth robe that almost concealed her generous proportions, she opened the window, tested the air, and decided that a running suit was just about perfect for the temperature. The running suit that's never been run in, she thought. Well, n.o.body's perfect, she told herself by way of consolation.
At nine o'clock she phoned Marcella Williams. Bet anything by now she's been on the treadmill for an hour, Dru thought, as the phone rang for the third time. Maybe she's in the shower.
Marcella picked up the receiver just as the answering machine clicked on. ”Hold on,” she said above the recorded message.