Part 23 (1/2)

Dru thought of the way Celia Nolan had tried to run from the photographers that first day she'd met her. She felt sorry for her, but knew she had to finish her investigation. Two people were dead, and if Celia was indeed Liza Barton, she now knew that her father's death might not have been an accident. She might soon be in danger herself. And if she is the killer, then she has to be stopped, Dru thought.

”Clyde, there's something you have to do,” she said. ”Get Liza's fingerprints to Jeff MacKingsley right away. I think Liza has come back to Mendham and may be taking revenge on the people who hurt her.”

CHAPTER 62.

I sensed that there was something different about Zach Willet when I met him at the stable. He seemed somewhat tense, guarded. I knew he was trying to figure me out, but I didn't want him to become wary of me. I had to get him to talk. If he had witnessed my father's ”accident,” and was willing to testify to the truth of what had happened that day, I was sure that the only way to get him to do it was to make it worth his while.

He helped me tack the horse up, then we walked the horses toward the spot where the trails begin to snake through the woods. ”Let's take the trail that leads to the fork where Will Barton had his accident,” I said. ”I'm curious to see it.”

”You sure are interested in that accident,” Zach commented.

”I've been reading up on it. It was interesting that a groom insisted he heard a shot. His name was Herbert West. Is he still around here?”

”He's a starter at the Monmouth Park Racetrack now.”

”Zach, how far were you behind Will Barton that day? Three minutes? Five minutes?”

Zach and I were traveling side by side. A strong breeze had blown the clouds away, and now it was sunny and cool, a perfect afternoon for a ride. The leaves on the trees were showing the first sign of fall. Tints of yellow and orange and russet were beginning to streak through their summer green shading, and they made a canopy of color under the vivid blue of the sky. The smell of the damp soil under the horses' hooves reminded me of the times when I would ride on my pony with my mother at the Peapack club. Sometimes my father would drive over with us and read the newspaper or a book while we were on the trail.

”I'd say I was about five minutes behind him,” Zach answered me. ”And, young lady, I think we better have a showdown right here and now. Why all the questions about that accident?”

”Let's discuss it at the fork up ahead,” I suggested. Making no further effort to conceal my ease on horseback, I pressed my legs against my horse's sides. He broke into a canter, and Zach followed me. It was six minutes later that we drew rein and halted at the fork.

”You see, Zach,” I said. ”I've been timing this. We left the stable at ten after two. It's two nineteen now, and part of the time we've been going at a pretty good pace. So you really couldn't have been only four or five minutes behind Will Barton, could you?” I saw the way his mouth tightened.

”Zach, I'm going to level with you,” I began.

Of course, I was only going to level with him up to a point. ”My grandmother's sister was Will Barton's mother. She went to her grave sure that there was more to his death than was reported.

There was that gunshot that Herbert West swore he heard. That would have scared a horse, wouldn't it? Especially if the horse had a nervous rider who might have been pulling on its mouth too much, or jerking the reins. Don't you agree? I mean, I wonder if when you were looking for Will Barton, you might have seen him galloping down that dangerous trail on a horse that was out of control, and you knew you couldn't stop it. And maybe you saw the man who fired the gun. And maybe that man was Ted Cartwright.”

”I don't know what you're talking about,” Zach said. But I could see the perspiration on his forehead, and the nervous way he clenched and unclenched his hands.

”Zach, you told me you're a good friend of Ted Cartwright. I can understand how reluctant you'd be to get him in trouble. But Will Barton should not have died. Our family is pretty comfortable. I've been authorized to pay one million dollars to you if you will go to the police and tell them what really happened. The only thing that you did wrong was to lie to the police about what happened. I really doubt that they could even charge you for this kind of offense after so many years. You'd be a hero, a man with a conscience trying to right a wrong.”

”Did you say one million dollars?”

”Cash. Wired to your bank.”

Zach's smile was merely a narrowing of his thin lips. ”Is there a bonus if I tell the cops that I saw Cartwright charge his horse at Barton's, forcing it up that trail, and then that he fired the shot that panicked Barton's horse and made it bolt?”

I felt my heart begin to pound. I tried to keep my voice steady. ”There'll be a ten percent bonus, an extra hundred thousand dollars. Is that the way it happened?”

”That's the way it happened all right. Cartwright had his old Colt pistol. That takes a special bullet. The second he fired it, he turned and went back out on the trail that connects to Peapack.”

”What did you do?”

”I heard Barton yell when he went over the edge. I knew he didn't have a chance. I guess I was pretty shocked. I just rode around on the different trails as if I was looking for Barton.

Eventually, somebody spotted the body down in the ravine. In the meantime, I had gotten a camera and had gone back to the fork in the trail. I wanted to protect myself. It was May 9th.

I'd grabbed a copy of the morning newspaper that contained an article on Ted that included a picture of him holding the Colt .22 he was planning to use in a marksmans.h.i.+p contest. I put that picture next to the bullet he'd fired-which was sticking out of a tree trunk-and photographed it. I pried it out carefully with my hoof pick. I found the casing, too, right there on the bridle path. Then I walked onto the steep trail and took a picture of the scene below. You know police cars, ambulances, vets for the horse. Useless of course. The moment the poor guy went over the edge, it was all over.”

”Will you show me those pictures? Do you still have the casing and the bullet?”

”I'll show you the photos. But I keep them until I get the money. And yes, I also have the bullet and the casing.”

I don't know why I asked Zach Willet this next question, but I did: ”Zach, is money the only reason you're telling me this?”

”Mostly,” he said, ”but there is another reason. I'm kind of sick of Ted Cartwright getting away with murder and then coming here and threatening me.”

”When can I get this proof you're talking about?”

”Tonight, when I go home.”

”If my babysitter is free, can I drive over to get it from you later, at about nine o'clock?”

”That's okay with me. I'll give you my address. Remember, you only get to see the pictures.

The bullet, the casing, and the pictures I'll give to the cops, but only after I get the money and a promise of no prosecution.”

We rode back to the stable in silence. I tried to imagine how my father must have felt when Ted charged at him, how he must have felt when the horse he could not control bolted, taking him to certain death. I was sure the feeling must be the same as I felt when Ted threw my mother at me, and then started lunging toward me.

Zach's cell phone rang as we were dismounting at the stable. He answered, then winked at me.

”h.e.l.lo,” he said. ”What's up? Oh, the town house is worth seven hundred thousand furnished, but you don't want me living in it, so you'll give me the money instead? You're too late. I've had a better offer. Goodbye.”

”That felt real good,” Zach told me as he scrawled his address on the back of an envelope. ”See you around nine. The house number is kind of hard to read from the street, but you can tell it by the kids swarming around and the drums banging.”

”I'll find it,” I said.

I left knowing that if Ted Cartwright ever went to trial, his lawyer would argue to the jury that Zach's testimony had been bought and paid for. That would be true on one level, but how could they refute the physical evidence that Zach had kept for all these years? And how different was this from what the police do all the time-post rewards for people to come forward with evidence?

I was just offering a lot more than they do.

CHAPTER 63.

At four o'clock, Sergeant Clyde Earley and Dru Perry were waiting outside Jeff MacKingsley's office. ”I don't know if he's going to like the fact that you're with me,” Clyde groused.

”Listen, Clyde, I'm a newspaperwoman. This is my story. I'm going to protect my exclusive.”