Part 23 (2/2)

Anna was at her desk. She could see the discomfort on Clyde Earley's face, and she was enjoying it. Whenever he phoned Jeff, she referred to him as ”Wyatt Earp” when she announced him. She knew that his predilection for ignoring the law when it suited him to do so drove Jeff crazy. From the memo she had typed, she knew that Jeff seriously questioned Clyde's story on how he discovered Charley Hatch's incriminating possessions, and was concerned about whether or not he would be able to use that evidence if it became necessary at a criminal trial.

”Hope you're bringing good news to the prosecutor,” she told Clyde in a friendly tone. ”He's in one horrible mood today.”

As she watched Clyde's shoulders slump, her intercom went on. ”Send them in,” Jeff said.

”Let me talk first,” Dru murmured to Clyde as he held the door to Jeff's office open for her.

”Dru, Clyde,” Jeff acknowledged them. ”What can I do for you?”

”Thank you. I will sit down,” Dru said. ”Jeff, you've made your point. You're busy, but you're going to be glad you're seeing us. What I have to tell you is very important, and I need to have your word that there'll be no leak to the press. I am the press in this story, and I'm bringing it to you because I think I have an obligation to do that. I'm worried that another life may be in danger.”

Jeff leaned forward, his arms crossed on his desk. ”Go on.”

”I think Celia Nolan is Liza Barton, and thanks to Clyde, you may be able to prove it.”

Seeing the grave look on Jeff's face, Dru realized two things right away: Jeff MacKingsley had been aware of the possibility, and he would not be happy to have it verified. She took out the pictures of Liza that she had taken from Marcella Williams. ”I was going to have a couple of these computer-aged,” she said. ”But I don't think it's necessary. Jeff, look at them, and then think of Celia Nolan. She's a combination of her mother and father.”

Jeff took the pictures and laid them out on his desk. ”Where were you going to get them computer-aged?” he asked.

”A friend.”

”A friend in the state police, I'll bet. I can do it faster.”

”I want them or a copy of them back. And I want a copy of the computer-aged version,” Dru insisted.

”Dru, you know how unusual it is to make a promise like that to a reporter? But I know you're coming to me because you're afraid someone else may be killed. Because of that, I owe this to you.” He turned to Clyde. ”Why are you here?”

”Well, you see-” Clyde began.

”Jeff,” Dru interrupted. ”Clyde is here because Celia Nolan already may have killed two people, and she may be gunning for the man who was at least partially responsible for her father's accident. Take a look at what I got from the library today.”

As Jeff skimmed the articles, Dru said, ”I went over to talk to Clyde. He was the one who booked Liza the night she killed her mother and shot Ted.”

”I kept her fingerprints,” Clyde Earley said bluntly. ”I have them with me now.”

”You kept her fingerprints,” Jeff repeated. ”I believe we have a law that says when a juvenile is acquitted of a crime, the record is expunged, including fingerprints.”

”It was just as a kind of a personal souvenir,” Clyde said defensively, ”but it does mean you can find out real fast if Celia Nolan is Liza Barton.”

”Jeff,” Dru began, ”if I'm right, and Celia is Liza, she may be out for revenge. I interviewed the lawyer who defended her twenty-four years ago, and he told me he wouldn't be surprised if someday she came back and blew Ted Cartwright's head off. And a court clerk who's been around forever told me that she had heard that when Liza was in the juvenile detention center, still in a state of shock, she would say the name 'Zach,' and then go into spasms of grief.

Maybe these articles are showing us why that happened.

I phoned the Was.h.i.+ngton Valley stables this afternoon and asked to speak to Zach. They told me he was giving a riding lesson to Celia Nolan.”

”All right. Thank you, both,” Jeff said. ”Clyde, you know what I think of your habit of ignoring the law to suit your purposes, but I'm glad you had the guts to give me these prints. Dru, it's your story. You have my word.”

When they were gone, Jeff sat for long minutes at his desk, studying the pictures of Liza Barton. She's Celia, he thought. We can make sure by checking her fingerprints against the ones on the picture that was in the barn. I know that in court I can never use the old fingerprints that Clyde kept, but at least I'll know who I'm dealing with. And hopefully this will be resolved before we find another body.

The picture that was taped in the barn.

Deep in thought, Jeff was now gazing blankly at the photos that were on his desk. Was this what he had been missing?

In Criminology 101 they tell us that the motive for most homicides is either love or money, he thought.

He turned on the intercom. ”Is Mort Sh.e.l.ley around?”

”Yes, I can see he's at his desk. Clyde looked relieved when he went out,” Anna said. ”I guess you didn't hang him by the thumbs.”

”Careful, I may hang you by the thumbs,” Jeff said. ”Send Mort in, please.”

”You said 'please.' You must be in a better mood.” ”Possibly I am.”

When Mort Sh.e.l.ley came in, Jeff said, ”Drop whatever you're doing. There's someone else I want checked out from top to bottom.” He showed Mort the name he had written on his notepad.

Sh.e.l.ley's eyes widened. ”You think?”

”I don't know what I think yet, but put as many of our people on it as you need. I want to know everything, including when this guy cut his first tooth and which one it was.”

As Mort Sh.e.l.ley got up, Jeff handed him the copies of the newspaper stories Dru had given him. ”Give these to Anna, please.” He turned on the intercom. ”Anna, there was a death at the Was.h.i.+ngton Valley Riding Club twenty-seven years ago. There must have been an investigation by either the Mendham police or us. I want the complete file on the incident if it still exists.

You'll get the details from the papers Mort is giving you. Also call that club and see if you can get Zach Willet on the phone.”

CHAPTER 64.

When I got home from the stable, the barn was empty, and Jack and Sue were gone. She was evidently taking him for a walk around the neighborhood on Star, and that was fine with me. I called my accountant and checked with him to be sure that I had at least one million one hundred thousand dollars at the ready in my cash account fund at the brokerage house.

Larry has been dead two years, but it still seems so odd to me to think in terms of such large amounts. Larry's investment counselor, Karl Winston, continues to advise me, and pretty much I go along with his suggestions about finances. He's conservative and so am I. But I could hear the question in his voice when I told him to be prepared to wire that sum of money to someone else's account.

”We can't take it as a charity deduction,” I told him, ”or charge it to expenses, but, believe me, it's money that must be spent.”

”It's your money, Celia,” he said. ”You certainly can afford it. But I must warn you, wealthy as you are, a million one hundred thousand dollars is a very substantial sum.”

”I would pay ten times that to accomplish what I am hoping to with that money, Karl,” I said.

And it was true. If Zach Willet had the proof he claimed to have, evidence that Ted Cartwright was directly responsible for my father's death, and if Ted went on trial, I would happily take the witness stand and testify to those final words my mother screamed at Ted. And for the first time the world would hear my version of what happened that night. I would swear under oath that Ted meant to kill my mother by throwing her at me, and would have killed me that same evening if he'd had the chance. I would say that, because I know it is true. Ted loved my mother, but he loved himself more. He couldn't take the chance that someday she might decide to go to the police and tell them about his drunken revelation.

Alex phoned at dinner time. He was staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Chicago, his favorite hotel there. ”Ceil, I miss you and Jack so much. I'm definitely going to be stuck here till Friday afternoon but I was thinking, do you want to go into New York this weekend? We could see a couple of plays? Maybe your old babysitter would mind Jack on Sat.u.r.day night, and then Sunday we could go to a matinee that he'd enjoy? How about it?”

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