Mary Clark - I 've Heard That Song Before

All of that was going through my mind as we sat in that lovely room, staring at the fire in the fireplace. Elaine was beautiful as always, carefully made up, her sapphire eyes sympathetic and loving as she looked at Peter.

I liked Richard Walker. He was not good-looking in the traditional sense, but there was magnetism about him that I am sure attracted women. Except for his eyes, you would never have dreamt that, given his rugged features and stocky frame, he had come from the womb of Elaine Walker Carrington. Peter had told me that Richard’s father, Elaine’s first husband, had been born in Romania and moved to the United States with his parents when he was five or six years old. He anglicized his name when he went to college and was a successful entrepreneur by the time she married him.

“Elaine would never have married a guy without big bucks,” Peter had told me, “but in a way she lucked out both times. I gather Richard’s father was smart and rather charming but gambled everything away. The marriage didn’t last long, and he died when Richard was a teenager. Then Elaine married my father, who was so frugal, the joke about him among his friends was that he still had his First Holy Communion money.”

Obviously, Richard must have gotten most of his physical traits from his father, and something of his charm, too, I suppose. Over cocktails, he told us about the first time he had come to the mansion for dinner, and how formidable Peter’s father had seemed to him. “Peter was a freshman at Princeton, Kay,” he told me, “so he was away at school. I had just graduated from Columbia and had my first job as a trainee at Sotheby’s. Peter’s father was not impressed. He offered me a trainee job in one of the divisions of Carrington’s. I forget which one.”

Vincent Slater, who certainly is no conversationalist, began to laugh. “It was probably in the brokerage division. That’s where I started.”

“Anyhow, I turned him down,” Richard said, “and that was the beginning of the end of a beautiful relationship. Your dad always thought I was wasting my time, Peter.”

“I know.” Peter smiled, too, and I could see that Richard’s attempt to divert him from the grim reality of the day was working at least a little.

We went into dinner, and I was grateful to see that Peter responded to Jane Barr’s pot roast by saying, “I didn’t think I was hungry, but this looks awfully good.”

As we ate, Richard talked about his first tour of the mansion. “Your father told me to have a look around,” he said. “He told me about the chapel, and I went up to see it. It’s unbelievable to think that a priest actually lived in it in the seventeenth century. I remember wondering if it was haunted. What do you think, Kay?”

“The first time I saw it, I was six years old,” I said. Noting his astonished expression, I explained, “I told Peter about it the night my grandmother fell at the reception, and he stayed with me at the hospital and brought me home.”

“Yes, Kay was an adventurous child,” Peter said.

He hesitated, and I sensed he didn’t want to talk about my father. I made it easy for him. “My dad had come back on a Saturday to check on the lighting. There were a lot of guests coming that night for a formal dinner party. I was left on my own for awhile, so I went exploring.”

The atmosphere at the table changed. I had stumbled into talking about the night Susan Althorp disappeared. Trying to divert the subject, I rushed on: “It was so cold and damp in the chapel, and then I heard some people coming so I hid between the pews.”

“You did?” Vincent Slater exclaimed. “Did you get caught?”

“No. I knelt down. I hid my face in my hands. You know how dopey kids are. ‘If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.’ ”

“Did you catch a pair of lovers?” Vincent asked.

“No, the people were arguing about money.”

Elaine began to laugh, a harsh, sarcastic sound. “Peter, your father and I were arguing about money all over the house that day,” she said. “I don’t particularly remember that we were in the chapel, though.”

“The woman was promising him that it would be the last time.” I was desperate to change the subject.

“That sounds like me, too,” Elaine said.

“Well, it’s certainly not important. I wouldn’t have thought about it, except that you began talking about the chapel, Richard,” I said.

Gary Barr was standing behind me about to pour wine into my glass. An instant later, to our mutual dismay, the wine was cascading down my neck.

As Barbara Krause had promised Tom Moran, the evening of the arraignment they had a celebration dinner at the Stony Hill Inn, one of their favorite restaurants in Hackensack. Over rack of lamb, they discussed the sudden appearance and emotional tirade of Philip Meredith.

“You know, if we could get Carrington to admit to his wife’s murder as well as to murdering Susan Althorp, I’d be tempted to offer him a plea,” Krause said suddenly.

“I thought that was the last thing you said you’d do, boss,” Moran protested.

“I know. But much as I think we’ll get a conviction in the Althorp case, it’s not a slam dunk by any means. The fact remains that Maria Valdez did flip-flop on her testimony. And Carrington’s got the best defense counsel money can buy. It’ll get rough.”

Moran nodded. “I know. I saw the two of them with Carrington today. What they’re getting paid for one day’s work would pay for the braces on my kids’ teeth.”

“Let’s talk about it,” Krause said. “If he pled to both Susan’s case and to killing his wife, we could offer him thirty years, without parole, on concurrent sentences. Let’s face it, we don’t have enough to charge him with his wife’s death now, but he knows other evidence could develop. He would be released in his early seventies and still have plenty of money. If he took this offer, we would get the convictions and, assuming he lives that long, he’d have the hope of getting out.

“You know perfectly well that I’d love to try this case,” Krause said. “But there’s another issue. Right now, I’m thinking of the victims’ families. You saw and heard both of them today. Mrs. Althorp won’t live to see the trial, but if Carrington confesses, she’ll probably live to see him sentenced. And there’s another angle. If he confesses, it opens the door to civil suits.”

“I don’t think the Althorps need money,” Moran said flatly.

“They’re poor millionaires,” Barbara Krause said. “Don’t you love that designation? It applies to anyone with under five million. I read it in one of the magazines. A civil settlement would mean they could make a significant contribution in Susan’s name to a hospital or her college. From what we know about Philip Meredith, he’s never set the world on fire, and he has three kids to support.”

“Then you are serious about offering a plea to Carrington’s lawyers?” Moran asked.

“Let us say I’m turning it over in my mind. Kind of like being ‘engaged to be engaged.’ Anyhow, the lamb was delicious. Damn the calories. Full speed ahead. Let’s have dessert.”

I know that dinner relaxed Peter somewhat. As soon as it was over, and we’d had coffee in his library, the others got up to leave. Sometimes Richard stayed over at Elaine’s house, but he told us that he was on his way to Manhattan for an after-theatre drink at the Carlyle with a young artist. “She’s very gifted I think,” Richard told us, “and very pretty, I might add. It so seldom goes together.”

“Just don’t fall in love, Richard,” Elaine said tartly. “And if you decide to have a party for her at the gallery, let her pay for the champagne.”