Mary Clark - I 've Heard That Song Before

The magazine had a field day rehashing details of the search for Susan and, since her father had been an ambassador, comparing the case to the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby.

The article included a summary of the circumstances surrounding the death of Peter Carrington’s pregnant wife, Grace, four years ago. Grace Carrington, known for drinking heavily, had given a birthday party for Carrington’s stepbrother, Richard Walker. Carrington had arrived home after a twenty-three-hour flight from Australia, observed her condition, grabbed the glass out of her hand, dumped the contents on the carpet, and angrily demanded, “Can’t you have a little mercy on the child you’re carrying?” Then, claiming exhaustion, he went up to bed. In the morning, the housekeeper found the body of Grace Carrington, still dressed in a satin evening suit, at the bottom of the swimming pool. An autopsy showed that she was three times over the limit of being legally drunk. The article concluded, “Carrington claimed he went to sleep immediately and did not awaken until the police responded to the 911 call. MAYBE. We’re conducting an opinion poll. Go to our Web site and let us know what you think.”

A week later, at the library, I received a call from Vincent Slater, who reminded me that I had met him when I had an appointment with Peter Carrington.

“Mr. Carrington,” he said, “has decided to permit the use of his home for your fund-raiser. He suggests that you coordinate the details of the event with me.”

Vincent Slater put down the phone and leaned back, ignoring the faint squeak of his desk chair, a sound that had begun to annoy him and that several times he’d made a mental note to get fixed. His office in the mansion had originally been one of the seldom-used sitting rooms at the back of the house. In addition to its remoteness, he had chosen it because of the French doors that not only gave a view of the formal gardens but also served as a private entrance from which he could come and go without being observed.

The problem was that Peter’s stepmother, Elaine, who lived in a house on the grounds, thought nothing of coming up to his office and entering without knocking. At that moment, she had done exactly that again.

She did not waste time on a greeting. “Vincent, I’m glad I caught you. Is there any way you can persuade Peter to give up the idea of having that charity reception here? One would think that after all the terrible publicity last week in that trashy Celeb magazine, rehashing Susan’s disappearance and Grace’s death, he would know enough to attract as little attention as possible.”

Vincent stood up, a courtesy he wished he could forego when Elaine barged in on him. Now, even though he was intensely irritated by the intrusion, he could not resist noticing begrudgingly how exquisitely attractive she was. At sixty-six, Elaine Walker Carrington, with her ash-blond hair, sapphire blue eyes, classic features, and willowy body, could still turn heads. She moved with the grace of the fashion model she had once been, even as, uninvited, she settled herself in the antique armchair on the other side of Vincent’s desk.

She was wearing a black suit that Slater guessed was an Armani, whom he knew to be her favorite designer. Her jewelry consisted of diamond earrings, a narrow strand of pearls, and the wide diamond wedding ring that she still wore even though her husband, Peter’s father, had been dead for nearly twenty years. Her faithfulness to his memory, Vincent well knew, had everything to do with the terms of her prenuptial agreement, which allowed her to live here for the rest of her life, unless she remarried, and ensured her a million-dollar-a-year stipend. And, of course, she liked to be referred to as Mrs. Carrington, with all the attendant privileges.

Which does not give her the right to walk in here and act as if I hadn’t considered very carefully the pluses and minuses of having a public event in this house, Vincent thought. “Elaine, Peter and I have discussed this thoroughly,” he began, his tone revealing his irritation. “Of course the publicity is terrible and embarrassing, which is why Peter has to make some move to show he’s not in hiding. That is precisely the perception which must be changed.”

“Do you really think that having strangers milling around in this house will change the perception most people have of Peter?” Elaine asked, her tone laced with sarcasm.

“Elaine, I suggest you stay out of this,” Slater snapped. “May I remind you that the family company went public two years ago, and there is a negative side to having to answer to stockholders. Even though Peter is by far the largest stockholder, the fact remains that there’s a growing opinion that he should step down as chairman and CEO. Being ‘a person of interest’ in the disappearance of one woman and the death of another is hardly a good image to have as the head of an international company. Peter may not talk about it, but I know he’s deeply concerned. That’s why, from now on, he’s got to be seen as active in community affairs and, even if he hates it, his very generous philanthropies have got to be publicized.”

“Really?” Elaine got up as she spoke. “Vincent, you’re a fool. Mark my words, this won’t work. What you’re doing is exposing Peter, not protecting him. Socially, Peter comes across as a zero. He may be a genius at business, but as you certainly know, he isn’t comfortable with small talk. Away from the office he’s much happier with a book in his hand and the door of the library closed than at some cocktail party or dinner. ‘Never less alone than when alone,’ as the saying goes. When is this affair going to take place?”

“Thursday, December sixth. Kay Lansing, the woman who’s running it, needed about seven weeks lead time to publicize it.”

“Is there any limit to how many tickets can be sold?”

“Two hundred.”

“I’ll be sure to buy one of them. So will Richard. I’m on my way to the gallery. He’s having a reception for one of his new artists.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she pulled open the French doors and walked out.

Slater watched her go, his mouth drawn in a thin, tight line. Richard Walker was Elaine’s son by her first marriage. She’s paying for that reception, he thought. Carrington money has been supporting that loser son of hers since he was twenty years old. He remembered how it drove Grace crazy that Elaine assumed she could walk into the main house anytime she wanted. The one thing Peter was smart enough to do was to not let Elaine move back in here after Grace died.

Not for the first time, Vincent Slater wondered whether there was more to Peter Carrington’s tolerance of his stepmother than met the eye.

I was at the library when I received the call from Vincent Slater. It was late Wednesday morning and I was about to commit to having our fund-raiser at the Glenpointe Hotel in Teaneck, a neighboring town to Englewood. I’ve attended affairs there, and they do a really good job, but I was still disappointed I’d been turned down by Peter Carrington. Needless to say, I was absolutely delighted by Slater’s message and decided to share my excitement with Maggie, the maternal grandmother who raised me and who still lives in the same modest house in Englewood where I grew up.

I’m a reverse commuter. I live on West Seventy-ninth Street in Manhattan, in a small second-floor apartment in a converted town house. It’s about as big as a minute, but it has a working fireplace, high ceilings, a bedroom large enough for a bed and dresser, and a kitchen area that is separate from the living room. I furnished it from garage sales held in the tonier parts of Englewood and I love the way it looks. I also love working at the library in Englewood, and, of course, that means I get to see a lot of my grandmother, Margaret O’Neil, whom my father and I have always called Maggie.