By pleading, cajoling, and offering a handsome bonus, Georgette Grove managed to find a landscaper who would cut out the damaged grass and lay sod on the front lawn of the Nolans’ house. She also secured a painter that same afternoon to cover the red paint splattered on the shingles. She had not yet been able to hire a mason to repair the stone, nor a woodwork expert to remove the skull and crossbones carved in the front door.
The events of the day had resulted in an almost sleepless night. At six o’clock when Georgette heard the sound of the newspaper delivery service in her driveway, she leapt out of bed. Every night before retiring, she prepared the coffee pot so that in the morning she could simply flip the switch. Without even thinking, she did exactly that as she hurried to the side door of the kitchen, opened it, and retrieved the newspapers from the driveway.
The dreadful worry that was sitting like a slab of concrete on her head was that Celia Nolan would demand that the sale of the house be voided. This is the fourth time in twenty-four years that I’ve sold that house, Georgette reminded herself. Jane Salzman got it cheap because of all the publicity about it, but she was never happy there. She claimed that there was a popping sound when the heat went on that no plumber could fix, a sound that reminded her of shots being fired. After ten years she’d had enough.
It took two years before it was sold to the Greens. They stayed nearly six years, then listed it with her. “It’s a beautiful house, but no matter how much I try, I can’t get over the feeling that something terrible will happen here again, and I don’t want to be around for it,” Eleanor Green had said when she called Georgette to give her the listing.
The last owners, the Harrimans, had a home in Palm Beach and spent most of their time there. When the kids pulled their Halloween trick last year, they abruptly decided to move to Florida fulltime instead of waiting another year or so. “There’s such a different feeling in our house there,” Louise Harriman had told Georgette when she handed her the key. “Around here, I feel as though everyone is thinking of me as the lady who lives in ‘Little Lizzie’s Place.’ ”
In the last ten months, when Georgette again had been showing the house and reciting its history, most prospective buyers said they were uneasy at the thought of owning a home in which there had been a fatal shooting. If they lived in the area and were aware of the house being called “Little Lizzie’s Place,” they flatly refused even to look at it. It had taken a special buyer like Alex Nolan to brush aside her admittedly sketchy attempt to discuss the background of the home he was considering.
Georgette sat at the breakfast bar and opened the newspapers—the Daily Record, the Star-Ledger, and the New York Post. The Daily Record gave the picture of the house its entire front page. The follow-up story deplored the vandalism that refused to let go of the local tragedy. On the third page of the Star-Ledger there was a picture of Celia Nolan, caught at the exact moment she began to faint. It showed her head bent, her knees buckling, and her dark hair drifting behind her. The picture next to it showed the front of the vandalized house and the inscription on the lawn. The New York Post, on page three, had a close-up of the skull and crossbones on the front door with the initials L and B in the eye sockets. Both the Post and Star-Ledger rehashed the sensational case. “Unhappily, ‘Little Lizzie’s Place’ has acquired a sinister mythology in our community over the years,” the reporter for the Daily Record wrote.
That reporter had interviewed Ted Cartwright about the vandalism. He had posed for the picture in his home in nearby Bernardsville, his walking stick in his hand. “I have never recovered from the death of my wife, and I am shocked that someone would be vicious enough to remind us of that terrible incident,” he was quoted as saying. “Both physically and emotionally, I certainly don’t need a reminder. I still have nightmares about the expression on that child’s face when she went on her shooting spree. She looked like the devil incarnate.”
It’s the same story he’s been telling for nearly a quarter of a century, Georgette thought. He doesn’t want anyone to forget it. It’s a damn shame Liza was too traumatized to defend herself. I’d give anything to hear her version of what happened that night. I’ve seen the way Ted Cartwright conducts business. If he had his way, we’d have strip malls instead of riding trails in Mendham and Peapack, and he’ll keep trying until the day he’s lowered into the ground. He may fool a lot of people, but I’ve been on the zoning board and I’ve seen him in action. Behind that phony country-gentleman, bereaved-husband façade, he’s ruthless.
Georgette continued reading. Dru Perry of the Star-Ledger had obviously done research on the Nolans. “Alex Nolan, a partner in Ackerman and Nolan, a New York law firm, is a member of the Peapack Riding Club. His wife, Celia Foster Nolan, is the widow of Laurence Foster, former president of Bradford and Foster investment firm.”
Even though I did try to tell Alex Nolan about the stigma on the house, Georgette thought for the hundredth time, it’s in his wife’s name, and she knew nothing about it. If she finds out about the stigma law, she could demand that the sale be voided.
Tears of frustration in her eyes, Georgette studied the picture of Celia Nolan as she was caught in the process of fainting. I could probably claim that I did tell her husband and let her take me to court, but that picture would have a big impact on a judge.
As Georgette got up to refill her coffee cup, her phone rang. It was Robin: “Georgette, I suppose you’ve seen the newspapers.”
“Yes, I have. You’re up early.”
“I was worried about you. I know how upset you were yesterday.”
Georgette was grateful for the concern she heard in Robin’s voice.
“Thanks. Yes, I read all the articles.”
“What scares me is that some other real estate broker is bound to contact Celia Nolan and let her know that she could easily break the contract, and then tell her they’d be happy to help her find a new home,” Robin said.
The last hope Georgette had that somehow everything would work out vanished.
“Of course. You’re right; someone is likely to do that,” she said slowly. “I’ll see you at the office, Robin.”
Georgette replaced the phone on the receiver. “There’s no out,” she said aloud. “There’s simply no out.”
Then her mouth tightened. This is my livelihood somebody’s ruining, she thought. Maybe the Nolans don’t want to file charges, but if I lose that sale, somebody’s going to suffer. She picked up the phone, called the police station and asked for Sergeant Earley. Even as she was told that he would not be in for another hour, she realized that it was not seven o’clock yet. “This is Georgette Grove,” she told Brian Shields, the desk officer whom she had known since he was a child. “Brian, as you must certainly be aware, I sold the house on Old Mill Lane that was vandalized. I may lose that sale because of what happened there, and I want Clyde Earley to understand that you people have got to find out who has done this and make an example of them. Mike Buckley admitted he painted the sign on the lawn and left the doll last Halloween. I want to know if you’ve questioned him yet.”
“Ms. Grove, I can answer that,” Shields responded hastily. “Sergeant Earley went over to Mike Buckley’s school and pulled him out of class. He has an alibi. His father backed up his story that he never left the house the night before last.”
“Was his father sober?” Georgette asked caustically. “From what I understand about Greg Buckley, he ties one on pretty regularly.” She did not wait for an answer. “Ask Sergeant Earley to call me at my office when he gets in,” she said.
She replaced the phone, started to walk to the staircase, the cup of coffee in her hand, then stopped abruptly as a faint hope occurred to her. Alex Nolan is a member of the riding club. In the process of looking for a house, he had told her that his law firm had asked him to head up their new office in Summit, so there are a couple of good reasons why he wants to be in this area. There are a few other listings available that might interest him and his wife. If I offer to show Celia Nolan other houses, and even forgo my sales commission, maybe she’ll go along with me. After all, Alex Nolan did publicly admit that I tried to tell him about the history of the house.
It was a possibility—maybe a forlorn one, she realized, but at least a possibility.
Georgette went into her bedroom and began to untie the knot of her robe. Or is it time to close the agency? she wondered. I can’t keep on losing money. The frame house on Main Street that she had bought so cheaply twenty-five years ago would sell in a minute. All the other houses around it were now offices. But what would I do? she asked herself. I can’t afford to retire, and I don’t want to work for anyone else.
I’ll try to interest the Nolans in another house, she decided. As she showered and dressed, another possibility occurred to her. One Old Mill Lane started out as a very happy home when Audrey and Will Barton bought it. He saw the possibilities in that broken-down mansion and turned it into one of the most charming residences in town. I remember driving by to watch the progress of the renovation, and seeing Will and Audrey working together, planting flowers with Liza standing in her playpen on the lawn.
I never believed for a minute that Liza intended to kill her mother or tried to kill Ted Cartwright that night. She was a child, for heaven’s sake. If that ex-girlfriend of Ted’s hadn’t testified that he roughed her up after they split, Liza probably would have been raised in a juvenile detention home. I wonder where she is now, and how much she remembers about that night. I never could understand what Audrey saw in Ted in the first place. He wasn’t fit to carry Will Barton’s hat. But some women need a man, and Audrey was one of them, I guess. If only I hadn’t encouraged Will to take riding lessons . . .
Half an hour later, reinforced with juice, toast, and a final cup of coffee, Georgette left her house and got into her car. As she backed out of the driveway onto Hardscrabble Road, she gave an appreciative glance at the pale yellow, clapboard house that had been her home for the last twenty-five years. Despite her business worries, she never failed to feel cheered by the cozy appeal of the former carriage house with its quirky arch over the front door, an unexplainable add-on to the original building.
I want to spend the rest of my life here, she thought, then tried to brush off the sudden chill that washed over her.