I knew that I had to take a stand. I could not have these four men come into my house and question me about the death of a woman I had met only once. These people from the prosecutor’s office did not know I was Liza Barton, and I want to keep it that way. They were trying to tie me to Georgette’s death only because I had not dialed 911 from Holland Road, and because I had driven home so quickly.
Jack had followed me out to answer the doorbell, and now he slipped his hand in mine. I’m not sure if he was seeking reassurance from me, or trying to give me reassurance. My anger at what all this might be doing to him gave me the backbone to go on the attack.
I directed my first question to Jeffrey Mac-Kingsley. “Mr. MacKingsley, will you please explain to me why Detective Walsh was following me around this morning?”
“Mrs. Nolan, I apologize for any inconvenience,” MacKingsley said. “Would you mind if we stepped in to speak with you for a few minutes? Let me explain what it’s about. The other day, you showed me a photograph of the Barton family that was taped to the post in the barn. There were no fingerprints on it except yours, which, as you can understand, is unusual. You took it off the post and gave it to me, but someone had to have handled it first. We have not released this information publicly, but in Georgette Grove’s shoulder bag we found a newspaper clipping with a picture of you taken just as you fainted. That also had no fingerprints on it. Today we found a picture of Audrey Barton at another crime scene.”
I almost blurted out, “A picture of my mother at a crime scene!” My nerves were just that raw. Instead I asked, “What has that got to do with me?” trying to sound as calm as possible.
I was still standing in the doorway, and Mac-Kingsley saw that I had no intention of either answering his questions or inviting them in. When he had begun speaking, his manner had been courteous and apologetic. Now, whatever warmth I had felt from him was gone. “Mrs. Nolan, the landscaper for the house on Holland Road was shot to death a few hours ago. We have proof that he was the person who vandalized this property. He had a picture of Audrey Barton in his pocket, and I doubt that he put it there himself. What I am trying to say is that Georgette Grove’s murder, and this homicide, are somehow connected to this house.”
“Did you know Charley Hatch, Mrs. Nolan?” Walsh asked me, point-blank.
“No, I did not.” I looked at him. “Why were you in the coffee shop this morning, and why did you follow me to Bedminster?”
“Mrs. Nolan,” Walsh said, “I believe you either left the Holland Road house where you discovered the body of Georgette Grove much earlier than you have admitted, or that you are so familiar with these roads you could make a number of rather confusing turns and still make that phone call to 911 at the time it was received.”
Before I could respond, MacKingsley said, “Mrs. Nolan, Georgette Grove sold this house to your husband. Charley Hatch vandalized it. You live in it. Georgette had your picture. Charley Hatch had Audrey Barton’s picture. You found a picture of the Barton family. There’s an obvious connection and we are trying to solve two homicides. That is why we are here.”
“Are you sure you never met Charley Hatch, Mrs. Nolan?” Walsh asked.
“I have never even heard of the man.” My anger put steel in my voice.
“Mom.” Jack tugged at my hand. I knew he was frightened by the tone of my voice, and by the insinuating attitude of Detective Walsh.
“It’s all right, Jack. These nice people just want us to know how happy they are that we moved into this town.” I ignored Walsh and the other two and looked straight at Jeff MacKingsley. “I arrived here last week to find this house vandalized. I had an appointment to meet Georgette Grove, a woman I had seen only once before in my life, and found her dead. I think the doctor at the hospital can testify to the state of shock I was in when I reached the emergency room. I do not know what is going on, but I suggest that you concentrate on trying to find whoever is guilty of these crimes, and have the decency to leave me and my family alone.”
I began to close the door. Walsh put his foot forward to block it from closing. “One more question, Mrs. Nolan. Where were you between one thirty and two o’clock this afternoon?”
That one seemed easy to answer: “I had a two o’clock appointment for a riding lesson at the Washington Valley Riding Club. I arrived there at five of two. Why don’t you clock the distance from here to there, Mr. Walsh? That way you can figure out all by yourself what time I left this house.”
I slammed the door against his shoe and he withdrew it, but as I turned the lock, a horrible possibility occurred to me. The police activity at the corner house on Sheep Hill and Valley Roads—could that have anything to do with the death of the landscaper who had vandalized this house? And if so, by answering that last question I had placed myself directly in the area where he died.