On Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock, Henry Paley returned to the realty office.
“How did it go?” Robin asked.
“I think we have a sale. As you know, this is the third time the Muellers have looked at the house, and the second time his parents came with them. His father is obviously the one with the checkbook. The owner was there, too, pulled me aside, and asked me about shaving my commission.”
“Knowing you, I’m sure that went over like a lead balloon,” Robin commented.
Henry smiled at her. “That’s exactly the way it went over, but I would call it a test balloon. I bet the senior Mr. Mueller talked to him, seeing a reduced commission as a way of lowering the price. He’s the kind of guy who probably bargains to get a penny off a quart of milk.”
He walked over and stood at her desk. “Robin, did I tell you that you’re looking quite provocative today? I don’t think Georgette would have approved of that rather revealing sweater, but then she wouldn’t have approved of your boyfriend if she’d known about him, would she?”
“Henry, I’m not very comfortable with this subject,” Robin said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sure you’re not. Simply thinking out loud, of course, but I wonder if at the end Georgette wasn’t on to you. But maybe not. She certainly never got wind of the fact that you and Cartwright were seeing each other last year. If she had, you’d have been out on your ear.”
“I knew Ted Cartwright before I started to work here. I do not have a personal relationship with him. The fact that I knew him never undermined my loyalty to Georgette.”
“Robin, you’re the one who fielded phone call inquiries about available properties. You’re the one who handled the drop-ins. I admit that I haven’t worked hard for a while, but you’re something else. Was Ted paying you to turn away potential business?”
“You mean something like the bonus he was paying you to get Georgette to sell the Route 24 property?” Robin asked sarcastically. “Of course not.”
The door that fronted East Main Street opened. Startled, they both looked up to see a grim-faced Sergeant Clyde Earley come into the office.
Clyde Earley had been in the first squad car that went screeching up the driveway of Lorraine Smith’s home on Sheep Hill Road. After her frantic description of finding Charley Hatch’s body, he had ordered the officer who accompanied him to stay with Mrs. Smith while he ran across the lawn and around the pool area. It was there that he found himself standing over the lifeless form of the landscaper.
At that moment, Clyde had permitted himself a feeling of genuine regret. He had no intention of admitting that he had deliberately tormented Charley Hatch by leaving the retied bag of garbage on the ground so that when he got home from work yesterday, Charley couldn’t help but become aware that his jeans and sneakers and carvings were missing. But as he looked down at the dead man’s bloody face, Clyde saw the inevitability of what had happened. Charley must have panicked and called whoever had paid him to vandalize the house. Whoever that is then decided that Charley was an unacceptable risk, Clyde thought. Poor Charley. He didn’t seem like a bad guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t the first time he ever did anything illegal. He must have gotten paid well for it.
Careful not to disturb the grass around Charley’s body, Earley took in the scene. His power mower is over behind the house, he noted. My bet is that he walked over here to meet someone. But how was the meeting set up? I’m sure Jeff will have Charley’s phone records checked out right away. His bank account, too. Or they may find a wad of cash hidden in his closet somewhere.
That house on Old Mill Lane sure does have a curse on it, Clyde thought. Charley vandalized it, and now he’s dead. Georgette sold it, and now she’s dead. That Nolan woman looked like she was having a nervous breakdown over it. Where does it stop?
More squad cars arrived. Clyde had taken charge of closing Sheep Hill Road, of having the crime scene roped off, of stationing a cop at the gate to make sure no unauthorized vehicles tried to enter the grounds. “And that means the media,” he’d instructed firmly.
Clyde liked being in charge. It irritated him that the minute the prosecutor’s people arrived, the local police were shunted aside. Jeff MacKingsley was more considerate than most of the others in keeping him in the loop, but even so, there was no question that in the pecking order, the locals lost out.
When Jeff did arrive, his greeting to Clyde had been brusque. No more telling me about my great police work in finding Charley’s stuff with the paint on it, Clyde thought.
After the body was removed, and the forensic team had taken over, Clyde started back to the precinct, but then changed his mind and parked in front of Grove Realty on East Main Street. He could see Robin Carpenter sitting at her desk and Henry Paley talking to her. He wanted to be the one to tell them about Charley Hatch’s death and to ask if for any reason either one of them had been in touch with him.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Charley had been reporting to Paley, Clyde thought grimly as he opened the door. I don’t like that guy. “I’m glad to catch both of you together,” he said. “You know Charley Hatch, the landscaper who took care of the Holland Road property?”
“I’ve seen him around,” Paley answered.
“This afternoon, sometime between one thirty and two o’clock, he was shot to death while he was working at Sheep Hill Road.”
Robin jumped up, her face turning pale. “Charley! That can’t be!”
Both men stared at her. “Charley was my half brother,” she wailed. “He can’t be dead.”