“Mommy, can I stay home with you today?” Jack asked.
The request was so unexpected that I was taken aback. But I soon had an explanation.
“You were crying. I can tell,” he said matter-of-factly.
“No, Jack,” I protested. “I just didn’t sleep very well last night, and my eyes are tired.”
“You were crying,” he said simply.
“Want to bet?” I tried to sound as if we were playing a game. Jack loved games. “What kind of bet?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you what. After I drop you off at school, I’ll come back and take a nap, and if my eyes are nice and bright when I pick you up, you owe me a hundred trillion dollars.”
“And if they’re not nice and bright, you owe me a hundred trillion dollars.” Jack began to laugh. We usually settled those bets with an ice cream cone or a trip to the movies.
The wager decided upon, Jack willingly let me drop him off at school. I managed to get home before I started to break down again. I felt so trapped and helpless. For all I knew, Zach had told other people I was meeting him. How could I explain that he told me he had proof that Ted Cartwright had killed my father? And where was that proof now? They were practically accusing me of murdering Georgette Grove and that landscaper. I had touched Zach. Maybe my fingerprints were on his car.
I was dead tired, and decided that maybe I should do what I had told Jack I would do, and that was to try to take a nap. I was halfway up the stairs to the second floor when the bell rang. My hand froze on the banister. My instinct was to keep going upstairs, but when the bell rang again, I started back down. I was sure it was going to be someone from the prosecutor’s office. All I have to tell them is that I will not answer questions unless my attorney is present, I reminded myself.
When I opened the door, it was a relief to see that at least Detective Walsh was not there. The prosecutor, Jeff MacKingsley, was standing on the porch with the younger detective with black hair who’d been very polite to me.
I had left my dark glasses in the kitchen, and so could only imagine what they were thinking when they saw me with my red-rimmed, swollen eyes. For a moment, I don’t think I cared. I was tired of running, tired of fighting. I wondered if they had come to arrest me.
“Mrs. Nolan, I know you are represented by an attorney, and I assure you I am not going to ask you any questions about either the Georgette Grove or Charley Hatch homicides,” Jeff Mac-Kingsley said. “But I believe that you may have some information that could help us regarding a crime that was just committed. I know you have been taking riding lessons from Zach Willet. Zach was found shot to death early this morning.”
I did not say anything. I could not go through the charade of pretending I was surprised. Let them think that my silence indicated shock and distress—that is if they didn’t decide it meant that they were telling me something I already knew.
MacKingsley waited for some response from me, but when he didn’t get it, he said, “We know that you took a riding lesson with Zach yesterday afternoon. Did he indicate to you that he had plans to meet anyone? Anything you can remember is potentially very important.”
“Was he planning to meet anyone?” I repeated, and I heard my voice rising into near hysteria. I clasped my hand against my mouth. “I have an attorney.” I managed to lower the pitch of my voice. “I won’t speak to you without him being present.”
“I understand. Mrs. Nolan, this is a simple question. The picture of the Barton family that you found taped to your barn. Did you ever show it to your husband?”
I thought of finding the picture in the barn, of hiding it in the secret drawer, then Jack telling Alex about it, and Alex being so upset because I wasn’t planning to tell him about it. That picture was one more item in the string of occurrences that was driving a wedge between Alex and me.
At least MacKingsley’s question was one I could answer without fear. “My husband had already gone to work when I found it. He came home as I was giving it to you. No, Mr. MacKingsley, he did not see it.”
The prosecutor nodded and thanked me, but then, as he turned to go, he said in a tone that sounded strangely sympathetic, “Celia, I really think that everything is falling into place. I think that you are going to be all right.”