Chapter One: Twenty-four Years Later
I cannot believe I am standing in the exact spot where I
was standing when I killed my mother. I ask myself if this
is part of a nightmare, or if it is really happening. In
the beginning, after that terrible night, I had nightmares
all the time. I spent a good part of my childhood drawing
pictures of them for Dr. Moran, a psychologist in
California, where I went to live after the trial. This
room figured in many of those drawings.
The mirror over the fireplace is the same one my father
chose when he restored the house. It is part of the wall,
recessed and framed. In it, I see my reflection. My face
is deadly pale. My eyes no longer seem dark blue, but
black, reflecting all the terrible visions that are
leaping through my mind.
The color of my eyes is a heritage from my father. My
mother's eyes were lighter, a sapphire blue, picture
perfect with her golden hair. My hair would be dark blond
if I left it natural. I have darkened it, though, ever
since I came back to the East Coast sixteen years ago to
attend the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan. I
am also taller than my mother was by five inches. Yet, as
I grow older, I believe I am beginning to resemble my
mother in many ways, and I try to distance myself from
that resemblance. I have always lived in dread of someone
saying to me, "You look familiar..." At the time, my
mother's image was splashed all over the media, and still
turns up periodically in stories that rehash the
circumstances of her death. So if anyone says I look
familiar, I know it's her they have in mind. I, Celia
Foster Nolan, formerly Liza Barton, the child the
tabloidsdubbed "Little Lizzie Borden," am far less likely
to be recognized as that chubby-faced little girl with
golden curls who was acquitted -- not exonerated -- of
deliberately killing her mother and trying to kill her
stepfather.
My second husband, Alex Nolan, and I have been married for
six months. Today I thought we were going to take my four-
year-old son, Jack, to see a horse show in Peapack, an
upscale town in northern New Jersey, when suddenly Alex
detoured to Mendham, a neighboring town. It was only then
that he told me he had a wonderful surprise for my
birthday and drove down the road to this house. Alex
parked the car, and we went inside.
Jack is tugging at my hand, but I remain frozen to the
spot. Energetic, as most four-year-olds are, he wants to
explore. I let him go, and in a flash he is out of the
room and running down the hall.
Alex is standing a little behind me. Without looking at
him, I can feel his anxiety. He believes he has found a
beautiful home for us to live in, and his generosity is
such that the deed is solely in my name, his birthday gift
to me. "I'll catch up with Jack, honey," he reassures
me. "You look around and start figuring how you'll
decorate."
As he leaves the room, I hear him call, "Don't go
downstairs, Jack. We haven't finished showing Mommy her
new house."
"Your husband tells me that you're an interior designer,"
Henry Paley, the real estate agent, is saying. "This house
has been very well kept up, but, of course, every woman,
especially one in your profession, wants to put her own
signature on her home."
Not yet trusting myself to speak, I look at him. Paley is
a small man of about sixty, with thinning gray hair, and
neatly dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit. I realize
he is waiting expectantly for me to show enthusiasm for
the wonderful birthday gift my husband has just presented
to me.
"As your husband may have told you, I was not the selling
agent," Paley explains. "My boss, Georgette Grove, was
showing your husband various properties nearby when he
spotted the for sale sign on the lawn. He apparently fell
in love with it immediately. The house is quite simply an
architectural treasure, and it's situated on ten acres in
the premier location in a premier town."
I know it is a treasure. My father was the architect who
restored a crumbling eighteenth-century mansion, turning
it into this charming and spacious home. I look past Paley
and study the fireplace. Mother and Daddy found the mantel
in France, in a chateau about to be demolished. Daddy told
me the meanings of all the sculptured work on it, the
cherubs and the pineapples and the grapes...
Ted pinning Mother against the wall...
Mother sobbing...
I am pointing the gun at him. Daddy's gun...
Let go of my mother...
Sure...
Ted spinning Mother around and shoving her at me...
Mother's terrified eyes looking at me...
The gun going off...
Lizzie Borden had an axe...
"Are you all right, Mrs. Nolan?" Henry Paley is asking me.
"Yes, of course," I manage, with some effort. My tongue
feels too heavy to mouth the words. My mind is racing with
the thought that
I should not have let Larry, my first husband, make me
swear that I wouldn't tell the truth about myself to
anyone, not even to someone I married. In this moment I am
fiercely angry at Larry for wringing that promise from me.
He had been so kind when I told him about myself before
our marriage, but in the end he failed me. He was ashamed
of my past, afraid of the impact it might have on our
son's future. That fear has brought us here, now.
Already the lie is a wedge driven between Alex and me. We
both feel it. He talks about wanting to have children
soon, and I wonder how he would feel if he knew that
Little Lizzie Borden would be their mother.
It's been twenty-four years, but such memories die hard.
Will anyone in town recognize me? I wonder. Probably not.
But though I agreed to live in this area, I did not agree
to live in this town, or in this house. I can't live here.
I simply can't.
To avoid the curiosity in Paley's eyes, I walk over to the
mantel and pretend to study it.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Paley asks, the professional
enthusiasm of the real estate agent ringing through his
somewhat high-pitched voice.
"Yes, it is."
"The master bedroom is very large, and has two separate,
wonderfully appointed baths." He opens the door to the
bedroom and looks expectantly at me. Reluctantly, I follow
him.
Memories flood my mind. Weekend mornings in this room. I
used to get in bed with Mother and Daddy. Daddy would
bring up coffee for Mother and hot chocolate for me.
Their king-size bed with the tufted headboard is gone, of
course. The soft peach walls are now painted dark green.
Looking out the back windows I can see that the Japanese
maple tree Daddy planted so long ago is now mature and
beautiful.
Tears are pressing against my eyelids. I want to run out
of here. If necessary I will have to break my promise to
Larry and tell Alex the truth about myself. I am not Celia
Foster, nee Kellogg, the daughter of Kathleen and Martin
Kellogg of Santa Barbara, California. I am Liza Barton,
born in this town and, as a child, reluctantly acquitted
by a judge of murder and attempted murder.
"Mom, Mom!" I hear my son's voice as his footsteps clatter
on
the uncarpeted floorboards. He hurries into the room,
energy encapsulated, small and sturdy, a bright quickness
about him, a handsome little boy, the center of my heart.
At night I steal into his room to listen to the sound of
his even breathing. He is not interested in what happened
years ago. He is satisfied if I am there to answer when he
calls me.
As he reaches me, I bend down and catch him in my arms.
Jack has Larry's light brown hair and high forehead. His
beautiful blue eyes are my mother's, but then Larry had
blue eyes, too. In those last moments of fading
consciousness, Larry had whispered that when Jack attended
his prep school, he didn't want him to ever have to deal
with the tabloids digging up those old stories about me. I
taste again the bitterness of knowing that his father was
ashamed of me.
Ted Cartwright swears estranged wife begged for
reconciliation...
State psychiatrist testifies ten-year-old Liza Barton
mentally competent to form the intent to commit murder....
Was Larry right to swear me to silence? At this moment, I
can't be sure of anything. I kiss the top of Jack's head.
"I really, really, really like it here," he tells me
excitedly.
Alex is coming into the bedroom. He planned this surprise
for me with so much care. When we came up the driveway, it
had been festooned with birthday balloons, swaying on this
breezy August day -- all painted with my name and the
words "Happy Birthday." But the exuberant joy with which
he handed me the key and the deed to the house is gone. He
can read me too well. He knows I'm not happy. He is
disappointed and hurt, and why wouldn't he be?
"When I told the people at the office what I'd done, a
couple of the women said that no matter how beautiful a
house might be, they'd want to have the chance to make the
decision about buying it," he said, his voice forlorn.
They were right, I thought as I looked at him, at his
reddish-brown hair and brown eyes. Tall and wide-
shouldered, Alex has a look of strength about him that
makes him enormously attractive. Jack adores him. Now Jack
slides from my arms and puts his arm around Alex's leg.
My husband and my son.
And my house.
Copyright © 2005 by Mary Higgins Clark
Chapter Two
The Grove Real Estate Agency was on East Main Street in
the attractive New Jersey town of Mendham. Georgette Grove
parked in front of it and got out of the car. The August
day was unusually cool, and the overhead clouds were
threatening rain. Her short-sleeved linen suit was not
warm enough for the weather, and she moved with a quick
step up the path to the door of her office.
Sixty-two years old, Georgette was a handsome whippet-thin
woman with short wavy hair the color of steel, hazel eyes,
and a firm chin. At the moment, her emotions were
conflicted. She was pleased at how smoothly the closing
had gone on the house she had just helped sell. It was one
of the smaller houses in town, its selling price barely
breaking the seven figure mark, but even though she had
split the commission with another broker, the check she
was carrying was manna from heaven. It would give her a
few months' reserve until she landed another sale.
So far it had been a disastrous year, saved only by her
sale of the house on Old Mill Lane to Alex Nolan. That one
had caught her up on overdue bills at the office. She had
very much wanted to be present that morning when Nolan
presented the house to his wife. I hope she likes
surprises, Georgette thought for the hundredth time. She
worried that what he was doing was risky. She had tried to
warn him about the house, about its history, but Nolan
didn't seem to care. Georgette worried also that since
he'd put the house in his wife's name only, if his wife
didn't like it, she, Georgette, might be wide open to a
non-disclosure suit.
It was part of the real estate code of New Jersey that a
prospective buyer had to be notified if a house was a
stigmatized property, meaning one that might be impacted
by a factor that, on a psychological level, could cause
apprehension or fears. Since some people would not want to
live in a house in which a crime had been committed, or in
which there had been a suicide, the real estate agent was
obliged to make a prospective client aware of any such
history. The statute even required the agent to reveal if
a house had the reputation of being haunted.
I tried to tell Alex Nolan that there had been a tragedy
in the house on Old Mill Lane, Georgette thought
defensively as she opened the office door and stepped into
the reception room. But he had cut her off, saying that
his family used to rent a two-hundred-year-old house on
Cape Cod, and the history of some of the people who lived
in it would curl your hair. But this is different,
Georgette thought. I should have told him that around here
the house he bought is known as "Little Lizzie's Place."
She wondered if Nolan had become nervous about his
surprise. At the last minute he had asked her to be at the
house when they arrived, but it had been impossible to
change the other closing. Instead she had sent Henry Paley
to greet Nolan and his wife, and to be there to answer any
questions Mrs. Nolan might have. Henry had been reluctant
to cover for her, and in the end she had been forced to
remind him, rather sharply, not only to be there, but to
be sure to emphasize the many desirable features of the
house and property.
At Nolan's request, the driveway had been decorated with
festive balloons, all painted with the words "Happy
Birthday, Celia." The porch had been draped with festive
papier-mâché, and he also had asked that champagne and a
birthday cake and glasses and plates and silverware and
birthday napkins be waiting inside.
When Georgette pointed out that there was absolutely no
furniture in the house, and offered to bring over a
folding table and chairs, Nolan had been upset. He had
rushed to a nearby furniture store and ordered an
expensive glass patio table and chairs, and instructed the
salesman to have them placed in the dining room. "We'll
switch them to the patio when we move in, or if Celia
doesn't like them, we'll donate them to a charity and take
a deduction," he had said.
Five thousand dollars for a patio set and he's talking
about giving it away, Georgette had thought, but she knew
he meant it. Yesterday afternoon he had phoned and asked
her to be sure there were a dozen roses in every room on
the main floor, as well as in the master bedroom
suite. "Roses are Ceil's favorite flowers," he
explained. "When we got married, I promised her that she'd
never be without them."
He's rich. He's handsome. He's charming. And he's clearly
devoted to his wife, Georgette thought as she stepped
inside and automatically glanced around the reception room
to see if any potential clients were waiting there. From
half the marriages I've seen, she's a damn lucky woman.
But how will she react when she starts hearing the stories
about the house?
Georgette tried to push the thought away. Born with a
natural ability to sell, she had progressed rapidly from
being a secretary and part-time real estate agent, to
founding her own company. Her reception room was a matter
of special pride to her. Robin Carpenter, her secretary-
receptionist, was positioned at an antique mahogany desk
to the right of the entrance. On the left, a brightly
upholstered sectional couch and chairs were grouped around
a coffee table.
There, while clients sipped coffee or soft drinks or a
glass of wine in the early evening, Georgette or Henry
would run tapes showing available properties. The tapes
provided meticulous details of every aspect of the
interior, the exterior, and the surrounding neighborhood.
"Those tapes take a lot of time to do properly," Georgette
was fond of explaining to clients, "but they save you a
lot of time, and by finding your likes and dislikes, we
can get a very good idea of what you're really looking
for."
Make them want it before they set foot in it -- that was
Georgette's game plan. It had worked for nearly twenty
years, but in the last five it had gotten tougher, as more
and more high-powered agencies had opened in the area,
their young and vigorous brokers panting for every listing.
Robin was the only person in the reception area. "How did
the closing go?" she asked Georgette.
"Smoothly, thank God. Is Henry back?"
"No, I guess he's still drinking champagne with the
Nolans. I still can't believe it. A gorgeous guy buys a
gorgeous house for his wife for her thirty-fourth
birthday. That's exactly my age. She's so lucky. Did you
ever find out if Alex Nolan has a brother?" Robin
sighed. "But on the other hand, there can't be two men
like that," she added.
"Let's all hope that after she gets over the surprise, and
has heard the story of that house, Celia Nolan still
considers herself lucky," Georgette snapped
nervously. "Otherwise, we might have a real problem on our
hands."
Robin knew exactly what she meant. Small, slender, and
very pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a penchant for
frilly clothes, the initial impression she gave was that
of the air-headed blond. And so Georgette had believed
when she applied for the job a year ago. Five minutes of
conversation, however, had led her not only to reversing
that opinion but to hiring Robin on the spot and upping
the salary she had intended to pay. Now, after a year,
Robin was about to get her own real estate license, and
Georgette welcomed the prospect of having her working as
an agent. Henry simply wasn't pulling his weight anymore.
"You did try to warn the husband about the history of the
house. I can back you up on that, Georgette."
"That's something," Georgette said, as she headed down the
hall to her private office at the rear of the building.
But then she turned abruptly and faced the younger
woman. "I tried to speak to Alex Nolan about the
background of the house one time only, Robin," she said
emphatically. "And that was when I was alone in the car
with him on our way to see the Murray house on Moselle
Road. You couldn't have heard me discussing it with him."
"I'm sure I heard you bring it up one of the times Alex
Nolan was in here," Robin insisted.
"I mentioned it to him once in the car. I never said
anything about it to him here. Robin, you're not doing me
or, in the long run, yourself any favors by lying to a
client," Georgette snapped. "Keep that in mind, please."
The outside door opened. They both turned as Henry Paley
came into the reception room. "How did it go?" Georgette
asked, her anxiety apparent in the tone of her voice.
"I would say that Mrs. Nolan put up a very good act of
seeming to be delighted by her husband's birthday
surprise," Paley answered. "I believe she convinced him.
However, she did not convince me."
"Why not?" Robin asked before Georgette could frame the
words.
Henry Paley's expression was that of a man who had
completed a mission he knew was doomed to failure. "I wish
I could tell you," he said. "It may just be that she was
overwhelmed." He looked at Georgette, obviously afraid
that he might be giving the impression that he had somehow
let her down. "Georgette," he said apologetically, "I
swear, when I was showing Mrs. Nolan the master suite, all
I could visualize was that kid shooting her mother and
stepfather in the sitting room years ago. Isn't that
weird?"
"Henry, this agency has sold that house three times in the
last twenty-four years, and you were involved in at least
two of those sales. I never heard you say that before,"
Georgette protested angrily.
"I never got that feeling before. Maybe it's because of
all those damn flowers the husband ordered. It's the same
scent that hits you in funeral homes. I got it full force
in the master suite of Little Lizzie's Place today. And I
have a feeling that Celia Nolan had a reaction like that,
too."
Henry realized that unwittingly he had used the forbidden
words in describing the house on Old Mill Lane. "Sorry,
Georgette," he mumbled as he brushed past her.
"You should be," Georgette said bitterly. "I can just
imagine the kind of vibes you were sending out to Mrs.
Nolan."
"Maybe you'll take me up after all on my offer to back you
up on what you told Alex Nolan about the house,
Georgette," Robin suggested, a touch of sarcasm in her
voice.
Copyright © 2005 by Mary Higgins Clark