“Did they ever investigate to see who he might have been planning to see on September thirtieth?”

“At the time, the police assumed that he’d just made up that story as an excuse to drop you off.”

I could tell we were going nowhere with this conversation. I kept hoping that maybe some fragment of a forgotten memory might surface in Maggie’s consciousness, but it just wasn’t happening.

Over a cup of tea, I decided it was time to finally tell Maggie about the time, all those years ago, that I had crept into this house because I was so curious to see the chapel.

Her reaction, as expected, was that I was always too adventurous for my own good. Unexpectedly, she let it go at that.

Probably because of her reaction, I ended up telling her that I overheard a quarrel between a woman and a man she seemed to be blackmailing, something I had planned to keep to myself. “That’s why I knew what the man was whistling, even though it was only one line,” I told her, “because you used to hum it for me when you told me about my mother singing it in the school play.”

Maggie gave me a look that I couldn’t interpret.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“Kay,” she exclaimed, “you should have told that to your father! When he and your mother began to date, I told him about the school play and bragged about how well she sang that song. He made her sing it for him. From then on, he called it ‘their song.’ They even chose it for their first dance at their wedding. You know that.”

“Maggie, I knew about the play. But I don’t think I remember your telling about Daddy calling it ‘their song,’ or dancing to it at the wedding,” I protested.

“It doesn’t matter. But after your father came running over here with you to fix those lights the afternoon of that party, he dropped you off at my house. I remember distinctly how really down he looked. He told me that he had heard someone whistling that song when he was here, and had talked with him. I guess your dad told whoever it was why he was nostalgic about it.”

“Did he say who that person was?” I demanded.

“Yes, but I don’t remember.”

“Maggie, it’s so important. Think about it. Please try to remember.”

“I’ll try, Kay. I’ll really try.”

There was a question I had to ask. “Maggie, could it have been Peter?”

“No. Positively not,” Maggie said firmly. “I’d have remembered if it was Peter Carrington. He was the young prince around here. That’s why I was so disappointed to think he killed that poor girl. No, I’m absolutely sure he wasn’t the one your dad mentioned!”

She looked at me. “Kay, what’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are you crying?”

It wasn’t Peter, I thought with relief. It wasn’t Peter! It was some other man being blackmailed that day in the chapel. But, dear God, if I had only told Daddy what I heard that day, and he had reported it to the police, maybe he’d still be alive, and Peter wouldn’t be in jail, accused of murder.

65

Vincent Slater was convinced that Gary Barr had stolen Peter’s dress shirt from Elaine Carrington’s house. For a week he had mulled over in his mind the best way to get it back.

The need to recover the shirt had been made even more acute by a call late one evening from Conner Banks, urging him to try to convince Peter to allow his legal team to change the strategy of his defense.

“Vincent,” Banks said, “we are more and more convinced that we would have a good chance of a hung jury, and maybe even a shot at an acquittal, if our defense is based on reasonable doubt. An acquittal means that Peter comes home for good. A hung jury means we can argue strenuously for bail, and Peter would probably get to spend at least some time with his child before a second trial. If we got another hung jury at a second trial, the prosecutor would probably give up and drop the charges.”

“What would happen if Peter’s formal shirt turned up and it had Susan’s blood on it?” Slater asked.

“What’s going on here? Kay Carrington asked me that same question.” There was a long silence; then Conner Banks said quietly, “As I told Kay, if that shirt turns up with Susan’s blood on it, Peter had better be willing to plea-bargain.”

“I see.” It was nine o’clock, not too late to phone Kay, Slater decided. When she answered, she told him she had just driven her grandmother home.

“Kay, my bet is that Gary Barr stole the shirt,” he said. “We’ve got to get it back. There’s a set of master keys in a drawer in the kitchen. The gatehouse key is on it. I’ll stop by for it at seven thirty, before Jane comes in. Then, I’ll phone you at nine as though I’m in New York and ask you to send Gary into the city to help bring some of Peter’s private papers home. I’ll make sure my people there keep him busy for a while. You just make sure Jane doesn’t go home early.”

“Vince, I don’t know what to think about this.”

“I do. I’m not going to leave that shirt in Gary Barr’s hands. Let’s just pray that he’s got it hidden somewhere in the gatehouse or in his SUV. That’s something else: I’ll tell him that one of our executives may be coming back with him to visit you, so he must be driving one of the family cars.”

“As I say, at this point, I don’t know what to think, but I’ll go along with you,” Kay said. “Vince, I might as well tell you, I have an appointment with Nicholas Greco, the investigator. He’s coming here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Vincent Slater then said something he would never have dreamed he could say to his employer’s wife: “The more fool you, Kay. I thought you loved your husband!”

66

Retired ambassador Charles Althorp sat in his late wife’s study, a cup of coffee in his hand, an untouched breakfast tray beside him. Already the physical reality of Gladys’s death had brought about changes in the house. The hospital bed, oxygen tent, IVs, and seemingly endless medical supplies were all gone. Brenda, the housekeeper, tears flowing, had aired and vacuumed Gladys’s bedroom last night.

He had caught the sullen look in Brenda’s eyes when she served him breakfast that morning and hoped she had an inkling that she’d better be looking for another job.

His sons had phoned, sad that their mother had died, but glad that all the suffering she had endured was over. “If there’s a museum in heaven, Mom and Susan are probably debating the merits of a painting,” his younger son, Blake, had said.

Althorp knew his sons disliked him. After college, they both had chosen to accept jobs far away, giving them an excuse to show up at home only about twice a year. Now they would be back for the second time in a few months. The first had been to attend the funeral of their sister; now it was their mother.

Gladys’s body was in the funeral parlor. There would be no wake, but the funeral would not be until Friday, to accommodate his older son, whose daughter had just had an emergency appendectomy. The parents didn’t want to leave her.

Neighbors had been calling to express their regrets; he had told Brenda to take messages. But at a quarter of nine, she came into the study and hesitantly told him that a Mr. Greco was on the phone, and insisted on speaking with him.

Althorp was about to refuse, then wondered if Gladys had still owed the man money. It was possible. According to the nurse, the man had been to see her very recently. He picked up the phone. “Charles Althorp.” He knew his voice was intimidating. He took pride in that fact.

“Ambassador Althorp,” Nicholas Greco began, “let me first express my sincere condolences at the loss of your wife. Mrs. Althorp was a gracious and brave lady, and set in motion the wheels that I think will soon bring a killer to justice.”

“What are you talking about? Carrington is in jail.”