I 've Heard That Song Before

63

Nicholas Greco was pleased to receive an unexpected phone call from Assistant Prosecutor Tom Moran. “That was a good tip,” Moran told him. “Barr had a juvenile record that was sealed from the public, but we got access to it. He was arrested for bringing marijuana to school and smoking it in the gym. We also found his high school yearbook and located some of his classmates who still live in Poughkeepsie. Barr had a reputation for having a bad temper. Not exactly your friendly teenage-boy-next-door.

“Of course, that’s a long time ago,” Moran continued. “It’s interesting though, that his classmates remember him as someone with a chip on his shoulder, plus an inferiority complex. He didn’t study in high school, didn’t want to go to college, then years later, at a high school reunion, whined that he never was given the chance to be a success.”

“He struck me as a very insecure, dissatisfied man who is angry at the world,” Greco said. “What you tell me fits the pattern that I have observed.”

“Changing the subject,” Moran said. “There’s something else I know you’d want to hear. Mrs. Althorp died today.”

“I am very, very sorry to hear that, but I think for her it is a blessing.”

“From what I understand, there isn’t going to be a wake, and the funeral will be private. I guess those were her wishes, and you can understand that the family has had enough media coverage for a lifetime.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” Nicholas Greco said. “Thank you, Tom.”

Greco looked at his watch. It was past five o’clock, but he was not yet ready to start home. He wanted to think quietly, and sometimes it was easier to do that after everyone else had left the office and the phones were quiet. Fortunately, it was the evening Frances met with her book group, so she wouldn’t mind if he was late arriving home.

He smiled to himself. At the end of the day, Frances was a woman who wanted his attention, full and undivided. Most of the time I give it to her, too, he thought affectionately, but right now I need to enter a brown study. When he had first used that expression in front of Frances, she’d asked what he was talking about.

“It has passed out of the language for the most part, but in the nineteenth century it was very common,” he had told her. “A ‘brown study’ is defined as a deep, serious absorption in thought, my dear.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick,” she had replied, “why not say it straight-you’re just trying to figure something out?”

And that’s just what I’m trying to do, Greco thought.

Gary Barr was at the top of his list of people and things to consider. Greco sensed that Barr had a chip on his shoulder toward those who, in his mind, had a privileged life. What was his relationship to the Althorp family? he wondered. In the years he and his wife were not working for the Carringtons, they regularly cooked and served dinners for the Althorps. Gary also chauffeured their daughter. How and why did he become Susan’s “pal”? I must talk to Susan’s friend Sarah again, Greco thought.

The torn page from People magazine found in Grace Carrington’s pocket was the next thing on the list. It had significance, great significance, of that he was sure. But why?

Next was Susan Althorp’s evening purse. Why did Gary Barr have such a clear memory of Peter Carrington asking Vincent Slater to return it to her the next morning, and then remembering also that Peter was startled when it wasn’t found in his car? Or was Barr making up that story for his own reasons? Slater had confirmed the conversation, but only to a degree. He claimed that Carrington merely asked him to check and see if the purse was in the car, and return it to Susan if it was.

But Susan was expected for brunch later that day. Besides, the bag was small, and could only have held things like a handkerchief, compact, comb, or lipstick. So why make an issue of returning it to her? Was there something special in it that she had needed? Greco asked himself.

All of these pieces are tied together, Nicholas Greco thought, as he sat with his hands folded, not noticing that it was becoming dark outside. But how?

The phone rang. Somewhat irritated at the intrusion, Greco picked up the receiver and identified himself.

“Mr. Greco, this is Kay Carrington. You gave me your card at the courthouse a few weeks ago.”

Greco straightened up in his chair. “Yes, I did, Mrs. Carrington,” he said slowly. “I am glad to hear from you.”

“Can you come see me tomorrow morning, at my home?”

“Of course. What time is convenient for you?”

“Eleven o’clock? Is that all right for you?”

“That would be fine.”

“Do you know where I live?”

“Yes, I do. I will be there at eleven.”

“Thank you.”

Greco heard the click of the receiver being replaced, then hung up himself. Still deep in thought, he got up and walked down the hall to the coat closet. At the last minute, he remembered to leave a note on his receptionist’s desk: “Will be in New Jersey tomorrow morning.”