I 've Heard That Song Before

77

Elaine did not comment on the changes I had made in the living room, which I interpreted to mean that she was not pleased with them. She carried it off well, although I could understand how she must be feeling. Six months ago she knew nothing of my existence. She had lived in this house for the five years she was married to Peter’s father, and after his death had stayed on, running the place until Peter married Grace Meredith. Now it was mine.

“That was when things changed. Mrs. Elaine moved into the other house, and Peter invited us to come back,” Jane Barr had confided to me. “Mrs. Grace Carrington took the people on the staff that she especially liked and shifted them to the apartment. That’s where she really lived and did her entertaining, so even though there was a new mistress in the house, Mrs. Elaine pretty much had the run of the mansion, even though she didn’t actually live here anymore.”

In the years following Grace’s death, Elaine had become a kind of de facto lady of the house. Then I had come along to spoil it.

I was aware that without me in the picture, she was the closest thing to a relative that Peter had, and it would have been only natural for him to turn to her for comfort if he went to prison. And Peter was generous.

Vincent Slater was either acting very cool to me, or he was afraid of me. I wasn’t sure which it was. I couldn’t decide whether he felt I had betrayed Peter by hiring Nicholas Greco, or was afraid that Greco would find out something that would incriminate him. Greco had suggested the possibility of an “unholy alliance,” as he had put it, between Vince and Barr. I really hadn’t had time to give that possibility much thought.

I will say in Richard Walker’s behalf that he was the one who made the evening. He told anecdotes about the years he had spent working at Sotheby’s when he was in his early twenties, and told us about the elderly art connoisseur in London who had hired him now. “He’s quite a delightful guy,” Richard said, “and it’s a perfect time to make the move. I can get out of my lease for the gallery and even get a bonus in giving up the space. My apartment is in the hands of the broker, and we already have offers on it.”

For a little while we avoided talking about Peter, but then at dinner it became impossible to ignore the fact that we were here, dining in his home, while he was in a jail cell. “I did give him some good news,” I said. “I told him we were having a baby.”

“I guessed it!” Elaine said triumphantly. “I told Richard only a couple of hours ago that I was going to ask-I had my suspicions.”

Both Elaine and Richard gave me big, seemingly heartfelt hugs.

That left my other guest, Vincent Slater. Our eyes met, and I saw an expression in his that frightened me. I couldn’t read it, but for an instant the image of Peter’s other pregnant wife, floating in the pool, flashed through my mind.

By nine o’clock, we were having coffee in the library. By then we had run out of things to say to one another, and there was a kind of forced attitude of civility. I felt so much hostility in the room that I resolved I would never bring these people into Peter’s special space again. I could tell that all three of them despised Gary Barr. I knew Elaine suspected him of stealing Peter’s shirt. Greco had confirmed that Barr admitted to the theft, and we knew that Vincent had then found it and taken it himself.

I could not be sure if any of them, including Barr, had noticed the page from People magazine lying on the corner of Peter’s desk. I had placed it in such a way that it was hard to miss. I still didn’t understand how it could be important, but if it drew a reaction from one of my guests, then I might have a clue.

At nine thirty, they all got up to go. By then, the stress of the evening had begun to exhaust me. If any of these men was the one I heard being threatened by Susan Althorp all those years ago in the chapel, I was not going to find out about it tonight.

We stood by the front door for a few minutes as Vincent and I wished Richard all good luck in London. He told me that if possible, he would be back for Peter’s trial, to lend moral support. “I love that guy, Kay,” Richard said. “I always have. And I know he loves you.”

Long ago, Maggie had told me that you can love a person without loving everything about that person. “Monsignor Fulton Sheen was a great speaker who had a television program about fifty years ago,” she had reminisced. “One day he said something that really impressed me. He said, ‘I hate communism, but I love the communist.”

I think that was a good comparison to the way Peter felt about Richard. He loved the person and despised his weakness.

After I closed the door behind Elaine and Richard and Vincent, I walked back to the kitchen. The Barrs were about to leave. “The cups are all washed and put away, Mrs. Carrington,” Jane said anxiously.

“Mrs. Carrington, if you need anything during the night, you know we’ll be there in a minute for you,” Gary Barr said.

I ignored his remark, but did say that I thought everyone had enjoyed the dinner very much. I bid them good night and they left by the kitchen door; I double-locked it behind them.

It had become my habit at the end of the day to sit for a while in Peter’s library. It made me feel close to him. I could relive the moment I walked into this room for the first time and saw him sitting in his chair. I could smile as I remembered the way his reading glasses slipped from his face when he stood up to greet me.

But tonight I didn’t stay there long. I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. I was beginning to fear that Nicholas Greco would not be able to come up with anything that would help in Peter’s defense. He was so cautious when I asked him about what he had learned. Maybe he was even finding information that would hurt Peter.

I got up from the chair and walked over to the desk. I wanted to be sure to take the page from People magazine upstairs with me. I didn’t want to forget it. Greco had been so insistent that I show it to Peter on the next visiting day.

I had anchored the page with Peter’s handsome antique magnifying glass, and it was covering a section of the background in the picture of Marian Howley.

Part of the section magnified included a painting on the wall behind Howley. I lifted the magnifying glass and studied the painting intently. It was a pastoral scene, identical to the one I had replaced in the dining room. Taking the page and magnifying glass with me, I ran upstairs to the third floor. I had changed a number of the paintings, and had to dig it out from within a stack I had placed on the floor, each painting covered and carefully wrapped.

The frame was heavy, and I was cautious not to overdo the pulling and lifting, but finally I got it out. I propped it against the wall and then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it. Using the magnifying glass, I slowly began to examine it.

I’m not an art expert, so the fact that this painting did not in any way stir me was not a test of its value. It was signed in the corner-Morley-with the same flourish as the one now hanging in the dining room. The two paintings were essentially identical in content. But the other one compelled attention; this one did not. The date on this one was 1920.

In 1920, had Morley painted this scene and then gone on to create other similar scenes, only with greater skill? It was possible. But then I saw what could only be visible by careful examination: There was another name under Morley’s signature.

“What do you think you’re doing, Kay?”

I whirled around. Vincent Slater was standing in the doorway, staring at me, his face white, his lips a thin hard line. He began walking across the room to me, and I shrank away from him.

“What do you think you are doing?” he asked again.