I Heard That Song Before Read Free Page A

CEO. Being ‘a person of interest’ in the disappearance of one woman and the death of another is hardly a good image to have as the head of an international company. Peter may not talk about it, but I know he’s deeply concerned. That’s why, from now on, he’s got to be seen as active in community affairs and, even if he hates it, his very generous philanthropies have got to be publicized.”
    “Really?” Elaine got up as she spoke. “Vincent, you’re a fool. Mark my words, this won’t work. What you’re doing is exposing Peter, not protecting him. Socially, Peter comes across as a zero. He may be a genius at business, but as you certainly know, he isn’t comfortable with small talk. Away from the office he’s much happier with a book in his hand and the door of the library closed than at some cocktail party or dinner. ‘Never less alone than when alone,’ as the saying goes. When is this affair going to take place?”
    “Thursday, December sixth. Kay Lansing, the woman who’s running it, needed about seven weeks lead time to publicize it.”
    “Is there any limit to how many tickets can be sold?”
    “Two hundred.”
    “I’ll be sure to buy one of them. So will Richard. I’m on my way to the gallery. He’s having a reception for one of his new artists.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she pulled open the French doors and walked out.
    Slater watched her go, his mouth drawn in a thin, tight line. Richard Walker was Elaine’s son by her first marriage. She’s paying for that reception, he thought. Carrington money has been supporting that loser son of hers since he was twenty years old. He remembered how it drove Grace crazy that Elaine assumed she could walk into the main house anytime she wanted. The one thing Peter was smart enough to do was to not let Elaine move back in here after Grace died.
    Not for the first time, Vincent Slater wondered whether there was more to Peter Carrington’s tolerance of his stepmother than met the eye.

3
    I was at the library when I received the call from Vincent Slater. It was late Wednesday morning and I was about to commit to having our fundraiser at the Glenpointe Hotel in Teaneck, a neighboring town to Englewood. I’ve attended affairs there, and they do a really good job, but I was still disappointed I’d been turned down by Peter Carrington. Needless to say, I was absolutely delighted by Slater’s message and decided to share my excitement with Maggie, the maternal grandmother who raised me and who still lives in the same modest house in Englewood where I grew up.
    I’m a reverse commuter. I live on West Seventy-ninth Street in Manhattan, in a small second-floor apartment in a converted town house. It’s about as big as a minute, but it has a working fireplace, high ceilings, a bedroom large enough for a bed and dresser, and a kitchen area that is separate from the living room. I furnished it from garage sales held in the tonier parts of Englewood and I love the way it looks. I also love working at the library in Englewood, and, of course, that means I get to see a lot of my grandmother, Margaret O’Neil, whom my father and I have always called Maggie.
    Her daughter, who was my mother, died when I was only two weeks old. It happened in the late afternoon. She was propped up in bed nursing me, when an embolism hit her heart. My father called shortly after and was alarmed she did not answer the phone. He rushed home to find her lifeless body, her arms still cradling me. I was asleep, my lips contentedly suckling her breast.
    My father was an engineer who, after a year with a bridge-building company, had quit and made gardening, previously his avocation, his full-time career. He used his keen mind to achieve a different kind of engineering triumph in the local estates, creating gardens with rock walls, and waterfalls, and winding paths. Which is why he was hired by Peter Carrington’s stepmother, Elaine, who disliked the unyielding rigidity of her