No Place Like Home by Mary Higgins Clark Page B

‘Little Lizzie’s Place.’ ”
    In the last ten months, when Georgette again had been showing the house and reciting its history, most prospective buyers said they were uneasy at the thought of owning a home in which there had been a fatal shooting. If they lived in thearea and were aware of the house being called “Little Lizzie’s Place,” they flatly refused even to look at it. It had taken a special buyer like Alex Nolan to brush aside her admittedly sketchy attempt to discuss the background of the home he was considering.
    Georgette sat at the breakfast bar and opened the newspapers—the Daily Record, the Star-Ledger, and the New York Post. The Daily Record gave the picture of the house its entire front page. The follow-up story deplored the vandalism that refused to let go of the local tragedy. On the third page of the Star-Ledger there was a picture of Celia Nolan, caught at the exact moment she began to faint. It showed her head bent, her knees buckling, and her dark hair drifting behind her. The picture next to it showed the front of the vandalized house and the inscription on the lawn. The New York Post, on page three, had a close-up of the skull and crossbones on the front door with the initials L and B in the eye sockets. Both the Post and Star-Ledger rehashed the sensational case. “Unhappily, ‘Little Lizzie’s Place’ has acquired a sinister mythology in our community over the years,” the reporter for the Daily Record wrote.
    That reporter had interviewed Ted Cartwright about the vandalism. He had posed for the picture in his home in nearby Bernardsville, his walking stick in his hand. “I have never recovered from the death of my wife, and I am shocked that someone would be vicious enough to remind us of that terrible incident,”he was quoted as saying. “Both physically and emotionally, I certainly don’t need a reminder. I still have nightmares about the expression on that child’s face when she went on her shooting spree. She looked like the devil incarnate.”
    It’s the same story he’s been telling for nearly a quarter of a century, Georgette thought. He doesn’t want anyone to forget it. It’s a damn shame Liza was too traumatized to defend herself. I’d give anything to hear her version of what happened that night. I’ve seen the way Ted Cartwright conducts business. If he had his way, we’d have strip malls instead of riding trails in Mendham and Peapack, and he’ll keep trying until the day he’s lowered into the ground. He may fool a lot of people, but I’ve been on the zoning board and I’ve seen him in action. Behind that phony country-gentleman, bereaved-husband façade, he’s ruthless.
    Georgette continued reading. Dru Perry of the Star-Ledger had obviously done research on the Nolans. “Alex Nolan, a partner in Ackerman and Nolan, a New York law firm, is a member of the Peapack Riding Club. His wife, Celia Foster Nolan, is the widow of Laurence Foster, former president of Bradford and Foster investment firm.”
    Even though I did try to tell Alex Nolan about the stigma on the house, Georgette thought for the hundredth time, it’s in his wife’s name, and she knew nothing about it. If she finds out about the stigma law, she could demand that the sale be voided.
    Tears of frustration in her eyes, Georgette studied the picture of Celia Nolan as she was caught in the process of fainting. I could probably claim that I did tell her husband and let her take me to court, but that picture would have a big impact on a judge.
    As Georgette got up to refill her coffee cup, her phone rang. It was Robin: “Georgette, I suppose you’ve seen the newspapers.”
    â€œYes, I have. You’re up early.”
    â€œI was worried about you. I know how upset you were yesterday.”
    Georgette was grateful for the concern she heard in Robin’s