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when we married. His spacious apartment in SoHo had included a large study, with room for his splendid sound system and even a grand piano. The piano was now in storage. Alex had a natural gift for music, and thoroughly enjoyed playing. I know he misses that pleasure. He’s worked hard to accomplish all he has. Though a distant cousin of my late husband, who himself had come from wealth, Alex was decidedly a “poor relation.” I knew how proud he was to be able to buy this new house.
    â€œYou’ve been saying that you want to get back todecorating,” Alex reminded me. “Once you’re settled, there’d be plenty of opportunity for that, especially in Mendham. There’s a lot of money there, and plenty of big houses being built. Please give it a try, for me, Ceil. You have a standing offer from the people next door to purchase this apartment at a nice profit to you. You know that.”
    He came around the table and put his arms around me. “Please.”
    I hadn’t heard Jack come into the dining room. “I like the house, too, Mom,” he piped up. “Alex is going to buy me my own pony when we move there.”
    I looked at my husband and son. “It looks as though we have a new home,” I said, trying to smile. Alex is desperate to have more space, I thought. He loves the idea of being near the riding club. Eventually I’ll find a different house in one of the other towns. It won’t be hard to persuade him to move. He did admit that it was a mistake to buy without consulting me, after all.
    One month later the moving vans were pulling away from 895 Fifth Avenue and heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. Its destination was One Old Mill Lane, Mendham, New Jersey.

4

    H er eyes ablaze with curiosity, fifty-four-year-old Marcella Williams stood to one side of the front window of her living room watching the long moving van chug slowly past her home. Twenty minutes ago, she had seen Georgette Grove’s silver BMW go up the hill. Georgette had been the agent who sold the house. Marcella was sure that the Mercedes sedan that arrived shortly after that belonged to her new neighbors. She had heard that they were rushing to move in because the four-year-old was starting prekindergarten. She wondered what they’d be like.
    People didn’t tend to stay in that house long, she reflected, and it wasn’t surprising. Nobody likes to have their home known as “Little Lizzie’s Place.” Jane Salzman was the first buyer of the house when it was sold after Liza Barton went on her shooting spree. Jane picked it up dirt cheap. She always claimed the house had a creepy feeling, but then, Jane was into parapsychology which Marcella thought was a lot of nonsense.But no question, the fact that the house was known as “Little Lizzie’s Place” eventually got on the nerves of all the owners, and last year’s Halloween prank was the finish for the last owners, Mark and Louise Harriman. She flipped out when she saw the sign on her lawn, and the life-size doll with a pistol in its hand on her porch. She and Mark had been planning to relocate to Florida next year anyhow, so she simply moved up the timing. They moved out in February, and the house had been empty since then.
    That train of thought led Marcella to wonder where Liza Barton was now. Marcella had been living there when the tragedy occurred, and she still could picture Little Liza at age ten, with the blond, curly hair, round Kewpie doll face, and quiet, mature manner. She was certainly a smart child, Marcella thought, but she had a way of looking at people, even adults, as if she were sizing them up. I like a child to act like a child, she thought. I went out of my way to be nice to Audrey and Liza after Will Barton died. Then I was happy when Audrey married Ted Cartwright. I said to Liza that she must be thrilled to have a new father, and I’ll never forget the way that little snip looked