by B. T. Lord
“And where’s that?” he asked.
“Twin Ponds. You heard of it?”
Win nodded. “Been through there a few times.” He paused. “How do you know Miss Carsgrove’s nephew?”
“He lives in Twin Ponds now. He’s our town doctor.” “You related to him or something?”
“Nope. Just a friend. The death of his aunt has been hard on him. I’m here for moral support.” Win nodded in a knowing way. Cammie looked around her. “This certainly is a beautiful place. It must have been tough for everyone when Helen refused to allow you to use the rights of way you’ve been using for years.”
She wondered if Win would respond to her statement. She’d met many old time Mainers who were wary of strangers and refused to answer any questions except with a yes or no. To her relief, the old man seemed to be one of those men who liked to talk. At least a little.
“She didn’t make it easy.”
“Did you ever have any confrontations with Mrs. Carsgrove?”
“I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to continue to take care of my family’s burial plot. I’m the last one alive of that generation. Don’t know who’s going to do it after I die. Probably nobody. But at least she saw what it meant to me, so she allowed me to come onto her property to do what I needed to do. But that was all. She was one of those environmental crazies. No hunting. No fishing. Wanted everything pristine-like. Yet she’s living in a house made of wood. Where did she think the wood came from?”
“So you’ve always taken care of your family’s cemetery?”
Win nodded. “Only one year I didn’t do it. That was last summer. I had a gall bladder operation and couldn’t make the trip, but I got my son to take over until I could get on my feet again.”
“Maybe he’ll take over some day?”
“Doubt it. He’s got a family, a job. He just did it as a favor to me, knowing how much this place means to me.”
“Hopefully he’ll be able to help you finish bordering the gravesites with the rocks.”
Win snorted. “That was his cockamamie idea. Thought it would look pretty. Shoulda known it would never get finished. In fact, I can’t think of any project that boy has ever started that he’s finished.”
“Did you ever see Mrs. Carsgrove up in your cemetery?”
“Sometimes she’d be here when I arrived.”
“What would she be doing?”
“Nothing much. Just standing over there near the pile of rocks, looking out over her land. As soon as she’d hear me, she’d take off towards her cabin. Not so much as a hello or a nod. Just turn her back and walk that quick walk she always had.”
Cammie knew that walk. It was the same walk Doc used. It seemed these Westerfields were incapable of strolling. Everything had to be done in a rush, as though they somehow knew time was a commodity they couldn’t take for granted.
“So she honestly didn’t get along with anybody?” She asked.
“No she didn’t. Not us, not the wardens, not the state police.”
“You must have been happy then when Henry decided to sue her.”
Win snorted. “He was a fool.”
“Why do you say that?”
He looked at her as though she were an idiot. “Henry was never going to win. She’d make sure of that with her fancy lawyers and all her money. We all tried to tell him that, but as usual he refused to listen.” He shook his head. “Now he’s facing living in a tiny bedroom in the back of his daughter’s house smack dab in the middle of Augusta, surrounded by concrete streets and traffic, away from the land and forest he grew up in and loved and cared for.” He looked up at Cammie. “People up here generally get along cos we have to. It’s harsh during the winters. We help each other out. But Mrs. Carsgrove just made enemies. It’s as if she enjoyed it. Now I know my neighbors. And I can tell you there ain’t nobody up here who would have killed her. Yeah, she made us mad as hell. And yeah, Henry is about to lose everything he owns. But neither he or any of us are killers. If we were, she woulda been dead a long time ago.”
He had a point.
“Well, thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” she said.
“Tell the nephew I’m real sorry for what happened.”
“I will.”
She jogged down the hill, trying to reach the cabin before Doc opened the door. She met up with him just as he was coming around the barn and paddock.
“What happened to Helen’s animals?” she asked as she noticed how empty and quiet the area was.
“Win Sackett took care of finding homes for them.”
“I just met him up at the cemetery.”
“No wonder it took you forever to get down here. I’m sure you questioned the bejesus out of the poor man. Did you find out anything?”
Cammie laughed. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
The police tape was still up on the large wraparound porch. Scooting under the yellow tape, she saw four cushioned wicker chairs set up around a wicker glass topped coffee table. From where she stood, she heard the sounds from the nearby stream, its water forcefully rushing past as a result of the spring melt. She compared the view from the cemetery to here and had to admit, it was more panoramic from the hill. Nevertheless, the rumbling from the stream was soothing and almost hypnotic and she found herself preferring the porch than battling the toppling winds.
Studying the cabin and barn, Cammie saw how beautifully constructed the buildings were. They were of the finest materials and the craftsmanship was exquisite. Helen may have lived off grid, but it was a very comfortable off grid existence.
She saw Doc had the keys out, but he appeared hesitant to unlock the door and enter. She came over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“I’m right here with you,” she said.
He nodded. Then taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. Approaching the door, he broke through the police tape that made a cross in front of the door. Unlocking it, he put his hand on the knob, paused for a long moment, then entered.
Both he and Cammie sucked in their breaths as they stood on the threshold. Mantree hadn’t been exaggerating. The drawers from a small writing desk located near a large Franklin stove were thrown to the floor, its papers scattered everywhere. Photographs that had once adorned the top of the white Steinway piano that sat beneath the picture window overlooking the meadow were scattered about haphazardly, shards of glass from the broken frames littering the vivid colors of the Aubusson rugs. Sheet music from the piano was also strewn about the room as though someone had swept their hand across the piano stand and sent them flying.
“Jesus,” Doc whispered as he took it all in. Cammie shut the door behind him, then turned her focus back towards the destruction. Her eyes immediately rested on the portrait of Helen and her husband that lay propped up at an angle against the wall opposite the stove.
Seated in front of her standing husband, with her hands demurely folded in the lap of a flowing green dress, Helen’s face had been slashed several times, the tattered pieces of canvas hanging limply. Cammie found it interesting that her husband, with his stern features staring back, remained untouched, as did the other pieces of abstract art that hung on the surrounding walls. It was Helen who had been attacked, Helen who had been hated enough for someone to extinguish her very likeness. There was a deep seated rage at work here. This was not random. This had been deliberate. Which made it more horrifying.
She saw Doc glance at the painting, then quickly look away in anguish. This was the second time he’d had to witness his aunt’s face destroyed. It was no wonder he couldn’t bear the sight of it. In an effort to keep himself occupied so he wouldn’t break down, he set about getting a fire started in the stove. Using the wood neatly piled next to the Franklin, he soon had the flames roaring, taking the edge off the cold temperatures in the house.
Cammie walked into the living room, noting that the cabin was much smaller than Doc’s. Yet the fine eye to detail was evident. There were broad wooden beams spanning
the ceiling. A spiral stairway to the right of the front door led up to a loft where Cammie guessed lay Helen’s bedroom. The living room furniture, spared the slashing knife, was plush, much like Doc’s was. The small kitchen, equipped with the best in camping appliances, was tucked near the rear of the cabin. There was white dust all over, left by the forensics team.
She approached the piano and looked down at the littered pictures, still in their shattered frames. She turned her head this way and that to better study the photos that faced up towards her. One in particular caught her attention and she bent down to pick up the one framed photograph that hadn’t been broken. She brought it over to Doc. “Is this Helen?”
Sitting in a wing back chair he’d hauled up to be nearer to the warming flames, it took him a moment to focus on the picture she held out to him. He gently took it in his hands and traced a fingertip over her face. “Yes. This was taken at the family summer cottage in Bar Harbor. I believe she was 21 at the time. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
She looked over his shoulder and studied the black and white photo. It showed a woman in the prime of her youth. She was wearing a pair of tennis shorts, showing off her long, athletic legs. She stood with her hands on her hips, laughing at the camera.
Cammie was struck by her confidence, her love of life. She had a scarf tied like a headband around her shoulder length brunette hair and behind her stood a huge shingled house. The sheriff was bemused by his description of the structure. A cottage to her meant two rooms, but to people of Doc’s social strata, a cottage was the size of a football field.
“There’s something about her,” Cammie murmured as she continued to study the photo.
“I think I can tell you what it is,” he said as he handed her back the photo. “Have you ever seen pictures of Jacqueline Kennedy?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Have you ever noticed how she always seemed to have such an enigmatic smile? It was as if you never quite knew what she was thinking behind the lovely smile.”
Cammie looked down at the photo again. “And Helen was the same?”
“Yes. She was a deep woman, Cammie. Fiercely intelligent and sophisticated, just like Jacqueline, who, by the way, was a dear friend of Helen’s. Yet, no matter how much time one spent in her company, I don’t think anyone truly knew her. She kept the essence of who she was hidden behind her beautiful smile. Maybe it was the age she grew up in. Despite the revolution of the 60’s, women in our social set were taught to take a step back, be supportive of their husbands and, most importantly, never outshine them. They were there to be the perfect adornment.”
“Thank God times have changed.”
She pulled up a rocker opposite Doc and after taking off her parka, sat down to enjoy the warmth of the stove. She looked at him and saw how drawn he looked. He had his hands tightly clasped in his lap as his gaze swept the room.
“Helen so loved this house. It was more than a home. It was a sanctuary. Of course she’d had other houses built and remodeled throughout her life, but this one was special. To see what someone did…” He let the words trail off.
Sensing this was the perfect opportunity to explore what she’d felt during Doc’s conversation with Mantree, she sat back in the rocker and rested her head against its cushioned back.
“What was Helen like?” Cammie asked quietly.
Doc took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Helen was the epitome of a society woman. She went to the proper finishing schools, had the proper beaus, did a year in both London and Paris. Married the proper man. Was involved in the proper charities. That’s why the family was shocked when she bought this piece of property four years ago and announced she was going to live here.”
“What prompted such a decision?”
“Her husband had passed away two years before. I think it finally occurred to her that she could finally live a different sort of life.”
“So who was this proper man she married?” she asked.
“Frederick Glaston Carsgrove. We all knew him as Freddy.”
“When did she and Freddy get married?”
“In 1966, when she was twenty years old, and he was twenty-five.”
Cammie glanced back at the portrait, at Freddy’s bushy eyebrows, salt and pepper hair and light blue eyes that seemed to bore a hole right through her. “He’s a bit intimidating. Was he as vivacious as Helen?”
“God, no. He was the complete opposite. Very upstanding, very conventional. Very sanctimonious. In other words, incredibly boring. His idea of fun was to discuss, in excruciating detail, the day’s financial news. When they speak of hell, it isn’t fire and brimstone. It’s sitting at the dinner table with Freddy Carsgrove.”
“Why did Helen marry someone like that? Her pictures make her appear so full of life.”
“Because he was my father’s best friend. The two had gone to Harvard together and Father thought this an excellent marriage for Helen. Uniting the two families and all that cock and bull. My grandfather, who allowed absolutely no opposition once he’d made up his mind about something, agreed. Even if Helen wished to refuse, she didn’t stand a chance going up against those two men. Not at that time in her life, anyway.”
“Did she mourn Freddy when he died?”
Doc shook his head. “To be honest, I think she was glad to be rid of him. No more dinner parties where she had to smile through the same, insipid conversation year after year. No more listening to him pontificate on everything, as though he held the monopoly on world opinion.” He leaned forward in the chair and stared at the flames through the glass door. “You have to understand. In our world, you are expected to perform a certain way, be a certain type of person. Exhibit the most exquisite manners, no matter what’s really going on behind the scenes. Helen was the master of all that. I suspect that somewhere along the way, she grew tired of the façade. When Freddy died, she no longer needed to pretend. She’d done her part. Now she could live out the rest of her life the way she wanted to. I imagine the appeal of this place was that she could do what she wanted, when she wanted, away from the prying eyes of her social equals and, more importantly, of her family.”
“Her need to live life her own way sort of sounds like you.”
“I didn’t have her patience. Oh, I tried for a little while. But my sin was worse.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “The funny thing is that if I had been a womanizer, my philandering would have been more readily accepted. But just the idea that I preferred the company of men…well, there was nearly a second Boston Massacre the night my father found out.”
“Was Helen as difficult as everyone says she was?”
Doc glanced at her. “So that’s what you and Win Sackett talked about.”
“Sort of.”
She gave him a run through of her discussion with Sackett. He listened quietly and when she was done, he sat back in his chair and crossed his leg. “Helen was always an opinionated woman. She grew more forceful in her beliefs and ideas as she grew older.”
“As in the confrontations and lawsuit she was involved in with Harding?”
Doc absently rubbed his chin with his knuckles. “She was fanatical about the environment. She and I discussed it many times over the years, but she refused to compromise. She saw it as her moral duty to protect the woods and rivers from wanton fishing and hunting. I tried to impress upon her the undeniable fact that she was 71 years old, living in a harsh environment. At some point, she was going to find herself unable to carry on living her life the way she was accustomed to doing. I explained that what she considered wanton hunting and fishing was, in many instances, a means for the local people to feed themselves and their family. I wanted her to understand that instead of constantly fighting with her neighbors over her unreasonable demands that they no longer use the rights of way over her property, it would be best for her to try and get along with them. You never know when you’ll need their help. But she stubbornly refused to listen. She felt she was in the right and that was t
hat.”
Hmmmm. Sounds awfully familiar, Cammie thought to herself.
“She didn’t appear frightened or worried someone might take a pot shot at her?”
“It never entered her mind. She could be quite indomitable.”
“I know you didn’t like it when Mantree brought up the possibility of Helen running away from something in Boston. But between you and me, was there something that prompted her to move all the way up there, besides her love of nature? I mean, it is gorgeous. But I couldn’t live a life completely off the grid. Not up here.” She grinned. “In Hawaii, maybe. Or Fiji.”
For the first time Doc smiled. “You’re right. She could have afforded to live anywhere in the world, including someplace warm and tropical. But as I said earlier, she grew tired of who she was. I think she wanted to find out, before she died, who she could be. And this, for better or worse, was the place she chose to do that.”
“Do you know if Helen made it a habit to go up to the Sackett’s family cemetery?”
“I’ve been thinking about that myself. It isn’t easy living the way she did up here. You’re constantly working to ensure your survival. Helen wasn’t a woman who wasted time thinking about the past or worrying about the future. She was very much a here and now sort of woman. I can’t fathom what she was doing up there.” He absently passed his hand through his hair. “After talking to Mantree and seeing what was done to her home and to her, I’m of the conclusion that Harding could very well be guilty. He’s losing his home that has been in his family for generations. If that doesn’t push a person over the edge, nothing would.”