by B. T. Lord
To her surprise, the meal turned out to be excellent, even after a careful inspection. She was able to ignore the looks of staff and customers while she ate. But once she was done, she thought it best to beat a hasty retreat. No sense tempting fate any more than was absolutely necessary. She left Patty a hefty tip – a girl could never have enough nice clothing and make-up - and walked out of the dining room, smiling at Ralph and the others as she left.
Climbing the stairs to her room, she absently wondered that if Henry wasn’t Helen’s killer, was it something in her past that had stalked her to Allagash? Through experience, Cammie knew that many times murders started years before the actual act. Had Helen inadvertently set the wheels in motion by something she’d done in Boston? Despite the tone of the love letter, had something gone terribly wrong between Helen and Rob? Had Rob followed her all the way to Allagash and killed her in a fit of rage?
She entered her room, sat down on the queen sized bed and called Jace. She spoke to him for a few moments, then went over to Doc’s room which was down the hall from hers. She knocked on his door and was promptly let in.
His room was a mirror image of hers – with the same view of the lake. The flat screen TV was turned on to a 1930s Cary Grant movie. The volume was turned down low, though Cammie thought she recognized the film.
“You know, they say Cary Grant was gay,” she said, pointing to the screen. “He supposedly had a long term affair with Randolph Scott.”
“They both had excellent taste then.”
She sat down in a nearby chair while Doc threw himself across the bed.
“How are you doing?” she asked. He shrugged. She shared what she’d learned during dinner. He sniffed contemptuously when she was done.
“Of course the girl is going to say that. They’re going to be loyal to one of their own. Yet you saw how out of control Harding was. I’m convinced that if I wasn’t inside my Navigator, he would have torn me apart.”
“Hopefully, Mantree will find what he needs to arrest him. That is, if Henry is guilty.”
“How can you not think he’s guilty? My God, you had to draw your weapon!”
It was her turn to shrug. “I keep thinking about that love letter we found. I think it’s connected, though I don’t know how yet.”
“That letter is 41 years old. I’m sure it has nothing to do with what happened to Helen. In fact, it’s a waste of time to drop it off with the State Police. It’s only going to lengthen our already long trip to Boston.” He glanced at her. “Have you made your peace about travelling down there?” Before she could stop herself, surprise showed on her face. “You’re not the only one who’s observant, you know. I understand how accompanying me is cutting into your reconciliation with Jason.”
Doc was the only person who called Jace by his given name. It always sounded so strange to Cammie’s ears.
“Doc, you’re my friend. I’m going to be there for you just as you’ve been there for me. Besides, my gut is telling me part of the answer to what happened to Helen is in Boston. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can figure all this out.”
“Must I remind you for the umpteenth time that this isn’t your case? You’re only going to Boston to act as a human shield for me.”
She laughed. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“It’s the truth. You have no idea what awaits us down there.” He paused for a long moment, then added in a morose whisper, “God help us all.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Boston, Massachusetts
Mid-April
It had been a year and half since Cammie lived and worked in this city by the sea that had been founded in 1630 by John Winthrop and his not very merry band of fellow Puritans. Although more than 300 years had passed since Winthrop and his group set out to build their ‘city upon a hill’ that would serve as an inspiration to the Old World, there was still an insularity to Boston – areas where you were considered an outsider if you hadn’t been born and raised there.
Despite that, Cammie had spent three years, walking every street and alleyway in her work as a private investigator. She’d grown to love walking its sidewalks, from the North End all the way to Southie, savoring the different ethnicities, accents and foods of its varying close-knit neighborhoods.
Now she wanted to scream.
She’d forgotten how bad Boston drivers were. In fact, they had the dubious distinction of being the worse drivers in the nation. With cars cutting them off right and left, squeezing into the tiny space Doc left between himself and the car in front, tailgating them unmercifully, she was on the verge of tearing her hair out. It didn’t help that once they reached the outskirts of the city, Doc had suddenly turned into one of these crazy Boston drivers. To be fair, in order to survive, he’d had to turn a bit aggressive. But as with everything else in his life, Doc overcompensated, and was now dodging pedestrians, slamming on his brakes, cursing up a blue streak and miraculously maneuvering the Navigator in and out of traffic as though it were a tiny Fiat rather than an enormous behemoth.
After uttering strangled cry after strangled cry, she finally covered her face with her hands, unable and unwilling to deal with the onslaught of people, cars honking and the general bedlam of a large metropolitan city. By the time Doc pulled onto Mount Vernon Street in Beacon Hill where his parents lived, she was as pale as a ghost and was convinced her hair had turned white.
“Are you alright?” he asked innocently as he turned off the Navigator. “You look rather pasty.”
“I think I saw my life pass before my eyes at least ten times,” she replied, checking her hair in the vanity mirror to make sure it hadn’t indeed turned white.
“You’ve been up in Twin Ponds too long. You’ve forgotten what city life is like.”
Cammie silently swore that if she got through this visit, she’d never leave Twin Ponds again.
She got out onto the quiet tree lined street. To the right and left were brownstones that dated back to the early to mid-1800s. Before her was a wrought iron gate behind which stretched a long walkway that led up to a large, imposing Federal style brownstone. Carved above the front door was the name ‘Westerfield’.
This was the neighborhood once populated by the Boston Brahmins, as the top of the elite, wealthy and educated members of Boston society were nicknamed. Although many of their stately residences on the south slope of Beacon Hill had been converted to small apartments and condominiums, and the barns where chic carriages and handsome horses had once been kept were now garages, the area still retained an air of stepping back in time to an era of elegance and gentility.
The Westerfields, in contrast to many of the old moneyed families who had long ago fled to the suburbs, still kept the entire brownstone as their home.
Cammie smiled as she breathed in the warm spring air on this bright sunny day. It was still cold up in Maine – the temperate weather wouldn’t arrive for a few weeks yet. Down here though, she and Doc had shed their parkas; she was wearing a long sleeve black sweater that was already starting to feel a bit warm. A light breeze blew up that riffled through her auburn curls, adding to the pleasure of the warmer temperatures.
Careful not to trip on the uneven sidewalks that bulged up here and there from the roots of the old, imposing trees that lined the street, she started towards the gate. She was about to open it when she realized she was alone. She looked back and saw Doc still sitting in the Navigator. She understood his reluctance - she shared it. They weren’t about to enter his family’s home. They were about to enter the lion’s den. But the sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could do what they’d come down here to do and get back to Twin Ponds.
She walked back to the Navigator and opened the driver door. “I’ll be right behind you all the way,” she replied as she pulled at his sleeve.
“I was hoping you’d be in front of me.”
“Come on, we’ll face the barbarian horde together.”
She managed to get him out of th
e vehicle. Together, they passed through the gate and down the walkway where the shrubs were just beginning to flower. Here and there, large forsythias were already covered in yellow flowers, and the grass on the square, brick lined lawn was turning a bright green.
Cammie rang the doorbell. It took a few moments before the door opened and a short, stout woman with grey hair and a lined face, dressed in a flowered print dress, smiled at the sight of Doc.
“Doctor Westerfield! How wonderful to see you,” she exclaimed in a broad Boston accent.
“Mabel. How are you?”
“I’m doing fine.” She stepped aside and they entered into the foyer. “I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Carsgrove.”
“Thank you. It was a shock. Tell me, is my father at home?”
“Yes, he is. He’s in the library. Shall I tell him you’re here?”
“No, thank you. We’ll just pop down to his sanctum sanctorum.”
“His what?” Cammie whispered as they began to walk down the immensely long, thickly carpeted corridor, past the antique furniture and lush flower arrangements strategically placed here and there.
“His holy of holies. His sanctuary. The one room in this entire mausoleum where he enjoys playing the lord of the manor with impervious ease.”
His voice was brittle and Cammie imagined the scenes that must have played out between father and son in that room.
She’d been to the Westerfields’ home once before, shortly after meeting Doc when she’d saved him from a mugging. It had intimidated her then, walking along the wood paneled corridor with the portraits of long dead Westerfields staring down at her disapprovingly, knowing, somehow, that she didn’t belong there. She wondered if this was why the corridor was so long. Not only did it heighten the intimidation factor by making one feel as though they were walking towards their own execution, there were enough stuffy looking ancestors to fill an arena.
Knowing what to expect, Cammie was determined she wouldn’t feel that way again. However, as she followed Doc, that feeling of being completely out of place began to creep in. Maybe it was the portraits of the men, dressed in their dark Victorian coats, sporting huge mutton chops, all sharing the same, severe, unforgiving stares. Or the blonde women in their tightly corseted gowns, all bearing an uncanny resemblance to each other and watching her with a haughty eye. Whatever it was, Cammie was overcome with the desire to turn around and get the hell out of there.
Doc was hurrying along the corridor, as if he too wanted to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Although she was taller than him by at least two inches, she had to practically trot to keep up with him. Near the end of the corridor, he stopped at a door to his left and lifted his hand to knock. Catching up to him, Cammie noticed his hand was shaking slightly. He took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders, adjusted his expression so he looked passively non-committal and gave a sharp rap.
“Come in,” came a low, gravelly voice.
Let the games begin.
Doc opened the door and they entered.
Eliot Gardner Westerfield was seated at an immense, antique oak desk that dwarfed everything else in the room. Behind him was a large window in which the sun shone through, making it appear that he was encased in light. Like an old world prophet. Which, Cammie was convinced, was the effect he wished to convey. The walls were decorated with built in shelves and were filled with books, many of them with old fashioned bindings and gold lettering.
In front of the desk were two red wing back chairs, facing, appropriately, the master of the household. It was the room of a powerful man, his masculinity and authority crackling in the air.
He had his head bent over some papers spread out before him and he appeared to be more interested in those than in the two people standing before him.
Cammie felt the power of the man seated at the desk. He was very fit with a straight posture, his face lined, but still looking younger than his 75 years of age. His head was balding, with just a wisp of white hair above each ear. He was dressed in black slacks with a grey cardigan sweater over a white shirt. His face showed a cold, inflexible man accustomed to barking orders and having them instantly obeyed.
Determined not to be cowed by him, she deliberately walked over to the bookcase nearest to her and began to browse the titles. Many were works of philosophers such as Aristotle and Erasmus. Sprinkled here and there were tomes dedicated to recording the history of the Westerfield family, which if she recalled what Doc had told her, stretched back to before the Revolutionary War. She sensed rather than saw Westerfield look up, his reprimand radiating throughout the room. She’d be damned if she waited in obsequious silence, waiting for his highness to speak.
Doc appeared not to be affected by his father’s rudeness. Accustomed to it, he waited patiently, his eyes focused on a faraway spot above his father’s head, lost in his own thoughts.
After what seemed like hours, Mr. Westerfield put his pen down and stood up.
“I expect you’re here about Helen,” he replied without preamble.
Unlike Doc, whose accent was more like John F. Kennedy’s, Westerfield spoke in a slight pseudo-British accent that brought to mind the cadences of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Compared to the refined accents flying around the room, Cammie sounded, at least to her own ears, like a fishmonger’s wife.
“Yes.” The old man looked pointedly at Cammie. Doc stepped forward to make the introductions. “This is Cammie Farnsworth. You met her once a few years back. She’s the sheriff in Twin Ponds.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Sheriff?”
“I’m not here in an official capacity,” she hurried to explain.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I asked her,” Doc stepped in, his tone as icy as a Twin Ponds blizzard.
The two men stared down each other in what seemed to be another battle in a long, ongoing war. Despite herself, Cammie watched the two of them, wondering who was going to win. In the end, Doc broke the silence. “Has there been any discussion on what type of service we’ll be having for Helen?”
Westerfield shook his head. “Lily hasn’t said anything.”
“I’ll speak to her,” Doc replied.
He ignored Doc as he turned his attention back to Cammie. “Is there any more news on Helen’s death?”
Cammie was about to explain that she was not investigating the murder of his sister – that she had no jurisdiction either in Allagash or here in Boston. But one look at him and she realized it would be a waste of breath. Instead, she shared what little she knew.
“The authorities have a person of interest.”
“Oh yes,” Westerfield said. “The man Helen was involved with in her frivolous lawsuit.”
“Why do you call it frivolous?” Cammie asked, despite herself.
“What else would you call it? My sister had no business instituting such a thing. Then again, she was always unnecessarily litigious. Unable and unwilling to see another’s point of view. I knew it would one day backfire on her. I just never expected it would take her life.”
Cammie fought to keep her face neutral. It was amazing how these Westerfields were so expert at describing themselves without even realizing it. “So you were contacted by the Maine State Police,” she continued.
“Yes. They appeared to be calling everyone in the immediate family. Though why they would bother us…” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Sometimes a murder starts years before,” she found herself saying.
Westerfield glared at her. “Are you trying to insinuate that one of us may have killed her?”
Cammie refused to back down. “I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply saying that a responsible investigating officer will speak to everyone who knew the victim. What you think is trivial or unimportant may eventually help to solve the crime.”
Westerfield stared at her. She stared back. It was Doc who broke the stalemate.
“The coroner should be releasing Helen’s body within the week. It
would be beneficial to have all the plans in place – the service at King’s Chapel, followed by the burial in Mount Auburn Cemetery.”
“I assumed Helen would have preferred to be buried in the wilderness she chose to live in.”
Cammie glanced to Doc. She saw his jaw tighten, his eyes smoldering in anger as he regarded his father.
Come on, Doc! Tell him to take a hike. You can do it!
She knew Doc’s temper matched his father’s. But whether it was the years of habitually kowtowing to Westerfield, she saw Doc wavering. She itched to grab him and shake him and yell at him not to back down. To finally stand up to the old shit.
Any potential fireworks were avoided when the door suddenly swung open and a short, thin woman breezed into the room. Her hair was a whitish blonde, perfectly done up in an old fashioned French twist. She was dressed in an electric blue dress and around her neck, she wore a simple strand of pearls that matched the button pearl earrings in her dainty ears.
“Darling, Mabel told me you were here,” she said in a clipped accent reminiscent of Westerfield’s as she swept up to Doc and coolly kissed his cheek.
“Hello, Mother.” He turned to Cammie and made the introductions. Unlike her husband, Mrs. Westerfield approached Cammie and extended her hand in a warm handshake.
“Oh yes, I remember you, Ms. Farnsworth,” she replied, unlike her husband who probably thought of Cammie as something to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. “I am so appreciative of you travelling such a distance with Samuel.”
“Please, call me Cammie.”
“And you must call me Shirley.” She turned back to Doc. “Will you be staying for lunch?”
“I’m afraid not, Mother. We only came by to let you know we’d arrived. I still need to visit Bitsy and Lily.”
“Of course.” She shook her head. “What a sad situation.”
“Yes it is.”
“Poor Helen. She may have had her faults, but no one deserves to be killed in such a ghastly way.”