A Perfect Case of Murder

by B. T. Lord

  Wondering what Doc’s reaction was to seeing Westerfield so ill, she turned towards him. Her heart immediately sank. By the look in his eye, she knew he was not going to make this easy for the old man.

  “I’ll leave you two to discuss whatever you need to discuss in private,” she said, anxious to escape the tension already roiling around the two men.

  “I’d prefer you to stay,” Doc spoke out in a clear commanding voice.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Westerfield responded.

  “I think it is.”

  Cammie looked from one to the other, instantly feeling the change in power. Doc held all the cards now. He knew it. And Westerfield knew it.

  Seeing Doc so determined, and worried about what he’d do or say if she wasn’t in the room, she reluctantly sat down in a chair near the fireplace.

  Doc led Westerfield into the living room where they sat opposite each other – the younger man in the wing back chair and the older man on the couch.

  “Let’s dispense with the preliminaries,” Doc spoke up as he calmly regarded the man sitting in front of him. “You’re here because you received the will and you’re wondering what I’m going to do about your allowance.”

  Westerfield’s jaw tightened as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. “Yes,” he fumed. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

  “Come now, Eliot. For the first time in my life, I actually have the upper hand. You must at least allow me to enjoy it. Just as you have for 45 years.”

  Cammie cringed. Could Doc really not see how sick Westerfield was? Or was he so blinded by hate that he didn’t care?

  The thought made her sick.

  Doc held out his hand, palm facing up. “I hold your future right here. And just as you once took pleasure in crushing my spirit, I can now do the same to you.” He closed his hand until it was a tight fist.

  Cammie found the situation agonizing to witness. If she could, she would have welcomed the floor opening up and swallowing her. She tried to make herself smaller, hoping and praying this would be over soon.

  The two men stared at each other. It was Westerfield who looked away first.

  “You’ll be happy to know I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Doc continued. “I’m still…” he looked around the room as he held his hands out “—getting accustomed to the wonderful reality that I am now worth $200 million, thanks to the generosity of my mother.”

  “No amount of money will ever give you class,” Westerfield spat out.

  “You should know.”

  Westerfield tilted his head back at the insult. Before she could stop herself, Cammie jumped to her feet.

  “Please, both of you. Sniping at each other isn’t going to solve anything,” she exclaimed.

  The old man slowly and laboriously got to his feet. Cammie noticed how badly his hands were now shaking. “I came here to speak to you as a gentleman. But I can see I was wasting my time. You were and always will be a mongrel.” He turned and started towards the front door.

  “Do let me know when you put the Mount Vernon home on the market,” Doc called out. “I’m considering putting an offer on it. The real estate market is such that I can make an additional fortune converting it into condos.”

  Westerfield flinched as though he had been physically struck. Cammie glared angrily at Doc, appalled by his callousness.

  “He didn’t mean that,” she said as she ran up to Westerfield.

  “He most certainly did. I regret the day I ever agreed to take the bastard off my sister’s hands.” He gathered up his dignity and took one step towards the front door. He hesitated, reaching out blindly before Cammie grabbed his arm. Then, he suddenly seemed to fold in on himself as he collapsed to the floor, dragging Cammie down with him.

  “Doc!” she cried out.

  “I’m right here,” he said, his haughty attitude gone as he rushed over and quickly examined an unconscious Westerfield. “Quick, call 911,” he ordered brusquely. “He’s had a heart attack.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Doc looked ravaged. He’d spent that night and all of the next day in Westerfield’s room at Mass General, quietly observing as the medical team worked to stabilize him. The diagnosis was that the old man had indeed suffered a mild heart attack.

  Shirley was informed and rushed to be by her husband’s side. Although she was polite to Doc, there was a noticeable coolness in her treatment of him -- a coolness Cammie couldn’t fault her for. The strain Westerfield was under had been tremendous. The rancorous meeting with Doc had been enough to push his health, already precarious by recent events, over the edge.

  Cammie tried her best to be there for Doc. She travelled back and forth between the hospital and Horatio’s apartment, bringing Doc a change of clothes, something to eat and whatever else he needed. She tried to talk to him, to help alleviate the deep sense of guilt she knew he was feeling. But he’d shut himself away behind a wall of impregnable silence. He spoke only to the medical staff and Shirley. He didn’t dare speak to Eliot; he’d caused enough problems there. He therefore maintained a silent vigil, sitting next to the bed when Eliot was asleep and moving to a quiet corner when the old man was awake.

  On the night before Helen’s wake, Eliot announced that he was going home.

  “I will not miss my sister’s wake or funeral,” he announced in a voice much weakened by what he’d been through, though the steely resolve was still evident.

  “Darling, you must rest,” Shirley responded.

  “I can’t rest here. There are too many distractions, too much noise. I can rest in my own bed at home. At least as long as it is my home.”

  It was Doc’s turn to look as though he’d been physically struck. Shirley looked from one to other.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing. Simply a misunderstanding,” Doc spoke up. “I’ll speak to the doctors and get you released this evening. I do advise however-”

  “I don’t care what you advise. I will not miss my sister’s wake and funeral.”

  Doc nodded. He was about to leave the room when Shirley took his arm and led him out into the hallway.

  “Eliot and I have discussed it and we prefer that no one know he was in the hospital. He cannot abide pity, nor does he wish to detract from Helen’s services.”

  “Neither Cammie or I will say a word.” She gave a slight nod of her head before returning to Westerfield’s room.

  “I’ll wait here while you get everything arranged,” Cammie said as she leaned up against the wall.

  She watched him walk briskly down the corridor, then uttered a long sigh.

  This trip had given her enough emotional drama to last a lifetime. It was Doc she was worried about though. Would he be able to put all this behind him and slip back into his routine in Twin Ponds? Or would he carry the guilt, piling it atop the mountain of baggage he was already carrying?

  There was one final act in the tragedy that was the Westerfield family. When Doc offered to drive Eliot home, he was rebuffed. Not by the old man. But by Shirley.

  “I think it best if I take him home. And,” she added, “after we bury Helen, it’s better for everyone if any communication with Eliot goes through me. His health is fragile and I won’t have him upset again.”

  Doc’s face remained stony, but Cammie saw the hurt in his eyes.

  “Of course,” he whispered as Shirley turned her back to him and entered Eliot’s hospital room. Doc remained standing in the hallway for a long moment before turning to Cammie. “Let’s go,” he replied in a low, emotionless voice.

  They drove the short distance to Horatio’s apartment. There, she assumed he’d go to bed. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and he looked as though he were ready to collapse himself. Instead he opened the slider and stepped out onto the balcony. He stood at the railing, staring out over the water.

  Cammie’s first instinct was to allow him his privacy. She herself was exhausted a
nd she wanted nothing more than to fall into the oblivion of sleep and forget all about Eliot and Shirley and Helen and rest of the family. But she knew how much he was hurting, how eviscerated he felt over what had happened and especially by Shirley’s rejection of him. It was worth risking a burst of temper to let him know that, despite everything, she still had his back. She hadn’t condoned his behavior. But she understood it. She therefore stepped out onto the balcony and stood next to him.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Cammie replied softly.

  “Of course it’s my fault!” he exploded, as if he’d been waiting for this moment to release the poison that had been building up ever since arriving back in Boston. “If I hadn’t been so damned focused on revenge, I would have seen how unwell he was. I’ve condemned him all these years for being so cold and indifferent. Of only caring about himself and his social position. I thought I was better than that. I thought I was better than him. But I’m not. I became the monster I always hated.” His voice cracked and he quickly looked away.

  “The difference between you and Eliot is that you realize it,” she gently pointed out.

  He nodded, but said nothing. It took him a few moments to gather himself together. Taking a deep breath, he slowly let it out.

  “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I suggest we try to get whatever sleep we can.”

  He started to move past her when she reached out and took his arm. “You’re not a monster, Doc. You’re not. You’re human. Just like the rest of us.”

  He gave her a long look before turning away. A moment later, she heard his bedroom door close. Just as she set about turning off the apartment lights, she heard the unmistakable sounds of soft weeping. Sitting down in one of the chairs, she exhaled a long, worn out breath.

  The afternoon of the wake was warm and bright. The beautiful weather was in sharp contrast to the somberness and grief of the small gathering of people who came to say goodbye to Helen.

  Cammie sat in the back of the room in Carlton’s Funeral Room next to Bitsy, who kept a running commentary on who was who in the parade of elderly people who walked down the aisle towards the bier. She tried her best to pay attention, but it was stifling hot, making the scent of the dozens and dozens of flower arrangements that filled every space and cranny almost nauseating. She had to fight the urge to jump up and run outside to get away, not only from the flowers, but from the ever present tension radiating from the Westerfields.

  Doc had on what Cammie had come to call ‘the Westerfield mask’. He greeted everyone with a word or a smile, never showing how shattered he was inside over what he still saw as his fault in causing Westerfield’s heart attack.

  He was squeezed in the receiving line between Lily and Shirley, all pretending they were united as a grieving family. Cammie, however, saw the telltale signs of tension between them. Still looking grey and pasty, Eliot insisted on standing in the receiving line next to Shirley, gruffly accepting the condolences of the mourners as he pointedly ignored Doc. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore and looked away, shaking her head in mild disgust. Not even the finality of death and the fright of a near death could get these people to melt the ice that existed between themselves.

  Occupying herself with watching the parade of mourners, she saw they were evenly divided between the social elite and the common man. She’d found out from Doc that Helen had been involved in many charities throughout New England, including providing funds for educational programs for inner city children. She now saw those recipients, many of them grown, who had taken advantage of her generosity and gone on to lead full, enriched lives. She understood why Helen had upped her bequest to Tom Hightower’s charity. They’d shared the same goal –whether here in the United States or in Peru -- of providing children with the knowledge and skills they’d need to potentially change the future.

  Because of the severely disfiguring injuries, it was decided to have a closed casket. It stood between two candelabras that held white candles, their flames flickering back and forth. The casket itself was covered with a combination of white lilies, peach colored roses and an arrangement of soft white and blue hydrangeas sent by Horatio.

  As the mourners slowly made their way past the bier and up to the family, whispering remembrances and condolences, Cammie found herself watching Lily, curiously trying to gauge if she was indeed sorry her mother was dead or whether she was simply acting the part. There were times she looked genuinely sorrowful as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief while speaking in low tones to a friend or acquaintance. Then, in the next instance, her expression would change when she thought no one was paying attention and a look of restless boredom would filter across her features. That is, until the next person came up to her and she resumed the mantle of the grieving daughter.

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered if Lily had immured herself against the pain of losing her mother after losing both her husbands in such a bizarre way. Maybe this was her way of coping. It couldn’t be easy losing three loved ones in such a short period of time. Maybe she’d taken some sort of drug to get her through the emotionally grueling situation. But the more she watched, the more Cammie came to realize that Lily really wasn’t feeling much of anything. Except an impatience for this to be over with. This was proven out when the visiting hours mercifully came to an end. Without a backwards glance to either the coffin or her family, she abruptly took her leave, hastily moving through the remaining mourners as if she had an appointment she couldn’t miss. Shirley and Eliot, continuing their cold shoulder treatment of Doc, swept past him as they followed Lily out, saying a few words to each person as they took their leave.

  Abby, who’d been wrapped up in her own grief and oblivious to the dynamics between Doc, Shirley and Eliot, softly sobbed in Doc’s arms as they approached the casket. With a trembling hand, she brought her fingers to her lips before placing them on the smooth mahogany.

  “I’ll miss you, Aunt Helen,” she whispered.

  “Do you want me to walk you out to your car?” Doc asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” As if to prove her own words, she threw her shoulders back and gave him a trembling smile. Watching the scene, Bitsy stood up.

  “I’d better walk out with Abby. Poor dear. She’s taking this so hard.”

  “Will you be okay?” Cammie asked her.

  Bitsy offered her a sad smile. “When you reach my age, death is the uninvited guest who refuses to leave. All you can do is ignore his presence for as long as you can until he decides it’s time to bring down the curtain.” She went up to Abby, threw her arm around the young woman’s shoulders and together they left the room.

  By this time everyone had gone. It was just Cammie and Doc now. He stood for a moment in front of the coffin, looking down at the flowers, lost in thought. Then, just as Abby had done, he brought his fingers to his lips and pressed them down on the mahogany. He then turned and made his way to the last row of chairs where Cammie stood waiting for him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as cold as Lily,” he replied in a voice seething with anger. “Did you see her? It was just a performance. A stranger could have been in that casket for all she cared.”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Doc. That’s who she is.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell the scent of flowers without thinking of this ghastly day. Let’s get out of here. I need some air.”

  As they turned to leave, a young woman burst into the room. She was tall with a pretty face and the requisite blonde pageboy haircut. She was dressed in a long black skirt and a black jacket over a white blouse. She looked around quickly and as soon as she saw Doc, she came hurrying over. “Doctor Westerfield?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure you’d remember me. It’s been a long time. I’m Carole Simmons.” When Doc looked perplexed, she quickly added, “Tom Hightower was my older brother.”

  “Ah yes, now I remember you. It has been a long time.” He took her h
and and shook it.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. My GPS decided to act up and it took me forever to get here. I was in Boston this week on business when I heard the news about Helen. I’ve kept in touch with Bitsy all these years and she told me what happened. I came to pay my respects.” She looked back to the bier. “Helen was always very kind to Tom. And so generous. I can’t believe she left his charity $2 million.”

  “I heard about Tom. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “That’s what I was hoping to talk to you about. Actually to talk to both of you about.” She looked at Cammie. “Bitsy told me you’re a sheriff.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I need your expertise on a police matter.”

  “Ms. Simmons, I have no jurisdiction here in Boston.”

  “I understand that. But that doesn’t mean you can’t use your investigative skills.”

  Doc stepped in. “Carole, what is this all about?”

  She gazed steadily at him. “I’m sorry to bring this up at such a sad time for you. But I don’t think I’ll have this opportunity again. You see, I believe Tom’s ex-wife Lily was responsible for his death and I need your help in bringing her to justice.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cammie and Doc were dumbfounded by Carole Simmons’ words. All they could do was stare back at her in disbelief.

  “Again, I apologize. I know this isn’t the most appropriate time and place to be bringing this up, but I have no choice. Before you think me crazy, all I ask is that you hear me out.”

  “Viewing hours are over,” Doc replied. “Why don’t we go across the street? There’s a little café there where we can have a cup of coffee while we talk.”

  “I’ll just take a moment to pay my respects.”

  While Carole went up to the coffin, Cammie and Doc exchanged glances.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Doc replied as they walked into the large foyer.