“Joan, what are you telling me?”
“Try this scenario: Will Nebels followed Andrea to the garage and made a pass at her. There was a scuffle. She fell and was knocked unconscious. He let himself into the house, then saw Paulie drive up, get out the tire jack, and take it into the garage. A minute later, Paulie is back in the car and speeding away. Nebels isn’t sure if Paulie is going to get the police. He goes into the garage again. He sees the tire jack that Paulie has dropped. Will Nebels knows he’s facing prison if Andrea can tell them what happened. He kills her, takes the tire jack with him, and gets out of there. After the movie, Rob drives to the hideout and finds Andrea dead and panics.”
“Joan, don’t you realize you’ve omitted something basic?” I hoped I didn’t sound as impatient as I felt with her theory. “How did the tire jack get back in the trunk of Rob Westerfield’s car?”
“Ellie, Andrea was murdered on Thursday night. You discovered her body on Friday morning. Rob Westerfield wasn’t questioned until Saturday afternoon. It isn’t in the trial transcript, but on Friday, Will Nebels was working at the Westerfields’, doing odd jobs. Rob’s car was in the driveway. He always left the keys in it. Will could easily have replaced the tire jack that day.”
“Where did you learn all this, Joan?”
“My cousin, Andrew, the judge, used to be in the district attorney’s office. He was there when Rob Westerfield was on trial and was very familiar with the case. He’s always felt that Rob Westerfield was a nasty, aggressive, worthless piece of humanity, but he also believed that he was innocent of Andrea’s death.”
Officer White believed that Paulie was guilty of Andrea’s murder. Mrs. Hilmer was still doubtful about Paulie’s innocence. Now Joan was convinced that Will Nebels was the killer.
Yet I knew with certainty that Rob Westerfield was the one who had taken my sister’s life.
“Ellie, you’re dismissing everything I’ve said.” Joan’s voice was quiet, her tone regretful.
“No, I’m not dismissing it. I promise you that. And as a hypothetical situation, it fits. But, Joan, Rob West-erfield was in the garage that morning when I was kneeling beside Andrea’s body. I heard him breathing and I heard—it’s so hard to explain. A giggle is as close as I can get to describing it. It’s an odd gasping sound, and I had heard it before, one of the other times I was in his presence.”
“How often would you have been in his presence, Ellie?”
“A couple of times when Andrea and I walked downtown after school or on Saturday, when he’d suddenly materialize. How much did Andrea tell you about him?”
“Not much at all. The first time I remember seeing him was at one of the high school games. She was in the band, of course, and really outstanding—she looked so good. I remember that Westerfield came up to her after a game in early October. I was standing with her. He made an outright play for her, saying how pretty she was, how he couldn’t take his eyes off her—that kind of thing. He was older and very good looking, and she was flattered, of course. Plus I guess your mother had talked a lot about how important the Westerfield family was.”
“Yes.”
“He knew that we liked to sneak into his grandmother’s garage and smoke. And I mean regular cigarettes, not pot. We thought we were hot stuff, but we weren’t into anything illegal. Rob Westerfield told us to consider the place our clubhouse but to let him know when we planned to go over. Then when we did, he’d ask Andrea to get there early. You do realize that she had been friends with him—if you can call it that—for only a month or so before she died.”
“Did you ever get the feeling that she had become afraid of him?”
“I got the feeling that something was terribly wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. That last night she called and asked if she could come over so we could do homework together. Frankly, my mother wasn’t thrilled. I was behind in algebra, and she wanted me to concentrate. She knew that Andrea and I wasted a lot of time talking when we were supposed to be studying. Also, Mom was going to her bridge club, so she wouldn’t be around to make sure we were working.”
“Did you finish the homework early, or do you think Andrea used you to get out of the house and meet Rob?”
“I think she intended to leave early all along, so I guess the answer is yes, I was her excuse.”
And then I asked the crucial question: “Do you know if Rob ever gave Andrea a locket?”
“No, she didn’t mention it to me, and if he did give her one, then I never saw it. Your dad gave her a locket, though, and she wore that fairly often.”
Andrea had been wearing a heavy V-necked sweater that night. That was why I was so clear about seeing her clasping the locket around her neck. It was on a fairly long chain and rested at the base of the neckline.
“Then to the best of your memory she didn’t have any jewelry on when she left your house?”
“I didn’t say that. As I remember, she was wearing a thin gold chain. It was short, choker length.”
But that’s it, I thought, suddenly remembering another part of that evening. Her coat was downstairs, and Mother was waiting for her. Before she left the bedroom, Andrea had turned the locket around and let it fall down her back, between her shoulder blades. The effect was one of wearing a choker-length chain.
I had carefully read the description of the clothing Andrea had been wearing when her body was found. There had been no mention of that chain.
I left Joan’s house a few minutes later with the sincere promise that I would call her soon. I didn’t attempt to tell her that she had unwittingly verified my memory of Andrea putting on the locket.
Rob Westerfield had come back for it the morning after he killed her. I was very sure now that that locket had been too important to risk leaving on her body. Tomorrow I would describe it on the Website as I had described it to Marcus Longo twenty-two years ago.
It’s another line to cast, I thought as I again drove past the Graymoor Monastery. If Rob Westerfield was worried enough to come back and get the locket, somebody out there might be interested in getting a reward to tell me why it was so important to him.
The bells of the Graymoor chapel began to chime. It was noon.
Grammar school. Praying the Angelus at noon. And the Angel of the Lord announced to Mary . . . And Mary’s response to Elizabeth. My soul doth magnify the Lord. . . . And my spirit doth rejoice . . .
Maybe someday my spirit will again rejoice, I thought as I turned on the radio.
But not yet.
23
FROM THE CLERK’S DESK at the Parkinson Inn I could look into the restaurant and see that it was enjoying its usual weekend luncheon crowd. Today’s group appeared to be particularly festive. I wondered if the sunny fall afternoon had a cheering effect after the several dreary days in the early part of the week.
“I’m afraid that all eight rooms are booked for the weekend, Ms. Cavanaugh,” the clerk told me. “It’s been that way every weekend this fall, and will be till Christmas.”
Of course, that said it all. There was no use staying here during the week, then moving out for the weekend. I’d have to find another place. The prospect of driving from one inn or motel to another seeking admittance, however, was decidedly unappealing. I decided it would be a lot more efficient to go back to the apartment, get out the phone book, and start making calls to see where I could find housing for the next few months. Preferably I’d find something that wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg.
The bake-and-serve corn muffin I’d had that morning was all I’d had to eat so far that day. It was then twenty of one, and I didn’t particularly feel like having an American cheese, tomato, and lettuce sandwich, which, to the best of my recollection, was all that I’d find in the apartment.
I went into the restaurant and was promptly seated. Technically it was a table for two, but any person in the other seat would have to be skeletal in dimensions. That chair backed up on a sharp corner of the alcove where I’d been placed, leaving
no room. Next to me was a table for six which had a reservation sign propped against the salt and pepper shakers.
In my nomadic wanderings I had been to Boston only once, when I was following up on a news story I was writing. That brief visit had left me with a permanent love of New England clam chowder, which according to the menu was the soup of the day.
I ordered it, along with a green salad and a bottle of Perrier. “I like the soup really hot, please,” I told the waitress. While I waited to be served, I nibbled on crusty bread and began to analyze why I was feeling disquieted and even depressed.
It wasn’t that hard to figure out, I decided. A few weeks ago when I came here, I’d felt like a kind of feminine Don Quixote tilting at windmills. But the sobering truth was that even the very people who I would have thought were as convinced as I was of Rob Westerfield’s guilt were not taking my side.
They knew him. They knew what he was. And still they thought it was entirely possible he had spent his twenties and thirties in prison an innocent man, himself a victim of this crime. Sympathetic as they were to me, in their eyes I was perceived as the obsessed family member of the dead girl, fixated and unreasonable at best, manic and unbalanced at worst.
I know that in some ways I am arrogant. When I think I’m right, all the forces of heaven and hell won’t budge me. Maybe that’s why I’m a good investigative reporter. I have a reputation for being able to cut through the obfuscation, target what I perceive to be the truth, and then prove my case. Now, sitting in this restaurant where long ago I sat as the smallest member of a happy family, I tried to be honest with myself. Was it possible, was it remotely possible, that the same drive that made me a good reporter was working against me now? Was I doing a disservice not only to people like Mrs. Hilmer and Joan Lashley, but to the man I despised, Rob Westerfield?
I was so intent on my own thoughts that I was startled when a hand came across my vision. It was the waitress with the clam chowder. As I’d requested, steam was rising from the bowl.
“Be careful,” she warned. “It’s really hot.”
Mother used to tell us that it’s not appropriate to thank a waiter or waitress for service, but that lesson never took with me. To say “thank you” when something that you wanted is placed in front of you never seemed inappropriate to me, and still doesn’t.
I picked up the spoon, but before I could take the first sip, the party arrived for the reserved table next to me. I looked up and my throat went dry—Rob West-erfield was standing beside my chair.
I laid down the spoon. He extended his hand, and I ignored it. He was a stunningly handsome man, even more so in person than he had been on television. There was a kind of animal magnetism about him, a suggestion of strength and confidence that is the trademark of many powerful men I have interviewed.
His eyes were a startling cobalt blue, his dark hair lightly brushed at the temples with gray, his complexion surprisingly tanned. I had seen prison pallor on other men and had the fleeting thought that since his release he must have spent several hours under a sunlamp.
“The hostess pointed you out, Ellie,” he said, his voice as warm as though we were acquaintances who happened on each other every so often.
“Did she, indeed?”
“She realized who you are and was quite upset. She didn’t have another table for six and thought I might not want to be seated near you.”
From the corner of my eye I could see his companions taking their seats. Two of them I recognized from the television interview—his father, Vincent Westerfield, and his lawyer, William Hamilton. They were looking at me, their expressions hostile.
“Did it occur to her that I might not want to be anywhere near you?” I asked quietly.
“Ellie, you are totally mistaken about me. I want to find your sister’s murderer and see him punished just as much as you do. Can we get together and talk quietly?” He hesitated, then, with a smile, added, “Please, Ellie.”
I realized that the entire dining room had suddenly become quiet. Since everyone seemed to want to be in on our exchange, I deliberately raised my voice so that at least some of them could overhear me. “I’d love to get together with you, Rob,” I said. “How about at the garage-hideout? That was a favorite place of yours, wasn’t it? Or maybe the memory of bludgeoning a fifteen-year-old girl to death there might be painful even for a consummate liar like you.”
I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and pushed back my chair.
Without the slightest indication of being upset by what I had said, Rob picked up the twenty and shoved it in the pocket of my jacket. “We have a house account here, Ellie. Anytime you come in, you’re our guest. Bring your friends.” Again he paused, but this time his eyes narrowed.
“If you have any,” he added quietly.
I took the twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket, spotted the waitress, gave it to her, and left.
* * *
HALF AN HOUR LATER I was back in the apartment. The kettle was whistling, and I was putting together the previously rejected cheese sandwich, complete with lettuce and tomato. By then the fit of trembling that overcame me in the car had passed, and only my hands, cold and clammy, reflected the shock of seeing Rob Westerfield face to face.
Over and over in that half hour, a scene had been replaying itself in my mind. I am on the witness stand. Flanked by his lawyers, Rob is sitting at the table reserved for the accused. He is staring at me, his eyes malevolent and sneering. I am sure that in a moment he will spring up and attack me.
The intensity of his concentration when he was inches away from me in the restaurant was just as absolute as it had been at the trial, and behind those cobalt blue eyes and the courteous tone, I felt and saw the same relentless hatred.
But there is a difference, I kept reminding myself, until I began to calm down. I’m twenty-nine, not seven. And one way or the other, I’ll do him more harm now than I did then. After the trial, one of the reporters had written, “The sad and earnest child who testified in court that her big sister was really scared of Rob Westerfield carried great weight with the jury.”
I took the sandwich and the tea to the table, got the phone book out of the cabinet, and opened my cellular phone. While I was eating, I decided to go through the Yellow Pages and circle places where I could inquire about a monthly rental.
Before I could begin, Mrs. Hilmer called. I started to explain to her that I was looking for a place to stay, but she cut me off. “Ellie, I just got a call from my oldest granddaughter, Janey. Remember I told you that she had her first baby last month?”
I could hear the strain in Mrs. Hilmer’s voice. “Nothing is wrong with the baby, I hope,” I said quickly.
“No. The baby’s fine. But Janey broke her wrist and could use some help. I’m driving to Long Island this afternoon and will stay a few days. Did you make plans to go to the Parkinson Inn? After what’s happened, I worry about your being alone out here.”
“I stopped at the Inn, but they’re all booked up for the weekend and for the next six or seven weekends as well. I’m just starting to call around to other inns and guest houses now.”
“Ellie, I hope you realize that my concern is only for you. Stay in the apartment until you find something suitable, but for God’s sake be sure to lock the doors.”
“I will, I promise. Please don’t worry about me.”
“I’m taking the copies of the trial transcript and the newspapers with me. I’ll be going over them while I’m in Garden City with Janey. Take down her phone number in case you want to reach me.”
I jotted it down and a few minutes later heard Mrs. Hilmer’s car headed down the driveway. I will confess that after the shock of seeing Rob Westerfield, I was very sorry that she had left.
“Fraidy cat, fraidy cat.” That was how Andrea would tease me when, if our parents were out, we watched movies like Friday the 13th together on television. I always closed my eyes and snuggled against her at the scariest parts.
I remember th
at one night, to get back at her, I hid under her bed, and when she came into the bedroom, I reached out and grabbed her leg. “Fraidy cat, fraidy cat,” I chanted when she shrieked.
But Andrea wasn’t here to snuggle up to now, and I’m a big girl, used to taking care of myself. I gave a mental shrug and began circling the local guest houses and inns in the Yellow Pages.
Then I started phoning the seemingly likely ones; it proved to be a dismaying task. The few that sounded possible were pretty expensive on a monthly basis, especially when I figured in the price of meals.
At the end of nearly two hours I had a short list of four places and was already looking through the newspaper at the “houses for rent” section. Oldham is pretty much a year-round community, but from the classified section I could see some rentals that appeared to be reasonable.
At three-thirty I was finished; I had six places lined up to see tomorrow. I was glad to be done because I wanted to get to the computer to write notes on my encounter with Westerfield.
There were one or two inns in the area where they said they had a room available immediately. Either one would have been all right on an interim basis, but the last thing in the world I wanted to do now was start packing. I also did not want to start emptying the refrigerator and thoroughly cleaning the apartment.
Mrs. Hilmer had made it very clear that it was my safety she was concerned about and that I was to stay here until I found something suitable. I knew she’d be gone at least three or four days, so I debated with myself, then made a decision: I would stay here for now, at least over the weekend, probably until Monday.
I opened the computer, made notes on the meeting with Westerfield, and then realized I was having a hard time concentrating. My solution was to catch an early movie and afterward have dinner somewhere nearby.
I looked up the movie listings and noted with irony that the film I wanted to see was showing at the Globe Cinema.
That was where Rob Westerfield claimed he had been when Andrea was murdered.
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