The Lamberts’ address was in Cape Elizabeth, a twelve-mile peninsula stretching into open-ocean and marking the entrance of Casco Bay. It’s one of southern Maine’s most prestigious towns, ranking in wealth alongside Ogunquit and Kennebunkport (think Bush compound). It’s also the lucky guardian of Fort Williams, a recreational park along the southern seacoast. A sub-post during World War II, the park has now become a favorite of dog walkers, kite fliers and family outings. The crumbling rock lookout stations once used to protect the harbor have been turned over to the imaginations of visiting children. Ducking in and out of darkened tunnels, they crouch in the bird’s nest, no longer fighting off enemy ships, but each other, with plastic ray guns instead of M1 Carbines. (Progress? You decide.) Fort Williams is also home to the Portland Headlight, one of the most photographed lighthouses in the world and at the top of the list along with Acadia National Park as places to visit in Maine.
Griff slowed and turned right onto Cousins Ave. We watched mailboxes until we came to #57. He pulled tight to the curb and cut the engine. The house was modest compared to many of its neighbors, but the ocean view I glimpsed through the trees put it easily in the million-dollar range and then some. I think the style is called English Tudor, a combination of stonework and decorative timber with gables and parapets that had me wavering between impressed and leery. It might be inviting when sunlight warmed the iron-grated windows, but under today’s gunmetal sky it stood dark and ominous.
“You told them we were coming, right?” I asked as we got out of the car.
“Yeah, Mr. Lambert said one o’clock.” Griff glanced at his watch. “We’re right on time. Why?”
“No lights.”
“Not everyone’s afraid of the dark, Callahan.”
I planted a soft right against his shoulder. He caught it and gave it a twist, spinning me into him. “I missed you at breakfast this morning,” he said.
“I wanted you to have time alone with Allie. Anyway, when we move into the house we’ll have breakfast together every day.”
“Can’t happen soon enough.” He snuck a kiss and we sauntered up the Lamberts’ driveway side by side.
Griff had been talking about living together for over a year and brought up the M word with some frequency. The closest I’ve been able to get is to agree to share a house with him. Though he’s never met my parents (and never will) he’s heard enough about my childhood to understand why I shy away. It’s my good fortune that he’s a patient man.
The door opened before we’d made it onto the threshold, indicating Mr. Lambert had been waiting for us. I imagined him peering out from behind the darkened windows, his eyes roaming up and down the street, watching.
“Mr. Lambert?” Griff stepped onto the cement step at the door and extended his hand. “I’m Griff Cole.”
The men shook and then Griff turned to me. “My partner, Britt Callahan.”
I started to reach for Mr. Lambert’s hand but let mine fall back to my side when he didn’t offer his own. He simply nodded in my direction, turned and led us inside. (Strike one.)
We followed him across a tiled entry, a massive chandelier hung overhead. The house was dark inside despite its many windows. Heavy velvet drapes didn’t give daylight a chance. A banister of deep cherry corralled a wide staircase to our right and stretched the full length of the second-floor hallway above. Greg Lambert stopped in front of a set of French doors and in one motion opened both towards us. We stepped onto a brick patio. Despite the gray day the landscaped garden in front of us was breathtaking and must be spectacular in sunshine. A woman knelt beside one of the many wood-enclosed, raised flowerbeds. Her face hid beneath a wide brimmed straw hat while her gloved hands trimmed back leaves with an artist’s touch. The contrast between the home’s somber interior and this outdoor garden was like stepping through a time warp.
“They’re here,” Mr. Lambert said.
Without looking up, the woman rose to her feet. She walked toward us, her arm outstretched. This time I was on the receiving end.
“I’m Britt,” I said taking her hand in both of mine.
She was extremely thin, almost waiflike. Strands of blond hair had slipped from the bun beneath her hat and framed a face that had not only been sheltered from the sun, but from the harsher things in life. It was a face accustomed to money and what it provided. But as much as her flawless skin radiated wealth, her eyes radiated pain. I wondered if her grief commenced with the death of her daughter or if it went part and parcel with a husband who so far, seemed as devoid of warmth as the house they lived in.
“I know who you are,” she said. “I do my research.”
Not sure how to respond to that, I turned to Griff. He was looking from one Lambert to the other fighting off a grin. He has a tendency to be amused by weirdoes, while I get plain annoyed.
A woman in black yoga pants and a striped tee shirt stepped out of the house and approached us with lithe grace. “Can I bring you some coffee? Iced tea, perhaps?” she asked.
The resemblance between the two women was unmistakable, but their demeanors were polar opposites. This woman floated while Mrs. Lambert’s every movement was weighted and slow, to the point of looking painful.
“I’ll have tea,” I told her.
“Coffee for the rest of us,” Mr. Lambert said.
“Thank you, Carole,” Mrs. Lambert’s voice was little more than a whisper. The woman disappeared inside the house. “Carole’s my sister. She’s been coming over to help me since, since…” she let the rest of the sentence drop.
“Have a seat.” Mr. Lambert gestured us toward a group of cushioned rattan chairs perfectly arranged around a circular marble table.
“Call me Greg,” he said as we sat. “My wife is Guinevere.”
I nodded toward Guinevere hoping to catch her eye, but she didn’t look up. She was studying the flower she held in her hand, a columbine. A flower frequently linked to birds. Its name is derived from the Latin word columba, a reference to doves. (Sometimes I surprise myself with the tidbits of wisdom lodged in my brain. The species connection to the afterlife didn’t escape me either.)
“Is Carole your only sibling?” I asked hoping to draw Guinevere out with a little small talk to start.
She raised her eyes, appraising me like a new piece of jewelry. “I have a step-brother. We’re estranged.”
So much for chitchat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s no animosity. He lived with his mother. Paternal genes are all we have in common.”
Carole returned and set a small round tray of coffee, tea and cookies in the middle of the table. Greg watched her, tilting his head to one side and folding his arms across his chest. Annoyed, his body said. When she’d finished, he spoke.
“I don’t believe my daughter jumped. She wouldn’t have done that. I told the police, but they dismissed me. Evidently, they knew my daughter better than I did.”
“What’s your feeling on that, Mrs. Lambert?” I asked. Parents don’t always share perspectives on their children.
When she looked at me, her eyes were moist. She cradled the columbine in her palm. “Call me Gwen.”
I nodded.
“Ashley was a good girl. She worked very hard at everything she did.”
“She was the best, always. She made sure of it,” Greg chimed in.
Or else you did, I thought.
“It would have gone against her nature to jump off that building. It just wasn’t her way,” Gwen added.
“Her way?” Greg squinted at his wife, his face twisted in disgust as though studying an insect on flypaper. “What the hell does that mean?” He stood and walked around the circumference of our seating arrangement and then came back and took his chair again. “My girl did as she was told. And only what she was told.”
“It’s not always easy to tell a senior in college what to do,” I said. “At some point, they start making their own choices even if some are ones their parents might not like.”
“Not my girl.” Greg shook his head.
I couldn’t help but notice he kept referring to Ashley as my girl not our girl as though he’d created her, given birth and raised her singlehandedly. I didn’t like him. My assessment of Gwen was still up in the air, but she was wrapped so tight I couldn’t get a glimpse inside.
“She was a star athlete at the top of her class and a week from graduation,” Greg continued. “She’d been accepted at Johns Hopkins Berman Institute for Bioethics. And you’re telling me that’s a kid who makes bad decisions? I don’t think so, Ms. Callahan.”
“Mr. Lambert - Greg,” Griff spoke up. “I have a daughter. I can’t imagine what you must be going through dealing with all this. What is it you think we can do for you?”
“I told the police and the medical examiner that my daughter wouldn’t take her own life. Cops shook their heads, said it wasn’t their call to make. The medical examiner said it presented as a cut and dried suicide.”
“And what do you say, Mr. Lambert?”
“My daughter was murdered.”
I glanced at Gwen. “Do you agree, Mrs. Lambert?”
She raised her eyes, glanced at her husband and then to me. “I’m not convinced, but I do agree that suicide doesn’t fit with who my daughter was.”
Griff kept his focus on Greg. “What makes you think someone would have killed your daughter? Did she have enemies that you’re aware of?”
“No, no enemies that I know of, but her jumping makes no sense. She had everything going for her and absolutely no reason to end her life. She would never have done that to me.”
Strike two. The selfish bastard assumed his daughter’s tragic death had more to do with him than whatever had driven her to that fateful state of mind. “Suicide is about what’s going on within the person themselves,” I said trying not to let my voice betray my disgust. “I doubt Ashley was consciously doing anything to you at the moment she jumped. If she jumped.”
“She knew the goals we’d set,” he said dismissing my remark. “And she had every intention of attaining them.”
“Goals?” I asked.
“Johns Hopkins, her PhD, an Olympic gold medal.”
“Had she been accepted to compete in the Olympics?” Griff asked.
“It was in the works,” he said annunciating each word as though we were hard of hearing.
“Did you let the medical examiner know how you felt?”
“Of course, I did.”
“And was an autopsy performed?”
Greg Lambert glanced at his wife. She looked away. Touchy subject, I gathered.
“Useless,” he said. “They found nothing.” He turned to Gwen. “Go get my checkbook.”
She rose and disappeared inside the house without a word, still holding the columbine in her hand.
I caught Griff’s eye and he raised his eyebrows as though asking, should we? “Look Mr. Lambert,” he said. “Britt and I like to discuss a case before we commit to it. We want to feel some degree of surety that we can help you before money changes hands and we sign a contract. Give us time to talk it over and we’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
Gwen reappeared holding a large, black-spiraled checkbook. Greg took it from her along with the pen she offered and flipped open the front of the book. He looked at Griff. “How much do you want?” he asked.
“Mr. Lambert, I…” Griff started.
“We’ll give you the information you need to get started. I don’t have any doubt you’ll see it my way. What’s the retainer?” He held the pen poised over the checkbook.
“Five thousand,” Griff said.
I thought that was a little high. He must be thinking about the pool.
“And a list of names. Professors, coaches and friends,” he added.
Greg pointed to his wife. “Put that together.”
Dismissed, Gwen went inside to gather what we needed.
Once we had the necessary information from Gwen, and Greg’s check was folded inside Griff’s pocket, Carole stepped onto the patio and offered to show us out.
“We’ll be in touch,” Griff said. He stood extending a hand toward Greg.
Greg Lambert rose from his chair and placed his hands on his hips. “When?”
“As soon as I have something to tell you,” Griff said lowering his arm.
Griff’s ability to come off unfazed by blatant rude behavior is beyond me. I couldn’t get off that porch fast enough. If I’d lingered I would have placed a well-directed snap kick to Greg Lambert’s groin.
We followed Carole to the front door. She swung it wide and stepped with us outside then pulled the door closed behind her. On the front step, she glanced from one of us to the other then dropped her head and stared at the granite, clearly trying to make up her mind. We waited. When she looked up she extended her arm toward Griff as though intending to shake.
“Look,” she said. “I’m probably way out of line here and dipshit in there will have me banned if he knows I’m talking to you. I’m already on probation around here so whatever I say stays between us, alright?”
Griff nodded and reached for her hand, keeping his eyes on her face.
She slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm. “Call me,” she said. “There’s more to this. A lot more.”