AFTER THE FUNERAL, we went back to the house. The women in the neighborhood had put together a spread, and a lot of people were there: our old neighbors from Irvington, my mother’s new friends from our parish, her Wednesday bridge club members, and her fellow volunteers from the hospital. Many of my father’s longtime friends and fellow officers were there as well, some of them in uniform and on duty, able to pause only long enough to offer brotherly solace.
The five girls who were Andrea’s particular pals, their eyes swollen with tears, were clustered in a corner. Joan, whose house Andrea had been visiting, was especially distressed and was being comforted by the other four.
I felt apart from all of them. My mother, looking very sad in a black suit, was sitting on the couch in the living room, friends on either side, holding her hand or pressing a cup of tea on her. “It will warm you up, Genine. Your hands are so cold.” She was composed even though her eyes kept welling with tears, and several times I heard her say, “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
She and my father had clung together at the graveside, but now they sat in different rooms, she in the living room, he on the enclosed back porch that had been turned into a sort of den for him. My grandmother was in the kitchen with some of her old friends from Irvington, sadly reliving happier times in their lives.
I wandered among them, and even though there is no question that people spoke to me and told me what a brave little girl I was, I felt acutely alone. I wanted Andrea. I wanted to go up to my sister’s room and find her there and curl up on the bed with her while she chatted endlessly on the phone with her friends or with Rob Westerfield.
Before she called him, she would say, “Can I trust you, Ellie?”
Of course she could. He almost never called her at home because she was forbidden to have anything to do with him, and there was always the worry that even if she answered the phone on her extension, my mother or father might pick up downstairs and hear his voice.
My mother or father? Or was it just my father? Would my mother have been upset? After all, Rob was a Westerfield, and both Mrs. Westerfields, senior and junior, occasionally attended meetings of the Women’s Club, to which my mother belonged.
We got back to the house at noon. At two o’clock, people started to say things like “After all you’ve been through, you folks need a rest.”
I knew that meant that, having paid their respects to the afflicted, having sincerely grieved, they were ready to go home. Any reluctance in leaving was caused by the fact they were also eager to be in our house the moment any developments in tracking down Andrea’s killer were reported.
By then everyone had heard about Paulie Stroebel’s outburst in school and knew that Andrea had been in Rob Westerfield’s car when it was stopped for speeding on the thruway last month.
Paulie Stroebel. Who would ever have guessed that a quiet, introverted kid like that would have a crush on a girl like Andrea, or that she would have agreed to go to the Thanksgiving dance with him?
Rob Westerfield. He had finished a year at college, and he certainly was no dope—anyone could see that. But the rumor was he’d been asked to leave. Apparently he’d just wasted his whole freshman year. He was nineteen when he noticed my sister. What business did he have fooling around with Andrea, a sophomore in high school?
“Wasn’t there some story about his having been involved in what happened to his grandmother at her house?”
It was precisely as I overheard that particular remark that the doorbell rang and Mrs. Storey from the bridge club, who was already in the vestibule, went to answer it. Standing on the porch was Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield, Rob’s grandmother and the owner of the estate with the garage where Andrea had died.
She was a handsome, impressive woman, broad-shouldered and full-bosomed. She stood very straight, which made her seem taller than she was. Her iron-gray hair had a natural wave, and she wore it brushed back from her face. At seventy-three, her eyebrows were still dark and drew attention to the intelligent expression in her light brown eyes. A heavy jaw line kept her from ever having been considered pretty, but on the other hand, it added to her overall impression of commanding strength.
She was hatless and wearing a beautifully cut dark gray winter coat. She stepped into the vestibule, and her eyes swept the interior as she looked for my mother, who by then was pulling her hands away from her friends and struggling to stand up.
Mrs. Westerfield went directly to her. “I was in California and could not get back until now, but I had to tell you, Genine, how heartbroken I am for you and your family. Many years ago I lost a teenage son in a skiing accident, so I do understand what you are going through.”
As my mother nodded gratefully, my father’s voice rang through the room. “But it wasn’t an accident, Mrs. Westerfield,” he said. “My daughter was murdered. She was bludgeoned to death, and your grandson may have been the one who killed her. In fact, knowing his reputation, you must be aware that he is the prime suspect. So please get out of here. You’re damn lucky that you’re still alive yourself. You still don’t believe he was involved in that burglary when you were shot and left for dead, do you?”
“Ted, how can you say that?” my mother pleaded. “Mrs. Westerfield, I apologize. My husband . . .”
Except for the three of them, the crowded house might have been empty. Everyone was frozen in place, as in the statues game I used to play as a child.
My father might have been a figure from the Old Testament. He had taken off his tie, and his shirt was open at the collar. His face was as white as the shirt, and his blue eyes were almost black. He had a full head of naturally dark brown hair, but at that moment it seemed even thicker, as if anger had sent bolts of electricity through it.
“Don’t you dare apologize for me, Genine,” he shouted. “There isn’t a cop in this house who doesn’t know that Rob Westerfield is rotten through and through. My daughter—our daughter—is dead. Now you—” he walked over to Mrs. Westerfield—“you get out of my house, and take your crocodile tears with you.”
Mrs. Westerfield had turned as pale as my father. She did not answer him, but gave my mother’s hand a squeeze and walked unhurriedly to the door.
When she spoke, my mother did not raise her voice, but her tone was a whiplash. “You want Rob Westerfield to be the one who took Andrea’s life, don’t you, Ted? You know Andrea was crazy about him, and you couldn’t stand that. You want to know something? You were jealous! If you had been reasonable and let her go out with him, or any other boy for that matter, she wouldn’t have had to make secret dates . . .”
Then my mother imitated my father’s way of speaking: “Andrea, you may only go to a school function with a high school boy. You will not drive in his car. I will pick you up, and I will deliver you.”
The skin over my father’s cheekbones reddened, whether from embarrassment or fury I am still not sure. “If she had obeyed me, she would still be alive today,” he said evenly, his voice quiet, but bitter. “If you had not been kissing the hand of anyone named Westerfield—”
“It’s a damn good thing you’re not investigating this case,” my mother said, interrupting him. “What about that Stroebel kid? What about that handyman, Will Nebels? What about that salesman? Have they found him yet?”
“What about the tooth fairy?” Now my father’s tone was contemptuous. He turned and went back into the den where his friends were gathered. He closed the door behind him. Finally there was complete silence.