LIZ WAS BACK at the table, a basket of crusty bread in her hands. She lingered for a moment. “From what you mentioned about the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I guess you used to come here.”
I had piqued her curiosity.
“A long time ago,” I said, trying to sound casual. “We moved away when I was a child. I live in Atlanta now.”
“I was there once. It’s a nice city.” She drifted away.
Atlanta, the Gateway to the South. It proved to be a good move for me. When so many of my journalism classmates were only interested in breaking into television, I for some reason always knew that the printed word held the greatest attraction for me. And at last I began to develop a sense of permanence.
Fresh-out-of-college employees are not paid much at newspapers, but my mother had a modest life insurance policy that gave me the freedom to furnish a small three-room apartment. I shopped carefully in secondhand furniture stores and at closeout sales. When the apartment was furnished, I was almost dismayed to realize that I had unconsciously recreated the overall effect of the living room of our home in Oldham: Blues and reds in the carpet. A blue upholstered couch and club chair. Even an ottoman, although it was a tight fit.
It brought back so many memories: My father dozing in the club chair, his long legs stretched on the ottoman; Andrea unceremoniously pushing them over and plopping down; his eyes opening, his smile of welcome to his saucy, pretty, golden child . . .
I always tiptoed around when he was napping, not wanting to disturb his sleep. When Andrea and I were clearing the table after dinner, I would listen intently as he began to unwind over a second cup of coffee and tell my mother what had happened that day on the job. I was in awe of him. My father, I bragged to myself, saved people’s lives.
Three years after the divorce, he remarried. By then I had paid my second and final visit to him in Irvington. I did not want to go to his wedding, nor did I care when he wrote to tell me I had a baby brother. His second marriage had produced the son I was supposed to be. Edward James Cavanaugh, Jr., is about seventeen now.
My last contact with my father was to write and inform him that my mother had died and I would like to have her ashes shipped to Gate of Heaven Cemetery and interred in Andrea’s grave. If that did not meet with his approval, I would have her buried with her own parents in their plot in the cemetery.
He wrote back, expressing sympathy for me, and told me he had made the arrangements I requested. He also invited me to come and visit in Irvington.
I sent the ashes and declined the invitation.
* * *
THE ONION SOUP had warmed me up, and the memories had made me restless. I decided to go upstairs to my room, get my jacket, and drive around town. It was only two-thirty, and I was already beginning to wonder why I hadn’t waited until tomorrow to come here. I had an appointment with someone named Martin Brand at the parole office at ten o’clock on Monday morning. I would make an impassioned effort to convince him that Rob Westerfield should not be released, but as Pete Lawlor told me, it was probably a useless gesture.
The message light on the phone in my room was blinking. I had an urgent message to call Pete Lawlor. He picked up on the first ring. “You seem to have a gift for being in the right place at the right time, Ellie,” he said. “It’s just coming over the wire services. The Westerfields are holding a press conference in fifteen minutes. CNN is covering it. Will Nebels, the handyman who was questioned in your sister’s murder, has just made a statement claiming he saw Paul Stroebel in Rob Westerfield’s car the night Andrea was killed. He claims he saw him go into the garage with something in his hand, then run out ten minutes later, get back in the car, and drive away.”
“Why didn’t Nebels tell that story years ago?” I snapped.
“He claims he was afraid someone would try to blame him for your sister’s death.”
“How was it that he saw all this happen?”
“He was in the grandmother’s house. He’d done some repairs there and knew the code for the alarm. He also knew that the grandmother had a habit of leaving loose cash in drawers around the house. He was broke and needed money. He was in the master bedroom, which has windows overlooking the garage, and when the car door opened, he got a good look at Stroebel’s face.”
“He’s lying,” I said flatly.
“Watch the press conference,” Pete told me, “then cover the story. You’re an investigative reporter.” He paused. “Unless it’s too close to home for you.”
“It’s not,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”