WHEN I GOT BACK to the Hilmer apartment, I began to peruse the old newspapers Mother had kept. They were a godsend in my research on the life of Rob West-erfield. In several of them I found a mention of the two prep schools he had attended. The first one, Arbinger Preparatory School, in Massachusetts, is one of the toniest in the country. Interestingly, he stayed there only a year and a half before switching to Carrington in Rhode Island.
I didn’t know anything about Carrington and looked it up on the Internet. The Website of Carrington Academy made it sound like a country estate where learning, sports, and friendship intertwined to create a sort of paradise. But behind the glowing description of all that it had to offer, the nitty-gritty became obvious: It was a school for “students who haven’t realized their academic or social potential,” for “students who may have difficulty adjusting to disciplined study.”
In other words, it was a place for kids with a behavior problem.
Before I placed an inquiry on my Website, looking for information about Rob Westerfield’s school days, from fellow students or former Carrington employees, I decided to see both places for myself. I phoned the schools and explained that I was a journalist writing a book on Robson Westerfield who had been a student there. In both cases I reached the president’s office. At Arbinger I was immediately referred to Craig Parshall in the media relations office.
Mr. Parshall told me it was school policy that students, former or present, were never discussed with the press.
I took a stab. “Isn’t it a fact that you gave an interview to Jake Bern concerning Robson Westerfield?”
There was a long pause, and I knew I was right.
“There was an interview granted,” Parshall said, his voice stiff and condescending. Then he added, “If the family of a present student or a former student grants permission for an interview, we would within reason honor that request. You must understand, Ms. Cavanaugh, that our pupils come from distinguished families, including the sons of presidents and royalty. There are times when it is appropriate to allow carefully monitored media access.”
“And of course that publicity enhances the name and reputation of the school,” I said. “On the other hand, if every day on a Website the fact that the convicted murderer of a fifteen-year-old girl had been rubbing shoulders with some of those distinguished students, they and their families might not be too happy. And other families might think twice about sending their sons and heirs to you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Parshall?”
I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “In fact, it might serve the school much better to be cooperative. Don’t you agree?”
When, after a long moment of silence, Parshall responded, he clearly was not a happy man. “Miss Cavanaugh, I will grant your request for an interview. I will, however, warn you that the only information released to you will be the dates Robson Westerfield was a student here and the fact that he requested and received a transfer.”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to admit that you booted him out,” I said scornfully. “But I’m sure you managed to find a little more than that to tell Mr. Bern.”
We agreed that I would be in his office at eleven the next morning.
Arbinger is about forty miles north of Boston. I found the town on the map and figured out the best route to take and how much time I’d need.
Then I called Carrington Academy, and this time was passed through to Jane Bostrom, director of admissions. She acknowledged that Jake Bern had been granted an interview at the request of the Westerfield family, and added that without the family’s permission she could not grant me an interview.
“Ms. Bostrom, Carrington is a kind of prep school of last resort,” I pointed out firmly. “I want to be fair to its reputation, but the reason for its existence is to accept and try to straighten out problem kids. Right?”
I liked the fact that she leveled with me. “There are a lot of reasons why kids have problems, Ms. Cavanaugh. The majority of those reasons have to do with the family. They’re kids of divorce, kids with high-powered parents who don’t have time for them, kids who are loners or the butt of jokes by their peers. It doesn’t mean they’re not capable academically or socially. It just means that they’re overwhelmed and need help.”
“Help that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t give?”
“I can give you a list of our graduates who went on to become very successful.”
“I can name one who succeeded at the very first murder he committed—or at least the very first he is known to have committed.” Then I added, “I don’t want to do a hatchet job on Carrington. I want to find out what I can about what Rob Westerfield was up to in his teenage years before he murdered my sister. If you gave a lot of information to Jake Bern, and he can extrapolate the good stuff and leave out the rest, I want the same kind of access.”
Since I’d be at Arbinger tomorrow, which was Friday, I made an appointment with Ms. Bostrom at Carrington for Monday morning. I debated about spending some time before the meetings tomorrow and Monday in the neighborhood of the schools. From what I could tell, they both were located in small towns. That had to mean there were places where the kids would congregate, such as a pizza parlor or fastfood joint. Sitting around the local off-campus hangout had worked for me when I did an earlier follow-up article on a kid who tried to kill his parents.
I hadn’t run into Mrs. Hilmer in a couple of days, but in the late afternoon she phoned. “Ellie, this is a suggestion more than an invitation. I had one of my urges to cook today and ended up with a roast chicken in the oven. If you don’t have plans, would you like to come over for dinner? But please don’t say yes if you’d rather just be quiet.”
I hadn’t bothered to go to the grocery that morning and knew that my at-home choices were an American cheese sandwich or an American cheese sandwich. And I also remembered that Mrs. Hilmer was a good cook.
“What time?” I asked.
“Oh, about seven.”
“I’ll not only be there, I’ll be early.”
“Wonderful.”
As I hung up I realized that Mrs. Hilmer must think of me as something of a loner. She’s partially right, of course. But despite my interior core of isolation, or maybe even because of it, I am a reasonably outgoing person. I enjoy being with people, and after a busy day at the newspaper, I often get together with friends. When I worked late, I’d end up having pasta or a hamburger with whoever was around. There were always two or three of us there who weren’t rushing home to the spouse or significant other after wrapping up a story or finishing a column.
I was one of the regulars in that group, and so was Pete. As I washed my face, brushed my hair, and twisted it back up, I wondered when he’d let me know which job he’d taken. I was sure that even if the paper wasn’t sold immediately, he wouldn’t stay at it much longer. The fact that the family was trying to sell it would be enough to make him move on. Where would he end up? Houston? L.A.? Whichever, chances were that our paths wouldn’t cross much after the move.
It was a suddenly disquieting thought.
The cozy apartment consisted of a large living room with a galley kitchen at one end and a mediumsized bedroom. The bath was off the short hallway between them. I had set up my computer and printer on the table in the dining area near the kitchen. I’m not a neat worker, and as I was about to put on my coat, I looked around as if with Mrs. Hilmer’s eyes.
The newspapers I’d been going through were scattered on the floor in an arc around the chair I’d been sitting in. The decorative fruit bowl and brass candlesticks that had been primly centered on the colonial table were shoved together on the buffet. My appointment book lay open on one side of the computer, and my pen was tossed on top of it. The bulky bound copy of the thick trial transcript, complete with vivid yellow markers, was next to the printer.
Suppose for some reason Mrs. Hilmer walked back with me and saw this mess, I thought. How would she react? I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that question, since there was absolutely nothing out of place in her home.
I bent down, scooped up the papers, and straightened them into something of an orderly pile. Then, on further consideration, I dug out the big duffel bag in which I always carried them and dropped them into it.
The trial transcript followed. I reasoned that the notebook, my pen, and the laptop and printer weren’t too asthetically offensive. I moved the fruit bowl and candlesticks back to their decorative positions on the table. I had started to put the duffel bag in the closet when it dawned on me that if the apartment were to catch on fire, I would lose all this material. I dismissed that notion as improbable but nonetheless decided to take the bag with me. I don’t know why I did that, but I did. Call it a hunch, one of those feelings you just get, as my grandmother used to say.
It was still cold outside, but at least the wind had died down. Even so, the walk from the apartment to the house seemed pretty long. Mrs. Hilmer had told me that after her husband died she had an attached garage added to the house because she didn’t want to have to walk back and forth from the old one. Now the old garage beneath the apartment was empty except for gardening supplies and lawn furniture.
Walking to the house in the dark silence, I could well understand why she hadn’t wanted to make the trip at night alone.
“Don’t think I’m moving in here as well as in the apartment,” I told Mrs. Hilmer when she opened the door and spotted the duffel bag. “It’s just become my constant companion.”
Over a glass of sherry I explained what was in it, then a thought occurred to me. Mrs. Hilmer had lived in Oldham for nearly fifty years. She was active in the parish and in the town activities—meaning she knew everyone. There were local people mentioned in those newspaper stories whose names meant nothing to me, but they would surely be familiar to her.
“I wonder if you’d consider going through these papers with me,” I asked her. “There are people quoted whom I’d love to talk to, assuming they’re still around. For example, some friends of Andrea’s from school, neighbors at that time of Will Nebels, some of the guys Rob Westerfield hung around with. I’m sure most of Andrea’s classmates are married, and probably a lot of them have moved away. I wonder if it would upset you to read through these old articles and maybe make a list of the people who talked to reporters who are still around here. I’m hoping, of course, that they may have known something that didn’t come out at the time.”
“I can tell you about one of them off the top of my head,” Mrs. Hilmer said. “Joan Lashley. Her parents retired, but she married Leo St. Martin. She lives in Garrison.”
Joan Lashley was the girl with whom Andrea had been doing homework that last night! Garrison was near Cold Spring, only a fifteen-minute drive from here. It was obvious that Mrs. Hilmer was going to be a treasure trove of information about people I might want to see.
While we were having coffee, I opened the duffel bag and put some of the newspapers on the table. I saw the look of pain that came over Mrs. Hilmer’s face when she picked up the first one. The headline read, “Fifteen-Year-Old Bludgeoned to Death.” Andrea’s picture filled the front page. She was wearing her band uniform: a red jacket with brass buttons and a matching short skirt. Her hair was falling around her shoulders, and she was smiling. She looked happy and vibrant and young.
That picture had been taken at the first game of the season in late September. A few weeks later Rob Westerfield first met her when she was bowling with friends at the sports center in town. It was the next week that she went for the drive in his car and he was stopped by the state trooper for speeding.
“Mrs. Hilmer, I warn you,” I said. “It’s not easy going through this material, so if you think it would be too much for you—”
She interrupted me. “No, Ellie, I want to do it.”
“Okay.” I took out the rest of the newspapers. The trial transcript was still in the duffel bag. I took it out. “This makes pretty unpleasant reading.”
“Leave it with me,” she said firmly.
* * *
MRS. HILMER INSISTED on lending me a small flashlight for my return to the apartment, and I must say I was glad to have it. The night had continued to clear, and now a sliver of the moon was visible. I guess I was getting fanciful, but I could only think of those Halloween images of black cats sitting on crescent moons, grinning as though they were reveling in some secret knowledge.
I’d left on only a small night-light in the stairwell—again my conscious effort to be considerate of my hostess, this time by not running up her electricity bill. As I walked up the stairs, I suddenly was not sure if it was the best idea to be so frugal. The staircase was dark and shadowed, and it creaked under my steps. I suddenly became acutely aware that Andrea was murdered in a garage very similar to this one. They both originally had been barns. The old hayloft here is now the apartment, but the feeling of the structures is similar.
By the time I was at the head of the stairs, the key was in my hand and with a quick turn of the lock I was inside and had bolted the door. I immediately stopped worrying about running up bills and began to turn on every light I could find: the lamps on either side of the couch, the chandelier over the dining room table, the hallway light, the bedroom lights. At last I was able to draw a sigh of relief and begin to shake off the sense of alarm that had seized me.
The table looked strangely neat, with only the laptop and printer, my pen and appointment book at one end, and the fruit bowl and candlesticks in the center. Then I realized that something had changed. I had left my pen to the right of the appointment book, next to the computer. It was now on the left side of the book, away from the computer. A chill shot through me. Someone had been here and must have moved it. But why? To go through the appointment book and check on my activities—that would have to be the only reason. What else had been examined?
I turned on the computer and rushed to check the file where I kept my notes on Rob Westerfield. Just that afternoon I had jotted in a quick description of the man who stopped me in the parking lot at the railroad station. It was still there, but now a sentence had been added. I had described him as average height, gaunt, with mean eyes and mouth. The new sentence was “Considered dangerous, so approach with extreme caution.”
My knees felt weak. It was bad enough that someone had come in while I was with Mrs. Hilmer, but that he would flaunt his presence was frightening. I was absolutely certain that I had locked the apartment door when I left, but the lock was basic and inexpensive, and wouldn’t be much of a challenge for a professional burglar. Was anything missing? I ran into the bedroom and could see that the closet door, which I had left closed, was now slightly ajar. My clothes and shoes inside, however, seemed to be exactly as I’d left them. In the top drawer of the dresser I had a leather case of jewelry. Earrings, a gold chain, and a simple long strand of pearls are pretty much all I bother with, but the case also held my mother’s engagement ring and wedding band, and the diamond earrings my father had given her for their fifteenth wedding anniversary, the year before Andrea died.
The jewelry was all there, so it was clear that whoever came in was not a common thief. He had been after information, and I realized how blessed I was that I had not left the trial transcript and all the old newspapers there. I had not the slightest doubt that they would have been destroyed. I could replace the trial transcript, but it would take a lot of time and those newspapers were irreplaceable. It was not just the accounts of the trial that the articles contained, but all the interviews and background that would be lost if they were to disappear.
I decided not to call Mrs. Hilmer immediately. I was sure she would be awake all night if she knew that an intruder had been in the apartment. I resolved that in the morning I would take the newspapers and the transcript and have copies made of them. It would be a tiresome job but well worth it. I simply couldn’t afford to take a chance on losing them.
I checked the door again. It was bolted, but I wedged a heavy chair against it. Then I locked all the windows except the one in the bedroom that I wanted open for fresh air. I love a cold bedroom and didn’t want to be deprived of that pleasure by the unknown visitor. Besides, the apartment is on the second floor, and there’s no way anyone could get in through a window without a ladder. I was very sure that if anyone wanted to harm me, he’d find an easier way than dragging a ladder that I might hear. Still, when I finally did fall asleep, I kept waking with a start, always listening intently. But the sounds I heard were simply the wind blowing the few remaining leaves from the trees behind the garage.
It was only at dawn when I woke for the fourth or fifth time that I realized what I should have picked up on immediately: Whoever had gone through my appointment book knew that I had a meeting that morning at Arbinger and another one at Carrington Academy on Monday.
I planned to leave for Arbinger at seven o’clock. I knew Mrs. Hilmer was an early bird, so at ten of seven I called her and asked if I could stop by for a moment. Over a cup of her excellent coffee I told her about the intruder and that I would take the transcript and newspapers and get copies made of them.
“No, you won’t,” she said. “I have nothing else to do. I’m a volunteer at the library and use the machines there all the time. I’ll use the copier in the office. That way no one has to know what’s going on. Except Rudy Schell, of course. He’s been there forever, and I’d trust him not to say a word.”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Ellie, I want you to move in with me. I don’t want you alone in the apartment. Whoever was in last night might come back, and, anyhow, I think we should call the police.”
“No to moving in with you,” I said. “If anything, I should leave the apartment.” She began to shake her head, and I said, “But I won’t. I’m too comfortable being near you. And I’ve thought about notifying the police and decided it’s a bad idea. There’s no sign of breaking and entering. My jewelry is still there. If I tell a cop that the only disturbance was that someone moved a pen and added a couple of words to a computer file, what do you think he’ll believe?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. “The Westerfields are already putting out the scenario that I was an overly imaginative and troubled child, and that my testimony at the trial was unreliable. Can you imagine what they’d make of a story like this? I’d sound like one of those people who send threatening letters to themselves just to get attention.”
I gulped the last of the coffee. “There is something you can do, though, if you will. Call Joan Lashley and ask her if I can come and see her tomorrow.”
It was comforting to hear Mrs. Hilmer say, “Drive carefully,” and feel her quick kiss on my cheek.
* * *
ON MY WAY around Boston I got caught in some of the commuter traffic, so it was almost eleven o’clock when I drove through the carefully guarded gates of Arbinger Preparatory School. It was even more impressive in real life than the photographs on its Website suggested. The handsome pink brick buildings looked mellow and tranquil under the November sky. The long driveway through the campus was lined with mature trees that in season must form a lush canopy of leaves. It was easy to imagine why most of the kids who graduate from a place such as this received with their diplomas a sense of entitlement, a feeling of having been made special, of being a cut above the rest.
As I steered the car into the area designated for visitors, I recalled the list of high schools I had attended. Freshman year in Louisville. Second half of sophomore year in Los Angeles. No, I was there until the middle of my junior year. Where was I next? Oh, yes, Portland, Oregon. And finally back to Los Angeles, which for my senior year and the four years of college offered some sort of stability. Mother continued to move around in the hotel chain until I was a senior in college. That was when the damage to her liver became accelerated, and she shared my tiny apartment until her death.
I always wanted you girls to know how to do things nicely, Ellie. That way if you met someone with a very good background, you’d be able to hold your own.
Oh, Mother, I thought as I was admitted to the main building and directed to Craig Parshall’s office. The walls along the corridor were lined with portraits of grave-faced figures, and from what I could discern from quick glances, most of them were former school presidents.
Craig Parshall was less impressive in appearance than his cultured voice suggested. He was a man in his late fifties who still wore his school ring. His thinning hair was too perfectly combed—in a vain attempt to conceal the empty space on the dome of his head—and he could not conceal the fact that he was downright nervous.
His office was large and very handsome, with paneled walls, formal draperies, a Persian carpet just threadbare enough to guarantee its antiquity, comfortable leather chairs, and a mahogany desk, behind which he promptly retreated after greeting me.
“As I told you on the phone, Ms. Cavanaugh—” he began.
“Mr. Parshall, why don’t we not waste each other’s time?” I suggested, interrupting him. “I am totally aware of the constraints on you, and I appreciate them. Just answer a few questions, and I’ll be on my way.”
“I will give you the dates that Robson Westerfield attended—”
“I’m aware of the dates he was a student here. That came out at his trial for the murder of my sister.”
Parshall winced.
“Mr. Parshall, the Westerfield family has a goal in life and that is to whitewash Robson Westerfield’s reputation, have a new trial, and get him acquitted. Success will have the de facto effect of having the world believe that another young man—one, I might add, who has neither the money nor the intellectual capacity to walk through these doors—is guilty of my sister’s death. My goal is to see that that does not happen.”
“You must understand—” Parshall began.
“I understand that you can’t be quoted on the record. But you can open some doors for me. By that I mean that I want the list of students who were in class with Rob Westerfield. I want to know if any of them was known to be a particular friend of his—or, better yet, if there was someone who simply couldn’t stand him. Who was his roommate? And off the record—and I do mean off the record—why was he kicked out?”
We looked at each other in silence for a long minute, and neither one of us blinked.
“On my Website I could easily refer to Robson Westerfield’s exclusive prep school and not name it,” I said, “or I could put it this way: Arbinger Preparatory School, alma mater to His Royal Highness Prince Gregory of Belgium, His Serene Highness Prince—”
He interrupted me. “Off the record?”
“Absolutely.”
“No naming of the school or of me?”
“Absolutely.”
He sighed, and I almost felt sorry for him. “Have you ever heard the quote ‘Put not your trust in princes?’ Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m quite familiar with it—not only the biblical reference, but the way it’s been paraphrased to me: ‘Put not your trust in investigative reporters.’ ”
“Is that a warning, Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“If the investigative reporter has a sense of integrity, the answer is no.”
“Understanding that, I’m going to put my trust in you, in the sense that I can rely on your discretion. Off the record?”
“Absolutely.”
“The only reason Robson Westerfield was accepted here is that his father offered to rebuild the science building. And without a hint of publicity, I might add. Rob was presented to us as a troubled student who was never at home among his grade-school peers.”
“He went to Baldwin in Manhattan for eight years,” I said. “Were there problems there?”
“None reported to us, except perhaps a peculiarly absent—or listless—endorsement from his teachers and guidance counselor.”
“And the science lab here needed rebuilding?”
Parshall looked pained. “Westerfield was from a fine family. His intelligence is in the very superior category.”
“All right,” I said. “Now let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. What was it like having that guy on these hallowed grounds?”
“I had just begun teaching here, so I’m a firsthand witness. It was about as bad as it gets,” Parshall said frankly. “I assume you know the definition of a sociopath?” He waved his hands in an impatient sort of gesture. “Sorry. As my wife reminds me, my classroom warm-ups can be quite annoying. I am talking of the sociopath as someone who is born without a conscience, who has a disregard for and is in conflict with the social code as you and I understand it. Robson Westerfield was a poster boy for that kind of personality.”
“Then you had problems with him from the beginning?”
“Like so many of his ilk, he is blessed with looks and intelligence. He also is the last of a distinguished family line. His grandfather and father were students here. We hoped that we would be able to bring out whatever good qualities there were in him.”
“People don’t think much of his father, Vincent Westerfield. What kind of record did he have here?”
“I looked him up. Academically, only fair. Nothing like the grandfather, from what I gather. Pearson Westerfield was a United States senator.”
“Why did Rob Westerfield leave in the middle of his sophomore year?”
“There was a serious incident stemming from his losing a starting spot on the football team. He attacked another student. The family was persuaded not to sue, and the Westerfields paid all the bills. Maybe more—to that I can’t swear.”
It dawned on me that Craig Parshall was being unusually frank. I told him so.
“I do not like to be threatened, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“Threatened?”
“This morning, shortly before you arrived, I received a telephone call from a Mr. Hamilton, an attorney who represents the Westerfield family. I was warned that I should give you no negative information about Robson Westerfield.”
They work pretty fast, I thought. “May I ask what kind of information you gave Jake Bern about Westerfield?”
“His sports activities, such as they were. Robson was a powerful young man; even as a thirteen-year-old he was nearly six feet tall. He played on the squash team, the tennis team, and the football team. He was also in the theater group. I told Bern that he was a genuinely talented actor. That was the kind of information Bern was seeking. He managed to elicit some quotes from me that will sound very favorable in print.”
I could just imagine how Bern would write the chapter on Rob at Arbinger. He’d come out looking like an all-around preppie in the three-generation family prep school. “How will his leaving Arbinger be explained?”
“He took the second semester of his sophomore year abroad, then decided to switch.”
“I realize we’re going back nearly thirty years, but could you give me a list of his former classmates?”
“You didn’t get it from me, of course.”
“That’s understood.”
* * *
WHEN I LEFT ARBINGER an hour later, I had a list of the freshmen and sophomores who had been classmates of Rob Westerfield. Comparing them with the active alumni list, Parshall identified ten who were in the Massachusetts-to-Manhattan area. One of them was Christopher Cassidy, the football player Rob Westerfield had severely beaten. He now had his own investment firm and lived in Boston.
“Chris was a scholarship student,” Parshall explained. “And because he is grateful for having had the opportunity to attend this school, he is one of our most generous donors. In his case, I don’t mind making a phone call. Chris has always been blunt about his feelings about Westerfield. But, again, if I hook you up with him, it has to be confidential.”
“Absolutely.”
Parshall walked with me to the door. It was break time between classes, and the soft pealing of a bell was followed by a steady stream of small groups of students emerging from various rooms. The current generation of Arbinger scholars, I thought as I studied their young faces. Many of them were destined for future leadership roles, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was also another Robson Westerfield—type sociopath incubating within these privileged walls.
I drove out of the school grounds and along the town’s main street, which begins at the school. From the map I could see that it runs in a direct line from Arbinger Prep on the south end of town to Jenna Calish Academy for girls on the north end. New Cotswold is one of those charming New England villages that is built around the schools in its vicinity. It has a large bookstore, a cinema, a library, a number of clothing stores, and several small restaurants. I had given up the thought of hanging around with the chance of learning something from students. Craig Parshall had given me the kind of information that I wanted, and I knew that I’d be better off pursuing Rob Westerfield’s classmates than spending more time around Arbinger.
But it was nearly noon, and I realized that I had the beginnings of a headache, partly due to the fact that I was getting hungry and partly because I hadn’t slept much the previous evening.
About three blocks from the school I passed a restaurant called The Library. The quaint hand-painted sign caught my eye, and I suspected that it might be the kind of place where the soup was homemade. I decided to give it a try and pulled into a parking space nearby.
Because it was before noon, I was the first lunch customer, and the hostess, a cheery, bustling lady in her late forties, was happy not only to give me my choice of the dozen or so smaller tables, but to fill me in on the history of the establishment. “It’s been in our family for fifty years,” she assured me. “My mother, Antoinette Duval, opened it. She was always a marvelous cook, and my father, to indulge her, staked her to it. She was so successful, he ended up quitting his job and handling the business end here. They’re retired now, and my sisters and I have taken it over. But Mother still comes in a couple of days a week to make some of her specials. She’s in the kitchen now, and if you like onion soup, she just made it.”
I ordered it, and it was every bit as good as I’d hoped. The hostess came over to check my reaction, and my reassurance that the soup was heavenly caused her to beam with delight. Then, since only a few other diners had arrived, she stood at the table and asked me if I were staying locally or just passing through. I decided to be totally honest. “I’m a journalist, and I’m doing a story on Rob Westerfield who was just released from Sing Sing. Do you know who he is?”
Her expression changed instantly from friendly to stern and tight-lipped. She turned abruptly and walked away from me. Oh, boy, I thought. It’s a good thing I’ve almost finished the soup. She looks as though she’s ready to throw me out.
A moment later she was back, this time with a plump white-haired woman in tow. The older woman was wearing a chef’s apron and drying her hands on a corner of it as she came to the table. “Mom,” the hostess said, “this lady is doing a story on Rob Westerfield. Maybe you’d like to tell her something.”
“Rob Westerfield.” Mrs. Duval practically spat out the name. “He’s a bad one. Why did they let him out of prison?”
She didn’t need encouragement to tell her story. “He came in here with his mother and father during one of the parents’ weekends. How old was he? Fifteen, maybe. He was arguing with his father. Whatever happened, he jumped up to leave. The waitress was walking behind him, and he knocked into the tray. The food went all over him. I tell you, Miss, I never saw anything like it. He grabbed that girl’s arm and twisted it until she screamed. He’s an animal.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I was about to, but his mother begged me to wait. Then the father opened his wallet and handed the waitress five hundred dollars. She was just a kid. She wanted to take it. She said she wouldn’t press charges. Then the father told me to add the price of the food that was lost to his check.”
“What did Rob Westerfield do?”
“He stalked out and left his parents to deal with the mess. The mother was terribly embarrassed. After the father paid the waitress, he told me that it was all her fault and that his son had reacted that way because he had been scalded. He told me I should train waitresses before I let them carry trays.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him that we would no longer continue to serve him and that they should leave my restaurant.”
“You can’t imagine what Mama is like when she’s angry,” her daughter said. “She picked up the plates that had just been put in front of them and carried them back to the kitchen.”
“But I was very sorry for Mrs. Westerfield,” Mrs. Duval said. “She was so upset. In fact, she wrote me a very nice letter of apology. I still have it in my files.”
When I left The Library half an hour later, I had permission to tell that story on my Website and a promise that I would receive a copy of the letter Mrs. Westerfield had written to Mrs. Duval. Plus, I was on my way to visit Margaret Fisher, the young waitress whose arm Rob had twisted. She was now a psychologist living two towns away, and, yes, she would be very happy to talk to me. She remembered Rob Westerfield very well indeed.
* * *
“I WAS SAVING MONEY for college,” Dr. Fisher told me. “The five hundred dollars his father gave me seemed like a fortune at the time. Looking back, I’m sorry I didn’t sign a complaint against him. The guy is violent, and if I know anything about the human mind, I suspect that twenty-two years in prison didn’t change him a bit.”
She was an attractive woman in her early forties, with prematurely gray hair and a young face. She told me that she had appointments only until noon on Friday and was just about to leave her office when I phoned. “I saw the interview with him the other night on television,” she said. “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. It sickened me, so I can understand how you feel.”
I told her what I was doing with the Website and how I had gone to stand outside Sing Sing with the sign requesting information about Rob’s conduct in prison.
“I’d be very surprised if there weren’t more incidents there that you may find out about,” she said. “But what about the years between the time he was in school here and when he was arrested for your sister’s death? How old was he when he went to prison?”
“Twenty.”
“With his history, I seriously doubt there weren’t other situations that were hushed up or never reported. Ellie, has it occurred to you that you’re setting yourself up as a constant menace to him? You tell me that his grandmother is very alert. Suppose she learns about your Website and visits it, or has someone in her employ visit it for her every day. If she reads enough negative facts about him, what’s to keep her from deciding to change her will even before Westerfield has a second trial?”
“Wouldn’t that be absolutely wonderful!” I said. “I’d love to think that I was responsible for having the family money go to charity.”
“I would be very careful if I were you,” Dr. Fisher said quietly.
* * *
I THOUGHT ABOUT her advice as I drove back to Oldham. There had been a break-in at my apartment and then what amounted to a threat lodged in my computer file. I turned over in my mind the question of whether I should have notified the police. But for the reason I had given Mrs. Hilmer, I knew I was right not to notify them; I wasn’t going to put myself at risk of being considered some kind of nut case. On the other hand, I had no right to put Mrs. Hilmer in any kind of jeopardy. I decided I’d have to find another place to live.
Dr. Fisher had given me permission to use her name when I wrote about what had happened in the restaurant. That was something else I’d do on the Website—invite people to share any problems they’d had with Rob Westerfield in the years before he went to prison.
* * *
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when I pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the apartment. I’d stopped at the supermarket in Oldham and picked up some much needed supplies. My plan was to make a simple dinner: a shell steak, baked potato, and salad. Then I’d watch television and get to bed reasonably early. I needed to begin to write the book I had contracted to do about Westerfield, and while the material I used on the Website could be repeated in the book, it would have to be presented differently.
Her house was dark, so I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Hilmer was home. I reasoned that her car might be in the garage and that she might not have turned any lights on yet, so I phoned her when I got into the apartment. She answered on the first ring, and I could tell that her voice was troubled.
“Ellie, this may sound crazy, but I think someone followed me today when I went to the library.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You know how quiet this street is. But I was hardly out of the driveway when I could see a car in the rearview mirror. It stayed a distance behind me, but it didn’t turn off until after I’d turned into the parking area next to the library. Then I think the same car followed me home.”
“Did it keep going when you turned off?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It was midsize, dark, either black or dark blue. It was far enough behind me that I couldn’t see the driver, but I have the impression that it was a man. Ellie, do you think that whoever was in the apartment last night is hanging around here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to call the police, and that means I’ll have to tell them about last night.”
“Yes, of course.” I hated myself for the nervousness I heard in Mrs. Hilmer’s voice. Until now, she obviously had always felt secure in her home. I only prayed that by being a lightning rod for trouble I had not destroyed that sense of security for her.
A squad car pulled up at the house ten minutes later, and after debating for a few minutes, I decided to walk over to talk to the police. The officer who looked to be a longtime veteran of the force obviously did not think much of Mrs. Hilmer’s suspicions. “Whoever was in that car didn’t try to stop you or contact you in any way?” he was asking her when I arrived.
“No.” She introduced us. “Ellie, I’ve known Officer White for many years.”
He was a craggy-faced man who looked as though he’d spent a lot of time outdoors. “And what’s this about an intruder, Ms. Cavanaugh?”
His skepticism was apparent when I told him about the pen and the entry in the file. “You mean your jewelry wasn’t touched and the only evidence you have of someone having been in the apartment is that you think your pen had been moved from one side of your notebook to the other and there are a couple of words in a file in the computer that you don’t remember writing.”
“That I didn’t write,” I corrected him.
He was polite enough not to contradict me directly, but then he said, “Mrs. Hilmer, we’ll keep an eye on the house for the next few days, but my guess is that you were a little nervous after hearing Ms. Cavanaugh’s story this morning and that’s why you picked up on that car. Chances are it was nothing.”
My “story,” I thought. Thanks for nothing. But then he said he’d like to examine the lock in the door of the apartment. Promising Mrs. Hilmer that I’d call her, I walked back to the apartment with him. He did take a look at the lock and came to the same conclusion I had reached: It had not been forced in any way.
He lingered for a moment, obviously trying to make up his mind about something, and then he said, “We heard about you being at Sing Sing yesterday, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
I waited. We were standing in the hall outside the apartment. He had not asked to see the computer file, which showed just how much credence he had put in my “story.” I was not about to invite him in to shrug it off any further.
“Ms. Cavanaugh, I was here when your sister was murdered, and I do understand the pain your family experienced. But if Rob Westerfield did commit the crime, he has served his sentence, and I have to tell you there are plenty of people in this town who had no use for him as a wild kid, but who think he got a bum rap.”
“Is that your opinion, Officer?”
“Frankly, it is. I’ve always thought that Paulie Stroebel was guilty. There was a lot that didn’t come out at the trial.”
“Such as . . .”
“He’d bragged to a number of kids in school that your sister was going to the Thanksgiving mixer with him. If she told any of them, I mean some of her close friends, that she was going only because Rob Westerfield wouldn’t get jealous of a guy like Paulie and it got back to him, he might have gone crazy. Rob Westerfield’s car was parked at the service station. You said yourself on the witness stand that Paulie told Andrea he’d followed her to the hideout. And then there was that guidance counselor who swore on the stand that when Paulie heard about Andrea’s body being found, she heard him say, ‘I didn’t think she was dead.’ ”
“And there was a student nearer to him who swore that he said, ‘I can’t believe she’s dead.’ A big difference, Officer.”
“It’s obvious we’re not going to see eye to eye on this, but let me give you a warning.” He must have sensed that I stiffened, because he said, “Hear me out. You’re in way over your head, carrying signs around Sing Sing. The guys getting out of there are hardened criminals. You’re standing there, a young, very attractive woman with a sign giving your phone number and begging them to call you. Half of those bums are going to end up back in there within a couple of years. What do you think goes through their heads when they see a woman like you just begging for trouble?”
I looked at him closely. There was sincere concern on his face. And he certainly had a point. “Officer White, it’s you and people like you I’m trying to convince,” I said. “I understand now that my sister was terrified of Rob Westerfield, and after what I’ve just learned about him today, I can understand why. If I’m in any danger, I’ll take my chances with the people who saw that sign—unless, of course, they’re in any way connected to Rob Westerfield and his family.”
That was when it occurred to me to describe the man who had spoken to me in the parking lot of the railroad station. I asked him to see if he could learn whether a prisoner of that description had been released yesterday.
“What would you do with that information?” he asked me.
“All right. Let’s forget it, officer,” I said.
Mrs. Hilmer must have been watching for Officer White to leave. My cell phone rang just as the taillights of his squad car disappeared onto the road.
“Ellie,” she said, “I made a copy of the newspapers and the trial transcript. Do you need the originals this evening for any reason? I’m meeting some friends for a movie and dinner and won’t be back until ten o’clock.”
I hated the thought that I was afraid to have both the originals and the copies under one roof, but I was.
“I’ll be right over,” I said.
“No, I’ll call you when I’m leaving. I’ll drive past the apartment, and you can run down and get the duffel bag.”
She came a few minutes later. It was only four-thirty, but already the sky was dark. Even so, I could see the tension in her face when she opened the window to speak to me.
“Did anything else happen?” I asked.
“Just a minute ago I got a phone call. I don’t know who it was. The caller ID was blocked.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I know it’s crazy, but somebody said I should be careful keeping a psycho around me. He said that you’d been institutionalized for setting fire in a classroom.”
“That’s absolutely untrue. My God, I’ve never spent a day in a hospital since I was born, never mind an institution.”
I knew from the relief on her face that Mrs. Hilmer believed me. But that meant, of course, that she had not instantly disbelieved the caller. After all, the first time I visited her, she had suggested that Rob Westerfield might be innocent and that I was obsessed with Andrea’s death.
“But, Ellie, why would anyone say such a terrible thing about you?” she protested. “And what can you do to stop him from saying it to someone else?”
“Someone’s trying to discredit me, of course, and the answer is that I can’t stop it.” I opened the back door of the car and retrieved the duffel bag. I tried to choose my words carefully. “Mrs. Hilmer, I think it’s better if I move back to the Inn tomorrow morning. Officer White thinks that I’m going to attract some pretty strange people as a result of standing outside Sing Sing with a sign, and I can’t have them finding their way here. I’m safer in an inn, and certainly you’ll have your peace back.”
She was not dishonest enough to contradict me. There was relief in her voice when she said, “I think you would be safer, Ellie.” She paused, then added in all honesty, “I guess I would feel safer, too.” After that she was gone.
I walked back up to the apartment, the duffel bag in my hand, feeling almost bereft. In biblical days the lepers were made to wear bells around their necks and to shout, “Unclean, unclean,” if anyone happened to wander near them. At that moment I swear I felt like a leper.
I dropped the bag and went into the bedroom to change. I replaced my jacket with a loose sweater, kicked off my shoes, and stuffed my feet into ancient fleece-lined slippers. Then I went into the living room, poured myself a glass of wine, and settled in the big club chair with my feet on the hassock.
The sweater and slippers were my comfort clothes. For a fleeting moment I thought about my old comforter, Bones, the floppy stuffed animal who had shared my pillow when I was a child. He was in a box on the top shelf of a closet in my apartment in Atlanta. He shared the box with other mementos my mother had kept of the past, including her wedding album, pictures of the four of us, baby clothes, and, most wrenching of all, Andrea’s band uniform. For a moment I felt a childish resentment that Bones wasn’t with me now.
Then, as I sipped the wine, I thought of how often when Pete and I went out after work we’d linger over a glass of wine before ordering dinner.
Two memories: my mother drinking to seek peace, and Pete and I relaxing and joking about what had sometimes been a wildly busy or frustrating day.
I hadn’t heard from him in the ten days since we’d had dinner in Atlanta. Out of sight, out of mind, I decided. Looking for another job. “Pursuing other interests,” as the business jargon goes when an executive is told to clean out his desk.
Or when he decides to cut his ties. All of them.