22

MRS. HILMER HAD TOLD ME that Joan Lashley St. Martin lived on the road not far beyond Graymoor, the monastery and retreat house of the Franciscan Friars of the Atonement. When I passed the lovely Graymoor property, I had a vague memory of driving up the winding driveway to attend Mass in the main chapel with my parents and Andrea.

Mother had sometimes reminisced about the last time we were there; it had been shortly before Andrea died. Andrea had been feeling silly that day and kept whispering jokes in my ear; during the sermon, I even laughed out loud. My mother had firmly separated us and after Mass told my father that we should go straight home and forget about having the brunch we’d been looking forward to at the Bear Mountain Inn.

“Even Andrea couldn’t charm your father that day,” Mother recalled. “Of course when everything happened a few weeks later, I was sorry we didn’t have that last happy time together having brunch.”

The day before . . . the last happy time . . . I wondered if I’d ever be free of that kind of remark. It certainly won’t be today, I thought, as I slowed down to check Joan’s address again.

She lived in a three-story frame house in a lovely wooded area. The white clapboard shingles glistened in the sunshine and were complemented by the hunter green shutters framing the windows. I parked in the semicircular driveway, went up the porch steps, and rang the bell.

Joan answered the door. She had always seemed tall to me, but I realized instantly that she hadn’t grown an inch in these twenty-two years. Her long brown hair was now collar length, and her thin frame had filled out. I remembered her as being very attractive. I would say the definition still fit, at least until she smiled—she is one of those people whose smile is so vivid and warm that it makes the whole face seem beautiful. As we looked at each other, Joan’s green eyes became moist for a moment, then she grasped my hands.

“Little Ellie,” she said. “Dear God, I thought you’d be shorter than I am. You were such a tiny kid.”

I laughed. “I know. It’s the reaction I’m getting from everyone who used to know me.”

She put her arm through mine. “Come in, I have a pot of coffee going, and I stuck a couple of bake-and-serve muffins in the oven. No guarantees that they’re any good. Sometimes they’re fine; other times they taste like lead balloons.”

We walked through the living room that ran from the front to the back of the house. It was the kind of room I loved—deep couches, club chairs, a wall of books, a fireplace, wide windows that looked out at the surrounding hills.

We share similar taste, I thought. Then I realized that the similarity also extended to clothing. We were both dressed casually in sweaters and jeans. I had been expecting to see a tall fashionable woman with long hair. In addition to expecting me to be small, I’m sure she also thought I’d be dressed in something frilly. Mother’s taste in dress-up clothes for Andrea and me had been very feminine.

“Leo is out with the boys,” she said. “Between the three of them, life is one long basketball game.”

The table in the breakfast room was already set for the two of us. The percolator was plugged in on the sideboard. The picture window offered a stunning view of the palisades and the Hudson River.

“I would never get tired of looking out this window,” I said as I sat down.

“I never do. So many of the old crowd went down to the city, but, you know something? A lot of them are coming back. The commute into Manhattan is only an hour, and they think it’s worth it.” Joan was pouring the coffee as she spoke, then abruptly set the percolator back on the sideboard. “Oh, my Lord, it’s time to rescue the bake-and-serves.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

She may not look as I visualized her, I thought, but one thing hadn’t changed! Joan was always fun to be with. She was Andrea’s best friend and therefore was in and out of our house all the time. Of course, I had my own friends, but if I didn’t have one of them around, Andrea and Joan would let me join them, often to listen to records with them in Andrea’s room. Sometimes when they were doing their homework together, they’d let me do mine with them, just as long as I wasn’t a pest.

Joan returned triumphantly carrying a plate of corn muffins. “Congratulations are in order, Ellie,” she said. “I caught them just before the bottoms started to burn.”

I helped myself to one. Joan sat down, cut a muffin open, spread butter on it lightly, tasted it, and said, “My God, it’s edible!”

We laughed together and began to talk. She wanted to know about me, what I had been doing, and I briefly sketched in the years between age seven and the present. She had heard of Mother’s death. “Your father put a notice in the local papers,” she said. “A very sweet one. Didn’t you know that?”

“He didn’t send it to me.”

“I have it somewhere. If you’d like to see it, I can dig it out. It might take a while, though. My filing is about on a par with my baking.”

I wanted to say no, don’t bother, but I was curious to see what my father had written. “If you come across it, I would like to see it,” I said, trying to sound offhand. “But please don’t go to any trouble.”

I was sure Joan wanted to ask me if I had been in touch with my father, but she must have sensed that I did not want to talk about him.

Instead she said, “Your mother was so lovely. And of course your father was very handsome. I remember that I was intimidated by him, but I think I also had a crush on him. I was so sorry when I heard they separated after the trial. The four of you always seemed so happy, and you did so many things together. I always wished my family would go to Sunday brunches at the Bear Mountain Inn the way you did.”

“Only an hour ago I’d been thinking of the brunch that we didn’t go to there,” I said, and then told Joan about Andrea making me laugh in church.

Joan smiled. “She did that to me sometimes in school assemblies. Andrea could keep a straight face, and I’d get in trouble for laughing when the principal was speaking.”

As she sipped her coffee, she reflected. “My parents are good people, but, to be perfectly frank, they’re not much fun. We never went out to a restaurant, because my father said the food was cheaper and tasted better at home. Fortunately, he’s loosened up a bit now that they’ve retired to Florida.”

She laughed. “But when they go out, the rule is they have to be in the restaurant by five o’clock to get the early bird prices, and if they have a cocktail, they fix it at home and sip it in the van in the parking lot of the restaurant before dinner. Don’t you love it?”

Then she added, “I mean, it would be different if he couldn’t afford to do otherwise, but he can. Dad is just plain cheap. My mother says he still has his First Communion money.”

She poured us a second cup of coffee. “Ellie, like everybody else around here, I saw the Rob Westerfield interview on television. My cousin is a judge. He says there’s so much pressure for that second trial that he’s surprised they’re not already into jury selection. You have no idea how manipulative the father is, and, of course, Dorothy Westerfield, the grandmother, has made huge donations to hospitals and libraries and schools around here. She wants the second trial for Rob, and the powers that be want her to have it.”

“You’ll be called as a witness, of course, Joan,” I said.

“I know it. I was the last person to see Andrea alive.” She hesitated, then added, “Except for her murderer, of course.”

We were both silent for a moment. Then I said, “Joan, I need to know everything that you remember about that last night. I’ve read the trial transcript over and over, and it strikes me that your testimony was very brief.”

She put her elbows on the table and folded her hands together, resting her chin on them. “It was brief, because neither the prosecutor nor the defense attorney asked me questions that, looking back, I think they should have asked.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About Will Nebels, for one,” she said. “You remember how he was a handyman and worked for just about everyone in town at some point. He helped build your porch, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He fixed our garage door when my mother backed the car into it. As my father used to say, when Will wasn’t three sheets to the wind, he was a good carpenter. But, of course, you could never count on him showing up.”

“I kind of remember that.”

“Something you wouldn’t remember was that Andrea and I used to talk about the fact that he was a bit too friendly.”

“Too friendly?”

Joan shrugged. “Today, knowing what I know, I would say that he was one step away from being a child molester. I mean, we all knew him because he’d been in our houses. But any number of times when we bumped into him in the street, he’d give us each a big hug—although never if an adult was around, of course.”

I was incredulous. “Joan, I’m sure even at that age I would have been aware if Andrea had complained about him to my father. I certainly knew when he ordered Andrea to stay away from Westerfield.”

“Ellie, twenty-two years ago we kids simply weren’t aware that he was potentially more than a nuisance. At that time we told each other how yucky it was when Nebels would give us a hug and call us ‘his girls.’ ‘How do you like the new porch I built with your daddy, Andrea?’ he’d say with an overly friendly smile, or ‘Didn’t I fix your garage good, Joanie?’ he’d whine.

“Now understand, he didn’t molest us, but in retrospect, he was just a boozy sleaze who had a hell of a nerve, and there was no question in my mind that the one he really had his eye on was Andrea. I remember I joked to your mother and father that Andrea was going to invite Will Nebels to the Christmas dance. They never picked up that there was anything behind the joking.”

“My father missed that!”

“Andrea could do a great imitation of Will sneaking beer out of his toolbox and getting bombed while he was working. There was no reason for your father to look behind the joking for a potential problem.”

“Joan, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this now. Are you saying that you think that this story Will Nebels is telling now is anything but an outright lie that the Westerfields are paying him to tell?”

“Ellie, ever since I heard Will Nebels with Rob Westerfield during that interview, I’m wondering if there’s any truth to what he said. Was he really in old Mrs. Westerfield’s house that night? Did he actually see Andrea go into the garage? Well after the fact, I wondered if I’d seen someone coming down the road when Andrea left our house that night. But I was so vague about it when I talked to the police and the attorneys then that it was pretty much dismissed as teenage hysteria.”

“What I told them was dismissed as childish imagination.”

“I do know for certain that Will Nebels had lost his driver’s license at that time and was always wandering around town. I also know he had a thing for Andrea. Suppose she was hoping to meet Rob Westerfield in the garage hideout and got there early. Suppose Will had followed her there and made a pass at her. Suppose there was a struggle, and she fell backward? That was a cement floor. There was an injury on the back of her head that they blamed on the fact that she’d fallen after she was hit with the tire jack. But isn’t it possible she fell before she was hit with the tire jack?”

“The blow on the back of her head would only have stunned her,” I said. “I know that from the records.”

“Hear me out. Let’s assume for one single minute that, lowlife that he is, Rob Westerfield’s story is true. He parked his car at the service station, went into the movie, and after it was over, drove to the hideout, just in case Andrea was waiting for him.”

“And found her dead?”

“Yes, and panicked. Just as he claimed.”

She saw the protest forming on my lips and held up her hand. “Hear me out, Ellie, please. It is possible that everyone has told parts of the truth. Suppose Nebels struggled with Andrea, and she fell and hit her head and was unconscious. Suppose he ran inside Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield’s house while trying to decide what to do. He had done work there and knew the alarm code. And then he saw Paulie drive up.”

“Why would Paulie have taken the tire jack out of the car?”

“Maybe for protection, in case he ran into Westerfield. Remember that Miss Watkins, the guidance counselor, swore Paulie had said: ‘I didn’t think she was dead.’ ”

“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.