FROM THE CLERK’S DESK at the Parkinson Inn I could look into the restaurant and see that it was enjoying its usual weekend luncheon crowd. Today’s group appeared to be particularly festive. I wondered if the sunny fall afternoon had a cheering effect after the several dreary days in the early part of the week.
“I’m afraid that all eight rooms are booked for the weekend, Ms. Cavanaugh,” the clerk told me. “It’s been that way every weekend this fall, and will be till Christmas.”
Of course, that said it all. There was no use staying here during the week, then moving out for the weekend. I’d have to find another place. The prospect of driving from one inn or motel to another seeking admittance, however, was decidedly unappealing. I decided it would be a lot more efficient to go back to the apartment, get out the phone book, and start making calls to see where I could find housing for the next few months. Preferably I’d find something that wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg.
The bake-and-serve corn muffin I’d had that morning was all I’d had to eat so far that day. It was then twenty of one, and I didn’t particularly feel like having an American cheese, tomato, and lettuce sandwich, which, to the best of my recollection, was all that I’d find in the apartment.
I went into the restaurant and was promptly seated. Technically it was a table for two, but any person in the other seat would have to be skeletal in dimensions. That chair backed up on a sharp corner of the alcove where I’d been placed, leaving no room. Next to me was a table for six which had a reservation sign propped against the salt and pepper shakers.
In my nomadic wanderings I had been to Boston only once, when I was following up on a news story I was writing. That brief visit had left me with a permanent love of New England clam chowder, which according to the menu was the soup of the day.
I ordered it, along with a green salad and a bottle of Perrier. “I like the soup really hot, please,” I told the waitress. While I waited to be served, I nibbled on crusty bread and began to analyze why I was feeling disquieted and even depressed.
It wasn’t that hard to figure out, I decided. A few weeks ago when I came here, I’d felt like a kind of feminine Don Quixote tilting at windmills. But the sobering truth was that even the very people who I would have thought were as convinced as I was of Rob Westerfield’s guilt were not taking my side.
They knew him. They knew what he was. And still they thought it was entirely possible he had spent his twenties and thirties in prison an innocent man, himself a victim of this crime. Sympathetic as they were to me, in their eyes I was perceived as the obsessed family member of the dead girl, fixated and unreasonable at best, manic and unbalanced at worst.
I know that in some ways I am arrogant. When I think I’m right, all the forces of heaven and hell won’t budge me. Maybe that’s why I’m a good investigative reporter. I have a reputation for being able to cut through the obfuscation, target what I perceive to be the truth, and then prove my case. Now, sitting in this restaurant where long ago I sat as the smallest member of a happy family, I tried to be honest with myself. Was it possible, was it remotely possible, that the same drive that made me a good reporter was working against me now? Was I doing a disservice not only to people like Mrs. Hilmer and Joan Lashley, but to the man I despised, Rob Westerfield?
I was so intent on my own thoughts that I was startled when a hand came across my vision. It was the waitress with the clam chowder. As I’d requested, steam was rising from the bowl.
“Be careful,” she warned. “It’s really hot.”
Mother used to tell us that it’s not appropriate to thank a waiter or waitress for service, but that lesson never took with me. To say “thank you” when something that you wanted is placed in front of you never seemed inappropriate to me, and still doesn’t.
I picked up the spoon, but before I could take the first sip, the party arrived for the reserved table next to me. I looked up and my throat went dry—Rob West-erfield was standing beside my chair.
I laid down the spoon. He extended his hand, and I ignored it. He was a stunningly handsome man, even more so in person than he had been on television. There was a kind of animal magnetism about him, a suggestion of strength and confidence that is the trademark of many powerful men I have interviewed.
His eyes were a startling cobalt blue, his dark hair lightly brushed at the temples with gray, his complexion surprisingly tanned. I had seen prison pallor on other men and had the fleeting thought that since his release he must have spent several hours under a sunlamp.
“The hostess pointed you out, Ellie,” he said, his voice as warm as though we were acquaintances who happened on each other every so often.
“Did she, indeed?”
“She realized who you are and was quite upset. She didn’t have another table for six and thought I might not want to be seated near you.”
From the corner of my eye I could see his companions taking their seats. Two of them I recognized from the television interview—his father, Vincent Westerfield, and his lawyer, William Hamilton. They were looking at me, their expressions hostile.
“Did it occur to her that I might not want to be anywhere near you?” I asked quietly.
“Ellie, you are totally mistaken about me. I want to find your sister’s murderer and see him punished just as much as you do. Can we get together and talk quietly?” He hesitated, then, with a smile, added, “Please, Ellie.”
I realized that the entire dining room had suddenly become quiet. Since everyone seemed to want to be in on our exchange, I deliberately raised my voice so that at least some of them could overhear me. “I’d love to get together with you, Rob,” I said. “How about at the garage-hideout? That was a favorite place of yours, wasn’t it? Or maybe the memory of bludgeoning a fifteen-year-old girl to death there might be painful even for a consummate liar like you.”
I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and pushed back my chair.
Without the slightest indication of being upset by what I had said, Rob picked up the twenty and shoved it in the pocket of my jacket. “We have a house account here, Ellie. Anytime you come in, you’re our guest. Bring your friends.” Again he paused, but this time his eyes narrowed.
“If you have any,” he added quietly.
I took the twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket, spotted the waitress, gave it to her, and left.
* * *
HALF AN HOUR LATER I was back in the apartment. The kettle was whistling, and I was putting together the previously rejected cheese sandwich, complete with lettuce and tomato. By then the fit of trembling that overcame me in the car had passed, and only my hands, cold and clammy, reflected the shock of seeing Rob Westerfield face to face.
Over and over in that half hour, a scene had been replaying itself in my mind. I am on the witness stand. Flanked by his lawyers, Rob is sitting at the table reserved for the accused. He is staring at me, his eyes malevolent and sneering. I am sure that in a moment he will spring up and attack me.
The intensity of his concentration when he was inches away from me in the restaurant was just as absolute as it had been at the trial, and behind those cobalt blue eyes and the courteous tone, I felt and saw the same relentless hatred.
But there is a difference, I kept reminding myself, until I began to calm down. I’m twenty-nine, not seven. And one way or the other, I’ll do him more harm now than I did then. After the trial, one of the reporters had written, “The sad and earnest child who testified in court that her big sister was really scared of Rob Westerfield carried great weight with the jury.”
I took the sandwich and the tea to the table, got the phone book out of the cabinet, and opened my cellular phone. While I was eating, I decided to go through the Yellow Pages and circle places where I could inquire about a monthly rental.
Before I could begin, Mrs. Hilmer called. I started to explain to her that I was looking for a place to stay, but she cut me off. “Ellie, I just got a call from my oldest granddaughter, Janey. Remember I told you that she had her first baby last month?”
I could hear the strain in Mrs. Hilmer’s voice. “Nothing is wrong with the baby, I hope,” I said quickly.
“No. The baby’s fine. But Janey broke her wrist and could use some help. I’m driving to Long Island this afternoon and will stay a few days. Did you make plans to go to the Parkinson Inn? After what’s happened, I worry about your being alone out here.”
“I stopped at the Inn, but they’re all booked up for the weekend and for the next six or seven weekends as well. I’m just starting to call around to other inns and guest houses now.”
“Ellie, I hope you realize that my concern is only for you. Stay in the apartment until you find something suitable, but for God’s sake be sure to lock the doors.”
“I will, I promise. Please don’t worry about me.”
“I’m taking the copies of the trial transcript and the newspapers with me. I’ll be going over them while I’m in Garden City with Janey. Take down her phone number in case you want to reach me.”
I jotted it down and a few minutes later heard Mrs. Hilmer’s car headed down the driveway. I will confess that after the shock of seeing Rob Westerfield, I was very sorry that she had left.
“Fraidy cat, fraidy cat.” That was how Andrea would tease me when, if our parents were out, we watched movies like Friday the 13th together on television. I always closed my eyes and snuggled against her at the scariest parts.
I remember that one night, to get back at her, I hid under her bed, and when she came into the bedroom, I reached out and grabbed her leg. “Fraidy cat, fraidy cat,” I chanted when she shrieked.
But Andrea wasn’t here to snuggle up to now, and I’m a big girl, used to taking care of myself. I gave a mental shrug and began circling the local guest houses and inns in the Yellow Pages.
Then I started phoning the seemingly likely ones; it proved to be a dismaying task. The few that sounded possible were pretty expensive on a monthly basis, especially when I figured in the price of meals.
At the end of nearly two hours I had a short list of four places and was already looking through the newspaper at the “houses for rent” section. Oldham is pretty much a year-round community, but from the classified section I could see some rentals that appeared to be reasonable.
At three-thirty I was finished; I had six places lined up to see tomorrow. I was glad to be done because I wanted to get to the computer to write notes on my encounter with Westerfield.
There were one or two inns in the area where they said they had a room available immediately. Either one would have been all right on an interim basis, but the last thing in the world I wanted to do now was start packing. I also did not want to start emptying the refrigerator and thoroughly cleaning the apartment.
Mrs. Hilmer had made it very clear that it was my safety she was concerned about and that I was to stay here until I found something suitable. I knew she’d be gone at least three or four days, so I debated with myself, then made a decision: I would stay here for now, at least over the weekend, probably until Monday.
I opened the computer, made notes on the meeting with Westerfield, and then realized I was having a hard time concentrating. My solution was to catch an early movie and afterward have dinner somewhere nearby.
I looked up the movie listings and noted with irony that the film I wanted to see was showing at the Globe Cinema.
That was where Rob Westerfield claimed he had been when Andrea was murdered.
* * *
THE GLOBE had obviously been enlarged and updated since I was a child. It now had seven different films being shown. The lobby held a large, circular service counter where brisk sales in candy, popcorn, and sodas were being made.
Even though the early viewers were just arriving, the lobby floor was already beginning to be littered with kernels of popcorn that had spilled from the tops of overfilled paper cones.
I bought Peanut Chews—my favorite candy—and went into cinema 3, which was where the film I’d selected was being shown. It turned out to be not nearly the ballyhooed sensation (“Now! At last! The picture you’ve been waiting for!”) I’d expected, but mostly a mildly entertaining story about a woman who takes on the world, is vilified, and then, of course, conquers all and finds true love and happiness in the husband she’d kicked out three years earlier.
If they’re that hard up for ideas, maybe I can sell them the story of my life, I thought as my attention continued to wander. My life minus the love interest, of course.
I was seated between two couples, senior citizens on my right, teenagers on my left. The teenagers passed the bag of popcorn back and forth, and the girl kept up a running commentary on the film.
She used to be my favorite actress, but now I don’t think she’s as good as . . .
There was no use trying to pay attention to what was happening on the screen. It wasn’t just the kids and the popcorn and the play-by-play comments, or even the slight snore of the elderly man next to me, who by then had dozed off.
I was distracted by the fact that twenty-two years ago Rob Westerfield claimed to be in this theater while Andrea was being murdered, and no one could verify that he’d actually stayed to see the picture. Even with all the publicity the case engendered, not one person ever came forward and said, “He was sitting next to me.”
Oldham was a fairly small town at that time, and the Westerfields were well known. Certainly Rob Westerfield, with his good looks and rich-boy attitude, was high profile enough to be known around town. As I sat there in that darkened movie house, I visualized him parking in the service station lot next door.
He had claimed that he spoke to Paulie Stroebel, that he told him he was leaving his car. Paulie absolutely denied that Rob spoke to him.
Then Rob made a point of talking to the ticket seller and to the ticket taker, saying something about how much he was looking forward to the film. “Real friendly,” they both testified on the stand, their voices tinged with surprise. Rob Westerfield was not known for being friendly, especially to the working class.
He could easily have established his presence in the theater and then slipped out. I had rented the movie The Guerrilla Jungle Lord that he claimed to have seen that night. There are plenty of early scenes where the screen is so dark that someone in an end seat could easily have left without being seen. I looked around, noticed the several side exits that are only supposed to be used in emergencies, and decided to try something.
I got up, mumbled an apology for waking my sleeping neighbor, climbed over his wife, and made my way to the side exit near the back of the room.
The door opened quietly, and I found myself in a sort of alleyway between a bank and the cinema complex. Years ago, the service station, not the bank, had been here. I have copies of the diagrams and photographs that the newspapers printed during the trial, so I remembered the layout of the service station.
The enclosed garage where Paulie had been working was behind the gas pumps and faced Main Street. The parking area, where cars waiting to be serviced were kept, was behind the station. That area is now a parking lot for bank customers.
I walked down the alley, mentally replacing the bank with the service station. I could even visualize where Rob claimed he had parked his car and where it supposedly sat until the film was over at nine-thirty.
Somehow my footsteps became his, and I was in his mind—angry, bad-tempered, thwarted when the girl he thought he had under his thumb phoned to tell him she had a date with someone else.
Never mind that the someone else was Paulie Stroebel.
Meet Andrea. Show her who’s boss.
Why did he take the tire jack into the hideout? I asked myself.
There were two possible reasons. One was that he was afraid that my father had learned Andrea was planning to meet him. I have no doubt that my father would have loomed in Rob’s mind as a frightening and formidable figure.
The other reason was that Rob took the tire jack with him because he was planning to kill Andrea.
Fraidy cat. Fraidy cat. Oh, God, how terrified the poor kid must have been when she saw him coming at her, saw him lift his arm, brandishing that weapon. . . .
I turned and literally ran back to the other end of the alley where it joined the street. Gulping for air—because for a moment I had literally felt unable to breathe—I steadied myself and walked to my car. I’d left it in the cinema parking lot on the other side of the complex.
The air was still clear, but like last night, a sharp wind had blown up and the temperature was dropping rapidly. I shivered and quickened my steps.
When I’d looked up the film schedule, I noticed an ad for a restaurant, Villa Cesaere, not far from the theater. The ad had made it sound like the kind of place I enjoyed, so I decided to give it a try. I knew I wanted pasta, and the spicier the better. Maybe shrimp fra diavolo, I decided.
I simply had to get rid of the terrible inner chill that was overwhelming me.
* * *
AT NINE-FIFTEEN, fed and feeling somewhat better, I turned the car off the street and onto Mrs. Hilmer’s property. Her house was in darkness, and the light at the door of the garage made for a feeble welcome.
I brought the car to a sudden stop. Something was urging me to turn around, to go to an inn or motel and spend the night there. I simply hadn’t realized how insecure I would feel here tonight. I’ll leave tomorrow, I thought. One more night here won’t be so bad. As soon as I’m in the apartment, I’ll be all right.
Of course, even that rationalization didn’t make sense. While I was having dinner with Mrs. Hilmer the other evening, someone had been in the apartment. But somehow I didn’t think I would find anyone waiting for me there now. My current sense of uneasiness came more from the prospect of being alone outside, so near the woods, if only for a few moments.
I turned the headlights on bright and drove slowly down the driveway. I had been carrying the duffel bag containing the trial transcript, newspapers, and my mother’s jewelry in the trunk of the car all day. When I left the restaurant, I moved the bag from the trunk to the front seat so that once back at the apartment I wouldn’t have to stand outside while I retrieved it.
Now I carefully scanned the area around the garage. There was no one there.
I took a deep breath, picked up the duffel bag, got out of the car, and hurried the few steps to the door.
Before I could insert the key in the lock, a car roared down the driveway and screeched to a stop. A man jumped out and lunged at me.
I stood frozen, sure I was about to see Rob Westerfield’s face and hear the giggle-like sound he’d made as I was kneeling over Andrea’s body.
But then a flashlight shone on me, and as he came closer, I could see that the man was wearing a uniform and that it was Officer White.
“I was given to understand that you’d moved, Ms. Cavanaugh,” he said, his tone decidedly unfriendly. “What are you doing here?”