Daddy's Little Girl by Mary Higgins Clark.
Book Jacket.

Ellie Cavanaugh was only seven years old when
her fifteen-year-old sister, Andrea, was murdered
near their home in Oldham-on-the-Hudson,
a rural village in New York's Westchester County.
There were three suspects: Rob Westerfield, son of
a wealthy, prominent family, whom Andrea had been
secretly dating; Paul Stroebel, a schoolmate with a
crush on Andrea; and Will Nebels, a local handyman.

It was Ellie who led her parents to the hideout
in which Andrea's body was found -- a secret
hideaway in which she met her friends. And it was
Ellie's testimony that led to the conviction of
the man she firmly believed to be the killer.
Steadfastly denying his guilt, he has spent the
next twenty-two years in prison.

When he comes up for parole, Ellie, now an
investigative reporter for an Atlanta newspaper,
protests his release. Nonetheless, the convicted
killer is set free and returns to Oldham.

Determined to thwart his attempts to whitewash
his reputation, Ellie also returns, intent on writing
a book that will conclusively prove his guilt. As she
delves deeper into her research, she uncovers
horrifying facts that shed new light on her sister's
murder. With each discovery, she comes closer to
a confrontation with a desperate killer.

Relentlessly compelling, Daddy's Little Girl is a
portrayal of a family shattered by crime, and
reflects Mary Higgins Clark's uncanny insight
into the twisted mind of a killer.

Mary Higgins Clark is the author of twent-one novels of suspence, three collections of short stories, and with her daughter, Carol Higgins Clark, co-author of two Christmas novellas. She lives with her husband in Saddle River, New Jersey.

By Mary Higgins Clark

On the Street Where You Live

Before I Say Goodbye

We'II Meet Again

All Through the Night

You Belong to Me

Pretend You Don't See Her

My Gal Sunday

Moonlight Becomes You

Silent Night

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

The Lottery Winner

Remember Me

I'll Be Seeing You

All Around the Town

Loves Music, Loves to Dance

The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stones

While My Pretty One Sleeps

Weep No More, My Lady

Stillwatch

A Cry in the Night

The Cradle Will Fall

A Stranger Is Watching

Where Are the Children?

By Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark

He Sees You When You're Sleeping

the Halls


First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2002
A Viacom company

Copyright  Mary Higgins Clark, 2002

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved.

The right of Mary Higgins Clark to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in

accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988

13579108642

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

Africa House

64--78 Kings way

London WC2B6AH

Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney

www.simonsays.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 0-7432-3067-1
Trade Paperback ISBN 0-7432-3068-X

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales

is entirely coincidental.

Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

The Bath Press, Bath

ji cknowledgments

this STORY, written in the first person, has been a different kind of journey for me. That is why I am so truly grateful for the guidance,
encouragement, and support of my longtime editor, Michael
Korda, and his associate, senior editor Chuck Adams. Millegrazie, dear friends.

' Always thanks to Eugene Winick and Sam Pinkus, my literary
agents, for all their constant care, assistance, and friendship.

Lisl Cade, my dear publicist, remains as always my right hand.
My gratitude to her always.

Continuing thanks to Associate Director of Copyediting Gypsy
da Silva, with whom I have worked for so many years. A kiss to the
memory of copyeditor Carol Catt who shall be sorely missed.

Kudos to Sgt. Steven Marron and Detective Richard Murphy,
Ret. NYPD, New York County District Attorney's Office, for their
advice and assistance in matters of investigation and detection.

Blessings to my assistants and friends, Agnes Newton and
Nadine Petry, and my reader-in-progress, my sister-in-law, Irene
Clark.

Judith Kelman, author and pal, once again came through instantly
when I called on her. Love you, Judith.

My gratitude to Fr. Emil Tomaskovic and Fr. Bob Warren,
Franciscan Friars of the Atonement at Graymoor, Garrison, New
York, for their valuable help with the setting of scenes in this book,

 

and for the wonderful work they and their brother Friars do for
those who need help most.

My love and gratitude to my husband, John Conheeney, our
children, and grandchildren only grows and multiplies. They are
what I am all about.

Greetings to all my friends who have been waiting for me to finish
this book so that we can "get together soon."

I'm ready!

in LOVING MEMORY OF MY FATHER,

luke joseph higgins

I

1

WHEN ellie AWOKE that morning, it was with the sense that
something terrible had happened.

Instinctively she reached for Bones, the soft and cuddly stuffed
dog who had shared her pillow ever since she could remember.
When she'd had her seventh birthday last month, Andrea, her
fifteen-year-old sister, had teased her that it was time to toss Bones
in the attic.

Then Ellie remembered what was wrong: Andrea hadn't
come home last night. After dinner, she had gone to her best friend
Joan's house to study for a math test. She had promised to be home
by nine o'clock. At quarter of nine, Mommy went to Joan's house
to walk Andrea home, but they said Andrea had left at eight
o'clock.

Mommy had come back home worried and almost crying, just
as Daddy got in from work. Daddy was a lieutenant in the New
York State Police. Right away he and Mommy had started calling
all of Andrea's friends, but no one had seen her. Then Daddy said
he was going to drive around to the bowling alley and to the ice
cream parlor, just in case Andrea had gone there.

"If she lied about doing homework until nine o'clock, she won't
set foot out of this house for six months," he'd said angrily, and then
he'd turned to Mommy: "If I said it once, I've said it a thousand
times--I don't want her to go out after dark alone."


Despite his raised voice, Ellie could tell that Daddy was more
worried than angry.

"For heaven's sake, Ted, she went out at seven o'clock. She got
to Joan's. She was planning to be home by nine, and I even walked
over there to meet her."
"Then where is she? "

They made Ellie go to bed, and, eventually, she fell asleep waking
only now. Maybe Andrea was home by now, she thought hopefully.
She slipped out of bed, rushed across the room, and darted
down the hall to Andrea's room. Be there, she begged. Please be
there. She opened the door. Andrea's bed had not been slept in.

Her bare feet silent on the steps, Ellie hurried downstairs. Their
neighbor, Mrs. Hilmer, was sitting with Mommy in the kitchen.
Mommy was wearing the same clothes she had on last night, and
she looked as if she'd been crying for a long time.
Ellie ran to her. "Mommy."

Mommy hugged her and began to sob. Ellie felt Mommy's hand
clutching her shoulder, so hard that she was almost hurting her.
"Mommy, where's Andrea?"

"We ... don't. .. know. Daddy and the police are looking for
her."

"Ellie, why don't you get dressed, and I'll fix you some breakfast?"
Mrs. Hilmer asked.

No one was saying that she should hurry up because the school
bus would be coming pretty soon. Without asking, Ellie knew she
wouldn't be going to school today.

She dutifully washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth
and hair, and then put on play clothes--a turtleneck shirt and her
favorite blue slacks--and went downstairs again.

Just as she sat at the table where Mrs. Hilmer had put out juice
and cornflakes, Daddy came through the kitchen door. "No sign of
her," he said. "We've looked everywhere. There was a guy collecting
for some phony charity ringing doorbells in town yesterday. He
was in the diner last night and left around eight o'clock. He would

	5

have passed Joan's house on the way to the highway around the
time Andrea left. They're looking for him."

Ellie could tell that Daddy was almost crying. He also hadn't
seemed to notice her, but she didn't mind. Sometimes when Daddy
came home he was upset because something sad had happened
while he was at work, and for a while he'd be very quiet. He had
that same look on his face now.

Andrea was hiding--Ellie was sure of it. She had probably left
Joan's house early on purpose because she was meeting Rob West
erfield in the hideout, then maybe it got late and she was afraid to
come home. Daddy had said that if she ever lied again about where
she'd been, he'd make her quit the school band. He'd said that
when he found out she had gone for a ride with Rob Westerfield in
his car when she was supposed to be at the library.

Andrea loved being in the band; last year she'd been the only
freshman chosen for the flute section. But if she'd left Joan's house
early and gone to the hideout to meet Rob, and Daddy found out,
that would mean she'd have to give it up. Mommy always said that
Andrea could twist Daddy around her little finger, but she didn't
say that last month when one of the state troopers told Daddy he'd
stopped Rob Westerfield to give him a ticket for speeding and that
Andrea was with him at the time.

Daddy hadn't said anything about it until after dinner. Then he
asked Andrea how long she'd been at the library.

She didn't answer him.

Then he said, "I see you're smart enough to realize that the
trooper who gave Westerfield the ticket would tell me you were
with him. Andrea, that guy is not only rich and spoiled, he's a bad
apple through and through. When he kills himself speeding, you're
not going to be in the car. You are absolutely forbidden to have anything
to do with him."

The hideout was in the garage behind the great big house that
old Mrs. Westerfield, Rob's grandmother, lived in all summer. It
was always unlocked, and sometimes Andrea and her friends

6

sneaked in there and smoked cigarettes. Andrea had taken Ellie
there a couple of times when she was babysitting her.

Her friends had been really mad at Andrea for bringing her
along, but she had said, "Ellie is a good kid. She's not a snitch."
Hearing that had made Ellie feel great, but Andrea hadn't let Ellie
have even one puff of the cigarette.

Ellie was sure that last night Andrea had left Joan's house
early because she was planning to meet Rob Westerfield. Ellie had
heard her when she talked to him on the phone yesterday, and
when she was finished, she was practically crying. "I told Rob I was
going to the mixer with Paulie," she said, "and now he's really mad
at me."

Ellie thought about the conversation as she finished the cornflakes
and juice. Daddy was standing at the stove. He was holding
a cup of coffee. Mommy was crying again but making almost no
sound.

Then, for the first time, Daddy seemed to notice her: "Ellie, I
think you'd be better off in school. At lunchtime I'll take you over."
"Is it all right if I go outside now?"
"Yes. But stay around the house."

Ellie ran for her jacket and was quickly out the door. It was the
fifteenth of November, and the leaves were damp and felt sloshy
underfoot. The sky was heavy with clouds, and she could tell it was
going to rain again. Ellie wished they were back in Irvington where
they used to live. It was lonesome here. Mrs. Hilmer's house was the
only other one on this road.

Daddy had liked living in Irvington, but they'd moved here,
five towns away, because Mommy wanted a bigger house and more
property. They found they could afford that if they moved farther
up in Westchester, to a town that hadn't yet become a suburb of
New York City.

When Daddy said he missed Irvington, where he'd grown up
and where they'd lived until two years ago, Mommy would tell him
how great the new house was. Then he'd say that in Irvington we

7

had a million-dollar view of the Hudson River and the Tappan Zee
Bridge, and he didn't have to drive five miles for a newspaper or a loafof bread.

There were woods all around their property. The big Wester
field house was directly behind theirs, but on the other side of the
woods. Glancing back at the kitchen window to make sure no one
had seen her, Ellie began to dart through the trees.

Five minutes later she reached the clearing and ran across the
field to where the Westerfield property began. Feeling more and
more alone, she raced up the long driveway and darted around the
mansion, a small figure lost in the lengthening shadows of the approaching
storm.

There was a side door to the garage, and that was the one that
was unlocked. Even so, it was hard for Ellie to turn the handle.
Finally she succeeded and stepped into the gloom of the interior.
The garage was big enough to hold four cars, but the only one Mrs.
Westerfield left after the summer was the van. Andrea and her
friends had brought some old blankets to sit on when they went
there. They always sat in the same spot, at the back of the garage behind
the van, so that if anyone happened to look in the window,
they wouldn't be able to see them. Ellie knew that was where Andrea
would be hiding if she was here.

She didn't know why she felt suddenly afraid, but she did.
Now, instead of running, she had to practically drag her feet to
make them move toward the back of the garage. But then she saw
it--the edge of the blanket peeking out from behind the van. Andrea was here! She and her friends would never have left the blankets
out; when they left, they always folded them and hid them in
the cabinet with the cleaning supplies.

"Andrea .. ." Now she ran, calling softly so that Andrea
wouldn't be scared. She was probably asleep, Ellie decided.

Yes, she was. Even though the garage was filled with shadows,
Ellie could see Andrea's long hair trailing out from under the
blankets.


"Andrea, it's me." Ellie sank to her knees beside Andrea and
pulled back the blanket covering her face.

Andrea had a mask on, a terrible monster mask that looked all
sticky and gummy. Ellie reached down to pull it off, and her fingers
went into a broken space in Andrea's forehead. As she jerked back,
she became aware of the pool of Andrea's blood, soaking through
her slacks.

Then, from somewhere in the big room, she was sure she heard
someone breathing--harsh, heavy, sucking-in breaths that broke
off in a kind of giggle.

Terrified, she tried to get up, but her knees slid in the blood and
she fell forward across Andrea's chest. Her lips grazed something
smooth and cold--Andrea's gold locket. Then she managed to
scramble to her feet, and she turned and began to run.

She did not know she was shrieking until she was almost home,
and Ted and Genine Cavanaugh ran into the backyard to see their
younger daughter burst out of the woods, her arms outstretched,
her little form covered in her sister's blood.

2

WITH THE EXCEPTION of when his team practiced or had a game
during the baseball season, sixteen-year-old Paulie Stroebel
worked in Millwood's service station after school and all day Saturday.
The alternative was to help out during those same hours at his
parents' delicatessen a block away on Main Street, something he'd
been doing from the time he was seven years old.

Slow academically, but good with things mechanical, he loved
to repair cars, and his parents had been understanding of his desire
to work for someone else. With unruly blond hair, blue eyes, round
cheeks, and a stocky five-foot-eight frame, Paulie was considered a
quiet, hardworking employee by his boss at the service station and
something of a dopey nerd by his fellow students at Delano High.
His one achievement in school was to be on the football team.

On Friday, when word of Andrea Cavanaugh's murder
reached the school, guidance counselors were sent to all the classes
to break the news to the students. Paul was in the middle of a study
period when Miss Watkins came into his classroom, whispered to
the teacher, and rapped on the desk for attention.

"I have very sad news for all of you," she began. "We have
just learned ..." In halting sentences she informed them that
sophomore Andrea Cavanaugh had been killed, the victim of foul
play. The reaction was a chorus of shocked gasps and tearful
protests.


Then a shouted "No!" silenced the others. Quiet, placid Paulie
Stroebel, his face twisted in grief, had sprung to his feet. As his
classmates stared at him, his shoulders began to shake. Fierce sobs
racked his body, and he ran from the room. As the door closed behind
him, he said something in a voice too muffled for most of them
to hear. However, the student seated nearest the door later swore
that his words were "I can't believe she's dead!"

Emma Watkins, the guidance counselor, already stunned by the
tragedy, felt as though a knife had gone through her. She was fond
of Paulie and understood the isolation of the earnestly plodding
student who tried so hard to please.

She herself was positive that the anguished words he shouted
were "I didn't think she was dead."

That afternoon, for the first time in the six months he'd been
working at the service station, Paulie did not show up, nor did he
call his boss to explain his absence. When his parents got home that
evening, they found him lying on top of the bed, staring at the ceiling,
pictures of Andrea scattered beside him.

Both Hans and Anja Wagner Stroebel had been born in Germany,
and they immigrated to the United States with their parents
when they were children. They had met and married in their late
thirties and used their combined savings to open the delicatessen.
By nature undemonstrative, they were fiercely protective of their
only son.

Everyone who came into the store was talking about the murder,
asking each other who could possibly have committed such a
terrible crime. The Cavanaughs were regular customers at the deli,
and the Stroebels joined in the shocked discussion that Andrea
might have been planning to meet someone in the garage on the
Westerfield estate.

They agreed that she was pretty, but a bit headstrong. She was
supposed to be doing homework with Joan Lashley until nine
o'clock, but had left unexpectedly early. Had she planned to meet someone, or had she been waylaid on the way home?

(
ii


Anja Stroebel acted instinctively when she saw the pictures on
her son's bed. She swooped them up and put them in her pocketbook.
At her husband's questioning glance, she shook her head, indicating
that he was to ask no questions. Then she sat down next to
Paulie, and put her arms around him.

"Andrea was such a pretty girl," she said soothingly, her voice
heavy with the accent that became stronger when she was upset. "I
remember how she congratulated you when you made that great
catch and saved the game last spring. Like her other friends, you
are very, very sad."

At first it seemed to Paulie that his mother was talking to him
from a distant place. Like her other friends. What did she mean?

"The police will be looking for anyone who has been a particular
friend to Andrea, Paulie," she said slowly but firmly.

"I invited her to a mixer," he said, the words coming haltingly.
"She said she would go with me."

Anja was sure her son had never asked a girl for a date before.
Last year he had refused to go to his sophomore dance.

"Then you liked her, Paulie?"

Paulie Stroebel began to cry. "Mama, I loved her so much."

"You lifted her, Paul," Anja said insistently. "Try to remember

that."

On Saturday, composed and quietly apologetic for not showing
up on Friday afternoon, Paulie Stroebel reported for work at the

gas station.

Early Saturday afternoon, Hans Stroebel personally delivered a
Virginia ham and salads to the Cavanaugh home and asked their
neighbor Mrs. Hilmer, who answered the door, to convey his deepest
sympathy to the family.

3

"IT'S A SHAME Ted and Genine are both only children," Ellie
heard Mrs. Hilmer say a couple of times on Saturday. "It makes it
easier when there's a lot of family around at a time like this."

Ellie didn't care about having more family. She just wanted
Andrea back, and she wanted Mommy to stop crying and she
wanted Daddy to talk to her. He'd hardly said a word to her since
she came running home and he grabbed her up in his arms and she
managed to tell him where Andrea was and that she'd been hurt.

Later, after he'd gone to the hideout and had seen Andrea, and
all the police came, he'd said, "Ellie, you knew last night she might
have gone to the garage. Why didn't you tell us then? "

"You didn't ask me, and you made me go to bed."

"Yes, I did," he admitted. But then later she heard him say to
one of the cops, "If only I had known Andrea was there. She might
still have been alive at nine o'clock. I might have found her in
time."

Somebody from the police talked to Ellie and asked her questions
about the hideout and about who else went there. In her head
Ellie could hear Andrea saying, "Ellie is a good kid. She's not a
snitch."

Thinking about Andrea, and knowing that she'd never come
home again, made Ellie begin to cry so hard that the police stopped
questioning her.


Then on Saturday afternoon a man who said he was Detective
Marcus Longo came to the house. He took Ellie into the dining
room and closed the door. She thought he had a nice face. He told
her that he had a little boy exactly her age and that they looked a lot
alike. "He has the same blue eyes," he said. "And his hair is just the
color of yours.
15

tell him it reminds me of sand when the sun is shining
on it."

Then he told her that four of Andrea's friends had admitted
they went to the hideout with her, but none of them had been there
that night. He named the girls, then asked, "Ellie, do you know any
other girls who might have met your sister there?"

It wasn't like snitching on them if they had already told on
themselves. "No," she whispered. "That was all of them."

"Is there anyone else Andrea might have met at the hideout?"

She hesitated. She couldn't tell him about Rob Westerfield.
That would really be telling on Andrea.

Detective Longo said, "Ellie, someone hurt Andrea so much
that she isn't alive anymore. Don't protect that person. Andrea
would want you to tell us anything you know."

Ellie looked down at her hands. In this big old farmhouse, this
room was her favorite. It used to have ugly wallpaper, but now the
walls were painted a soft yellow, and there was a new chandelier
over the table and the bulbs looked like candles. Mommy had
found the chandelier at a yard sale and said it was a treasure. It had
taken her a long time to clean it, but now anyone who visited admired
it.

They always ate dinner in the dining room, even though Daddy
thought it was silly to go to all the fuss. Mommy had a book that
showed how to set the table for a formal dinner. It was Andrea's job
to set the table that way every Sunday, even when it was just them.
Ellie would help her, and they would have fun putting out the good
silver and china.

"Lord Malcolm Bigbottom is the guest of honor today," Andrea
would say. Then reading from the book of etiquette, she'd place

him at the seat to the right of where Mommy would sit. "Oh, no,
Gabrielle, the water glass must be placed slightly to the right of the
dinner knife."

Ellie's real name was Gabrielle, but no one called her that, except
Andrea when she was joking. She wondered if it would be her
job to set the table that way on Sunday from now on. She hoped
not. Without Andrea it wouldn't be a game.

It felt funny to be thinking like that. On one hand, she knew
that Andrea was dead and would be buried Tuesday morning in
the cemetery in Tarrytown with Grandma and Grandpa Cava
naugh. On the other hand, she still expected Andrea to come into
the house any minute, pull her close, and tell her a secret.

A secret. Sometimes Andrea met Rob Westerfield in the hideout.
But Ellie had crossed her heart and promised not to tell.

"Ellie, whoever hurt Andrea may hurt somebody else if he isn't
stopped," Detective Longo said. His voice was quiet and friendly.

"Do you think it's my fault that Andrea is dead? Daddy
thinks so."

"No, he doesn't think that, Ellie," Detective Longo said. "But
anything you can tell us about secrets you and Andrea shared may
help us now."

Rob Westerfield, Ellie thought. Maybe it wouldn't really be
breaking a promise to tell Detective Longo about him. If Rob had
been the one who hurt Andrea, everybody should know it. She
looked down at her hands. "Sometimes she would meet Rob Westerfield
at the hideout," she whispered.

Detective Longo leaned forward. "Do you know if she was
going to meet him there the other night?" he asked. Ellie could tell
that he was excited to hear about Rob.

"I think she was. Paulie Stroebel had asked her to go to the
Thanksgiving mixer with him, and she said yes. She didn't really want to go with him, but Paulie had told her he knew she was
sneaking off to meet Rob Westerfield, and she was afraid he would
tell Daddy if she didn't go with him. But then Rob was mad at her,



and she wanted to explain to him that that was why she agreed to
go out with Paulie, to keep him from telling Daddy. So maybe
that's why she left Joan's house early."

"How did Paulie know that Andrea was seeing Rob Wester
field?"

"Andrea said that she thought he sometimes followed her to the
hideout. Paulie wanted her to be his girlfriend."

4

the WASHING MACHINE had been used.

"What was so important it couldn't wait until I got back, Mrs.
Westerfield?" Rosita asked, her tone a touch defensive, as though
fearful she had left a task undone. She had gone out of town to visit
her ailing aunt on Thursday. It was now Saturday morning, and
she had just arrived back. "You shouldn't bother yourself with
wash when you have your hands full decorating all those houses."

Linda Westerfield did not know why a sudden alarm bell went
off in her head. For some reason she did not respond directly to
Rosita's remarks.

"Oh, every once in a while, if I'm checking on the decorative
painting and touch it up myself, it's just as easy to run the paint
cloths through the machine as to leave them around," she said.

"Well, judging from the amount of detergent you used, you
must have had a whole heap of them. And Mrs. Westerfield, I
heard about the Cavanaugh girl on the news yesterday. I can't stop
thinking about her. Who would believe that kind of thing could
happen in this little town? It breaks your heart."

"Yes, it does." It had to be Rob who used the machine, Linda
thought. Vince, her husband, would certainly not have used a
washing machine at any time. Probably didn't even know how.

Rosita's dark eyes glistened, and she dabbed her hand over
them. "That poor mother."

Rob? What would be so important for him to wash?

It was an old trick of his. When he was eleven, he'd tried to
wash the smell of cigarette smoke from his play clothes.

"Andrea Cavanaugh was the prettiest thing. And her father a
lieutenant in the state troopers! Somehow you'd think a man like
that would be able to protect his child."

"Yes, you would." Linda was sitting at the counter in the
kitchen, going over the sketches she had made for window treatments for a client's new home.

"To think that anybody would smash that girl's head in. Had to
be a monster. I hope they string him up when they find him."

Rosita was talking to herself now and didn't seem to expect a response.
Linda slipped the sketches into the portfolio. "Mr. Wester
field and I are meeting some friends at the inn for dinner, Rosita,"
she said as she slid off the stool.

"Will Rob be home?"

A good question, Linda thought. "He went out for a run and
should be back any minute. Check with him then." She thought she
detected a quiver in her voice. Rob had been agitated and moody all
day yesterday. When the news about Andrea Cavanaugh's death
flashed through the town, she had expected him to be upset. Instead,
he'd been dismissive. "I hardly knew her, Mom," he said.

Was it simply that Rob, like many nineteen-year-olds, could not
confront the death of a young person? Was it that somehow he felt
as though his own mortality was threatened?

Linda went up the stairs slowly, suddenly weighted down
with a sense of impending disaster. They had moved from the
townhouse on Manhattan's East Seventieth Street to this pre
Revolutionary house six years ago, when Rob went away to boarding
school. By then they both knew that the town where they'd
traditionally summered at Vince's mother's home was where they
wanted to live permanently. Vince had said that there were great
opportunities to make money here, and he had begun investing in
real estate.

'

'9


The house, with its sense of timelessness, was a continuing
source of quiet pleasure to her, but today Linda did not pause to feel
the polished wood of the banister under her hand or stop to enjoy
the view of the valley from the window at the top of the stairs.

She walked directly to Rob's room. The door was closed. He
had been gone an hour and would be back from jogging any minute.
Nervously she opened the door and stepped inside. The bed
was unmade, but the rest of the room was oddly tidy. Rob was
meticulous about his clothing, sometimes even pressing slacks fresh
from the cleaners to sharpen the crease, but he was downright careless
about discarded garments. She would have expected to see the
clothes he had worn Thursday and yesterday thrown on the floor,
waiting for Rosita's return.

She walked quickly across the room and looked into the hamper
in his bathroom. That, too, was empty.

Sometime between Thursday morning, when Rosita left, and
early this morning, Rob had washed and dried the clothes he'd
been wearing Thursday and yesterday. Why?

Linda would have liked to go through his closet but knew she
risked having him find her there. She wasn't prepared for a confrontation.
She left his room, remembering to close the door, and
went down the hall and around the corner to the master suite she
and Vince had added when they expanded the house.
Suddenly aware that she might be feeling the onslaught of a migraine,
she dropped the portfolio onto the sofa in the sitting room,
went into the bathroom, and reached in the medicine chest. As she
swallowed two prescription pills, she looked into the mirror and
was shocked to see how pale and anxious she looked.
She was wearing her jogging suit because she had planned to go
for a run after she'd worked on the sketches. Her short chestnut
hair was held back by a band, and she hadn't bothered with
makeup. To her own hypercritical gaze, she looked older than her
forty-four years, with tiny wrinkles forming around her eyes and
the corners of her mouth.

2O


The bathroom window looked out over the front yard and the
driveway. As she glanced out, she saw an unfamiliar car driving up.
A moment later the doorbell rang. She expected Rosita to use the
intercom to let her know who it was, but instead Rosita came upstairs
and handed her a card.

"He wants to talk to Rob, Mrs. Westerfield. I told him Rob was
out jogging, and he said he'd wait."

Linda was nearly eight inches taller than Rosita, who was only a
shade over five feet, but she almost had to grab the small woman to
support herself after she read the name on the card: Detective Marcus
Longo.

5

WHEREVER ELLIE WENT, she felt in the way. After the nice detective
left, she tried to find Mommy, but Mrs. Hilmer said that the
doctor had given her something to help her rest. Daddy spent almost
all the time in his little den with the door closed. He said he
wanted to be left alone.

Grandma Reid, who lived in Florida, came up late Saturday afternoon,
but all she did was cry.

Mrs. Hilmer and some of Mommy's friends from her bridge
club sat in the kitchen. Ellie heard one of them, Mrs. Storey, say, "I
feel so useless, but I also feel as though seeing us around may make
Genine and Ted realize they're not alone."

Ellie went outside and got on the swing. She pumped her legs
until the swing went higher and higher. She wanted it to go over
the top. She wanted to fall from the top and hit the ground and hurt
herself. Then maybe she'd stop hurting inside.

It had stopped raining, but there still was no sun and it was cold.
After a while, Ellie knew that it was no use; the swing wouldn't go
over the top. She went back into the house, entering the small
vestibule off the kitchen. She heard Joan's mother's voice. She was
with the other ladies now, and Ellie could tell that she was crying.
"I was surprised that Andrea left so early. It was dark out, and it
crossed my mind to drive her home. If only ..."

Then Ellie heard Mrs. Lewis say, "If only Ellie had told them

22


that Andrea used to go to that garage that the kids called 'the hideout.'
Ted might have gotten there in time."

"If only Ellie ..."

Ellie went up the back stairs, careful to walk very quietly so they
wouldn't hear her. Grandma's suitcase was on her bed. That was
funny. Wasn't Grandma going to sleep in Andrea's room? It was
empty now.

Or maybe they'd let her sleep in Andrea's room. Then, if she
woke up,tonight, she could pretend that Andrea would be coming
back any minute.

The door to Andrea's room was closed. She opened it as quietly
as she always did on Saturday mornings when she'd peek in to see if
Andrea was still sleeping.

Daddy was standing at Andrea's desk. He was holding a
framed picture in his hands. Ellie knew it was the baby picture of
Andrea, the one in the silver frame that had "Daddy's Little Girl"
engraved across the top.

As she watched, he lifted the top of the music box. That was another
present he had bought for Andrea right after she was born.
Daddy joked that Andrea never wanted to go to sleep when she
was a baby, and so he'd wind up the music box and dance around
the room with her and play the song from it, singing the words
softly, until she dozed off.

Ellie had asked if he did that with her, too, but Mommy said no,
because she was always a good sleeper. From the day she was born,
she'd been no trouble at all.

Some of the song's words ran through Ellie's head as the music
drifted through the room. ". .. You're daddy's little girl to have and
to hold... . You're the spirit of Christmas, my star on the tree. . ..
And you're daddy's little girl."

As she watched, Daddy sat on the edge of Andrea's bed and
began to sob.

Ellie backed out of the room, closing the door as quietly as she
had opened it.

Twenty-three Years Later

6

my SISTER, ANDREA, was murdered nearly twenty-three years
ago, yet it always seems as though it was just yesterday.

Rob Westerfield was arrested two days after the funeral and
charged with first degree murder. Almost solely from the information
I provided them, the police were able to obtain a search warrant
of the Westerfield home and Rob's car. They found the clothes
he had worn the night he took her life, and though he had thoroughly
bleached them, the police lab was able to identify bloodstains.
The tire jack that had been the murder weapon was found in
the trunk of his car. He had washed that, too, but a tiny strand of
Andrea's hair still clung to it.

Rob's defense was that he had gone to the movies the night Andrea
was murdered. The cinema parking lot was full, and he left
his car at the service station next door. He said that the pumps were
closed, but he found Paulie Stroebel working in the enclosed garage. He said he looked in on Paulie and told him he was leaving
the car there and would pick it up after the movies.

He claimed that while he was watching the movie, Paulie
Stroebel must have driven to the hideout in his car, killed Andrea,
then left the car back at the service station. Rob said he'd left the
car at the station at least half a dozen times to get dents fixed, and
that on any of those occasions Paulie could have had an extra key
made.


He tried to explain away the blood on his clothes and in the
ridges of his sneakers by claiming that Andrea had begged him to
meet her at the hideout. He said that she had been pestering him
with phone calls and phoned him at dinnertime the night she died.
She told him that she was going to a mixer with Paulie Stroebel and
didn't want him to be mad at her.

"I didn't care who she went out with," Rob explained when he
testified at the trial. "She was just a kid in town who had a crush on
me. She followed me everywhere. I'd be hanging out in town, and
she'd walk by. I'd go bowling, and suddenly she's playing in the
next lane. I caught her and her friends hanging out in my grandmother's
garage, having a cigarette. I wanted to be nice, so I told her
it was all right. She was always begging me to take her for a ride in
my car. She was always calling me."

He had an explanation for why he went to the garage-hideout
that night. "I got out of the movie," he testified, "and started to
drive home. Then I got worried about her. Even though I told her
that I wasn't going to meet her, she said she'd wait there for me anyway.
I thought I'd better drop by and make sure she went home before
her dad got angry. The light in the garage had burned out. I
kind of fumbled along and walked around behind the van. That's
where Andrea and her friends used to sit on blankets and smoke
cigarettes.

"I felt the blanket under my foot. I could just about make out
that someone was lying there, and I figured Andrea must have been
waiting for me and fallen asleep. Then I knelt down, and I could
feel the blood on her face. I ran."

He was asked why he ran. "Because I was scared somebody
might think I did it."

"What did you think happened to her?"

"I didn't know. I was scared. But when I found out that the tire
jack in my trunk had blood on it, I knew it had to be Paulie who
killed her."

He was very slick, and his testimony was well rehearsed. A


27


good-looking young guy, he made a strong impression. But I was
Rob Westerfield's nemesis. I remember being on the stand and answering
the questions the prosecutor asked.

"Ellie, did Andrea call Rob Westerfield before she went to do
homework with Joan?"

Yes.

"Did he ever make phone calls to her?"

"Sometimes he did, but then if Daddy or Mommy answered, he
always hung up. He wanted Andrea to call him because he had his own phone in his room."

"Was there a special reason Andrea called him the night she
died?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the conversation?"

"Just a little of it. I went into her room. She was almost crying.
She was telling Rob that she couldn't help it that she was going with
Paulie to the mixer, that she had to do it. She didn't want Paulie to
tell Daddy that she sometimes met Rob in the hideout."

"Then what happened?"

"She told Rob she was going to Joan's to do homework, and he
told her to meet him at the hideout."

"Did you hear him tell her that?"

"No, but I heard her say, 'I'll try, Rob,' and when she hung up,
she said, 'Rob wants me to leave Joanie's early and meet him in the
hideout. He's mad at me. He said I'm not supposed to go out with
anyone else.' "

"Andrea told you that?"

"Yes."

"Then what happened?"

And then on the stand I gave away Andrea's last secret and
broke the sacred promise I had made to her--the "cross-my-heartandhopeto-die"
promise that I would never tell anyone about the
locket Rob had given her. It was gold and heart-shaped, and had
little blue stones. Andrea had shown her that Rob had had their ini
tials engraved on the back. I was crying by then because I missed
my sister so much, and it hurt to talk about her. And so, without
being asked, I added, "She put on her locket before she left, so I was
pretty sure she would meet him."
"A locket?"

"Rob gave her a locket. Andrea wore it under her blouse so no

one could see it. But I could feel it when I found her in the garage."

I remember sitting on the witness stand. I remember trying not

to look at Rob Westerfield. He kept staring at me; I could feel the

hatred coming from him.

And I swear I could read the thoughts of my mother and father
who were sitting behind the prosecutor: Ellie, you should have told
us; you should have told us.

My testimony was pounced on by the defense attorneys. They
brought out that Andrea often wore a locket that my father had
given her, that it was on top of her dresser after her body was found,
that I was making up stories or that I was repeating the stories Andrea
had made up about Rob.

"Andrea was wearing the locket when I found her," I insisted.
"I could feel it." I burst out, "That's why I know it was Rob Wester
field who was in the hideout when I found Andrea. He came back
for the locket."

Rob's attorneys became furious, and that remark was ordered
stricken from the record. The judge turned to the jurors and told
them not to consider it in any way

Did anyone believe what I told them about the locket Rob gave
Andrea? I don't know. The case went to the jury, and they were out
for nearly a week. We learned that a few jurors leaned at first toward
a manslaughter verdict, but the rest insisted on a murder conviction.
They believed that Rob had carried that tire jack into the
garage because he intended to kill Andrea.

I reread the transcript of the trial the first few times Westerfield
came up for parole, and I wrote vehement letters protesting his release.
But since he has served nearly twenty-two years, I knew that

29



this time the parole may well be granted, and that is why I have
come back to OldhamontheHudson.

I AM THIRTY YEARS OLD, live in Atlanta, and work as an investigative
reporter with the Atlanta News. The editor in chief, Pete
Lawlor, considers it a personal affront if anyone on the staff takes
even a yearly vacation, so I expected him to hit the ceiling when I
told him I needed a few days off immediately and might need more
later.

"You getting married?"

I told him that was the last thing on my mind.

"Then what's up?"

I had not told anyone at the newspaper anything about my personal
life, but Pete Lawlor is one of those people who seemed to
know everything about everybody. Thirty-one years old, balding,
and always fighting to get off those ten extra pounds, he was probably
the smartest man I've ever met. Six months after I'd started at
the News and covered the story of a murdered teenager, he said in
an offhand manner, "That must have been a tough one for you to
write. I know about your sister."

He didn't expect a response, nor did I give him one, but I felt
his empathy. It did help. It had been an emotionally wrenching
assignment.

"Andrea's killer is coming up for parole. I'm afraid he may get it
this time, and I want to see if there's anything I can do to stop it."

Pete leaned back in his chair. He always wore an open-necked
shirt and a sweater. Sometimes I've wondered if he even owns a
jacket. "How long has he served?"

"Almost twenty-two years."
"How many times has he come up for parole?"
Twice.

"Any problems while he was in prison?"
I felt like a schoolgirl being grilled. "None that I know of."

"Then he'll probably get out."

"I expect he will."

"So why bother?"

"Because I must."

Pete Lawlor doesn't believe in wasting either time or words. He
didn't ask any more questions. He just nodded. "Okay. When's the
hearing?"

"The hearing is next week. I get to speak to someone on the staff
of the parole board on Monday."

He turned back to the paperwork on his desk, effectively dismissing
me. "Go ahead," he said. But, as I turned away, he added,
"Ellie, you're not as tough as you think you are."

"Yes, I am." I didn't bother to thank him for the time off.

That was yesterday. The next day, Saturday, I flew from Atlanta
to the Westchester County Airport and rented a car.

I could have stayed at a motel in Ossining, near Sing Sing,
the prison where Andrea's killer has been incarcerated. Instead I
drove fifteen miles further to my old hometown, Oldham-on-the
Hudson, and managed to find the quaint Parkinson Inn that I
vaguely remembered as a place where we sometimes went for
lunch or dinner.

The Inn was obviously flourishing. On this chilly Saturday
afternoon in October, the tables in the dining room were filled
with casually dressed people, mostly twosomes and family groups.
I felt a moment of acute nostalgia. This is the way I remembered
my early life, the four of us having lunch here on Saturday, and
then sometimes Dad would drop Andrea and me at the movies.
She'd be meeting her friends, but she didn't mind that I tagged
along.

"Ellie is a good kid, she's not a snitch," she'd say. If the movie got
out early enough, we'd all rush to the garage-hideout where Andrea
and Joan and Margy and Dottie would share a quick cigarette
before going home.

Andrea had an answer ready if Daddy said he smelled smoke

31


on her clothing. "Can't help it. We had pizza after the movie and a
lot of other people were smoking." Then she'd wink at me.

The Inn had only eight guest rooms, but one was still available,
a spartan space containing a bed with an iron headboard, a two
drawer bureau, a night table, and a chair. It faced east, the direction
where the house we lived in was located. The sun that afternoon
was uncertain, slipping in and out of clouds, one moment blinding,
the next completely concealed.

I stood at the window, staring out, and it seemed to me I
was seven years old again and watching my father holding the
music box.

I REMEMBER THAT afternoon as the defining day of my life. Saint
Ignatius of Loyola said, "Give us the child until he is seven years
old, and I will show you the man."

I assume that he meant the woman as well. I stood there, quiet
as a mouse, watching the father I worshiped, sobbing and hugging
my dead sister's picture against his chest, while the fragile sounds
from that music box drifted around him.

I look back and wonder if it ever occurred to me to run to him,
throw my arms around him, absorb his grief and let his mingle
with mine. But the fact is, even then I understood that his grief was
unique and that no matter what I did, I could never really ease his
pain.

Lieutenant Edward Cavanaugh, decorated officer of the New
York State Police, hero of a dozen life-threatening situations, had
not been able to prevent the murder of his beautiful, headstrong,
fifteen-year-old daughter, and his agony could not be shared with a
fellow mourner, however close by blood.

Over the years I came to understand that when grief is not
shared, blame is passed around like a hot potato instead, thrust
from one to the other, eventually sticking to the hands of the one
least able to throw it away.

In this case, that person was me.

Detective Longo lost no time following up on my violation of

Andrea's trust. I had given him two leads, two possible suspects:
Rob Westerfield, who used his stunning, sultry, rich playboy persona
to turn Andrea's head, and Paul Stroebel, the shy and backward
teenager with the crush on the gorgeous band member who
had enthusiastically cheered his game-winning performances on
the football field.

Root, root, root for the home team--no one was better at that
than Andrea!

As'Andrea's autopsy results were being studied, and preparations
made for her interment in Gate of Heaven Cemetery, next to
the paternal grandparents I only dimly remembered, Detective
Longo was interrogating both Rob Westerfield and Paul Stroebel.
Both protested that they had not seen Andrea on Thursday evening,
nor had either made plans to meet her.

Paul was working in the gas station, and although it closed at
seven, he claimed he had stayed longer in the shop to complete
some minor repairs on several cars. Rob Westerfield swore that he
had gone to the local cinema, and even produced a ticket stub as
proof.

I remember standing at Andrea's grave, a single long-stemmed
rose in my hand, and after the prayers had been offered, being told
to place it on Andrea's casket. I remember, too, that I felt dead inside,
as dead and still as Andrea had been when I knelt over her in
the hideout.

I wanted to tell her how sorry I was that I had told her secret
about her meetings with Rob, and with equal passion I wanted to
tell her that I was sorry I hadn't told about them the minute we
knew she had left Joan's but not reached home. But of course I said
nothing. I dropped the flower, but it slid off the casket, and before
I could retrieve it, my grandmother stepped past me to place her
flower on the casket and her foot crushed my rose into the muddy
earth.

A moment later we filed out of the cemetery, and in that crowd
of solemn faces I caught angry stares directed at me. The Wester


35


fields stayed away, but the Stroebels were there, standing on either
side of Paulie, their shoulders touching his. I remember the feeling
of blame surrounding me, overwhelming me, choking me. It was a
feeling I have never lost.
I had tried to tell them that when I was kneeling at Andrea's
body, I heard someone breathing, but they were skeptical because I
was so hysterical and frightened. My own breathing when I ran
from the woods was as labored and rattling as it became during my
bouts of croup. But over the years I have been awakened many
times by the same nightmare: I am kneeling over Andrea's body,
slipping in her blood and listening to the harsh, animal-like breathing
and high-pitched giggle of a predator.

I know with the instinct of fear that has saved humankind from
extinction that Rob Westerfield has a beast lurking inside him, and
if he is freed, he will strike again.

when I FELT tears stinging the back of my eyes, I turned away
from the window, reached for my backpack, and tossed it on the
bed. I almost smiled as I unpacked, realizing that I had a nerve to
even mentally criticize Pete Lawlor's casual wardrobe. I was wearing
jeans and a turtleneck sweater. In the bag, besides a nightshirt
and underwear, I was carrying only a long wool skirt and two other
sweaters. My favorite shoes are clogs, which is just as well because
I'm five feet nine. My hair has kept its sandy shade. I wear it long
and either twist it up or clip it at the back of my neck.

Pretty, feminine Andrea resembled Mother. I have my father's
strong features, which work better on a man than on a woman. No
one would ever call me the star on the Christmas tree.

Tantalizing aromas were drifting up from the dining room,
and I realized I was hungry. I'd caught an early flight from Atlanta
and, of course, had to be at the airport well ahead of departure time.
The food service--excuse me, beverage service--had consisted of a cup of bad coffee.

It was one-thirty when I went down to the dining room, and the
lunch crowd was thinning out. It was easy to get a table, a small
booth near the blazing fire. I didn't realize how chilled I felt until
the warmth penetrated my hands and feet.

"May I get you a beverage?" asked the waitress, a smiling gray
haired woman with the name tag "Liz."




Why not? I thought, and ordered a glass of red wine.
When she came back, I told her I'd decided on the onion soup,
and she said that it was always a favorite.
"Have you been here long, Liz?" I asked.
"Twenty-five years. Hard for me to believe."
She might have waited on us years ago. "Still fix peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches?" I asked.

"Oh, sure. Did you used to have them?"

"Yes, I did." I was immediately sorry I'd mentioned it. The last
thing in the world I wanted was for old-timers to realize I was the
"sister of the girl who was murdered twenty-three years ago."

But Liz was obviously used to having passersby mention having
dined at the Inn years ago, and without further comment she left
the table.

I sipped the wine and gradually began to remember specific occasions
when we'd been here as a family, back when we were a family.
Birthdays, usually, and stopping for dinner after we'd gone for
drives. The last time we came here, was, I think, during my grandmother's
visit after she'd lived in Florida for nearly a year. I remember
that my father picked her up at the airport and met us here. We had a cake for her. The pink lettering on the white frosting
read, "Welcome home, Grandma."

She began to cry. Happy tears. The last happy tears ever shed in
our family. And that thought wrenched me back to the tears shed
the day of Andrea's funeral and the terrible public confrontation
between my mother and father.

9


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.

4o

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 West
erfield.

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

41


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 sus


pect. 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. West
erfield, 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.

Myfather 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, Genme," 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 werejealous! 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

I

'

43

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.

my GRANDMOTHER HAD planned to stay with us that night, but
sensing that it would be better if my father and mother were alone,
she packed her bag and departed with a friend from Irvington. She
would stay there overnight and be driven to the airport the next
morning.

Her hope for some sort of reconciliation between my mother
and father after the bitter exchange of words was not to be.

My mother slept in Andrea's room that night and every night
for the next ten months, until after the trial, when not even all the
Westerfield money and a high-powered defense team could save
Rob Westerfield from being found guilty of murder in Andrea's
death.

Then the house was sold. My father moved back to Irvington,
and my mother and I began a nomadic life, starting in Florida near
my grandmother. My mother, who had worked briefly as a secretary
before marriage, got a job with a national hotel chain. Always
very attractive, she was also smart and diligent, and worked her
way up rapidly to being a kind of troubleshooter, which entailed
moving every eighteen months or so to a different hotel in a different
city.

Unfortunately, she applied that same diligence to concealing
from everyone--except me--the fact that she became an alcoholic,
drinking steadily each day from the moment she arrived home

from work. For years she managed to retain enough control to do
her job, with only occasional bouts of "flu" when she needed several
days to sober up.
The drinking sometimes made her silent and morose. At other
times she became loquacious, and it was during those sessions that I
realized how passionately in love she was with my father.

"Ellie, I was crazy about him from the time I first laid eyes on
him. Did I ever tell you how we met?"
Over and over again, Mother.

"I was nineteen and had been working six months at my first
secretarial job. I bought a car, an orange crate on wheels with a gas
tank. I decided to see how fast I could go in it on the thruway. Then
all of a sudden I heard a siren and in the rearview mirror saw a
dome light flashing behind me, and then a voice on a bullhorn told
me to pull over. Your father gave me a ticket and a lecture that had
me in tears. But when he showed up for my court date, he announced
he was going to give me driving lessons."

Other times she would lament, "He was terrific in so many
ways. He's a college graduate; he's got looks and brains. But he was
only comfortable with his old friends and didn't like change. That's
why he didn't want to move to Oldham. The problem wasn't
where we lived. It was that he was too strict with Andrea. Even if
we'd stayed in Irvington, she'd still have been making secret dates."
Those recollections almost always ended with "If only we'd
known where to look when she didn't come home." Meaning, if
only I had told them about the hideout.

The third grade in Florida. The fourth and fifth in Louisiana.
The sixth in Colorado. The seventh in California. The eighth in
New Mexico.

My father's check for my support arrived without fail on the
first of the month, but I saw him only occasionally those first few
years and then not at all. Andrea, his golden child, was gone. There
was nothing left between him and my mother except bitter regret
and frozen love, and whatever he felt for me was not enough to

I

'

47

make him desire my presence. Being under the same roof with me
seemed to open whatever scar tissue he had managed to grow over
his wounds. If only I had told about the hideout.

As I grew up, my adoration of my father was replaced with resentment.
What about asking yourself: If only I had questioned
Ellie instead of ordering her to bed? What about that, Daddy?

Fortunately, by the time I began college we had been in California
long enough to establish residency, and I went to UCLA as a
journalism major. My mother died of liver failure six months after
I received my master's degree, and, wanting yet another fresh start, I applied for and got the job in Atlanta.

Rob Westerfield did more than murder my sister that November
night twenty-two years ago. As I sat in the Inn and watched
Liz place the steaming onion soup in front of me, I began to
wonder what our lives would have been if Andrea were still alive.

My mother and father would still be together, would still be living
here. My mother had great plans for improving the house, and
my father undoubtedly would have settled in. Driving through the
town, I observed that the rural village I remembered had grown
considerably. It now had the look of an upscale Westchester town,
which was exactly what my mother had foreseen. My father would
no longer have had to drive five miles for a quart of milk.

Whether or not we had remained here, there was no question
that if Andrea had lived, my mother would still be alive. She'd have
had no need to find comfort and forgetfulness in alcohol.

My father might even have taken note of my hero worship, and
in time, perhaps when Andrea went off to college, he might have
given me some of the attention I craved from him.

I sipped my soup.

It was exactly as I remembered it.

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 uncere



moniously 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 West
erfield 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

51
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."

THE NEWS CONFERENCE was held in the White Plains office of
William Hamilton, Esq., the criminal attorney retained by the
Westerfield family to prove Robson Parke Westerfield's innocence.

Hamilton opened the proceedings by introducing himself. He
was standing between two men. One I recognized from his pictures
as Rob's father, Vincent Westerfield. He was a distinguished figure
in his mid-sixties, with silver hair and patrician features. On
Hamilton's other side, a visibly nervous, somewhat bleary-eyed fellow,
who could have been anywhere between sixty and seventy, was
compulsively opening and closing his interlocked fingers.

He was introduced as Will Nebels. Hamilton gave a brief summary
of his background. "Will Nebels has worked in Oldham for
years as a handyman. He often worked for Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield
at her country home, the one at which Andrea Cavanaugh's
body was found in the garage. Along with many other people, Mr.
Nebels was questioned as to his whereabouts that Thursday
evening when Andrea lost her life. Mr. Nebels claimed at the time
that he had dinner at the counter in the local diner and went directly
home. He had been seen at the diner, and there was no reason
to doubt his story.

"However, when best-selling true-crime writer Jake Bern, who
is writing a book about Andrea Cavanaugh's death and Rob West

erfield's claim of innocence, spoke to Mr. Nebels, new facts came to
light."

Hamilton turned to Will Nebels. "Will, may I ask you to tell the
media exactly what you told Mr. Bern."

Nebels shifted nervously. He looked uncomfortable dressed as
he was in a shirt and tie and suit that I was sure they'd put on him
just for the occasion. It's an old defense trick, one I've seen hundreds
of times in court. Dress up the defendant, cut his hair, make
sure he's clean-shaven, give him a shirt and tie, even if he's never
buttoned a collar in his life. The same was often true for defense
witnesses.

"I feel bad," Nebels began, his voice hoarse. I noticed how thin
and pale he was and wondered if he were ill. I only vaguely remembered
him. He had done some odd jobs for us, but I remembered
him as being pretty beefy.

"It's something I've been living with, and when the writer fellow
started talking to me about the case, I knew I had to get it off
my chest."

He then gave the same story that had come over the wires. He
had seen Paul Stroebel drive up to the garage-hideout in Rob West
erfield's car and go into the garage carrying a heavy object. The insinuation,
of course, was that the object was the tire jack that had
been used to bludgeon Andrea to death, the one that had been
found in the trunk of Rob Westerfield's car.

Then it was Vincent Westerfield's turn to speak. "For twenty
two years my son has been locked in a prison cell amidst hardened
criminals. He has always protested his innocence in this terrible
crime. He went to the movies that night. He parked at the service
station next door to the cinema where the family cars are routinely
serviced and where the key to his car could easily have been duplicated.
It had been in the station at least three times in the previous
months to have minor dents removed.

"Paul Stroebel was working there that night. The pumps had
closed at seven o'clock, but he was servicing a car in the interior ser

55



vice area. Rob spoke to Paul, told him he was leaving his car in the
service lot while he was at the film. We know Paul has always denied
this account of events, but now we have proof he was lying.
While my son was watching that movie, Stroebel took his car, went
to what they called the hideout, and killed that girl."

He drew himself up, and his voice became deeper and louder.
"My son is coming up for parole. From what we are led to understand,
he will be released from prison. That isn't good enough.
With this newly discovered evidence we will seek a new trial, and
we believe that this time Rob will be acquitted. We can only hope
that Paul Stroebel, the real killer, will be put on trial and placed behind
bars for the rest of his life."

I was watching the news conference on a television in the little
sitting room on the main floor of the Inn. I was so enraged I wanted
to throw something at the screen. For Rob Westerfield it was a win
win situation. If he was found guilty again, they couldn't put him
back in prison. He'd already served his sentence. If he was acquitted,
the state would never put Paulie Stroebel on trial on the word
of an unreliable witness like Will Nebels. Nonetheless, in the eyes
of the world, he would be the murderer.

I guess other people had heard about the conference because as
soon as I turned it on, they began drifting in. The desk clerk was
the first to make a comment. "Paulie Stroebel. Come on, that poor
guy wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Well, a lot of people think he did a lot more than hurt a fly,"
said one of the waitresses I'd noticed in the dining room. "I wasn't
here when it happened, but I've heard a lot of talk. You'd be surprised
how many people think Rob Westerfield is innocent."

The members of the media at the conference were hurling
questions at Will Nebels. "Do you realize you could go to prison for
breaking, entering, and perjury?" I heard a reporter ask.

"Let me answer that," Hamilton said. "The statute of limitations
has passed. Mr. Nebels is in no danger of incarceration. He has
come forward to right a wrong. He had no idea that Andrea

(

57


Cavanaugh was in the garage that night, nor at the time did he
know what had happened to her. Unfortunately, he panicked when
he realized that his testimony would put him at the scene of a murder,
so he kept quiet."

"Were you promised any money in exchange for this testimony,
Mr. Nebels?" another reporter asked.
Exactly my question, I thought.
Again Hamilton took over. "Absolutely not."
WilltMr. Nebels get to play himself in the movie? I wondered.
"Has Mr. Nebels made a statement to the district attorney?"
"Not yet. We wanted the fair-minded public to be aware of his
statement before there is any spin put on it by the prosecutor. The
point is this--it is a terrible thing to say, but if Andrea Cavanaugh
had been sexually molested, Rob Westerfield would have been out of prison long ago on DNA evidence. As it stands, it was his very
concern that entrapped him. Andrea had begged him to meet her at
the hideout. Over the phone she told him that she had agreed to a
date with Paul Stroebel only because she thought he was the last
person who would provoke jealousy in a young man like Rob
Westerfield.

"The fact is that Andrea Cavanaugh was chasing Rob Westerfield.
She called him frequently. He didn't care whom she dated.
She was a flirt, boy crazy, a 'popular' girl."
I cringed at the insinuation.

"Rob's only mistake was to panic when he found Andrea Cavanaugh's
body. He went home, never realizing that he was transporting
the murder weapon in his car and that Andrea's blood was
already staining the trunk of that car. That night he put his slacks
and shirt and jacket in the washing machine because he was frightened."

Not too frightened to bleach the color out of them in his effort
to get rid of bloodstains, I thought.

The cameras switched to the CNN anchor. "Observing this interview
with us from his home in Oldham-on-the-Hudson is reI

tired detective Marcus Longo. Mr. Longo, what do you think of Mr.
Nebel's statement?"

"It is a total fabrication. Robson Westerfield was found guilty of
murder because he is guilty of murder. I can understand the anguish
of his family, but to try to shift the blame to an innocent,
special-needs person is beneath contempt."

Bravo, I thought. The memory of Detective Longo years ago
sitting with me in the dining room, telling me that it was all right to
give up Andrea's secrets, vividly replayed itself in my mind. Longo
was about sixty now, a long-faced man with heavy, dark brows and
a roman nose. His remaining hair was a salt-and-pepper fringe
around his head. But he had an innate dignity that heightened the
effect of his obvious scorn for the charade we had just witnessed.

He still lived in Oldham. I decided that at some point I would
call him.

The news conference was over, and people began to drift out of
the room. The desk clerk, a studious-looking young man who
looked as if he was fresh out of college, came over to me. "Is everything
okay with your room, Miss Cavanaugh?"

The waitress was passing the sofa where I was sitting. She
turned and looked at me sharply, and I knew she wanted to ask if I
was any relation to the young girl who was murdered in the Westerfield
case.

It was the first indication that I would have to give up the personal
anonymity I craved if I stayed in Oldham.

So be it, I thought. This is something I have to do.

MRS. HlLMER STILL lived in the same house down the street from
ours. There were four other houses now separating it from the
home we had lived in for those few years. It was obvious that the
people who now owned ours had fulfilled Mother's dream for it. It
had been expanded on both sides and in the back. It had always
been a good-sized farmhouse, but now it was a truly lovely
dwelling, substantial yet graceful, with gleaming white clapboard
and dark green shutters.

I slowed the car as I drove past, and then, because on this quiet
Sunday morning I didn't think anyone would notice, I stopped.

The trees had grown of course. It had been a warm autumn in
the Northeast this year, and even though it was now downright
chilly, there was still an abundance of gold and crimson leaves
shimmering on the branches.

The living room of our house had obviously been expanded.
What about the dining room? I wondered. For an instant I was
standing there, holding in my arms the box of silver--or was it sil-verplate--as Andrea carefully arranged the place settings. "Today Lord Malcolm Bigbottom will be our guest."

Mrs. Hilmer had been watching for me. The minute I got out of
the car, the front door opened. A moment later I felt her fierce hug.
She had always been a small woman, cozily plump with a motherly
face and vivacious brown eyes. Now her medium-brown hair was

6o

completely silver, and there were lines around her eyes and mouth.
But basically she was as I remembered her. For years she sent
Mother a Christmas card with a long note, and Mother, who never
sent cards, would write back, putting a good face on our newest
move and saying how well I was doing in school.

I had written to let her know when Mother died and received a
warm and comforting note. I did not send her word when I moved
to Atlanta, so I imagine any holiday cards or notes she might have
sent were returned. The post office doesn't forward mail for too
long these days.

"Ellie, you're so tall," she said now with something between a
smile and a laugh. "You were such a little bit of a thing."

"It happened somewhere between my junior and senior years in
high school," I told her.

There was coffee perking on the stove and blueberry muffins
fresh from the oven. At my insistence we stayed in the kitchen and
sat at the banquette. For a few minutes she told me about her family.
I had hardly known her son and daughter. Both had been married
when we moved to Oldham. "Eight grandchildren," she said
proudly. "Unfortunately, none of them live around here, but I still
get to see a lot of them." I knew she'd been widowed for many
years. "The kids tell me this place is too big for me, but it's home
and I love it. When I can't get around anymore, I'll sell it, I guess,
but not now."

Briefly I told her a little about my job, and then we began to talk
about the reason I was back in Oldham. "Ellie, since the day Rob
was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs and shackles, the West
erfields have been insisting that he's innocent and have been fighting
to get him released. They've got a lot of people convinced of it,
too." Her expression became troubled. "Ellie, having said that, I've
got to admit something. I'm beginning to wonder myself if Rob
Westerfield wasn't convicted partly because of his reputation as a
troublemaker. Everybody thought of him as a bad kid and was only
too ready to believe the worst about him."

61



She had seen the press conference. "There's one thing I believe
in that speech Will Nebels made," she said flatly, "and that's that
he'd go into old Mrs. Westerfield's house to look for money to steal.
Was he there that night? It is possible. On one hand, I wonder what
they're giving him to tell that story, and on the other, I think how
Paulie went to pieces in class when they announced that Andrea
was dead. I watched that teacher testify in court. You never saw a
more reluctant witness. You could tell how protective she was of
Paulie, but she had to admit that she thought when he ran out of the
classroom that he had said, 'I didn't think she was dead.' "

"How is Paulie Stroebel now?" I asked.

"Actually, he's been doing very well. For ten or twelve years
after the trial he was terribly reticent. He knew that some people
believed he had killed Andrea, and that just about destroyed him.
He started working in the deli with his mother and father, and
from what I understand stayed very much to himself. But since his
father died and he's had to take on more and more responsibility,
he's really kind of blossomed. I hope this story of Will Nebels's
doesn't unravel him now."

"If Rob Westerfield gets a new trial and is acquitted, it will be as
though Paulie has been found guilty," I said.

"Would they arrest him, put him on trial?"

"I'm not a lawyer, but I doubt it. Will Nebels's new testimony
might be enough to get Rob Westerfield a new trial and an acquittal,
but he'd never be considered credible enough to convict
Paulie Stroebel. But the damage will be done, and Paulie will be another
Westerfield victim."

"Maybe, maybe not. That's what makes it so hard." Mrs.
Hilmer hesitated, then went on. "Ellie, that fellow who's writing a
book about the case came to see me. Somebody had told him I was
close to your family."

I sensed a warning in her words. "What's he like?"

"Polite. Asked a lot of questions. I was careful of every word
that passed my lips. But I'm telling you right now that Bern has a


point of view, and he's going to make the facts fit it. He asked if the
reason your father was so strict with Andrea was that she would
sneak off to meet a lot of different boys."

"That's not true."

"He's going to make it seem as if it was true."

"Yes, she had a crush on Rob Westerfield, but at the end she was
afraid of him, too." It was something I hadn't expected to say, but
when I did, I realized it was true. "And I was afraid for her," I
whispered. "He was so angry at her because of Paulie."

"Ellie, I was in your house. I was there when you testified in
court. You never said that you or Andrea were afraid of Rob Westerfield."

Was she implying that I might be creating a dishonest memory
to justify my childhood testimony? But then she added, "Ellie, be
careful. That writer suggested to me that you were an emotionally
unstable child. It's something he's going to imply in his book."

So that's the tack he's going to take, I thought: Andrea was a
tramp, I was emotionally unstable, and Paulie Stroebel is a killer. If
I hadn't been sure of it before, I knew now that I had my job cut out
for me.

"Rob Westerfield may get out of prison, Mrs. Hilmer," I said,
and then I added firmly, "but by the time I finish investigating and
writing about every dirty detail of his rotten life, no one will want
to walk down the block with him, day or night. And if he gets a second
trial, no jury will acquit him."

14

on MONDAY MORNING at ten o'clock I had my meeting in Albany
with Martin Brand, who was on the staff of the parole board.
He was a tired-looking man of about sixty, with pouches under his
eyes and a thick head of gray hair that was overdue for attention
from his barber. He had opened the top button of his shirt and
pulled the knot of his tie down a few inches. His florid complexion
suggested a problem with high blood pressure.

There was no doubt that he had heard many versions of my
protest a thousand times over the years.

"Ms. Cavanaugh, Westerfield has been turned down for parole
twice. This time it's my guess the decision will be to let him out."

"He's a recidivist."

"You can't be sure of that."

"You can't be sure that he's not."

"He was offered parole two years ago if he'd admit to killing
your sister, accept responsibility for the crime, and express remorse.
He didn't take the offer."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Brand. He had too much to lose by being
truthful. He knew you couldn't hold him much longer."

He shrugged. "I forgot that you're an investigative reporter."

"I'm also the sister of the fifteen-year-old girl who didn't get a
chance to have a sweet-sixteen party."

The world-weary expression left his eyes for a moment. "Ms.



Cavanaugh, I have little doubt that Rob Westerfield is guilty, but I
think you have to resign yourself to the fact that he's served his time
and that, after a couple of incidents during the first years, he's behaved
himself."

I would love to have known what those couple of incidents
were, but I was sure Martin Brand was not going to share them
with me.

"Something else," he went on. "Even if he is guilty, it was a
crime of passion directed at your sister, and the odds of him repeating
this kind of crime are almost nil. We have the statistics. Incidents
of recidivism decline after age thirty and almost vanish after
age forty."

"And there are people who are born without a conscience and
once they are uncaged become walking time bombs."

I pushed the chair back and got up. Brand stood up, too. "Ms.
Cavanaugh, here's a piece of unwelcome advice. I get the feeling
you've lived with the memory of your sister's brutal murder all
your life. But you can't bring her back, and you can't keep Rob
Westerfield in prison any longer. And if he goes for a new trial and
is acquitted, that's the way it is. You're a young woman. Go home to
Atlanta and try to put this tragedy behind you."

"That's good advice, Mr. Brand, and I'll probably take it someday,"
I said. "But not now."

15

three YEARS AGO, after I'd written a series of articles about
Jason Lambert, a serial killer in Atlanta, I received a call from Maggie
Reynolds, a New York book editor I'd met on a crime panel.
She offered me a contract to convert the articles into a book.

Lambert was a Ted Bundy-type killer. He'd hang around campuses,
passing himself off as a student, and then trick young
women into getting into his car. Like Bundy's victims, those girls
simply disappeared. Fortunately, he hadn't had time to dispose of
his last victim when he was captured. He's in prison in Georgia
now with 149 years left to serve on his sentence and no chance of parole.

The book did surprisingly well, even clinging for a few weeks
to the bottom of The New Yorf Times best-seller list. I called Maggie
after I left Brand's office. After describing the case and the investigative
track I intended to pursue, she readily agreed to give me a
contract for a book about Andrea's murder, a book that I promised
her would conclusively prove Rob Westerfield's guilt.

"There's a lot of hype about the one Jake Bern is writing," Maggie
told me. "I'd like to go toe-to-toe on it with a book from you.
Bern broke his contract with us after we spent a fortune on publicity
on his last book, trying to build him up."

I figured the project would take about three months of intensive
research and writing, and then if Rob Westerfield succeeded in get

ting a new trial, several months beyond that. The inn would be too
confining and too expensive to stay in over the long haul, so I asked
Mrs. Hilmer if she knew of any rental apartments in the area. She
waved my suggestion away, insisting that I stay in the guest apartment
over her garage.

"I put it in a few years ago in case I ever felt I needed someone
around all the time," she explained. "Ellie, it's comfortable, it's
quiet, and I'll be a good neighbor, not a nuisance who runs in
and out.

"You were always a good neighbor." It was a great solution, and
perhaps the only drawback was that it meant driving past our old
house on a regular basis. I assumed that eventually repetition
would dull the instant flash of pain that hit me now as I passed that
acre of property.

"God's Little Acre." Mother had laughingly called it that. She
was thrilled to have so much property and was determined to cultivate
a garden that would be one of the highlights on the Oldham
Garden Club spring tour.

I checked out of the Inn, moved into Mrs. Hilmer's guest apartment,
and on Wednesday flew back to Atlanta, arriving in the office
at quarter of six in the evening. I knew there was no chance that
Pete would have gone home. He was married to the job.

He looked up, saw me, grinned briefly, and said, "Let's talk over
a plate of spaghetti."

"What about those ten pounds you're trying to lose?"

"I've decided not to think about them for the next couple of
hours."

Pete has an intensity about him that sends electric jolts into the
people around him. He went with the News, a privately owned
daily, right out of graduate school, and within two years he was
managing editor. By the time he was twenty-eight he was wearing
two hats, editor in chief and publisher, and the "dying Daily," as it
had been labeled, suddenly had a new lease on life.

67



Hiring an investigative crime reporter was one of his ideas to
rev up circulation, and getting the job six years ago was a stroke of
luck for me. I had just been taken on as a cub reporter. When the
guy Pete wanted for the position backed out at the last minute, I
was told to fill in, but only until a permanent replacement was
found. Then one day, without comment, Pete stopped looking for
that replacement. I had the job.

Napoli's is truly the kind of neighborhood restaurant you find
all over Italy. Pete ordered a bottle of Chianti and grabbed a chunk
of the warm bread that had been deposited on our table. My
thoughts went back to the semester I had spent in Rome during my
college years. It was one of the few genuinely happy periods of
my adult life.

My mother was trying to get on the wagon and was doing reasonably
well. She visited me there during my spring break, and we
had a wonderful time together. We explored Rome and spent a
week in Florence and the hill towns of Tuscany. We capped that off
with a visit to Venice. Mother was such a pretty woman, and on that
trip, when she was smiling, she looked like her old self. By unspoken
agreement the names of Andrea and my father never crossed
our lips.

I'm glad I have that memory of her.

The wine came, was approved by Pete, and uncorked. I took a
sip of it and plunged into what I had to say. "I've been doing a lot of
homework. The whitewash job on Westerfield has every possibility
of succeeding. Jake Bern is a good writer. He's already done an
article on the case that will be coming out next month in Vanity
Fair."

Pete reached for another piece of warm bread. "What can you
do about it?"

"I am writing a book that will come out in the spring, the same
week Bern's is published." I told him about my call to Maggie
Reynolds. Pete had met her at the book party she threw for me in

Atlanta. "Maggie is doing it, and she'll put me on the fast track for
publication. But in the meantime I've got to counteract Bern's articles
and the Westerfield family's press releases."

Pete waited. That was another thing about him--he didn't
rush to reassure. And he didn't fill in dead spots in the conversation.

"Pete, I'm fully aware that a series of articles about a crime committed
twenty-two years ago in Westchester County, New York,
might hot be of great interest to a readership in Georgia, and anyhow,
I don't think it's the right place to publish them. The Wester
field family is identified with New York."
"Agreed. So what do you propose to do?"

"Take a leave of absence if you can give it to me. Or if that
isn't feasible, quit, write the book, and take my chances after it's finished."

The waiter came to the table. We both ordered cannelloni and a
green salad. Pete hemmed and hawed for a minute, but then decided
on Gorgonzola dressing.

"Ellie, I'll hold your job open for you as long as it's in my power
to do it."

"What does that mean?"

"I may not be around much longer myself. I've had a couple of
interesting offers that I'm considering."

I was shocked. "But the News is your baby."
"We're getting too big for the competition. There's real talk of
our being bought out for big bucks. The family is interested. This
generation doesn't give a damn about the paper; it's only about the
revenue."

"Where are you thinking of going?"

"The L. A. Times is probably going to make an offer. The other
possibility is Houston."

"Which would you prefer?"

"Until there's an offer on the plate, I'm not wasting my time
making choices that may not exist."

69



Pete didn't wait for me to comment before he went on.

"Ellie, I've been doing a little research of my own on your case.
The Westerfields are getting good at criminal defense strategy.
They have an impressive team of lawyers just waiting to get a
chance to earn a fortune. They have that Nebels guy, and, weasel
that he is, some people are going to believe his story. Do what you
have to, but please, if Westerfield goes to trial and gets acquitted,
swear to yourself that you'll walk away from it."

He looked directly at me. "Ellie, I can tell that you're thinking,
'Not a chance.' I wish I could make you understand that no matter
what books you and Bern write, some people are going to go to
their graves believing that Westerfield got a bum deal, while others
will still be convinced that he's guilty."

Pete meant his advice kindly, but that night as I packed the
things I needed for an extended stay in Oldham, I realized that
even he had the feeling that, guilty or innocent, Rob Westerfield
had served his time, that people would think whatever they wanted
about the merits of the case, and that it was time for me to drop it.

Nothing wrong with righteous wrath, I thought. Except when
it hangs around too long.

I drove back to Oldham, and the following week Rob Wester
field's parole hearing was held. As expected, the parole was granted,
and it was announced that he would be released on October 31.

Halloween, I thought. How appropriate. The night that
demons walk the earth.

paulie stroebel WAS behind the counter when I opened the
door of the delicatessen, setting off the jingling of the bell attached
to it.

My vague memory of him was centered at the old service station
where he'd worked years ago. He would pump gas into the tank of
our car and then spray and polish the windshield until it gleamed. I
remember my mother saying, "What a nice boy Paulie is," a sentiment
that was never again uttered after he came under suspicion in
Andrea's death.

I believe my memory of his physical appearance was partially-- or perhaps even solely--based on the pictures of him I saw in the
newspapers my mother had kept, newspapers that reported every
detail of Andrea's murder and the trial. There is nothing that
piques the reading public's interest more than having the handsome
son of a wealthy and socially prominent family as the defendant
in the murder of a lovely young teenager.

Of course, there were pictures accompanying the text: Andrea's
body being carried out of the garage-hideout; her casket being carried
out of the church; my mother, her hands clasped, her face contorted
with grief; my father, his expression agonized; myself, small
and lost; Paulie Stroebel, bewildered and nervous; Rob Wester
field, arrogant, handsome, and sneering; Will Nebels, with an inappropriate
ingratiating smile.


had never told me that she had this collection of news
ic transcript of the trial. After her death I was shocked
it the bulky suitcase which accompanied us in all our
actually a Pandora's box of misery. I suspect now that
k sent Mother into depressed reverie, she may have
: suitcase and relived her private crucifixion.
Paulie and Mrs. Stroebel must have heard that I was in
n he looked up and saw me, he was startled, but then his
became guarded. I inhaled the wonderful mingled
.m and beef and condiments that seems to be indigenous
man delicatessens, and we stood there and took each

'

73

sure.

stolid body was more appropriate on a mature man
jeen on the teenager in the newspaper photographs. His
ks had thinned out, and the expression in his eyes no
the bewildered look of twenty-three years ago. It was a
s before six o'clock, closing time, and as I had hoped,
10 last-minute customers waiting to be served.

I'm Ellie Cavanaugh." I walked over to him and ex
land across the counter. He took it, his grasp firm, even
bly strong.

I you were back. Will Nebels is lying. I wasn't in the
night." His voice was a hurt protest.

you weren't."

fair for him to say that."

r that separated the kitchen from the front of the store

1 Mrs. Stroebel came out. I had the immediate impres

: was always alert for even a hint that something wasn't

thly with her son.

aged, of course, and was no longer the apple-cheeked
membered. Her body was thinner now. Her hair was
anly a hint of the daffodil shade I recalled, and she

walked with a slight limp. When she saw me, she said, "Ellie?" and
when I nodded, her concerned expression lightened into a welcoming smile. She hurried around the counter to embrace me.

After I testified in court, Mrs. Stroebel had come up to me,
taken both my hands in hers, and, close to tears, thanked me. The
defense attorney had tried to get me to say that Andrea was afraid
of Paulie, and I guess on the stand I got pretty definite. "I didn't say
Andrea was afraid of Paulie 'cause she wasn't. She was afraid Paulie
would tell Daddy that she sometimes met Rob in the hideout."

"It is so good to see you, Ellie. You're a young lady now, and I'm
an old lady," Mrs. Stroebel told me as her lips brushed my cheek.
The accent of her native land flowed like honey through her words.
"No, you're not," I protested. The warmth of her welcome, like
the warmth of Mrs. Hilmer's greeting, was a dart of light flashing
through the unshakable sadness that accompanies my every waking
moment. It is a sense of coming home to people who care about
me. Here in their presence, even after all this time, I am not a
stranger and I am not alone.

"Put the 'Closed' sign on the door, Paulie," Mrs. Stroebel said
briskly. "Ellie, you will come home and have dinner with us, won't

you

?"

"I'd love to."

I followed them in my car. They lived about a mile away in one
of the older sections of town. The houses were all late-nineteenth
century and relatively small. But they looked cozy and well kept,
and I could imagine generations of families sitting on those front
porches in the summertime.

The Stroebels' dog, a yellow Lab, greeted our arrival enthusiastically,
and Paulie immediately got his leash and took him for a
walk.

Their home was just what I'd expected--inviting, immaculate,
and comfortable. I vetoed Mrs. StroebePs suggestion that I sit in one
of the overstuffed chairs in the living room and watch the news on
television while she prepared dinner in the kitchen. Instead, I fol

lowed her there and sat on a stool at the counter, watching her
work, offering to help, but confident she'd decline.

"A simple meal," she warned. "I made a beef stew yesterday. I
always serve it the second day. Better that way. Much tastier."

Her hands worked swiftly, preparing the last-minute vegetables
to add to the stew, rolling dough for biscuits, breaking greens
for a salad. I sat quietly, suspecting she wanted to get the dinner on
track and then would talk.

I was right.

It was about fifteen minutes later when, with a nod of satisfaction,
she said, "Good. Now before Paulie gets back, you must tell
me. Can the Westerfields do this? After twenty-two years, can they
try again to make my son a killer?"

"They can try, but they won't succeed."

Mrs. Stroebel's shoulders slumped. "Ellie, Paulie has come such
a long way. You know when he was a boy, it was so hard for him.
He's not a student. There is a kind of knowledge that is not for him.
His father and I always worried so much. Paulie is such a sweet,
good person. In school he was so lonely except when he played football.
It was the only time he felt he was liked."

It was obviously hard for her to continue. "Paulie was on the
second team, so he didn't play much. But then one day they put him
in the game, and the other team scored and then--I don't understand
all about these games; if his father were alive, he could tell you--Paulie at the last minute got the ball and made a touchdown
that won the game.

"Your sister was in the band, the prettiest one of all, as I remember.
She was the one who grabbed a megaphone and rushed out
onto the field. Paulie told me about it over and over--the cheer Andrea
led for him."

Mrs. Stroebel paused, cocked her head as though listening, and
then, in a low but exuberant voice, sang: "We'll cheer for Paulie
Stroebel, the best of them all. He's merry, he's jolly, we love him by golly,
we'll cheer for Paulie Stroebel, the best of them all."

75


Her eyes glistened as she said, "Ellie, that was the most wonderful moment of Paulie's life. You can't know what it was for him
after Andrea died and the Westerfields tried to blame him. I believe
he would have died to save her. Our doctor was worried that he
might do something to himself. When you are a little different, a
little slower, it is very easy to become depressed.

"He's been doing so well in the last few years. More and more he
makes the decisions in the store. You know what I mean. Like last
year he decided we should put in some tables and hire a girl to
serve. Just a simple breakfast, then sandwiches in the afternoon. It's
been very popular."

"I noticed the tables."

"Paulie will never have it easy. He will always have to work
harder than anyone else. He will be okay unless--"

"Unless people actively start to point at him again and wonder if
he's the one who should have been in prison for twenty-two years,"
I said, interrupting.

She nodded. "Yes. That's what I mean."

We heard the front door open. Paulie's footsteps and the Lab's
short bark announced their arrival.

Paulie came into the kitchen. "It's not fair of that man to say I
hurt Andrea," he said, then abruptly went upstairs.

"It is beginning to consume him again," Mrs. Stroebel said
flatly.

17

THE DAY AFTER I saw the Stroebels I tried to reach Marcus
Longo, the detective who had investigated Andrea's murder. The
answering machine picked up, and I left a message explaining
who I was and gave my cell phone number. For a few days I heard
nothing.

I was terribly disappointed. After seeing how strongly Longo
had expressed himself on television about Rob Westerfield's guilt,
I'd thought he'd leap to the phone to get back to me. I'd just about
given up on him when, on October 30, my cell phone rang. When I
answered, a quiet voice asked, "Ellie, is your hair still the color of
sand with sunbeams running through it?"

"Hello, Mr. Longo."

"I just got back from Colorado, which is why you haven't heard
from me," he said. "Our first grandchild arrived Tuesday. My wife
is still out there. Can you have dinner with me tonight?"

"I'd love to." I told him I was staying in Mrs. Hilmer's guest
apartment.

"I know where Mrs. Hilmer lives."

There was the slightest pause as we both thought that of course
he did--jt's just down the road from our old house.

"I'll pick you up at seven, Ellie."

I was watching for his car and hurried downstairs when it
pulled off the road and onto the long driveway. The driveway

forks, and the garage with the guest apartment is at the end on the
right side. At one time it had been a stable, and it is actually a distance
from the house. I didn't want him to take the wrong turn.

There are some people in this world with whom we feel immediately comfortable. That was the way it was with Marcus Longo as
soon as I slid into the passenger seat.

"I've thought a lot about you over the years," he said as he made

a U-turn. "Have you been to Cold Spring since you've been back?"

"Iidrove through it one afternoon, but I didn't get out of the car.

I remember being there when I was a kid. My mother was always

browsing around antique shops."

"Well, it still has those, but now it also has some good restaurants."

Oldham is the northernmost town bordering the Hudson River
in Westchester County. Cold Spring on the Hudson is just over the
line in Putnam County, directly across the Hudson from West
Point. It is a particularly beautiful town with a Main Street that has
the look and feel of the nineteenth century.

I did have strong memories of being there with my mother. In
fact, over the years she would sometimes talk about Cold Spring.

"Remember how on Saturday afternoons we would drive down
Main Street and stop in all those little antique shops? I was training you
girls to have an eye for lovely things. Was that so bad?"

The reminiscences usually began over her second or third
scotch. By the time I was ten, I was watering the bottle of Dewar's
in the hope of slowing her down. It never really seemed to help.

Longo had made a reservation at Cathryn's, an intimate Tuscan
style grill in a courtyard off Main Street. There, at a corner table, we
took each other's measure. Oddly, in person he looked older than he
did on television. There were furrows around his eyes and mouth,
and even though his body was broad, he did not seem physically
strong. I wondered if he had been ill.

"I don't know why I thought you'd be about five feet three," he
said. "You were small for your age when you were young."

79


"I grew quite a bit in high school."

"You look like your father, you know. Have you seen him?"

The question surprised me. "No. And I don't intend to." I
didn't want to ask, but I was too curious not to. "Do you see him, Mr. Longo?"

"Please call me Marcus. I haven't seen him in years, but his son,
your half-brother, is a terrific all-around athlete. Gets lots of press
in the local papers. Your father retired from the state troopers eight
years ago when he was fifty-nine. There were some very nice write
ups in the local papers about him. He had an impressive career with
the state troopers."

"I assume Andrea's death was mentioned?"

"Yes, and there were quite a few pictures, both recent and from
the files. That's how I can see how much you resemble him now."

I didn't answer, and Longo raised his eyebrows. "Obviously
that's a compliment. Anyhow, as my mother used to say, 'You grew
up nice.' " Abruptly he changed the subject. "Ellie, I read your book and liked it a lot. In it you captured the gut-wrenching pain of
the victims' families better than anything I've ever read. I understand
where that's coming from."

"I guess you do."

"Why are you here, Ellie?"

"I came because I had to protest against Rob Westerfield getting
out on parole."

"Even though you must have known you were wasting your
frequent flier miles," he said quietly.

"I knew it was useless."

"Do you feel it necessary to be a voice crying out in the wilder3"

ness:

"My message is not to prepare the way for the Lord. Mine is 'Beware.
You're uncaging a killer.' "

"It's still a voice in the wilderness. The doors will open tomorrow
morning for Rob Westerfield, and he will walk out of prison.
Listen to me carefully now, Ellie. There isn't the faintest doubt that

8o

he'll get a new trial. Nebels's testimony will probably be enough to
cause reasonable doubt in the jurors' minds, and Westerfield will
be acquitted. His record will be expunged, and the Westerfields
will live happily ever after."

"That can't happen."

"Ellie, you've got to understand something: The Westerfields
need to mae it happen. Robson Parke Westerfield is the last of
the line of what used to be a fine and respected name. Don't be
fooled by his father's public image. Behind that philanthropic facade,
Vincent Westerfield, Rob's father, is a greedy robber baron,
but he craves respectability for his son. And old Mrs. Westerfield
demands it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that at age ninety-two she is still as sharp as a tack and
in control of the family fortune. If Rob's name isn't cleared, she's
leaving everything to charity."

"Surely Vincent Westerfield has plenty of money in his own
right."

"Of course. But nothing compared to his mother's wealth. Mrs.
Dorothy Westerfield is a class act, and she no longer has blind faith
in her grandson's innocence. Didn't your father throw her out of
your house the day of the funeral?"

"Yes, he did. My mother never got over being mortified about
that."
"Apparently neither did Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield. Your father
publicly confronted her with the fact that the guy who robbed and
shot her claimed to be in collusion with Rob."

"Yes, I remember him shouting that."

"And apparently Mrs. Westerfield has remembered it, too. Naturally
she has wanted to believe that Rob was wrongly convicted,
but I gather the seeds of doubt have always been there and have
only grown stronger over the years. Now that she obviously is
running out of time, she's put it to the father. If Rob is innocent,
see that he's vindicated and the stain removed from the family

81



name. Otherwise, her money, the Westerfield fortune, will go to
charity."

"I'm surprised she has that much discretion over it."

"Maybe her husband, Vincent's father, saw something in his son
that caused him to set it up that way. Fortunately for him, he didn't
live to see his grandson convicted of murder."

"So the father has to prove Rob's innocence, and suddenly
there's an eyewitness who saw Paulie Stroebel go into the hideout.
Is old Mrs. Westerfield buying that story?"

"Ellie, what she wants is a new jury to review the case and render
the verdict she wants."

"And Vincent Westerfield is going to make sure what that verdict
is."

"Let me tell you about Vincent Westerfield. For years he's been
hell-bent on destroying the character of the Hudson Valley by getting
residential areas zoned for business. He'd put a shopping mall
in the middle of the Hudson River if he could figure out how to do
it. Do you think he cares what happens to Paulie Stroebel?"

The menus came. I decided on one of the specials, rack of lamb.
Marcus ordered salmon.

Over our salads I told him my plans. "When I saw that interview
on television with Will Nebels, I originally decided to try to
get some investigative articles published. What I've gotten so far is
a contract to write a book to refute the one Jake Bern is writing."

"They not only have Bern writing a book but they have a publicity
machine geared up and ready to blitz the media. What you
saw on television was only the beginning," Longo warned. "I
wouldn't be surprised if they suddenly released a picture of Rob in
an Eagle Scout uniform."

"I remember my father saying he was rotten through and
through. What was the story about the break-in at his grandmother's
home?"

Marcus had a cop's memory for crimes. "The grandmother was
staying at her house in Oldham. In the middle of the night she



and buying a little place around Denver so that we can see the kids
without crowding in on them."

"Mother and I spent a year or so in Denver."

"You've been in Atlanta for a while, Ellie. Do you consider that
home?"

"It's a great city. I have a lot of good friends. I've enjoyed my job,
but if the paper I work for is sold as rumored, I don't know that I'll
stay there. Maybe someday I'll get that nice feeling of putting down
roots and being settled. I don't have it yet. I always feel there is unfinished
business. As a kid did you ever go to the movies when you
had homework due the next day?"

ttO	"

Sure.

"You really couldn't enjoy the movie, could you?"
"It's a long time ago, but I guess not."

"I have homework to finish before I can enjoy the movie," I told
him.

I HADN'T TURNED a light on before I left, and when we got back
to Mrs. Hilmer's place, the garage apartment looked dark and
lonely. Marcus Longo ignored my protests and insisted on walking
me upstairs. He stood there while I fished for my key, and then
when I inserted it in the lock and stepped inside, he said firmly,
"Double-lock the door."

"Any special reason?" I asked.

"Ellie, to quote you, 'Beware, you're uncaging a killer.' "

"That's right."

"Then listen to your own voice. I'm not telling you not to go
after Westerfield, but I am telling you to be careful."

I was home just in time to catch the ten o'clock news. The big
story was that Rob Westerfield was being released from prison in
the morning and that there would be an interview with the press
from the family home in Oldham at noon.

I wouldn't miss it for the world, I thought.

18

SLEEP DID NOT come easily that night. I would doze and then
wake up, knowing that each tick of the clock was bringing Rob
Westerfield closer to the moment when he would be released from
prison.

I could not take my mind off him or off the event that had kept
him behind bars for twenty-two years. In fact, the closer he came to
freedom, the more alive Andrea and Mother were to me. If only . . .
if only . . . if only . . .

Give it up, part of me screamed. Walk away from it. Put it in the
past. I know what I'm doing to my life, and it's not something I
want to happen. Somewhere around two o'clock I got up and made
a cup of cocoa. I sat by the window as I drank it. The woods that
separated our house from old Mrs. Westerfield's estate extend past
the Hilmer property and are still there, her privacy buffer. I could
slip through them as Andrea did that night, and on the other side
make my way to the garage-hideout.

Now there is a tall fence defining the several acres around the
Westerfield house. I'm sure there is now a security system that
would signal an interloper, or a fifteen-year-old kid. At ninety-two,
people don't usually require much sleep. I wondered if Mrs. Westerfield
was awake right now, glad to see her flesh and blood released
from prison but cringing at the publicity that would
accompany it. Her need to clear the family name was as powerful as

86

mine was to see that Paulie Stroebel was not destroyed and that
Andrea's name was not dragged in the dirt.

She was an innocent, young kid whose head was turned; then
her crush on Rob Westerfield became fear, which was why she
went to the hideout that night. She was afraid not to meet him
when he ordered her to show up.

Sitting in the predawn hours, my subconscious feeling that she
was afraid of him, and that I was afraid of him for her, crystallized
in my mind. I could vividly see Andrea as she had been that night,
clasping the locket around her neck, choking back tears. She didn't
want to meet him, but she was caught between a rock and a hard
place. And so I added another "if only" to the list. If only she had
gone to my parents and confessed to them that she had been meeting
Rob.

In that moment we reversed roles, and I became her big sister. I
went back to bed and slept fitfully until seven o'clock. I was in front
of the television when the media covered Rob Westerfield's exit
from Sing Sing prison in a limousine that met him at the gate. The
on-the-spot reporter of the channel I watched emphasized that Rob
Westerfield had always sworn he was innocent of the crime.

At noon I was back in front of the set for the unveiling of Rob
Westerfield to the world.

The interview took place in the library of the family home in
Oldham. The sofa on which he sat was placed in front of a wall of
leatherbound books, inferring, I assume, his scholarly mind.

Rob was wearing a tan cashmere jacket, an open-necked sport
shirt, dark trousers, and loafers. He was always handsome but had
become much more so in his maturity. He had his father's patrician
features and had learned to conceal the condescending sneer that
appeared in all of his early pictures. There was the faintest touch of
gray in the roots of his dark hair. His hands were clasped in front of
him, and he was leaning slightly forward in a relaxed but attentive
pose.

'

87



"Good setting," I said aloud. "The only thing missing is a dog at his feet." At the sight of him I could feel the bile rising in my throat.

His interviewer was Corinne Sommers, host of The Real Story, the popular syndicated Friday night program. She did a brief intro:
"Just released after twenty-two years in prison . . . always protested
his innocence ... will now fight to have his name cleared . .."

Get on with it, I thought.

"Rob Westerfield, it's an obvious question, but how does it feel
to be a free man?"

His smile was warm. His dark eyes under well-shaped eyebrows
seemed almost amused. "Unbelievable, wonderful. I'm too
big to cry, but that's what I feel like doing. I just go around the
house, and it's so wonderful to be able to do normal things, like
going into the kitchen and getting a second cup of coffee."

"Then you'll be staying here for a while?"

"Absolutely. My father has furnished a wonderful apartment
for me near this house, and I want to work with our lawyers to
get a speedy retrial." Now he looked earnestly into the camera.
"Corinne, I could have gotten parole two years ago if I'd been willing
to say I killed Andrea Cavanaugh and that I regretted that terrible
deed."

"Weren't you tempted to do that?"

"Not for a minute," he said promptly. "I have always maintained
my innocence, and now, thanks to Will Nebels coming forward,
I may at last have a chance to prove it."

You couldn't admit it, you had too much to lose, I thought. Your
grandmother would have disowned you.

"You went to the movies the night Andrea Cavanaugh was

murdered."

"Yes, I did. And I stayed until the movie was over at nine thirty.
My car was parked at the service station for over two hours. It's only a twelve-minute drive to my grandmother's place from the center
of town. Paulie Stroebel had access to the car, and he had been fol

lowing Andrea around. Even her sister admitted that on the
stand."

"The ticket taker at the theater remembers you buying the
ticket."

"That's right. And I had the stub to prove it."
"But no one saw you leave the theater at the end of the film?"
"No one remembers seeing me," he corrected. "There's a difference."

Fpr just an instant I saw a flash of temper under the amiable
smile, and I sat up.

The rest of the interview, however, might have been with a
newly returned hostage. "Besides clearing your name, what are you
looking forward to doing?"

"Going to New York. Dining in the restaurants that probably
didn't exist twenty-two years ago. Traveling, eventually. Getting a
job." Now a warm smile from him. "Meeting a special someone.
Getting married. Having kids."

Getting married. Having kids. All the things Andrea would
never do.

"What are you having for dinner tonight, and who is going to
be with you ?"

"Just the four of us--my mother, my father, and my grandmother.
We just want to be reunited as a family. I asked for a pretty
basic dinner: shrimp cocktail, prime rib, baked potato, broccoli, a
salad."

How about apple pie? I wondered.
"And apple pie," he concluded.
"And champagne, I imagine."
"Definitely."

"It seems as though you have pretty definite plans for the future,
Rob Westerfield. We wish you luck and hope that in a second trial
you can prove your innocence."

This is a journalist? I snapped the remote button and went to

89



the table in the dining area where I had my laptop ready and waiting.
I got online to my Website and began to write.

"Robson Westerfield, the convicted murderer of fifteen-year
old Andrea Cavanaugh, has just been released from prison and is
looking forward to roast beef and apple pie. The sanctification of
this killer has just begun, and it will be made at the expense of his
young victim and of Paulie Stroebel, a quiet, hardworking man
who has had to overcome many difficulties.

"He shouldn't have to overcome this one."

Not bad for a beginning, I thought.

EVERY DAY Sing Sing Correctional Facility discharges prisoners
who have completed serving their sentences or have been paroled.
When they leave, they are given jeans, work boots, a jacket, and
$40, and unless they are picked up by a family member or friend,
they are driven to the bus station or issued a train ticket.

The train station is the equivalent distance of four blocks from
the prison. The discharged prisoner walks to the station and takes a
train going either north or south.

The train going south terminates in Manhattan. The one going
north travels up New York as far as Buffalo.

I reasoned that anyone getting out of Sing Sing at this time
would almost certainly have known about Rob Westerfield.

That was why early the next morning I dressed warmly, parked
at the station, and walked toward the prison. There is constant activity
at the gates. I had checked some statistics and knew there
were about twenty-three hundred inmates housed there. Jeans,
work boots, and a jacket are not particularly distinctive apparel.
How would I be able to tell the difference between someone who
might be an employee getting off duty and a newly released inmate?
The answer is I couldn't.

Anticipating the problem, I had made a cardboard sign. I stood
beside the gate and held it. It read: "Investigative journalist seeking

92

information about just-released prisoner Robson Westerfield. Substantial
payment."

Then it occurred to me that someone driving out of the prison
in a car or taxi, or someone who did not want to be seen talking to
me, might come forward if he could reach me by phone. At the last
minute I added the number of my cell phone--917-555-1261--in
large, easy-to-read numbers.

It was a cold, windy morning. The first of November. All Saints
Day. Since Mother died I've attended Mass only on days such
as Christmas and Easter, when even fallen-away Catholics like
me hear the bells of a nearby church and reluctantly make our way
to it.

I'm like a robot when I get there. I dutifully kneel and stand
with the others, never sharing in the prayers. I like to sing, and I can
feel throbbing in my throat when the congregation joins the choir.
At Christmas it's joyous music: "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" or
"Away in a Manger." At Easter the song is triumphant: "Jesus
Christ Is Risen Today." But my lips always stay closed. Let others
sing in exultation.

I used to be angry; now I am only weary. One way or another
you've taken them all, O Lord. Are you finally satisfied? I know when
I watch television and learn of whole families wiped out in bombings,
or see them starving in refugee camps, I should be able to realize
how much more I have, how much better off I am. I do grasp
that intellectually, but it doesn't help. Let's make a deal, God. We'll
leave each other alone.

I stood for two hours holding the sign. Most people passing in or
out of the gates stared at it, curiosity in their eyes. A few of them
spoke to me. A bulky man in his late forties, the earmuffs of his cap
pulled down for warmth, snapped, "Lady, haven't you got anything
better to do with your time than investigate that creep?" He
would only tell me that he worked in the prison, but he refused to
give his name.

I did notice, however, that some people, including those who

93


looked like employees, studied the sign as though memorizing my
phone number.

At ten o'clock, chilled to the bone, I gave up and walked back to
the parking lot at the train station. I was just at the driver's door of
my car when a man came up to me. He appeared to be about thirty,
rawboned, with mean eyes and narrow lips. "Why are you picking
on Westerfield?" he asked. "What's he ever done to you?"

He was wearing jeans, a jacket, and work boots. Had he just
been released and followed me? I wondered. "Are you a friend of
his?" I asked.

"What do you care ?"

We have an instinctive reaction to step back when people get
too close to us, when they are literally "in our faces." My back was
against the side of the car, and this guy was crowding me. From the
corner of my eye I was relieved to see a van pulling into the parking
area. The thought rushed through my head that at least if I needed
help there was someone around.

"I want to get in my car, and you're in my way," I said.

"Rob Westerfield was a model prisoner. We all looked up to
him. He set a great example for the rest of us. Now, how much are
you going to pay me for that information?"

"Let him pay you." I turned and shouldered the guy away from
me, pushed the remote to release the lock, and yanked the door
open.

He did not try to stop me, but before I could close the door
again, he said, "Let me give you a little free advice. Burn your sign."

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 Westerfield. In several of them I found a
mention of the two prep schools he had attended. The first one, Ar
binger 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 Hvithin 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

i

97

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


99



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 fast-food joint. Sitting around the local off
campus hangout had worked for me when I did an earlier followup
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?

I,

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 medium-sized 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.

7OO

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

'

101


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. HlLMER 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

702

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 b egan 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

103



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.

7 O

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 he 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, "Elhe, 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,

(
705



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 try 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

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,
formai 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.presidents.


IO

his roommate? And off the record--and I do mean off the
record--why was he kicked out?"

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 sopho

more 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 tele

709



phone 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
Bostop.

"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 ycfang 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

'

in



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 West
erfield 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 chefs
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

'

"3


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

ii4

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."


U5


"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. Cava
naugh?"

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.

an HOUR LATER there was a subtle change in the weather. The
faint rattle of a loose pane in the window over the sink was the first
hint of a shift in the wind. I got up and pushed up the thermostat,
then went back to the computer. Realizing that I was in acute danger
of feeling sorry for myself, I had begun to work on what would
become the opening chapter of the book.

After some false starts, I knew that I should begin with my final
memory of Andrea, and, as I wrote, my memory seemed to sharpen.
I could see her room with the white organdy bedspread and frilly
curtains. I remembered in sharp detail the old-fashioned dresser
Mother had so carefully antiqued. I could visualize the pictures of
Andrea and her friends stuck in the frame of the mirror over that
dresser.

I could see Andrea in tears as she talked on the phone to Rob
Westerfield, and then I saw her putting on the locket. As I wrote, I
realized that there was something about the locket that still eluded
me. I knew that I couldn't positively identify it now if I saw it, but
at the time, I gave a clear description of it to the police--a description
that years ago had been dismissed as childish fantasy.

But I knew she had been wearing it when I found her, and I was
certain I had heard Rob Westerfield in the garage-hideout. Mother
told me later that it had taken her and my father ten or fifteen minutes
to calm me down so that I was coherent enough to tell them

722

where I had found Andrea's body. Plenty of time for Rob to get
away. And he had taken the locket with him.

On the witness stand he claimed that he'd been out jogging at
that time and had been nowhere near the garage. Nevertheless, he
had washed and bleached the sweats he'd worn that morning,
along with the bloodied clothes from the night before.

Once again I was struck by the terrible risk he had taken in
coming back to the garage. Why did he retrieve the locket? Was he
afraidthat it would be enough to confirm that Andrea was not just
a kid with an annoying crush on him? Even as I thought of that
morning, and the harsh breathing and the nervous giggling sound
he had made as he hid on the other side of the van, my hands turned
clammy on the keyboard.

Suppose I had not slipped through the woods alone but had
brought my father with me? Rob would have been caught in the
garage. Did sheer panic bring him back? Was it possible that he
needed to confirm to himself that what he had done wasn't just a
nightmare? Or, worst of all, had he gone back to make certain Andrea
was not alive ?

At seven o'clock I turned on the oven and put in the lone potato
to bake; then I went back to work. Shortly afterward the phone
rang; it was Pete Lawlor.

"Hi, Ellie."

There was something in his voice that immediately warned me
to brace myself.

"What's the matter, Pete?"

"You don't waste time on chitchat, do you?"

"We never do. That's our agreement."

"I guess it is. Ellie, the paper is being sold. It's definite now. The
announcement will be made on Monday. The staff will be cut to the
bone."

"What about you ?"

"They offered me a job. I turned them down."

"You said you were going to do that."

(

123


"I asked about you, but off the record they told me they don't
plan to keep up the investigative reporter series."

I'd been expecting that bit of news, but I realized how suddenly
rootless it made me feel. "Have you decided where you're going,
Pete?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I may be seeing some people in New York
before I decide. Maybe when that happens, I'll rent a car and drive
up to see you, or you can meet me in the city."

"I'd like that. I was kind of expecting that I'd get a postcard
from Houston or L.A."

"I never send postcards. Ellie, I've been watching your Website."

"There isn't much on it yet. It's sort of like a sign, the kind you
put on a shop you've rented. You know what I mean: 'Watch for the
grand opening.' But I am digging up a lot of nasty stuff on Wester
field. If Jake Bern tries to portray him as an all-American kid, his
book will have to be published as fiction."
"Ellie, it is not in my nature to--"

I cut him off. "Ah, come on, Pete. You're not going to warn me
to be careful, are you? I've already been warned by my neighbor--
a psychologist--and by a cop. And that's just today."
"Then let me join the chorus."

"Let's change the subject. Have you lost any of those ten pounds
yet?"

"I did better than that. I decided I look good just the way I am.
Okay, I'll call you when I know I'm coming in. Or you can always
call me, you know. Long-distance rates are pretty cheap at night."
He disconnected before I could even say goodbye.
I pressed the "end" button on my cell phone and laid the phone
down next to the computer. As I made a salad, the ramifications of
losing.my job began to sink in. The advance on signing the contract
to write my book would keep me going for a while, but what would I do when that was finished and I had given my best shot to torpedoing
Rob Westerfield's reinvention of himself?

Go back to Atlanta? But my friends at the paper would be scattered.
Another thing to ponder: It isn't that easy to get a newspaper
job these days. Too many newspapers have been swallowed up or
have folded. And when the book is finished and I've put all this behind
me, where did I want to live? It was a question that I kept
pondering all through dinner, even as I tried to concentrate on the
news magazine I'd picked up at the supermarket.

The cell phone rang again as I was clearing the table. "You the
lady wjho was standing outside the prison with a sign yesterday?" a
husky male voice asked.

"Yes, I am." Mentally I was crossing my fingers. The caller ID
registered "unavailable."

"I might have something to tell you about Westerfield. How
much you gonna pay?"

"I guess it depends on the information."
"You pay first, then you hear."
"How much?"
"Five thousand dollars."
"I haven't got that much money."

"Then forget it. But what I can tell you would put Westerfield
back in Sing Sing for the rest of his life."

Was he bluffing? I wasn't sure, but I couldn't take a chance on losing
the caller. I thought of my advance. "I have some money coming
in the next week or two. Just give me some hint of what you know."
"How's this? When he was whacked out on cocaine last year,
Westerfield told me he killed a guy when he was eighteen. Is the
name of that guy worth five thousand dollars? Think about it. I'll
call back next week."

I heard a click in my ear.

Margaret Fisher had told me only that afternoon that in her
professional opinion Rob Westerfield had been guilty of other
crimes before he murdered Andrea. I thought of incidents I had
heard earlier that day, like the ones at school and at the restaurant.
But if he had really murdered someone . ..

125



Suddenly it was a whole new ball game. If the guy who had just
called me was on the level and could give the name of a murder victim
I could verify, it would be easy enough to find out the facts of
the case. Of course, it might be that this was a hoax, just a way for a
crook to make a fast $5,000.1 had to decide if that was a risk I was
willing to take.

I was standing at the computer, looking down at the open file.
As I read my description of Andrea in those last few moments that
I was with her, I knew that to help put Rob Westerfield back in
prison was worth every cent I would ever earn in my life.

There was a glass of water at the side of the computer. I picked
it up and lifted it in a kind of salute, a toast to Andrea and to the
prospect of sending Westerfield back to prison.

I tidied up the kitchen and turned on the TV to watch the local
news. The sports editor was showing clips of a basketball game.
The winning basket had been made by Teddy Cavanaugh, and as I
stared, I saw the face of the half-brother I'd never met.

He was close to being a mirror image of me. He was younger, of course, boyish, but our eyes and noses and lips and cheekbones were
the same. He was looking straight into the camera, and I felt as if
we were staring at each other.

Then before I could change the station, in a final touch of irony,
the cheerleaders began to chant his name.

MRS. HlLMER 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.

129



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
makesthe 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 selec

(

'31


tion. 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 West
erfield."

"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 'sany 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."

(

33


"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

"34

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 Westerfield 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."

'35


"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 Gray
moor 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.

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?

'
141



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 Westerfield 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. lam on the witness stand. Flanged 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 attac me.

The intensity of his concentration when he was inches away

'43


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 Wester
field 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

J45


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...

i6

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 sver came forward and said, "He was sitting next to me."

Oldham was a fairly small town at that time, and the Wester
fields 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/ra 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.


'49



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?"

24


after a few awkward moments as I explained why I hadn't
moved out yet, I insisted that Officer White come up to the apartment
and phone Mrs. Hilmer at her granddaughter's house. I had
left the number on a sheet of paper next to the computer. He made
the call, then put me on with her.

"I'm so embarrassed, Ellie," she said. "I asked Officer White to
have the police keep an eye on the house while I was away, and I
told him you were leaving, but he certainly should have taken your
word that you were still my guest."

You're absolutely right, I thought, but what I said was "He's
right to be careful, Mrs. Hilmer." I didn't tell her that, rude as he'd
been, I was actually very pleased he was here. It meant I didn't have
to enter the apartment alone, and after he left, I would bolt the door.
I inquired about her granddaughter, said goodbye, and got off
the phone.

"You'll be leaving tomorrow then, Ms. Cavanaugh?" Officer
White asked. From his tone he might as well have said, "Here's
your hat, what's your hurry?"

"Yes, Officer. Don't worry. I'll be leaving tomorrow."

"Have you had any response to that sign you carried outside
Sing Sing?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," I said, giving him what Pete
Lawlor calls my mysterious, self-satisfied smile.

He frowned. I had piqued his curiosity, which is exactly what I
wanted to do.

"It's all over town that you had some pretty nasty things to say to
Rob Westerfield at the Parkinson Inn today."

"There's no law against being honest, and there's certainly not
one that says you have to make nice with murderers."

His cheekbones reddened as he stood with his hand on the
doorknob. "Ms. Cavanaugh, let me give you a piece of advice from
the real world. I know for a certainty that with the family money to
throw around, Rob Westerfield was able to develop a very loyal following
in prison. That's just the way it is. Some of those guys are
on the street now. Without even talking to Westerfield about it, one
of them may decide to remove a certain irritant as a favor to him,
anticipating appropriate gratitude of course."

"Who will free me from this turbulent priest?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"A rhetorical question, Officer. In the twelfth century, Henry
the Second made that remark to some of his noblemen, and a short
time later Archbishop Thomas a Becket was murdered in his
cathedral. You know something, Officer White? I can't be sure if
you are warning me or threatening me."

"An investigative reporter should be able to tell the difference,
Ms. Cavanaugh."

With that, he was gone. It seemed to me that his footsteps were
unnecessarily loud on the staircase, as if wanting me to know that
he was making a kind of final exit.

I bolted the door, walked to the window, and watched him get
back into his squad car and drive away.

Usually I shower in the morning, and if it's been a particularly
stressful day, I shower again before I go to bed. I find it's a great way
to get the knots out of shoulders and neck muscles. Tonight I decided
to go even further. I filled the tub with hot water and squirted
in bath oil. After six months the bottle was still almost full, showing
how often I get to laze around in a tub. But tonight I needed it, and

53

it did feel good just to lie there and soak. I stayed until the water
began to cool.

I'm always amused when I read ads for seductive and provocative
nightgowns and robes. My night attire is nightshirts purchased
from an L. L. Bean catalogue. They're roomy and comfortable, and
their companion piece is a flannel robe. Topping off that exquisite
ensemble are fleece-lined bedroom slippers.

The two-door bureau with the attached mirror in the bedroom
reminded me of the one my mother had painted white and antiqued
for Andrea's room. As I brushed my hair in front of the mirror,
I wondered idly what had become of that bureau. When
Mother and I moved to Florida, we brought comparatively little
furniture with us. I am certain that nothing from Andrea's inviting
room accompanied us. My room at that time had been nice, too, but
it was little-girl cutesy, with a Cinderella-motif wallpaper.

Then, in a flash of memory, it came to me that I once told
Mother I thought the paper was babyish, and she replied, "But it's
almost the same as the paper Andrea had in her room when she was
your age. She loved it."

I guess even then I realized how different we were. I wasn't into
girly things, and I never cared about dress-up clothes. Andrea, like
Mother, was utterly feminine.

"You're daddy's little girl to have and hold... . You're the spirit of
Christmas, my star on the tree . . . And you're daddy's little girl."

Unbidden, the words of that song ran through my head, and I
once again envisioned Daddy in Andrea's room, holding the music
box and sobbing.

It was a memory that I always tried to immediately close off.
"Finish brushing your hair, girl, and go to bed," I said aloud.

With a critical eye I studied myself in the mirror. I usually wore
my hair.up, anchored with a comb, but now, taking a good look, I saw how long it had grown. Over the summer it became very
blond, and while most of the bleaching from the sun had faded,
there were still bright streaks running though it.

'54


155

I often recalled the remark Detective Longo had made the first
time he questioned me after Andrea's body was found. He said that
my hair, like his son's, reminded him of sand when the sun is shining
on it. That was such a sweet description, and streaked as my
hair is now, it felt good to think that it might be true again.

I watched the eleven o'clock news, just long enough to be sure
the world outside Oldham was still more or less functioning. Then,
after checking the locks on the living room windows, I went into
the bedroom. The wind was really blowing, so I opened the two
bedroom windows a couple of inches. The cross-breeze was
enough to send me scurrying under the covers, dropping my robe
on the footboard and kicking off my slippers on the way.

In my apartment in Atlanta I could always fall asleep easily. But
of course it was different there. I could hear faint street noises and
sometimes music from the apartment of my next-door neighbor, an
aficionado of hard rock who sometimes played his CDs at earsplitting
volume.

A friendly thump on our joint wall always brought a quick response,
but even so I was sometimes aware of metallic vibrations as
I drifted off.

I would not mind a few metallic vibrations that signified the
closeness of another human being tonight, I thought as I readjusted
the pillow. It seemed to me that my senses were all on high alert-- probably caused by the earlier face-to-face with Westerfield.

Pete's sister Jan lives not far from Atlanta in a little town called
Peachtree. Sometimes on Sunday Pete would call me and say,
"Let's go for a ride to see Jan and Bill and the kids." They have a
German shepherd named Rocky who is a wonderful watchdog.
The instant we got out of the car, he'd be furiously barking to alert
the family to our presence.

I sure wish you were paying me a visit right now, Rocky, old pal,
I thought.

I did eventually manage to fall into an uneasy sleep, the kind
that makes you wish you could wake up. I was dreaming that there

was some place I had to go. I had to find someone before it was too
late. It was dark, and my flashlight wouldn't work.

Then I was in the woods, and I could smell a campfire. I needed
to find a path through the woods. There was one, I was sure of it.
I'd been on it before.

It was so hot, and I was beginning to cough.

It wasn't a dream! I opened my eyes. The room was in total
darkness and I could smell nothing but smoke. I was choking. I
shoved back the covers and sat up. I could feel the heat building up
around me. I'd burn to death if I didn't get out. Where was I? Fora
moment I simply couldn't orient myself.

Before I put my feet on the floor, I forced myself to think. I was
in Mrs. Hilmer's apartment. The bedroom door was to the left of
the bed. It was on a direct line with the headboard. Outside there
was the little foyer. The apartment door was just past the foyer, on
the left.

It probably took ten seconds for me to think that through. Then
I was out of bed. I gasped as my feet touched the hot floorboard. I
heard a crackling overhead. The roof was catching fire. I knew I only had seconds before the whole building caved in.

I stumbled forward, groping for the frame of the door. Thank
God I had left it open. I felt my way along the foyer wall, passed
the open space that was the frame for the bathroom door. The
smoke was not quite as dense here, but then a wall of flame burst
from the kitchen area of the living room. It illuminated the table,
and I saw my computer, printer, and cell phone there. The duffel
bag was on the floor next to the table.

I didn't want to lose them. It took a second to pull back the bolt
and open the door to the stairs. Then, biting my lips from the pain
of the blisters forming on my feet, coughing and gasping, I ran to
the table, scooped up the computer, printer, and cell phone in one
hand and the duffel bag in the other, and fled back to the door.

Behind me the flames were leaping onto the furniture, and
ahead the smoke in the stairwell was thick and black. Fortunately,



it was a straight staircase, and somehow I was able to stumble down
it. At first the handle of the outside door seemed to be jammed. I
dropped the computer, phone, and duffel bag, and yanked and
twisted with both hands.

I'm trapped, I'm trapped, I thought as I felt my hair begin to
singe. I gave a final desperate twist, and the handle turned. I pulled
open the door, bent down and felt for my computer, and phone, and
duffel bag, and stumbled out.

As I emerged, a man was running down the driveway and
rushed to grab me before I fell. "Is anyone else still in there?" he
shouted.

Shivering and burning at the same time, I shook my head. "My
wife called the fire department," he said as he pulled me away from
the blazing structure.

A car was rushing down the driveway. Only half-conscious, I
realized it must have been his wife, because I heard him say, "Lynn,
take her home. She's got to get out of the cold. I'll wait for the fire
department." Then to me he said, "Go with my wife. We live just
down the road."

Five minutes later, for the first time in over twenty years, I was
sitting in the kitchen of my old house, wrapped in a blanket, a cup
of tea in front of me. Through the French doors that led to the dining
room I could see Mother's beloved chandelier, still in place.

And I could see Andrea and me setting the table for Sunday dinner.

"Lord Malcolm Eigbottom is our guest today."

I closed my eyes.

"It's okay to cry, you know," Lynn, the lady who now lives in my
old house, said kindly. "You've had a terrible ordeal."

But I managed to blink back the tears. I felt that if I ever started
shedding them, I'd never be able to stop.

4

25

the FIRE CHIEF CAME to the Keltons' house and insisted on having
an ambulance take me to the hospital. "You must have inhaled
a lot of smoke, Ms. Cavanaugh," he said. "You need to be checked
out, if only as a precaution."

Oldham County Hospital kept me overnight, which was just as
well since I had no place else to go. When I was finally in bed-- after the soot and grime were removed from my face and body, and
my blistered feet were bandaged--I gladly accepted a sleeping pill.
The room I was in was near the nurses' station, and I could hear the
soft murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps.

As I fell asleep, I thought about how a few hours ago I'd been
wishing for company. I never expected to have my wish granted
this way.

When I was woken by a nurse's aide at seven o'clock in the
morning, there wasn't a part of me that didn't ache. She checked
my pulse and blood pressure and departed. I pushed back the blanket,
swung my legs onto the floor, and, not sure of what would happen,
tried to stand up. The soles of my feet were padded with
bandages, and putting weight on them was terribly uncomfortable,
but other than that I knew I was in pretty good shape.

That was when I began to realize how lucky I had been. Just
a few minutes more, and I am sure I would have been overcome
by smoke. By the time the Keltons arrived on the scene, it would

have been impossible to save me, even had they known I was
there.

Was the fire an accident? I knew it wasn't. Although I never
looked inside, Mrs. Hilmer had told me that the garage under the
apartment had very little in it except gardening tools.
Gardening tools don't burst into flames.

Officer White had warned me that a fellow ex-prisoner trying
to curry favor with Rob Westerfield might try to get rid of me for
him. I think White had the order of things reversed. I had not the
slightest doubt that that fire had been ordered by Westerfield and that he had given the assignment to a former lackey in Sing Sing. It
wouldn't surprise me a bit to learn that the guy who spoke to me in
the prison parking lot got the assignment.

I was sure that by now Mrs. Hilmer had been notified of the fire
by Officer White--I had given him her granddaughter's phone
number on Long Island. I knew how distressing it was for her to
learn that the garage with the apartment was gone. It had originally been a barn and had some historic value as a structure.

Mrs. Hilmer was seventy-three years old. The apartment over
the garage had been her insurance that if she ever needed any kind
of live-in assistance, she had separate living quarters to offer.

I'm sure as well that her granddaughter's accident made her
keenly aware of how easy it is to be incapacitated.

Would insurance enable her to rebuild that structure, or would
she even want the headache of having the work done? Right now
Mrs. Hilmer must be thinking that no good deed goes unpunished,
I thought unhappily. I would phone her, but not yet. How do you apologize for something like this?

Then I thought about the duffel bag and my computer, printer,
and cell phone. I had made sure they accompanied me to the hospital
room, and I remembered that the nurse said something about
putting them away for me. Where were they?

There was a locker-style closet in the room. I hobbled over to it,

'59


hoping and praying that I'd find them there. I opened the door and
was delighted to see them piled neatly on the floor.

I was equally delighted to see a hospital-issue chenille robe on a
hanger. I was wearing one of those godforsaken hospital gowns. It
was meant for someone the size of a Barbie doll, whereas I am five
feet nine inches tall.

The first thing I did was unzip the duffel bag and look inside.
The crumbling first page of the New Yorf( Post with the headline
"GUILTY" was on top, just as it had been when I last opened it.

Then I reached into the bag and slid my hand down the side.
My fingers groped around. I breathed a sigh of relief when I felt the
leather case that I had been seeking.

Yesterday morning, just as I was getting in the car to go to Joan's
house, it occurred to me that the next unauthorized visitor to the
apartment might rummage around for valuables. I ran back upstairs,
took the case from the drawer, and put it in the duffel bag
that was already in the trunk.

Now I pulled out the case and opened it. Everything was
there--Mother's engagement and wedding rings, her diamond
earrings, and my modest collection of jewelry.

Gratefully, I put the case back in the bag, closed it, and picked
up the computer. I carried it to the single chair, located by the window.
I knew that however long I'd be in the hospital today, I'd
spend my time right there.

I turned on the computer and held my breath, exhaling only
when the beep sounded, the screen lit up, and I knew I hadn't lost
any of the material I had stored in it.

My peace of mind somewhat restored, I hobbled back to the
closet, reached for the bathrobe, and went into the bathroom. There
was a small tube of toothpaste, a plastic-sealed toothbrush, and a comb on a shelf over the sink. I proceeded to attempt to tidy up.

I know that I was in shock after the fire. Now, as my thinking
cleared, I began to realize how very lucky I had been to escape, not

i6o

only alive, but not seriously burned. I knew also that I would have
to be much more vigilant about future attempts to take my life. One
thing was certain: I had to be in a place where there would be a desk
clerk and other employees around.

When I'd given up trying to pull the small comb through my
tangled hair, I went back into the room, settled in the chair, and,
since I didn't have pen or paper, opened the computer to make a list
of the things I had to do immediately.

I hfed no money, no clothes, no credit cards, no driver's license-- all these had been lost in the fire. I would have to borrow money
until I could get duplicates of my credit cards and driver's license.
So who would be the lucky recipient of my pleading call?

I have friends in Atlanta, and I have school friends scattered
around the country whom I could have phoned for help and received
it in a minute. I crossed them off my list, though. I just didn't
want to go into a long explanation as to why I was temporarily destitute.

Pete was the only one in Atlanta who knew about Andrea and
about why I was here. When I took the leave of absence to come
here, my explanation to my coworkers and friends had been "It's
personal, guys."

I'm sure the general impression is that Ellie, who's always too
busy for a blind date, is involved with somebody special and is trying
to work things out with him.

Pete? The thought of having to play the helpless female to his
save-the-day hero irritated me. I'd make him the court of last resort.

I'm sure I could have called Joan Lashley St. Martin, but her belief
that Rob Westerfield was innocent of Andrea's death made me reluctant to go to her for help.

Marcus Longo? Of course, I thought! He'll stake me, and I'll
pay him back within the week.

A breakfast tray came and was picked up an hour later, virtu

'

161



ally untouched. Have you ever been in a hospital that actually
served hot coffee?

The doctor arrived, checked my blistered feet, told me I was
free to go home anytime, and departed. I had a mental image of
limping around Oldham in hospital gear, asking for a handout. At
precisely that psychologically low moment, Officer White appeared
with a sharp-featured man he introduced as Detective
Charles Bannister of the Oldham Police Department. A hospital
orderly was behind them carrying folding chairs, so I gathered that
this was not going to be a quick, cheery bedside visit.

Bannister expressed concern for my well-being and the hope
that after the ordeal I was feeling as well as possible.

I immediately sensed that beneath the veneer of concern he had
an agenda in mind, and it wasn't a friendly one.

I told him that I was quite well and grateful to be alive, a comment
he accepted with a nod of his head. I was reminded of a professor
I had in a philosophy course in college. After hearing a
particularly stupid observation from one of the students, he would
give that same kind of nod with a grave expression.

What it meant was "Now I've heard everything."

It didn't take me long to understand that Detective Bannister
had one goal in mind: He was determined to prove his theory that I
had made up the initial story about the intruder in the apartment. He didn't put it quite so bluntly, but the scenario he put together
went pretty much as follows: After hearing about the supposed intruder,
Mrs. Hilmer had been nervous. She only imagined someone
had followed her to and from the library. Disguising my voice, I
made the phone call warning her that I was unstable.

At that, I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

According to Detective Bannister, I had set the fire to gain attention
and sympathy for myself, while publicly accusing Rob
Westerfield of trying to kill me.

"You were in danger of being burned to death, but according to

162

the neighbor who saw you emerge from the building, you were carrying
a computer, a printer, a cell phone, and a large, heavy duffel
bag. Most people in an inferno don't stop to pack, Ms. Cavanaugh."
"Just as I reached the door to the stairs, the wall at one end of the
living room became a sheet of flames. It illuminated the table
where I had left those things. They were very important to me, and
I took that extra second to grab them."

"Why were they so important, Ms. Cavanaugh?"
"Let me tell you why, Detective Bannister." The computer was
still on my lap, and I pointed to it. "The first chapter of the book I
am writing about Rob Westerfield is in this computer. Pages and
pages of notes that I have honed from the trial transcript of The
Stale versus Robson Westerfield are also in it. I do not have backup. I
do not have copies in another place."

His face remained impassive, but I noticed that Officer White's
mouth was becoming a thin, angry line.

"I posted my cell phone number on the sign I was carrying
when I was outside Sing Sing prison. I'm sure you've heard about
my appearance there from him." I jerked my head at White. "I've
already received one very interesting phone call from someone who
knew Westerfield in prison. That phone is my only chance to stay
in contact with him until I can get to a store, buy a new cell phone,
and get the number transferred. As for the heavy duffel bag, it's in
the closet. Would you care to see the contents?"

"Yes, I would."

I put the computer on the floor and stood up.

"I'll get it for you," he said.

"I prefer to keep it in my own hands at all times."

I tried not to limp as I rushed across the room. I yanked open the
closet door, picked up the duffel bag, brought it back, dropped it in
front of my chair, sat down, and unzipped it.

I could sense rather than see the startled reaction of the two men
as they read the headline "GUILTY."

"I would prefer not to be showing these to you." I spat out the

"
163




words as I yanked newspaper after newspaper from the bag and
tossed them on the floor.

"My mother kept these all her life." I made no attempt to hide
my anger. "They are the news accounts--starting with the discovery
of my sister's body and including the moment when Rob Westerfield
was sentenced to prison. They don't make pleasant reading,
but they do make interesting reading, and I don't want to lose
them."

The last of the newspapers was on the floor. I had to use both
hands to pull out the trial transcript. I held up the cover page for
them to see. "Also interesting reading, Detective Bannister," I said.

"I'm sure it is," he agreed, his face impassive. "Anything else in
there, Ms. Cavanaugh?"

"If you're hoping to find a can of gasoline and a box of matches,
you're out of luck." I took out the leather case and opened it. "Go
through this, please."

He glanced at the contents and handed the case back to me. "Do
you always carry your jewelry with you in a duffel bag with newspapers,
Ms. Cavanaugh, or only when you suspect there might be a
fire?"

He stood up, and White jumped to his feet. "You'll be hearing
from us, Ms. Cavanaugh. Are you returning to Atlanta, or will you
be staying in the area ?"

"I'll be staying in the area, and I will be glad to inform you of my
address. Perhaps the police department will keep a better eye on
those premises than they did on Mrs. Hilmer's property. Do you
think that might be possible?"

Officer White's cheekbones became stained with purple. I
knew he was furious and I knew I was being reckless, but at that
point I didn't care.

Bannister didn't bother to answer but turned abruptly and left
with White at his heels.

I watched them go. The orderly came into the room to collect
the folding chairs. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of me



with the transcript on my lap, the jewelry case in my hand, the duffel
bag, and scattered newspapers on the floor.

"Miss, can I help you gather them up?" he offered. "Or can I get
you something? You look kind of upset."

"I am upset," I agreed. "And you can get something for me. Is
there a cafeteria in the hospital?"

"Yeah. A real good one."

"Would you consider ..." I stopped because I was on the verge
of hysteria. "Would you consider treating me to a cup of very hot
black coffee?"

26

THIRTY MINUTES LATER I was savoring the last sip of the excellent
coffee the orderly had kindly bought for me when I had another
visitor, more surprising this time. My father.

The door was partially open. He tapped on it, then walked in
without waiting for a response. We stared at each other, and my
throat went dry.

His dark hair was now silvery white. He was a little thinner, but
held himself as erectly as ever. Glasses accentuated his keen blue
eyes, and there were deep furrows in his forehead.
My mother chiding, "Ted, Ifyrowyou don't realize it, butyou'vegot
to stop frowning when you concentrate. You're going to look life a
prune when you get older."

He certainly didn't look like a prune. He was still a good
looking man and hadn't lost that aura of inner strength.

"Hello, Ellie," he said.

"Hello, Dad."

I can only imagine what he was thinking when he looked at me
garbed in a cheap hospital bathrobe, my hair a mass of tangles,
bandages on my feet. Certainly not the shining star of the song on
the music box.

"How are you, Ellie?"

I'd forgotten the deep resonance in his voice. It was the sound of

i66

quiet authority that Andrea and I had respected as children. We
had felt protected by it, and I, at least, was in awe of it.
"I'm very well, thank you."

"I came here as soon as I heard about the fire at Mrs. Hilmer's
and learned that you'd been in that apartment."
"You needn't have bothered."

He'd been standing just inside the door. Now he pushed it shut
and came over to me. He knelt down and tried to take my hands.
"Ellie, for God's sake, you're my daughter. How do you think I felt
when I heard that you barely got out alive?"

I pulled my hands away. "Oh, that story will change. The cops
think I set the fire as a grandstand gesture. According to them, I
want attention and sympathy."

He was shocked. "That's ridiculous."

He was so close that I caught the faint scent of his shaving
cream. Was I wrong, or was it the same scent I remembered? He
was wearing a shirt and tie with a dark blue jacket and gray slacks.
Then I remembered that this was Sunday morning and that he
might have been dressing to go to church when he heard about the
fire.

"I know you mean to be kind," I said, "but I really wish you
would leave me alone. I don't need anything from you, and I don't want anything from you."

"Ellie, I've seen that Website. Westerfield is dangerous. I'm desperately
worried about you."

Well, at least I had one thing in common with my father. We
both knew Rob Westerfield was a killer.

"I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for a long time."

He stood up. "That's not my fault, Ellie. You refused to visit
me."

"I guess I did, so that means your conscience is clear. Don't let
me keep you."

"I came to invite you, to implore you, to stay with us. That way I

can protect you. If you remember, I was a state trooper for thirty
five years."

"I remember. You looked great in uniform. Oh, I did write and
thank you for interring Mother's ashes in Andrea's grave, didn't I ?"

"Yes, you did."

"Her death certificate gave the cause of death as 'cirrhosis of the
liver,' but I think a more accurate diagnosis would be 'broken heart.'
And my sister's death wasn't the only reason for that broken heart."

"Ellie, your mother left me."

"My mother adored you. You could have waited her out. You
could have followed her to Florida and brought her home-- brought us home. You didn't want to."

My father reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. I
hoped he wouldn't dare to offer me money, but that didn't happen.
He pulled out a card and laid it on the bed. "You can reach me anytime,
day or night, Ellie."

Then he was gone, but the faint scent of his shaving cream
seemed to linger after him. I'd forgotten that sometimes I would sit on the edge of the tub and talk to him while he was shaving. I'd forgotten
that sometimes he would spin around, pick me up, and rub
his face, thick with lather, against mine.

So vivid was the memory that I reached up and touched my
cheek, almost expecting to feel the residue of damp suds. My cheek
was wet, but it was with the tears that, for the moment at least, I
could no longer deny.

I TRIED TO REACH Marcus Longo twice in the next hour. Then I
remembered that he had said something about his wife not liking
to fly alone. I realized that there was a very good chance he had
flown to Denver to escort her home, and while there he'd have another
adoring visit with his first grandchild.

The nurse popped her head in and reminded me that checkout
time was noon. By eleven-thirty I was ready to ask if there was a social
services office in the hospital, but then Joan called.

"Ellie, I just heard what happened. For heaven's sake, how are
you? What can I do?"

Any pride that I had about refusing help because she didn't
believe Rob Westerfield was a murdering animal evaporated. I
needed her, and I knew darn well that she was as sincere in her conviction
about his innocence as I was in mine about his guilt.

"Actually, you can do a lot," I said. Relief at hearing a friendly
voice made my own voice tremble. "You can dig up some clothes
for me. You can come and get me. You can help me find a place to
stay. You can lend me some money."

"You'll stay with us--" she began.

"Negative. No. That's neither a good nor a safe idea for either
one of us. You don't need your house to burst into flames because
I'm around."





"Ellie, you don't believe that someone set that fire with the intent
of killing you!"

"Yes, I do."

She considered that news for a moment, and I'm sure thought
of her three children. "Then where can you stay that you'll be safe,
Ellie?"


"An inn is my preference. I don't like the idea of a motel with
separate doors to the outside." I thought of something. "Forget the
Parkinson Inn. It's booked." And it's a Westerfield hangout, I reminded myself.

"I have a place in mind that I think will work," Joan said. "I also
have a friend who's about your height and weight. I'll call her to
borrow some clothes. What's your shoe size?"

"Nine, but I don't think I can take the bandages off my feet yet."

"Leo is a size ten. If you don't mind wearing a pair of his sneakers,
they might do for now."

I didn't mind.

JOAN ARRIVED within the hour with a suitcase containing underwear,
pajamas, stockings, slacks, a turtleneck sweater, a warm
jacket, gloves, the sneakers, and some toiletries. I dressed, and the nurse brought in a cane I could use in walking until my blistered
feet began to heal. On the way out, the billing clerk reluctantly
agreed to wait for payment until I could have a copy of my medical
insurance card faxed to her.

Finally we were in Joan's SUV. My hair was smoothed back and
caught at the neckline with a rubber band I had acquired at the
nurses' station. A cursory glance in the mirror showed that it
looked tidy enough. The borrowed clothes fit quite well, and even
though the sneakers looked wide and ungainly, they did a good job
of protecting my painful feet.

"I made a reservation for you at the Hudson Valley Inn," Joan told me. "It's about a mile away."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to drive to Mrs. Hilmer's place. My
car is still there--or at least, I hope it's there."

"Who would take it?"

"No one would take it, but it was parked about two feet from
the garage. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that a beam or some debris
didn't fall on it."

There wasn't a wall standing of the structure that had housed
the cheery apartment Mrs. Hilmer had so generously lent me. The
area around it was cordoned off, and a policeman was standing
guard.

Three men in heavy rubber boots were painstakingly examining
the rubble and undoubtedly trying to pinpoint the source of the
blaze. They looked up when they saw us, but then went back to
their probing.

I was relieved to see that my car had been moved about twenty
feet toward Mrs. Hilmer's house. We got out of the SUV to examine
it. It's a previously owned BMW that I bought two years ago,
the first decent car I've ever had.

Of course, every inch of it was grimy with black smoke, and
there were some blisters in the paint on the passenger side, but I
considered myself lucky. I still had my wheels, even if I couldn't use
them yet.

My shoulder bag had been in the bedroom. Along with everything
else, my key ring was in it.

The cop on guard came over to us. He was very young and very
polite. When I explained that I didn't have the key to the car and
would contact BMW for a replacement, he assured me the car
would be safe. "One of us will be on the premises for the next few
days."

To see if you can pin the fire on me? I wondered as I thanked
him. ,

Whatever lift in spirit I'd felt when I got dressed and left the
hospital disappeared as Joan and I started to get back in her SUV. It was a beautiful, clear fall day, but around us the smell of smoke per
meated the air. I fervently hoped that it would dissipate before Mrs.
Hilmer got back. That was another thing I had to do: phone and
talk to her.

I could visualize the conversation.

"I'm really sorry I caused your guest house to burn down. I certainly
won't let it happen again."

I could hear the pealing of church bells in the distance, and I
wondered if my father went to Mass after he visited me--he and
his wife and son, the basketball star. I had thrown away his card
when I was clearing out of the hospital room, but I'd noticed he still
lived in Irvington. That meant he probably was still a parishioner
of Immaculate Conception, the church in which I was baptized.

The godparents who were to assist my parents in reinforcing
my religious education and spiritual well-being were my father's
close friends, the Barrys. Dave Barry was a state trooper, too, and
probably also retired by now. I wondered if he or his wife, Nancy,
ever said, "Oh, by the way, Ted, any word from Ellie?"

Or was I a subject too uncomfortable to be discussed? A person
to be dismissed with a shake of the head and a sigh. "It's one of those
sad things that happen in life. We just have to put it behind us and
go on."

"You're very quiet, Ellie," Joan said as she turned on the ignition.
"How do you feel, really ?"

"Much better than I dared hope," I assured her. "You're an
angel, and with the money you are so kindly going to lend me, I am
buying you lunch."

I could see that the Hudson Valley Inn was going to be a perfect
spot for me. It was a three-story, wide-porched gingerbread
kind of Victorian mansion, and the minute we stepped into the
vestibule, the elderly clerk behind the desk was looking us over
carefully.

Joan gave her credit card for an imprint, explaining that I'd lost
my purse and it would be a few days before I would have new cards
issued. That bonded Mrs. Willis, the clerk, to me for life. After in



troducing herself, she confided that seven years ago, in the train station,
she had laid her purse beside her on the bench.


"I turned the page of the newspaper," she recalled, "and in that
split second, it disappeared. What a nuisance. I was stranded. I was
so upset. Someone had run up three hundred dollars on my card
before I could even collect my wits and make the phone call,
and .. ."

Maybe because of our shared experience, she went out of her
way to give me a particularly desirable room. "It's priced as a room,
but it's really a junior suite because it has a separate sitting area with
a little kitchenette. And best of all it has a wonderful view of the

river.

If there's anything in the world I love, it's a river view. It's not
hard to figure out why that is true. I was conceived in the house in
Irvington that overlooks the Hudson and lived there for the first
five years of my life. I remember that when I was very little, I would
pull a chair over to the window and stand on it so that I could catch
a glimpse of the river shimmering below.

Joan and I walked slowly up the two flights to the room, agreed
that it was exactly what I needed, and made our equally slow passage
back to the quaint dining room at the rear of the inn. By then I
felt as though all the blisters had given birth to septuplets.

A Bloody Mary and a club sandwich did wonders to restore a
sense of normalcy to me.

Then, over coffee, Joan frowned and said, "Ellie, I hate to bring
this up, but it's necessary. Leo and I went to a cocktail party last
night. Everyone is talking about your Website."

"Go on."

"Some people think it's outrageous," she said frankly. "I understand
it was legal for you to register it in Rob Westerfield's name,
but a Ipt of people think that was unfair and totally unnecessary."

"Don't look so worried," I said. "I have no intention of shooting
the messenger, and I am interested in getting reactions. What else
are they saying?"

174

"That you should not have put those mug shots of him on the
Website. That the medical examiner's testimony describing
Andrea's wounds make brutal reading."

"It was a brutal crime."

"Ellie, you asked me to tell you what people are saying."

Joan looked so terribly unhappy that I was ashamed of myself.
"I'm sorry. I know how miserable this is for you."

She shrugged. "Ellie, I believe Will Nebels killed Andrea. Half
this town thinks Paulie Stroebel is guilty. And a lot of other people
feel that even if Rob Westerfield is guilty, he has served his sentence
and has been paroled, and that you ought to accept that."

"Joan, if Rob Westerfield had admitted his guilt and honestly
expressed regret, I still would have hated his guts, but there
wouldn't be a Website. I understand why people think the way they
do, but I can't stop now."

She reached across the table, and we clasped hands. "Ellie,
there's another sympathy vote out there. It's for old Mrs. Westerfield.
Her housekeeper is telling everyone who will listen how
upset she is about the Website and how she wishes you would at
least shut it down until after a new jury has heard the evidence."

I thought of Dorothy Westerfield, that elegant woman, offering
condolences to my mother on the day of the funeral, and I remembered
my father ordering her from the house. He couldn't tolerate
her sympathy then, and I could not allow myself to be swayed by
sympathy for her now.

"We'd better change the subject," I said. "We're not going to
agree."

Joan lent me $300, and we both managed a genuine smile as
I paid for the lunch. "Symbolic," I said, "but it makes me feel
better."

We said good-bye in the vestibule at the front door. "I hate to
see you having to make that climb upstairs," she said, looking
worried.

'75


"It will be worth it just to get there. And I've got my freebie to
lean on." I thumped the cane lightly to emphasize my point.

"Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

I hesitated about bringing up anything else controversial, but
there was one more thing I had to ask her. "Joan, I know you never
saw the locket that I insist Andrea was wearing, but are you still in
touch with some of the girls who were in school with you and Andrea?"

"Sure. And you can bet I'll be hearing from them, given all
that's going on."

"Would you ask them directly if any of them ever saw Andrea
wearing the locket I described to you? Gold, heart-shaped, embossed
at the edges, small blue stones in the center, and 'A' and 'R,'
Andrea's and Rob's initials, engraved on the back."

"Ellie--"

"Joan, the more I think about it, the more I believe that the only
reason Rob went back to the garage was that he couldn't afford to
have the locket found on Andrea's body. I need to know why, and it
would help if someone else confirmed that it existed."

Joan didn't comment further after that. She promised she
would make inquiries and then left me to go home to her orderly
life with her husband and children. Leaning heavily on the cane, I
limped upstairs to the room, locked and bolted the door, carefully
removed the sneakers, and sank down on the bed.

The ringing of the telephone woke me up. I was startled to see
that the room was in darkness. I struggled up on one elbow, fumbled
for the light, and glanced at the clock as I picked up the phone
on the bedside table.

It was eight o'clock. I had been asleep for six hours. "Hello." I
know,I sounded groggy.

"Ellie, it's Joan. Something terrible has happened. Old Mrs.
Westerfield's housekeeper went into Stroebel's delicatessen this af
776


ternoon and shouted at Paulie, telling him to admit that he'd killed
Andrea. She said it was his fault that the Westerfield family was
being tortured.

"Ellie, an hour ago Paulie went into the bathroom at home,
locked the door, and slit his wrists. He's in intensive care in the hospital.
He's lost so much blood that they don't think he's going to
live."

28

I FOUND MRS. STROEBEL in the waiting room outside the intensive
care unit. She was weeping quietly, the tears running down
her cheeks. Her lips were clamped together tightly, as though
she was afraid that parting them would release a tidal wave of
grief.

Her coat was around her shoulders, and even though her cardigan
and skirt were dark blue, I could see dark stains that I was sure
had been caused by Paulie's blood.

A large-framed, plainly dressed woman of about fifty was sitting
protectively close to her. She looked up at me, a hint of hostility
on her face.

I wasn't sure what to expect from Mrs. Stroebel. It was my
Website that had triggered the verbal attack from Mrs. Wester
field's housekeeper and Paulie's despairing response to it.

But Mrs. Stroebel stood up and walked halfway across the room
to meet me. "You understand, Ellie," she sobbed. "You understand
what they have done to my son."

I put my arms around her. "I do understand, Mrs. Stroebel." I
looked over her head at the other woman. She knew the question
my eyes were silently asking and made a gesture with her hand
which I took to mean that it was too soon to tell if Paulie would
make it.

Then she introduced herself. "I'm Greta Bergner. I work with

I78

Mrs. Stroebel and Paulie in the delicatessen. I thought you might be
a reporter."

We sat together for the next twelve hours. From time to time we
went in and stood at the entrance to the cubicle where Paulie was
lying, an oxygen mask over his face, tubes in his arms, heavy bandages
on his wrists.

During that long night, as I observed the agony on Mrs.
Stroebel's face and watched her lips move in silent prayer, I found
myselfbeginning to pray as well. At first it was instinctive, but then
it became deliberate. If you spare Paulie for her, I'll try to accept everything
that happened. Maybe I won't succeed, but I swear I'll try.

Streaks of light began to penetrate the outside darkness. At
nine-fifteen a doctor came in to the waiting room. "Paulie is stabilized,"
he said. "He'll make it. Why don't you people go home and
get some sleep."

I TOOK A CAB BACK from the hospital; along the way I had the
driver stop so I could pick up the morning papers. I had only to

glance at the front page of the Westchester Post to be grateful that in
the intensive care unit Paulie Stroebel did not have access to newspapers.

The headline was "Murder Suspect Attempts Suicide."

The rest of the front page was covered with pictures of three
people. The photo on the left was of Will Nebels posing for the
camera, a self-righteous expression on his weak-featured face. The
one on the right was of a woman in her mid-sixties with a worried
frown that enhanced her severe features. The center photo was of
Paulie, behind the counter of the deli, a bread knife in his hand.

The picture had been cropped so that only the hand holding the
bread knife showed. There was no context for it, no baguette being
sliced in preparation for a sandwich. He was looking into the camera,
his eyebrows drawn together.

My guess is that Paulie had been caught by surprise when his

'
779



1

1

I

picture was taken. Whatever, the effect was that of a surly man
with disturbing eyes brandishing a weapon.


The captions under the pictures were quotes. Nebels' was "I
knew he did it." The woman with severe features said, "He admitted
it to me." Paulie's caption was "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The story was on page 3, but I had to put off reading it; the cab
was pulling up to the inn. Once in my room, I turned again to the
newspaper.

The woman in the photo on the front page was Lillian Becker
son, Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield's housekeeper of thirty-one years.
"Mrs. Westerfield is one of the finest human beings who ever
walked the face of the earth," the newspaper quoted her as saying.
"Her husband was a United States senator, his grandfather was
governor of New York. She's lived with this stain on her family
name for over twenty years. Now, when her only grandchild is trying
to prove his innocence, that woman who lied on the witness
stand as a child is back trying to destroy him again on a Website."

That's me, I thought.

"Mrs. Westerfield was looking at that Website and crying yesterday
afternoon. I couldn't take it anymore. I marched myself into
that delicatessen and yelled at that man, asking him please to tell
the truth, to admit what he had done. You know what he kept saying
to me? 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' Now, if you were innocent, would
you have said that? I don't think so."

You would if you were Paulie. I forced myself to keep reading.
I'm an investigative journalist, and I could see that Colin Marsh,
the guy who wrote this story, was one of those sensationalists who
knows how to elicit and then manipulate provocative quotes.

He had looked up Emma Watkins, the guidance counselor who
years ago swore on the stand that Paulie had sobbed, "I didn't think
she was dead," when the class was told about Andrea.

Ms. Watkins told Marsh that over the years she always had been
troubled by Rob Westerfield's conviction. She said that Paulie was
easily agitated and that if he learned that Andrea had been joking

i8o

when she said she'd go with him to the Thanksgiving mixer, he
might have been upset enough to lash out.

Lash out. What a delicate way to put it, I thought.
Will Nebels, that poor excuse for a human being, that sleaze
who used to like to hug teenage girls, was extensively quoted in the
story. With even more flourish than he had exhibited in the earlier
television interview I'd seen, he told Marsh about seeing Paulie go
into the garage-hideout that night, carrying a tire jack. He ended
by pi9usly lamenting he'd never be able to make up to the Wester
field family that he didn't come forward sooner.

When I finished reading the account, I threw the paper on the
bed. I was both furious and worried. The case was being tried in the
press, and more and more people were going to come to believe that
Rob Westerfield was innocent. I realized that if I had read the story
cold, even I might have been convinced that the wrong man had
been convicted.

But if Mrs. Westerfield was upset by what she read on my Website,
it undoubtedly was having an effect on other people as well. I
opened the computer and got busy.

"In a mistaken gesture of loyalty, Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield's
housekeeper stormed into Stroebel's delicatessen and verbally attacked
Paulie Stroebel. A few hours later Paulie, a gentle man already
under great stress thanks to the lies perpetrated by the
Westerfield money machine, attempted to commit suicide.

"My sympathy goes out to Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield, by all accounts
a truly fine woman, for the pain she has suffered because of
the crime committed by her grandson. I believe that she will find
peace by accepting the fact that her proud family name may still be
respected by future generations.

"All she needs to do is leave her vast fortune to charities that
will educate future generations of students and fund medical research
that will save the lives of countless human beings. Leaving
that fortune to a killer compounds the tragedy that more than

181



twenty years ago took my sister's life and that yesterday very nearly
cost Paulie Stroebel his life.

"I understand that a Committee for Justice for Rob Westerfield
has been formed.

"I invite all of you to join the Committee for Justice for Paulie

Stroebel.

"Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield, you first!"

Not bad, I thought, as I transferred the text to the Website. As I
was closing the computer, my cell phone rang.

"I been reading the papers." I immediately recognized the
voice. It was the man who earlier claimed to have been in prison
with Rob Westerfield and said he heard him confess to another
murder.

"I've been hoping to hear from you." I tried to keep my tone
noncommittal.

"The way I see it, Westerfield's doing a good job of making that
looney Stroebel look bad."

"He's not a 'looney,' " I snapped.

"Have it your way. Here's the deal. Five thousand bucks. I give
you the first name of the guy Westerfield bragged about killing."

nefirst name!

"It's all I know. Take it or leave it."

"Isn't there anything else you can give me? I mean when it happened,
where it happened?"
"First name is all I know, and I need the money by Friday."

Today was Monday. I had about $3,000 in a savings account in
Atlanta, and, much as I hated the thought, I could borrow the rest
from Pete if the book advance didn't come through by Friday.

"Well?" His voice was impatient.

I knew that there was a very good chance I was being conned,
but it was a chance I decided to take.

"I'll have the money by Friday," I promised.

by WEDNESDAY EVENING I was reasonably back to normal. I had
credit cards, a driver's license, and money. An advance on the book
had been electronically transferred to a bank near the inn. The superintendent's
wife in Atlanta had gone to my apartment, packed
some clothes for me, and shipped them to me overnight. The blisters
on my feet were healing, and I'd even had time to get my hair
trimmed.

Most important, I had an appointment on Thursday afternoon
in Boston with Christopher Cassidy, the scholarship student at
Arbinger who, at age fourteen, had been severely beaten by Rob
Westerfield.

I had already put on the Website Dr. Margaret Fisher's account
of having her arm twisted by Rob Westerfield and being paid $500
by his father not to press charges.

I e-mailed the text to her before I put it on the Website. She not
only okayed it but gave her professional opinion that the hair
trigger temper and violence she had experienced could very well
have been the same reaction that caused him to bludgeon Andrea to
death.

On the other hand, Joan had been in touch with Andrea's circle
of close friends at high school, and she'd reported that not one
of them ever saw her wear any locket except the one my father
gave her.

184

Every day I was running a description of the locket on the
Website, asking for any information anyone might be able to
supply. So far there'd been no results. My e-mail was full of comments.
Some praised what I was doing. Others vehemently objected
to it. I had my share of weirdos writing as well. Two
confessed to the murder. One said Andrea was still alive and
wanted me to rescue her.

A couple of the letters threatened me. The one that I believed
was geftuine said he was very disappointed to see me escape from
the fire. He added, "Cute nightshirt--L. L. Bean, wasn't it?"

Had the writer been watching the fire from the woods, or could
he be the intruder who had been in the apartment and perhaps noticed
the nightshirt on a hanger in the bedroom closet? Either
prospect was intimidating, and if I wanted to admit it to myself,
both were downright frightening.

I was in touch with Mrs. Stroebel several times a day, and as
Paulie started to mend, the relief in her voice became more and
more evident. However, so did the concern. "Ellie, if there is a new
trial and Paulie has to testify, I am afraid he will do this again to
himself. He has told me, 'Mama, in court I can't answer them so
that they understand. I worried about Andrea being with Rob
Westerfield. I did not threaten her.' "

Then she added, "My friends are calling me. They see your
Website. They say everyone should have a champion like you. I tell
Paulie about it. He would like you to visit him."

I promised I would go on Friday.

Except for the errands I'd completed, I'd been staying in the
room, working on the book and having my meals sent up by room
service. But at seven o'clock on Wednesday evening, I decided to go
downstairs for dinner.

The dining room here was not unlike the one at the Parkinson
Inn, but it had a more formal feeling. The tables were farther apart,
and the table linen was white instead of checkerboard red and
white. The table centerpiece at the Parkinson was a cheery, wide

i85



"f4

candle, not a prim little vase of flowers. The diners here were distinctly older--vintage senior citizens, not the exuberant groups that
frequented the Parkinson.

But the food was equally good, and after debating between rack
of lamb and swordfish, I succumbed to what I really felt like having
and ordered the lamb.

I took from my bag a book I'd been wanting to read, and for the
next hour enjoyed the combination I love--a good dinner and a
good book. I was so deeply into the story that when the waitress
cleared the table and then spoke to me, I looked up at her, startled.

I said yes to coffee and no to dessert.

"The gentleman at the next table would like to offer you an
after-dinner drink."

I think I knew it was Rob Westerfield even before I turned my
head. He was sitting not more than six feet from me, a wineglass in
his hand. He raised it in a mock salute and smiled.

"He asked if I knew your name, Miss. I told him, and he wrote
this note to you."

She handed me a card with Westerfield's full name embossed
on the front, Robson Parke Westerfield. My God, he's giving it the
full treatment was the thought that ran through my head as I flipped
the card over.

On it he had written: "Andrea was cute, but you're beautiful."

I got up, walked over to him, tore up the card, and dropped the
pieces in his wineglass. "Maybe you want to give me the locket you
took back after you killed her," I suggested.
His pupils widened, and the teasing expression in his cobalt eyes
disappeared. For an instant I thought he would spring up and attack
me as he had attacked Dr. Fisher in the restaurant years ago.
"That necklace was a big worry for you, wasn't it, jailbird?" I asked
him. "Well, I think it still is, and I'm going to find out why."

The waitress was standing between the tables, her expression
baffled. She obviously hadn't recognized Westerfield, which made
me wonder when she had arrived in Oldham.



I jerked my head back at him. "Bring Mr. Westerfield another
glass of wine, please, and put it on my bill."

SOMETIME DURING THE NIGHT the alarm was disabled on my
car and the gas tank jimmied open. A very efficient way to destroy
a car is to pour sand into the gas tank.

The Oldham police in the form of Detective White responded
to my call about my trashed BMW. While he didn't quite ask me
where I had obtained the sand, he did mention that the fire in Mrs.
Hilmer's garage was definitely set. He also said that the remnants
of the gasoline-soaked towels that had started the blaze were identical
with the towels Mrs. Hilmer had left in the linen closet of the
apartment.

"Quite a coincidence, Ms. Cavanaugh," he said. "Or is it?"

30

I DROVE A RENTED CAR to Boston for my appointment with
Christopher Cassidy. I was furious that my own car had been
trashed and concerned because I knew there was something else to
be faced. I had thought that the intruder in the apartment probably
had been looking for material that I might be using on the Website.
Now I wondered if his main reason for being there was to steal
items that could be used later to set the fire that almost took my life.

I knew, of course, that Rob Westerfield was behind it and that
he had thugs like the one who came up to me in the parking lot at
Sing Sing to do his dirty work for him. My goal was to prove to the
world that an examination of his life would show a pattern of violence
in the years that led up to Andrea's death. I further believed
that it was his intention that I be the next victim of that violence.

Like the risk in paying $5,000 for the first name of another possible
Westerfield victim, it was a chance I had to take.

Any good reporter has to be compulsively punctual. Not being
able to use my own car, waiting for the police to fill out the report,
and then going to the rental agency had delayed me. I still would
have been comfortably early for my appointment, but then I hit bad
weather.

The prediction had been for cloudy skies and possible light
snow in the evening. The light snow began fifty miles outside
Boston; the result was slippery roads and crawling traffic. As the

i88

minutes ticked by, I kept glancing at the clock on the dashboard,
agonizing at the traffic's slow pace. Christopher Cassidy's secretary
had warned me to be prompt, as he was squeezing time for me
into a very full day and was leaving this evening for meetings in
Europe.

It was four minutes to two when I arrived breathlessly at his office
for the two o'clock appointment. During the few minutes I sat
in the handsome reception room, I had to make a determined effort
to collact my bearings. I felt flustered and disorganized, plus I had
the beginnings of a headache.

Promptly at two o'clock Cassidy's secretary came to escort me to
his private office. As I followed her in, I reviewed in my mind
everything I had learned about Cassidy. I had known, of course,
that he'd been a scholarship student at Arbinger Academy and that
he had founded this firm. When I looked him up on the Internet, I
learned that he had graduated at the top of his class from Yale, had
a master's degree from the Harvard Business School, and had been
honored by so many charities that it was obvious he was a generous
donor.

He was forty-two years old, married, had a fifteen-year-old
daughter, and was an avid sportsman.

Obviously quite a guy.

The minute I entered the room, he came out from behind his
desk, walked over to me, and extended his hand. "I'm glad to see
you, Ms. Cavanaugh. Is it okay if I call you Ellie? I feel as though I
know you. Why don't we sit over here?" He indicated the sitting
area near the window.

I chose the couch. He sat on the edge of the chair opposite me.
"Coffee or tea?" he asked.

"Coffee, please, black," I said gratefully. I felt that a cup of coffee
might clear my head and help me think straight.

He picked up the phone from the table at his elbow. In the brief
moment he spoke to his secretary I had a chance to study him; I
liked what I saw. His well-cut dark blue business suit and white

'-
189



shirt were conservative, but the red tie with tiny golf clubs suggested
a touch of the maverick. He had broad shoulders, a solid but
trim body, a good head of sable brown hair, and deep-set hazel eyes.

There was a feeling of crackling energy emanating from him,
and I could sense that Christopher Cassidy never wasted a
minute.

Now he came directly to the point. "When Craig Parshall
phoned, he told me why you wanted to talk to me."

"Then you know that Rob Westerfield is out of prison and
probably will get a new trial."

"And that he's trying to blame the death of your sister on someone
else. Yes, I do know that. Blaming someone else for what he
does is an old trick of his. He was pulling it when he was fourteen
years old."

"That's exactly the kind of information I want to put on the
Website. The Westerfields have gotten a so-called eyewitness to
lie for them. As it stands now, in a second trial they have a good
chance of getting an acquittal, and then the record will be expunged.
Rob Westerfield becomes the martyr who spent over

twenty years in prison for another man's crime. I can't let it happen.

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Mr. Cassidy," I began.

"Anyone who despises Rob Westerfield calls me Chris."

"Chris, according to Craig Parshall, Westerfield beat you up
pretty viciously when you both were sophomores at Arbinger."

"We were both good athletes. There was one starting spot on
the varsity for a running back. We competed for it, and I got it. I
guess he was brooding over it. A day or so later I was on my way
back to the dorm from the library. I had a load of books in my arms.
He came up behind up and punched me in the neck. Before I could react, he was all over me. I ended up with a broken nose and jaw."

"And no one stopped him?"

"He had picked his time. He attacked me when there was no



one else around, then tried to say I started it. Fortunately, a senior
happened to be looking out the window and witnessed what happened.
Of course, the school didn't want a scandal. The Wester
fields have been big donors for generations. My father was ready to
file charges but was offered a full scholarship for my brother who
was then in the eighth grade if he'd reconsider. I'm sure now that
the Westerfields paid for that so-called scholarship."

The coffee arrived. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Cassidy
looked reflective as he raised the cup to his lips. Then he said, "To
the credit of the school, Rob was forced to withdraw at the end of
the term."
"May I tell this story on the Website? Your name would add a
lot of validity to what I'm trying to do."

"Absolutely. I remember when your sister died. I read every account
of the trial because of Westerfield. At the time I wished I
could get on the stand and tell them what kind of animal he is. I
have a daughter the age of your sister when she died. I can only
imagine what your father went through, what your whole family
went through."

I nodded. "It destroyed us as a family."
"I'm not surprised."

"Before he attacked you, did you have much contact with him
in school ?"

"I was the son of a short-order cook. He was a Westerfield. He
didn't have time for me until I got in his way."

Cassidy glanced at his watch. It was time to thank him and
leave. I had one question, however, that I had to get in. "What
about his freshman year? Did you have much contact with him?"

"Not really. We pursued different activities. He went out for
the drama club and was in a couple of productions. I saw them, and
I have to admit he was very good. He wasn't the lead in either play,
but he was voted best actor for one of them, so I guess that kept him
happy for a while."

i9i



Cassidy stood up, and reluctantly I got up, too. "You've been
very kind," I started to say, but then he interrupted me.

"You know, I just remembered something. Westerfield obviously
loved the limelight and didn't want to lose his moment of
glory. He wore a dark blond wig in that play, and, lest we forget
how good he'd been, he used to put it on sometimes. Then he'd put
on the mannerisms of the character, and I remember he even
signed that character's name when he passed notes in class."

I thought of Rob Westerfield showing up at the inn last evening
and giving the waitress the impression he was flirting with me.
"He's still acting," I said grimly.

I GRABBED A QUICK LUNCH and was back in the car at three
thirty. The snow was continuing to fall, and the trip up to Boston
began to seem like a picnic compared to the trek back to Oldham. I
kept the cell phone next to me on the front seat so I wouldn't miss
the call from the guy who'd been in prison with Westerfield.

He had insisted he needed the money by Friday. By now I had a
hunch that his information was going to be valuable, and I was anxious
that he not change his mind.

It was eleven-thirty that night when I finally got back to the inn.
I was just inside my room when the cell phone rang. It was the call
I was expecting, but this time the voice I heard was agitated. "Listen,
I think I've been set up. I may not get out of here."

"Where are you?"

"Listen to me. If I give you the name, can I trust you to pay me
later?"

"Yes, you can."

"Westerfield must've figured I might be trouble for him. He's
had a ton of money since he was born. I've had nothing. If I get out
of here and you pay me, I'll at least have some. If I don't, then
maybe you can get Westerfield for me on a murder charge."



Now I was convinced he was genuine, that he did have information.
"I swear to you I'll pay you. I swear to you I'll nail Wester
field for you."

"Westerfield told me, 'I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.' Got
that? Phil--that's the name."

The line went dead.

31

rob WESTERFIELD had been nineteen years old when he murdered
Andrea. Within eight months, he had been arrested, indicted,
tried, convicted, and sent to prison. Though he had been out
on bail prior to his conviction, I could not believe that during those
eight months he would have risked killing someone else.

That meant the earlier crime had been committed between
twenty-two and twenty-seven years ago. I had to cover those five or
six years of his life to try to find a connection between him and a
dead man whose first name was Phil.

It seems incredible to think that at thirteen or fourteen, Rob
might have committed a murder. Or was it? He'd been only fourteen
when he viciously assaulted Christopher Cassidy.

I reasoned that in those years he had been at Arbinger in Massachusetts
for a year and a half, then spent six months at Bath Public
School in England, two years in Carrington Academy in Maine,
and a semester or so in Willow, a nondescript college near Buffalo.
The Westerfields have a house in Vail and another in Palm Beach.
It seemed to me that Rob must have visited those places. He also
may have gone on class trips abroad.

That was a lot of territory to cover. I knew I needed help.

Marcus Longo had been a detective with the Westchester County
District Attorney's Office for twenty-five years. If anyone could

'94

track down the homicide of a man with only a first name as a clue,
my money would be on him.

Fortunately, when I phoned Marcus, I reached him instead of
an answering machine. As I suspected, he had flown to Colorado to
pick up his wife. "We stayed a few extra days to look at some
houses," he explained. "I think we found one."

His tone changed. "I was going to tell you all about the baby, but
that can hold. I understand a lot of things have happened since I've
been gfine."

"I would have to agree with that, Marcus. May I buy you lunch?
I need some advice."

"The advice is free. I buy the lunch."

we met at the depot restaurant in Cold Spring. There,
over club sandwiches and coffee, I filled him in on my eventful
week.

He stopped me regularly with questions.

"Do you think the fire was set to scare you or actually to kill
you ?"

"I was more than scared; I wasn't sure I'd get out alive."
"All right. And you say the Oldham police think you set it?"
"Officer White has done everything but cuff me."
"His cousin used to be in the D.A.'s office when I was there.
He's a judge now and a member of the same country club as Rob's
father. In fairness, he always thought Paulie Stroebel was guilty of
Andrea's murder. I bet he's the one who has White riled up about
you. That Website is mighty provocative to anyone who's hand-in
glove with the Westerfields."
"Then it's a success."

I looked around to make sure that I could not be overheard.
"Marcus--"

"Ellie, do you realize your eyes keep darting around this place?
Who or what are you looking for?"


195


I told him about Rob Westerfield showing up at the inn. "He
didn't get there until I'd almost finished dinner," I said. "Someone
called him and tipped him off. I'm sure of it."


I knew that next Marcus would either warn me to be careful or
ask me to stop putting inflammatory material on the Website. I
didn't give him the chance.

"Marcus, I received a call from someone who was in prison with
Rob." I told him about the deal I had made to buy information and
then about the phone call last night.

He listened quietly, his eyes searching my face.

He heard me out, then asked, "You believe this guy, don't you?"
"Marcus, I knew I might be suckered into losing five thousand
dollars. But this is different. This man was in fear of his life. He
wanted me to know about Phil because he wanted revenge on
Westerfield."

"You say he referred to the sign you were holding up outside the
prison?"

"Yes."

"You're assuming he was a convict, so that means he probably
was released that day. You were only there once, isn't that right?"

"That's right."

"Ellie, that guy could also be a prison employee who was entering
or leaving the prison while you were standing outside. Money
buys favors from some guards as well as from other prisoners."

I hadn't thought about that. "I was hoping that you could get a
list of the prisoners who were discharged the day after Westerfield.
Then you could see if anything happened to any one of them."

"I can do that. Ellie, you realize this also could be some nut playing
games."

"I know that, but I don't think so." I opened my pocketbook.
"I've made a list of the schools Rob Westerfield attended, both here
and in England, and the places where his family has homes. There
are databases listing unsolved homicides that took place between
twenty-two and twenty-seven years ago, aren't there?"

"Of course."

"Westchester County has one?"

Yes.
"Can you access it, or get someone else to do it for you?"


Yes, 1 can.

"Then it shouldn't be too hard to learn if there's a victim whose
name is Phil?"

"No, it shouldn't."

"How about checking an unsolved crimes database in the areas
around the schools and homes where Westerfield spent time?"

He looked at the list. "Massachusetts, Maine, Florida, Colorado,
New York, England." He whistled. "That's a lot of territory. I'll see
what lean do."

"One more thing. Knowing the way Rob Westerfield operates,
is there a database for solved crimes that would list Phil as the victim
and someone claiming innocence as serving time for it?"

"Ellie, nine out often people convicted at trial and behind bars
claim somebody else did it. Let's start with unsolved homicides and
see where we go."

"Tomorrow I'm going to put Christopher Cassidy's story about
Rob on the Website. No one would question Cassidy's integrity, so
his account should carry some weight. I never did get up to Car
rington Academy. I'll see if I can make an appointment there for
Monday or Tuesday."

"Check the student roster for the years Westerfield was there,"
Marcus said as he signaled for the check.

"I've thought of that. One of the schools might have had a student
named Phil who tangled with Westerfield."

"That opens the territory," Marcus warned. "The students in
prep school come from all over the country. Westerfield could have
followed one of them home to settle a grudge."

" 'I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.' "

Who were the people who loved Phil? I wondered. Were they
still grieving? Of course they were.

197



The waitress was placing the tab in front of Marcus. I waited
until she was gone before I said, "I can call my connection at Arbinger.
He's been pretty helpful. When I go to Carrington and Willow
College, I'll ask about students from Westerfield's time. Philip isn't
that common a name."

"Ellie, you've told me you believe Rob Westerfield was tipped
off that you were at dinner the other night?"

Yes.

"You told me that your informant claimed to be in fear of his
life?"

"Yes."

"Ellie, Rob Westerfield is worried your Website could influence
his grandmother to leave her money to charity. Now he may be terrified
that you could uncover another crime that might send him
back to prison. Don't you realize how precarious your situation is? "

"I honestly do, but there's nothing I can do about it."

"Damn it, Ellie, yes you can! Your father was a state trooper.
He's retired. You could live in his house. He could be your bodyguard.
Trust me, you need one. And something else: If that guy's
story is on the level, helping to put Westerfield back in prison
would help your father have closure, too. I don't think you understand
how tough this has been on him."

"He's been in touch with you?"

"Yes, he has."

"Marcus, you mean well," I said as we stood up, "but I don't
think you understand something. My father got his closure when
he let us go and never lifted a finger to bring us back. My mother
needed and expected him to do that, but he did nothing. Next time
he calls, tell him to watch his son play basketball and leave me
alone."

Marcus gave me a hug as we separated in the parking lot. "I'll
call you as soon as I start getting answers," he promised.

I drove back to the inn. Mrs. Willis was at the desk. "Your
brother is waiting for you in the sunroom," she said.

he WAS STANDING in front of the window, looking out, his back
to me. He was a good six feet three, taller than I'd realized when I
saw him on television. He was wearing khaki pants and sneakers
and his school jacket. His hands were in his pockets, and he was jiggling
his right foot. I had the impression that he was nervous.

He must have heard my footsteps because he turned around.
We looked at each other.

"You'll never be able to deny her," my grandmother used to joke
to my mother about Andrea. "She's growing up to be the image of
you."

If she were here, she'd be saying the same sort of thing to us. In
appearance, at least, we could never deny each other.

"Hello, Ellie. I'm your brother, Teddy." He walked to me, holding
out his hand.

I ignored it.

"Can't I just talk to you for five minutes?" His voice had not yet
fully deepened, but it was well modulated. He looked worried but
determined.

I shook my head and turned to leave.

"You're my sister," he said. "You could at least give me five minutes.
You might even like me if you knew me."

I turned back to him. "Teddy, you seem like a nice young man,
but I'm sure you have better things to do than spend time with me.

2OO

I know you've been sent by your father. He just doesn't seem to get
the fact that I never want to see or hear from him again."

"He's your father, too. Whether you believe it or not, he never
stopped being your father. He didn't send me. He doesn't know I'm
here. I came because I wanted to meet you. I've always wanted to
meet you."

There was appeal in his voice. "Why don't we have a soda or
something?"

I shook my head.
"Please, Ellie."

Maybe it was the way my name fell from his lips, or maybe I just
have a hard time being downright rude. This kid hadn't done anything
to me.

I heard myself saying, "There's a soda machine in the hall." I
started to dig in my purse.

"I've got it. What kind do you want?"
"Plain water."

"Me, too. I'll be right back." His smile was both shy and relieved.

I sat on the brightly patterned wicker love seat, trying to figure
out how to send him away. I didn't want to listen to a pitch about
what a great father we had and how I should let bygones be bygones.

Maybe he was a great father for two of his children, Andrea and
you, I thought, but I slipped between the cracks.

Teddy returned carrying the two bottles of water. I could read
his mind as he eyed the love seat and the chair. He made the wise
decision and chose the chair. I did not want him to sit beside me.
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, I thought. No, that has to do
with Adam and Eve, not siblings,
siblings.

"Ellie, would you come and see me play basketball sometime?"
It wasn't what I expected.
"I mean, couldn't we be friends at least? I always kept hoping

2OI


you'd come and visit us, but if you won't do that, maybe you and I
can just get together sometimes. I read your book last year, about
the cases you've worked on. It was great. I'd like to talk to you
about them."

"Teddy, I'm awfully busy right now and--"

He interrupted: "I watch your Website every day. The way you write about Westerfield must be driving him crazy. Ellie, you're
my sister, and I don't want anything to happen to you."

I wanted to say, "Please don't call me your sister," but the words
died on my lips. I settled for "Please don't worry about me. I can
take care of myself."

"Can't I help you? This morning I read in the paper about what
happened to your car. Suppose somebody loosens a wheel or a
brake in the one you're driving now? I'm good with cars. I could
check yours out for you before you go anywhere, or I could even
drive you around in mine."

He was so earnest and so concerned that I had to smile. "Teddy,
you have school and, I'm sure, plenty of basketball practice. And
now I honestly have to get to work"

He stood up with me. "We look a lot alike," he said.

"I know we do."

"I'm glad. Ellie, I'm getting out of your way now, but I'm coming
back."

Would to God your father had had the same persistence, I
thought. Then I realized that if he had, this boy would never have
been born.

I WORKED FOR A COUPLE of hours, refining the way I would present
Christopher Cassidy's story for the Website. When I thought I
had it right, I e-mailed it to his office for his approval.

At four o'clock Marcus Longo called. "Ellie, the Westerfields
have taken a page out of your book. They have a Website: comjusrob.com."
"Let me guess what it stands for: 'Committee for Justice for
Rob.' "

"You have it. I understand they've taken out ads in all the
Westchester papers to advertise it. Basically the strategy is to present
touching stories of people who were wrongly convicted of

crimes.

"Thereby linking them to Rob Westerfield, the most innocent of them all."

"You've got it. But they've also been doing some digging about
you, and they've come up with some unfortunate stuff."

"Meaning what?"

"The Fromme Center, a psychiatric facility."

"I did an undercover story on it. It was a rip-off joint. Paid a fortune
by the state of Georgia, and not one legitimate psychiatrist or
psychologist on staff."

"Were you a patient there?"

"Marcus, are you crazy? Of course I wasn't."

"Was there a photograph taken of you in the Fromme Center in
which you were lying on a bed with your arms and legs in restraints
?"

"Yes, there was, and it was taken to illustrate what had been
going on there. After the state closed Fromme and moved the patients
to other facilities, we did a follow-up story on the way they
had kept people shackled for days at a time. Why?"

"It's on the Westerners' Website."

"Without explanation?"

"Insinuating that you were forcibly held there." He paused.
"Ellie, are you surprised that these people play dirty?"

"I'd be surprised if they didn't, frankly. I'll put the full article,
including picture and text, on my Website. I'll do it under a new
heading: 'Latest Westerfield Lie.' But I do understand that a lot of
people who see his Website may not see mine."

"And the other way around. That's my next concern. Ellie, are

203


you planning to put anything on the Website about the other possible

homicide?"
"I'm not sure. On the one hand, someone who sees it might
come forward with information about a murder victim. On the
other hand, it might tip off Rob Westerfield and in some way help
him cover his tracks."

"Or get rid of someone who could give damaging testimony
against him. You've got to be very careful."

"That may already have happened."

"Exactly. Let me know what you decide."

I WENT ONLINE and found the new Website of "The Committee
for Justice for Robson Westerfield."

It had been handsomely designed with a quotation from
Voltaire under the heading: "It is better to risf saving a guilty person
than to condemn an innocent one.

The picture of a grave and contemplative Rob Westerfield was
directly below the quote. It was followed by stories of people who
genuinely had been imprisoned for someone else's crime. The stories
were well written and pulled on heartstrings. It didn't take a
great leap to figure that Jake Bern had been the author.

The personal section on the Website made the Westerfields
sound like American royalty. There were pictures of Rob as a baby
with his grandfather, the United States senator, and at age nine or
ten with his grandmother, helping her cut the ribbon on a new
Westerfield children's center. There were shots of him with his parents
boarding the Queen Elizabeth II and dressed in tennis whites at
The Everglades Club.

I guess the idea was to convey that it was beneath the dignity of
this privileged young man to take a human life.

I was the star of the next page of the Website. It showed me
spread out on the bed in the Fromme psychiatric center, my legs

204


and arms shackled, wearing one of the pitifully inadequate nightshirts
that were mandatory for the patients. I was only partially

covered by a thin rag of a blanket.

The caption was "The witness whose testimony convicted Rob
son Westerfield."

I clicked off. I have a mannerism I had picked up from my father.
When he was absolutely furious about something, he had a
way of biting the right corner of his lip.

Iwas doing exactly that.

I sat for half an hour trying to calm down as I reviewed the pros
and cons, and tried to figure out how to handle publicizing Wester
field's alleged confession of another murder.

Marcus Longo had talked about a territorial problem in trying
to track down an unsolved homicide Rob Westerfield may have
committed.

The Website was international.

Would I be exposing anyone to risk by putting the name of the
supposed victim out there?

But my unidentified caller was already at risk, and he knew it.

In the end I composed a simple entry.

"Somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-seven years ago,
it is alleged, Rob Westerfield committed another crime. He is directly
quoted as saying when he was high on drugs in prison, 'I beat
Phil to death, and it felt good.'

"Anyone with information about this crime, please e-mail me at
elliel234@mediaone.net. Confidentiality and reward."

I looked it over. Rob Westerfield will certainly read it, I
thought. But suppose he knows there is someone besides my unknown
caller who has information that could hurt him?

There are two things an investigative reporter does not do: reveal
sources and place innocent people in danger.

I put the entry on hold.

33

on FRIDAY EVENING I broke down and phoned Pete Lawlor.

"Your call is being forwarded to an answering service . .."

"This is your former coworker who has enough interest in your
well-being to inquire as to your state of mind, job opportunities,
and health," I said. "A response will be appreciated."

He called back half an hour later. "You must be hard up for
someone to talk to."

"I am. That's why you came to mind."

"Thanks."

"May I ask where you are now."

"In Atlanta. Packing up."

"I gather a decision has been made."

"Yes. A dream job. Based in New York, but with a fair amount
of traveling. Reporting from hot spots all over the globe."

"Which newspaper?"

"Negative. I'm going to be a television star."

"Did you have to lose ten pounds before they hired you?"

"I don't remember you as being cruel."

I laughed. Talking to Pete had a way of bringing a dash of
amusing, everyday reality into my increasingly surreal life. "Are
you joking, or do you really have a job in television?"

"It's for real. It's with Packard Cable."

"Packard. That's great."

"It's one of the newer cable networks, but growing fast. I was
about to take the L.A. job even though it wasn't exactly what I
wanted, but then they came to me."

"When do you start?"

"Wednesday. I'm in the process of subletting the apartment and
putting stuff together to load in the car. I start driving up Sunday
afternoon. Dinner Tuesday?"

"Sure. It's good to hear that melodious voice of yours. . . ."

"Don't hang up. Ellie, I've been watching your Website."

"Pretty good, isn't it?"

"If this guy is what you say he is, you're playing with fire."

I already have, I thought. "Promise you won't tell me to be
careful."

"I promise. Talk to you Monday afternoon."

I WENT BACK to the computer. It was nearly eight o'clock, and I'd
been working steadily. I ordered room service, and while I was
waiting, I did a few stretches and a lot of thinking.

Talking to Pete had, at least for the moment, removed my
tunnel vision. For the last couple of weeks I had existed in a world
in which Rob Westerfield was the central figure. Now, for just
a moment, I was looking past that time, past his second trial,
past my ability to prove to the world the depth of his violent nature.

I could dig up and publicize every nasty, rotten thing he'd ever
done. Perhaps I could track down an unsolved murder he had committed.
I could tell his sorry, dirty story in the book. Then it would
be time for me to begin the rest of my life.

Pete was already beginning his--a new base in New York, a
new job in a different media.

I locked my hands behind my head and began to twist from side
to side. My neck muscles were tight, and it felt good to try to stretch
them. What was not so good was the dismaying realization that I

2O



missed Pete Lawlor terribly and would not want to return to Atlanta
unless he was there.

I SPOKE TO MRS. STROEBEL on Saturday morning. She told me
that Paulie was no longer in intensive care and probably would be
discharged after the weekend.

I promised to drop by later for a visit, at about three o'clock.
When I arrived, Mrs. Stroebel was sitting by Paulie's bed. As soon
as she looked up at me, I could see from the concern on her face that
there was a problem.

"He developed a high fever around lunchtime. There is an infection
in one of his arms. The doctor tells me it will be all right, but
I worry. Ellie, I worry so."

I looked down at Paulie. His arms were still heavily bandaged,
and he had several IVs dripping from overhead pulleys. He was
very pale and kept turning his head from side to side.

"They are giving him an antibiotic plus something to calm him
down," Mrs. Stroebel said. "The fever makes him restless."

I pulled up a chair and sat beside her.
Paulie began to mumble. His eyes flickered open.

"I am here, Paulie," Mrs. Stroebel said soothingly. "Ellie Ca
vanaugh is here with me. She came to pay a visit."

"Hi, Paulie." I stood up and leaned over the bed so that he could
see me.

His eyes were glazed with fever, but he tried to smile. "Ellie, my
friend."

"You bet I am."

His eyes closed again. A moment later he began to mutter incoherently.
I heard him whisper Andrea's name.

Mrs. Stroebel clasped and unclasped her hands. "That's all he
talks about. It preys on his mind so much. He is so afraid they will
make him go back to court. No one understands how much they
frightened him last time."

Her voice was rising, and I could see that Paulie was becoming
agitated. I squeezed her hand and nodded at the bed. She understood
what I meant.

"Of course, Ellie, thanks to you, everything will be fine," she
said brightly. "Paulie knows that. People come into the store and
tell me that they look at your Website where you show what a bad
person Rob Westerfield is. Paulie and I looked at the Website last
week. It made us very happy."

Paulie seemed to calm down a little, then he whispered, "But,
Mama . . . suppose I forget and ..."

Mrs. Stroebel seemed suddenly flustered. "No more talk,
Paulie," she said abruptly. "Go to sleep. You must get better."

"Mama--"

"Paulie, you must be quiet now." She laid a gentle but resolute
hand on his lips.

I had the distinct feeling that Mrs. Stroebel was uneasy and
wanted me to leave, so I got up to go.

"Mama ..."

Mrs. Stroebel sprang up with me, blocking access to the bed, as
though she were afraid that I would get too close to Paulie.

I couldn't imagine what was upsetting her. "Tell Paulie goodbye
for me, Mrs. Stroebel," I said hurriedly. "I'll call you tomorrow
to see how he's doing."

Paulie was beginning to talk again, tossing restlessly and mumbling
incoherently.

"Thank you, Ellie. Good-bye." Mrs. Stroebel began propelling
me to the door.

"Andrea ..." Paulie shouted, "don'tgo out with him!"

I spun around.

Paulie's voice was still clear, but now his tone was frightened
and pleading. "Mama, suppose I forget and tell them about the
locket she was wearing? I'll try not to tell, but if I forget, you won't
let them put me in prison, will you ?"

I34

"there is an explanation. You must believe me. It is not
what you think," Mrs. Stroebel sobbed to me as we stood in the corridor
outside Paulie's room.

"We have to talk, and you have to be absolutely honest with
me," I said. We couldn't do it then, though--Paulie's doctor was
coming down the hall.

"Ellie, I will call you tomorrow morning," she promised. "I am
too upset now." Shaking her head as she turned away, Mrs. Stroebel
struggled to regain her composure.

I drove back to the inn on automatic pilot. Was it possible, was it remotely possible, that all this time I had been wrong? Had Rob
Westerfield--and, indeed, his whole family--been victimized by a
terrible miscarriage of justice?

He twisted my arm. . . . He came up behind me and punched me in
thenec. . . . He said, "I beat Phil to death, and it felt good."

Paulie's response to the verbal attack of Mrs. Westerfield's
housekeeper had been to hurt himself, not someone else.

I could not believe that Paulie had been Andrea's murderer, but
I was sure that years ago Mrs. Stroebel had kept him from telling
something he knew.

The locket.

As I drove into the parking lot of the inn, I was overwhelmed
with a crushing sense of the irony of what was happening. No one,

2IO

211



absolutely no one believed that Rob Westerfield had given Andrea
a locket and that she had been wearing it the night she died.

But now the existence of the locket had been validated by the
one person who would be terrified to publicly admit any knowledge
of it.

I looked around as I got out of the car. It was a quarter past four,
and the shadows were already long and slanting. What was left of
the sun was passing in and out of clouds, and a light wind was
blowiag the remaining leaves from the trees. They made a rustling
sound along the driveway, and in my edgy frame of mind they
sounded to me like footsteps.

The parking lot was almost full, and then I remembered that
I'd noticed preparations for a wedding reception when I left this afternoon.
To find a space I had to drive around the bend to the farthest
section of the parking area, putting me out of sight of the inn.
It was getting to be a chronic state of mind, the feeling that someone
might be hanging around, watching me.

I didn't run, but I moved quickly as I made my way through a
row of parked cars toward the safety of the inn. As I passed an old
van, the door suddenly slid open, and a man jumped out and tried
to grab my arm.

I began to run and got about ten feet but then tripped on one of
the extra-large moccasins I'd bought to accommodate my bandaged
feet.

As one of the shoes flew off, I felt myself falling forward and
frantically tried to regain my balance, but it was too late. My palms
and body caught the worst of the fall, and literally every ounce of
breath was knocked out of me.

The man was immediately down on one knee beside me.
"Don't scream," he said urgently. "I'm not going to hurt you;please
don't scream!"

I couldn't have screamed. Nor could I have gotten away from
him and run to the inn. My entire body was shaking in reaction to

the severe impact with the hard surface of the ground. My mouth
open, I gulped air in great shuddering gasps.

"What... do ... you ... want?" At last I was able to get out
those few words.

"To talk to you. I was gonna e-mail you, but I didn't know who
else might see it. I want to sell you some information about Rob
Westerfield."

I looked up at him. His face was very close to mine. He was a
man somewhere in his early forties, with thin, not particularly
clean hair. He had a nervous way of sliding his eyes around like
someone who expects to have to make a run for it at any moment.
He was wearing a visibly worn lumber jacket and jeans.

As I began to struggle to my feet, he retrieved my moccasin and
handed it to me. "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "It's risky
for me to be seen with you. Hear me out. If you're not interested in
what I have to say, I'm out of here."

It wasn't rational perhaps, but for some reason I believed him. If
he had wanted to kill me, he'd already had all the chance he
needed.

"Are you willing to listen?" he asked impatiently.

"Go ahead."

"Would you sit in my van for a couple of minutes? I don't want
no one to see me. The Westerfields' people are all over this town."

I could vouch for that, but I wasn't about to get in his van. "Say
what you have to say out here."

"I have something that maybe might stick Westerfield with a
crime he committed years ago."

"How much do you want?"

"A thousand bucks."

"What have you got?"

"You know that Westerfield's grandmother was shot and left
for dead about twenty-five years ago? You wrote about it on your
Website."

212



"Yes, I did."

"My brother, Skip, he went to prison for that job. He got twenty
years. He died after he'd served half his time. Couldn't take it. He
was always kind of sickly."


"Your brother was the one who shot Mrs. Westerfield and burglarized
her home?"

"Yeah, but Westerfield planned it, see, and hired Skip and me to
do the job."

"Why did he do it?"

"Westerfield was heavy into drugs. That's why he dropped out
of college. He owed people big time. He'd seen his grandmother's
will. She'd left one hundred thousand dollars directly to him. The
minute she croaked, it would be in his pocket. He promised us ten
thousand dollars to do the job."

"Was he with you that night?"

"Are you kidding? He was in New York at a dinner with his
mother and father. He knew how to cover his bases."

"Did he pay your brother or you?"

"Before the job he gave my brother his Rolex as security. Then
he reported it stolen."

"Why?"

"To cover his tracks after my brother was arrested. Westerfield
claimed he met us in a bowling alley the night before the old lady was hit. He said Skip kept eyeing his watch, so he put it in his bag
when he started bowling. He told the cops that, when he went to
get his watch out of the bag later, it wasn't there and we weren't
around. He swore that was the only time he ever saw Skip or me."

"How could you have known about his grandmother without
him telling you?"

"There'd been a big write-up about her in the paper. She gave a
wing to a hospital or something."

"How did your brother and you get caught?"

"I didn't. My brother was picked up the next day. He had a
record and was nervous about having to shoot the old lady. That

I


was the reason he was there, but Westerfield wanted it to look like
a burglary. Rob didn't give us the combination of the safe because
only the family knew it, and that would have given him away. He
told Skip to bring a chisel and knife and scratch up the safe like he
tried to force it open and couldn't. But Skip cut his hand and took
off his glove to wipe it. He must have touched the safe because they
found his fingerprint on it."

"Then he went upstairs and shot Mrs. Westerfield."

"Yeah. But nobody could prove I was there. I was the lookout
and drove the car. Skip told me to keep my mouth shut. He took the
rap, and Westerfield got off scot-free."

"So did you."

He shrugged. "Yeah, I know it."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

"How old was Westerfield?"

"Seventeen."

"Didn't your brother try to implicate Westerfield?"

"Sure. Nobody believed him."

"I'm not certain about that. His grandmother changed her will.
That hundred-thousand-dollar direct grant was taken out of it."

"Good. They let Skip plead to attempted murder with a
twenty-year sentence. He could have gotten thirty but he was willing
to plead to a max of twenty. The D.A. agreed to the deal so that
the old lady wouldn't have to testify at a trial."

The last of the sun had gone totally behind the clouds. I still felt
shaken from the fall, and now I was cold, too.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Alfie. Alfie Leeds."

"Alfie, I believe you," I said. "But I don't know why you're
telling me, this now. There's never been a shred of evidence to prove
that Rob Westerfield was in on that crime."

"I have proof he was involved."

Alfie reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of

214

paper. "This is a copy of the diagram Rob Westerfield gave us so
that my brother could get into the house without setting off the
alarm."

From another pocket he took out a pencil flashlight.

Standing out in the windy parking lot was no place to study a
diagram. I looked at the guy again. He was an inch shorter than I
am, and he didn't look particularly strong. I decided to take a chance.
"I'll get in the van, but only if I sit in the driver's seat," I told him.

"Have it your way."

I opened the driver's door and looked around. There was no
one else there. The backseat had been flattened down and contained
what looked like paint cans, a drop cloth, and a ladder. He
had gone around to the passenger side. I slid in behind the wheel
but did not fully close the door. I knew that if this was a setup, I still
could get out pretty fast.

In my job as an investigative reporter I've had to meet a number
of unsavory characters in places I wouldn't have chosen to visit otherwise.
As a result, my sense of self-preservation has become well
developed. I decided that allowing for the fact that I was cloistered
with a man who'd been part of a murder plot, I was as safe as I
could get.

When we were both inside the van, he handed me the paper.
The thin beam of the flashlight was enough to enable me to recognize
the Westerfield house and driveway. The garage-hideout was
even depicted. Below the buildings there was a precise layout of the
interior of the mansion.

"See, it shows where the alarm is and gives the code to disarm it.
Rob wasn't worried that disarming the alarm would draw attention
to himself because a lot of handymen and other employees
knew the code too. There's the layout of the ground floor, the library
with the safe, the stairs to the old lady's bedroom, and the section
off the kitchen that was the maid's apartment."

There was a name printed on the bottom of the page. "Who's
Jim?" I asked.



"The guy who drew this. Westerfield told Skip and me that he
did some work on the house. We never met him."

"Did your brother ever show this to the police?"

"He wanted to use it, but the lawyer they gave him said forget it.
He said Skip had no proof Westerfield gave it to him, and the fact
that he even had it just made Skip look bad. He said being that the
safe was downstairs and the way the old lady's bedroom is so clearly
marked only helped prove that Skip was planning to kill her."

"Jim could have corroborated your brother's story. Did anyone
try to find him?"

"I guess not. I've kept the map all these years, and when I saw
your Website, I figured this is one more thing you might investigate
and hang on Westerfield. Have we got a deal? Will you give me a
thousand bucks for it?"

"How can I be sure that this isn't something you drew up yourself
to get money from me?"

"You can't. Give it back."

"Alfie, if the lawyer had looked into this guy, Jim, and had told
the D.A. about him and had shown the D.A. the sketch, they would
have had to investigate the information seriously. Your brother
might have gotten a better sentence in exchange for his cooperation,
and Westerfield might have paid for his crime too."

"Yeah, but there was another problem. Westerfield hired both
my brother and me to do the job. The lawyer told my brother that
if the cops would end up arresting Westerfield, he could make his
own deal and tell the D.A. that I was involved. Skip was five years
older than me and felt guilty about getting me into it."

"Well, the statute of limitations has run out for both you and
Rob. But wait a minute. You say this is a copy of the original.
Where is the original?"

"The lawyer tore it up. He said he didn't want it to fall in the
wrong hands."

"He tore it up!"

"He didn't know Skip had made a copy and given it to me."

"I want this," I said. "I'll have the cash for you in the morning."

We shook hands. His skin felt somewhat grimy, but it was also
calloused, which said to me that Alfie did hard, heavy work.

As he carefully folded the paper into neat squares and put it in
his inside pocket, I couldn't help saying, "With this kind of evidence
I just can't understand why your brother's lawyer didn't try
to make a deal with the district attorney. It wouldn't have been
hard to follow up on an employee named Jim who drew this diagram.
The cops could have squeezed him to give up Rob, and you
would have been tried in Juvenile Court. I wonder if your brother's
lawyer sold out to the Westerfields."

He smiled, baring stained teeth. "He's working for them now.
He's that Hamilton guy, the one who's all over television saying he's
going to get a new trial and acquittal for Rob."

35

when I GOT back to the room, there was a message to call Mrs.
Hilmer. I'd spoken to her several times since the fire, and she'd
been simply wonderful to me. Her whole concern was about my
being okay and she was distressed over my almost being trapped in
the fire. You would have thought I'd done her a favor by being the
reason the garage and apartment had been reduced to rubble. I
agreed to have Sunday dinner with her.

I'd barely hung up when Joan called. I'd also been speaking to
her, but we hadn't seen each other during the week and I was anxious
to return the money and clothes I'd borrowed. I'd had the
slacks, sweater, and jacket cleaned and the lingerie laundered, and
I bought a bottle of champagne for Joan and Leo and another for
the friend who was my size.

Of course that was not Joan's reason for calling. She and Leo
and the kids were going out for dinner to II Palazzo and wanted me
to join them.

"Great pasta, great pizza, a fun place," she promised. "I really
think you'd enjoy it."

"You don't have to sell me. I'd love to go."

In.fact, I needed to get out. After my parking lot encounter with
Alfie, the paramount thought in my mind was of all the people
whose lives had been altered or destroyed by Rob Westerfield and
by the Westerfield fortune.

2l8

Andrea, first of course. Then Mother. Then Paulie, who was so
afraid he'd be tricked into revealing he knew something about the
locket. Whatever his knowledge of the locket turned out to be, I
would stake my life that it did not tie him to Andrea's death.

Mrs. Stroebel, hardworking and honest, also had been caught in
the Westerfield web of misery. It must have been agony for her
when Paulie was on the witness stand during the trial. Suppose just
one person had believed me when I said that Rob had given Andrea
a locket, and then Paulie had been asked about it in court. He easily
could have incriminated himself.

I believed everything that Alfie Leeds had told me. I had no
doubt that his brother had been a potential killer. He was willing
to take Mrs. Westerfield's life and had left her for dead. Bad
as he was, though, he was entitled to a lawyer who truly represented
him. The lawyer he was assigned sold him out to the Wester
fields.

I could visualize William Hamilton, Juris Doctor, seeing that
case as his chance to break into the big time. He probably went to
Rob's father, showed him the diagram, and was properly rewarded
for his cooperation.

Alfie was a victim, too. He'd been protected by his big brother
and no doubt was left feeling guilty that he couldn't find a way to
nail Rob Westerfield. And then he spent all those years sitting on
evidence that he was afraid to show anyone.

The hardest to swallow for me, of course, was the knowledge
that if Rob Westerfield had been convicted of planning the attempted
murder of his grandmother, he would never have met Andrea.

Now I had another person on my list of people I wanted to nail
to the wall: William Hamilton, Esquire.

Anyhow, those were the sad and furious thoughts that were
running through my head when Joan called. I definitely needed a
break. We agreed to meet at seven o'clock at II Palazzo.

Tilting at windmills, I told myself as I drove the short distance

219



into the heart of town. I had the feeling that I was being followed.
Maybe I should call Officer White, I thought sarcastically.
He's terribly worried about me. He'll be here right away, sirens
blazing.

Oh, give him a break, I snapped at myself. He's honestly convinced
that I'm back in this town to make trouble and that I'm obsessed
because Rob Westerfield is a free man.

Okay, Officer White, I'm obsessive on that score, but I didn't
burn my feet or ruin my car to prove my point.

JOAN AND LEO and their three boys were seated at a corner table
when I got to II Palazzo. I vaguely remembered Leo. He had been
a senior at Oldham High when Joan and Andrea were sophomores.

It's inevitable that when people from those days see me for the
first time, the first thing they think about is Andrea's death. Then
they invariably either comment on it or make an obvious effort to
ignore it.

I liked the way Leo handled his greeting to me. He said, "I remember
you, of course, Ellie. You were over at Joan's house with
Andrea a couple of times when I stopped by. You were a solemn little
kid."

"And now I'm a solemn big kid," I told him.

I liked him immediately. He was about six feet tall, solidly built,
with light brown hair and intelligent dark eyes. His smile was like
Joan's, warm and all-embracing. He conveyed the immediate feeling
of trustworthiness. I knew he was a stockbroker, so I made a
mental note to talk to him if I ever had any money. I was sure I'd be
comfortable taking his advice on where to invest it.

The boys' ages were ten, fourteen, and seventeen. The oldest,
Billy, was a senior in high school and almost immediately told me his team had played basketball against Teddy's team.

"Teddy and I talked about the colleges we're applying to, Ellie,"

he said. "We're both trying for Dartmouth and Brown. I hope we
end up at the same one. He's a nice guy."

"Yes, he is," I agreed.

"You didn't tell me you'd met him," Joan said quickly.

"He stopped in to see me at the inn for a few minutes."

There was a satisfied look in her eye. I wanted to tell her not to
set aside any dates for a grand reunion of the Cavanaughs, but then
the menus arrived and Leo was smart enough to change the subject.

I did a fair amount of babysitting in my teenage years, and I like
being around kids. My job in Atlanta certainly didn't expose me to
many of them, so it had been a while. It was a treat to be with these
three boys. Pretty soon, over mussels and pasta, they were talking to
me about their activities, and I promised Sean, the ten-year-old,
that I'd play chess with him.

"I'm good," I warned him.

"I'm better," he assured me.

"We'll see about that."

"How about tomorrow? It's Sunday. We'll be home."

"Oh, sorry, but tomorrow I have plans. Soon, though." Then I
remembered something and looked at Joan. "I didn't put the suitcase
I wanted to return to you in the car."

"Bring it tomorrow, and we'll have a game of chess," Sean suggested.

"You have to eat," Joan said. "Brunch about eleven-thirty?"

"Sounds great," I told her.

The bar at II Palazzo was a glass-paneled section of the dining
room, directly off the entrance hall. When I arrived, I hadn't paid
attention to anyone in the bar. But I had noticed that during dinner
Joan sometimes glanced past me, her expression troubled.

We were sipping coffee when I learned the reason for her concern.

"Ellie, Will Nebels has been at the bar since before you got here.
Someone must have pointed you out to him. He's on his way over,
and from the look of him, I'd say he's drunk."

2.21


The warning wasn't fast enough. I felt arms around my neck,
a sloppy kiss on my cheek. "Little Ellie, my goodness, little Ellie
Cavanaugh. Do you remember how I fixed your seesaw for
you, honey? Your daddy was never any good at fixing stuff. Your
mama used to call me all the time. 'Will, this needs to be done.
Will--' "

He was kissing my ear and the back of my neck.

"Get your hands off her," Leo said, his voice clipped. He was on
his feet.

I was literally pinned down. Nebels's full weight was on me
now. His arms were resting on my shoulders; his hands were sliding
down, groping inside my sweater.

"And pretty little Andrea. With my own eyes I seen that retard
go in that garage carrying that tire jack. . . ."

A waiter was pulling at him from one side, Leo and Billy from
the other. I kept trying to push his face away, but to no avail. He was
kissing my eyes. Then his moist, beery mouth was pressing against
my lips. My chair started to tilt back as we struggled. I was terrified
that I was going to slam the back of my head against the floor and
end up with him sprawled over me.

But men from nearby tables came rushing over, and strong
hands caught the teetering chair before it reached the floor.

Then Nebels was forcibly dragged away and the chair lifted up.
I dropped my face into my hands. For the second time in six hours
I was trembling so violently that I could not respond to the concerned
inquiries coming from all sides of me. The couple of pins
that anchored my hair had pulled loose, and it was spilling around
my shoulders. I felt Joan stroking it, and wanted to beg her to
stop--compassion at that moment would undo me. Maybe she
sensed my feeling because she withdrew her hand.

I could hear the manager sputtering apologies. You ought to
apologize, I thought. You should have stopped serving that drunk long ago.

That flash of anger was all I needed to get me back on course. I
raised my head and began to smooth back my hair. Then I glanced
around the table at the concerned faces, and shrugged. "I'm okay,"
I told them.

I looked at Joan and knew what she was thinking. She might as
well have been shouting it.

"Ellie, now do you understand what I said about Will Nebels? He's
admitted he was in Mrs. Westerfield's house that night. He was probably
drunf. What do you thinf he would have done if he saw Andrea go into
that garage alone?"

A HALF HOUR LATER, after a fresh cup of coffee, I absolutely insisted
on driving myself home. But on the way I wondered if I had
been foolish. I was now positive that I was being followed and was
not about to risk being alone again in that parking lot. I therefore did not turn off at the inn but drove past it and called the police on
my cell phone.

"We'll send a car," the cop at the desk told me. "Where are you ?"

I told him.

"All right. Circle back and turn into the driveway of the inn.
We'll be right behind whoever is tailing you. Under no circumstances
get out of the car until we come for you."

I drove slowly, and the car behind me slowed down as well. Now that I knew a squad car was coming, I was glad the car on my
tail was still there. I wanted the police to find out who was in that
car and why I was being followed.

I was approaching the inn again. I turned into the driveway, but the car behind me kept going. A moment later I saw a domelight
flashing and heard the wail of the police siren.
I pulled over to the side of the driveway and stopped. Two minutes
later the squad car, its light no longer flashing, drove up behind

Little 223



me. A cop got out and came up to the driver's door of my car. As I
rolled down the window, I could see that he was smiling.

"You were being followed, Ms. Cavanaugh. The kid says he's
your brother and was making sure you got back here safely."

"Oh, for goodness sake, tell him to go home!" I said. Then I
added, "But thank him for me, please."

36

I'D PLANNED TO CALL Marcus Longo on Sunday morning, but
he beat me to it. When the phone rang at nine o'clock, I was at the
computer, with my second cup of coffee on the table beside it.

"I have you pegged as an early starter, Elhe," he said. "I hope
I'm right."

"As a matter of fact, I slept late this morning," I said. "Seven
o'clock."

"That's about what I would have expected of you. I've been in
touch with the office at Sing Sing."

"To see if they learned of any recently discharged convict or
prison guard who might have had a fatal accident?"

"That's right."

"You've heard something?"

"Ellie you were outside Sing Sing on November first. Herb
Coril, a convict who at one time was in the same cell block as Rob
Westerfield, was discharged that morning. He was staying at a
halfway house in lower Manhattan. He hasn't been seen since early
Friday evening."

"I got that last call on Friday night about ten-thirty," I said.
"Whoever called me was afraid for his life."

"We can't be sure it's the same person, and we can't be sure that
Coril didn't just break the conditions of his release and take off."

"What's your guess?" I asked.

"I've never been strong on coincidences, especially one like
this."

"Neither am I."

I told Marcus about my meeting with Alfie.
"I only hope nothing happens to Alfie before you get that diagram,"
Marcus said grimly. "I'm not surprised to hear this. We all
thought that Rob Westerfield planned that job. I know what that
must be doing to you."

"You mean the fact that Rob might have been in prison and
therefore not around here to meet Andrea? That's all I've been
thinking about, and it's been torturing me."

"You do understand that even with the copy of the diagram and
Alfie making a statement to the D. A., you'll never get a conviction.
Alfie was involved himself, and the diagram is signed by someone
named Jim whom nobody has ever met."
"I know."

"The statute of limitations on that crime has run out for all of them--Westerfield, Alfie, and Jim, whoever that is."

"Don't forget Hamilton. If I could prove that he destroyed evidence
that might have gotten his client a lighter sentence by implicating
Westerfield, the ethics committee would be all over him."

I promised to let Marcus see the diagram that Alfie was bringing
me. Then I said good-bye and tried to get back to work. It was
slow, though, and after getting only a little more done, I realized it
was time to drive to Joan's for brunch.

This time I remembered the suitcase and the plastic cleaner's
bag with the slacks, sweater, and jacket.

Even before I was near the Franciscan Friars monastery at
Graymoor, I knew that I was going to stop there. All week a memory
had been slowly emerging from my subconscious. I had visited
the place with Mother after Andrea died. She had called Father
Emil, a priest she knew. He was going to be at Saint Christopher's
Inn that day, and they arranged to meet there.

Saint Christopher's Inn, on the grounds of the monastery, is the

'

227



friars' home for destitute men who are alcoholics or drug addicts. I
had a vague memory of sitting with a lady, a secretary probably,
while Mother was in the office. Then Father Emil took us into the
chapel.

I remembered that there was a book on the side of the chapel
where people could write petitions. Mother wrote something and
then gave the pen to me.

I wanted to go there again.

The friar who admitted me introduced himself as Fr. Bob. He
didn't question my request. The chapel was empty, and he stood at
the door as I knelt for a few minutes. Then I looked around and
saw the stand with the ledger-sized book.

I went over to it and picked up the pen.

Suddenly I remembered what I had written that last time: Please let Andrea come back to us.

This time I could not force myself to stop crying.

"There have been many tears shed in this chapel." Fr. Bob was
standing beside me.

We talked for an hour. When I got to Joan's, I was on speaking
terms with God again.

joan AND I respectfully disagreed with each other about Will
Nebels's performance the night before.

"Ellie, he was just plain drunk. How many people shoot off at
the mouth when they've had too much to drink? My point is that's
not when they lie--it's when they're more likely to let slip the
truth."

I had to admit that Joan was right on that point. I'd investigated
and written about two cases in which the killer would never have
been caught if he hadn't loaded up on scotch or vodka and poured
his heart out to someone who immediately called the cops.

"That's not the way I see it, though," I explained to her and Leo.
"To me, Will Nebels is a spineless, gutless loser. Think of him as the

stuff you pour into a gelatin mold. You plan the shape you want,
and then, you have it. He wasn't too drunk to remember that he
once fixed my seesaw and that my father wasn't born with a tool in
his hand."

"I agree with Ellie," Leo said. "Nebels is more complex than he
appears to be on the surface." Then he added, "That, of course,
doesn't mean that Joan isn't right. If Nebels did see Paulie Stroebel
go into that garage that night, he got smart enough to figure that
the'statute of limitations had run out and that it was safe for him to
make a buck out of it."

"Only he didn't figure this one out himself," I said. "They came
to him. He agreed to tell the story they needed, and they paid him to
tell it."

I pushed my chair back. "Brunch was wonderful," I said, "and
now I feel like winning a chess game from Sean."

For a moment I paused to look out the window. It was the second
beautiful Sunday afternoon I'd been in this room at this exact
same time. I was aware again of the spectacular view of the river
and the mountain from this spot.

In my world, which was so far from peaceful, to experience that
view was like being at an oasis.

I won the first chess game. Sean won the second. We agreed to a
rematch "really soon."

before I started home I phoned the hospital and spoke to
Mrs. Stroebel. Paulie's fever had broken, and he was feeling much
better. "He wants to talk to you, Ellie."

Forty minutes later I was at his bedside. "You look a lot better
than you did yesterday," I told him.

He was still very pale, but his eyes were clear and he was
propped up with an extra pillow. He smiled shyly. "Ellie, Mama
said you know that I saw the locket, too."

"When did you see it, Paulie?"

'

229


"I worked at the service station. My first job there was just to
wash and clean the cars after they were fixed. When I cleaned Rob's
car one day, I found the locket stuck in the front seat. The chain
was broken."

"You mean the day Andrea's body was found?" But that doesn't
make sense, I thought. If Rob went back for the locket that morning,
he never would have left it in his car. Or could he really have
been that stupid?

Paulie looked at his mother. "Mama?" he appealed.

"It's all right, Paulie," she said soothingly. "You've had a lot of
medicine, and it's hard to keep track of everything. You told me
you saw the locket twice."

I looked sharply at Mrs. Stroebel, trying to decide if she was
prompting him. But Paulie nodded.

"That's right, Mama. I found it in the car. The chain was broken.
I gave it to Rob, and he gave me a ten-dollar tip. I put it with
the money I was saving for your fiftieth birthday present."

"I remember, Paulie."

"When was your fiftieth birthday, Mrs. Stroebel?" I asked.

"It was May first, the May before Andrea died."

"The May before Andrea died!" I was absolutely shocked.
Then he didn't buy the locket for her, I thought. It was one that
some girl may have lost in the car, and he had it initialed and gave it
to Andrea.

"Paulie, do you remember the locket clearly?" I asked.
"Yes. It was nice. It was shaped like a heart and it was gold and
it had little blue stones in it."

That was exactly the way I had described it on the witness
stand.
"Paulie, did you ever see the locket again?" I asked.

"Yes. Andrea was so nice to me. She came up and told me how
good I was at football and that I'd won the game for the team. That
was when I decided to ask her to go to the mixer with me.

"I walked over to your house, and I saw her going through the

woods. I caught up with her outside Mrs. Westerner's house. She
was wearing the locket, and I knew Rob must have given it to her.
He's not nice. He gave me that big tip, but he's not nice. His car always
had dents in it because he drove so fast."

"Did you see him that day?"

"I asked Andrea if I could talk to her, but she said not then, that
she was in a hurry. I went back into the woods and watched her go
into the garage. A few minutes later, Rob Westerfield went in."

""Tell Ellie when that was, Paulie."

"It was one week before Andrea died in that garage."

One week before.

"Then a couple of days before she died, I talked to her again. I
told her Rob was a very bad person and that she shouldn't meet him
in the garage and that I knew her father would be very angry if he
knew she went there with him."

Paulie looked directly at me. "Your father was always so nice to
me, Ellie. He always gave me a tip for filling the gas tank, and he always
talked to me about football. He was very nice."

"When you warned Andrea about Rob, was that the time you
asked her to go to the mixer with you?"

"Yes, and she said she would, and she made me promise not to
tell her father about Rob."

"And you never saw the locket again?"

"No, Ellie."

"And you never went to the garage again?"

"No, Ellie."

Paulie closed his eyes, and I could see that he was becoming very
tired. I covered his hand with mine.

"Paulie, I don't want you to worry anymore. I promise you that
it's going to be all right, and before I'm finished, everyone will
know how nice and kind and good you are. And you're smart, too.
When you were a kid, you could see how rotten Rob Westerfield
was. A lot of people around here still can't see through him."

"Paulie thinks with his heart," Mrs. Stroebel said softly.

'

2J7


Paulie opened his eyes. "I'm so sleepy. Did I tell you all about
the locket?"

"Yes, you did."

Mrs. Stroebel walked me to the elevator. "Ellie, even at the trial
they were trying so hard to blame Paulie for Andrea's death. I was
so frightened. That was why I told him he must never talk about
the locket."

"I understand."

"I hope you do. A special child will always need to be protected,
even as a grown-up. You heard the Westerfield lawyer on television
telling everyone that in a new trial he would prove Paulie killed
Andrea. Can you imagine Paulie on the witness stand with that
man hammering at him?"

That man. William Hamilton, Esquire.

"No, I can't."

I kissed her cheek. "Paulie is lucky he has you, Mrs. Stroebel."

Her eyes lowered to meet mine. "He's lucky he has you, Ellie."

at SEVEN O'CLOCK I was on my way to having dinner with Mrs.
Hilmer. Of course that meant I had to pass our old house. Tonight
it was brightly lit, and with the moon shining over the woods behind
it, it could have been on the cover of a magazine. It was the
house Mother had visualized, a perfect example of a lovingly restored and expanded farmhouse.

The windows of my room were over the front door, and I could
see the outline of a figure moving between them. The Keltons, who
now owned the house, were a couple in their early fifties. They
were the only people from the house I saw the night of the fire, but
they might have adolescent children who had slept through the
wailing of the police and fire vehicles. I wondered if whoever had
my room liked to wake up early and lie in bed watching the sunrise,
the way I had.

Mrs. Hilmer's house was well lit, too. I turned into her driveway,
which now had only one destination. My headlights picked up
the charred remains of the garage and apartment. For some incongruous
reason I thought of the candlesticks and decorative fruit
bowl that had graced the apartment's dining room table. They
were not valuable, but they obviously had been chosen with taste
and care.

Everything in the apartment had been chosen with care. If

Mrs. Hilmer chose to rebuild, those were the kinds of items that required
time and effort to replace.

With that thought in mind, I entered her home with apologies
on my lips, but she would have none of it. "Will you stop worrying
about the garage?" she sighed as she pulled my face down for a kiss.
"Ellie, that fire was deliberately set."

"I know it. You don't think I was responsible, do you?"
"Good Lord, no! Ellie, when I got back and Brian White came
marching in here practically accusing you of being a pyromaniac, I
gave him a real piece of my mind. If it makes you feel better, he as
much as told me that I only imagined I was followed back and forth
to the library that day. I set him straight on that, too. But I tell you,
Ellie, it's terrible to think that whoever got into the apartment
when you were here for dinner that night actually stole towels from
it to make it look as if you set the fire."

"I took towels from the linen closet every day. I never noticed
that five or six bath towels were missing."

"How could you? The shelves were stacked with them. I went
through a period of not being able to resist a bargain, and now I
have enough towels to last me till kingdom come. Well, dinner is
ready, and you must be hungry. Let's go right to the table."

Dinner consisted of shrimp creole, followed by a Bibb lettuce
salad. It was delicious. "Two good meals in one day," I said. "I'm
getting spoiled."

I asked about her granddaughter and learned that her broken
wrist was mending nicely.

"It was wonderful to spend time with Janey, and the new baby is
adorable. But, Ellie, let me tell you, after a week I was ready to go
home. The spirit is willing, but it's a long time since I had to get up
to heat a bottle at five a.m."

She said she had been watching my Website, and I could see
that any feeling of sympathy she had for Rob Westerfield was
crumbling. "When I read that statement from the psychologist,
telling how Rob twisted her arm in the restaurant, I was shocked.

235


Janey used to waitress when she was in college, and the thought of
some bully manhandling her like that made my blood boil."

"Wait till you read what's coming. He also did quite a job on a
fellow student when he was only a sophomore in prep school."

"It just keeps getting worse. I was heartsick to hear about
Paulie. How is he doing?"

"He's mending. I went to see him this afternoon." I hesitated,
not sure that I wanted to share with her Paulie's revelations about
the locket. But then I decided to go ahead. Mrs. Hilmer was absolutely
trustworthy and a very good barometer of local opinion. I
knew she had always firmly believed that the locket was a figment
of my imagination. It would be both interesting and helpful to get
her reaction about it now.

Her tea cooled as she listened, and her face became grave.
"Ellie, it's no wonder Mrs. Stroebel didn't want Paulie to talk about
the locket. That story could easily be turned around so that it hurts
Paulie."

"I know that. Paulie admitted having the locket in his possession,
giving it to Rob, being upset when he saw Andrea wearing it,
and following her to the garage." I paused and looked at her. "Mrs.
Hilmer, do you believe it happened like that?"

"What I believe is that with all the Westerfield money, Rob
Westerfield is cheap as well as vicious. He gave a gift to Andrea that
another girl probably lost in his car. I'll bet he took it to one of those
malls, paid a couple of dollars to have it engraved, and then made a
big show of it."

"I thought about trying to trace whoever engraved it, but after
all these years, that's almost impossible. They do that kind of engraving
in those jewelry places in shopping malls all the time."

"So you don't know how to use your information about the
locket?"

"No, I don't. I was so happy to have my memory of the locket verified
that I haven't even thought that through. The locket is a double
edged sword, and in court Paulie could be the one hurt by it."

I
told Mrs. Hilmer about Alfie and the diagram.

"We all felt the attack on Mrs. Westerfield was an inside job,"
she said, her expression an odd mixture of sympathy and disgust.
"Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield is kind, elegant, and gracious. To think
that her only grandchild would plan her murder goes beyond
belief. I'd see her sometimes in town with Rob before he was arrested.
Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, he was so solicitous
of her."

"That story and the diagram go on the Internet if Alfie agrees,"
I said. "When Mrs. Westerfield sees the diagram, it may help to
convince her."

My description of Will Nebels's drunken pawing of me in the
restaurant reduced Mrs. Hilmer to sputtering indignation. "You
mean to say a man like that would be considered a reliable witness
in a new trial?"

"Not necessarily reliable, but he could still do a ton of damage in
swaying public opinion against Paulie."

Despite her protests, we cleared the table together and tidied up
the kitchen. "Are you going to rebuild the garage and replace the
apartment?" I asked.

As she popped plates into the dishwasher, she smiled. "Ellie, I
wouldn't want the insurance company to hear me, but that fire
turned out to be a good thing. I was well insured, and now I have an
empty second building lot where the garage was located. Janey
would love to live up here. She thinks it's a wonderful place to raise
her baby. If I give them the lot, they'll build a house, and I'll have
my family right next door."

I laughed. "You've made me feel a lot better." I folded the dish
towel. "And now I have to be on my way. I'm driving to Carrington
Academy in Maine tomorrow, digging up more of Rob Wester
field's glorious past."

"Janey and I read those papers and the trial transcript. It
brings back how dreadful that time was for all of you." Mrs.
Hilmer walked to the closet with me to retrieve my leather jacket.

I
(

237


As I buttoned it, I realized I had not thought to ask her if the name
Phil meant anything to her.

"Mrs. Hilmer, in prison, apparently while he was high on
drugs, Rob Westerfield may have confessed to beating a man
named Phil to death. Did you ever know or hear about anyone by
that name from around here who might have disappeared or been
the victim of a homicide?"

"Phil," she repeated, looking past me and frowning in concentration.
"There was Phil Oliver who had a terrible run-in with the
Westerfields when they wouldn't renew his lease. But he moved
away."

"Do you know what became of him?"

"No, but I can find out. He and his family had a couple of good
friends here who are probably still in touch."

"Will you check for me?"

"Of course."

She opened the door, then hesitated. "I know something or
read something about a young person named Phil who died a while
ago ... I can't remember where I heard about it, but it was very
sad."

"Mrs. Hilmer, think. This is so terribly important."

"Phil ... Phil. . . Oh Ellie, it's just not coming to me."

Of course I had to settle for that. But when I left Mrs. Hilmer a
few minutes later, I urged her to stop actively trying to remember
the connection, and let her subconscious work on it.

I was closing in on Rob Westerfield. I could feel it in my
bones.

The car that was following me tonight was much more subtle
than the one Teddy had driven. He rode without lights. I only became
aware of his presence when I had to stop to let traffic pass before
I could turn into the driveway of the inn, and he was forced to
stop directly behind me.

I turned, trying to get a look at the driver. The car was heavy
and dark, and I knew it wasn't Teddy.

Another car was coming up the driveway, leaving the inn, and
its headlights illuminated the face in the car behind me.

Tonight it was my father who wanted to be sure that I got back
to the inn safely. For a split second we looked at each other, then I
turned left into the driveway and he kept going down the road.

38

alfie PHONED ME at seven o'clock Monday morning. "You still
wanna buy it?"

"Yes, I do. My bank is Oldham-Hudson on Main Street. I'll be
there at nine o'clock, and you can meet me in the parking lot at five
after nine."

"Okay."

As I was leaving the bank, he drove up and parked next to my
car. From the street no one would have been able to see what was
taking place.

He opened the window. "Let's have the money."

I handed it to him.

After he had counted it, he said, "Okay, here's the diagram."

I examined it carefully. In the daylight it seemed even more
chilling when I considered that it had been commissioned by the
seventeen-year-old grandson of the potential victim. I knew that I
would pay anything Alfie asked to have his permission to put it on
my Website.

"Alfie, you know that the statute of limitations has expired. If
the cops knew about this, you wouldn't get into any trouble. But if I
show at on the Website and write about what you told me, it might
make the difference between Mrs. Westerfield leaving her money
to charities or to Rob."

I was standing outside the van. He was sitting in it, his hand on

the wheel. He looked like what he had become: a hardworking guy
who never had much of a break.

"Listen, I'd rather take my chances on Westerfield coming after
me than think of him rolling in big bucks. Go for it."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. It kind of makes it up to Skip."

AFTER THE EXPERIENCE of driving to Boston and getting caught
in heavy traffic, I allowed plenty of travel time for the drive to
Maine when I rescheduled my appointment with Jane Bostrom, director
of admissions at Carrington Academy.

That was why I was in Rockport long enough to stop for a
grilled cheese sandwich and Coke at a coffee shop a mile from the
school. I now felt prepared to take her on.

When I was escorted into her office, her greeting to me was cordial
but reserved, and I was certain that she was going to be less
than cooperative in releasing information to me. She was at her
desk and offered me the seat facing it. Like many executives she
had a visiting area with a couch and several chairs, but I was not invited
to join her there.

She was younger than I had expected, about thirty-five, with
dark hair and large gray eyes that seemed to be somewhat wary.
From our brief conversation on the phone it was evident that she
was proud of her school and was not about to have an investigative
reporter trash it because of one student.

"Dr. Bostrom," I said, "let me put my cards on the table. Rob
Westerfield spent his junior and senior years in Carrington. He was
kicked out of his former prep school because he viciously assaulted
another student. He was fourteen years old when that incident occurred.

"At seventeen he planned the murder of his grandmother. She
was shot three times, and it is a miracle that she survived. At nine

'
241



teen he bludgeoned my sister to death. I am at present tracking
down the probability that there is at least one more person whose

life he has taken."

I watched as her expression became dismayed and distressed.
She took a long moment before she spoke. "Ms. Cavanaugh, that
information about Rob Westerfield is horrifying, but please understand
something. I have his file in front of me, and there is absolutely
nothing in it that indicates a serious behavior problem
while he was here."

"I find it hard to believe that with the violent history I've been
uncovering, he was able to spend two years without a major infraction
on his record. May I ask how long you have been employed at
Carrington, Dr. Bostrom?"

"Five years."

"Then of course the only thing you have to go by is a record that
may have been tidied up."

"I am going by the record in front of me."

"May I ask if the Westerfields have made any significant contributions
to Carrington Academy?"

"At the time Rob was a student, they helped to renovate and refurbish
the athletic center."

"I see."

"I don't know what you see, Ms. Cavanaugh. Please try to understand
that many of our students have had an emotionally rough
time and need guidance and compassion. Sometimes they've been
pawns in nasty divorces. Sometimes one or the other parent simply
walked out of their lives. You'd be amazed at what that can do to a
child's sense of worth."

Oh, no, I wouldn't be amazed at all, I thought. In fact, I understand
perfectly.

"Some of our students are young people who can't seem to get
along with their peer group or with adults or both."

"That would seem to have been Rob Westerfield's problem," I

243



said. "But unfortunately for the rest of us, his family has always
tried to either cover up for him or buy him out of trouble."

"Please understand that we run a tight ship here. We believe
that an important step in healing an emotional problem is helping
to build a sense of self-worth. Our students are expected to keep up
their marks, take part in sports and other activities, and volunteer
for the community programs that our school sponsors."

"And Rob Westerfield achieved all these goals willingly and
joyfully?"

I could have bitten my tongue. Jane Bostrom had given me the
courtesy of an interview, and she was answering my questions.
However, it was clear that if there had been any big problems at this
school with Rob Westerfield, they had not been put on his record.

"Rob Westerfield apparently achieved those goals to our
school's satisfaction," she said stiffly.

"Do you have a list of the student body while he was enrolled
here?"

"Of course."
"May I see it?"
"For what purpose?"

"Dr. Bostrom, when he was high on drugs in prison, Rob Westerfield
made a statement to another convict. He said, 'I beat Phil to
death, and it felt good.' Since he assaulted a fellow student at his
previous prep school, it is not unlikely that while he was here, he
had an encounter with a student named Phil or Philip."

Her eyes darkened and became progressively more concerned
as she absorbed the implications of what I was saying. Then she
stood up.

"Ms. Cavanaugh, Dr. Douglas Dittrick has been with Carring
ton for forty years. I'm going to invite him to join us. I'll also send
for the student roster for those years. I think we'd better go into the
conference room. It will be easier to spread out the lists on the table
there and go through them carefully."

I

dr. dittrick sent word that he was in the middle of a lecture
and would join us in fifteen minutes. "He's a great teacher,"
Jane Bostrom told me as we opened the rosters. "I think if the
roof was falling down, he wouldn't budge until he finished his lecture."

She seemed more comfortable with me by then, and certainly
willing to help. "We want to watch for 'Philip' as the middle name
as well as the first," she warned. "We have many students who are
known by their middle names when they've been named after fathers
and grandfathers."

The student body totalled about six hundred during Rob West
erfield's time at Carrington. I quickly realized that Philip was not a
common name. The usuals, James and John and Mark and
Michael, showed up regularly on the lists.

And a host of others: William, Hugo, Charles, Richard, Henry,
Walter, Howard, Lee, Peter, George, Paul, Lester, Ezekiel, Francis,
Donald, Alexander . . .

And then a Philip.

"Here's one, I said. "He was a freshman when Westerfield was a
sophomore."

Jane Bostrom got up and looked over my shoulder. "He's on our
board of trustees," she said.

I kept looking.

Professor Dittrick joined us, still wearing his academic gown.
"What's so important, Jane?" he asked.

She explained and introduced me. Dittrick was about seventy,
of medium build with a scholarly face and a firm handshake.

"I remember Westerfield, of course. He'd only been graduated
two years before he killed that girl."

"She was Ms. Cavanaugh's sister," Dr. Bostrom interjected
quickly.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Cavanaugh. That was a terrible tragedy.
And now you're looking to see if someone named Phil who was
here around his time became a homicide victim."

"Yes. I do realize it may seem farfetched, but it's an avenue I
have to explore."

"Of course." He turned to Dr. Bostrom. "Jane, why don't you
see if Corinne is free and ask her to come over. She wasn't the director
of the theater twenty-five years ago, but she was on staff then.
Ask her to bring playbills from those performances Westerfield
was in. I seem to remember that there was something funny about
the way he was listed in the program."

Corinne Barsky arrived twenty minutes later. A vivacious, slender
woman of about sixty with dark snapping eyes and a rich,
warm voice, she was carrying the playbills that had been requested.

By then we had isolated two former students with the first
name Philip and one with Philip as a middle name.

The first one we'd found, as Dr. Bostrom had told me, was a
current trustee of the school. Dr. Dittrick remembered that the student
with the middle name Philip had attended his twentieth class
reunion two years ago.

That left only one to check. Dr. Bostrom's secretary ran his
name through the computer. He lived in Portland, Oregon, and
made annual contributions to the alumni fund. The latest was last
June.

"I'm afraid I've wasted a lot of your time," I apologized. "If I
can have a quick look at the playbills, I'll be on my way."

In each of them Rob Westerfield played the male lead. "I remember
him," Corinne Barsky told me. "He was genuinely good.
Very full of himself, very arrogant toward the other students, but a
good actor."

"Then you had no problems with him?" I asked.

"Oh, I remember him having a row with the director. He
wanted to use what he called his stage name instead of his own
name in the show. The director refused."

245



"What was his stage name?"

"Give me a minute, I'll try to remember."

"Corinne, wasn't there some kind of flap about Rob Westerfield
and a wig?" Dr. Dittrick asked. "I'm sure I remember something
about that."

"He wanted to wear a wig he used in a performance at his previous
school. The director wouldn't allow that, either. During the
play Rob would come out of the dressing room wearing his own
wig and only switched to the appropriate one at the last second. I
understand that he wore his wig around campus as well. He got detention
any number of times because of it, but he kept on doing it."

Dr. Bostrom looked at me. "That wasn't in his file," she said.

"Of course his file was sanitized," Dr. Dittrick said impatiently.
"How else do you think the athletic center got a total renovation at
that time? All it took was President Egan's suggestion to Wester
field's father that Rob might be happier in school elsewhere."

Dr. Bostrom looked at me, alarmed. "Don't worry. I'm not
going to print that," I told her.

I looked around for my shoulder bag and fished out my cell
phone. "I'm going to get out of your way," I promised them, "but
there's one call I'd like to make before I leave. I've been in contact
with Christopher Cassidy who was a student at Arbinger with
Westerfield. In fact, he's the one Rob beat up in his sophomore year.
Mr. Cassidy told me that Rob sometimes used the name of a character
he played on stage. He was going to try to find out what it

 was.

I looked up the number and dialed it.

"Cassidy Investment Firm," the operator said briskly.

I was in luck. Christopher Cassidy was back from his trip, and I
was put through to him immediately. "I checked around," he said,
sounding triumphant. "I have the name Westerfield used, and it is
from one of the plays he was in."

"I remember the name," Corinne Barsky was saying, excitement
in her voice.

Cassidy was in Boston. Barsky was a few feet away from me in
Maine. But they said it together.

"It's Jim Wilding."

Jim, I thought! Rob had drawn the diagram himself.

"Ellie, I have to take another call." Cassidy apologized.

"Go ahead. That's all I needed to know."

"What you wrote about me for the Website is great. Put it on.
I'll back you one thousand percent."

Hft clicked off.

Connne Barsky had opened one of the playbills. "You may be
interested in this, Ms. Cavanaugh," she said. "The director used to
have every member of the cast sign a playbill next to where they are
listed in the cast."

She held it up and pointed. With defiant emphasis Rob Wester
field had signed not his own name but "Jim Wilding" instead.

I stared at it for a long minute. "I need a copy of this," I said.
"And please take very good care of the original. In fact, I wish
you'd lock it in a safe."

twenty MINUTES LATER I was sitting in my car, comparing the
signature on the diagram with the one on the playbill.

I'm no handwriting expert, but when I compared the way the
name "Jim" was signed on both documents, the signatures seemed
identical.

I began the long drive back to Oldham, exulting in the prospect
of exhibiting them on the Internet side by side.

Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield would have to face the truth. Her
grandson had planned her death.

I must confess I thoroughly enjoyed the benevolent feeling that
I was about to make a number of charities, medical facilities, libraries,
and universities very, very happy.

39

I KEEP MY CELL PHONE on the other pillow. Tuesday morning it
began to ring and woke me up. As I gave a sleepy "Hello," I glanced

at my watch and was shocked to see that it was nine o'clock.

"Must have had a night on the town."

It was Pete.

"Let's see," I said. "Driving from Maine to Massachusetts and
across New York State. It was the most exciting night of my life."

"Maybe you're too tired to come down to Manhattan."

"Maybe you're trying to wiggle out of the invitation to come to
Manhattan," I suggested. By now I was awake and on the verge of
being disappointed and angry.

"My suggestion was going to be that I drive to Oldham, pick
you up, and we'll find a place for us to have dinner."

"That's different," I said cheerfully. "I have a great spot in
mind, and it's only fifteen minutes from the inn."

"Now you're thinking. Give me directions."

I did, and he congratulated me. "Ellie, you're one of the few women I know who can give lucid directions. Is it something I
taught you? Never mind answering. I can be there around seven."

Click.

I sent for room service, showered, washed my hair, and phoned
a nearby nail salon to make an appointment for four o'clock. I had

broken several nails when I fell in the parking lot and wanted to do
something about them.

I even took time to study my limited wardrobe and decide on
the leaf brown pantsuit with the caracul collar and cuffs. The suit

had been an impulse buy at the end of the season last year, expensive
even at half price, and I had yet to wear it.

Parading it out for Pete seemed like a good idea.
Actually, it was comforting to have something to anticipate at
the end of the day. I knew it was not going to be easy to spend the
afternoon writing Alfie's story about the break-in and tying the incriminating
diagram to Rob Westerfield's use of the name Jim in
school.

By not easy, I meant emotionally not easy, because of the unbearable
certainty that if Rob Westerfield had been convicted of
that crime, Andrea would not have met him.

He'd have been in prison. She would have grown up and gone
to college, and, like Joan, probably gotten married and had a couple
of children. Mother and Daddy would still be in that wonderful
farmhouse. Daddy would have come to love it as much as she did
and by now realized what a great buy it had been.

I would have grown up in a happy home and gone to college.
Choosing to study journalism had nothing to do with Andrea's
death, so I probably would be in the same kind of job. It's the career
that held a natural attraction for me. I still wouldn't be married. I
think I always wanted a career before a commitment.

If Rob had been convicted, I would not have spent my life grieving
for my sister and yearning for what I had lost.

Now, even if I manage to convince Rob's grandmother and the
rest of the world of his guilt, he still will get away with it. The
statute of limitations has run out on that crime.

And even if his grandmother changes her will, his father has
plenty of money, at least plenty by normal standards, so Rob will
live well.

Disgusting liar that he is, in a second trial Will Nebels's story

249


might throw enough doubt in jurors' minds to give Westerfield an
acquittal.

Then his record will be expunged.

I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.

There is only one way I can get Rob Westerfield back behind
bars and that is to track down Phil, that other person whose life
he extinguished. Fortunately, there is no statute of limitations for
murder.

by THREE-THIRTY I was ready to transfer everything to the Website:
Christopher Cassidy's story of being beaten by Rob Westerfield in prep school; Rob's insistence on being called "Jim" because of the character he had played on stage; Rob's role in planning the attempt
on his grandmother's life.

I wrote that William Hamilton, Esq., was the court-appointed
lawyer who had destroyed the original diagram implicating Westerfield
in the crime. I ended the piece with the diagram and playbill
displayed side by side. On screen the "Jim" signatures were startling
in their similarity.

I kissed my fingers in a salute to the story, pressed the appropriate
keys on the computer, and an instant later it was out there on my
Website.

it WAS A QUARTER OF FIVE when I got back to the inn. The
multibillion-dollar cosmetic industry would go broke if it relied on
people like me. What little makeup I had was lost in the fire. I had
picked up a compact and lipstick at a drugstore a day or two later,
but it was time to spend half an hour replacing items like mascara
and blush.

Even though I had slept till nine o'clock this morning, I was still
sleepy and wanted to take a nap before it was time to dress for my
date with Pete.

I wondered if seeing the finish line felt like this. The athlete
runs the marathon and knows the end of the race is near. I've heard
that there is an interval of a few seconds when the runner actually
slows, regroups, and then goes into the final sprint toward victory.

That was the way I felt. I had Rob Westerfield on the ropes,
and I was convinced that I was about to learn the truth of what
he had done to Phil and where it had happened. If I was right, it would send him back to prison.

I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.

And then when he had been brought to real justice, when the
Committee for Justice for Rob Westerfield had been dissolved and
slunk away into oblivion, then and only then, like a newly hatched
chicken, would I take my own tentative steps into the future.

Tonight I was meeting someone I wanted to see and who

252

wanted to see me. Whither do we wander? I didn't know and
wasn't looking ahead that far. But for the first time in my life I was
beginning to anticipate the future with my debt to the past nearly
paid. It was a hopeful, satisfying feeling.

Then I walked through the door of the inn, and my half
brother Teddy was standing there waiting for me.

This time he was not smiling. He looked uncomfortable, yet determined,
and his greeting to me was abrupt. "Ellie, come inside.
We hate to talk."

"I invited your brother to wait in the sunroom, but he was
afraid that he might miss you," Mrs. Willis said.

You're absolutely right, I would have missed him, I thought. I

would have been upstairs like a shot if I had known he was waiting.

I didn't want her to hear whatever he was going to say, so I

walked ahead of him into the sunroom. This time he closed the

door, and we stood facing each other.

"Teddy," I began, "you have to listen to me. I know you mean
well. I know your father means well. But you can't be trailing after
me. I am perfectly fine, and I can take care of myself."

"No, you can't!" His eyes were flashing, and in that moment he
looked so like my father that I was transported back to the dining
room at home, and Daddy was telling Andrea that she was forbidden
to ever have anything to do with Rob Westerfield.

"Ellie, we saw what you put on the Website this afternoon. Dad
is beside himself with worry. He said that the Westerfields now
have to stop you, and they will stop you. He said you've become a
terrible danger to them, and in the process you've put yourself in
great danger. Ellie, you can't do this to Dad or to yourself. Or
to me."

He was so upset, so vehement, that I felt sorry for him. I put my
hand on his arm. "Teddy, I don't want to upset you or your father.
I'm doing what I have to do. I don't know how many ways to say it
to you, but please, just leave me alone. You've gotten along without
me all your life, and your father has gotten along without me since

253


I was a small child. What is all this about? I tried to tell you the

other day--you don't fyiow me. You have no reason to worry about
me. You're a nice kid, but let's leave it at that."

"I'm not just a nice kid. I'm your brother. Whether you like it or
not, I'm your brother. And stop saying 'your father' to me. You
think you know everything, but you don't, Ellie. Dad never
stopped being your father. He's always talked about you, and I always
wanted to hear about you. He told me what a great little kid
you were. You don't even know it, but he went out to your college
graduation and sat in the audience. He got a subscription to the Atlanta News when you started working there, and he's read every article you've ever written. So stop saying he's not your father."

I didn't want to hear it. I kept shaking my head. "Teddy, you
just don't understand. When my mother and I went to Florida, he
let us go."

"He told me you thought that, but it isn't true. He didn't just let
you go. He wanted you back. He tried to get you back. The few
times you visited him after he and your mother broke up, you never
said one word to him and you wouldn't even eat. What was he supposed
to do? Your mother told him there was too much grief to
contain under one roof, that she only wanted to remember the good
parts and go on to a new life. And she did."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because I asked him. Because I thought he'd have a heart attack
when he saw the last item you put on the Website. He's sixty
seven years old, Ellie, and he has high blood pressure."

"Does he know you're here?"

"I told him I was coming. I'm here to beg you to come home
with me, and if you won't do that, at least to check out of here and
go someplace where nobody except us knows where you are."

He was so earnest, so concerned, so caring that I almost put my
arms around him. "Teddy, there are things you don't understand. I
knew Andrea might have gone to meet Rob Westerfield that night,
and I didn't tell on her. I've had to carry that blame all my life. Now

when Westerfield gets his new trial, he's going to convince a lot of
people that Paulie Stroebel killed Andrea. I didn't save her, but I
have to try to save Paulie."

"Dad told me it was his fault that Andrea died. He was late getting
home. One of the guys he worked with had gotten engaged,
and he had a beer with him to celebrate. He was starting to get suspicious
and worried that Andrea was still seeing Westerfield behind
his back. He told me that if he had been home earlier, he
would hever have allowed her to go to Joan's house that night--so
instead of being in that garage, she would have been at home, safe."

He believed what he was telling me. Was my memory so distorted?
Not completely. It wasn't that simple. But was my abiding
sense of guilt--"If only Ellie had told us"--only a part of the total
picture? My mother let Andrea go out after dark alone. My father
suspected Andrea was still seeing Rob but had not yet actually confronted
her. My mother had insisted on moving to what was then a
rural and isolated community. My father may have been too strict
with Andrea; his attempts to protect her may have made her rebellious.
I was the confidante who knew of the secret meetings.

Did the three of us choose to harbor guilt and grief within our
own souls, or did we have any choice?

"Ellie, my mother is a very nice lady. She was a widow when she
met Dad. She knows what it is to lose someone. She wants to meet
you. You'd like her."

"Teddy, I promise I will meet her someday."

"Someday soon."

"When I've seen this through. It's not going to take much
longer."

"You will talk to Dad? You will give him a break?"

"When this is over, we'll have lunch or something. I promise.
And listen, I'm going out tonight with Pete Lawlor, someone I
worked with in Atlanta. I don't want either one of you following
me around. He's picking me up here and will deposit me back here
safely, I promise."

255


"Dad will be relieved to hear that."

"Teddy, I have to get upstairs. There are a couple of calls I have
to make before I go out."


"I've said what I have to say. No, maybe I haven't. There's
something else Dad told me that you should know. He said, 'I've
lost one little girl. I can't lose another.' "

if I HAD EXPECTED a hint of romance in our meeting, it was
quickly dismissed. Pete's greeting to me was "You look great," accompanied
by a quick kiss on the cheek.

"And you're so gussied up, you look as though you won a
fifteen-minute shopping spree in Bloomingdale's," I told him.

"Twenty minutes," he corrected. "I'm starving, aren't you?"

I had made a reservation at Cathryn's, and while we were driving
over, I said, "Big request."

"Let's have it."

"Tonight I would like not to talk about what I've been doing
these past weeks. You watch the Website, so you really know what's
going on anyhow. But I need to get away from it for a few hours. So
tonight is your night. Tell me every single place you've been since I
saw you in Atlanta. I want every detail about the interviews you've
had. Then tell me why you're so pleased about the job you're taking.
You can even tell me if you had a hard time choosing between
that very nice, and obviously new, red tie or another one."

Pete has a way of raising one eyebrow. He did that now. "You're
serious?"

"Absolutely."

"The minute I saw this tie, I knew I had to have it."

"Very good," I encouraged. "I want to hear more."

At the restaurant we looked at the menu, ordered smoked

salmon and a seafood pasta, and agreed to split a bottle of Pinot
Grigio. "It's handy that we both like the same entrees," Pete said.
"Makes it easier with the wine selection."

"The last time I was here I had the rack of lamb," I told him.
He looked at me.
"I love to irritate you," I admitted.
"It shows."

Over dinner he did open up to me. "Ellie, I knew the paper was
on thoway out. That happens to any business that's family owned
when the present generation is only interested in the dollar sign.
Frankly, I was getting itchy anyway. In this business, unless you can
see that you have a good reason to stay with a company, you've got
to be aware of other opportunities."

"Then why didn't you leave sooner?" I asked.
He looked at me. "I'll take a pass on that one. But when it became
inevitable, I knew two things for sure. I wanted either to get
with a solid newspaper--such as The New Yorl Times, the L. A.
Times, the Chicago Trib, or the Houston Chronicle--or to try something
else altogether. The newspaper jobs were there, but then that
'something else' opened up, and I went for it."
"A new cable news station."

"Exactly. I'm in on the ground floor. It has risks, of course, but
substantial investors are committed to making it happen."
"You said it involved a lot of traveling?"

"By a lot I mean the kind anchormen do when they're onto a big
story."

"You're not telling me you're an anchorman!"
"Perhaps that's too grandiose a word. I'm on the news desk.
Short, clipped, and hard-hitting is in these days. Maybe it will
work; maybe it won't."

I thought about it. Pete was smart, intense, and got to the point
quickly. "I think you'll actually be good at it," I told him.

"There's something so touching about the way you lavish praise
on me, Ellie. Don't go overboard, please. It might go to my head."

259



I ignored that. "Then you're going to be based in New York
City and you're moving there?"

"I already have. I found an apartment in SoHo. It's not great,
but it's a start."
"Won't that be kind of a big change for you? Your whole family
is in Atlanta."

"My grandparents were all New Yorkers. I used to visit them a
lot when I was a kid."



We waited silently while the table was cleared. Then when
we'd ordered espresso, Pete said, "All right, Ellie, we've played the
game by your rules. Now I get my two cents in. I want to hear
everything you've been up to, and I mean everything."

By now I was ready to talk about it, so I told him all, including
Teddy's visit. When I was finished, Pete said, "Your father's right.
You've got to move in with him or at least not be visible around
Oldham."

"I think he may be right about that," I admitted reluctantly.

"I have to go to Chicago in the morning for a meeting with the
board of Packard Cable. I'll be gone until Saturday. Ellie, please go
down to New York and stay in my apartment. You can be in touch
with Marcus Longo and Mrs. Hilmer and Mrs. Stroebel from
there, and you can keep up your Website as well. But at the same
time, you'll be safe. Will you do that?"

I knew he was right. "For a few days, until I can figure out
where to go, yes, I will."

When we got back to the inn, Pete left his car in the driveway
and walked me inside. The night clerk was on duty. "Has anyone
been looking for Ms. Cavanaugh?" Pete asked him.

"No, sir."

"Any messages for her?"

"Mr. Longo and Mrs. Hilmer returned her calls."
"Thank you."

At the foot of the stairs, he put his hands on my shoulders.


"Ellie, I know you've had to see this through, and I've understood.
But now you can't go it alone anymore. You need us around you."

"Us?"

"Your father, Teddy, me."

"You've been in touch with my father, haven't you?"

He patted my cheek. "Of course I have."

I dreamt  A LOT that night. It was an anxiety-ridden dream. Andrea
was slipping through the woods. I was trying to call her back, but I couldn't make her hear me and watched in despair as she ran
past old Mrs. Westerfield's house and into the garage. I was trying
to shout a warning, but then Rob Westerfield was there and waving
me away.

I woke to the faint sound of my own voice trying to call for help.
Dawn was just breaking, and I could see that it was going to be another
of those gray, cloudy, cold days we get in early November.

Even as a child I found the first two weeks of November unsettling,
but after the middle of the month, the festive feeling of
Thanksgiving was in the air. But those first two weeks seemed long
and dreary. Then, after Andrea died, they became forever linked
with the memories of the last days we spent together. The anniversary
of her death was only a few days away.

Those were the thoughts in my mind as I lay in bed, wishing
for an hour or two more of sleep. The dream wasn't hard to
analyze. The imminent anniversary of Andrea's death and the
fact that I was acutely aware that Rob Westerfield would be enraged
by the latest information on my Website were playing on my
mind.

I knew that I needed to be very careful.

At seven o'clock I sent for room service; then I began to work on
my book. At nine o'clock I showered, dressed, and phoned Mrs.
Hilmer.

I was hoping against hope that her call had been to say she remembered
why the name "Phil" was familiar to her. But even as I
asked her that question, I realized it was terribly unlikely that she
would come up with anything that could be connected to Rob
Westerfield's vicious boast.

"Ellie, that name is the only thing I've been able to think about,"
she said, sighing. "I called you last night to tell you that I checked
with my friend who's in contact with Phil Oliver. I told you about
him. Phil Oliver is the man who lost his lease and had a pretty ugly
confrontation with Rob Westerfield's father. My friend told me
that he's down in Florida, likes it well enough, but is still pretty bitter
about the way he was treated. He reads your Website and loves
it. He says if you want to start a Website to let the world know the
kind of man Rob's father is, too, he'll be happy to talk to you."
Interesting, I thought, but not helpful information right now.
"Ellie, the one thing I'm sure of is that whatever I heard or read
about 'Phil,' it was only recently. And if this is any help, it made
me sad."
"Sad?"

"Ellie, I know I'm not making sense, but I'm working on it. I'll
get back to you the minute I piece it together."
Mrs. Hilmer had been calling me on the phone at the inn. I
didn't want to explain that I was checking out, or go into detail
about Pete and his apartment in New York. "You have my cell
phone number, don't you, Mrs. Hilmer?"
"Yes, you gave it to me."

"I'm going to be in and out so much. Will you call me on that
number if you come up with the connection?"
"Of course."

MARCUS LONGO was the next one on my list to call. I thought he
sounded subdued, and I was right.

"Ellie, what you put on the Website yesterday is inviting a
massive lawsuit from both Westerfield and his lawyer, William
Hamilton."


"Good. Let them sue me. I can't wait to depose them."

"Ellie, being right isn't always a provable or successful legal defense.
The law can be very tricky. The drawing you claim is evidence
of Rob Westerfield's part in the attempted murder of his grandmother
was provided by the brother of the man who shot her. And
he admits that he was the driver of the getaway car. He's hardly a
stellar witness. How much did you pay him for that information?"

"One thousand dollars."

"Do you know how that would look in court? If not, let me explain
it to you. You put up a sign outside Sing Sing. You advertise
on the Website. In so many words it says, 'Anyone who knows of a
crime Rob Westerfield may have committed can make a quick
buck.' This guy could be an out-and-out liar."

"Do you think he is?"

"What I think doesn't matter."

"Oh, but it does, Marcus. Do you believe Rob Westerfield
planned that crime?"

"Yes, I do, but then I always thought he planned it. That has
nothing to do with the multimillion-dollar slander suit you may be
facing."

"Let them sue. I hope they do. I have a couple of thousand dollars
in the bank and a car with sand in the gas tank that probably
needs a new engine, and I may make some decent money on my
book. They're welcome to try to get it."

"It's your show, Ellie."

"Two things, Marcus. I'm checking out of here today and going
to stay at a friend's apartment."

"Not around here, I hope."


265



"No, in Manhattan."

"That is a great relief for me. Does your father know that?"

If not, I bet you'll tell him, I thought. I wondered how many of
my friends in Oldham were in contact with my father. "I'm not
sure," I said honestly. For all I knew, Pete may have called him last
night the minute he left me.

I was going to ask Marcus if he had any success in following up
on a homicide with someone named "Phil" as the victim, but he anticipated
the question. "So far, zero, blank, nothing to tie Wester
field to another crime," he said. "But I still have a lot of searching to
do. We're also following up on that name Rob liked to use in
school."

"Jim Wilding?"

"Yes."

We agreed to stay in close touch.

can come over and see him," I offered.

"Why don't you come around one o'clock? I will be here then,
and I think that makes him more comfortable."

More comfortable, I thought, or do you mean you want to be
sure he won't say anything that will incriminate him? No, I didn't
believe that. "I'll be there, Mrs. Stroebel," I said. "If I arrive before
you, I'll wait for you to come before I visit Paulie."

"Thank you, Ellie."

She sounded so grateful that I was ashamed of myself for thinking
she might be trying to prevent Paulie from being honest with
me. She had been the one to call me, and her life was now split between
keeping up the deli and visiting her ailing son. God tempers
the wind to the shorn lamb. He does it best when he sends someone
like Paulie a mother like Anja Stroebel.


I HADN'T SPOKEN to Mrs. Stroebel since Sunday afternoon. I
called the hospital, hoping to hear that Paulie had been discharged,
but he was still there.

Mrs. Stroebel was with him. "Ellie, he's much better. I stop in
around this time each day, then go to the store and come back
around noon. Thank God for Greta. You met her the day Paulie
was brought in here. She is so good. She is keeping everything
going."

"When will Paulie be able to go home?"

"I think tomorrow, but, Ellie, he wants to see you again. He is
trying to remember something you said to him that he says was not
correct. He wants to straighten it out, but he doesn't know what it
is. You understand--he's had so much medication."

My heart sank. Something I said? Dear God, was Paulie confused
again, or was he going to retract anything he had told me? I
was glad I had held off putting on the Website his story connecting
Rob to the locket.

I MANAGED TO GET two hours' work in, then I checked Rob 
Westerfield's Website. It still had the picture of me shackled to the
bed, and more names had been added to the Committee for Justice
for Rob Westerfield. But nothing had been added to refute my
story of his involvement in the attempted murder of his grandmother.

I took that to be a sign of consternation in the ranks. They were
still debating what to do about it.

At eleven o'clock the phone rang. It was Joan. "Want to have a
quick lunch around one o'clock ?" Joan asked. "I have some errands
to do and just realized I'll be passing your door."

"I can't. I promised to visit Paulie at the hospital at one o'clock,"
I said, then hesitated. "But Joan--"

"What is it, Ellie? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Joan, you told me you have a copy of the obituary
notice my father put in the paper for my mother."

"Yes, I do. I offered to show it to you."

"Can you put your hand on it easily?"


267
"Yes, I can."

"Then if you're passing the inn, would you mind dropping it off
at the desk? I'd really like to see it."
"Consider it done."

WHEN I GOT TO THE HOSPITAL, there was a buzz of activity in
the lobby. I saw a group of reporters and cameramen clustered together
at the far end of the room, and I quickly turned my back to
them.

The woman next to me on the line to get a visitor's pass told me
what had happened. Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield, Rob's grandmother,
had been rushed into the emergency room, suffering from
a heart attack.

Her lawyer had issued a statement to the media that last
evening, as a permanent memorial to her late husband, U. S. Senator
Pearson Westerfield, Mrs. Westerfield had changed her will
and would be leaving her estate to a charitable foundation that
would be charged with dispersing all of it within ten years.

The statement said that the only exceptions were small bequests
to her son, some friends, and longtime employees. Her grandson
was left only one dollar.

"She was very smart, you know," the woman confided to me, "I
heard some reporters talking. Besides her lawyers, she had her pastor,
a judge who is a friend, and a psychiatrist as witnesses that she
was of sound mind and knew exactly what she was doing."

I'm sure that my gossipy informant did not realize that my
Website probably triggered both the will change and the heart attack.
It was a hollow victory for me. I remembered that gracious,
stately woman offering condolences for Andrea's death the day of
the funeral.

I was glad to escape into the elevator before a reporter recognized
me and connected me with the breaking story.

MRS. stroebel was already in the corridor waiting for me. Together
we went into Paulie's room. His bandages were now much
smaller. His eyes were clearer, and his smile was warm and sweet.
"My friend, Ellie," he said. "I can count on you."


"You bet you can."

"I want to go home. I'm tired of being here."

"That's a good sign, Paulie."

"I want to get back to work. Were there many people in for
lunch when you left, Mama?"

"Pretty good crowd," she said soothingly, with a contented
smile.

"You shouldn't be here so much, Mama."

"I won't have to be, Paulie. You'll be home soon." She looked at
me. "We have a little room off the kitchen at the store. Greta has
put a couch and television in there. Paulie can be with us, do whatever
he feels up to in the kitchen, and rest in between."

"Sounds good to me," I told them.

"Now, Paulie, explain what it is that worries you about the
locket you found in Rob Westerfield's car," his mother encouraged.

I simply didn't know what to expect.

"I found the locket and gave it to Rob," Paulie said slowly. "I
told you that, Ellie."

"Yes, you did."

"The chain was broken."

"You told me that, too, Paulie."

"Rob gave me a ten-dollar tip, and I put it with the money I'd
saved for your fiftieth birthday present, Mama."

"That's right, Paulie. That was in May, six months before Andrea
died."

"Yes. And the locket was shaped like a heart, and it was gold
and it had pretty blue stones in the center."



"Yes," I said, hoping to encourage him.

"I saw Andrea wearing it, and I followed her to the garage and
saw Rob go in after her. Later I told her that her father would be
angry, and then I asked her to go to the dance with me."

"That's exactly what you said earlier, Paulie. That's the way it
happened, isn't it?"

"Yes, but something is wrong. You said something, Ellie, that
was wrong."

"Let me think." I tried to reconstruct the conversation as best I
could. "The only thing I remember that you didn't just mention is
that I said Rob didn't even buy Andrea a new locket. He had the
initials of their first names, Rob and Andrea, engraved on a locket
some other girl had probably dropped in his car."

Paulie smiled. "That's it, Ellie. That's what I needed to remember.
Rob didn't have the initials engraved on the locket. They were
already there when I found the locket."

"Paulie, that's impossible. I know Andrea did not meet Rob
Westerfield until October. You found the locket in May."

His expression became stubborn. "Ellie, I remember. I am sure.
I saw them. The initials were already on the locket. It wasn't 'R'
and 'A.' It was 'A' and 'R.' 'A.R.,' in very pretty writing."

43

I LEFT THE HOSPITAL with the sense that events were spinning
out of control. Alfie's story and the diagram I had put on my Website
obviously had the desired effect: Rob Westerfield had been cut
out of his grandmother's will. By doing that, Mrs. Westerfield
might just as well have erected a sign saying, "I believe my only
grandchild planned the attempt on my life."

That heartbreaking realization and painful decision had undoubtedly
caused her to have the massive heart attack. At ninety
two, it seemed unlikely to me that she could possibly survive.

Again I remembered the quiet dignity with which she had
walked out of our house after my father ordered her to leave. He
was the first to humiliate her because of her grandson. Or was he?
Arbinger had been the school that her husband, the senator, had attended.
It seemed doubtful that she would have been unaware of
the reason Rob was asked to leave there.

The fact that she changed the will and took every precaution to
see that it could not be legally challenged meant to me that she not
only believed he had planned the attempt on her life, but also at last
might even be convinced that Rob was responsible for Andrea's
death.

Which of course brought me to the locket.

The locket already had the initials "A" and "R" engraved on it before
Rob met Andrea.

277



That fact was so stunning, so utterly out of context with everything
I had been thinking, that for the first few minutes after I left
Paulie, I had to let it sit in my mind until I could get used to it.

The gray morning had evolved into an equally gray afternoon.
The car was at the far end of the hospital's visitors' parking lot, and
I walked briskly to it, my coat collar turned up as protection against
the damp, cold wind.

I drove out of the hospital grounds and realized that the beginnings
of a headache were being caused by the fact that it
was one-thirty, and the last time I'd eaten was seven-fifteen this
morning.

As I drove, I began looking for a coffee shop or restaurant and
passed several that looked pretty good. The reason I kept passing
them became evident when I rejected still another popular luncheon
spot. It was because being out in public in Oldham made me
feel vulnerable now.

I went back to the inn, glad to be there and equally eager to be
on my way to the anonymity of downtown Manhattan. Mrs. Willis
was at the desk and handed me an envelope. I knew it was the obituary
notice that Joan had left for me.

I took it upstairs, phoned room service, ordered a club sandwich
and tea, and then sat down in the chair that overlooks the Hudson.
It was the kind of view Mother would have loved, with the palisades
rising in the mist, the water gray and restless.
The envelope was sealed. I slit it open.

Joan had clipped the obituary from the Westchester News. It
read:

Cavanaugh: Genine (nee Reid) in Los Angeles, Ca., age 51.
Beloved former wife of Edward and loving mother of
Gabrielle (Ellie) and the late Andrea. She was active in her
church and community, and created a happy and beautiful
home for her family. She will always be missed, always
loved, always remembered.


So Mother wasn't the only one who remembered the good
years, I thought. I had written my father a churlish note to inform
him of Mother's death and to ask if her ashes could be interred in
Andrea's grave.

I'd been so wrapped up in my own pain that it never crossed my
mind that the news of her death might affect him deeply.
I decided the lunch with my father that I'd promised Teddy
would take place sooner rather than later. I put the clipping in my
suitcase. I wanted to pack right away and leave as quickly as possible.
Then the phone rang.

It was Mrs. Hilmer. "Ellie, I don't know if this is helpful at all,
but I remembered where it was that I read a reference to someone
named Phil."

"Where, Mrs. Hilmer? Where did you see it?"

"It was in one of the newspapers you gave me."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I remember because I was reading it when I was
at my granddaughter's house. The baby was asleep, and I was going
through those papers for names of people who still lived around
here whom you might want to interview. And Ellie, as I told you
when we had dinner, reading about the trial brought everything
back, and I was crying. Then I read something about Phil, and that
was very sad, too."

"But you're not sure what it said about him?"

"You see, Ellie, that's why I think that even if I can find the item,
I've probably got the wrong person in mind."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you're looking for a man named Phil. I read something
about a younggirl who died whose family called her 'Phil.' "

I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.

Dear God, I thought, was he talking about a girl?

A young girl who was a homicide victim.

"Mrs. Hilmer, I'm going to read every one of those papers line
by line."

272



273


"That's what I'm doing, Ellie. I'll call you if I come across it."

"And I'll call you if I find it."

I pushed the "end" button to terminate the call, laid the phone
on the night table, and grabbed the duffel bag. I unzipped it, turned
it upside down, and dumped the yellowing, crumbling newspapers
on the bed.

I took the first one that came to my hand, sat down in the chair
that faced the river, and began to read.

The hours passed. Every so often I would get up and stretch. At
four o'clock I sent for tea. Tea peps you up. Hadn't that been the advertising
slogan of one of the tea companies?

It does pep you up. And it helped me to keep focused.

I concentrated intensely, reading line by line the newspapers,
reading again in horrifying detail the story of Andrea's death and
Rob Westerfield's trial.

"A.R." Was the locket totally unimportant after all? No. Absolutely
not. If it was unimportant, Rob would never have taken
the chance of going back for it.

Was "A.R.," the girl who owned the pretty gold locket, yet another
victim of one of his murderous rages?

At six o'clock I took another break and turned on the news.
Mrs. Dorothy Westerfield had expired at 3:30. Neither her son nor
her grandson had been at her bedside.

I went back to reading the papers. At seven o'clock I found it. It
was in the memorial section of the obituary page the day of
Andrea's funeral. It read:

Rayburn, Amy P.

Remembering you today and every day. Happy 18th birthday
in heaven, our darling Phil.
Mom and Dad

"A.R." Did the initials on the locket stand for Amy Rayburn?
Her middle initial had been P. Could it have been Phyllis or
Philomena, shortened to Phil?

I

Paulie had found the locket in early May. Andrea was dead
twenty-three years. If Amy Rayburn had owned the locket, had she
died twenty-three and a half years ago?

I called Marcus Longo, but there was no answer at his home. I
was frantic to have him check Amy Rayburn's name against homicide
reports from that year.

I knew there was a complete Westchester phone book in the
drawer of the night table. I pulled it out, opened it, and turned to
the "R" section.

There were only two Rayburns listed. One lived in Larchmont,
the other in Rye Brook.

I dialed the one in Larchmont. The modulated voice of an older
man answered. There was no way to be indirect. "My name is Ellie
Cavanaugh," I said. "It is necessary for me to speak to the family of
Amy Rayburn, the young woman who died twenty-three years
ago."

"For what reason?" The voice had suddenly become frosty, and
I knew that I had made contact with someone who was at least a
relative of the dead girl.

"Please answer one question of mine," I said, "and then I will
answer all of yours. Was Amy the victim of a homicide?"

"If you do not know that already, you have no business calling
our family."

The phone was slammed down.

I called back, and this time the answering machine picked up.
"My name is Ellie Cavanaugh," I said. "Nearly twenty-three years
ago my fifteen-year-old sister was bludgeoned to death. I believe I
have proof that the man who killed her is also responsible for Phil's
death. Please call me back."

I began to leave my cell phone number, but the phone was
picked up on the other end. "I'm Amy Rayburn's uncle," he said.
"The man who murdered her served eighteen years in prison.
What do you think you're talking about?"
THE MAN I HAD CALLED, David Rayburn, was the uncle of
seventeen-year-old Amy Phyllis Rayburn, who was murdered six
months before Andrea. I told him about Andrea, about Rob West
erfield's confession to a fellow inmate in prison, about Paulie finding
the locket in Rob's car, and about its being taken from Andrea's
body.

He listened, asked questions, then said, "My brother was Phil's

father. That was Amy's nickname in the family and among her
close friends. Let me call him now and give him your number. He'll
want to talk to you."

Then he added, "Phil was about to graduate from high school.
She'd been accepted at Brown. Her boyfriend, Dan Mayotte, always
swore he was innocent. Instead of going to Yale, he spent
eighteen years in prison."

Fifteen minutes later my phone rang. It was Michael Rayburn,
Phil's father. "My brother told me about your call," he said. "I won't
try to describe my emotions or those of my wife at this moment.
Dan Mayotte had been in and out of our home since he was in
kindergarten; we trusted him like a son. We have had to make our
peace with the death of our only child, but to think that Dan may
have been wrongly convicted of her death is almost more than we
can bear. I'm a lawyer, Ms. Cavanaugh. What kind of proof do you
have? My brother talked about a locket."


276

"Mr. Rayburn, did your daughter have a heart-shaped gold
locket with blue stones or gems on the front and her initials on the
back?"

"Let me put my wife on."

From the moment she spoke I admired the composure of Phil's

mother. "Ellie, I remember when your sister died. It was only six
months after we lost Phil."

I described the locket to her.

"That has to be Phil's locket. It was one of those inexpensive
trinkets you pick up at a shopping mall. She loved that kind of jewelry
and had several chains with any number of pendants she'd slip
on them. She would wear two or three at the same time. I don't
know if she was wearing the locket the night she was murdered. I
never missed it."

"Do you think you might have a picture of Phil wearing it?"

"She was our only child, so we were always taking pictures of
her," Mrs. Rayburn said, and now I could hear tears in her voice.
"She was fond of the locket. That's why she had it engraved. I'm
sure I can find a picture of her wearing it."

Her husband took the phone from her. "Ellie, from what you
told my brother, I understand that the convict who says he heard
Westerfield confess to my daughter's murder is missing."

"Yes, he is."

"I have never in my heart believed that Dan could attack Phil so
violently. He wasn't a violent person, and I know he loved her. But
as I understand it, there is no hard-and-fast proof to actually tie
Westerfield to Phil's death."

"No, there isn't, at least not yet. Maybe it's too soon to go to the
district attorney with what I know, but if you tell me the circumstances
of your daughter's murder and why Dan Mayotte was
charged and convicted, I can put it out there on the Website and see
if it brings in more information. Can you do that?"

"Ellie, we've been living that nightmare for twenty-three years.
I can tell you everything about it."

'

277


"Believe me, I understand. The nightmare that my family endured
broke up my parents' marriage, eventually killed my mother,
and has tortured me for more than twenty years. So, yes, I understand
that you're always living it."

"I'm sure you do. Dan and Phil had quarreled and hadn't seen
each other in a week. He did tend to be jealous, and Phil had told us
that the week before, when they were buying sodas and candy in
the lobby before a movie, some guy started talking to her, and Dan
got angry. She never described the guy or mentioned his name.

"She and Dan didn't speak for a week after that. Then one day
she went to the local pizza parlor with some of her girlfriends. Dan
came in with some of his friends and went over to Phil. They talked
and I guess began to make up. Those kids were crazy about each
other.

"Then Dan spotted the guy who'd been flirting with Phil in the
movies. He was standing at the counter."

"Did Dan describe him?"

"Yes. Good-looking, about twenty years old, dark blond hair.
Dan said that at the refreshment stand of the movie house, he'd
overheard him tell Phil that his name was Jim."

Jim! I thought. That had to be one of the times Rob Westerfield
was wearing his dark blond wig and was calling himself Jim.

"Seeing the guy there at the pizza parlor made Dan jealous all
over again. He said that he accused Phil of planning to meet Jim
there. She denied it and said she hadn't even noticed he was in the
place. After that, she got up and stalked out. Everyone could see
that she and Dan were angry with each other.

"Phil was wearing a new jacket that night. When she was found
there were traces of dog hairs on it that came from Dan's Irish terrier.
Of course she'd been in his car many times, but because that
jacket was brand-new, the hairs were proof that she'd been in his
car after she left the pizza parlor."

"Did Dan deny that Phil got in his car?"

"Never. He said he persuaded her to get in and talk things over.


But when he told her it was too much of a coincidence for him to
believe that Jim just happened to be in the pizza parlor, she got sore
at him again and got out of the car. She told him that she was going
back to her friends and for him to get lost. According to him, she
slammed the car door and started to walk from the parking lot,
heading back to the restaurant. Dan admitted he was furious and
said that he gunned the engine and took off.

"Phil never made it to the restaurant. When it started to get late
and she hadn't come home, we called the friends she'd gone out
with.'

Mother and Daddy called Andrea's friends.. ..

"They told us she was with Dan. At first we were relieved, of
course. We thought the world of him and were glad they'd made
up. But hours passed, and when he finally did get home, Dan
claimed that he'd left Phil in the parking lot and she was going
back to the restaurant. The next day her body was found."

Michael Rayburn's voice broke. "She died of multiple fractures
of the skull. Her face wasn't recognizable."

I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.

"Dan admitted that he'd been angry and upset after she got out
of his car. He said he drove around for an hour or so, then parked
near the lake and just sat there for a long time. But he had no one to
back up his story. No one had seen him, and Phil's body was found
in a wooded area about a mile from the lake."

"Didn't anyone else see Jim at the pizza parlor?"

"People said they remembered a guy there with dark blond
hair. But he apparently didn't talk to anybody, and nobody noticed
when he left. Dan was convicted and sent to prison. It broke his
mother's heart. She'd raised him alone, and, sadly, she died much
too young and never lived to see him paroled."

My mother died much too young as well, I thought.

"Where is Dan now?" I asked.

"He got his college degree in prison instead of at Yale. I've
heard he works as a counselor to former inmates. I never in my



279


heart really believed he could do that to Phil. If it turns out that
your theory is right, then I owe him a profound apology."

Rob Westerfield owes him a lot more than an apology, I
thought. He owes him eighteen years--and the life he should have
lived.

"When are you going to put this on your Website, Ellie?
Michael Rayburn asked.

"As soon as I can write it. That should take about an hour."

"Then I won't keep you. We'll be looking for it. Let me know if
any new information comes in."

I KNEW that I was already in jeopardy from the Westerfields and
that by mounting this new assault I was being downright reckless.
I didn't care.

When I thought of all the victims Rob Westerfield had claimed,
I became enraged.

Phil, an only child.

Dan, his life destroyed.

The Rayburns.

Dan's mother.

Rob's grandmother.

Our family.

I started Phil's story with the headline: "WESTCHESTER DISTRICT
attorney, take note!"

My fingers flew over the keyboard. At nine o'clock it was finished. I read it over once and, with grim satisfaction, sent it to the
Website.

I knew I had to clear out of the inn. I closed the computer,
packed in five minutes, and went downstairs.

I was at the desk, paying my bill, when my cell phone rang.

I thought it might be Marcus Longo, but it was a woman with a
Hispanic accent who responded to my quick greeting.

"Ms. Cavanaugh?"

280

"Yes.

"I have been watching your Website. My name is Rosita Juarez.
I was housekeeper for Rob Westerner's parents from the time he

was ten years old until he went to prison. He is a very bad person."
I gripped the phone and pressed it closer to my ear. This woman
had been the housekeeper at the time Rob committed both murders!
What did she know? She sounded frightened. Don't let her
hang up, I prayed.

I tried to make my voice sound calm. "Yes, Rob is a very bad
person, Rosita."

"He looked down on me. He made fun of the way I talk. He
was always nasty and rude to me. That's why I want to help you."

"How can you help me, Rosita?"

"You are right. Rob used to wear a blond wig. When he put it
on, he would say to me, "My name is Jim, Rosita. That shouldn't be
too hard even for you to remember."

"You saw him put on the wig?"

"I have the wig." There was sly triumph in the woman's voice.
"His mother used to get very upset when he wore the wig and
called himself Jim, and one day she threw it in the garbage. I don't
know why I did it, but I took it out and brought it home. I knew it
was expensive, and I thought maybe I could sell it. But I put it in a
box in the closet and forgot all about it until you wrote about it on
your Website."

"I'd like to have that wig, Rosita. I'll be glad to buy it from you."

"No, you don't have to buy it. Will it help to make people believe
that he killed that girl, Phil?"

"I believe it would. Where do you live, Rosita?"

"In Phillipstown."

Phillipstown was actually part of Cold Spring, not more than
ten miles away.

"Rosita, may I come and get the wig from you now?"

"I'm not sure."

She was starting to sound worried.

281



"Why not, Rosita?"

"Because my apartment is in a two-story house, and my landlady
sees everything. I don't want anyone to see you here. I am
afraid of Rob Westerfield."

For the moment all I cared about was getting my hands on the
wig. Later, if Rob was put on trial for Phil's death, I would try to
persuade Rosita to be a witness.

Before I could try to convince her, she volunteered, "I live only a
few minutes from the Phillipstown Hotel. If you want, I could
drive there and meet you at the back entrance."

"I can be there in twenty minutes," I said. "No, make it half an
hour."

"I will be there. Will the wig help to put Rob in jail?"

"I'm sure it will."

"Good!"

I could hear the satisfaction in Rosita's voice. She had found a
way to get back at the nasty teenager whose insults she had endured
for nearly a decade.
I rushed to finish paying my bill and quickly put my bags in
the car.

Six minutes later I was on my way to acquire the tangible proof
that Rob Westerfield had owned and worn a dark blond wig.

I was hoping that samples of Rob's DNA would still be lingering
within it. That would be definitive proof that the wig had belonged
to him.


were none. Frustrated and furious at myself, I jammed on the
brakes--a stupid thing to do, because I started to skid. I managed
to straighten out the car and carefully began to make a U-turn. In
that instant a red dome light went on behind me and blinding
headlights flashed in my eyes. I stopped the car, and what appeared
to be a police van pulled up beside me.

Thank God! I thought. I rolled down the window to ask the
cop to please give me directions to the Phillipstown Hotel.

The window of the van rolled down as well, and the man in the
passenger seat turned to face me.

Though there was no light directly on his face, I saw immediately
that it was Rob Westerfield, and he was wearing a dark blond
wig. With an unmistakable Hispanic accent, and with his voice
pitched to sound like a woman, he mockingly called, "He was
nasty to me. He made fun of the way I talk. He told me to call
him Jim."

My heart almost stopped. Horrified, I realized that Rob, pretending
to be Rosita, had made the phone call to lure me out. Past
him I could just make out the face of the driver--it was the man
who had threatened me in the parking lot of the railroad station
near Sing Sing prison.

Frantically, I looked around for a way out. I could not get around them. My only hope was to straighten out the car, floor the
gas pedal, and keep driving blindly ahead. I had no idea where the
road might lead. As I accelerated, I saw that there were woods on
both sides of me and that the road was steadily narrowing. The
tires were slipping, causing the back of the car to fishtail.

I knew I could not outrun them. I could only pray that I would
not end up in a cul-de-sac, that this road might take me toward
some kind of highway.

They had turned off the dome light, but their bright headlights
were still shining straight into my rearview mirror. Then they
began to toy with me.

They pulled up on my left, and the van slammed into the side of

285


the car. The door behind the driver's seat took the impact, and I

heard grinding steel as the car lurched and my head banged into
the steering wheel.

They dropped back as I skidded from side to side, trying now to
stay in the middle of the road. I knew I was bleeding from a cut on
my forehead, but I managed to hang on to the wheel and keep the
car on the road.

Then suddenly they shot by me, angling in front of me and tearing
the fender off my car as they hit me again. I could hear the fender scraping and dragging as I struggled to stay on the road,
praying that soon I'd come upon an intersection or at least see another
car coming toward me.

But there were no other cars, and I sensed that a third attack
was coming. Clearly they would aim to make it the final one. As the
road curved sharply, they slowed and moved fully into the left lane.
I hesitated briefly, then accelerated, hoping to break ahead of them
again. However, they quickly pulled up even with me again.

For a split second I glanced at them. The interior light was on in
the van, and I could see that Rob was waving something at me.

It was a tire jack.

With a final burst of speed, the van cut sharply to the right, directly
into my path, forcing my car off the road. Helplessly, I tried
to turn the wheel, but I felt the tires losing traction. The car went
into a spin and then tumbled down the sloping embankment, heading
toward a wall of trees thirty feet away.

I managed to hang on to the steering wheel as the car turned
over several times. I covered my face with my hands as the car, right
side up again, slammed into a tree and the windshield shattered.

The sound of crashing metal and glass had been deafening, and
the sudden silence that followed was ghostly.

My shoulder hurt. My hands were bleeding. My head was
throbbing. But I could tell that by some miracle I had not been seriously
injured.

The final impact had caused the driver's door to spring open,

and sleet was pelting at me from every side. The cold sting against
my face may have kept me from losing consciousness, and suddenly

my brain felt clear. It was totally dark, and for a moment, I felt extraordinary
relief. I thought that when they saw my car tumbling
down the side of the road, they decided that I was finished and had
driven away.

But then I became aware that I was not alone. Nearby I heard
harsh, labored breathing, followed by the high choking sound that
as a child I had described as a giggle.

Rob Westerfield was out there in the dark, waiting for me, just
as he had waited for Andrea nearly twenty-three years ago in the
darkness of the garage-hideout.

The first blow of the tire jack missed me and hit the headrest
behind me. I clawed at the clasp of the seat belt and managed to release
it.
As I scrambled over to the passenger side, the second blow came
so close that I felt it graze my hair.

Andrea, Andrea, this is the way it was for you. Oh, God, please . . .
please help me. . . .

I think we both heard it at the same time, a car roaring around
that last bend in the road. Its headlights must have caught the
wreckage of my car, because it turned and came rushing down the
slope to where I was trapped.

Rob Westerfield, the tire jack in his hand, was illuminated in
the glare. But so was I, and now he could see exactly where I was.

Snarling, he twisted around and turned back toward me. He
leaned inside the car until his face was only inches from mine. I
tried to push him away as he raised the tire jack, about to smash it
over my head.

I heard the scream of sirens filling the air as I shielded my head
with my arms and waited for the blow to land. I wanted to close my
eyes, but I could not.

I heard the thud before I saw the look of shock and pain on
Westerfield's face. The tire jack fell from his hand onto the seat be

(
287



side me as he was suddenly thrust forward and disappeared. Unbelieving,
I stared out.

The car that had driven down the slope was filling the space
where he had stood. The driver had seen what was happening and
had done the only thing possible to save my life: He had crashed his
car into Rob Westerfield.

As the blazing lights of the police cars turned the area into virtual
daytime, I looked into the faces of my rescuers.

My father was driving the car that had hit Rob Westerfield. My
brother was beside him. On Daddy's face I saw again the agonized
expression that I remembered from when he knew he had lost his
other little girl.

One Year Later

I OFTEN LOOK BACK and realize how close I came that terrible
night to sharing my sister's fate. From the time I left the inn, Dad
and Teddy had been following me from a distance. They had seen
what they believed to be a police van behind my car and assumed
that I had finally requested protection.

However, they lost me when I veered off the highway, and Dad
called the Phillipstown police to be sure the van had stayed with me.

That was when he learned that I had no official escort. The police
told Dad where I probably had taken the wrong turn and
promised immediate response.

Dad told me that when he came around the turn, the driver of
Westerfield's van had started to pull away. He'd been about to follow
him, but Teddy spotted the wreckage of my car. Teddy--the
brother who never would have been born if Andrea had lived-- saved my life, I often reflect on that irony.

Both of Rob Westerfield's legs were broken when he was hit by
Dad's car, but they mended in time for him to walk into court for
his two trials.

The District Attorney for Westchester County immediately reopened
the investigation into Phil's death. He obtained a search
warrant for Rob's new apartment and found a cache of his trophies,
mementos of his hideous crimes. God knows where he had them
stashed while he was in prison.


Rob had kept an album containing clippings of newspaper stories
about both Andrea and Phil, starting from the time their bodies
were found. The clippings were in sequence, and next to them
were pictures of Andrea and Phil, photographs of the crime scenes,
the funerals, and the other people caught up in the tragedies, including
Paulie Stroebel and Dan Mayotte.

On each page Rob had written comments, cruel and sarcastic
commentary on his actions and the people he hurt. There was one
picture of Dan Mayotte on the witness stand swearing that a guy
named Jim with dark blond hair had been flirting with Phil in the
lobby of the movie theater. Next to it Rob had written, "I could tell
she was crazy about me. Jim gets all the girls."

Rob had been wearing the dark blond wig when he pursued
me. But the most telling proof of his guilt in Phil's death was that he
had kept her locket; it was pasted on the last page of the album. The
caption under it read: "Thanks, Phil. Andrea loved it."

The district attorney requested the criminal court judge to vacate
Dan Mayotte's conviction and to schedule a different trial: The
People vs. Robson Westerfield. The charge was murder.

I saw the locket exhibited at the trial, and my mind flew back to
that last evening in Andrea's bedroom when, close to tears, she had
slipped it around her neck.

Dad was sitting next to me in court and closed his hand over
mine. "You were always right about the locket, Ellie," he whispered.

Yes, I was, and at last I have made my peace with the fact that,
because I saw her wearing it and believed she had gone to the hideout
to meet Rob, I did not immediately tell my parents when she
was missing. It may already have been too late to save her, but it is
time to relinquish the possibility that it may not have been too late,
and to stop letting it haunt me.

Robson Westerfield was convicted of the murder of Amy Phyllis
Rayburn.

297


In a second trial Rob and his driver were convicted of attempted
murder for their attack on me.

Rob Westerfield's sentences are consecutive. If he lives another
113 years, he will be eligible for parole. As he was being escorted
out of the courtroom, after the second sentencing, he stopped for a
moment to check his watch against the courtroom clock. Then he
adjusted it.

"Don't bother," I said to myself. "Time has no meaning for you
anymore."

Will Nebels, when confronted with the evidence of Wester
field's guilt, admitted that he had been approached by Hamilton
and offered a bribe to lie about seeing Paulie go into the garage that
night. William Hamilton, disbarred attorney, is now serving his
own prison term.

My book was rushed out for publication in the spring and did
very well. The other book--the sanitized version of Rob Wester
field's sorry life--was withdrawn. Pete introduced me to the
Packard Cable executives, and they offered me a job as an investigative
reporter. It seemed like a good opportunity. Some things
never change. I report to Pete.

But that's fine. We were married three months ago in the St.
Christopher Chapel at Graymoor. Dad gave the bride away.

Pete and I bought a house in Cold Spring overlooking the Hudson.
We use it on weekends. I never tire of the view--that majestic
river framed by the palisades. My heart has finally found its home,
the home I have been seeking all these years.

I see Dad regularly. We both feel the need to make up for lost
time. Teddy's mother and I have become good friends. Sometimes
we all go up to see Teddy at college. He's on the freshman basketball
team at Dartmouth. I am so proud of him.

The circle has taken a long time to close. But it has closed, and
for that I am deeply grateful.