Daddy's Little Girl Page 13

  * * *

  THE GLOBE had obviously been enlarged and updated since I was a child. It now had seven different films being shown. The lobby held a large, circular service counter where brisk sales in candy, popcorn, and sodas were being made.

  Even though the early viewers were just arriving, the lobby floor was already beginning to be littered with kernels of popcorn that had spilled from the tops of overfilled paper cones.

  I bought Peanut Chews—my favorite candy—and went into cinema 3, which was where the film I’d selected was being shown. It turned out to be not nearly the ballyhooed sensation (“Now! At last! The picture you’ve been waiting for!”) I’d expected, but mostly a mildly entertaining story about a woman who takes on the world, is vilified, and then, of course, conquers all and finds true love and happiness in the husband she’d kicked out three years earlier.

  If they’re that hard up for ideas, maybe I can sell them the story of my life, I thought as my attention continued to wander. My life minus the love interest, of course.

  I was seated between two couples, senior citizens on my right, teenagers on my left. The teenagers passed the bag of popcorn back and forth, and the girl kept up a running commentary on the film.

  She used to be my favorite actress, but now I don’t think she’s as good as . . .

  There was no use trying to pay attention to what was happening on the screen. It wasn’t just the kids and the popcorn and the play-by-play comments, or even the slight snore of the elderly man next to me, who by then had dozed off.

  I was distracted by the fact that twenty-two years ago Rob Westerfield claimed to be in this theater while Andrea was being murdered, and no one could verify that he’d actually stayed to see the picture. Even with all the publicity the case engendered, not one person ever came forward and said, “He was sitting next to me.”

  Oldham was a fairly small town at that time, and the Westerfields were well known. Certainly Rob Westerfield, with his good looks and rich-boy attitude, was high profile enough to be known around town. As I sat there in that darkened movie house, I visualized him parking in the service station lot next door.

  He had claimed that he spoke to Paulie Stroebel, that he told him he was leaving his car. Paulie absolutely denied that Rob spoke to him.

  Then Rob made a point of talking to the ticket seller and to the ticket taker, saying something about how much he was looking forward to the film. “Real friendly,” they both testified on the stand, their voices tinged with surprise. Rob Westerfield was not known for being friendly, especially to the working class.

  He could easily have established his presence in the theater and then slipped out. I had rented the movie The Guerrilla Jungle Lord that he claimed to have seen that night. There are plenty of early scenes where the screen is so dark that someone in an end seat could easily have left without being seen. I looked around, noticed the several side exits that are only supposed to be used in emergencies, and decided to try something.

  I got up, mumbled an apology for waking my sleeping neighbor, climbed over his wife, and made my way to the side exit near the back of the room.

  The door opened quietly, and I found myself in a sort of alleyway between a bank and the cinema complex. Years ago, the service station, not the bank, had been here. I have copies of the diagrams and photographs that the newspapers printed during the trial, so I remembered the layout of the service station.

  The enclosed garage where Paulie had been working was behind the gas pumps and faced Main Street. The parking area, where cars waiting to be serviced were kept, was behind the station. That area is now a parking lot for bank customers.

  I walked down the alley, mentally replacing the bank with the service station. I could even visualize where Rob claimed he had parked his car and where it supposedly sat until the film was over at nine-thirty.

  Somehow my footsteps became his, and I was in his mind—angry, bad-tempered, thwarted when the girl he thought he had under his thumb phoned to tell him she had a date with someone else.

  Never mind that the someone else was Paulie Stroebel.

  Meet Andrea. Show her who’s boss.

  Why did he take the tire jack into the hideout? I asked myself.

  There were two possible reasons. One was that he was afraid that my father had learned Andrea was planning to meet him. I have no doubt that my father would have loomed in Rob’s mind as a frightening and formidable figure.

  The other reason was that Rob took the tire jack with him because he was planning to kill Andrea.

  Fraidy cat. Fraidy cat. Oh, God, how terrified the poor kid must have been when she saw him coming at her, saw him lift his arm, brandishing that weapon. . . .

  I turned and literally ran back to the other end of the alley where it joined the street. Gulping for air—because for a moment I had literally felt unable to breathe—I steadied myself and walked to my car. I’d left it in the cinema parking lot on the other side of the complex.

  The air was still clear, but like last night, a sharp wind had blown up and the temperature was dropping rapidly. I shivered and quickened my steps.

  When I’d looked up the film schedule, I noticed an ad for a restaurant, Villa Cesaere, not far from the theater. The ad had made it sound like the kind of place I enjoyed, so I decided to give it a try. I knew I wanted pasta, and the spicier the better. Maybe shrimp fra diavolo, I decided.

  I simply had to get rid of the terrible inner chill that was overwhelming me.

  * * *

  AT NINE-FIFTEEN, fed and feeling somewhat better, I turned the car off the street and onto Mrs. Hilmer’s property. Her house was in darkness, and the light at the door of the garage made for a feeble welcome.

  I brought the car to a sudden stop. Something was urging me to turn around, to go to an inn or motel and spend the night there. I simply hadn’t realized how insecure I would feel here tonight. I’ll leave tomorrow, I thought. One more night here won’t be so bad. As soon as I’m in the apartment, I’ll be all right.

  Of course, even that rationalization didn’t make sense. While I was having dinner with Mrs. Hilmer the other evening, someone had been in the apartment. But somehow I didn’t think I would find anyone waiting for me there now. My current sense of uneasiness came more from the prospect of being alone outside, so near the woods, if only for a few moments.

  I turned the headlights on bright and drove slowly down the driveway. I had been carrying the duffel bag containing the trial transcript, newspapers, and my mother’s jewelry in the trunk of the car all day. When I left the restaurant, I moved the bag from the trunk to the front seat so that once back at the apartment I wouldn’t have to stand outside while I retrieved it.

  Now I carefully scanned the area around the garage. There was no one there.

  I took a deep breath, picked up the duffel bag, got out of the car, and hurried the few steps to the door.

  Before I could insert the key in the lock, a car roared down the driveway and screeched to a stop. A man jumped out and lunged at me.

  I stood frozen, sure I was about to see Rob Westerfield’s face and hear the giggle-like sound he’d made as I was kneeling over Andrea’s body.

  But then a flashlight shone on me, and as he came closer, I could see that the man was wearing a uniform and that it was Officer White.

  “I was given to understand that you’d moved, Ms. Cavanaugh,” he said, his tone decidedly unfriendly. “What are you doing here?”

  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 à 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 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.

  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 ear-splitting 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? For a 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 roo
m. 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 Bigbottom 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.”