Daddy's Little Girl Read online

  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 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.”

  “The first 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.

  29

  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.

  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 genuine 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 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 po
ur 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 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 collect 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 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 Westerfields 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.”

  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. West-erfield 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 h
e 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 Westerfield 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.