Daddy's Little Girl Page 9

  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 began 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 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.

  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 her 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, “Ellie, 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, 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 know 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 could discern from quick glances, most of them were former school 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, formal 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.

  “M
r. 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. “Were there problems there?”

  “None reported to us, except perhaps a peculiarly absent—or listless—endorsement from his teachers and guidance counselor.”

  “And the science lab here needed rebuilding?”

  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 sophomore 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 telephone 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 Boston.

  “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 young 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 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 Westerfield 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 chef’s 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.”