by B. T. Lord
“When you leave the dining room, take a left,” Shirley directed.
Cammie came out into the hallway and breathed a sigh of relief. The tension in the dining room was excruciating. She wished she could leave and get a burger anywhere in the city, but there was no sense making a volatile situation even more volatile by sneaking out the front door without saying good-bye. Nor could she, in good conscience, abandon Doc. Even if he was enjoying goading his father over what would happen to Helen’s remains.
Shaking her head at the sheer exhaustion caused by Doc and Westerfield’s battle of one-upsmanship, she walked down the corridor and found the bathroom. Unfortunately, it was still occupied by Bitsy and her princess bladder.
Having to really go now, Cammie searched around, but couldn’t find either another bathroom or someone to ask where another was located. With her bladder ready to burst, she had no choice but to run upstairs, hoping to find one at the top of the stairs.
She immediately found herself surrounded by bedrooms. Guessing that each bedroom had its own bathroom, she pointed to each one.
Eenie, meenie, miney, mo. To whose luxurious bathroom will I go?
She chose the bedroom to her immediate left. Entering, she clicked her tongue. Of course she’d chosen Westerfield’s bedroom. The dark wood and masculine décor was a dead giveaway that this was his. She quickly found the bathroom, impressed by the huge step in tub and multi jet shower. The vanity was of a rich mahogany with a porcelain bowl atop it as his sink. After taking care of business, she was about to dash back downstairs when she paused. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she’d never get a chance like this again. And she wasn’t being nosy. She was investigating.
Making sure there was no one around, she opened the medicine cabinet and began to poke around. It was filled with the usual male toiletries. However, when she moved aside his electric razor, she saw a prescription bottle. Taking a tissue, she moved the bottle towards her so she could read the label. It had been recently filled by a doctor at Mass General, one of the most prodigious hospitals in the country. She raised an eyebrow when she saw it was for lithium.
“Interesting,” she whispered aloud before she faced the bottle back the way she’d found it. Making sure nothing was amiss, she hurried out of the bedroom and down the stairs. As she neared the dining room, she heard the sound of raised voices.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
Doc and Westerfield were at it. By the sounds of the argument, it was a no holds barred, wipe up the floor with each other type of argument. She stood just outside the door and listened.
“I specifically asked Cammie to come here as my friend. There was never any ulterior motive.”
“She’s certainly acting as though she’s investigating. Imagine, asking us all these personal questions. Unless she is simply satisfying a puerile curiosity about our family,” Westerfield answered.
“She is an excellent police officer who, I will admit, sometimes allows her investigative curiosity to get the better of her. However, if there is anyone who could solve this mystery, it would be her. And you would be lucky if she were so inclined to involve herself, since I would like to think you and Lily want nothing more than to discover who murdered her mother and your sister.”
“You honestly believe I don’t want Helen’s murderer caught?”
“I believe your priority is making sure this family is left alone by the media. Catching Helen’s murderer is an afterthought.”
“I should have known only someone of your ilk would ever say such a horrendous thing.”
There was a long pause. Then in a frostbitten voice, she heard Doc reply, “My ilk?”
It was time to get in there. She entered the room just in time to see Doc standing, his face purple with anger. Westerfield remained seated, but the hatred and rage in their eyes as they stared at each other said everything.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Westerfield seethed.
Barely keeping control of his emotions, Doc carefully placed his napkin down next to his plate.
“You mean someone who is not ashamed of their sexuality, despite your outdated, ignorant prejudice? Thankfully I do not need to spend another minute under this roof suffering from your insults and petty narrow mindedness. Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mother. But I must take my leave.” Doc turned on his heel and swept out of the room, almost knocking Cammie over as she stood in the doorway.
Aghast at the confrontation, she turned to Westerfield. “You’re being unfair, Mr. Westerfield. Samuel loved his aunt deeply. Her death was a tragedy and one he’s having trouble coming to terms with.”
An icy glower met her words. “Of course,” he spat out before uttering a cold laugh. “I’m afraid, Ms. Farnsworth that, after what I’ve seen of your investigative skills, the murder of my sister will never be solved.” Getting to his feet, he too left the room.
There was something in the words Westerfield used that sent alarm bells ringing in Cammie’s gut. “What did he mean by that?” she asked, looking at the two women. Bitsy and Shirley refused to meet her eye. Instead, Shirley turned in her seat towards the maid, who stood trembling by the sideboard.
“Kindly take the elk back to the kitchen. I don’t believe any of us have an appetite to eat it tonight.” This time, she turned to Cammie. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior. He and Samuel…well…”
“They’re oil and vinegar,” Bitsy finished for her.
Cammie saw she wasn’t going to get any answers from the two women. “I’m going to find Samuel,” she replied tersely.
She walked out of the dining room and was about to head down the long corridor towards the front door when she heard the sound of raised voices coming from Westerfield’s library. Crap, the old man was worse than a leech latched onto a host. Angry that he wasn’t letting up in his persecution of Doc, she was about to storm in when the door suddenly flew open and Doc stomped out.
“Doc, wait!” she cried out, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he hurried down the corridor and out the front door. Cammie had no choice but to follow him.
The night air was cool and refreshing as Cammie ran outside. She looked up and down Mount Vernon Street, its old fashioned streetlamps casting a yellowish hue over the surroundings.
Squinting in the gloom, she saw a shadow halfway down the block. Guessing it was Doc, and knowing how fast he normally walked, she sprinted after him, careful not to break her ankle on the uneven sidewalks.
The back of his jacket came into view, then disappeared as he turned the corner. Thank goodness she’d insisted on low heels, or she would have lost him a long time ago.
She turned onto Joy Street, noticing the name long enough to realize what a misnomer that was after what she’d just witnessed. There was anything but joy at the Westerfield home or between Doc and his father.
She saw him cross the street and continue down Joy Street until ducking into what she thought was an alleyway. She frowned as she jogged after him. Just where the hell was he going?
Reaching a red brick building, she noticed a plaque on its side announcing that this was the African Meeting House, built in 1806 to house the first African Baptist Church of Boston. It was now the oldest extant black church building in America, and a popular tourist attraction.
She stood there scratching her head as she caught her breath. Why would Doc come here? It made no sense. She was about to move on, wondering if she’d misjudged his direction when she noticed an opening that could be the alleyway she thought she’d seen him take. It was dark, with just one light illuminating what looked like a courtyard.
Venturing inside, she caught her breath as she found herself in a small, intimate garden. Underneath an ancient tree was a bench where she could just make out the seated figure of Doc. He had his elbows on his knees and he was staring into space. The sound of her heels sounded absurdly loud as she approached and sat down next to him. Not wishing to further disturb the serene silence, she sat back, taking a moment t
o enjoy this lovely oasis in the middle of a large, bustling city.
“This is where I used to come whenever I had any disagreements with Father,” Doc suddenly said as he continued to stare into the dark.
“You must have been asked to pay rent then,” Cammie gently joked.
Doc shook his head, then pushing his wire framed glasses atop his head, covered his eyes with his hands.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to live your life as though you’re always on the outside looking in? To constantly feel as though you don’t belong? That no matter what you do, you will never fit in? You will never be accepted?” He removed his hands and looked up at the entrance to the church. “Maybe this is why this place always drew me in. It was built by free black men as a place where they could belong, where they could share in their culture and beliefs without interference. Without condemnation. Where they could be who they were without judgment by their white neighbors.” He sat back on the bench. “I spent years trying to please him. To be what he wanted me to be. I even denied I was gay to make him happy. I turned my back on potential relationships with good, caring men because I knew being in their company would upset him. Instead, to satisfy his vision of what his son should be, I allowed him to talk me into marrying four times. Four miserable, disheartening and soul crushing relationships that left all of us reeling with dissatisfaction and disgust. And after all that, it still wasn’t enough.” He took a halting breath. “It was never enough.”
Doc’s face was in the shadows, but Cammie knew there were tears in his eyes. She heard them in his voice. Her first impulse was to throw her arms around him and comfort him and tell him that although she hadn’t been through what he’d been through, she still understood misery and betrayal and soul crushing liaisons that left one wondering if it was worth going on. She knew what it was to put on a façade so the world couldn’t see the truth behind the mask. But as much as Doc may have hated his father, there was still too much of the ingrained revulsion of emotional display in him. She wasn’t sure how hugging him would make him feel. And now was not the time to find out. Instead, she reached out and placed her hand over his. He turned his palm up and grasped her fingers tightly.
“You’re a good friend, Cammie,” he replied. “You didn’t deserve to be subjected to his poison. I was mad to accept that dinner invitation. I knew how it would end. The same way all dinners with him have ended since I decided to live my life my way and not allow him to browbeat me any further.” He glanced at her through the gloomy darkness. “Let me guess. After I left, he insulted you in some way.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I-” His voice caught and he struggled to get it under control. “I’m sorry.”
Cammie shrugged. “Don’t be. He’s the asshole, not you. And I made it a policy a long time ago not to pay attention to assholes.”
Doc looked at her, then unexpectedly started to laugh. “You’re right. He is an asshole.”
The laughter seemed to do him good and Cammie felt him relax. Still holding onto her hand, he stood up. “Let’s take a walk. There’s nothing more beautiful than a Boston evening in spring time with a lovely lady by one’s side.”
To Cammie’s surprise, he pulled her to her feet. Taking her arm and intertwining it with his, they left the garden and slowly strolled through the streets of Beacon Hill. She was shocked to discover that Doc really did know how to walk slowly.
The night was perfect, with a soft breeze blowing up now and then, accompanied by the muted sounds of passing traffic. They skirted the Boston Common, where centuries before the townspeople had let their cattle graze, and where the first voices in the cause of independence were raised. They passed nineteenth century townhouses that looked out over the Common where once the rich had lived and where now their luxurious rooms were turned into business offices and condominiums. Doc remained silent until they arrived at the corner of Charles and Beacon Street.
“Do you know, I didn’t realize until this visit to Boston, how much Twin Ponds has become home to me,” he replied as he looked down the row of old fashioned street lamps that illuminated the stores and quaint restaurants along Charles Street.
“Even though you constantly complain about the cold and snow?” Cammie asked teasingly.
“My complaining is part of my mystique, haven’t you figured that out yet?” he teased back.
She knew it was also part of his defense mechanism, but refrained from saying so. Doc was relaxed, seemingly having left the distress of the family dinner behind. She watched as he shook his head in amazement. “Imagine, finding a little piece of paradise in a tiny town no one’s ever heard of, surrounded by trees, trees and more trees. I feel more myself there than anywhere else I’ve ever been.”
“That’s because no one there needs to judge you or feel superior to you. The townspeople love you because you are you. Maybe that’s why your aunt chose to live in Allagash. Maybe that was her little piece of paradise.”
“I believe you’re right.”
They walked a little further, turning into the Boston Public Garden.
The Public Garden, a park adjacent to the Common, was established in 1837 as the first public botanical garden in the United States. A favorite among Bostonians and visitors alike, it boasted a beautiful lagoon where the famous Swan Boats could be rented on a summer’s afternoon. The daffodils and other early blooming plants were already on display, their colors muted by the darkness of night.
As they passed by the famous statue of George Washington on horseback, Cammie decided to share with Doc what she’d found back at the Westerfield mansion. It was eating away at her and she wanted his opinion.
“I hate to bring this up, but I sort of have a confession to make.”
“Please don’t tell me you stole the family silver when you went to the bathroom.”
“Nothing that bad. But I did do a bit of snooping. Okay, okay,” she replied when she saw his look. “So I am a bit nosy. Okay, a lot nosy. But you just never know what you’re going to discover.”
“And what did you discover?”
By the tone of his voice, she knew he wasn’t angry. On the contrary. He seemed intrigued.
“I couldn’t use the bathroom on the main floor because Bitsy was using it. And I really had to go. So I went upstairs and went into the first bedroom I saw. Of course it had to be your father’s.”
Doc raised an eyebrow. “You actually used Father’s bathroom?”
She shrugged. “When you gotta go…”
“So what did you find in his medicine cabinet?”
Cammie chuckled. “You know me too well, don’t you?”
“It’s exactly what I would have done.”
“I found a recently filled prescription bottle filled with lithium pills.” She met his eyes. “That’s what’s prescribed for severe bipolar symptoms, isn’t it?” He nodded. “That would help explain his abrupt mood swing at dinner. One minute he was tearing you apart and the next minute he was praising this Marion who wants to leave the Symphony.”
Doc nodded. “Many people begin to feel better and think they don’t need the medicine anymore, so they take themselves off it.”
“Did you know he was bipolar?”
“No. But I’ve suspected it for years. You can only imagine what it was like before lithium.”
“When I told your father about the love letter, did you notice he never asked for Rob’s last name?”
“I can’t say that I did.”
“If it were anyone else, the first thing they would have asked is if Rob wrote down his last name. But your father didn’t. I guarantee you he knows exactly who this Rob is. After you left, he said that after witnessing my investigative skills, I’d never find out what happened to Helen.” Doc cursed under his breath. “No, it was more than an insult. There was something behind those words. Something that didn’t feel right to me. It still doesn’t.”
They paused in front of one of the many fountains that adorned the P
ublic Garden’s walkways. For the first time since they’d left the Westerfields, she could see Doc’s face illuminated by a nearby streetlamp. “My gut is screaming there’s something else going on. What is it, Doc? What aren’t you telling me?”
Doc stood staring over her shoulder for a long moment, then uttered a long, mournful sigh. “You’re very astute,” he finally said. “You may need to get that gut of yours patented.”
“It’s my job, despite what your old man thinks.”
Cammie instantly knew her instincts had been correct. Doc looked as though he’d suddenly aged ten years. He opened and closed his mouth several times as if unable to find the words to answer her question. Finally, he sighed again. He led her over to a park bench where they both sat down.
“You’re absolutely right. Father did know Rob. He’s dead now but when he was alive, his name was Robert Warren.”
Cammie blinked at him in surprise. “You’ve known all along who Rob was?” Doc nodded miserably. “And you were never going to tell me?”
“I honestly don’t believe that letter had anything to do with who murdered Helen. I told you, Rob is dead. He’s been dead for over ten years.”
Cammie crossed her arms against her chest as she sat back on the bench. “I know this isn’t my case. I’m here as moral support for you and that’s all. But I’ve become caught up in it. I’d really like to know who murdered Helen Carsgrove.”
“So would I.”
“Then think of me as an interested bystander. I’ll even go as far as to admit I’m a nosy bystander. But I’m convinced part of the answer to the mystery of who killed Helen is here in Boston. I’ve been feeling it ever since we found that love letter. Only you can help me figure out that part of the mystery. You know all the players. If you don’t have all the answers, you know who to go to get those answers from. But the only way this is going to work is if you are open with me. Maybe between the two of us, we can trace the line of whatever started here and follow it up to Allagash where it ended with Helen’s death. Are you game?”
Doc turned a weary gaze towards Cammie. He knew this was a pivotal moment. He knew he had a decision to make that would impact the rest of his life. He could remain tightlipped about his past and all the pain it held, or he could be honest with the one person on earth he’d come to trust. He didn’t doubt Lieutenant Geoff Mantree’s investigative skills – he just knew Cammie was better, if only because she had access to information Mantree could never get on his own. In order to solve Helen’s murder, he had to open up the bag of regrets and anger and hurt and let it spill out.
