Daddy's Little Girl

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

  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, 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 York 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 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 had 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, virtually 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 observat
ion 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 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 West-erfield is in this computer. Pages and pages of notes that I have honed from the trial transcript of The State 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 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, I know you don’t realize it, but you’ve got to stop frowning when you concentrate. You’re going to look like 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 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.

  27

  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.