Elizabeth Lochtefeld was a glowing, charismatic and driven woman who'd built a million-dollar fortune in Manhattan before settling into a new life in one of America's most elite resort communities. She'd planned to dedicate the rest of her life to charity-and to marry and finally start a family of her own. When Lochtefeld met thrity-seven year-old Tim Toolan-- a tall, strapping, handsome, and Columbia graduate and Wall Street ace who'd made it to Vice President at Smith Barney-she thought she'd found Mr. Right. She told friends she was in love. She hinted at marriage. But soon she saw past the Golden Boy facade, finding a deeply troubled man with a history of erratic bahavior -- a man given to violent mood swings who'd been fired from his position at Smith Barney after trying to steal an $80,000 Roman bust from a Park Avenue antiques show. Two days after she ended the affair, she lay dead on the floor of her Nantucket cottage.This is the story of love gone terribly wrong.
Elizabeth Lochtefeld was a glowing, charismatic and driven woman who'd built a million-dollar fortune in Manhattan before settling into a new life in one of America's most elite resort communities. She'd planned to dedicate the rest of her life to charity-and to marry and finally start a family of her own. When Lochtefeld met thrity-seven year-old Tim Toolan-- a tall, strapping, handsome, and Columbia graduate and Wall Street ace who'd made it to Vice President at Smith Barney-she thought she'd found Mr. Right. She told friends she was in love. She hinted at marriage. But soon she saw past the Golden Boy facade, finding a deeply troubled man with a history of erratic bahavior -- a man given to violent mood swings who'd been fired from his position at Smith Barney after trying to steal an $80,000 Roman bust from a Park Avenue antiques show. Two days after she ended the affair, she lay dead on the floor of her Nantucket cottage.This is the story of love gone terribly wrong.
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Overview
Elizabeth Lochtefeld was a glowing, charismatic and driven woman who'd built a million-dollar fortune in Manhattan before settling into a new life in one of America's most elite resort communities. She'd planned to dedicate the rest of her life to charity-and to marry and finally start a family of her own. When Lochtefeld met thrity-seven year-old Tim Toolan-- a tall, strapping, handsome, and Columbia graduate and Wall Street ace who'd made it to Vice President at Smith Barney-she thought she'd found Mr. Right. She told friends she was in love. She hinted at marriage. But soon she saw past the Golden Boy facade, finding a deeply troubled man with a history of erratic bahavior -- a man given to violent mood swings who'd been fired from his position at Smith Barney after trying to steal an $80,000 Roman bust from a Park Avenue antiques show. Two days after she ended the affair, she lay dead on the floor of her Nantucket cottage.This is the story of love gone terribly wrong.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250025845 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Press |
| Publication date: | 05/30/2006 |
| Edition description: | First Edition |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.63(d) |
About the Author
Brian McDonald contributes frequently to New York City newspapers, including The New York Times. His first book, My Father's Gun, won critical raves and became the subject of a major History Channel documentary series. McDonald is also the author of Last Call at Elaine's and Indian Summer. He lives in Manhattan.
Read an Excerpt
Safe Harbor
A Murder in Nantucket
By Brian Mcdonald
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2006 Brian McDonaldAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0709-5
CHAPTER 1
Tom lochtefeld stood on the Forty-second Street side of the New York Public Library and glanced at his watch. It was late October, and the first of the huge golden leaves from the London plane trees that line Bryant Park gently swirled to the ground. Rush hour had started to wane. It was nearly six. The last of New York City's daytime workforce rushed past him, some disappearing into the subway station, others hurrying down the street toward Grand Central Terminal and trains to the suburbs. He looked again at his watch. His sister was running a little late.
Tom hadn't seen Beth in about six months. Not really that long, considering their circumstances. Tom worked for a Japanese bank in mid-town. His was the harried life of a Metro North rail commuter with a family in Connecticut.
Beth had no such parental duties. In fact, she had very few attachments at all. It had been a year and a half since she sold her architectural consulting business. She was subletting the apartment she owned in Greenwich Village and renting a cottage on Nantucket. But she was traveling a lot, to California and Europe. She sponsored a chair at the Allen Room, Jazz at Lincoln Center, but, just recently, a trip to Seville, Spain, to see an open-air performance of Carmen had fallen through. She was also trying to sell a book project containing her father's artwork, a book for which she had written the accompanying text.
And then there was romance.
At forty-four, Beth was still single, but, finally, that status looked as though it might change. More than at any other time in her life, a life that she had lived as though she were in a hurry, a life that was by turns joyously brimming and hauntingly lonely, Beth was available for marriage.
Tom Lochtefeld saw her rushing toward him along the crowded sidewalk. She was smiling that thousand-watt smile of hers that always made him feel like a little brother: safe and comfortable. Beth looks great, he thought to himself. She did look good, in the best shape of her adult life. She had been taking classes in aikido, a martial arts discipline, for a year, and had lost over twenty pounds. Her hair was cut short and blond, a color that suited her. The sea air, California's and Nantucket's, gave her a healthy hue. Some of Beth's friends thought it was love Beth radiated.
Brother Tom wasn't so sure.
Beth had called her younger brother several times over the previous month or so about Tom Toolan. At first, his sister's tone was enthusiastic. She bubbled about the relationship. "He's so honest," she had said to her brother. "So forthright." But Toolan's honesty might have been part of a carefully crafted persona. Toolan was a man of acquaintances by design. He liked his secrets. No one, it seemed, knew the whole story of Tom Toolan. He did tell Beth about embarrassing moments from his past, like the time he was arrested for stealing a sixty-pound sculpture from an art show. Toolan, drinking heavily that evening, had slipped the sculpture under his coat and tried to walk out the door. He was spotted by a guard and arrested. In court, his lawyer's defense was that it was a drunken prank. Maybe. But the statue was worth eighty thousand dollars. The story became part of an affected repertoire, delivered with just the right amount of self-deprecation, humility, or humor, depending on the audience. He'd bragged about stealing the sculpture in a bar called the Dublin House, a place where he was a regular. He told the story humbly in group therapy, knowing full well the attention and sympathy he would garner. Toolan used honesty as a device.
In subsequent phone calls to her brother, Beth was less enthusiastic about the relationship. There were some very curious things about her boyfriend. For instance, the way he dressed. Initially, Beth thought it debonair, Toolan's penchant for double-breasted blazers and tasseled loafers even for the most casual dates. He often accessorized with pocket handkerchiefs, even ascots. Once he even showed up dressed that way for a date at a jazz club; Beth was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. On another date they met in Central Park for an outdoor opera. Toolan arrived looking like he had just come from the yacht club, everything but the captain's hat. Beth wasn't blind. She knew her boyfriend was a poseur. She could put up with that, she'd told friends. There were worse things in life than being overdressed. That she could live with.
But then there was the business about the refrigerator. Toolan had the superintendent of his building remove it from his apartment. He told some friends that he wanted more room in his kitchen. Others he told that it was a way of losing weight, a battle he'd fought his whole adulthood, a battle that he'd recently begun to win — he'd lost forty pounds. Perhaps it was just another harmless idiosyncracy, Beth reasoned. Maybe.
There was no rationalization, however, for the pistol she'd come across in one of his drawers. Toolan reacted angrily, telling her to put it back and mind her own business. Beth didn't tell anyone about the gun, at least not right away, and at least not her brother Tom. She didn't want the family to worry, was Tom Lochtefeld's reasoning for Beth's silence about the gun. In one sense, her reluctance to alarm loved ones was an endearing quality — she cared about others' feelings. But as any domestic abuse counselor will tell you, a hidden pistol trumps all feelings: Unless your significant other has a real good reason, a gun in the home is a flashing exit sign.
Instead of getting out, Beth took a trip with Toolan to California, where the unraveling of the relationship began almost sweetly. Toolan had proposed, which at first flattered Beth. But they'd only been going out for three weeks, and Toolan proved to be a nightmare of a traveling partner. Two flights were missed because, according to Beth, "he couldn't get his shit together."
Beth told him that it was too soon in their relationship to talk about marriage. Toolan wouldn't take no for an answer. She was so unnerved by his abrupt proposal and cavalier attitude on the trip that she returned home alone. From there she e-mailed friends, exasperated, "He's already talking rings!"
He couched his desire to marry Beth in pillow talk and heated professions of love and forever. But Toolan's motives were questionable from the start. Though Beth wasn't the multimillionaire some news stories reported, she was in solid financial shape. The profit from the sale of her business was considerable. She owned outright a co-op in Greenwich Village that would eventually sell for nearly eight hundred thousand dollars. She had been a savvy investor all of her business life.
Toolan's financial situation was as mysterious as his personality. He worked for Smith Barney, first in Atlanta, then Manhattan. Smith Barney fired him twice. Later, he would be fired from yet another banking job because someone there recognized him from the newspaper stories about his attempted theft of the sculpture. In the months before he met Beth, Toolan told friends he was working from his apartment. "He was always just about to make the big deal," remembered neighbor Mika Duffy. But the big deal never materialized. Toolan was a guy with tastebuds for champagne, but the pocket change for beer.
Though Toolan's wallet might have been light, he had the trappings of a successful businessman. He had a membership at the New York Athletic Club. He rented a thirty-two-hundred-dollar-a- month apartment on West End Avenue, a tony Manhattan address. Toolan told one girlfriend that he had built considerable savings from his broker jobs, and that he drew on the account to pay his bills. But employment records show that Toolan didn't make anywhere near the money that he bragged to friends he made. What's more, he had a significant gambling problem, which included an offshore account for sports betting. He told friends his full name was Thomas Patrick Edward Francis Toolan III. When he said it, he would round off the hard T of Toolan making it sound like "Doolan." If there were such a thing as Irish royalty, his full moniker would be as blue blood as you could get. But his phone was listed under only Thomas Patrick. He told the same girlfriend he had it listed like that to keep telemarketers away. Conveniently, though, it also kept the creditors away, both the legitimate ones, and the ones who worked for less reputable lending institutions. One thing is for certain; he had to have help to pay his bills.
Maybe Toolan's biggest asset was how well he thought of the persona he'd crafted for himself. With attention paid right down to the angle of the cufflink, Toolan would look in the mirror and see the Prince of Park Slope looking back at him. Like a stage actor, his costume empowered him, helped him deliver his lines.
Beth, at first, was a willing audience. She enjoyed being the benefactor a bit too much. According to one published report, Beth had promised to back Toolan in a computer imaging business. She had already started to share some of her considerable business contacts with him. According to brother Tom, there was also talk about Beth cosigning a lease on West Side office space for Toolan. Beth was as savvy in business as you can get. But her skills in romance were lacking. She seemed to invest so much in Toolan because of a need to be liked, not from sound, financial thinking.
Beth wanted very badly to be in love for good. For all of her success and glamorous lifestyle, there was emptiness within. For many years, Beth sought to outrun that vacancy. But she was running in place. Like stones, though, models of happiness were set in place all around her: her parents' marriage, her sibling relationships. Beth looked past much of Toolan's flawed character because she knew she was running out of time. In his poignant eulogy, brother Jim recalled Beth telling his wife, Nancy: "All I want is to find a man like my brothers." Before the California trip Beth had told friends and family that Toolan might be the one. "Being forty-four and single and thinking she had met the man she was going to marry, she was very excited," her cousin Eric told a reporter on Nantucket. Outwardly at least, Toolan and Beth gave the appearance of the perfect upscale couple. It seemed they could fit perfectly into a home in Connecticut or Westchester, summering on Nantucket. And what better place than her own beloved Nantucket for a wedding? The New York Times calls the island "a destination" wedding spot. The Chamber of Commerce has a pamphlet on wedding services. In season, there are four weddings a weekend on the tiny island. But for Beth it was more than just some public relations firm's spin. Nantucket, in its elegance and perfection, was a place where Beth's dreams had formed. It was part of her soul. More than anything, perhaps, Beth wanted the stars over Nantucket Harbor to light her wedding night.
It was under those stars, back from California, that Beth started to miss Toolan. He'd called a dozen times, apologizing profusely. Months after her sister was dead, Cathy Lochtefeld found a note in some of Beth's toiletries that were never unpacked after the California trip. It read simply: "I love you, Tom." He would gear it back, he promised. It would be different this time, his tone indicated. One thing was for certain; Toolan could talk a satin streak. Beth had told her brother that she was going to give it "the four seasons test," to stay with him a year and see how things progressed. I'll give him a year, she said.
From the deepest part of his heart, Tom Lochtefeld wanted his sister to be happy. He knew she lived a pretty glamorous life: a world traveler with friends on three continents. But he also knew it was his life she looked at with envy: his kids, the house in the suburbs, a happy marriage. Beth's brother hoped that she would find a man with whom she'd spend the rest of her life. In the most horrible fashion, Tom Toolan would turn that hope into a nightmare.
CHAPTER 2That Wednesday, the night he and Beth met Tom Lochtefeld at the Harvard Club, Toolan showed up with his blond hair slicked back and wearing a blue pinstriped suit. Towering, at six foot two, and two hundred something pounds, and with a chin as prominent as a New England senator's, he was quite the formidable presence. Even Beth's brother, no shrimp himself, was somewhat impressed. "I just remember he looked very confident," Tom Lochtefeld said. They sat at a table in the modest oak Grill Room, modest at least in comparison to the main dining room with its soaring forty-foot ceiling. Around them, Harvard grads from decades past laughed, drank, and dined. Beth's brother was taken by Toolan's manners, later calling him a "complete gentleman." They talked about the trip to California but stopped short of discussing the separate returns. Toolan told Tom Lochtefeld about Beth helping him with business contacts. But Toolan was evasive about his employment. And Beth's brother wasn't convinced that Toolan actually had a job. At one point Toolan reminisced about the long-ago summer with the Nantucket Theatre, where he acted a bit, painted scenery, and struck sets. Beth then talked glowingly about a trip they had recently taken to visit Toolan's sister, Tara, in Westchester. Beth liked Toolan's sister a great deal, and perhaps saw in her what she hoped for herself. Happily married, Tara Toolan lived a storybook life, with a family and a swell suburban home, an existence similar to the one Beth's brother lived.
Several times during dinner, Toolan excused himself and left the table for a few minutes. He's trying to quit smoking, Beth explained to her brother. "He knows that I don't like it, and he's trying," she said. "He's trying to make changes." In hindsight, it seemed as though Beth was trying to convince herself, and not her brother, that Toolan was worth her time and trouble.
The three of them had cocktails, but Toolan was on his best behavior. "He treated me like he was meeting her father," Tom Lochtefeld remembered thinking. "Completely gracious."
Outside the Harvard Club a chilly breeze had rustled up Forty-fourth Street. Tom Lochtefeld was headed the two blocks east to Grand Central to catch a train home to Darien. He shook hands with Toolan. "Well, I'll see you again soon," Toolan said casually. Then Tom leaned in and kissed his sister. Beth put on a brave face. She had mentioned Toolan's drinking to her brother, and even to her father, but "she tried to play it down," Tom Lochtefeld remembered. Beth's brother took one more look at his sister as she walked down the street arm in arm with Toolan. It was the last time he would see her alive.
Two days later, on Friday afternoon, Beth and Toolan climbed the steps to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Around them, students and tourists sat in the bright sunshine. Hanging from the façade of the neoclassical building, five-story-high banners announcing the exhibits, including one of German drawings and prints from the Weimar Republic, flapped in the gentle breeze. In front of the museum, Fifth Avenue was a winding stream of yellow taxis. Beth had been staying at Toolan's apartment most of that week, at least from Wednesday night, when they'd had dinner at the Harvard Club. Earlier in the day, Toolan had suggested an afternoon at the Metropolitan, then maybe have some dinner on the East Side. Partly, it was Toolan's appreciation of art and music that Beth had been drawn to. Just a few weeks before, on Nantucket, Beth looked on proudly as her boyfriend held his own in an art conversation with her artist father. Although not an aficionado like Beth, Toolan even enjoyed the opera. But an afternoon at the museum might also be the thing to take the pressure off, Beth thought. It hadn't been a good idea to stay with Toolan for so many days. His peculiarities, his addictions, were bubbling over and becoming hard to ignore. The smell of cigarette smoke on his clothing and in his apartment made her almost physically sick. The memory of the California trip and all the pressure he had put on her was still fresh in her mind. But Beth was still holding on to the idea that the relationship was salvageable. Besides, the museum had an Andy Goldsworthy sculpture exhibit on the roof that Beth wanted to see. For Beth it would be again like a first date. There would be no pressure, no big drama.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Safe Harbor by Brian Mcdonald. Copyright © 2006 Brian McDonald. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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