Andrew Goldman

I never went to sleepaway camp, never learned to play tennis, golf, ski, or even go on a family vacation.

It's true.

I have lived in Westport, a really nice town in Connecticut, for the last decade.

But the ways of the country clubs and money elite remain a complete mystery to me.

I'm a stop-and-shop sale watcher living among a lot of if-you-have-to-ask-you-can't-afford-it types.

To understand this murder, I'd have to learn about how the other half lived in Tony Greenwich.

In the 70s, if you wanted to get rich, you worked in New York City.

Likewise, in the 70s, if you worked in the city, were rich, and had kids, you lived anywhere but New York City.

There were plenty of nice suburbs to stash your family, far from the crime-ridden, nearly bankrupt metropolis.

But Greenwich, Connecticut was the dream.

Its schools were among the best in the country, and it only took 25 minutes for the express into Grand Central.

Of all the towns on Connecticut's so-called Gold Coast on the Long Island Sound, a Greenwich address had, and continues to have, the most cachet among the moneyed elite.

But like every creme, Greenwich had its creme de la creme.

And the creamiest cream was Belhaven, which on a map looks like a toe dipping into the Long Island Sound on the south tip of Greenwich.

Belhaven was built as a vacation colony in the late 19th century.

Grand, white, clabbered cottages with wraparound porches on which you could sip your sherry at sunset while listening to scratchy Brahms symphonies on the gramophone.

VIPs, captains of industry, and a couple famous entertainers, like Frank Gorshin, the riddler from the 60s Batman series, were typical of Belhaven's residents.

In the summer of 1974, a moving truck rolled up to the big White House at 38 Walsh Lane.

It had come 3,000 miles, all the way from Piedmont, California.

42-year-old David Moxley had been tapped by accounting giant Touche Ross to relocate from the West Coast to run its New York office.