Clause & Effect Read online

  “It was open like this when I was a girl,” I said with a reminiscent smile. “I don’t remember climbing all the way to Champlain Street, but we definitely played hide-and-seek in that strip between the backyards.”

  Unconcerned about bugs, snakes, or scratches, my friends and I had mounted expeditions that skirted Tom and Marie’s land to sneak into the backyard of their neighbors on the far side, property that belonged to a standoffish couple who’d erected a high brick wall on three sides of their lot. The fourth side, at the back, had remained open, the only barrier to access a row of trees. Hidden there, we’d spied on them as they frolicked in their outdoor swimming pool. One time, when they were in Florida on vacation, we’d been bold enough to take a clandestine swim. Our parents would have grounded us for a week if they’d ever found out.

  Seeing my smile, Marie’s scowl deepened. “This is no laughing matter, Mikki. When I was working in my garden yesterday afternoon, I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me. And I worry about our children. They shouldn’t have to fear they’re being observed every time they step outside.”

  Tom and Marie have two teenagers, although I rarely see either of them. During the school year, when they aren’t working in the family business, they always seem to be busy with extracurricular activities. This summer, they both had jobs at a local hamburger joint.

  “Why do you think our neighbors on Champlain Street are any more interested in us than we are in them?” I asked.

  “Well, you hear stories, don’t you? And those windows look like eyes.”

  Her gesture drew my gaze back to the houses on the ridge above us. She was right. The windows were a little creepy, but I still thought her concerns were groundless. The people on the hill would have to use binoculars in order to invade our privacy.

  “If you want something to worry about,” I said, “consider this. I can see right into your house from my windows, just as you can look back into mine.”

  “I would never—”

  “Marie, you can’t help it. Our houses are too close together. If your kids yell at each other, I can hear them. If you don’t close the curtains in your bedroom . . .” I let the implication sink in.

  “See, Marie,” Tom said, conveniently forgetting that he’d been in agreement with her only moments earlier. “I told you you were fussing over nothing. We’ll see ourselves out,” he added. Taking his wife’s arm, he led her away, still sputtering in indignation.

  I stayed where I was, my eyes glued to the scene beyond the window. I hoped I hadn’t just permanently wrecked my relationship with my neighbors, but facts were facts. For myself, I was tremendously pleased with the new look of my backyard. This was much closer to what it had been when I was growing up.

  One of my earliest memories of my father was when he dismantled the old barn that used to stand just short of our back property line. He used the boards to build the garage. That wasn’t the only building on the property back then. The previous owners had kept chickens. So did we, for a little while. Then Daddy converted the chicken coop into a perfect little playhouse for me and furnished it, during the summer months, with the child-size table and chairs that lived in my attic playroom the rest of the year.

  Facing the entrance to the playhouse there had been a swing set with two swings and a slide. Had I also had a sandbox? I rather thought I had. My memory placed it just beyond the swings.

  “Enough with the nostalgia,” I murmured, and turned away from the window. It was the present day that demanded my attention. In the course of the next week, I would have to find time to plant grass seed in all those brown patches where trees had once stood. My backyard wouldn’t look like much this year, but by next summer it would be lovely and green . . . and I’d have three times more lawn to mow than I did now.

  There’s always a downside.

  The typewriter Tom had delivered looked incongruous in the midst of all my modern technology. It was significantly bigger than my laptop. Heck, it was bigger than the average personal computer and a lot more unwieldy. Before I could properly examine my impulsive purchase, I had to move the laptop, a set of speakers, and the larger keyboard I sometimes use when I work in my office.

  I was still uncertain why I’d paid good money for this behemoth. I certainly wasn’t going to type on it, and it was way too big to display as a knickknack. Eventually, I’d lug it up to the attic, but in the meantime I felt free to indulge my curiosity. I opened the case.

  Metal catches held the typewriter in place. When I peeked beneath it to see how to open them, I spotted a scrap of paper. It was torn and yellowed and felt brittle when I extracted it. On it were typed the words meet, usual, and bring, and a time, 9:30.

  I was instantly intrigued. If I was right about the wonky A, this machine had once been used by Grace Yarrow. Had she typed this note to arrange a meeting? Or had someone sent the message to her? Had it, perhaps, lured her to her death?

  None of the words contained a capital A to prove they had been typed on this typewriter, but I couldn’t think of any other reason for the torn-off bit of paper to have ended up caught in the case.

  I slid a fresh sheet of printer paper into the carriage and typed a test line. Then I took the original pageant script out of my desk drawer and compared them. I may not be qualified to testify on the matter in a court of law, but I was more convinced than ever that this was the same machine Grace had used twenty-five years ago.

  And what if she had? Did that mean anything? The typewriter had probably belonged to the historical society, and they’d undoubtedly sold it when they upgraded to something more modern.

  I wondered, suddenly, if Tom had been a member twenty-five years ago. If so, he’d have known where the machine came from. Surely he’d have said . . . unless he didn’t want me to know. He’d implied that trying to trace its provenance would be futile.

  Was I really considering the possibility that Tom O’Day was a murderer?

  I looked again at the scrap of paper, trying to apply common sense. The odds that it had anything to do with Grace Yarrow had to be a hundred to one against. I was wasting my time theorizing this way.

  Closing the typewriter case, I heaved it off my desk and set it on the floor to be dealt with later. I balanced the script atop the pile of papers stacked on a nearby bookshelf while I restored my desk to order, all the while thinking that I’d have to return the binder to Archives soon. In the meantime, I should probably continue to take good care of it.

  I opened the drawer where I’d been keeping it, swiveled my chair to pluck it off the shelf, and swung around again just in time to see Calpurnia squeeze herself inside the drawer. There was just room enough for her to turn around and settle in. She looked up at me with big, bright eyes, as if wondering what my problem was.

  “Do you mind?”

  She is also prone to appropriating empty cartons and shopping bags. She once tried to stuff herself into an empty tissue box I’d set aside to recycle. Since my desk drawer was the spot she’d apparently chosen for today’s nap, she did mind. Ignoring me, she closed her eyes.

  “Fine. Stay there.”

  I considered the binder in my hand. It would be perfectly safe on the shelf, and I needed to focus on more important things, like checking my email and working on client manuscripts until it was time for supper.

  Instead, I opened the script. I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to do one last quick read-through. I’d skim the highlights, just in case there was something else in the original version that deserved to be incorporated into the new pageant.

  When I got to the apple seed story, I read with a heightened awareness. The first time through, I’d been fixated on trying to remember where I’d heard the details before. I hadn’t paid proper attention to the surname Grace substituted for the real one.

  It was Baxter, as in Gilbert Baxter, current director of the historical society. Coincidence? I doubted it. Baxter might not have been director twenty-five years ago, but he had been involv
ed with the historical society and with the pageant. He’d known Grace well enough to suggest that she’d gone to the City to pursue a career as a playwright.

  She couldn’t have chosen the name Baxter by accident.

  I thought again of the words on the scrap of paper. Had the typist been setting up an assignation? Could it have been between Grace and Gilbert Baxter?

  “But which one of them wrote it?” I asked aloud.

  Calpurnia opened one eye.

  Was Baxter in a position to coerce Grace into using his family name? She certainly gave his ancestor a more prominent role in the pageant than he deserved. Maybe she balked at the last minute and was going to remove the plagiarized scene.

  Calpurnia climbed out of the drawer and nudged my elbow.

  “You’re right. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. Again. That would be a pretty stupid reason to kill somebody.”

  I placed the manuscript in the drawer and shoved it closed, but I didn’t find it quite as easy to put away my suspicions.

  Chapter 16

  Monday dawned bright and sunny with a warm breeze. For variety, I was working on my front porch when a car pulled into my driveway. I recognized it as Detective Hazlett’s unmarked vehicle even before he got out. I winced when I heard the alarming thumps the engine gave as it cooled.

  “You ought to get that fixed,” I said when he’d taken a seat in one of my cushioned wicker chairs. “Your car has a worse cough than mine does.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up in a rueful smile. “You should have heard it before it was in the shop.”

  “That can’t be good when you’re trying to sneak up on the bad guys.”

  “I’m not usually called upon to do a lot of sneaking.”

  I closed my laptop and gave him my full attention. This was the friendliest and most relaxed I’d ever seen him . . . and I was instantly wary. “To what do I owe the honor of your company?” I asked, echoing his question to me when I’d last visited his office. “And would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m good, thanks. I’m here to thank you for your help.”

  “That’s a switch.”

  His dark brown eyes never revealed much, and he’d mastered the art of keeping his craggy, suntanned face impassive, but there was a hint of a smile playing around his lips. “Your tip was right on the money. The victim has been positively identified as Grace Yarrow. The press release will go out this afternoon.”

  Is it inappropriate that I did a little happy dance inside my head? Let’s face it. It’s gratifying to be proven correct.

  “Thank you for the heads-up,” I said. “She did seem to be a likely candidate.”

  He started to rise.

  “Wait a minute! You must know a little bit more than that. Do you have any suspects?”

  “Just about everyone is a suspect at this point, Ms. Lincoln. The only reason you aren’t on the list yourself is that you weren’t living in Lenape Hollow back then.” He resumed his seat, his steady gaze fixed on my face. “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Well, I did wonder about a couple of people. The murderer had to have had access to the historical society building.” I gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “And I had a bad moment when Calpurnia heard a mouse in the wall.” She’d presented it to me a few days afterward, well chewed and quite dead.

  “What wall?” I could hear the bafflement in his voice, and it wasn’t over Calpurnia’s identity. He’d met my cat.

  “The one, as it turns out, that John Chen put up over my living room fireplace less than a year after he did the same job for the historical society. When I realized that, I had a few qualms about what might be hidden in my chimney, especially when Calpurnia started showing such an interest in the baseboard.”

  “You don’t need to worry on that account. Chen was one of the first people we talked to, even before we got an ID on the victim. He’s in the clear.”

  I waited for him to tell me why the contractor had been ruled out, but whatever alibi Chen had provided, Hazlett wasn’t inclined to share it. I decided to take the detective’s word for it. After talking to John Chen myself, that wasn’t hard to do. I’d already written him off as a suspect and moved on to other, more likely candidates. Even if Hazlett wouldn’t share their names with me, I felt certain he had the same individuals on his list of suspects. How could he not, now that the victim’s identity had been established?

  I shifted in my chair. “What I don’t understand is the total lack of concern about Grace Yarrow when she supposedly left town. Didn’t anyone find her abrupt disappearance suspicious?”

  “Apparently not. None of her acquaintances reported her missing and she was estranged from her family. No one was concerned when they didn’t hear from her.”

  “But what about her belongings? She must have had an apartment or a house in the village and—”

  Hazlett held up one hand, palm out, to stop my questions. “You know I can’t give you details of an ongoing police investigation, even if the crime did take place a long time ago. I’ve only told you as much as I have out of courtesy. Without your hunch, we’d likely still be dealing with a Jane Doe.”

  “So the murderer not only hid Grace’s body,” I mused aloud, “but also disposed of all of her worldly goods.”

  Hazlett stood, neither confirming nor denying my supposition.

  I came to my feet as well. “I have something to show you. It’s the typewriter Grace Yarrow used to write the pageant script.”

  “How the devil—?”

  “Chance. A fluke. Dumb luck.” I led him inside, up the stairs, and into my office, and pointed to the heavy carrying case sitting on the floor next to my desk. “I bought it at O’Day Antiques. Tom O’Day says it came from an estate sale, but at some point it was in Grace Yarrow’s possession because she typed the script for the bicentennial pageant on it.” I explained about the wonky, uppercase A.

  “Okay. I admit it’s a curious coincidence that you ended up with a typewriter that may have belonged to her, but I don’t see—”

  “There was a scrap of paper in the case, caught beneath the machine.” I produced it. “I can’t swear it’s been there for twenty-five years, but it might have been, and it could be a clue, especially if the entire message was intended to set up a meeting between Grace and someone else, maybe the same someone who killed her.”

  I didn’t name any names. I didn’t think I needed to. Along with everyone else who’d worked with Grace a quarter of a century ago, Gilbert Baxter must already be near the top of Hazlett’s list of suspects, and if Tom O’Day had any connection to the bicentennial, he’d be there, too.

  The detective continued to look skeptical and refused to speculate further about the typewriter’s provenance, but with clues scarce to the ground, he wasn’t about to risk losing one. After scolding me for my careless handling of the scrap of paper, which had undoubtedly smudged any older fingerprints, he put it in an evidence envelope. Then he gave me a receipt for it, and for the typewriter, and took both away with him.

  Chapter 17

  Patience is not one of my virtues. I know full well that crimes aren’t solved overnight, but two days after that conversation with Detective Hazlett, I was still thinking about Grace Yarrow’s murder and wondering if there wasn’t more I could do to help bring her killer to justice. Since I’d taken over her old job, so to speak, I knew all the major players. I might even have met the person who murdered her.

  I decided to start by talking to Darlene, the only longtime historical society member I was certain was innocent of any crime. I found her in her side yard, relaxing in a lawn chair with a book. Her walker sat to one side. Simon, his collar attached to a long line that ended at a divot, sat on the other, close enough that Darlene could reach out and pet him but far enough away from her chair that he couldn’t knock her ass over teakettle if he got too rambunctious.

  He started to bark the moment he spotted me. His tail wagged furiously as I walked t
oward them across a carpet of green, inhaling that wonderful new-mown-grass smell and the fainter scent drifting toward me from the rosebushes on either side of Darlene’s kitchen door. A low-voiced command from Darlene held the puppy in place. I was impressed.

  “Did you hear the news about Grace Yarrow?” I asked.

  “Who hasn’t? Since there haven’t been any hurricanes, earthquakes, or other natural disasters this week, it was the lead story on last night’s local news.” Darlene inserted a bookmark in the paperback mystery she’d been reading and placed it carefully on the table beside her, giving me her full attention. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  I stopped to stroke Simon’s silky fur and tell him what a good dog he was. Then I pulled over a second lawn chair and plunked myself down facing my friend. I hadn’t shared my theory about the identity of the body with anyone except Detective Hazlett, and Darlene didn’t know about my visit to him, or the one to John Chen, or about my acquisition of the typewriter, either. I filled her in on everything I’d been up to and on my suspicions, too. By the time I finished relating my most recent conversation with Hazlett, she was shaking her head.

  “I knew you had something on your mind.”

  “I’ve been trying to put it out of my mind. I have enough on my plate as it is.”

  “But?”

  “But maybe there’s more I can do to help the police. I know they have all kinds of resources to investigate crimes, even crimes that took place a long time ago, but there could be some things they don’t spot because they don’t have an insider’s perspective.”

  “And you do?”

  “I know most of the people involved, then and now, and you know even more of them.”