Clause & Effect Read online

  At the mention of this newest member of her family, she got a goofy pet-lover look on her face. Her longtime companion, an elderly schnauzer named Edmund, had gone to his reward a few months earlier. It had taken a while for Darlene and her husband, Frank, to talk themselves into adopting another dog, but ever since they’d taken the plunge, she’d been like a mom with a newborn. There were at least two dozen pictures of Simon on her phone, and she’d made me look at every one of them while we were waiting for Ronnie to join us at Harriet’s.

  “You really have to come by and be introduced,” Darlene said as we left the café. “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “I can see right through your devious plot, you know. The puppy is just an excuse to get me over to your house so you can badger me into tackling a full-scale revision of that manuscript.”

  “Maybe. Does nine work for you? I’ll make one of my famous brown-sugar-topped coffee cakes.”

  My mouth was already watering but I waited until we reached her van to answer, standing by the open passenger-side window while she settled herself in the driver’s seat. “Yes to the coffee cake and the dog.”

  “And the pageant?”

  “That’s still a maybe. Ask me again tomorrow.”

  Chapter 2

  Walking home from Harriet’s, I took the scenic route. Nowhere in Lenape Hollow is all that far from anywhere else in the village, but the hills will kill you if you aren’t in shape. I’m no spring chicken, but aside from my need to wear hearing aids and glasses, I don’t have much that’s wrong with me. Even so, I was winded and unflatteringly sweaty by the time I started up my short and blessedly flat driveway.

  “Hey, Mikki!” my next-door neighbor called out as she trotted down her porch steps. With the athletic stride of a long-distance runner, she headed for the station wagon parked across the street, car keys at the ready.

  “Hi, Cindy.” I had to look up to talk to her. Our front lawns dip down on either side of my driveway and I was standing in the valley between the two. “Going to pick up the kids?”

  “Nope.” With a toss of her ginger curls she stopped to grin at me. “They’re with my mother. You are looking at the newest employee of Fast Foods.”

  “Congrats. I think.”

  Contrary to what the name implies, Fast Foods is a small local grocery chain. In March, they opened a store at a new location just outside the village limits but still within the town.

  I should probably explain that Lenape Hollow the town consists of one village, also named Lenape Hollow, and six hamlets: Lenape Falls, Muthig Corners, Lakeville, Steen-rod Springs, Dutch Flats, and Feldman. The latter was created when, as the site of the world-renowned but now defunct Feldman’s Catskill Resort Hotel, it was awarded its own post office.

  “It’s only part-time,” Cindy said, “but it will help pay the bills. And it will get me out of the house.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back at her. Cindy Fry is one of the most upbeat, enthusiastic, buoyant people I’ve ever met. There are times when just watching her with her three boisterous young children wears me out. Then again, she’s more than forty years younger than I am. At her age, I had boundless energy too.

  By the time she drove away, I’d gone up the three steps cut into the side of my lawn and was halfway along the paved path that runs the width of the front porch. Ahead of me was the chest-high picket fence that separates my property from my other next-door neighbors. I wasn’t surprised to see movement through the wooden slats. Marie O’Day loves her garden and spends almost as many hours a week tending it as she does working at O’Day Antiques, the family business. When I got closer, I could see that two people were hard at work. Marie had roped her husband into helping with the weeding.

  I don’t have much of a green thumb and I can’t identify most flowers, let alone tell one floral scent from another, but I appreciated the fragrance wafting my way on a gentle breeze. There have always been flowers on that side of my house. Back in the 1950s and ’60s, when Cora Cavendish lived there, she even managed to coax a magnolia tree into flourishing. That’s a real feat this far north. I can remember collecting the petals that fell into our yard and holding them up to my nose to inhale that delicious smell. The tree is long gone, but thanks to Marie there are still plenty of gorgeous, colorful, fragrant blooms to enjoy.

  Just as I started to mount my porch stairs, two heads popped up on the O’Day side of the barrier, staring at me with disconcerting intensity through identical pairs of oversize sunglasses. My steps faltered, but only for an instant. I thought I knew what was coming, and since I finally had an answer the O’Days would like, I plunged into the conversational pool before either of them could get a word out.

  “Good news,” I announced. “The trees are coming down next week.”

  The people who lived in my house before I bought it had let a virtual forest spring up in the backyard. I wasn’t sure which of the previous owners had planted so many trees, mostly evergreens and ash with a few maples and birches mixed in, but this mini-forest had been allowed to flourish unchecked for decades. The O’Days rightfully saw it as a fire hazard, as well as a potential breeding ground for the ticks that cause Lyme disease. The growth was also unsightly, since no one had bothered to prune or cut back the underbrush.

  While I’d known from the moment I moved in that I’d have to do something about all those trees, I’d had to have much-needed repairs on the house completed before I could even think about tackling the backyard. I’d also needed to replenish my bank account before embarking on another home-improvement project. My freelance editing business had not yet generated enough income to cover the cost, when I lucked out and met someone willing to barter. A local custom woodworker has arranged for an arborist to cut down all but a few of my trees in return for the wood. Win-win, right?

  I explained all this to the O’Days and got nods of approval in return. Then they exchanged one of those silent husband-and-wife communications before Tom spoke.

  “Someone was here looking for you earlier. A young man. He didn’t give his name.”

  “Or state his business,” Marie put in.

  “Were you expecting company?”

  I shook my head. A door-to-door salesman seemed unlikely and religious groups send their representatives out in pairs. It was the wrong season for politicians. That left walk-in client or delivery person. “Did he have a package with him?”

  Tom thought for a moment. “He wasn’t carrying anything that I could see.”

  “Not a process server, then,” I quipped.

  “I should hope not!” Marie looked offended by the very thought.

  I resisted the urge to remind her that, given the number of times the police had been called to my house the previous autumn, it was only to be expected that, at some point, I would be summoned to court to give testimony.

  “Well,” I said instead, “if he has business with me, I’m sure he’ll come back.” With a wave in farewell, I continued on into the house.

  Calpurnia met me just inside the door to lead me straight down the hallway to the kitchen. She stopped in front of her food bowl and sent me a pointed look.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll open another can of cat food, but in return you have to listen while I tell you about my morning.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the pungent aroma as I dished up her favorite ocean whitefish and tuna combo. While she scarfed it down, I recapped the highlights. She did not comment or offer advice. Those are but two of the positive aspects of using a feline as a sounding board. It isn’t that she doesn’t express opinions, but since she only speaks cat, I can interpret her remarks as I choose.

  “So, I’ll be going to Darlene’s tomorrow and she’ll make another pitch to try to get me to commit to this historical society project,” I concluded as Calpurnia abandoned the nearly empty food bowl and began to clean her whiskers. “I’ll probably be gone most of the morning.”

  She gave me the hairy eyeball.

  “I’ll le
ave you plenty of kibble and water. It’s not as if I’m going away for the entire weekend.”

  Back when my husband was alive and Calpurnia was a kitten, he and I once took a three-day trip and left her on her own in the house. We thought she’d be fine. She had a clean litter box, food, water, plenty of comfortable places to sleep, and dozens of toys. We came home to find kitty litter scattered all over the house, a spare bag of kibble chewed open and ditto, and an unspeakable mess right in the middle of the good bedspread on our bed. The stain never did come out.

  I was furious with her at first, but my anger only lasted about five minutes before I put myself in her place. If I’d been abandoned with no idea if my people were ever coming back, I’d have been pretty upset, too.

  Remembering that incident, I gave her an extra cuddle before going upstairs to my office. I had work waiting for me—editing I would actually be paid to do. With only a short break for a light supper, I kept at it until nearly ten.

  I was yawning by the time I finished going through a manuscript I’d promised to return to its author by the end of the week. In the morning, I’d check my corrections and the comments one last time before sending the file to my client, along with his final bill.

  Tempted as I was to shut down the laptop and head straight to bed, old habits die hard. I checked my email. I immediately wished that I hadn’t. Along with the usual spam and a confirmation that my online order of three new mystery novels had shipped, I found two messages I couldn’t put off answering. One was from my sister-in-law in Maine. The other came from a new client who had a project that was a little different from most of those I take on.

  I skimmed Allie’s email first. She still thought I was crazy to have moved so far away, but she dutifully brought me up-to-date on what everyone in her immediate family had planned for the remainder of the summer. In addition to Allie, my late husband’s sister, this meant her husband, their two kids and their spouses, and Allie’s three grandchildren. Since I was an only child and both of my parents had been, too, Allie and company were all I had by way of close kin. I missed them . . . but not enough to consider moving back to Maine. Without James, I no longer wanted to live there.

  Our home had been out in the country, where we had no close neighbors. Since my husband was also my dearest friend, I’d never felt the need for other people to pal around with. I left behind plenty of acquaintances when I moved, but no one I was particularly close to.

  I stood, stretched, and wandered over to the bank of windows that overlooked Cindy’s house. There wasn’t a lot of distance between the two structures. When I looked down, I could see right into her kitchen. If she was standing at her sink, she had a clear view of whatever was going on in my dining room. Living so close to other people had taken some getting used to, but I’d soon discovered it had definite advantages. Here on Wedemeyer Terrace, we looked out for one another.

  I’d loved this house and this neighborhood when I was a kid. I was happy to be living here again, especially when I turned away from the window to study the room I’d made into my at-home office. As a teenager, it had been my bedroom. It had been barely large enough to accommodate a double bed, a dresser, and a student desk, but the small size had been offset by two great assets, a walk-in closet and an attached balcony.

  At the same time I had the obligatory home repairs done, I splurged a bit and asked the carpenters to take down one wall and erect a new one a few feet farther out. This gave me a third more space in my new office than I’d had when it was a bedroom. Where once the upstairs hall had been overlarge and oddly shaped, it was now a neat rectangle with five doors opening off it. Circling from the southeast-facing corner at the front of the house and moving clockwise, they led to the master bedroom, the stairs to the attic, my office, the bathroom, and, after one passed by the top of the down staircase, the small room where I slept before moving into the larger one at age twelve.

  Sometime in the last fifty years, a previous owner had closed off the door that once connected this little room to the master bedroom. I applauded that change. Whoever built the house apparently hadn’t cared about privacy. There had also been another door, one that led from my parents’ closet into the back bedroom. Since they took in a roomer every summer for the first few years they owned the place, that door was one of the first things they got rid of, walling it in on both sides.

  Lots of people rented out rooms in the good old days when the foothills of the Catskills were a tourist mecca. Not every summer visitor wanted to stay in a hotel or a bungalow colony.

  Back at my desk, I answered Allie’s email with a bright cheery note telling her I was keeping busy and had just been offered an interesting new challenge. I didn’t go into detail. I’m not sure I was entirely clear in my own mind which project I was referring to, the one Darlene and Ronnie had offered me, or the book I’d agreed to work on with Valentine Veilleux. She was the client who’d sent the other email currently awaiting my attention.

  When I opened it, an image came up with the message. It was a photograph of cats, dogs, and kids playing together on an emerald-green lawn under puffy white clouds in a cerulean-blue sky. The text was a two-word question: Cover art?

  I smiled. Val hadn’t hired me to make decisions about her photographs. My job was to smooth out the prose that went with them. That said, she had a tendency to toss random ideas my way, some of them serious and some not. I was 99 percent certain that this was one of her not-so-serious suggestions.

  The coffee-table book she’s putting together is a new venture for us both. As a professional photographer, her regular gig is taking pictures for groups who want specialty calendars. She does the photo shoots and creates the finished product. For the most part, they’re used to raise funds for charitable or civic organizations. Val also does magazine work and has shot more than a few weddings, but well over half the photos she’s taken during her career are of dogs, cats, and other animals. It was a no-brainer to decide to collect the best of the best and market the result to pet lovers.

  Since I knew from our previous correspondence that Val had a good sense of humor, and because I was a bit punchy after a long day, I typed: It’s okay, but I like this one better. I attached a recent snapshot of Calpurnia, taken without much skill with my iPad, and hit the SEND key.

  Then, at long last, I went to bed.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I was up early. I spent an hour reviewing the work I’d done the previous night and then sent the file to my client. After I shut down my laptop and changed from ratty-looking sweats into jeans and a clean L.L. Bean long-sleeved tee, I headed for Darlene’s house.

  Darlene and Frank live on a quiet, tree-shaded street that’s just barely within the village limits. What difference does that make? Not much unless you’re reporting a crime. The village is patrolled by the Lenape Hollow Police Department. The rest of the town of Lenape Hollow is the responsibility of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department.

  I was greeted at the kitchen door by an enthusiastic bundle of black fur. Yipping in excitement, it raced toward me, stopped just short of the toes of my shoes, and did one of those wriggle-all-over moves that only dogs can do. Tongue hanging out, eyes bright, he was about to attempt a leap into my arms when I squatted down to his level and held out my hand to be sniffed.

  “Simon, I presume?”

  Before Darlene could answer, Simon pounced, toppling me backward onto the tile floor. The puppy landed on top of me and a warm wet tongue lapped at my face. Laughing, I started to push him aside, then changed my mind and gave him a hug. He might not have learned his manners yet, but there was no denying he was loveable.

  “Are you okay?” Darlene caught Simon by the collar and hauled him to one side, allowing me to maneuver myself upright. She looked more amused than concerned.

  “I’ll live.”

  Darlene was using her walker for balance, the middle stage between cane and scooter. We had been friends a long time, so I didn’t hesitate to ask
how she was coping with Simon’s energy.

  She shrugged. “We’re doing okay.” She released her grip on his collar. “Sit, Simon. Stay.”

  He obeyed, but his eyes followed us to the table where Darlene had already set out the freshly baked coffee cake, two plates, utensils, and cream and sugar. I didn’t offer to help her pour boiling water into her French press, but I did carry it from the counter to the table for her, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly brewing coffee as I walked the short distance.

  “So,” I said as she cut into the coffee cake and served me a generous portion. “What’s up with Judy?” It had taken a while, but I’d finally remembered her sister’s name.

  She grimaced. “Do we have to talk about her?”

  “Of course not, not if you don’t want to.” Belatedly I twigged to a possible reason for her reluctance. At Harriet’s, Darlene had said her sister had “moved on.” “Oh, Darlene. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. Is Judy still with us?”

  Ordinarily I avoid using euphemisms, but for some reason I was hesitant to come right out and ask if Darlene’s sister was dead. I wouldn’t have known. Although we were close in high school, we lost touch after I went off to college in Maine. A few months later, my parents sold their house and left Sullivan County for good, taking with them the likelihood I’d reconnect with former classmates during holidays or over summer vacations.

  An amused chuckle reassured me. “She’s fine, as far as I know, but we don’t see much of each other. She remarried and moved away from Lenape Hollow about ten years ago.”

  “Where is she living now?”

  I expected Darlene to name some far-away location. California, maybe, or Florida, or Arizona—one of those spots popular with retirees who no longer want to deal with snow in the winter. She made me smile by naming the nearby town of Monticello, a traditional Lenape Hollow rival when it came to high school sports.