Clause & Effect Read online

  “I barely remember the woman.” She sounded peeved, but then she almost always does.

  “You called her unreliable,” I repeated. “You must have had a reason.”

  “Of course I did. She had no sense of responsibility. She took off for the bright lights of Broadway a few days before the pageant. It caused last-minute headaches for everyone involved.”

  Before the pageant? A hard knot settled in the pit of my stomach. That meant before the renovations at the historical society were complete and quite possibly before the fireplace was completely closed off.

  “Ronnie, are you sure she went to the City?” In this part of the state, “the City” only and always refers to New York.

  “Well, of course I am. She never stopped yammering about her big plans, her big break, her big future. Now if you don’t mind, I have better things to do than answer foolish questions.”

  For Ronnie, “if you don’t mind” is on a par with the Southern “bless her heart.” She punctuated the rebuke by slamming down the receiver.

  I stroked Calpurnia, who had fallen asleep curled up beside me on the loveseat. Ronnie was probably right. I remembered now that Gilbert Baxter had said Grace left Lenape Hollow to pursue a career as a playwright. A writer could work anywhere, but it made sense that she’d want to hone her craft at the center of the theatrical world.

  In the photo I’d seen in the newspaper story, Grace struck me as being very young. Everyone had big dreams at that age. More power to her if she’d gone off to pursue them.

  If she had.

  Chapter 11

  First thing Wednesday morning, I paid a visit to Detective Jonathan Hazlett at the Lenape Hollow Police Station. I’d made a point of learning a little about him after meeting him the previous September. He’s in his mid-thirties and has been with our local police department since about a week after he earned his degree in criminal justice. When it comes to investigating serious crimes committed within the village, he’s the one who takes charge of the case.

  Although I had to look up the facts, I’d seen with my own eyes that he had all the physical and mental attributes one expects to find in a good law enforcement officer. He’s in excellent shape, just over six feet tall with thick rust-colored hair, dark brown eyes that don’t miss much, and a craggy, sun-darkened face that features a beak of a nose and—I kid you not—a cleft in the chin. If he had to chase down one of the bad guys, he’d have no difficulty overtaking him and slapping on the cuffs. He’s equally skilled at gathering evidence and marshalling facts during an investigation and he excels at public relations. He has a deep voice and a calm demeanor. Victims of crimes find these qualities reassuring and they work equally well when he has to deal with the media.

  That’s not to say that Detective Hazlett can’t be brusque, especially when he thinks someone is interfering in his investigation. I thought long and hard about whether or not it was a good idea to share my theory about the victim’s identity. In the end, I decided I didn’t have a choice. On the off chance that he hadn’t already unearthed the same information I had, he needed to hear what I suspected about Grace Yarrow.

  As it had been the last time I visited it, his office was almost painfully neat. I didn’t find any record of military service in his background, but Hazlett is a spit-and-polish kind of guy.

  As a detective, he didn’t wear the usual police uniform, but he customarily dressed in clothing that varied little from day to day—wrinkle-free slacks, dress shirt, jacket, and tie. His only concession to the warm weather was to wear the tie loosely knotted. On occasion, he removed the jacket, but since this was an unseasonably cool July morning, he had, as yet, done neither.

  He did not seem surprised to see me and there was just a hint of sarcasm in his greeting. “Ms. Lincoln. To what do I owe the honor, and so bright and early, too?”

  “I won’t take up much of your time, but I came across something in researching the pageant that might be helpful to you.”

  He waved me into the chair in front of his desk and settled himself behind it, reaching for a notepad and a pen. “Go ahead.”

  “A young woman named Grace Yarrow wrote the script for the pageant that was performed twenty-five years ago. She left town shortly before it was performed . . . at about the same time workers were finishing up construction at the historical society.”

  “And you think?” Both his expression and his tone of voice were noncommittal.

  I drew in a breath and then spoke in a rush. “I think she may be the person who was walled up in that chimney. I haven’t been able to find any mention of her online.”

  “There could be a great many reasons for that,” Hazlett said, but he wrote down Grace Yarrow’s name.

  “That’s true, but from what I’ve been told, she left here intending to make her name as a playwright. She was headed for Broadway. If she made even a small impression in her field, there should have been a reference to it somewhere. I tried every search string I could think of and nothing surfaced. I even went into an obituary archive to try to find out if she’d died. That was a dead end, too.”

  I winced at the inadvertent pun, but Hazlett didn’t seem to notice. He scribbled a few more notes to himself and then tapped the end of the pen against the surface of the desk while he considered what I’d told him. The silence between us stretched unbearably. I had dozens of questions I wanted to ask, but I doubted he’d answer any of them.

  Finally I cleared my throat and blurted, “Were there any clues to the victim’s identity with the body?” My voice shook just a little.

  “Ms. Lincoln, you know I can’t talk to you about the case.”

  “Can’t you at least tell me if the victim was a man or a woman?”

  He chewed that over for a full minute before coming to the conclusion that I might be useful to him. “A woman. That’s just about the only fact we have been able to establish. How old was this Grace Yarrow?”

  “Early twenties, I think.” I rummaged in the tote bag I’d brought with me and came up with the copy I’d made of the article with her photo. “I found this in an old newspaper at the public library.”

  He studied it intently, brow furrowed. “Was she married?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ever have a child?”

  I felt my eyes widen. “Can they tell that from an autopsy?”

  Not surprisingly, Hazlett avoided giving a direct answer to my question. Instead, he said, “We may have to rely on DNA for identification of the remains.”

  And a child, I thought, would share part of his or her mother’s DNA. I was a little fuzzy on the science, but I knew that much. Aloud, I said, “I don’t know if she ever gave birth. No one has mentioned any children. My impression is that she was . . . unencumbered.”

  “Well, Grace Yarrow is certainly a possibility. I appreciate your bringing her name to my attention.”

  I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I was sorry for the circumstances, but pleased to think that I might have helped solve a mystery.

  “Don’t get cocky,” Hazlett warned. “I admit it’s unusual these days for someone not to have an online presence, but just because you couldn’t find her doesn’t mean she never left Lenape Hollow. You said yourself that she was planning to go to the City. It’s possible that, once there, she failed miserably as a playwright. Lots of hopefuls end up sinking into obscurity. For all we know, she gave up on her dream, got married, and moved to Idaho.”

  “Idaho? Why Idaho?”

  “Why not Idaho? The point is, she could have gone anywhere. Or nowhere. Maybe she ended up addicted to drugs or alcohol and disappeared into Manhattan’s homeless population. That said, I may be able to find out. I have resources you don’t.”

  “I hope you are able to locate her. I’d much prefer that she be alive and well. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that we already know where she is.”

  “You’re taking this very personally.”

  “How can I not? I
didn’t get much more than a glimpse of the remains, but what I did see is indelibly printed on my mind. To be killed is bad enough, but to be treated in such a manner after death only magnifies the horror of the crime. Whether the victim was Grace Yarrow or some other unfortunate soul, I want her murderer caught and punished.”

  “Believe me, Ms. Lincoln,” Hazlett said, “I share your desire for justice, but until we have a positive ID, there isn’t much I can do about figuring out who killed her.”

  Chapter 12

  As soon as I left the police station, I headed home. The arborist Dave Hernandez was coming at ten to start taking down trees in my backyard. I wasn’t certain what to expect, either during the process or after he was done. Even though he’d assured me that the job wouldn’t take long, I anticipated that the rest of my week would be disrupted.

  The first hurdle was getting the equipment in. My lot has a narrow frontage. Paths on each side of the house are only wide enough to walk single file. Thank goodness I have a sympathetic neighbor on the side with no fence. Cindy agreed to let a couple of trucks come up her driveway and cut across her backyard to get into mine.

  “Just keep clear and let us work,” Dave advised while his crew was setting up a chipper and unloading what he informed me was a stump grinder.

  I went up to the attic, taking Calpurnia with me.

  The top floor of the house has changed a good deal since I was a child. I remembered open space with bare beams overhead and no insulation. Since I had no siblings, one side of the attic became my personal, private playroom. I kept all my dolls and toys there, along with the little rocking chair my mother had been given as a girl and the child-size wooden table and chairs made for me by a great-uncle who was a carpenter. I loved that space, especially on rainy days. I’d climb the narrow stairs and spend hours in splendid solitude. I never had any trouble amusing myself. All my dolls had extensive life stories, and just in case any of them had missed the details, I produced semi-regular issues of the Doll Land Times, a gossip-oriented newspaper that reported on their doings.

  My parents used the other side of the attic for storage, and as an emergency guest room. Back in the day, there was an old-fashioned double bed there, one with an ornate headboard and footboard. I don’t ever remember anyone sleeping in it, but I suppose my mother liked to be prepared.

  At some point during the past fifty years, one of the house’s owners had made significant changes. Instead of open space at the top of the stairs, there were now doors on either side. Each led into a room with low ceilings that slanted down into painted walls. There were proper light fixtures instead of the bare bulbs I remembered turning on and off by means of a sharp tug on a long string. The hardwood floors of my youth were covered with ugly wall-to-wall carpeting.

  Water stains showed on the ceilings where the old roof had leaked. When I could find the time, I planned to repaint. I’d also rip out all that carpeting, but both of those jobs were near the bottom of my to-do list.

  At present, these two rooms were empty of furniture. In one, I’d stacked a half dozen boxes I’d brought with me from Maine but hadn’t yet unpacked. The window in that bedroom overlooked the backyard and the trees slated to be cut down. The tops of quite a few of them were at eye level.

  Still carrying Calpurnia, I took up a post at that vantage point to watch the work begin. I admit to being nervous. If one of those trees crashed into the house on its way down, the damage would be extensive.

  Calpurnia squirmed in my arms, but I kept hold of her until the sound of a chainsaw revving up sent her into panic mode.

  The feel of claws slashing across my arms and her back legs thrusting forcefully into my abdomen convinced me to release her. She sent me a haughty look before stalking away, but she didn’t go far. Since I ordinarily kept the door from the second-floor hallway closed, this was the first time she’d been in the attic. While I turned my attention back to the window, she set about exploring the rest of the room.

  The men below looked like they knew what they were doing, and the equipment they’d brought in was certainly impressive. So was the noise level. I watched in fascination as Dave’s crew started to take down the first tree. They dismantled it in chunks, using ropes to make sure the pieces landed where they wanted them to. In short order, they had the whole thing down to a stump. Although this particular tall pine had been growing quite close to the house, no part of it so much as brushed the siding.

  I watched a while longer, but eventually grew bored. Considering the number of trees they were planning to remove, the same process would be repeated many times. Besides, I had work to do.

  One advantage to wearing hearing aids is that I can take them out when I need quiet. Even though my office is at the back of the house and the chainsaws, chipper, and stump grinder were operating at full throttle just outside my window, all I heard was a steady hum and the occasional thump as something large and heavy hit the ground.

  When I broke for a late lunch, I was amazed at the progress the arborist and his crew had made. Thanks to the stump grinder, each of the trees they’d removed had been taken down below ground level, after which the hole had been backfilled.

  “All you’ll need to do to reclaim your yard is plant grass seed,” Dave said when I opened the back door to compliment him on his progress. He had to shout to be heard above the racket.

  While he took a long swig of water to rehydrate, I considered the nearest mound. I was struck by the fact that it looked like a little round grave.

  “You okay?” Dave asked.

  “Fine. I just . . . have you ever accidentally covered over something without realizing it?”

  He reached beneath his hard hat to scratch his head. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A tool, maybe.” A small animal. A child. A body.

  He chuckled. “We keep pretty good track of our tools, and most of them are too big to overlook.”

  I forced a smile and went back inside.

  After I returned to my office, I tried to focus on the captions for Valentine Veilleux’s coffee-table book, but my mind kept wandering. Just as an arborist had to pay attention to what he was doing, so did any craftsman. That brought my thoughts back to John Chen. How on earth could he have closed in a fireplace without noticing that there was a body in the chimney? Not to dwell on unpleasantness, but even if he hadn’t seen it, surely he must have smelled something.

  There was only one explanation I could think of for such an oversight—he knew the body was there and kept quiet about it. From that conclusion came another. He must have been the one who put it there.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said aloud.

  Calpurnia looked up from where she’d been napping in a half-empty box of paper on the floor next to my desk. She studied me intently for a moment before closing her eyes and going back to sleep.

  “Get a grip, Mikki,” I muttered under my breath. “Even the cat thinks you’re losing it.”

  Resolutely banishing further wild speculation, I went back to editing. After that was done, I turned my attention to the pageant script. I did not, or so I told myself, have time to play detective.

  Chapter 13

  Try as I might, I couldn’t entirely dismiss my suspicions about John Chen. On Saturday, after all the trees were down, I gave up trying to talk myself out of satisfying my curiosity.

  There hadn’t yet been official confirmation of the victim’s identity, but it seemed logical to me that the remains were those of Grace Yarrow. That given, I had to wonder what she’d done to tick someone off badly enough that he, or she, had been driven to murder.

  It wasn’t at all difficult for me to imagine a conflict between Grace Yarrow and John Chen. He’d been working in the space where her pageant was to be performed. The longer it took for him to finish his job, the less time she’d have had for rehearsals.

  Ronnie’s comments led me to believe that Grace continued to work on the pageant after her script was complete. Producer? Director
? Even if she’d just been hovering in the background to watch her brainchild brought to life, she’d have chafed at any delay.

  Twenty-five years ago, John Chen’s business had just been getting off the ground. Part of my work on the script had involved taking a look at the demographics of Lenape Hollow through the years. When the census was taken in 2000, not all that long after John Chen was walling up fireplaces, people of Asian descent made up less than 2 percent of the village’s population. No matter how many generations Chen’s family might have been in the US, he must have felt like an outsider in Lenape Hollow. Had he been treated like one? Perhaps by Grace Yarrow? Had they quarreled?

  Rather than continue to speculate, the logical next step was for me to meet the contractor in person. I needed to put a face with the name and judge for myself what sort of man he was.

  As I walked downtown, I was reminded of a recent piece on Lenape Hollow in the Middletown Times Herald-Record, the nearest thing we have to a local daily newspaper. “You can almost smell the diversity,” the author of the article wrote. That was certainly true. Although a Thai restaurant had closed under less-than-savory circumstances, there are eateries offering Chinese, Indian, Mexican, and Italian food. I inhaled the distinctive aromas of each country’s cuisine as I passed by.

  That census from 2000 gave the village of Lenape Hollow a population of just under four thousand people. That number hadn’t changed much by 2010, when those with Asian heritage were still under 2 percent of the population. The number of individuals who’d listed themselves as “Black or African American” had climbed to nearly 15 percent. Those who’d selected “Hispanic or Latino” origin had doubled in just ten years.

  These statistics represented quite a change from fifty years ago. Back then, there had only been two or three black students in our entire school, and we’d had not a single Asian or Native American classmate. There might have been one or two kids with Hispanic-sounding surnames, but they hadn’t stood out as a separate group.