Clause & Effect

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “What other men? Who were they?”

  “He insisted he didn’t know any names.”

  Hazlett didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, but I had a feeling that he was mentally rolling his eyes.

  Calpurnia abandoned the detective and hopped into my lap, bunting my hand until I took over cat-stroking duties. As always, this simple action had a calming, soothing effect.

  We sat in silence for a few moments. He finished his coffee. I let mine go cold. Finally, he shoved back his chair and stood.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait! You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and not fill in the details. Are you sure his death wasn’t just a mugging or a burglary gone wrong?”

  “It does look as if someone broke into his house,” Hazlett conceded, “but it’s too early to say for certain if that’s what really happened.”

  I imagined he was thinking the same thing I was. Although there are occasional break-ins in our otherwise peaceful little village, for Baxter to have been the victim of one at this particular time was a pretty big coincidence.

  “Who found him?” I asked.

  He hesitated, still on his feet and poised to escape.

  “I know you have no obligation to answer my questions, but if Baxter didn’t kill Grace, then it stands to reason that he was probably killed because he knew who did.”

  He sat down again. “I thought you said he didn’t know any names.”

  “That’s what he said, but he did mention that Grace used to boast about her other conquests. In detail. Right before he and the mayor left, Baxter told us about one of those details, a distinctive birthmark one of her lovers had. I don’t think he knew who the man was then, but what if he figured it out later? If he was foolish enough to contact that person—”

  “You need to stop speculating,” Hazlett interrupted. “More than that, you need to stop asking questions. If you’re right, and the same person murdered both Grace Yarrow and Gilbert Baxter, then the last thing you want is to make him think you’re a threat to him. Neither of us will be happy if you to end up as victim number three.”

  I swallowed hard. He was right. If the killer feared I was getting too close to the truth, he—or she—might decide to make a preemptive strike.

  “Don’t you have any leads?”

  “Not at this point.” He stared into his empty coffee cup, a morose expression on his face. “It’s only thanks to the mayor that we’re been able to pin down the time of Baxter’s death with such accuracy.” He shifted his gaze to me, looking even more grim. “I expect you to keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself until we issue a press release later today.”

  “No problem.” I mimed zipping my lips and earned myself a formidable glower.

  “According to Mayor Welby, Baxter was going straight home after he left the rehearsal. They had plans to meet again later that evening for dinner. They had reservations at Jeremiah’s for seven o’clock. It was to be a business meal, something to do with a change in the schedule for the quasquibicentennial.”

  So much for the mayor’s penny-pinching policy, I thought. Jeremiah’s is the most expensive restaurant in town.

  “When Baxter didn’t show up and didn’t answer his phone, the mayor drove to his house to check on him. He found the front door open and Baxter dead. That was around quarter to eight.”

  “Hence the questions about my whereabouts from seven to seven-thirty.”

  He cracked the tiniest of smiles, no doubt at my use of the word hence.

  “Why not earlier? I’d have had time to bop him on the head if I stopped by his place on my way home. You’re taking it on faith that I didn’t.”

  “Do you even know where he lived?”

  “No, but I could be lying, and that’s something it would have been easy enough for me to find out.”

  This time when Hazlett stood, he kept going. “Don’t worry. I’m not ruling anything out, but if the same person murdered both Yarrow and Baxter, then there’s no way you can be considered a suspect. You weren’t living here a quarter of a century ago.”

  I walked him to the door, still trying to make sense of this new development. I had been so sure Baxter was guilty.

  Hazlett was already on my porch when he turned so abruptly that I almost ran into him. I retreated into the foyer, pulling the screen door closed after me, and faced him from the other side.

  “If you’re right,” he said, “and what got Baxter killed was figuring out what really happened twenty-five years ago, then you need to be extremely careful from now on. Too many people know you’ve been snooping around, and a good many of them could have seen you talking to Baxter at the rehearsal or heard about it afterward.”

  “I promise I won’t take any chances, and I’ll contact you right away if I think of anything, no matter how trivial, that might have a connection to either case.”

  “Good. I’ll wait while you lock the door and reactivate your security system.”

  I made a face at him but followed orders. I’d have been a fool not to. It’s a pain to remember to turn it on, and I tend to hit wrong numbers on the keypad if I’m rushing to punch in the code before the alarm sounds, but a woman of a certain age, especially one living alone, knows the wisdom of taking common-sense precautions.

  Chapter 32

  The historical society was open from twelve-thirty to six on Wednesdays. I arrived about five minutes after Shirley unlocked the front door. One look at her face told me that she’d already heard the bad news.

  We adjourned to her office to commiserate over ritual cups of coffee. Apparently, Detective Hazlett had gone straight from my place to Shirley’s.

  “Gilbert wasn’t a bad man,” she said. Then she laughed at herself. “Listen to me, always the first to criticize him. He was a royal pain, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. The only blessing is that his wife and the boys weren’t the ones who found him.”

  I choked on my coffee and turned to stare at her. “I didn’t even know he was married.”

  I hadn’t, I realized, known much about him at all. That was unforgiveable, especially given how convinced I’d been that he was a murderer. I’d looked at his life twenty-five years ago and jumped to conclusions while completely ignoring anything he’d done between then and the present day.

  “Sally,” Shirley said. “She’s from Albany originally, and that’s where her folks still live. She and their sons have been visiting them for the last week. The kids are ten and twelve. Will and Bobby.”

  Now I really felt like a worm, except that all the negative things I knew about Baxter were still true. Just being dead didn’t change his personality, or erase his involvement with Grace Yarrow. I filled Shirley in on the last time I’d seen him and what he’d said about Grace, then recounted that morning’s conversation with Jonathan Hazlett. Since he’d already interviewed Shirley, I had no qualms about repeating what he’d told me, even if the information hadn’t yet been made public.

  “So sad,” she murmured. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what really happened.”

  “Don’t say that! Surely the police will figure it out.”

  “Hah! You and I have better odds than they do. They don’t even know where to begin.”

  “And we do?”

  She sent me a keen-eyed look. “Even Detective Hazlett thinks it’s likely Gilbert’s murder had something to do with Grace’s, and you’re the one who’s been going around asking questions about that one. You probably know more about the dynamics of the historical society twenty-five years ago than anyone, even the people who were here at the time.”

  “And I can’t think of anything that makes me suspect any one of them of killing Grace. Baxter himself was my prime suspect, so I don’t have a clue who murdered him. If he figured out what happened to Grace, he didn’t share.”

  We were interrupted by a low humming sound coming from the vestibule. I recognized it at once as Darlene’s scooter. She’d have come in the back way, usin
g the ramp that made the lower floors of the building handicap-accessible. I scooted my chair around to the side of Shirley’s desk to make room for her to join us, but it was Ronnie who entered the cramped office first.

  “Something terrible has happened,” she announced.

  “I know,” I said, “and now I feel bad for suspecting him of killing Grace Yarrow.”

  Darlene sent me an incredulous look from the doorway.

  Ronnie glared. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” Impatience made her voice sharp. “Spit it out, Mikki. I haven’t got all day.”

  “Gilbert Baxter was murdered last night.”

  Her sharp inhalation of breath convinced me that Ronnie hadn’t known anything about it. Darlene looked equally shell-shocked.

  “Apparently, Detective Hazlett hasn’t talked to either of you yet, so what did you mean?”

  Two terrible things in one day seemed a bit much, but I braced myself for more bad news. Declining the stool that was all Shirley had left to offer as seating, Ronnie just stood there, spine stiff and lips pursed. I was about to tell her to spit it out when she finally answered my question.

  “Diego Goldberg was in a car accident earlier this morning. He’s in the hospital with a concussion and a broken leg. Without him, I don’t see how the pageant can go on.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, impatient with her over-dramatic manner. “It’s been cast. He blocked the scenes. We have volunteers taking care of props and costumes and lighting. All you need to do is find someone to supervise the rest of the rehearsals.”

  “I suppose that assistant of his could do it.” Ronnie sounded doubtful.

  “Luke is also in the pageant,” I pointed out. “It might be better to find someone who can focus on direction alone.”

  “Why are you talking about the pageant?” Shirley interrupted. “Doesn’t Gilbert Baxter’s death mean anything to you people?”

  “It means we’ll also have to find a new director for the historical society.” Ronnie looked thoughtful. “I suppose, if all else fails, I could step in during the interim.”

  “That’s cold, even for you.”

  She waved off my criticism with a careless gesture, sending a faint whiff of Emeraude my way. “Don’t be such a hypocrite. You didn’t like him any more than any of the rest of us did.”

  Nobody had been all that fond of Grace, either, but dislike didn’t excuse murder.

  Ronnie pinned Shirley with a glare that dared her to come to Baxter’s defense. The librarian kept an enigmatic expression on her face and refused to comment.

  “Maybe we should cancel the pageant,” Darlene said, making her first contribution to the conversation since she’d rolled into Shirley’s office.

  “What?” I swung around to face her. “Why?”

  “Aside from Diego being in the hospital? How about the fact that there are two murders linked to the historical society? That’s not the kind of publicity we were after, and it isn’t as if we’re certain we’ll be able to draw much of a crowd in the first place. There’s still that business of competing festivals.”

  Ronnie made an impatient sound. “Not that again! It’s because mid-August is a popular time to hold outdoor events that we chose the date we did.”

  “You chose it,” Darlene corrected her.

  The way I was swiveling my head back and forth between them, I was going to have whiplash before the afternoon was out.

  “The board of directors, the village board of trustees, and the town council all agreed.”

  Ronnie’s about-face didn’t surprise me, not when she’d all but appointed herself interim director. She’d probably insist on taking over for Diego, too. If I were to learn his accident was a hit-and-run, I’d know just who to suspect of driving the other car.

  “Do you really think anyone wants to call more attention to Lenape Hollow just now?” Darlene asked. “Baxter’s murder will generate all kinds of negative press, and from what Frank’s told me, the board of trustees seriously considered pulling the plug on the whole shebang after Grace’s body turned up. This will be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back.”

  “Nonsense. The good publicity surrounding our 225th birthday celebration will mitigate the bad.”

  “Not everyone sees it that way,” Darlene argued. “Some people prefer to keep a low profile in the hope that if no one calls more attention to Lenape Hollow, the notoriety will fade away that much faster.”

  I did a mental eye roll. Time for a little pep talk. “Darlene Uberman, I’m surprised at you. Since when have you been a quitter? And Ronnie—you’re the one who sits on both the historical society’s board of directors and Lenape Hollow’s board of trustees. You probably have more influence than any other individual in this village. I’ll bet all you have to do is tell those doubters that the celebrations are going forward with their support or without it, and that will be the end of the discussion. No one’s going to argue with you if you stick to your guns.”

  A pleased smile played around her thin lips. “I intend to do just that, and to assure both boards that everything is under control, but I need the support of everyone in this room. Do I have it?”

  With varying degrees of enthusiasm, all three of us agreed.

  “Good. Shirley, you are now acting director of the historical society. And Mikki?”

  “Yes?”

  That Ronnie wasn’t taking over Baxter’s job suddenly made me wary. I had the uneasy feeling I wasn’t going to like what she said next.

  “In the interest of keeping everything running on schedule, I’m sure you have no objection to filling in as pageant director. The next rehearsal is scheduled for six o’clock this evening at the amphitheater.”

  Chapter 33

  After I left the historical society, I drove to the hospital to visit Diego. I’d never been inside this facility before. It was two towns over and hadn’t been built yet when I last lived in Lenape Hollow. Back then, we’d had two small hospitals of our own. One of them had originally been established to treat patients with tuberculosis, since the Catskills, like the Rocky Mountains, were thought to have healthy air capable of curing that dreadful disease.

  Diego’s room had an antiseptic feel to it, even though I couldn’t detect any of the odors I tend to associate with hospitals. The aroma wafting up from a bouquet of assorted flowers overpowered every other scent.

  The pageant director had one leg in traction. The bruising on the side of his forehead and the slightly loopy expression on his face told their own story.

  He spotted me the moment I appeared in the doorway. “I look worse than I feel,” he called out by way of greeting.

  A woman was sitting in the chair pulled up to the head of the bed. She smiled and introduced herself. “I’m Audrey, wife of this lead-footed fool.”

  “Mikki Lincoln. I—”

  “Oh, you’re the one who wrote the pageant.”

  “Not on my own, but I plead guilty to putting together parts of it.” I shifted my attention back to Diego. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, and I mean that sincerely. Ronnie suckered me into taking over for you in the director’s chair.”

  He winced. I decided to take that as a sympathetic reaction.

  “Any tips?” I asked. “The most I’ve done in the past is stage a few in-classroom skits written by my students.”

  “My absence will hardly doom the production.” He sounded resigned, but none too happy about the situation. “Anyone can be a show runner. It’s really just a question of the actors buckling down and learning their lines. They have their blocking. We worked all that out yesterday.” He winced again, this time because he’d twisted his head around to scan the room. “There’s a black loose-leaf binder in here somewhere. Where did you put it, Aud? It has all my notes in it.”

  His wife unearthed the object in question from the bottom of a stack of books and magazines. Apparently, Di
ego was a holdout when it came to reading and scorned electronic devices in favor of paper.

  A quick glance inside the binder showed me a heavily annotated copy of the pageant script. Fortunately, Diego had neat handwriting that was easy to read. He’d even used different colors of ink to distinguish between lighting cues, notations about props and scenery, and stage directions.

  “This is great. Thank you.”

  “Just make them keep practicing until they can run through the dialogue in their sleep,” he advised. “When they do it in costume, with the music and all, the audience should feel that they’ve gotten their money’s worth.”

  It took me a moment to translate what he was really telling me. “In other words, you don’t have the most talented cast in the world?”

  A weak smile confirmed my guess. “We work with what we have. Every teacher knows that, right?” He looked down at his leg and grimaced. “This is going to present a challenge when school starts. If I’m lucky, I’ll be on crutches by then.”

  “Scooters can be fun. Just ask Darlene Uberman.”

  He managed a morose chuckle at my pitiful attempt to lift his spirits.

  “I don’t suppose you could recommend someone with more experience than I have to take over as director?”

  Diego seemed to be fading, but he flashed me a smile. “It’s okay. You’ve got this.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Half to myself, I added, “Things didn’t go very well for the last pageant writer who tried to direct her own work.”

  Although he’d started to drift off, Diego shook himself awake long enough to mumble a response. “Trusting you with secret.”

  Startled, I stared at him. My first thought was that he knew something about Baxter’s murder, but that didn’t make any sense.

  “What secret?”

  “Secrets,” he corrected me, rallying. “Directing secrets. They’re in the notes. Purple ink.”

  “Ah. For a minute there I thought you were about to confess to a crime.”