Clause & Effect

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  That left Tony Welby.

  Huh.

  He was the one who’d discovered Gilbert Baxter’s body. That always put someone near the top of the cops’ list of suspects in crime fiction. This is real life, I reminded myself, and Baxter and the mayor had dinner plans.

  Being careful not to look Welby’s way, I followed Adam when he went to supervise the repairs on the set. Drawing him aside, I lowered my voice.

  “Back when you were a kid, was Mayor Welby one of the teachers at the high school?”

  “That’s right.” His attention was on the platform, as if he was itching to shove the teenager fixing the wheel out of the way and do it himself.

  “Did you know him at all?”

  “Naw, he’d left by the time I was old enough to take one of his classes, but my brother had him.”

  “The brother who was one of Grace Yarrow’s classmates?”

  “Right.” His brow furrowed and he sent me a curious look. “Is that why you’re interested? I don’t ever remember hearing anything about him and Grace.”

  “Humor me. What do you remember about him?”

  He shrugged. “He was kind of a phony. I mean, he never went to a single football or basketball game until he decided to run for office. Then he was there for every one, looking to build political support by pretending he was a big fan of the Lenape Hollow Indians.”

  “It seems to have worked. I understand he was elected to the state legislature.”

  “All that glad-handing,” Adam agreed, and turned to look up into the rows of seats.

  I was careful not to glance in Welby’s direction myself, but once again I felt the sensation of eyes boring into my back. Don’t worry, I told myself. The mayor couldn’t possibly know we’re talking about him.

  “The ladies liked him,” Adam said, his gaze returning to me. “Even some of the girls in his classes had a crush on him. I never understood that myself.”

  “Did Grace?”

  He grinned. “The way I heard it, Grace Yarrow liked anything in pants.”

  After he went to check progress on the wonky wheel, I replayed everything he’d told me. Could Tony Welby have been more than Grace’s teacher and guidance counselor? He had recommended her to write the pageant when, as far as anyone knew, she had minimal knowledge of history and no experience as a playwright.

  There goes that overactive imagination again, I chided myself. Someone with a dirty mind could imply the same thing about Stacy’s appointment as town historian. I was certain there had been no hanky-panky in that case, just run-of-the-mill nepotism. Still . . .

  As I walked back to the director’s table, I thought about the story Diego’s wife had told me about the coach and his pornographic pictures, and the comment Spring had made at rehearsal, and my own recollection of the teacher who dated one of his former students on graduation night. It wasn’t impossible that Tony Welby had been involved with Grace, and if he had been, then it was also possible that he’d seen her as a liability when he was about to launch his political career.

  According to Gilbert Baxter, Grace had been careless about what she told new lovers about old boyfriends. If Tony Welby had a distinctive birthmark, would he have panicked when he realized Baxter could describe it to the police? The possibility that they’d make the description public would surely have worried him.

  I frowned, remembering what else Baxter had said about that birthmark. Grace had described it to him as being located in an intimate place. That meant only another lover was likely to see it . . . or a wife. Welby’s wife? Could the mayor of Lenape Hollow really have killed both Grace Yarrow and Gilbert Baxter, the latter to prevent him from talking to Detective Hazlett?

  Still struggling with the implications of this scenario, I made the mistake of glancing toward the audience. My eyes locked with Tony Welby’s. Quickly, guiltily, I tore my gaze away from his.

  He can’t read my thoughts, I assured myself. That narrow-eyed stare means nothing. He’s probably just getting impatient because we haven’t yet resumed rehearsal.

  “Places, everyone!” I called.

  Although my heart raced for the next ten minutes, I managed to keep up a pretense of business as usual. Somehow, I got through the next hour without once turning around. By the time I did, after we called it quits for the night, the mayor and the other members of the board of directors had already left the amphitheater. I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  Overactive imagination, I told myself for the zillionth time.

  Even if it was, first thing in the morning I planned to share my newest theory with Detective Hazlett. The worst he could do was laugh at me.

  Chapter 42

  In the first week of August, the sun doesn’t set until around eight o’clock, but night was fast descending by the time I reached the parking area. I walked a little faster. The older I get, the less I like to drive at night. The headlights on other cars bother me more than they used to, and even in a low-traffic village like Lenape Hollow, I can easily imagine myself steering away from the glare and straight into a ditch.

  Two carloads of cast members departed as I pulled my keys out of my jeans pocket and pushed the button to unlock my Taurus. I didn’t hear any voices, but there was still one other vehicle in the lot, its engine idling. It was already too dark for me to make out anything but its shape.

  My thoughts shifted to what I had in the refrigerator. The light supper I’d eaten before driving to rehearsal was a distant memory. Did I want something substantial, like a sandwich? Or should I go with a bowl of cereal? Or crackers and milk? My grandfather—not the one with an interest in family history, the other one—had always snacked on the same thing before he went to bed. He crumbled a handful of saltines into a tall glass of milk and ate the result with a spoon.

  Smiling at the memory, I opened my car door. I’d just tossed my tote inside and was about to slide into the driver’s-side seat when I heard a faint footfall on the pavement behind me and twisted around to see who was there.

  That awkward movement was all that saved me from being knocked out cold. A length of pipe whistled past my head, striking the car roof instead of the top of my head. It bounced off and disappeared into the tall grass growing beside the parking lot.

  With a yelp, I tried to scramble the rest of the way into the car and pull the door closed. I wasn’t fast enough. My attacker caught hold of my leg and hauled me out again. I screamed for help as I hit the ground, but there was no one left to come to my aid.

  Before I could do more than roll over onto my hands and knees, let alone get a look at my assailant, the old blanket I customarily spread across the car seat on scorching summer days to keep the upholstery from getting too hot for comfort was flung over my head. Powerful arms wrapped it around my upper body as they hauled me upright.

  With my arms pinned to my sides, I could barely move. The more I struggled, the tighter I was squeezed. I managed to loosen a tiny bit of the enveloping material just enough to create a small pocket of air around my face, but all that did was make room for my glasses to fall off when my captor abruptly slung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

  My heart raced and my breath soughed in and out. I was, to fall back on a cliché, quaking like a leaf in a windstorm. Calm down, I ordered myself. Think. You’re not dead yet. There has to be a way out of this.

  All of a sudden, the world shifted. I was dropped, none too gently, into what I quickly realized was the trunk of a car. One heavy hand pushed my head down while the other shoved my legs inside. The sound of the latch catching as the trunk closed was one of the most horrifying things I can ever remember hearing.

  Taking shallow breaths, I forced myself to lie still, listening while footsteps moved from the back of the car to the front. The driver’s-side door opened. The vehicle shifted slightly as the man got in. The door slammed. When the engine revved, I was swamped with emotions, terror chief among them. Who wouldn’t be terrified? Unless I found a way to escape, this was going to
be a one-way trip.

  I didn’t have much maneuvering room, but I’d lucked out in that this was a large trunk. It was also nearly empty except for a toolbox. I discovered its location by ramming my shoulder into its sharp metal corner. Naturally, it was the same shoulder I’d landed on in the parking lot.

  Feeling cautiously with one hand, I found an edge of the blanket and tugged at it until more of the fabric came free. Most of it was held down by my own weight. A series of painful contortions later, I wriggled free of the confining folds. In the process I found my glasses. One lens was missing. The other was cracked. It hardly mattered. In the blackness of the trunk, I couldn’t see anything anyway.

  My cell phone was in my tote bag, along with the pageant script and my wallet. I remembered tossing the bag into the car before I was attacked. With it had gone my only way to call for help. I was going to have to rescue myself.

  As my eyes slowly adjusted to the absence of light in my moving prison, I felt around for the toolbox, thinking there might be something inside it I could use as a weapon. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a glow. I blinked. Had I imagined it? Twisting in that direction, I nearly cried out in relief. One small area of the trunk was faintly lit and what it illuminated was the release lever for the trunk.

  I’d read somewhere, probably in a mystery novel, that all cars manufactured since 2000 are required to have a way to open the trunk from the inside. It appeared to be true. Further contortions made me wince, thanks to landing so hard on my right arm when I was hauled out of my car, but I didn’t think I was seriously hurt. As I’d once haughtily informed my cousin Luke, I have excellent bone density.

  Even if something had been broken, I’d have been determined to escape. No other option was acceptable. I continued to twist and squirm until I maneuvered myself near enough to the release lever to grab hold of it.

  Waiting to pull that lever until the car slowed down enough to make escape feasible was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I prayed we weren’t stopping somewhere in the woods, where it would be easy for him to recapture and kill me. I didn’t think so. The ride had been relatively smooth, and even though it seemed as if it had taken eons to work my way free of that blanket, I didn’t think I’d been driven very far.

  I tightened my grip as I felt the brakes engage. When the car was barely crawling, I pulled. The trunk popped open just as the vehicle came to a complete stop. I rolled toward the narrow opening, seizing what might be my only chance to get away from a murderer who’d already killed twice.

  It wasn’t a graceful exit. I landed on my back on a hard, unyielding surface that knocked the wind right out of me. It was only dumb luck that one of my flailing hands pulled the trunk closed again behind me. I heard the latch catch just as the car began to move away.

  For the first few seconds, I was incapable of movement. I was lying in the middle of the road, so close to the car’s taillights that their brightness made me squeeze my eyes shut.

  They popped open again a second later and I squinted through the broken lens of my glasses at the words printed on a bumper sticker. If I’d had any doubts about who had kidnapped me, they were instantly banished. The brightly colored banner urged voters to support Tony Welby in the next election for mayor of Lenape Hollow.

  Chapter 43

  The car continued to pull away, made a left turn at what I belatedly realized was a stop sign, and kept going.

  Panic sent pure adrenaline pumping into my body, giving me the strength to roll over into a crouch and scuttle toward the nearest cover. I was terrified Welby would look out the driver’s-side window and see me. When I reached a weeping willow on someone’s front lawn, I ducked behind it. I was panting so loudly that I wasn’t certain I’d be able to hear the sound of the car if the mayor returned to look for me.

  Slowly, my breathing returned to normal and my heart stopped hammering in my ears. Nothing broke the stillness of the night. No dogs barked. No security lights came on. No cars passed by on the street. Even though I still couldn’t see very well, I began to think clearly again.

  What I could make out through the cracked lens wasn’t much help in getting my bearings, but I had done a fair amount of walking and driving around Lenape Hollow since my return. I felt certain that if I simply chose a direction, I’d soon spot a recognizable landmark and be able to find my way home. The first thing I’d do when I got there was call the police.

  My arm throbbed. Even the slightest movement jarred it, sending shooting pains from shoulder to wrist. Bruises, big time, I thought. There was a tear in my shirt, crusty with blood. That was road rash, or maybe a cut. The rest of my body was one big ache. My butt and lower back hurt like blazes from bouncing off the pavement. Even before my escape, I’d probably sprained, strained, or torn assorted muscles and ligaments with all that wriggling around inside Tony Welby’s trunk, not to mention the damage I sustained when I hit the pavement in the parking lot at Wonderful World.

  Stop griping! I ordered myself. You’re alive, aren’t you?

  I had to get to a phone. That was the crucial thing.

  I could already feel stiffness setting in. If I didn’t move soon, I might not be able to. Although it was a risk, I headed back toward the intersection with the stop sign. Hobbling, telling myself to ignore the pain, I put one foot in front of the other. I was limping badly by the time I covered the few yards to the corner. Thank goodness the mayor was law-abiding in most respects. He’d dutifully stopped to check for oncoming traffic.

  A wave of relief swept over me when I realized I knew where I was. I’d escaped at the corner of Champlain and South Streets.

  In the next second, panic returned. Had Welby been taking me to the historical society? I couldn’t think why he would, but Blake Street was only one short block away. He’d have reached the parking lot behind it by now. Once he discovered I was no longer in the trunk of his car, he’d come looking for me.

  Thanking my lucky stars that it was now full dark and that the moon had not yet risen, I turned and fled back the way I’d come. An adrenaline surge is a wonderful thing. It temporarily blocked out most of my hurts.

  The sidewalks on Champlain Street are lined with trees— big, beautiful trees. If Welby drove this way in search of me, I’d see his headlights in time to retreat into the nearest yard and hide behind one of those thick, all-concealing trunks.

  I considered pounding on the nearest door or screaming for help, but I had a pretty good idea what I looked like with my hair wild and my clothes all torn and dirty. I doubted I’d sound coherent, even if I could get someone to listen to me. I’d come off as a crazy old lady, especially if I claimed that the mayor of Lenape Hollow was trying to kill me.

  Someone might call the police, but the odds were good that I’d be made to stay outside, vulnerable to attack, while we waited for an officer to show up. I’d be better off to keep moving. My own house wasn’t all that far away.

  There were streetlights, but they were few and far between. I couldn’t see that well in any case. My glasses, bent and broken and missing that one lens entirely, were next to useless. Only the fact that I knew where I was going kept me moving forward.

  The quickest way to get to 134 Wedemeyer Terrace—home, sweet home—was through backyards. I aimed my unsteady steps toward one particular residence on Champlain Street, the one that abutted the rear of my property.

  By the time I reached the lot in question, I was panting again and had a painful stitch in my side. That not a single vehicle had approached from either direction did not reassure me. Welby wasn’t going to give up. His attack on me meant he was afraid to let me talk to the police, just as he’d been afraid of what Gilbert Baxter might tell them.

  I limped from the front of the Champlain Street house to the back and headed into the underbrush that separated that lot from my backyard. Every ounce of energy I possessed was focused on getting myself safely home. A few minutes later, I staggered out of the other side of the bushes and stum
bled onto my nearly treeless property. I continued downhill, weaving like a drunkard. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall flat on my face, but somehow I made it to my back porch. Only then did I realize that I didn’t have my keys. I’d had my key ring in my hand when Welby tried to bean me with that length of pipe. I couldn’t remember dropping it, but obviously I had. I patted my pockets just to make sure and found nothing but a used tissue and a foil-wrapped hard candy.

  Resting my head against the locked door, I tried to think. It wasn’t easy. My brain was as exhausted as my body.

  The sounds of a space battle, coming from the O’Day house, told me it would be no use trying to get Tom and Marie’s attention. Even if I could climb over the tall fence separating their property from mine, I’d never be able to make myself heard. Tuesday was family movie night and the volume on their DVD player was turned up to screech.

  Slowly, painfully, I lifted my head to look in the direction of Cindy Fry’s house. All the windows were dark. My heart sank to my toes. Cindy and her steady, dependable husband had a Tuesday night ritual, too. They took their three boisterous boys out for pizza.

  Move, I told myself. Go around to the front.

  If I couldn’t break the sound barrier to get Tom and Marie’s attention, I could try another house farther down the block. It was the home of an old childhood friend. Maybe she’d—

  I broke off in mid-thought and shook my head. It would make more sense to head straight for the police station. It was only two blocks away, down the hill to Main Street and hang a right. I could walk that far if I had to.

  Sure I could.

  It took a massive effort to get myself moving again. I dragged my weary bones as far as the footpath between my property and Cindy’s. With faltering footsteps, left hand braced against the side of my garage for support, I plodded slowly along it. I doubted I could go much farther before my legs gave out on me. The distance between home and the police station, a short, invigorating walk under normal circumstances, now loomed as a journey of daunting proportions.