Conspiracy of Silence

by Martha Powers

  “Did my father shoot my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  The single syllable was uncompromising. Clare was grateful when Ruth paused, giving her a chance to absorb this latest shock. After several minutes she continued.

  “When your father realized his arrest was imminent, he packed up a few things and disappeared. He left a note for the chief of police confessing to the murder. He said he couldn’t bear the thought of going to prison and he couldn’t imagine life without Lily.”

  “So he just abandoned me?” Clare interjected.

  “No, dear.” Ruth leaned forward so that Clare could see her expression clearly in the fading light. “Don’t think that. He went on to say that you would always be safe with Lily’s sister and you would not have to live with the stigma of a father who was a murderer.”

  “So he’s somewhere out there alive and free? Some justice.”

  “In some respects I suppose you could say that justice prevailed. The final news article was almost eight months after your mother died.”

  When Ruth didn’t speak immediately, the muscles in Clare’s stomach began to tighten as if she expected a blow. It was a moment or two before the older woman continued.

  “Two men had been walking beside the railroad tracks in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin when they saw a man jump in front of a freight train. One witness said he had committed suicide while the other claimed he might have been trying to beat the train and lost his footing. The man was identified as Jimmy Newton, your father. The case was closed.”

  In the silence that followed, Clare stared down at the lake. The moon had risen and the surface glowed whitely in the circle of darkened trees that surrounded it. Here and there lights shone in the houses, but the lake itself appeared iced over and she shivered at the deep chill that invaded her bones. It occurred to her that Ruth must be feeling the change in temperature too.

  “I think it’s time to go inside,” Clare said. “There’s a hint of dampness in the air and I don’t want you to catch cold.” Reaching out a hand, she helped the older woman to her feet. “You take your glass and I’ll bring the rest.”

  It was strange how comfortable Clare felt around Ruth, as if she’d known her for much longer than half a day. Ruth made a pot of tea. They settled down in the rose-decorated living room. The hot tea brought welcome warmth to Clare’s body.

  “I hope this hasn’t all been too much for you. You came here with such high hopes and I hated to dash them.” Ruth’s expression was troubled. “I’m a firm believer that ultimately the truth cannot hurt you. It can bring you pain, heartache, and sadness but it cannot destroy the person you are. It can bring you understanding of whom and what you are.”

  “Right now, I’m not sure I agree with you. Maybe after I’ve had time to absorb this I will.” Clare took a deep breath. “You’re right that I came here with certain expectations. I remember as a child when I was angry because of something Rose did or, more probably, what she wouldn’t let me do, I would imagine that I’d been kidnapped by Gypsies and my rich parents would claim me someday.”

  Ruth chuckled, a warm throaty sound. “I had the same thought, but I was always a misplaced princess. And had the firm belief that when I became queen I would make everyone very sorry they hadn’t been nicer to me.”

  For the first time since they returned to the house, Clare could feel her mouth widen in a grin. “You see all those wonderful TV shows where a child is put up for adoption and the birth mother searches for years to find the child. There’s a tearful reunion and the adopted child has the benefit of two loving families.”

  “Reality is usually harsher.”

  “I didn’t really think it would be like that. When I was having trouble getting any information I realized that my birth family might not be thrilled to have me turn up after all these years. All I had hoped for was to be able to fill in a background. To not feel so lost.”

  “And now,” Ruth said, “you feel even more lost?”

  “Exactly. Angry. Confused.”

  “I’ll admit it’s overwhelming. You’ll need to take some time toget used to the whole thing. Try to think of it as a process of rebirth. You can’t rush that in real life and I don’t think you should rush into this now. I’ve brought you some clippings to look at but you’ll need time to absorb the information. Besides, you’ll have questions and those will lead to other things.”

  “I don’t even know where to start.” Clare heard the childish whine in her tone. She straightened in her chair, refusing to let the situation dominate her but at a loss how to get beyond the sense of helplessness that surrounded her.

  “Work is always the way to ground yourself.” Ruth’s voice was brisk. “You mentioned earlier that you had come here to interview Nathan Hanssen.”

  “That was the plan. I really never expected to tell anyone my real reason for being here. When I told my editor at the magazine that I was coming to Grand Rapids, she said the most famous natives were Judy Garland who was born here and Hanssen who was currently living here. When she mentioned arranging an interview I jumped at it. I like his work, but, more importantly, it gave me a legitimate excuse for being here.”

  “Excellent,” Ruth said. “This is a small town and people will be curious about you. It will explain why you’ve come up to Minnesota. And you’ll be free to ask questions and dig into the history of the town.”

  “You think people will be upset if they find out who I am?”

  Ruth shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t really know. From what I’ve read, it was a sensational case at the time and many of the people involved still live in town. They might not want their youthful indiscretions brought up again.” After a slight hesitation she continued, “Have you talked to Nathan Hanssen before?”

  “No. My editor made the arrangements.”

  “Strangely enough, you already have a connection with Nate although you would have had no way to know this. Nate’s father was the chief of police at the time of your mother’s death.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, it’s true. Thatcher Hanssen was the chief of police here for many years until he retired.”

  “What a bizarre coincidence. I’ve come all this way to interview someone whose father was involved in the investigation of my mother’s death.” Clare shook her head, trying to clear away some of her confusion. “I’m still not sure how deeply I want to delve into this but if I do, do you think Thatcher Hanssen would talk tome?”

  Ruth sighed. “Unfortunately, Thatcher died three years ago. He was a very fine man. Honest and well liked. A real loss to us all.”

  “So many dead ends.” She smiled at the unintended pun. “I have so many questions and it would help to talk to people who actually knew my parents. Rose never talked about her family and rarely mentioned my father. Now I’m beginning to wonder if she was ever married.”

  “No pictures of her husband?”

  “None. She said all the early photographs had been lost in a fire. I suppose it doesn’t matter since Jimmy Newton was my father and there are probably pictures of him in the newspaper accounts.”

  “Yes. He looks grim in all the pictures, but you would expect that under the circumstances. As far as I could tell he was a tall, heavyset man with a thick head of red hair and a beard.”

  Clare touched her own chestnut hair, understanding where she got the red highlights that glowed in the sunlight. “You didn’t know him?”

  “No, I had already moved away. According to the newspaper, Jimmy was born and raised in Minneapolis. He’d only been living in Grand Rapids for seven years before your mother died.”

  “Do you know how old she was?”

  “Lily was twenty-three.”

  “I’m twenty-nine.” Clare swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I’ve been alive six years longer than my mother and I’m only twenty-nine.”

  “I can hear the sadness in your voice and I can’t say I blame you. All you can do is to try and let it go. Mayb
e time will change the perspective. Would you like to see your mother’s picture?”

  “No.”

  The word burst from her lips and she covered her mouth, appalled at her reaction to the question. Her heart beat loudly in her ears and she concentrated on her breathing until she was able tolook across at the older woman.

  “I’m not ready to meet her yet.” Clare’s voice shook. “It’s all too much.”

  “You poor child,” Ruth said. “This has been a very long day for you. I’m sure your emotions are in an uproar. This is much too much to take in.”

  Ruth pushed to her feet and reached across to take Clare by her hand. She stood up, staggering slightly as a wave of exhaustion washed over her body. Ruth steadied her and she drew in an energizing breath of air.

  “You’re definitely right that I’m done for the moment. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

  Ruth put an arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the door. Feeling chilled, Clare slipped on her corduroy jacket and zipped it up to her neck. Ruth reached for a thick envelope on the hall table and handed it to Clare.

  “Don’t rush this, dear. My phone number at the library is on the front of the envelope. Sleep in tomorrow. Call Nathan Hanssen and set up the interview. I’ve put some groceries in the refrigerator that should get you through the day. I suspect you might want to just get acclimated. I don’t want to be an overbearing landlady, but I’m right here if you need me.”

  “Thank you for everything, Ruth. I don’t mean to be ungracious, but I do need a bit of time to get used to things.” She hugged the older woman. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow after I’ve had a good rest.”

  Ruth opened the door. She jumped back when she saw Waldo lying at the edge of the porch, his snout on top of his folded paws. He raised his head and his tail thumped against the floor, then he sighed heavily as he lumbered to his feet.

  “I think he must be waiting to walk you home,” Ruth said.

  “I’ve had less courteous dates,” Clare said, leaning over to pat his head. “However, I have to admit they smelled better.”

  “It’s Eau de Northern Pike.”

  Clare giggled. “I better not let my escort wait any longer. Good night.”

  Clare followed the soft padding of the dog as he led her along the flagstones down to the cottage. The light she’d left on was a welcome beacon. The dark surrounded her and the soft breeze off the lake caressed her cheeks. The fresh air revived her slightly, but her body hummed with the aftermath of her emotional day. When they got to the porch, Waldo led her around toward the lake.

  Rounding the corner she came face to face with a dark figure seated in one of the wicker chairs on the porch. She gasped in fear as a man rose to confront her.

  S

  Chapter Five

  Clare opened her mouth to scream as the man loomed out of the darkness on the porch and came toward her. Waldo pushed her aside as he hurled himself forward, tail thrashing wildly.

  “Oof,” the man said. “Down, you idiot dog.” In a split second Clare realized that there was nothing to fear as Waldo nuzzled the man who was trying to ward off the enthusiastic gyrations of the dog.

  “Sit,” the man snapped. Obediently Waldo flopped his rear on the deck, gazing up while his body continued to wriggle in pleasure. The man reached out and stroked the dog behind the ears until he was calmer.

  “I’m sorry for frightening you. I’m Waldo’s sometime owner. I spotted him sitting on the dock with you earlier in the evening and I came over to make sure he wasn’t being a nuisance.”

  Clare held the envelope of newspaper clippings tight against her chest as her breathing steadied. “He’s been acting as my escort since I’m new to the area.”

  “I gathered that someone was renting the place when I saw the lights on.”

  “I’m Clare Prentice. I’m a friend of Ruth’s niece Gail.”

  The man was silent for a moment but finally his deep voice came out of the darkness. “I’m Jake. Nice to meet you.”

  He made no attempt to offer his hand, just continued to stroke the dog’s head.

  “Ruth said you were an artist?”

  “Yes. I’m right across the lake.” He pointed vaguely to the far side. “Well, Waldo and I will be heading home. Just shoo him off if he bothers you.”

  Without waiting for a response, Jake walked down the steps toward the lake. Waldo turned his head toward Clare, gave a low woofing sound, and followed his owner along the path. In the moonlight, she caught a glimpse of a thin man in a flannel shirt and blue jeans. She couldn’t see his face but his white hair and slow pace indicated that he was older than his voice had sounded. Although she was watching intently, the man and the dog seemed to melt into the dark blur of trees along the shoreline.

  How strange, Clare thought. She had to admit that she’d been frightened when she first found Jake on the porch. If it hadn’t been for the dog, she would have run back to Ruth’s. She’d have to ask Ruth about the artist. He hadn’t seemed particularly friendly, although he hadn’t been menacing either. Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she pulled out the house key and unlocked the door.

  She relocked the door and placed the envelope on the table beside the sofa. In the bedroom, she hung up her jacket in the closet, and then opened the dresser, grateful that she’d finished unpacking before she went to Ruth’s. She pulled out a red and blue silk nightgown with a bright red mandarin robe. Although she was never flamboyant in her clothing style, she thought of her lingerie as her “inner tramp.” She could feel the tiredness creeping into her body, as she washed quickly and changed into her nightgown and robe.

  Barefoot, she went out to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She was reminded again of Ruth’s thoughtfulness. She had bought orange juice, milk, eggs, and bread. There was a plastic bag with sliced ham and Swiss cheese. On the counter was a box of cereal, several apples, and two bananas. A box of lemon-flavored tea bags was beside the stove and a bright blue kettle was set on the burner. Best of all was a plate of cookies on the counter.

  Opening several cupboards, she eventually found some blue mugs and filled one with water. She placed it inside the microwave and set the timer. When the bell dinged, she set the cup on a plate, dunked one of the tea bags, and added several cookies. Grabbing some paper towels for a napkin, she padded across to the sofa and set her things down on the table. She sighed gratefully as she curled up in the corner of the couch and reached for the mug of tea.

  The moist lemony scent rose to fill her senses. She held the cup in the palms of her hands, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. As if an echo to her feeling of contentment, she heard the call of a loon on the lake. For the first time in three months she felt at peace.

  The emotional turmoil she had been through faded into the background and she took a careful sip of the hot tea. So many times she’d cried herself to sleep, but she suspected that tonight she would sleep soundly, free of nightmares.

  She ate the cookies — oatmeal raisin — her favorite, and drank the tea, letting the warmth flow through her body. Her fingers stroked across the surface of the manila envelope. This was what she had been searching for. This was her identity.

  Now that she knew part of the story, she needed to decide how much more she wanted to know. Could she look at these clippings and be satisfied? Obviously she couldn’t go through them tonight. She was far too tired. Tomorrow would be plenty of time.

  She took her dishes back to the kitchen, turned out the lights in the main room, and returned to the bedroom. She removed her robe and lay it across the end of the bed. Pulling back the coverlet, she turned down the sheet and searched through all the decorative pillows until she unearthed a down pillow. She sat down gingerly, testing to see if the iron bed frame squeaked. As expected it let out several rusty groans, but once she was settled, she found the mattress delightfully firm. Turning out the light, she lay back and closed her eyes.

  Twenty minutes later, she turned on the l
ight and sat up.

  Throwing back the covers, she got to her feet and padded out tothe living room. She glared down at the envelope on the table. She’d tried to put it out of her mind but she knew if she didn’t open it she wouldn’t get any sleep. Picking it up, she returned to the bedroom. She fluffed up her pillow and put it against the metal headboard. Climbing back into bed she sat with her back against the pillow and her legs crossed. She smoothed out the covers, placing the envelope on the comforter.

  Much as she said she wasn’t ready, Clare wanted to see what her mother looked like. There had to be some pictures in the envelope. Her fingers shook as she opened the clasp and she prayed that she wouldn’t find a sensationalized photo of her mother’s death. With the top undone, she poured the contents onto the comforter.

  On the top was a newspaper with a picture of her mother under the headline: GRISLYMURDER INGRANDRAPIDS.

  The picture was not a formal photograph. With the lake in the background, it looked as if it was taken at a picnic. Lily was sitting down and the way the picture had been cropped indicated that other people were sitting on either side of her.

  The old newspaper had a yellowish cast and Lily’s features were slightly blurred. Her face was slender with high cheekbones and she stared into the camera with wide, serious eyes. Because the picture was black and white, Clare couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. The one thing that was clear was her blonde hair that, even on the grainy newsprint, glowed as it curled around her shoulders. Sculptured eyebrows and an aristocratic nose added to the picture of a very pretty young woman.

  Perhaps she had been expecting a mirror image of her own face but, if so, she was disappointed. Staring down she could see very little resemblance. The woman in the photograph looked something like Rose, but she did not see much of herself.