Conspiracy of Silence

by Martha Powers

  It wasn’t until the end of the article that Clare was mentioned. Chief Hanssen reported that also in the letter Jimmy had mentioned that his daughter would be living with his sister-in-law in another state. She would be well cared for and he hoped she would not have to live under the shadow of his crime.

  Tears filled Clare’s eyes and she hiccupped a muffled cry. She’d read the other articles as if she were reading a fiction story. She didn’t feel as if she knew either Lily or Jimmy. Now hearing again that her father had tried to protect her by sending her away with his sister-in-law made her conscious of him as a flesh and blood person.

  He didn’t sound like a murderer.

  She got off the stool and walked around the room. Her neck was stiff from bending over the counter and her eyes burned from reading the fine print.

  There was nothing in the paper to indicate her father was a bad person. Someone mentioned that he had a quick temper but all the other comments had been favorable. The priest at the church and his boss at the paper mill where he worked, his neighbors. Everyone seemed to like him. Said he was a trusted worker, faithful husband, and loving father. Could he have ruined his life and taken another in one moment of anger?

  Clare decided she needed a break. She wrote down several things that she would need at the grocery store and then scooped up her purse and headed into town. Now that she knew her way around a little she could enjoy the scenery. As she drove, she passed several tailings piles. Ruth had told her they were the leftover rock piles from the open pit iron mines. They were jokingly referred to as Minnesota mountains. She was fascinated by the red color and, despite their barren quality, was amazed at the occasional trees that had taken root on the rocky surface.

  The water that filled the pits below the rock hills was a beautiful greenish blue, the glassy surface broken by an occasional fish rising to the surface. She had read somewhere that birds dropped fish they’d caught into the water and that was the beginning of the fish population in these abandoned quarries.

  Ruth had given her a hand-drawn map of the downtown area that had pointed out Gordy’s, the grocery store. She found it without difficulty. Smaller than the Jewel stores she was used to in Chicago, she found it far more accessible. She didn’t need much. She’d decided to make her favorite sweet and sour ramen salad along with some ham slices. She spotted half a coconut cake that looked positively sinful so she decided to splurge.

  Mentally going over the staples she’d need, she turned the corner into the next aisle and slammed into a grocery cart coming out. The stranger gasped at the contact and her purse dropped, knocking a glass jar of applesauce off the bottom shelf. The jar broke, scattering its contents on the wood floor.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Clare said. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  The older woman seemed totally flustered by the incident. She stared at Clare, bending over the shopping cart as if she needed the support.

  “Are you sure, you’re all right?” Clare asked, coming around tohelp pick up the purse items scattered on the floor.

  “Be careful of the glass.” The woman grabbed her purse and began to stuff things back inside.

  “I think we have everything.” Clare handed her a comb and a lipstick, eyeing the floor to see if they’d missed anything else. “Well I certainly made a mess here. I’d better go get someone to clean this up before someone slips.”

  “I can do that. I’m done with my shopping,” the other woman said. “Why don’t you wait here, Abby?”

  Leaving her grocery basket in the aisle, the woman walked quickly toward the front of the store. Clare pushed her cart to the side so that shoppers could get past without wheeling through the glass and applesauce.

  “Clean up on aisle six,” came a woman’s voice over the PA system.

  Clare relaxed as she waited for the woman to return. After several minutes a stock boy arrived with a mop and began to clean up the mess. Curiously the woman didn’t return. Clare moved her grocery cart along the aisle and waited a few more minutes. It finally dawned on her that the woman had left the store without her groceries.

  How weird, Clare thought. Could the woman have been so upset about the accident? Shrugging, she finished shopping for the last items on her list and checked out. It was only as she was putting the groceries in the car that she wondered if she had done something to offend the woman. Reviewing the conversation, she almost dropped the carton of milk.

  The woman had called her Abby.

  S

  Chapter Six

  A total stranger had called her Abby. She hadn’t imagined that. The woman had said, “Why don’t you wait here, Abby.” How could she have known her real name? No one but Ruth knew her name was Abigail Clare Newton. Abby.

  Putting the milk in the car, she returned the cart to the store and drove slowly back to the cottage. When she got inside, she reached for the phone and called Ruth. She hadn’t noticed the time. It was six o’clock and Ruth had already left the library. She rang Ruth at home but there was no answer. She didn’t leave a message; she’d ask her about it tomorrow when they were having dinner.

  Her mind kept going over the curious scene in the grocery store as she put away the things she’d bought. If for some reason the woman recognized her as Abby Newton that might explain the shocked expression on her face after the clash of carts. But the real question was, how anyone would recognize her, since the last time anyone had seen Abby, she was four years old.

  After looking at the pictures of her mother and Rose she knew she didn’t look like either of them. In the pictures of her father that she had seen, she didn’t think she looked much like him. As far as she could tell the only possible answer was that Rose had stayed in contact with someone in Grand Rapids.

  So many questions. If only she’d been more alert when the woman had called her by name. Flustered that she’d caused the accident, Clare’s mind had been concentrated on the broken glass and the mess on the floor. She wasn’t sure if she would even recognize the woman again.

  Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a bottle of aspirin. Her head had begun to throb and she could feel her neck stiffen with returning tension. In the early days, after discovering her life was a total fabrication and beginning her research, she had begun having headaches. She had the feeling she should remember something, but her memories were totally missing before the age of four.

  Had the trauma of being separated from her parents been enough of a psychological jolt to erase her memories?

  She wished she had recognized something about Grand Rapids when she arrived. The only tingle she’d gotten was when she had seen the photo of Rose’s house where she’d been living with her parents. Even that was only a slight sense of familiarity. Nothing concrete.

  To relax, she watched the news, and then cooked some soup for dinner. Afterward she made up the ramen salad and prepared the ham slices for dinner with Ruth so that she only needed to put them into the oven. She made a pitcher of tea and set it on the counter to cool. Finished with her preparations for the next day, she sat on the couch and went back to reading the last of the newspaper clippings.

  Although there was a constant rehashing of the main facts in the case, there didn’t appear to be anything new that surfaced. The next major article was when Chief Thatcher announced that Jimmy Newton was dead. The clipping was dated March 5, 1983. Eight months after Lily’s murder.

  Two men had been crossing a bridge above the railroad tracks late at night near Prairie Du Chien, Wisconsin. It had snowed heavily and their car had gotten stuck in a snow bank and they were heading into town to find a tow truck. They were almost at the far end of the bridge when they stopped to watch an approaching freight train. Just before it reached the bridge, they saw the figure of a man jump in front of the train. They raced across the bridge and ran down the hill to the tracks to check on him. He was dead. One man stayed behind with the body and the ot
her went for help.

  The witnesses differed in their story. One thought the man had slipped on the snow and ice, while the other said he was convinced the man had jumped in front of the train.

  Although the body was badly mangled they were able to identify him by certain items on his person, according to the newspaper account. Chief Thatcher said the items were a gold chain and a wallet that held several thousand dollars. Apparently Jimmy Newton had cleaned out his bank account.

  The remainder of the articles held little of interest. Newton’s body was brought back to Grand Rapids and buried in Itasca Cemetery. The newspaper pointed out that he was interred at the far end of the cemetery, not near Lily’s grave. No reason, other than jealousy, was ever put forth as to why Jimmy had killed Lily. The case was officially closed.

  Clare sighed as she read the last of the clippings. Despite all that she had learned, she didn’t have answers to some of the important questions. Why had Rose gone to so much trouble to keep Clare’s identity a secret? Was it only to keep her from discovering the scandal of the murder? But more important to Clare was the fact that she had no clue as to what her mother and father were really like. She had read all the accounts but still couldn’t see them as flesh and blood. For that she would have to talk to people who knew them.

  Howcould she even bring up the subject of the murder? If she told them she was Abby Newton, they would probably agree totalk to her. The drawback was that once they realized who she was, she wasn’t sure she’d get objective answers to her questions.

  She opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of white wine. Taking the rest of the oatmeal raisin cookies she went out to the porch and sat down in one of the rattan chairs. She sipped the wine and ate the cookies as she breathed in the fresh air.

  Theanswer was simple. She was a reporter, here on assignment. All she needed to do was state that, aside from interviewing Nate Hanssen, she was also doing research on the murder. It had happened twenty-five years ago, which was some sort of landmark. She would then have an excuse for interviewing anyone who might have information about the murder. It wasn’t like researching a murder mystery. She knew that answer. But if she were ever to find real peace with her background, she needed to find the answer to one question. Why did Jimmy Newton kill her mother?

  Standing in the shadow of trees, he watched as she went through the newspaper clippings. He wished he could get closer to get a better look at her face and see her expression. With the illumination spilling out from the living room, he couldn’t risk it. He’d have to wait until she went into the bedroom where there was less chance of discovery. He couldn’t see with any clarity the headlines and photos she was studying, but he already knew what she was looking at.

  Except for an accident, he might never have known. He’d been at the library when the young woman was there. If he hadn’t been so busy helping clean up at the meeting, he might have had a face-to-face confrontation with her. When he arrived, he’d seen her sitting in the alcove, but had paid little attention to her other than to note she was very attractive.

  As he was carrying the coffee pot to the lounge to empty it, Ruth Grabenbauer came out of the file room. She was so engrossed in the folder she was carrying that she bumped into him. He’d reached out to steady her and several newspaper clippings fell to the floor. He set the coffee pot down and picked the clippings up,surprised when he glanced at them.

  “Looking up an old mystery?” he’d asked.

  “No, we just had a request for some information,” she’d replied.

  Before he could continue, she closed the folder and hurried away. Returning to the meeting, he’d heard that the young woman in the alcove was renting Ruth’s cottage. There was much speculation as to why she’d come to Grand Rapids for a vacation. He’d wondered as he finished cleaning up whether there was any connection between the renter and the clipping file.

  Why was anyone interested in the Newton murder? Why after all this time?

  No matter why she’d come to Grand Rapids it couldn’t be good if she was digging around in areas that had been closed and finished years ago. It was too dangerous. Too dangerous for the town and too dangerous for the snoop.

  Thursday morning, Clare woke up close to eight, stretching slowly as she breathed in the fresh air coming through the open bedroom window. Used to living in the city, she reveled in the sound of birds as a substitution for horn honks and screeching brakes. It looked like it would be a beautiful day. She’d read in the paper that it would be hot, but hopefully there’d be a breeze.

  After a shower, she dressed in a soft chambray skirt and a shortsleeved white blouse with an embroidered floral pattern across the back. Casually professional, she thought as she hooked gold hoops in her ears. She brushed her hair into a loose ponytail, low against the back of her neck. Lipstick and a brush of powder completed the look.

  The newspaper was at the front door, but there was no sign of Waldo. For breakfast, she had cereal and tea and read the paper, enjoying the luxury of not having to rush off to work. Eventually she pulled out her notebook and took a quick run through her notes on Nathan Hanssen.

  Hanssen was thirty-seven, a single father raising an elevenyear-old girl. Thirteen years earlier, he had exploded on the literary scene with a novel that combined an ancient civilization and a modern day archeologist into a highly marketable thriller. It was an instant bestseller and was made into a blockbuster movie a year later. Not only did it bring financial success, but also the reviews lauded him as a fine writer with a promising future.

  The twenty-five year old author was a favorite on talk shows and at book signings, but at the height of his popularity tragedy struck. His high school sweetheart, whom he had married at twenty-one, died a year after the first book came out when their daughter was two years old. Clare had only found a few news stories on Mrs. Hanssen’s death. They were on vacation in New York City and Rebecca had drowned in the East River.

  At the time of his wife’s death, Hanssen had been teaching at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio. A year later he moved back to Minnesota with his daughter and virtually dropped out of sight. Four years later he published another book. It did not achieve the same commercial success as his first, but the critics were almost effusive in their praise. Two more books followed and his latest book was short-listed for several awards and eventually won the Pulitzer Prize.

  She eyed his publicity photo again. He didn’t look as arrogant as he’d sounded on the telephone. On the other hand, he didn’t look as intensely intriguing as he had at the church supper. She could only hope the meeting would go well.

  Clare scanned the rest of her notes then closed her notebook and went out to the car. She was looking forward to meeting Hanssen, yet she felt some lingering annoyance over his abruptness on the phone.

  Hanssen’s house was halfway around Lost Lake at the opposite end from Grand Rapids. It was a much more heavily forested area with fewer houses dotting the shoreline. Clare was tempted to stop several times as she passed the mountains of red rock. She marked one place in particular when she saw a gravel road cutting across the highway that led to some abandoned buildings and a ragged trail that led to one of the flooded pits.

  No time now, she thought as she glanced at her watch. She wasdetermined to be at Hanssen’s house by ten o’clock sharp. No need to give the man any excuse to cancel, Clare thought as she drove down the gravel driveway leading to the house. When the trees opened up, the first thing that caught her eye was the mass of red geraniums on either side of a stone walk that led around the right side of the house to a deck overlooking the lake. She parked the car on the far side of the garage and walked back toward the screened porch that led into the main part of the house.

  The house itself was made of large, multicolored fieldstones. Wood beams were visible as support and decoration, which gave the place a solid rustic look. Myriad red, white, and yellow flowers lined the edges of the screened porch. A rectangular wooden plaque hung above th
e door. The background was bright blue. In the center was a red circle flanked by two crescents facing out, one a white moon sliver and the other black. As folk art it was striking andhad a familiarity about it that made her think she had seen something similar before.

  Tucking her leather notebook under her arm, she rang the doorbell.

  She could hear the chime inside the house, but it was a minute or two before the inside door opened and Erika came out. Up close, Clare felt as if she were watching a pixie flitting across the screened porch. Dressed in denim shorts and a pink tank top, the willowy youngster danced across the floor, her flip-flops making soft slapping sounds on the wooden boards.

  “Are you the magazine lady?” she asked, staring at Clare through the screen door.

  “Yes, I’m Clare Prentice. And you?”

  “I’m Erika. Erika Hanssen.” The girl cocked her head and her white blonde hair spilled across her shoulder. “We don’t have a lot of visitors.”

  I’m pleased to meet you.” Clare smiled, surprised when the girl didn’t respond. If anything, her expression seemed to harden. “I have an appointment with your father.”

  “I know. That’s why he’s been so grouchy all morning.” She stared at Clare accusingly. “He doesn’t like reporters.”

  Clare sighed. So far it was an inauspicious start to the interview. “May I come in?”

  Thegirl remained motionless as if she were thinking over the request. A sound from inside the house caught her attention and after a quick glance over her shoulder, Erika reached for the door handle. Before she could open it, Hanssen appeared.

  “Well done, Miss Prentice. Right on time,” Hanssen said.