“Someone likes their privacy.” I tried to make a joke of it, but the size and solidity of that barrier made me uneasy. “Who built here? When old lady Levine lived in Ronnie’s house, she didn’t have any near neighbors.”
“This,” Darlene announced, “is the reason Ronnie is so up in arms. It’s the entrance to Greg Onslow’s proposed theme park, the one he claims will make Lenape Hollow ‘the Orlando of the Northeast’ and bring fame and fortune to us all.”
Chapter 7
The next day, having wasted the previous evening reading the flyer Darlene gave me and speculating about Tiffany Scott’s relationship with her husband, I was determined to focus on work. There was nothing I could do for Tiffany, and the last thing I needed was to involve myself in a fight between a local developer and my old nemesis. More to the point, this was one of the last peaceful mornings before a horde of workmen descended on the house.
My business had been showing modest signs of growth. I had eight aspiring writers as clients, each of whom had sent me an electronic file of a manuscript in need of editing. For three hours, I worked with due diligence, but when the carillon in the Episcopal church tower began its regular noontime concert, I stood up and stretched. A glance out the window showed me another fabulous fall day.
One of the resolutions I’d made after my husband’s death was to take better care of myself—healthier eating habits, more regular exercise, less stress. Lately I hadn’t done too well in any of those areas. Determined to make a new start, I left my temporary desk—the dining room table—snagged the sweater I’d tossed over the back of a chair, tucked my keys, a couple of tissues, and a ten-dollar bill into the pocket of my jeans, and headed for the door. At the last minute, I went back for my smartphone, not because I planned to call anyone but because of its handy camera feature. Since I was going for a walk, I could also take more pictures to send to my sister-in-law.
Earlier forays around Lenape Hollow had taken me downtown on several occasions. Down is the operative word. To reach Main Street requires descending a steep hill. At the top of my porch steps, I hesitated. Across the street, the slope starts gently enough, but toward the bottom the angle of descent abruptly increases. That’s great, if dangerous, when you’re ten years old, the road has not yet been plowed, and you’re trying out that new sled you found under the Christmas tree. Otherwise? Not so much.
Once I reached Main Street, the going would be easier. It’s relatively straight and flat. Returning home, however, would be an uphill slog. I do not exaggerate when I make reference to mountain goats. There are several streets that run between Main Street and Wedemeyer Terrace. One of them ascends at such a sharp angle that the town fathers installed a railing for pedestrians to grab on to. Walkers in far better shape than I am regularly pull themselves along hand over hand as they make the climb.
In my girlhood, my friends and I used to go everywhere on foot. When we weren’t walking, we rode our bikes. I can’t imagine where we found the energy. Just contemplating the return journey sent my enthusiasm into a tailspin. I’d walk later, I decided. Today was a good day for a drive.
Once in the car, I changed my mind yet again. Instead of going downtown, I drove back to the spot Darlene had shown me to the previous day. I don’t know why I went there. Idle curiosity, I suppose. Those big wooden gates were as daunting as they had been at first sight, but this time I got out of the car to take a closer look.
Darlene had been right when she’d called Greg Onslow’s scheme grandiose. Deranged might have been a better word choice. According to the brochure from Mongaup Valley Ventures, Wonderful World, “the Orlando of the Northeast,” would have five separate venues. First up would be Frontier America, featuring a train ride to a lost Indian lead mine. Then there would be a year-round county fair with rides, restaurants, and carnival booths. The Land of Make Believe, an Animal Kingdom—wild animals in their natural environments—and the Kingdom of the Future would round out the list of attractions.
Each proposal struck me as more outdated than the last, like leftovers from the era of the original Disneyland. If Onslow was trying to bring back our heyday, this wasn’t the way to do it. Even back then, the project would not have had much hope of success.
From the 1930s until around 1970, tourists had flocked to the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. They came to escape the heat of New York City in the summer, and because what became known as the “Borscht Belt” offered them everything they could possibly want: luxury accommodations, good fellowship, and free entertainment. I refuse to cite Dirty Dancing as an accurate representation of that time. The movie did get some things right, but I had a different perspective on things. I was one of those locals who didn’t have anything to do with the big hotels or the bungalow colonies or the summer camps. When I was old enough to work, the job I took was with the local telephone company as a long-distance operator. My closest friend was a sales clerk at Woolworth’s, and another pal waitressed in a downtown restaurant.
A soft breeze ruffled my hair as I stood staring up at the enormous wooden barrier. Colorful leaves rustled over my head, and a few drifted down to join those already on the ground. The only other sound was the faint murmur of the brook that ran along the edge of Ronnie’s property.
When I looked toward that side of the gate, I spotted what appeared to be a narrow path. Curious, I moved closer and pushed aside a low-hanging branch. The track was wider than I’d expected and ran parallel to a high wooden fence. Since I hadn’t seen any NO TRESPASSING signs, I promptly gave in to temptation.
The going was uneven but not treacherous. Other feet had already packed down the earth beneath my walking shoes. At first, the height of the fence prevented me from glimpsing anything on the other side, but after a little while that solid barrier gave way to old-fashioned posts and barbed wire. I kept going. Good exercise, I told myself.
Eventually, I came to a spot where the barbed wire had been cut. That didn’t surprise me. Local teenagers had probably been responsible. What youngster would be able to resist the urge to sneak inside and explore? I might have done the same thing when I was younger.
Who was I kidding? I had no hesitation about snooping at my age. Feeling quite pleased with myself when I managed to make it through the opening without snagging my sweater, I set off to reconnoiter, snapping pictures as I went.
It didn’t dawn on me where I was until I came out on a ridge that looked down on a small lake. With a sense of shock, I recognized it as the one where I’d taken swimming lessons as a child.
It was easy enough to understand why I hadn’t caught on to my location sooner. The Jurassic Park gate was new. The old entrance to what had then been called Chestnut Park was on the far side of the property. Back then, this parcel of land had belonged to the village. It had provided local residents with a swimming hole and picnic area—a place of their own for summer activities. Tourists were not allowed in.
I wondered if Mongaup Valley Ventures had made the mayor an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Looking down on it in the present, I thought Chestnut Lake seemed smaller than it was in my memories. There was no trace left of the dock or the rough log building that had housed the changing rooms. Still, it wasn’t difficult for me to pick out the area of higher ground on the opposite side of the water where the picnic tables had been set up to take advantage of the shade of oak, ash, and maple trees. Beyond that, out of sight from where I stood, there used to be a paved parking lot.
I descended to what passed for a beach, arriving slightly out of breath. One landmark remained unchanged, a large boulder supposedly deposited eons ago by a glacier. It rose up out of a tangle of weeds, exactly the right size and shape to use as a bench.
With a nostalgic sigh, and no doubt a sappy grin on my face, I plunked myself down on this convenient seat and took a few more photos before tucking the phone into the pocket of my sweater. Bracing my hands behind me, I leaned back, content to enjoy the colorful, rustic view. Memory provided the so
und of children’s laughter and the sight of swimmers racing from one side of the lake to the other. Sometimes we’d played volleyball on the not exactly sandy shore.
My peaceful contemplation of the scene was cut short by an angry shout.
“Hey, you! This is private property!”
I stumbled to my feet, off balance and ungainly, to find a behemoth in a private security uniform trundling down the hill toward me. He had a nightstick in one hand and a portable radio in the other. I put both hands out in front of me with the palms toward him. It didn’t surprise me to see that they were shaking or to discover that my heart was racing and my throat had gone dry. I considered myself lucky that my trembling knees kept me upright long enough for the guard to reach me.
I had to take a couple of deep breaths before I was able to speak. “I didn’t see any signs,” I gasped. “I was just paying a visit to the old swimming hole.”
Slowly, he lowered the truncheon. Although he wore no name tag, his shoulder patch identified him as an employee of Mongaup Valley Security. It wasn’t much of a leap to guess that this was a subsidiary of Mongaup Valley Ventures. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuck both the nightstick and the radio back into their slots on his utility belt. I felt my eyes widen when I saw that it also held a canister of pepper spray and a gun.
“You got to leave now, lady. Mr. Onslow don’t like people wandering around his property.”
This time I had to swallow convulsively before I could manage to utter a single word. “Yes.” I swallowed again. “Of course. I’m going.”
I shifted my gaze from the gun to the guard’s face. His hard-eyed, unyielding expression, lips tightly compressed and nostrils flaring like a bull about to attack, encouraged me to cooperate when he herded me toward a newly built road I hadn’t even realized was there. It took us straight to the massive gates Onslow had installed.
For some reason, I’d imagined a heavy bar holding this wooden barrier closed, but the smooth surface was unbroken. It seemed downright anticlimactic when the guard pulled what looked like a garage-door opener out of his pocket and depressed a button.
Eerily soundless, the gates swung open, revealing my parked car and a glimpse of the street beyond. In the distance, I could hear the hum of an engine as another vehicle inched its way up the steep hill.
“Get going.” The guard gestured, and I obediently trudged toward my car.
The sun had been beating down on the windshield while I was exploring the remains of Chestnut Park. As soon as I opened the unlocked driver’s side door, a wave of heat eddied out. I shrugged out of my sweater, knowing I’d be too warm if I left it on, and was about to toss it into the backseat when I remembered my phone. Arresting the movement, I fished it out of the sweater pocket . . . and jumped a foot when the guard shouted at me again.
“Hey! You been taking pictures?”
I spun around to find him bearing down on me once again. My immediate reaction was to thrust the phone behind me. The car door was between us, but even as solid as it was, it didn’t offer much protection against a guy that big.
“Give it here.”
He reached for me with his enormous hands, eliciting a squeak of alarm on my part, but before he could grab hold of anything, the car that had been passing by screeched to a halt a few feet beyond the future entrance to Wonderful World. The guard and I turned to watch as the vehicle backed up at reckless speed, stopped again, and roared in our direction, coming to a second abrupt stop just inches from my rear bumper.
It took me a moment to identify the driver. Mike Doran was so furious that his face was contorted out of all recognition. He flung himself out of the car and charged toward the security guard. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Leave her alone!”
An overwhelming wave of relief swept the last of the starch out of my limbs. I collapsed onto the car seat. A moment later, taking advantage of the guard’s distraction, I swung my legs inside, jerked the door closed, and hit the lock button.
Through the window, I could hear sputtered excuses. Clearly, my tormentor knew who Mike was, and that he was a lawyer. It’s amazing what the fear of being sued will do to change someone’s attitude.
“I don’t care if she was taking pictures,” Mike bellowed. “You don’t go around threatening defenseless women.”
The guard apologized again before he retreated to the far side of the gigantic gates. In slow motion they swung closed, hiding him from view.
Mike gestured for me to roll down my window. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. And I’m not defenseless.”
Now that the danger had passed, I was a trifle miffed that he’d thought he had to rescue me. If he hadn’t come along, I was sure I’d have found a way to deal with that bully on my own. At worst, I’d have had to relinquish my cell phone and watch him delete my pictures.
Mike chuckled at my chagrin. “C’mon, Mikki. Let me have my knight-in-shining-armor moment. They don’t come along all that often.”
“I do appreciate the help.” If I sounded grudging, he chose to ignore it.
“Good. How about you reward me by meeting me for coffee tomorrow?”
He looked so eager, so much like the Mikey I remembered from high school, that I had to smile. “I’d love to,” I said, and I meant it.
We agreed on a time and place. He started to leave, then turned back again. “Why was he so intent on getting hold of your camera?”
“Beats me. I only took a few nature shots to send to my sister-in-law. Scenic views. Autumn colors and all that. I was trespassing, though.”
“You and half the kids in town. I guess it’s only natural you’d be curious.”
“Lots of memories,” I agreed, “especially down by the lake.”
A peculiar expression came over his face.
“What?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
I hesitated, suddenly uncertain whether or not I wanted to hear his answer. After a moment, curiosity won out. “Know what?”
“That’s where they found Tiffany Scott’s body. She drowned in Chestnut Lake.”
Chapter 8
I didn’t sleep particularly well that night. I dreamed about bodies floating in water. One was Tiffany’s. The other was the victim she described in the first scene of her novel.
There was a nip in the air the next morning, and I set off at a brisk pace down the Alley. This isn’t a street, but rather a wide driveway that runs from Wedemeyer Terrace, at a point almost directly across from my house, down to Main Street. The Catholic school uses it as a playground at recess, and near the bottom of the hill it flanks the rectory. The church is a bit farther away, off to my right as I descended the last, steepest bit.
Mike had suggested we meet at a place called Harriet’s. It hadn’t been in business when I last lived in Lenape Hollow, but he’d assured me I couldn’t miss it. It was located just a few doors past the gas station that was across the street from our old redbrick elementary school.
What Mike had neglected to mention was that the coffee shop was situated directly opposite the new-to-me police station. From the table he’d chosen by the window, I had a clear view of the entrance and the sign that read LENAPE HOLLOW POLICE DEPARTMENT. I hadn’t been seated for more than ten minutes when Detective Hazlett parked his unmarked car on the street in front of the building and went inside.
Mike saw me wince and frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Tell me.”
I gave him a brief recap of my business dealings with Tiffany before telling him about my encounter with Detective Hazlett. “He showed up on my doorstep to ask questions after they found her body. He said he was investigating her death as a possible murder, but then, only a few days later, everyone was saying it was just a tragic accident.”
“Or suicide. I’ve heard people bandy about that theory, too.”
“Not likely. She wasn’t the type.”
His eyebrows shot up. “An
d you know this because you spent, what, twenty minutes with her?”
“I trust my instincts, and they’re telling me that there is something odd about Tiffany’s death. Why else would there have been so much speculation, even at the funeral? You tell me she drowned in the lake. Other people think she fell inside her house or while walking in the woods near Ronnie’s place.”
On Ronnie’s property, I wondered, or on Wonderful World land?
“The family wants to keep the details out of the media.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for a little privacy in which to mourn her death.”
He had a point, but I didn’t believe I was imagining things.
“Tiffany’s novel starts with a drowning,” I said slowly. “That . . . bothers me.”
“You’re a good person, Mikki.” He contemplated his Danish as he added, mumbling the words, “Biggest mistake of my life was when I broke up with you.”
A short bark of laughter escaped before I could stop it. “The Mikey and Mikki thing would have split us up eventually. As a couple, we’d have been just too precious for words. Besides, Ronnie was waiting in the wings, determined to get her claws into anything I had. You didn’t stand a chance against the dragon lady.”
He pretended to shudder at the memory and then took a big bite out of his pastry. After he’d chewed and swallowed, he changed the subject. I had no objection. In fact, I encouraged him to talk about himself, curious to know how the boy I remembered—skinny and kind of dopey-looking and voted class clown—had morphed into a heavyset, self-confident, clearly prosperous professional man. It turned out that Mike’s law practice had specialized in divorces, including two of his own.
“I should never have let you go,” he said again after he’d hit the highlights of his life since high school.
“Nonsense! I’d have made you miserable, and you’d now have three divorces behind you instead of only two. Is there a current Mrs. Doran?”
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