Looking up, she stared into the mirror above the dresser across from the bed. She held up the newspaper so that she could look back and forth from the photo to the mirror. Perhaps there was a similarity in the eyes and the eyebrows but her own chin was much firmer and line of her nose was softer. She stared at her mouth, then her ears and her hair. Except for the color, their hair seemed to be the same thickness and have the same sheen.
She’d have to look for a picture of her father to see if she favored his side of the family.
The faded photograph blurred as tears filled her eyes. She tipped her head back against the pillow and let the silent tears flow unchecked. The rising emotion caught her unexpectedly. It took her a moment to realize why she was crying.
She hadn’t recognized Lily.
Clare had always been convinced that when she found her mother she would feel an instant connection. She had been adopted at four years old. Four was old enough to have memories. It had occurred to her that her mother might be dead, but that didn’t matter. Seeing her mother in person or finding a picture of her would bring back the memories and she would remember bits and pieces of her early life.
Nothing. Looking at the photograph, Clare felt no recognition, no rush of memories.
She had been running on adrenaline and this final blow seemed to drain the last bit of energy from her body. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Without looking through the rest of the pile, she slid the papers back into the envelope. She set the envelope on the bedside table and once more turned out the light. Plumping her pillow, she lay down on her back, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her head was propped up just enough so that she could see the lake beyond the window. Moonlight shone on the far side of the lake and she could hear the occasional forlorn sound of the loons. Lulled by fresh air, night sounds, and the knowledge that she actually had a real identity, she slipped into an exhausted sleep.
Clare lay motionless in bed, listening to the morning chirping and felt the heat of a shaft of sunlight on her hand. She opened her eyes a slit, took in the light at the window and wondered what time it was. Turning her head slightly until she could see the clock on the bedside table, she noted with surprise that it was almost ten o’clock. She couldn’t remember when she’d slept so long. And so peacefully.
She heard a scratching sound at the front door and threw back the covers. She put on her robe as she walked into the main room. As she opened the front door, Waldo’s tail beat a happy rhythm on the floorboards. Leaning over she patted his head. His fur was slightly wet, but this time he smelled of shampoo not dead fish.
“Much better,” she said. She picked up the newspaper that was tucked under the bristled doormat. “I suppose it’s all right if you come in today.”
She motioned the dog forward, but he huffed as if in disapproval and sauntered along the porch until he disappeared around the corner of the house.
“Well, thanks for stopping by,” Clare said. She breathed in the fresh air. She could feel the heavy warmth in the August air and suspected it would be quite hot without the breeze off the lake. Perfect day for shorts she thought as she went back inside.
Opening the newspaper she found a note from Ruth. It wished her a happy Wednesday and asked if she’d like to go to the art show on Saturday. After a long shower to get two days of road dust out of her system, she made breakfast and slowly read the paper.
Used to the Chicago Tribune, she enjoyed reading the smaller Herald-Review. Lots of local news to give her a flavor of the town. There was a write-up on the Tall Timber Days that were being celebrated on the weekend. The art show on Saturday was only one of the scheduled activities. There were also the parade and the bed races that Ed Wiklander mentioned. She would have to make a point to check them out. Sunday was the farm and tractor exhibits and a lumberjack show. Apparently she’d come at an excellent time.
After breakfast she cleaned up the cottage, and then called Ruth to tell her she’d finally awakened.
“That’s exactly what you needed, Clare,” Ruth said. “I could see in your face how exhausting the last several months have been. Nothing like sleep to get you back to feeling like problems aren’t monumental. Besides last night’s information overload was a lot to take in.”
At the apologetic tone in Ruth’s voice, Clare was quick to reply. “There wasn’t any other way to get the information. If I’d had to read all the clippings to get the main points of the story, I’d have gone nuts. I’m going to spend the day looking through the files you left me.”
“Excellent. I’m going to a film discussion over in Coleraine with a friend tonight. Will you be all right on your own?”
“Yes. By the way, I really enjoyed the church supper last night and the goodies in the cottage. I managed to eat only half of the cookies, although I was tempted to eat them all. I’m going into town later to pick up some other things and thought you might join me for dinner tomorrow night. Then I can let you know how I’m progressing.”
“That would be lovely although you don’t have to cook. We can just as easily go out to dinner.”
“Nonsense,” Clare said. “It’ll be easier to talk here.”
“All right then. “ Ruth’s voice was brisk. “I’m usually done at the library by six.”
“Then I’ll see you around seven tomorrow.”
“Lovely. Enjoy your day and take it all slowly.” On that note of caution Ruth ended the call.
Deciding she’d better call Nathan Hanssen to set up a time for her interview, she dug in the dresser for her notebook and set it on the counter while she searched for her notes on Hanssen. After a quick scan, she reached for the phone and dialed the number on the top sheet of paper.
“Hanssen’s,” a gruff voice answered after the second ring.
“Nathan Hanssen, please.” Clare said.
“This is Nate. Who’s calling?”
“I’m Clare Prentice fromIllinois Literary. My editor, Ann Taylor, said she had made arrangements with you for an interview.”
In the silence that followed, Clare tensed, wondering if he was going to refuse the earlier request. “She said if you couldn’t remember your agreement to give her a call.”
Sheheard an audible sigh at the other end of the phone.
“How is Ann?”
“She’s fine. She just got back from Italy. Said she ate her way through Tuscany and may have to go to detox after all the wine she drank.”
“Sounds like she had a good time.” A hint of warmth crept into his voice. “What was your name again?”
“Clare. Clare Prentice. I’ve just arrived in Grand Rapids and would be able to do your interview whenever it’s convenient for you.”
The warmth disappeared as he said, “I have a particularly busy week. A couple of deadlines and various other things that need to get done. I’m not sure how much time I could give you.”
As the silence on the other end was extended, Clare took a chance. “Ann said if you attempted to weasel out of this I was to remind you that she could do an exposé on your behavior the night she met you at the adult literacy event in Chicago.”
A harsh laugh was the only answer.
“I don’t need a lot of time,” Clare continued. “What I’d like to do is a preliminary visit to get acquainted and, then after I’ve done some more research, I’d appreciate another slightly longer session to talk with you.”
“Since I wouldn’t want anything unflattering written about me I guess I’ll have to agree. Ten o’clock, Thursday morning.”
He didn’t ask if it was convenient, just issued the order. She’d been looking forward to meeting Hanssen, but now she wondered if rudeness was an integral part of his character.
“Thank you. I’ll be there.” Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hanging up, she immediately ended the call.
Standing beside the phone she could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. She took a deep breath and blew it out. It wasn’t a good sign that she already disliked the man. She had to do the interview
and she hated the thought that her own emotions might get in the way. She’d heard Hanssen was a semi-recluse as far as the media was concerned. Despite Ann’s assurances that he would cooperate with the interview, she wasn’t convinced after her phone call.
Nate Hanssen lunged for the receiver before the answering machine could pick it up.
“Hold please,” he said.
On the couch beside the telephone, his daughter jumped at the sudden motion beside her and he glared as she reached up to takethe earbuds out of her ears. From three feet away, he could hear the music blaring from her iPod.
“I thought you were getting ready. We’re supposed to pick up Cindy in ten minutes,” he said as he jerked his thumb in the direction of the second floor. “And turn that down, Erika. It’s too loud if you can’t hear the phone beside you. You’ll be deaf by the time you’re fifteen.”
“Oh, Dad,” she grumbled getting up off the leather couch.
“Get your stuff together. Don’t just stare into space while your eardrums are permanently damaged.”
“Whatever,” she said as she started toward the stairs.
“And don’t say that.”
He sighed as he dropped down on the spot his daughter had just vacated and put the phone to his ear.
“Nate, here.”
“Hi. It’s Ann Taylor. I was just reliving my childhood listening to you. My father was convinced the loud music in my room would cause me brain damage.”
“I’m beginning to sound just like my old man. I’ll never tell Erika, but he was always yelling about my music.” He pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “You’re fading a little.”
“Sorry I’m in the car. I’m out in California working on a cover story forIllinois Literary. Stuck in a traffic jam so I’m returning all my calls.”
“I heard you just got back from Italy.”
“Ah,” she sighed. “Clare must have made it up to Minnesota. I just looked at the map the other day and I was amazed to find out how far north you were. Must be lovely in the winter.”
“If you’re a polar bear. And yes, to answer your question, your reporter arrived and called a little while ago.” He paused then continued. “How come I have no recollection of ever agreeing to do this interview?”
“You were probably drunk.”
“No good. Why have you dumped this woman on my doorstep?”
“She was coming up there anyway so I thought if you did agree to talk to her it would be — helpful.” Ann’s deep throaty laugh came clearly through the phone. “Tell me you didn’t chew her up into little pieces.”
Nate felt his annoyance at the situation easing. He pictured Ann with her long legs stretched out as she waited for the traffic jam to clear.
“I’ll admit I snarled at her but I would think she’d expect that from a famous literary figure. She must not have known my reputation because she’s coming to see me tomorrow. And what did you mean that it would be helpful?”
“Clare needed to get away. A couple of years ago, she quit work to take care of her mother who was dying of cancer. I’d just gotten her back to work after a year at home when something else came up. She asked for time off to look into her family history. I was stunned to learn she was going to Grand Rapids. Knowing you were there I told her you’d agreed to do an interview.”
Nate snorted in disgust. “She sounds just like one of those pasty faced female reporters who are good hearted souls and write three-hanky stories.”
“Surprisingly enough she’s an excellent writer. And you won’t findher pasty faced. Treat her gently. She just had a disastrous breakup with her boyfriend — a couple of months before the wedding.”
“Bloody hell, Ann! You’re not matchmaking, are you?”
A choking sound came through the phone. “Oh Lord, no. I never even thought about it. Unless of course you’re interested. She’s very attractive, although a bit on the serious side.”
“I’m not interested.” His tone was hard. “In fact the more I hear about her the more convinced I am that doing this interview is a bad idea. Good to her mother, serious but attractive. You might as well have said she has a great personality. The next thing I know she’ll be swooning on my doorstep.”
“You wish.” Nate heard a long horn beep before Ann’s voice came back on. “If you’re nice to her and she likes you, she might tell you why she’s really coming to Grand Rapids. It’s pretty damn interesting if I do say so.”
“You’ve always had a nose for a good story, so I’ll see if I can coax it out of her.”
“Thanks, Nate. I really appreciate this.” Ann’s voice had lost the bantering tone. “I like Clare and I’m concerned about her. Keep an eye on her.”
Surprised at her request, he nodded then spoke aloud. “It sounds like you’re worried. Grand Rapids is a small town. She couldn’t be in a safer place. You make it sound like she’s walking into deadly peril.”
“Wait until you hear her story,” Ann said. “You may find it totally intriguing.”
Clare returned from a brisk walk along the shore road. She felt less annoyed over her phone call with Hanssen. She already knew his dislike of reporters so she should have been prepared for his response. Inside the cottage she gulped down a glass of cold water. Filling her glass again, she stepped out on the back porch. She half expected Waldo to be waiting for her, but he must be off on his daily wanderings. Alone, she stood at the railing and let the breeze off the lake cool her. In the late morning there wasn’t much activity on Lost Lake. Several fishermen were trolling along the shoreline, but aside from that the scene was peaceful. One more look andshe decided it was time to get to work. She retrieved the envelope of clippings from the bedroom and spread the contents across the counter.
The articles had been placed in chronological order. The newspaper with the picture of her mother was dated the day after the murder. She read through it slowly. It only confirmed what Ruth had told her last night. Her father, Jimmy Newton, had called the police chief to report Lily was missing and her body was found later that morning. She had been shot three times. There were not many details but there was a picture of Thatcher Hanssen, Nathan’s father.
Thatcher was a bull-chested man with a grim expression. He refused to say much about Lily’s death except for the usual: “they were considering everything before jumping to conclusions.” The only thing reported that was of interest was that during the dance Jimmy Newton got into an altercation with a man named “Big Red” Wiklander. According to the witnesses, the fight started because Jimmy was jealous of Big Red’s advances toward Lily.
Big Red must be the father of Ed Wiklander who had been at the church supper, Clare thought. What a small world. She had gotten the impression that Ed was a bit of a womanizer. It remained to be seen if much of Ed’s approach was serious. If his father was anything like Ed, that might be a formula for trouble.
Looking back through the article, she checked the ages of her parents. Lily was twenty-three and Jimmy was almost twenty years older. She supposed it was reasonable that he might have been jealous of younger men hitting on his wife.
According to Thatcher Hanssen, Lily had not been shot on the lakeshore. She had been killed somewhere else and her body placed beside the lake. Chief Hanssen described it as “lying peacefully on a soft patch of grass.” Her clothing had been neatly arranged and her hands had been crossed over her chest.
The murder weapon was never found. It was a .25-caliber handgun, a baby Browning, like the one owned by Jimmy Newton.
Clare read through several other articles that rehashed much of the story. As the investigation progressed, the stories tended tobe far less sympathetic of Jimmy Newton. Although it was never stated, the clear indication was that he was the prime suspect in Lily’s murder. The only direct hint was when it was reported that, during a search of the house, Newton “claimed” his gun was missing.
In one clipping there was a small picture of the house. Clare felt a slight jolt of familiarity as she
stared down at the grainy photo. Bushes and trees shrouded the screened porch, giving it an overgrown, deserted look. Did she recognize it? She couldn’t really tell. She’d have to find the house and see if that would shake up her memories.
She scanned the pictures taken at the funeral but saw only one picture of her father, head down, as he followed the crowd into the church. In all the clippings there were really only two pictures of her father that gave her any sense of what he really looked like.
The first showed a picture of her parents that was taken at some sort of fair. Lily was leaning against Jimmy who had his arm around her, smiling and happy. She didn’t know how tall her mother was but her father was at least six or eight inches taller. While Lily was slender, similar to Clare’s own build, her father was heavily built, not fat but well muscled. His beard was neatly trimmed and his hair was slicked down as he stared straight ahead into the camera.
The second picture was a headshot on the front page of the newspaper. Carrying the newspaper, she went back to the bedroom and held it up as she had done with her mother’s picture so that she could look back and forth from her face in the mirror to the picture. His eyes were dark under bushy eyebrows. His features were unremarkable. His cheeks were full, made more so by the beard. In the photo his beard appeared lighter than his hair or his eyebrows.
It was almost painful to look at the picture. Since she hadn’t looked like her mother, she had hoped she would find a striking resemblance to her father. It wasn’t there. This second disappointment was stronger than the first. She felt as if she belonged to no one.
Worse yet, she didn’t recognize her father either. The harder she tried to find some memory of him, the more it hurt. Why couldn’t she remember? She didn’t cry this time. It was almost as if the pain went too deep to be eased by tears. She closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on her breathing. Feeling the tension in her body diminish, she returned to the kitchen and placed thepicture back on the stack.
Several more clippings indicated that an arrest was imminent. Then three weeks after the murder, Chief Hanssen announced that Jimmy Newton had disappeared. Jimmy had left a note saying that he had committed the murder out of anger and couldn’t bear the thought of going to prison. He was leaving Minnesota and beginning a new life somewhere else. He hoped that somehow he could makeamends for his actions by living a life of service to others.
Conspiracy of Silence Page 7
