Читать книгу Her Amish Protectors - Janice Kay Johnson - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

NADIA HAD BEEN to the Bairds’ house several times, because Julie had hosted some auction committee planning sessions. Sprawling and open, it was the fanciest house in town except possibly for a couple of the huge nineteenth-century mansions. The interior was light and airy, the colors all pastels. Nadia had noticed before that Julie only purchased quilts in soft colors. She was currently taking a beginner-level class, having decided to take up quilting herself, and—no surprise—she’d chosen a creamy yellow fabric as centerpiece, to be accented with paler creams and delicate pinks.

Not much older than Nadia’s thirty-two, Julie was an attractive, slender woman with a shining cap of blond hair. Nadia had wondered if she went to a salon in St. Louis or Kansas City. No other women around here had hair as skillfully cut.

Leading Nadia to the living room, Julie said, “I’ll have Mary bring us iced tea. Or would you prefer lemonade?” Mary Gingerich was a young Amish woman who kept the house spotless and served as maid when Julie had guests.

“Oh, thank you, but no. I can only stay a minute,” Nadia said, smiling apologetically. The smile probably looked as forced as it felt. “I...have something I need to tell you.”

Looking concerned, Julie faced her. “What is it?”

Nadia blurted it out, just as she had half an hour ago to Katie-Ann. “The money from last night was stolen.”

Julie stared, comprehension coming slowly. “What?” She gave her head a small shake. “How?”

Fingernails biting into her palms, Nadia told her.

“You’ve informed the police.”

“Yes, of course. I called 911 as soon as I discovered the money box was gone. Sheriff Slater seems to be taking charge of the investigation himself.”

“And what does he say?” Julie sounded...cool. She hadn’t suggested Nadia sit down.

“He’ll be talking to everyone working on the auction. I’m sure you’ll hear from him. He’s interested in who might have been hanging around without an obvious reason, and whether anyone was asking questions about the evening’s proceeds.”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “You mean, about who was taking charge of the money?”

“Yes, or seeming curious about how much of it was cash versus checks and credit card slips.”

“I see.” The pause was a little too long. “I don’t really know what to say. I’m certainly...shocked.”

And she wasn’t going to be supportive, Nadia could tell that already. “I’m devastated,” Nadia said frankly. “I don’t know what I can do other than help Chief Slater to the best of my ability.”

“Perhaps you should consider making some financial recompense,” Julie said, her voice having chilled even more.

“Julie, I’m a small-business owner. I have no cushion that would allow me to do anything like that.” Feeling the burn in her cheeks, Nadia said, “I must be going. I need to tell everyone who was on the committee what happened in person.”

“I appreciate you doing that. I’ll walk you to the door.”

In other words, if she didn’t hustle, the door would slap her in the butt. She had no doubt that the moment she was gone Julie would start calling everyone but the Amish volunteers, who didn’t have telephones. Nadia thought of asking her to wait, but keeping herself together was a strain already. She said, “Goodbye,” without adding her usual, See you Wednesday for the class. Somehow, she felt sure Julie Baird would have an excuse for dropping out. Or she might not even bother with one.

Nadia drove half a mile from the Baird home, which was on landscaped acreage on the outskirts of Byrum, before she pulled over, set the emergency brake and closed her eyes. She had known—feared—that some people might react like that, but Katie-Ann’s warmth and sympathy had given her hope that these women she had started to think were friends would believe in her. She wanted to go home, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.

The image startled and dismayed her. This wasn’t close to the worst thing that had happened to her. Nobody was threatening to hurt or kill her. This was all about shame and her sense of responsibility. So suck it up, she told herself.

Her appointment with the locksmith wasn’t until four. She still had time, and she had to do this.

Karen Llewellyn next, then... Nadia made a mental list of who she needed to see and in what order, talked herself through some slow, deep breathing, then put the car back into gear.

* * *

WHEN LYLE WARREN saw Ben, alarm flared in his eyes. Now, why would that be? Ben asked himself, his instincts going on alert.

“Mr. Warren.” He held out a hand.

The older man, tall and bony, eyed that hand dubiously before extending his own. Ben was reminded of Nadia Markovic doing the same last night. The shake was brief. Lyle said, “I’m surprised to see you here, Chief Slater. What can I do for you?”

Ben had first visited the Brevitt mansion, where Warren maintained an office, then tried him at home. At last he’d tracked him down to what he’d been told were the remains of a gristmill a few miles outside of town. Walking the distance from where he’d had to park, Ben had begun to think he should have waited until Warren returned to town. He’d done some hiking in Upstate New York and New England, but he wasn’t much of an outdoorsman, and he’d had the unfortunate experience of encountering poison ivy not long after moving to Missouri. He thought that was Virginia creeper growing thick among the trees here, but wasn’t positive. It and poison ivy looked too much alike. One of them had three leaves, the other... He couldn’t remember. Five? But the answer was irrelevant, since he also didn’t remember which was which.

He’d found Lyle Warren prepared for the trek in heavy canvas pants and boots, in contrast to Ben’s dressier shoes and slacks. Warren hadn’t seemed like the woodsy type.

Now Ben surveyed the ruins. “You’re thinking you can do something with this?”

“If we can purchase the property. We could restore the building.”

Okay, the brick walls still stood, although Ben wouldn’t have risked leaning on one. Graffiti had been sprayed on a couple of those walls, and when he walked a few feet to peer inside, he saw cigarette butts and discarded condoms. Nice.

“According to records, the original mill on this site was built in eighteen thirty-seven,” Lyle said, in his precise way. “It was burned down in the Civil War. This one was erected using the original foundation in eighteen sixty-nine, shut down at one point, then restarted in the eighteen nineties. The steel rollers were, unfortunately, removed during World War II to be melted down. We do have some of the other equipment in storage.”

“Huh.”

Lyle’s mouth tightened, making him look as if he was sucking on a lemon. “This land is owned by Aaron Hershberger, who is Amish. Although he isn’t farming this strip, he is reluctant to sell any part of the land. He doesn’t want a tourist site right next door, he says.”

Ben wasn’t about to say so, but he could sympathize. The Amish were tourist attractions themselves. They might take advantage of that fact commercially—their fine furniture, quilts and other products were profitable—but they had to be annoyed by the outright nosiness of visitors who didn’t respect personal boundaries. Ben didn’t know Hershberger, but he’d noticed the farm as he passed, with dairy cows grazing in a pasture, an extensive orchard, several acres of what Ben thought might be raspberries, neatly tied in rows, and a handsome huge barn with a gambrel roof and stone foundation. If the mill became starred on maps, he’d have a steady stream of cars passing his place and a lot of strangers tramping through these woods. Maybe through his fields, too, in a quest to get an up close look at a “real” Amish farm.

Lyle planted his hands on his hips and gazed yearningly at the crumbling brick walls and burbling creek overhung with maples, sycamore trees, dogwoods and some others Ben didn’t recognize. “The fool is too shortsighted to recognize how critical historic preservation is. If we dawdle another five or ten years, this site might be lost to intrusive vegetation and the teenagers who obviously use it for...for...” Apparently, sex wasn’t a word he was actually willing to speak.

Ben hadn’t noticed any drug paraphernalia, only cigarette butts and beer cans, or he would have planned to speak to the Henness County sheriff, Daniel Byler. But what was going on here... Kids would be kids. He’d had sex for the first time himself in a boarded-up house.

Of course, all he’d had to worry about was an unstable transient climbing in the same broken window he had. Here, the mill looked like a great hangout for cottonmouths and rattlesnakes.

“I don’t suppose you came out here to look at the mill,” Lyle said, shoving his hands in his pants pockets.

“You’re right. I didn’t. I need to ask you some questions about yesterday’s event.”

He frowned. “I was told it went well.”

“It did. Very well.” Ben barely hesitated. “However, the proceeds were stolen during the night from the volunteer who had taken them home.”

Lyle blinked a couple times. “Stolen? But...how?”

“It would appear somebody waltzed into the woman’s bedroom and helped him or herself to the money box.”

The guy took a step back. “But...why are you talking to me?”

Did he receive a salary from the historical society? Ben found himself wondering. Even if he did, the odds were it wasn’t much. Did he have family money? Lyle might have the mannerisms of an elderly man, but he wasn’t more than mid to late forties. He could be struggling financially, but didn’t want to lose his status by quitting the historical society gig. Or...was he passionate enough about his cause to steal to benefit the historical society? Say, to buy this piece of property? Would he be making Aaron Hershberger a new, higher offer soon?

“Because I understand you were in and out last night,” Ben said. “I’m compiling a list of who was present, particularly locals, and thought you might be able to add to it.”

“Oh.” His features slackened briefly in what Ben took for relief. “Well, it’s true I’ve had people remark on how observant I am. I suppose...”

Ben suggested they walk and talk, so they made their way back to the cars. A couple of names did pop up in Lyle’s recollections that surprised Ben a little. Lyle was quite sure no one had asked him about the money.

“Why would they? I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t even know who took it home.” He unlocked his car door and opened it, stepping behind it as if to put a barrier between him and Ben.

“I’ll bet you could make a good guess,” Ben suggested, trying to keep the dryness from his voice. “Observant as you are.”

“Well...” Lyle appeared briefly pleased. “I suppose I would have assumed that Ms. Markovic had it. She’d taken responsibility for locking up, you know, which means she was the last out. And she was in charge of the whole event.”

“You’re right. It was Ms. Markovic who was robbed.”

His forehead creased. “She wasn’t hurt, was she?”

“No. In fact, she never knew she had an intruder until she woke up this morning and found the money gone.”

“That’s...well, it’s dreadful. So much work went into it. I never did hear how much money they raised.”

That sounded genuine, although Ben took almost everything with a grain of salt. Which might be one reason his personal life was so lacking.

“Just over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

“Oh, my. Oh, my.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Ben gave himself a shake. “I need to be going.” He pulled a card out of his shirt pocket and extended it. “Here’s my number. If you think of anyone you didn’t mention, hear any rumors, please give me a call. It’s my hope we can recover this money.”

“That would certainly be best,” Lyle agreed.

When Ben drove away, Lyle hadn’t moved. He still stood beside his car, looking after Ben’s marked BPD unit, his thoughts well hidden.

* * *

NADIA RETURNED TO her shop midafternoon to find her one full-time employee, Hannah Yoder, answering questions from two women whose clothing and colorful tote bags labeled them as tourists.

Nadia greeted the women and chatted briefly with them before deciding neither was serious about buying a quilt. Truth was, they were probably enjoying interacting with a real Amish person. She excused herself and went upstairs. She ought to leave her purse and go back down, even let Hannah go home, but what if people came into the store because they were excited about the auction? Or, worse, because they’d heard about the missing money and wanted to judge whether she was guilty or innocent for themselves?

All the more reason to hide up here.

With a sigh, she sank into a chair at her table and massaged her forehead and temples, pressing hard to counteract the pain that had been building all day. Her neck hurt, too, as did her shoulders. Tension made her feel as if she’d been stretched on a medieval rack.

She’d talked to—she had to count—nine people today, the ones she felt obligated to tell in person. Mostly volunteers, several quilters and the head of the relief organization that was to have funneled the money to the homeowners and farmers most in need of help.

The four Amish women had, while shocked and dismayed, also seemed genuinely distressed for Nadia. They had, one and all, plied her with sympathy and food.

Bill Jarvis, from the relief organization, had all but reeled, as if she’d struck him. “But...we had such hopes,” he said, leaving her almost speechless. With the best intentions in the world, she had let so many people down. Bill didn’t seem to blame her, at least, not yet; given a little time, he might circle around to anger.

Of the remaining women Nadia had told, one had been openly sympathetic, one scathing and two on the fence. If those were her odds, she’d be posting an out-of-business sign within a couple of months. Her Amish shoppers might stick with her, but her biggest competition was a nice, Amish-owned fabric store in Hadburg, the next-largest town in the county, and closer to where most members of the faith lived. Many worked in or owned businesses in Byrum, but their ideal was rural living and Nadia knew of only a few who had homes or apartments in town. She wouldn’t even want the Amish to entirely abandon the Hadburg store just to support her.

Of course, going out of business was only one option. Another was the possibility of being arrested.

Now she was just being pathetic. How could Chief Slater arrest her? She didn’t have the money. Full stop.

So now what? she asked herself drearily.

Help him to the best of her ability, even if the man had disturbed her both times they’d met, although for different reasons. And what she could actually do to help was a mystery.

When a knock on the door at the foot of the stairs came, Nadia pushed herself wearily to her feet.

Instead of Hannah, a man stood there patiently waiting. Medium height and thin, he had light brown hair graying at his temples and a face too lined for what she guessed to be his age.

“Ms. Markovic?” he said. “I’m Jim Wilcox.” When she apparently looked blank, he tapped the embroidered insignia on his shirt. “Wilcox Lock and Key?”

“Oh! Oh, yes. Thank you for coming.”

“You said you had a break-in?”

“Actually, what we suspect is that the intruder had a key.”

He frowned. “Well, first thing I’d suggest is that this interior door require a different key than the front and back doors. I put these locks in myself, had to be seven or eight years ago. I suggested the same to Mrs. Jefferson, but she didn’t want to be bothered to have to figure out which key went to which door.”

“I actually meant to get this lock changed when I first moved in,” she admitted, “just because it opens to my private living space. I’ve had so much else to do, though, and really the only other person who has a key is Hannah Yoder—”

“Who is trustworthy.” He nodded. “Even so...”

“Even so,” Nadia agreed.

“You want me to replace all three locks.”

“Yes.”

He backed up a step. “I’ll get started, then.” But he didn’t keep going. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I hope you weren’t home when you had the break-in. I mean, that you weren’t hurt or...frightened.”

“I slept through it,” she said wryly. “But I was scared to death come morning when I realized he’d been right there—” She cut herself off with a shudder.

“I’m real sorry, Ms. Markovic.” He looked truly distressed, but Nadia had found most people in her new community to be kind. Or, she had until today.

She smiled with difficulty. “Thank you, Mr. Wilcox. I appreciate you coming so quickly.”

He bobbed his head awkwardly and retreated, presumably going out to his truck to get the new locks and whatever tools he needed.

Nadia made herself go into the store, where she found a trio of women she knew.

“Is it true?” one of them said right away.

She had to say, “Unfortunately.”

* * *

FRUSTRATED, BEN DECIDED to go by and talk to Nadia again before he called it a day. She might have learned something, or at least that’s what he told himself. The underlying truth was that he wanted to find out how people had reacted to her disclosure. She’d gotten to him this morning, when she had explained why she needed to start over in a new place. He hadn’t been able to help thinking about the parallels with his sister in her lengthy recovery from the assault that shattered her life, and hoped everyone Nadia talked to had at least been decent to her.

Online, he hadn’t had any trouble finding articles about the horrific episode when she’d been shot. Turned out, she’d given him a very condensed version. It sounded like a real nightmare, and one that had gone on for hours. He also learned that she’d spent those hours using her body to protect the little girl, somehow keeping her quiet after she regained consciousness. Nadia had saved young Molly’s life. She was labeled a heroine in news coverage. He’d seen a picture snapped from a distance away of her being brought out of the house on a gurney. The cops and EMTs in the photo all looked grim in a way Ben recognized. The sight of murdered children scarred the most hardened cop. And to know their own father had killed them...

He shook his head in denial, even though he knew better. Fathers, and mothers, too, regularly hurt and killed their own children.

Nadia was closing up when he arrived. She let him in, then turned the sign on the door to Closed. His gaze went to the shiny new dead bolt lock.

“I see Jim has been here.”

“Yes. I don’t think he charged me enough. He seemed to feel bad about what happened.”

“Yeah, he was pretty upset when Mrs. Jefferson died, too.”

“He told me he recommended she replace the lock on the apartment door, but she didn’t want to be bothered with two different keys.”

Ben nodded. “Jim felt guilty that he hadn’t insisted.”

“Wait.” She gaped at him. “Do you actually think someone killed her? That she didn’t just fall down the stairs?”

“I’m sure she was pushed,” he said grimly.

“But...how can you know?”

“Because her head hit the wall a lot higher than it could have if she’d fallen. We found blood and hair in the dent. It took some real force to launch her up instead of down. The ME agrees, too. People who fall bump down the stairs, but her injuries are consistent with the greater force theory.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

He kept a snapshot of Edith Jefferson’s body, just as he did one of every other crime victim he’d seen. Crumpled at the foot of the stairs, Edith had appeared shockingly tiny and hideously damaged.

He tried to shake off the picture. “It happened long before you came to town. What happened to her was personal. It had nothing to do with you.”

“No, I know, but...” She shivered. “Even if she’d changed that lock, it might not have made any difference.”

“It might not have,” he agreed. It stuck in his craw that he hadn’t been able to make an arrest. Nothing had been stolen. Nobody seemed to have both motive to kill the old woman and opportunity. He hadn’t closed the case, though, and wouldn’t. He hoped like hell this current investigation didn’t end up in a similar limbo. So far, it wasn’t looking good. “So, how’d your day go?” he asked.

She told him, but he had a feeling this was the condensed version, too. Her face was pinched, her luminous eyes clouded. It was especially disturbing because he’d seen her glowing on the stage last night as she thanked everyone. The contrast was painful.

She might have taken the money, he reminded himself, but couldn’t quite believe it. Okay, didn’t want to believe it.

He threw out names of people he had been told were there last night. Turned out several were playing a behind-the-scenes role or had good reason to be attending. A couple of the names had her shaking her head.

“I don’t know any of them. Or, if I’ve met them, I didn’t catch their names.”

She didn’t invite him up to her apartment, and since he hadn’t come up with anything else to ask her, Ben finally said, “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten today.”

Expression mulish, she retorted, “You made me have breakfast, remember?”

“A croissant. Did you stop for lunch?”

Her lips compressed.

“You may not feel like eating,” he said quietly, “but you need to make yourself. And take something for that headache.”

Nadia stiffened. “How did you know?”

“You have all the signs.” He knew he could have massaged some of that pain away, but he couldn’t let himself put his hands on her. As the last person to have the money, she remained a suspect.

“You’re right.” She sagged slightly. “I’ll follow your advice. I promise.”

He left on that note. On the drive home, he called to let his dispatcher know where he’d be, then made another call to order a pizza for pickup.

Usually by the end of a day, he was sick enough of people to relish a few hours of solitude. Tonight, his house felt strangely lonely when he finally let himself in.

For once, he was glad when his phone rang shortly after he’d cleaned up when he was done eating, and especially when he saw the name displayed. His sister. Odd timing, when she’d been on his mind so much the past few days.

“Lucy.”

“Hey,” she said. “Did I get you at a good time?”

“Yep. Just had pizza and I was thinking of kicking back and watching some baseball. How are you?” He made the question sound light, but it wasn’t. It never was. While he was in college, Lucy, only a year and a half older than him, had been brutally raped and left for dead. The rapist was never identified and arrested. She was the reason Ben had changed his major from prelaw to criminology.

Lucy had remained...fragile. She was gutsy enough to move into an apartment of her own despite their parents’ opposition, and she held a job, but to his knowledge she never dated, probably never went out at night, which limited any friendships. She lived a half life, because she could never forget. He saw hints of the same vulnerability in Nadia, but also more strength.

“I’m okay,” his sister said now. “But I was thinking.”

Ben waited.

“Would you mind if I came for a visit?” she said in a rush.

Traveling was something else she didn’t do.

Hiding his surprise, he said, “What, you think I’ll say no? I’ve only been trying to talk you into coming since the day I moved.”

“I know. Something happened that shook me up—nothing big, just the usual—” which meant she’d had a panic attack “—and, you know, I’ve been reading about your part of Missouri. I’d like to see it.”

“It’s pretty country, but not spectacular.”

“I’m curious about the Amish. They sound so gentle.”

Ben had his suspicions that behind the facade even the Amish had their share of drunks and spousal and child abuse, but he had to admit that on the whole the ones he’d dealt with were straightforward, good-humored and honest. Their belief in forgiveness was profound. Okay, he still had trouble believing an Amish woman who had suffered what Lucy had could truly forgive her rapist. But then, he was a cynic.

“They seem like good people,” he agreed. “Individuals, just like any other group.”

“Yes. I just thought...” Lucy hesitated. “I don’t know. That Byrum sounds like a nice place. Even...”

Oh, hell. He braced himself. Don’t let her say safe.

What she did say was almost worse. “Peaceful,” she finished.

He remembered what Nadia had said, word for word. I had something traumatic happen. I couldn’t get past it. I thought making a change would help.

She’d sought peace here, too, and hadn’t found it.

“I’m a cop,” he said, his voice coming out rough. “They hired me for a reason, Lucy.”

“I know, but it’s not the same as what you dealt with here, is it?”

The hope in her voice just about killed him.

“No.” What could he say but, “When are you coming?”

She would be safer here. She’d have him, and nobody would hurt Lucy on his watch.

She never forgot, and neither did he.