“Oh, don’t worry, Englischer. I sleep very late.”
Joe was surprised. He had expected Eli to be an early riser.
Eli walked backward a few steps, watching Joe’s face. “Jah. I like to sleep in very late. Be at my barn at four thirty tomorrow morning.”
Joe caught the twinkle in Eli’s eye. The dour-looking Amish-man was teasing him.
“I’ll be there!” Joe called back.
Rising early had never been a problem for him, and it would be a blessing to be able to bring Bobby. Tomorrow morning would be interesting—for both of them.
That is, if the sisters didn’t turn him out and if Rachel didn’t run him out of town first. The image of the pretty cop haunted his mind once more. What had Eli meant when he said Rachel didn’t love her job? And why was a woman as attractive as Rachel still unmarried?
He shoved aside his curiosity and turned his attention to mastering the skill of using the scythe. Tomorrow, evidently, he would learn to milk. His life had taken an interesting turn when he had broken down here in Amish Country—and he was grateful to God for the respite.
Chapter Four
Joe attacked the overgrown fencerow with vigor. Soon he had mastered the knack of twisting at the waist while skimming the scythe level to the ground, mowing down all the weeds in his path. He discovered a rhythm and the work went quickly. The movement didn’t seem to put any extra stress on his damaged shoulder, a fact for which he was grateful.
He soon finished the perimeter of the yard and went after the fence along the small pasture beside the barn, only stopping long enough to tie a handkerchief around his forehead to keep the sweat from pouring into his eyes. The temperature was mild, but he was working hard, and the sun was bright in the cloudless sky.
Feeling the autumn sun on his shoulders, using his muscles in this timeless, rhythmic ballet of man and scythe, glancing around from time to time at the rolling, peaceful fields…he felt as though he were sweating out the toxins of the past two thousand miles of road. He was glad for the work, even if all he was getting out of it was a place to sleep and some food. Eli was right. Hard work when one was grieving was, indeed, a gift from God.
“Boo!”
He glanced up to see Anna holding a quart of water in a Mason jar and a napkin filled with the sugar cookies he had enjoyed at supper the night before. He smiled, pleased at her thoughtfulness—but her face registered disappointment at his reaction. It took him a second to realize that she had been expecting him to be frightened. Obediently, he slapped a hand against his chest and gasped.
“Anna! You scared me!”
She beamed and giggled at the success of her trick.
“Did you bring that water and cookies for me?”
She nodded happily.
He gratefully drank the water and wolfed down the buttery cookies while she watched. “Thanks, Anna.” He handed the jar and napkin back to her.
She smiled, clasped them to her chest with both hands, and plodded back to the house. He reminded himself to act frightened the next time she tried to scare him.
He finished the work on all the fencerows then went back into the barn and carefully oiled the scythe and hung it on its nail. He felt strangely at peace for someone who was, at the moment, broke and homeless.
Work, Eli said. Work was healing.
He was not unaccustomed to hard work. He had built a career out of nothing but raw talent and dogged determination. He knew what it was like to strain every muscle. But it was a different feeling to be quite literally earning his “daily” bread. He had found himself repeating that phrase of the Lord’s Prayer with each swing of his scythe.
It was the line about “forgiving those who trespass against us” that gave him pause. He wasn’t ready for that one yet. Probably never would be.
That reminded him—with Bobby occupied and out of earshot—this would be a good time to check with the private detective he had hired. Assuming, of course, he would even have cell phone service out here.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked. Three bars. Service to spare.
He dialed a number, and a gruff voice answered. “Grant here.”
Joe pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Do you have any news for me?”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of people hunting for you.”
“I’m aware of that. Anything else?”
“Not much. The police seem to be preoccupied with figuring out how you managed to kill your wife while signing autographs a hundred miles away.”
“The police never told me I was a suspect.”
“That’s because they don’t have a case against you—but some of them would be thrilled if they did. It would tie things up neatly, and it would make the media so happy.”
Joe’s legs felt weak. For a few hours he had escaped this nightmare. Now it came crashing back. “I didn’t kill my wife.”
“You know that, and I know that, but the public wants a story and a quick resolution. They want it wrapped up and served to them with a big ribbon on the eleven o’clock news…and the powers-that-be want to give it to them.”
Joe rubbed a hand over his face. “What should I do?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing—whatever that is. So far it’s working. The media haven’t found you yet, have they?”
“No.”
“I don’t want to know where you are, but you and Bobby are okay, right?”
“We’ve found a safe place—for now.” Joe bent over and plucked at a stray piece of hay. “Henrietta is still making those payments I promised you, isn’t she?”
There was a pause.
Joe crushed the piece of hay in his fist at Grant’s silence. “Tell me.”
“The economy is going through a tough time.”
“So?”
“So, your business manager had to cut me off. Henrietta said that what with all the expenses…”
“What expenses?”
“She said that big house of yours is burning a hole right through your cash.”
“There was more than enough in my accounts to take care of things—including your salary.”
“It doesn’t matter. The clues have dried up. The cops aren’t sharing. Unless someone comes forward for that reward you offered, there’s not much I can do. Besides…I have some newer cases I need to be working.” Grant hesitated, as though he realized how hard all this must be for Joe to hear. “I—I’ll keep an ear out for you, though.”
“Thanks, man.” Joe felt sick. Grant was giving up?
“Keep your head down. Take care of your son.”
“I will.”
Joe disconnected and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Should he call Henrietta? Find out why she couldn’t manage to pay the detective he had hired?
He didn’t want to talk to her. Not yet. He knew that if he called, she would insist he come home. Henrietta, who was both his business manager and public relations manager, was also his friend—one who had been dead-set against him and Bobby leaving.
It was tempting, though, to call and ask her to wire him some cash. But even though he knew he could trust her with his money, he wasn’t sure he could trust her with his location. Henrietta had always loved the limelight, even when it was only secondhand. It was one of the things that made her an excellent PR person. It would be impossible for her to keep it quiet if she knew where he was.
In the distance, he heard Lydia calling him to their noon meal—a meal he had earned several times over this morning. That call to Henrietta could wait until he knew for certain that he and Bobby couldn’t survive without it.
Rachel sat down at the computer in the break room at the police station and thought about her day. She had managed to keep the 2 p.m. Kiddie Parade moving in spite of the route getting clogged by a fender bender. Then out-of-town tourists had made the mistake of trying to pet a horse attached to an Amish buggy. It had spooked, big-time, but Rachel and its owner had finally gotten it under control.
A wom
an had gone into sudden and extreme labor downtown, directly in front of the Alpine Museum, and Rachel had helped to open a path through the crowd for the ambulance, hoping all the while that she wouldn’t have to personally deliver the baby in the middle of the sidewalk.
All this drama played itself out against the continual background of the oompha! oompha! polka music at the pavilion. She had watched as a group of teenagers, inspired by the happy music, formed a conga line and wound their way through the serious polka dancers, cavorting and acting silly. Since the elderly couples actually dancing the polka didn’t seem to mind the impromptu conga line, she left it alone.
The grinding, mechanical sound of a small carnival competed with a yodeling contest. Small children tried their hand at milking a life-sized mechanical cow while their parents waited in line at the fire station to sample some of the best Swiss cheese in the world.
In the crowd, girls in Amish dresses, crisp prayer kapps, black hosiery, and tennis shoes had jostled against people wearing ornately embroidered Swiss costumes. This was the cultural mix into which Rachel had been born, and she felt completely at home. The sound of accordions, yodeling, and the booming harmonies of long-necked alphorn instruments was in her blood.
It was not, however, a good weekend to have a wreck—or give birth or bring a high-strung horse into town. It also wasn’t a good time to have an unwanted guest at her aunts’ home.
Their farmhouse was less than a mile from the heart of town, so she had been able to drive by every time she had an extra ten minutes. Each time she had passed, Joe Matthews had been outside engaged in some sort of project. He had patched a cabin roof, weeded the large vegetable garden, mowed the yard, and cleaned out all the fencerows surrounding the home. At one point, she had seen him picking the final apples from the small orchard beside the house. He had even carried away the heavy sign she’d left lying in the grass beside the fence. The man was a working machine and obviously desperate for a place to stay.
She knew that she should be relieved to have all those chores off her to-do list, but she was more concerned about Joe’s presence in her aunts’ lives than ever. She knew them well. They would be so thrilled with him after today that they would probably offer him a key to the house. Not that they ever remembered to lock the doors anyway—or saw the need to. No matter how many times she reminded them.
“What are you doing?” Kim Whitfield said from directly behind her.
Rachel disliked having someone read over her shoulder, but Kim had been a real help today. Her quick dispatch work in getting the ambulance to the middle of town had kept Rachel from having to deliver a baby.
“There’s a man staying at my aunts’ place. I’m trying to find out who he is.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Yes.” Rachel paused. “He gave me a name.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I don’t know.” Rachel clicked a button, and a list of Joe Matthewses from across the country filled the screen. “Maybe. Maybe not. That’s the problem.”
“I can help if you want. What’s he done?”
“The only thing he’s done is spit and polish my aunts’ farm today.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
Rachel swiveled around in her desk chair. “It’s a bad thing when my aunts believe in ‘entertaining angels unaware.’”
Kim cocked an eyebrow. “This guy is no angel, huh?”
“Who knows? Perhaps I’m being prejudiced because he has a beard, long hair, no money, and no transportation.”
“That describes my last two boyfriends,” Kim said. “I tend to fall for losers.”
“I wouldn’t exactly describe him as a loser—he has a confidence about him that is at odds with his situation. There’s something ‘off’ about this guy, though. I can feel it.”
Kim grabbed a notebook and pen. “Tell me everything else you know and I’ll see what I can find.”
“He has a child with him named Bobby, and his wife died awhile back. Her name was Grace. He’s wearing old work clothes, but his tennis shoes are top-of-the-line.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Except for one other thing.”
Kim stopped scribbling in her notebook. “What’s that?”
“He uses his fork in his left hand and his knife in his right. That tends to be something only people from other countries do.”
“Is he European?”
Rachel stood up and leaned back against the desk. “He doesn’t have an accent. I can’t detect a trace of any particular locality at all. That in itself bothers me.”
“We don’t have a terrorist right here in Sugarcreek, do we?” Kim looked troubled. “That sounds a little nutty.”
“I doubt it’s anything that exotic, but I’m not going to relax until I know who this guy is.”
Kim sat down in the chair Rachel had vacated. “I’ll noodle around with it and let you know if I find anything.”
For the first time, Rachel decided that Kim had possibilities.
It had been years since he’d done any yard work. Back in LA, he’d had gardeners to do all that. But it was worth all the sweat and blisters to see Bobby so contented and happy. During supper, Joe got to hear about Bobby’s day and playing with Anna. His son showed him all the pictures he had colored. Anna wanted Joe to admire her pictures too, upon which he lavished praise.
It felt good to be part of a little community of gentle people, especially people who expected nothing more from him than repairs and yard work.
It would be nice to stay here awhile longer, but he was getting uneasy again. Rachel’s squad car had driven past the farm at what seemed like regular half-hour intervals all day.
“If you would like to stay a few more days,” Bertha said, “we would be glad to have you. No one is using those cabins.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am, but I’ll be moving on as soon as I can get my truck fixed.”
“Look, Daddy!” Bobby came running over to show off a multicolored construction-paper chain Anna had placed around his neck.
He lifted Bobby into his arms, being careful not to crush the chain. Bobby smelled like crayons, paste, and sunshine.
“You could walk into town and see the festival tonight, Joe,” Bertha commented. “Bobby would probably enjoy it.”
She was right. Bobby would enjoy the lights and music. As much as he appreciated the Troyer sisters’ hospitality, sitting in the dim light of kerosene lanterns all evening didn’t hold a lot of appeal.
“What do they have at the festival?” he asked.
Bertha picked up the schedule from the newspaper and consulted it. “Let’s see…it’s only six thirty. The firehouse will still be open for cheese sampling.”
“I’m stuffed from Lydia’s cooking. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Lydia looked up from a new piecrust she was forming and smiled.
“There are several polka bands performing tonight,” Bertha read. “Oh—here’s something you might be interested in.”
“What’s that?”
“The competition of the Steinstossen.”
“Steinstossen?”
“‘Stone tossing,’” Lydia explained. “Men toss a big rock. Women throw one too.”
“How big of a rock?” Joe asked.
“Do you remember the weight, sister?” Lydia asked.
“Not exactly. It is over one hundred pounds. The women throw one that weighs less.”
“That’s it? They just throw a rock?” Joe said. “That seems like a pretty simple competition.”
“Some people take it very seriously,” Bertha said.
“Well, what do you say, buddy?” Joe asked. “Want to go to the festival?”
“Will we be gone a long time?” Bobby looked longingly at Anna, who, having been convinced by Joe’s praise that she was a talented artist, was busy coloring a new picture.
“Nope.”
“Will we come right back?”
“A
bsolutely.”
“And I will have an apple pie waiting for you,” Lydia said.
“That’s my favorite!” Bobby said.
“I guess we’ll go check things out then,” Joe said. With Bobby riding on his shoulders, he made the short walk to the village.
The sounds of the merry-go-round reached him first, and then he smelled the enticing aromas of fried onions and sausages. As he saw the strings of food booths, he was grateful they had just had a good meal; otherwise Bobby would have been begging for a taste of everything—which they could no longer afford.
Polka music filled the air as he asked directions to the Steinstossen event. He soon found a large paved rectangle with a white line painted across it and a sandpit at the far end. A crowd had gathered on blankets and folding chairs on the hill above. Several men were lining up to register for the event.
“Where’s the stone?” he asked a middle-aged man standing near him.
The man pointed to a large, oddly shaped rock. “There it is,” he said. “One hundred and thirty-eight pounds. It’s kept under lock and key down at the fire station all year long so no one can tamper with it.”
Joe took a closer look at the huge rock. He could see nothing all that special about it. “What’s the prize for first place?”
“For the men? Seventy-five dollars, but if a guy beats the record, he gets another hundred.”
One hundred and seventy-five? That should be enough to pay for parts for the truck. Maybe he could barter some work around the garage to pay for the labor.
“You’re a big guy.” The man peered at Joe. “You thinking about trying it?”
“Maybe. What’s the record?”
“A local man threw it fourteen feet six inches back in 2005. The record still stands.”
Before his shoulder surgeries, Joe had routinely bench-pressed his body weight of 240 pounds. On good days, he could bench-press more. How hard could it be to toss a 138-pound rock a few feet?
He glanced at the men in line. Most were shorter and stockier than him. Some looked as though they would have trouble lifting it even a few inches off the ground. Unless he missed his guess, there were going to be a lot of sore backs tonight.
Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio Page 6
