Where Shadows Meet

by Colleen Coble

  “You saw my child?” Hannah tried to keep her emotions in check. This was no time to push her aunt.

  “Later,” Aunt Nora whispered. “Oh, why didn’t I listen?” She wiped her cheeks with her apron.

  Rebellion stirred in Hannah’s heart. Why had God allowed this? He could have kept Moe and her own family safe, but he didn’t. If this was his will, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t understand how her cousin and now her aunt had been able to just shrug and accept it. She was never going to forgive the man who had done this.

  Who had warned her aunt to stay quiet? And about what? It seemed impossible that Aunt Nora knew something, but maybe Hannah’s mother had confided something in her sister-in-law. Mamm had no close family of her own, and Datt’s family had taken her under their wing.

  Nora tugged on Hannah’s hand. “Come say hello to Bishop Kirchhofer.”

  Hannah hung back. “I—I don’t think I’m ready.” She knew what was waiting for her, and the thought of a lecture at a terrible time like this made her want to run. But her aunt pulled harder and led Hannah to the living room.

  More than ten years had slipped away since she’d been in this room she used to love. She and her mother had come over every week for tea and quilting, fellowship and belonging. The same hand-crocheted runners topped the end tables. The overstuffed sofa was looking a little threadbare. Everything was spotless, just like always.

  The last time Hannah had been here, her mother and father were still alive. Her mother sat in the rocker by the window so she could see to stitch the quilt block she worked on. The light gilded her blond hair and made her look angelic.

  It had been two days before she went to join the heavenly choir.

  Hannah tore her gaze from the scarred wooden rocker to face the bishop. The last time she’d seen him, he’d ordered her to repent of her unforgiveness toward Cyrus Long.

  He was looking at her again with the same loving sternness. Her entire life had trained her to submit to authority, and the need to do it was like an itch she couldn’t reach. Her knees weakened with the desire to fall to them and confess her sins. She reminded herself it was a trained response. He didn’t know her any longer. She was a different person from the pliable, easily deceived girl who had left here at twenty-two.

  “Hannah, you’re well?” he asked in his deep voice.

  When Hannah was a child, the tones and cadence of his voice always made her think she was hearing God’s voice. The bishop had always looked as old as the limestone along the creek, and his flowing white beard and weathered face under the broad brim of the hat brought to mind Old Testament prophets.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “We’ve missed you. Your family needs you.”

  She stepped back a pace. “Please. Now isn’t the time to bring pressure. We need to help Aunt Nora get through this.”

  “It’s never the wrong time to do right,” he said in a gentle voice.

  Hannah didn’t answer. She turned to her aunt. “Have you heard any more from the sheriff’s office?”

  “They’ve managed to get the autopsy scheduled for tomorrow, even though it usually takes much longer. Matt is a sweet boy who seems to care.” Aunt Nora wiped her eyes again. “The Lord’s will be done.”

  “Indeed,” the bishop said. He turned his gaze on Hannah again, and an uncomfortable silence followed.

  “I guess we’d better go,” Hannah said. She couldn’t stand much more silent pressure from him.

  Sarah had been standing silently by the table with her children. “Do you have a place to stay?” she asked. “Or are you going back home?”

  “I’ll find a motel room somewhere,” Hannah said.

  “You’ll stay here,” her aunt said. “You understand I can’t eat with you or accept any favors from you. But I won’t turn you out on the street.”

  “I know the requirements,” Hannah said. “Thank you. I’ll bring in our suitcases.” With Angie in tow, she fled the presence of the bishop and Sarah.

  “What was that all about?” Angie asked. “Gosh, the tension just vibrated in the air. Did he expect you to say you wanted to come back to the Amish faith?”

  “That’s exactly what he wants. And it’s even tempting,” Hannah said. “It will be hard to be here as an outcast.”

  “Could you ever go back and give up your life?” Angie shuddered as if it was the worst thing she’d ever heard.

  “Family is important,” Hannah said. “We try to preserve that as much as possible and lock out the world. When I didn’t have the conveniences, I didn’t miss them. Even now, there’s not that much to miss. I don’t watch much TV, and we always had gaslights and propane-powered appliances.”

  “So why not go back?” Angie smiled. “You said ‘we.’ Like you are still Amish.”

  “It’s too late. Divorce is never accepted—not for any reason. But I’ll always be Amish at heart. Even if I reconciled with Reece, I’d have to forgive the murderer, too, and I’ll never do that. Never.” She thought about her aunt’s words. Who could have warned her? And about what?

  THURSDAY MORNING, TWO days after the murder, and he was already getting an autopsy. It paid to have friends in the right places. The cold in the coroner’s lab penetrated Matt’s bones. The rank smell nearly made him gag, but he stood his ground near the door. Ajax whined and pawed at his nose. Matt rubbed his dog’s ears. “It’s okay.”

  Whit Grout had done him a favor and pushed the autopsy to the top of his list, so Matt decided to meet him here in the basement of the hospital, though it was never a pleasant experience. The coroner came through the door peeling off his rubber gloves. Matt didn’t want to speculate what the stains were on the man’s lab coat. Whit shucked it, too, revealing khaki shorts and a T-shirt that read “Greenhouse Gas Coming Through—Hold Your Nose.” About forty, he was so thin the only thing that cast a shadow was his blond hair, bushy as a porcupine. In spite of Whit’s appearance, Matt had never met a smarter person. Whit noticed things. Important things.

  Matt and Ajax fell into step beside him as they went to Whit’s office. “What’d you find out?”

  Whit didn’t answer, plowing on ahead through the door and straight to the coffeepot. It smelled burned and stale, but he smacked his lips as he gulped half a cup. “Ah, that hits the spot. Want some?”

  “No thanks. You figure out what killed Moe? Was it strychnine?”

  “He had enough poison in his system to kill ten people his size.” Whit dropped into his chair, a wooden piano stool that let him twist in any direction.

  Matt took the more comfortable wooden folding chair, and Ajax curled up at his feet. The coroner had a big enough budget to get some decent furniture but seemed to relish putting guests at a disadvantage. When he came in here, Matt felt like a bug under the microscope, and he suspected Whit was always analyzing how people reacted to his environment.

  “He inhaled it. Check any flowers at the house.”

  “We did. They were loaded with poison. They were sent to his mother. He was the one who put them in water and must have gotten enough of a whiff to kill him.”

  Matt had hoped for something easier to track down, but the flowers didn’t seem to have come from any local florist. And Moe was dead and couldn’t tell them who delivered the box of roses. Nora had no idea either. He rose and moved to the door. “Thanks, Whit.”

  “Got a Jane Doe that you might be interested in. About the right age. Drowned, natural causes looks like.”

  Matt’s fingers tightened on the door handle. “Hair color?”

  “Light red with gray.”

  The right hair color. “Can I see her?”

  “Sure.” Whit drained his coffee cup and rose.

  Matt followed him down the hall to a room that held the cadavers in cold storage. When Whit pulled out a drawer, Matt drew in a deep breath. The rasp of the zipper sliding open on the body bag sounded loud in the cavernous room. He focused on a spot on the wall, probably the spray from a soda can.

&nbs
p; “Well?” Whit prodded him on the arm.

  Matt looked down into the woman’s face. His gaze took in the sharp nose, the narrow-set eyes, the wide forehead. “It’s not her.” Relief and disappointment did a two-step. Why did he even think it might be? Only Whit knew of his secret search. “Thanks, my friend.”

  “No problem.” Whit zipped the bag closed before shoving the drawer back into place.

  Back outside, Matt drew in a lungful of clean air. But the taint of death stayed with him. His cell phone rang at his belt, and he grabbed it. He noticed he’d missed several calls while he was in the dungeon. “Beitler.”

  Blake’s voice came over the phone. “Where you at, partner? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Talking to the coroner. My cell doesn’t work in the basement.”

  “Your grandma called. She said she saw something the night Moe Honegger died.”

  “I’ll meet you in front of headquarters.” Trudy probably was one of his missed calls. He put Ajax into the backseat, then drove to the sheriff’s office, where he slowed down long enough to allow Blake to jump into the passenger seat.

  “She say what she saw?” Matt asked Blake.

  Blake shrugged. “Someone cut through her corn patch, knocked down some stalks.”

  “Might be kids.”

  “Maybe. She seemed adamant she had to talk to you.”

  She was always adamant. Matt drove west out of Rockville. When he passed the road toward Nora’s house and the other Amish farmlands, he wondered if Hannah had stayed in the community or gone home. And why had she come? She’d never explained.

  Blake ran his window down. “How’s Gina?”

  “Fine. You two need to work it out.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Matt’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Is it true, Blake?”

  His partner didn’t look at him. “Is what true?”

  “You having an affair?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Matt closed his mouth. He wanted to ask where Blake had gotten the money for the ring, but he feared to hear the answer. If Gina’s suspicion wasn’t true, wouldn’t Blake deny the charge?

  He turned down his grandmother’s road. Trudy’s house was the only one on this narrow way. She came to the door before Blake’s raised fist could fall on the door.

  “Don’t just stand there—come in,” she said, standing aside so they could enter. “Not the dog.” She pointed her finger at Ajax. “Stay.”

  Ajax’s tail drooped, but he settled down with his head on his paws and a mournful look in his eyes. “I’ll be right back, boy.” Matt pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything. This was an old disagreement, and one he wasn’t going to win. Trudy’s ways were set by seventy-two years of footsteps encased in concrete.

  She wore her gray hair loose on her shoulders. Even at seventy-two, her skin held a pink bloom. Tiny wrinkles crouched at her eyes and around her mouth, but she didn’t look her age. The flowing red caftan gave her frame an elegance that matched the proud tilt to her head.

  Matt followed her past stacks of old newspapers and magazines. He’d tried to clear out the clutter for years before finally giving up. Trudy was who she was. There was no changing her. She settled in a worn chenille rocker. He and Blake took the matching sofa. The crocheted doilies on the arms and the back of the sofa were starched and spotless.

  “You’ve been neglecting me, Matthew,” she said, fixing her blue gaze on him. “It’s been three weeks and four days since you were here last.”

  Sheesh, did she keep a calendar? “I’ve been working a lot of overtime. You know how it is when there’s been a murder. It will calm down soon.” The guilt was a familiar companion. His job demanded so much of him. There were only so many hours in the day.

  He took out his pen and notebook. “So you said someone trampled your garden?”

  “More than trampled. Destroyed it.” She began to rock. “And there’s white powder on the ground.”

  He and Blake exchanged alarmed glances. “Don’t smell it. Moe died from inhaling strychnine. Hang on.” He called headquarters, and his boss promised to send out a car. “We’ll get it checked and cleaned up,” he told his grandmother. “In the meantime, stay away from it.”

  The coils of the chair seat screeched with Trudy’s every movement. He could still hear that sound in his dreams. He would never forget the nights she locked him in his room and sat outside his door, rocking and rocking.

  He took out his notepad and began to write. “Footprints?”

  “Plenty of them. All one man, I think. You can check them for yourself. They lead across the field toward Nora Honegger’s house.”

  “Did you see anyone?” Blake put in.

  “If I’d recognized someone, don’t you think I would have said that right off? But I saw his truck parked down the way under the old sycamore tree by the river. Just before the covered bridge.”

  “Make and model?” Matt asked.

  “Tan. That’s all I know.”

  Gina had said the man who followed her and Caitlin home drove a tan truck. “Anything else?”

  She stopped rocking a minute. “I heard him whistling.” She pursed her lips again and blew out a tune. “Like that.”

  Matt recognized the tune. “‘Bad Moon Rising.’”

  “If you say so.”

  Blake wouldn’t know it, but Reece was a big Creedence Clearwater Revival fan. “Thanks for your help, Trudy. I’ll go take a look at the footprints and the powder.” He stood and started after Blake, who was already heading to the door.

  Trudy caught his hand. “You found her yet?”

  “No.”

  “And you won’t,” his grandmother said. “A woman like that can just disappear. She was never worthy of David. It was good riddance when she disappeared.”

  “Not for me.” Wrong thing to say, and he knew it.

  “She could wrap men around her finger like yarn. You’re just as stupid as your father.” She waved her hand. “Go ahead, get out of here. You’re dying to escape.”

  Matt’s guilt wouldn’t let him just walk away. He brushed a kiss across her hair and inhaled her Suave hair spray. The scent reminded him of a time when he was lost and afraid. He wasn’t that little boy anymore.

  TEN

  “You see windmills at many Amish homes. They’re used to bring water up. The Windmill Quilt is a quaint reminder that God provides all we need.”

  —HANNAH SCHWARTZ,

  IN The Amish Faith Through Their Quilts

  The bird wall clock in the kitchen chirped the time. Nearly midnight Friday. No wonder the quilting stitches appeared blurred to Hannah’s tired eyes. The cats curled up at her feet added to her sleepiness. She had wandered through Nora’s house, looking at the quilts. Some were so worn and threadbare they made her wince. Quilts should be treated with care. One had been tossed carelessly over a chest, and she folded it up and laid it in a chair. The ones she recognized as her mother’s handiwork, she’d caressed. The memories were almost more than she could bear.

  She’d wanted to talk to her aunt about her strange comments, but her aunt was tight-lipped and tearful with the funeral looming tomorrow. Hannah, too, found it hard to concentrate since Moe’s body reposed in the traditional white clothing in the closed dining room. The coroner had released his body yesterday for burial, and they’d been busy with preparations and visitors.

  She heard a creak on the steps and glanced up. With a long gray braid over one shoulder and dressed in a pink nightgown, her aunt swayed at the foot of the steps. She came toward Hannah with a book in her hand.

  “I’m sorry I was so bad tempered tonight,” she said. “I was so shocked when the detective took away the flowers. They’d been delivered to me while I was visiting my friends down the road. Moe must have smelled them when he put them in water. It should have been me who died.” She shook her head. “But God’s will be done.”

  “Can I get you
anything? Warm milk, tea?” She offered even though she knew she shouldn’t.

  Nora settled onto the sofa beside her. “I’m fine, or at least, as fine as I can be.” She fingered the quilt block. “Really lovely stitching, Hannah.”

  “Not as good as my mother’s.”

  Nora smiled. “Ah, your mother. I couldn’t have loved her more if she’d been my own sister. I still miss her.” She examined the stitches more closely. “You’re every bit as good, my dear. You must love it like Patricia did.”

  “I do. It’s my way of holding on to my mother,” Hannah whispered. She’d never admitted to anyone what fueled her obsession.

  “Your mother always said it was her way of making sense of the chaos in the world.” Nora pointed to the basket on the floor. “Looking at the jumble of fabric and thread, there seems to be no pattern, no order there. But little by little, quilting brings order.”

  “You’re right. Maybe that’s why it calms me.” Hannah wanted to bring up all her questions but worried over her aunt’s fragility.

  “What pattern are you working on?”

  “It’s a Triangle.” She showed her aunt the brightly pieced square. “I use black fabric for the background and border, just like Mamm always did.

  “This one is supposed to be photographed for the cover of a pattern quilt book I’m writing. It will illustrate the three things important to our way of life.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Her aunt’s hand stroked the fabric. “I’m very proud of you.”

  Pain encased Hannah’s heart. No one had said those words to her since her parents died. Reece had been quick to point out her failings, and praise from the museum was scanty until her book came out and she’d been catapulted into fame. She didn’t feel worthy of any praise. She’d turned her back on her heritage and fallen into a relationship straight from a suspense movie. Now here she was with a failed marriage. Hardly a person to be proud of. But that was her aunt Nora. She saw the best in everyone.

  Maybe that was why the success of her book frightened her.

  Hannah put down her quilt block and reached for her bag. She pulled out the picture of the child. “This picture you sent me. Look at the quilt she’s sitting on.”