A Perfect Square

by Vannetta Chapman

  Soon they were both grinning.

  It was probably the first moment they’d shared without tension.

  “You might be aware that the police can lift fingerprints off a cell phone. In fact, that technology has progressed in recent years. They can now tell if the person whose fingerprints they find is a smoker or not or if they have recently ingested drugs.”

  Adalyn studied her hand, rubbing her right thumb against her index finger.

  “All of those residues come through your dead cells and skin oils, and they land …” she pushed a finger against the tabletop, leaving a smudge, “… in your fingerprint. Rather remarkable, the advances in forensic science.”

  Reuben grunted, not quite sure where she was going with her lecture.

  Adalyn stood and pulled on her jacket. Only then did Reuben look up at the small window, notice the wind blowing the now bare tree branches outside. “Unfortunately this phone passed through a few hands before it landed on Shane’s desk, so it’s not likely to reveal much. Too many fingerprints make deciphering difficult.”

  She walked to the door, tapped on it. “They also can’t see inside a man’s head — yet.”

  Gavin opened the door and Adalyn turned to leave, but before she did, she stopped and faced Reuben again, drilling him with her steel-blue eyes. “The girl from Cedar Bend? She came to Shipshewana, but lost her phone here before boarding a train to Chicago. Ran off with an older guy who’s in a rock band, and called home yesterday when she saw her face on the news. Seems you’re not a suspect in that case anymore.”

  Then Adalyn left, leaving Reuben to stare at his own hands and think about fingerprints. What story would his tell if they could?

  Callie walked into the hospital room and noticed at once how much smaller and older Ira looked in the bed with bandages wrapped around his head. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position and started talking.

  “You didn’t bring Max? I told them I wanted you to bring Max!” He thumped his hand against the blanket. Callie was relieved to see some energy and color in his wrinkled face. She was also thankful to see his cane was on the other side of the room, out of reach.

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” The nurse smiled and made a quick escape.

  “What are you doing here, Ira? Erin Troyer told me something about a horse and you being kicked.”

  “Ya. That horse is stubborn, and I should have never turned my back on it. I’m an old fool.” Doubt clouded his features like a storm passing in front of the sun. “Sharon will understand though. Is my wife on her way? I imagine Caleb went to fetch her. I thought they might be here by now.”

  His hand plucked at the covers, and he looked around the room as if he could find a clue as to where he was, who he was, and what had happened to his world. Unsure what else to do, Callie pulled the single extra chair closer to his bed, reached out, and placed her hand over his. When she did, he stared down at it a moment, his lips trembling.

  Then his eyes closed and he seemed to relax.

  They remained that way for the space of a few heartbeats. Until a Carolina chickadee landed on the windowsill and started raising a ruckus. Callie didn’t know many bird names, but she knew that one — the little guy with a black-and-white-striped face had been a constant visitor on her apartment patio in Houston as well.

  “That would be the reason I was kicked to begin with,” Ira confessed, without opening his eyes. “Turned to look and see what kind of bird was making so much noise. Turned and didn’t keep my eye on that brute of a horse. He’d been a bit ornery all morning, and he kicked me right in the keister.”

  Ira’s hand went to the bandage on his head. “Horse hurt my hip. Ground hurt my head. Landed in the dirt as if I were a sack of potatoes someone had thrown out in the lot for the pigs.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Callie patted the top of his hand with hers, then pulled away, sitting back in the chair. “Well, I’m glad it’s your keister he kicked and not your head. While you seem stubborn, I’m not sure how well you’d take that.”

  “Worried about me, were you?”

  “Of course, Ira.”

  “Are you any closer to finding my girl?”

  “I was planning to stop by the exhibit at the visitors’ center after I leave here. See what information they have.” Callie tugged at the hair that now curled well past her collar, thinking of Deborah’s words of caution. “But Ira, I don’t want to raise your hopes. It’s not likely that Bethany even survived the tornados, and if she did—”

  “She did. I know in my heart she did, and don’t start asking me again how I know or why it is that I know now. Maybe it’s a gift the Lord has given me here in my last days.”

  “Maybe so.” Callie paused, then plunged on. “That doesn’t mean he’s given me the gift of second sight though. I’m not sure exactly how to find someone who has been missing for so long. Someone who probably wouldn’t know they’re missing.”

  “You found that editor’s murderer.”

  “He was right here in town, and he was still looking for something.”

  “Well maybe my dochder is looking for me, in her heart. Maybe she is but she doesn’t know it yet.”

  Callie nodded, because she knew that she should. She nodded and forced herself to wait, but she really wanted to go see what was at the visitors’ center and speak to the president of the historical society.

  After a few more minutes had passed, Ira began to nod off. Callie stood and tiptoed to the door. She was pulling it open when Ira called out from the bed.

  “Don’t forget, when you find her, tell her how much I love her and that I’ve missed her every day.”

  “If I find her, you can tell her.” Callie stepped out into the hall and collided with Caleb Bontrager.

  “If you find who?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to walk into you.” Callie looked down at the linoleum floor, then across the hall, and finally at the roundish man standing in front of her. He bore a strong resemblance to Ira, though he had a full head of dark hair and, of course, a dark beard.

  “No harm done. Nice of you to stop in and see my dat.”

  “Yes. Well, I was relieved to see he’s recovering nicely.” Callie pasted on her best smile. “You have a nice evening, Mr. Bontrager.”

  She thought she’d made a clean escape, was a good two doors down the hall, when he called out.

  “You won’t find her. I don’t even know that she exists. I have no memory of my mamm mentioning a girl.”

  Callie stopped and turned toward him, but didn’t walk back down the hall.

  “He talks about all manners of things when his mind clouds. Moves from today to years past. It’s hard to follow, hard to know how best to answer.”

  Callie nodded, met Caleb’s gaze and held it for a moment, then continued out of the building, out into the waning afternoon light.

  A stop at the visitors’ center turned up facts and a lot of information. But Callie also hit a dead end of sorts there.

  Miss Morton, the president of the Shipshewana Historical Society, had been working the afternoon shift behind the counter and had been happy to help her. Callie had the sneaking suspicion someone had told Miss Morton that Callie was on her way over — Shipshe was a small town. Callie had to keep reminding herself of that. She wasn’t in Houston anymore.

  “No Amish people from Shipshewana lost their lives in the storms, though one Amish man was killed in the cleanup operation,” Miss Morton told Callie.

  “Are you sure?” Callie peered down at the historical account that Miss Morton had pulled out and set on the counter.

  “Positive. I don’t need to look at this book to tell you that. I’ve been president of the Historical Society long enough to know the history of the biggest catastrophe to ever strike this town.” Miss Morton paused, tapped the book once with a sensibly manicured nail, no polish. “Now what is it you’re looking for, exactly? Don’t tell me that you’ve lived here
six months and suddenly had a burning desire to know about the Palm Sunday twisters.”

  Callie thought of making up an excuse. She understood how crazy her quest would sound — as if she were searching for a letter that had been left out in the rain for years on end. Worse, she knew that if she spilled Ira’s story, she risked losing more than Miss Morton as a good source of information; she risked losing what little respect she might have from someone she had already decided she’d truly like to learn more from. There was more than one story here, more than Ira’s story. Now that she’d spent time in the center, she understood that Shipshewana’s entire history was contained within its well-designed walls.

  And not all of it was in the displays. Some of it was in Miss Morton’s memories, in her knowledge of the town. So Callie took the risk and, instead of putting a bow on it, pulled in a deep breath and told the truth.

  “It’s not what I’m looking for, it’s who.” Then she told Ira’s story, in a condensed version.

  Miss Morton didn’t scoff at her, didn’t so much as blink.

  When Callie had finished talking, Miss Morton pulled a slip of paper off her notepad and wrote down a name and number. “Call this man. Or go and see him. He teaches at Notre Dame, and he’s had a Tuesday evening class every semester for the last twenty years. If there’s anyone who can help you, it’s Professor Reimer.”

  “But, well … Do you mean just show up?”

  “You could wait until tomorrow, but didn’t you say Mr. Bontrager is in the hospital and upset?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t you say he suffers from dementia?”

  “He does.”

  “Then I wouldn’t waste any time. If there is a girl to be found, and she’d be nearing her fifties by now, you want him to remember her — at least during his good moments. Yes, it sounds like a bit of an emergency.”

  Callie stared at the small piece of paper covered in Miss Morton’s neat handwriting.

  “The campus is in South Bend, forty-five miles west from here. I imagine you used to commute farther than that.”

  Before heading to the campus, Callie stopped by her shop and checked her phone messages. One was from Margie asking if Callie’d like to go see a movie. One was from Trent telling her he’d been visited by Shane — he sounded somewhat amused and not the least bit put out with her. The call made Callie realize that that would be Trent’s way — doing his job one minute, cordial and friendly the next. The last message was from Nancy Jarrell saying she had the go-ahead for the Chicago quilt exhibit if Callie and the quilters were still interested.

  None of the calls seemed important enough to return immediately. Instead, Callie changed clothes and prepared Max for a ride in the car. She didn’t know if taking her Labrador to Notre Dame was an acceptable thing to do, but it felt like the right thing. Daddy had always raised her to think safety first. And as she’d told Shane Black during the last investigation, she had a handgun permit, but she hadn’t brought her firearm to Indiana. No, it seemed God had given her Max for any protection she might need when wandering around alone in the dark. She clipped his leash to his collar, straightened his scarf, and locked the door to the shop behind them.

  Before leaving town, Callie stopped by The Kaffi Shop for a sandwich and a hot drink. Kristen was filling in for Margie, which explained the movie invitation. While Callie was grabbing extra napkins from the self-serve counter, she spied Shane sitting in the back corner.

  “Working late?” she asked him.

  He didn’t answer, only reached for his coffee and took a long drink, staring at her over the steam.

  “Can’t we pretend to be friends?” Callie didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. “We always seem to end up on the opposite side of things.”

  She reached down for Max and found him pressed against her leg, his presence a warm comfort. When Shane still didn’t answer, Callie shuffled from one foot to the other, feeling for all the world like a child called to the principal’s office, which was ridiculous. Shane Black was not her principal. Her discomfort didn’t seem to faze Shane at all, but when Max whined once, he finally shook his head and moved over in the booth.

  Callie hesitated a moment, then sat down beside him.

  “It’s not that we’re on opposite sides, Callie.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “A week.” Weariness mixed with anger in his voice, but weariness won. “It’s been over a week since Deborah and Esther found her body, and I still haven’t been able to notify her next of kin.”

  He glanced at her then — not through her, not past her, but at her, for the first time since she’d seen him in the booth. “Do you have any idea how that wears on me?”

  Callie thought about that, thought about all the things she might say, all the things that might possibly make him feel better but would probably fall short. In the end she simply reached over and found his hand, which was sitting next to hers on the seat of the booth. He stared down at their hands, at her fingers entwined with his.

  She might have imagined it, but it seemed like some of the tension went out of his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, then pulled away. Her heart dropped, a stone headed to the bottom of a very deep pond, but then he placed his arm across the back of the booth, his hand lightly touching her shoulder.

  She didn’t know what to think of that, but she was very glad she hadn’t decided to have a frozen dinner at home.

  Chapter 28

  DEBORAH WAVED when she saw Callie being ushered toward their bench. She couldn’t help smiling as her friend drew closer — the look of surprise on her face was comical. What had Callie expected, that an Amish wedding would be so different from an Englisch one?

  Callie made her way down the bench, past several older women, until she reached the empty spot Deborah had saved. The area where they’d set up the benches looked out over harvested fields, now clean and ready for winter. Though it was early in the day, and cool for the first Thursday in November, the sun promised perfect weather for Esther and Tobias’ wedding.

  “Am I late? It looks as if all of Shipshewana made it here before me.”

  “There’s at least ten minutes still before the singing begins, and I saved you a seat with us. I wanted you close in case you have any questions.” Deborah smiled over the top of Joshua’s head as he climbed onto her lap. “Did the professor you visit have any information on finding Mr. Bontrager’s dochder?”

  “No. It was a long shot, but he said he’d call if he found anything.”

  “Well, you did your best.” Deborah patted her hand.

  “Men and women sit separately?” Callie waved at Martha, who was seated next to Mary. The twins were seated at the end of the row. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best.

  “At church we do, and a wedding is another form of holy celebration for us. Jonas is a little further back on the other side.”

  “Oh.” Callie stared around her, still feeling at a loss. Finally she turned to Deborah and said, “I would have been here sooner, but I changed clothes three times. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to pick something to wear to an Amish wedding.”

  “What you chose is fine,” Deborah said, reaching out to finger the tailored suit made of a beautiful pearl-gray wool.

  “Lydia said any color is fine. She said the bride doesn’t wear white.”

  “No. Our brides wear blue, and it’s fine for others to wear it as well, as you can see.” Deborah nodded to the women around her. The dresses created a virtual color wheel. Though they tended toward the darker side, there was no doubt that everyone had on their very finest — still clothes that could be worn on Sunday, still functional, but made special for the day by extra starch in the aprons, prayer kapps pinned with extra care, and eyes that sparkled.

  Or maybe it only seemed that way to Deborah.

  Perhaps she was reading her own excitement in what her friends wore and how they looked.

  “All the men look so nice.
Everyone in black jackets and black hats — I’ve never seen them so spiffed up.”

  “Is that what you call it in Texas?”

  “Spiffed? Maybe. Of course in Texas, there would be cowboy hats on the top and cowboy boots on the bottom.”

  “Do you like my dress, Miss Callie?” Mary pulled on her white apron, which covered a dark green dress.

  “It’s very pretty, Mary.” Then Callie added, “Maybe I should have borrowed Lydia’s dress again and worn it. I thought it fit okay, and I’d blend in better — “

  “I’m glad you didn’t. I believe people are still talking about how you looked that day.” Deborah smoothed her own dress, then turned toward the rear of the seating area as she noted the hush that fell over the crowd of nearly two hundred people.

  She tried to see the wedding as Callie must see it. There were no flowers. Though some of the younger Amish girls now did put flowers on tables, Esther had decided to stay with the traditional ways. There was no formal wedding gown nor any music to greet the prospective bride and groom.

  Then everyone in the church rose, in one accord, and began to sing. And Deborah knew it didn’t matter that there were no instruments to accompany them. The sound of their voices — raised in harmony, joined in singing the songs of their parents and grandparents — was a more beautiful sound than any instrument could make.

  As she glanced around at her children, at her friends and relatives, Deborah understood in her heart the absence of decorations as well. They were all the decorations that Esther and Tobias needed — the beautiful sight of so many loved ones gathered in one place, so many turned out in their finest to spend an entire day wishing them the very best, singing praises to the Lord on this — the first day of their married life — and praying for the birth of their marriage.

  Not one often moved to tears, Deborah was surprised to find her eyes stinging as they began singing the second hymn. Twice in one week now she found herself crying. Why was that? Why on this day? On Esther’s day?

  As she accepted the handkerchief her mother-in-law passed back to her, Deborah stared down at it. The cloth still held the indention from where Ruth had held it as she passed it to her, passed it over her grandchildren. There was a bond between them as a congregation, as a family, that was stronger than anything could tear apart.