Her Amish Protectors

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “I can pull up a report from the software on people who preregistered and the walk-ins who made a purchase.” She closed her eyes. “I need to let them know, too, don’t I?”

  “Certainly the ones who wrote checks or paid by credit card. They’ll need to put stops on those payments. I’m guessing most of them will then make a new payment, so you won’t be out the entire amount.” The lines in his forehead deepened. “Ask them to let us know if their card number is run or their check already cashed, too.”

  “Isn’t that awfully hard to do?”

  “You mean the checks? Yeah, it’s tougher than it used to be,” he agreed. “I doubt that will happen. Credit card numbers...you know what a big business stealing those has turned into. Even so, my suspicion is that the thief was solely after the cash.”

  As much as two-thirds of the money so many people had worked hard to raise for victims who needed it desperately.

  Well, the only cowardly thing she’d done in her life was pack up and set out across country to start over. She wouldn’t add another now. Shower, she told herself, get dressed and begin.

  Slater asked if there had been walk-ins who hadn’t made a purchase, and she could only say, “I assume so, but I have no way of knowing. Also...most people came in pairs.” Spouses were one thing, but some bidders had probably brought a friend instead.

  He gave her his email address so that she could send him a list of attendees and the contact info. Even then, he wasn’t done. He asked if she’d changed the locks since buying the building—no—and suggested she have it done immediately.

  He gave her one last penetrating look with those disconcertingly dark eyes and said, “Think, Ms. Markovic. This wasn’t a stranger. He or she had to know not only who had the money, but how to get into your apartment without making a sound. He could have had a penlight—probably did—but it’s also possible our thief already knew the layout.”

  He also asked her to walk him to the foot of the stairs and lock behind him. Which, like replacing the locks, was closing the barn door after the horses were out... Except, what if last night’s intruder had been thinking about her, and decided to come back?

  Alone, Nadia scuttled upstairs to an apartment that no longer felt like a refuge.

  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, si
nce 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 hi
m. “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.”