Plain as Day

by Laura Bradford

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, her list dutifully checked, double-checked, and triple-checked, Claire abandoned the desk chair and wandered back to the window, her thoughts ping-ponging between Esther’s luncheon, the inventory holes at the shop, and the pendant. For a few moments, she simply stared out at the darkened fields while mentally making her way to the farmhouse Esther shared with Eli. The approaching nine o’clock hour made it almost a given the young couple was preparing for bed. Soon, a little one would be sleeping in the hand-carved cradle Eli was hoping to finish before Saturday. If he succeeded, as she knew he would, it would be the perfect way to wrap up Esther’s surprise luncheon.

  She smiled to herself as she stepped away from the glass and drew the heavy curtains closed on what had been another busy day. True, she was no further along in the case of the rose and moon pendant than she had been when she woke that morning, but it wasn’t from a lack of trying. And even if she had caught the part about the logo being Jane’s rather than the series’ when she first read Misty’s email, it still wouldn’t have mattered. It was still tied to the same basic . . .

  Claire glanced over her shoulder at the computer and, with little more than a moment’s hesitation, she wandered back to the desk and the screen she’d yet to power off. Lowering herself to the chair, she positioned her fingers atop the keyboard and typed Jane Barrett’s name into the search bar. When she was sure all was spelled correctly, she hit enter and watched the first of twenty-five pages pop up.

  For a moment, she looked at the box at the top of the screen—a box showcasing the author’s basic information alongside the same formal photo found on the author’s book jackets. The rest of the page contained links to Jane’s website, the publisher’s website, and the big online book vendors. A peek at the next several pages turned up blog posts, reviews, and upcoming events that had long since come and gone.

  She scrolled up to the top of the current page, revised her original search to include the word “news,” and hit Enter once again.

  This time, when the page refreshed, her gaze fell on the top item, a magazine article from June:

  Fans of Best-selling Mystery Author Jane Barrett Left with New Mystery to Solve: Where Is Jane?

  The chair creaked with her lean as she clicked on the link and began to read the accompanying article.

  For years, author Jane Barrett has enthralled readers with her oft-funny yet at times nail-biting look at academia—releasing a new book each June for twelve years. But all that stopped two years ago when June came and went with no book . . .

  Barrett’s fans took to the street—in front of her house, in fact—for months, begging for the next book, often yelling out proposed subjects for her to focus on with the next title. Those who couldn’t make the pilgrimage to Barrett’s San Francisco home flooded her fan club’s website, instead. Misty Wright, a longtime fan and president of the online club, said she fields as many as a hundred emails a day asking when the next book will release. But Wright, like everyone else—including Barrett’s longtime publisher—seems to be at a loss on how to answer.

  “Jane Barrett is, single-handedly, the most popular mystery writer of the modern age. Everywhere she goes she is recognized and followed by people who adore her books and want her to write more, more, more and faster, faster, faster,” said Roger Duggen, 45, English Professor at Fieldstone University in Mississippi. “I don’t think the average person can truly understand just how brutal that glare, that constant pressure, has to be for an extreme introvert like Jane. But the hints were there in every television interview I ever saw with her and in the last book she wrote. Hints that, in my opinion, point not only to the end of this most successful series but also to what may very well be any and all sightings of the woman behind it all.”

  “Wow.” She scrolled back to the top of the article, reread it, and then minimized it in favor of the first of more than two dozen interview clips featuring Jane Barrett over the past twelve-plus years. In it, as in each subsequent clip she watched, Jane looked professional but increasingly more nervous as the years wore on, her raven-colored bob styled around her face, the silver pendant necklace—

  Claire bolted upright in her chair as the interviewer pointed at the very necklace that had her sitting at the computer searching Jane Barrett in the first place.

  “As a fan of your books, Jane, I have to say, I noticed your necklace right away. It’s an exact replica of the symbol that is next to your picture. Is there a special meaning behind it?”

  The diminutive forty-year-old shyly shook her head, her voice dropping so low the host had to ask her to speak louder. “It was given to me by someone special—someone who always believed in me even when I didn’t necessarily believe in myself, and always taught me to know that happiness comes from a place of peace.”

  “And who might that person be?”

  “My mother.”

  “Is she pleased that you are an author?”

  “If it is what makes me happy, then yes.”

  “That’s great.” Then, before Claire could fully process the reality that was the pendant, the interviewer picked up a book she recognized as the kick-off title in what became the Subject Murder Mysteries and gave it a little shake. “So, about the book . . .”

  The rest of the interview was essentially the same as each of the next dozen or so Claire watched. The book being touted changed from year to year, of course, but the initial round of questions hurled at Jane invariably stayed the same . . .

  How long have you been writing?

  Why did you start writing?

  What is your favorite book?

  From there, depending on the interviewer, questions then veered toward reviews, specific plots and their inspiration, writing habits, et cetera. One piece even shared home videos of rabid fans in the week leading up to each new release—fans who routinely surrounded Jane’s home at all hours of the night, begging for an advanced reader copy or hints to the latest subject at the forefront of the new book. And just as the English professor in the article had said, the soft-spoken author seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable with each subsequent interview, like she wanted to be anywhere but there, in front of a camera, answering questions she so obviously didn’t want to answer.

  When she’d had enough, Claire closed down the videos and maximized the article once again, her eyes skipping ahead to the quote by the Mississippi English professor—a quote that, when reread, had her pushing back her chair and heading straight for her aunt’s bookshelves.

  • • •

  She was dressed and waiting when Diane stepped into the kitchen just after dawn, the subsequent look of shock on the woman’s face soliciting a laugh she rushed to quiet with the palm of her own hand.

  “Claire?” Diane pulled her glasses from the pocket of her day’s apron and slid them onto the bridge of her nose. “What are you doing up this early?”

  Dropping her hand to her side, she turned back to the biscuit dough she’d been kneading prior to the sound of her aunt’s approaching footsteps. “What am I doing up implies I was asleep at one point—which I wasn’t.”

  Diane joined her at the counter, her brows furrowed above the rim of her glasses. “You weren’t able to sleep, dear?”

  “I didn’t really try.” When the dough was sufficiently kneaded, she draped a clean dishcloth across it and noted the time on the oven. “I looked at your breakfast calendar and decided I could get a jump on part of the menu while I waited for you to come down.”

  She stepped over to the sink, pumped some soap into her hands, and then nudged the water on with her elbow. “The biscuit dough will be ready for the next step in fifteen minutes.”

  “Here.” Diane pulled open a drawer on the opposite side of the sink and withdrew a folded hand towel. “Dry.”

  When her hands were dry, Diane ushered her over to the center island and the pair of stools tucked neatly beneath its eave. “Talk to me, dear. Did you have an argument with Jakob
?”

  “No. Of course not. Though now that you ask, he didn’t call like he usually does before bedtime . . .” A quick check of her phone screen showed both a missed call and voice mail icon. “Oh. Wait. He did . . . I must have been so focused on the story that I didn’t hear it vibrating on the nightstand.”

  “Story?” Diane echoed.

  “I was reading the last Subject Murder—Philosophical Death.”

  “But you already read that, dear. On the day it came out, remember?”

  “I know. But last night, after you went to bed, I did a little research on Jane Barrett and I’m pretty sure the pendant we found belongs to her.”

  Diane gasped. “But how can you know it’s—”

  “She’s wearing it in a few of the photographs I found online. Her mother gave it to her as a reminder to always believe in herself and to know that happiness comes from a place of peace.”

  “Happiness comes from a place of peace,” Diane repeated quietly. “I like that . . .”

  “She uses that expression in the epilogue of her last book.”

  “Hmmm . . . I’m not sure I remember that.”

  Claire ran the tip of her finger along the edge of the counter, mentally organizing her thoughts as she did. “I didn’t either. That was an added bonus to rereading the book last night.”

  “Added bonus?”

  “Something a college professor from Mississippi said in an article made me look to see if I could find a clue in that last book as to where Jane has gone and what she might be doing.”

  Diane settled onto the stool next to Claire’s and folded her arms. “I’m waiting . . .”

  “Remember how, in the epilogue, the main character decided to start fresh—a new home, a new town, a new state? How she saw it as a way to get back to who she was before her world exploded in the main part of the book?”

  “I do.”

  “Maybe Jane did that, too. So she could find happiness from a place of peace just like her mother says.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she didn’t like the fame that came with writing this series. She was a true introvert in every sense of the word, and the more rabid her fans got, the more unhappy she clearly became.”

  She could see her aunt digesting her words and gave her time to do so. Sure enough, after a few moments of silence, Diane dove into the same spot that had kept Claire awake even after she’d turned the final page of the book. “Even if you’re right, dear, and Ms. Barrett did step away from her former life, that doesn’t help us figure out where she is or how to get that pendant back to her . . .”

  “Wait. Say that again,” she pleaded.

  “What?”

  “What you just said.”

  Diane tipped her chin just enough to afford an uninhibited view of Claire across the top of her glasses. “You mean about it not helping us figure out where she is or how to get the pendant back to her?”

  “Yes, that.” Claire slipped off the stool, hugged her aunt, and then hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “If it wouldn’t be leaving you in too much of a lurch with the guests this morning, I’d like to head into work early, if that’s okay? That way, when I duck out on Annie to stop by Yoder’s again, she can concentrate solely on any customers who might come in rather than any unfinished tasks.”

  “Of course you can go. This is an easy breakfast and you already got a jump on the biscuits for me.”

  “Great. Thank you.” She turned toward the door, only to stop before she’d taken more than half a step. “Oh . . . I’m taking the pendant into work with me today.”

  • • •

  Samuel’s hatted head popped up from behind a display of children’s rocking ponies as Claire stepped inside the shop shortly after one o’clock. Any surprise she picked up in his reaction at seeing her twice in as many days quickly morphed into a friendly nod. “Good afternoon, Claire.”

  “Pony rockers?” She crossed to his corner of the shop and ran her fingers along the wooden seat and the faceless head. “I had one of these when I was a little girl! In fact, my parents said the only way they could get me off it at night was to bribe me with books.”

  Samuel’s eyes crackled to life with his smile. “I was like that with the hay bales next to Dat’s barn. I loved to jump on them more than I liked to help in the fields.”

  “Do you ever wish you could jump in one now?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Good, because I am standing here, looking at this pony rocker, and wishing I could give it a ride without breaking it.”

  “I think you could if you would like.”

  Her laughter filled the space between them as she retracted her hand. “For the sake of continuing my no-bones-broken streak, I think I’ll pass. But thank you.”

  “I broke my arm once.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yah. I did not see that Dat had moved a bale.” Samuel stood, rubbed his upper arm at the memory, and then led the way to the counter. “So what brings you by today, Claire?”

  She followed him over to a piece of paper and watched as he drew a line through the final item on the page: rocking horse display. When he looked up again, she got to the point of her visit. “What can you tell me about the woman who bought that house out in Smoketown?”

  “You mean Bontrager’s place?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is quiet but kind.”

  “Do you remember anything else about her? Like whether she wore any jewelry when she came into your shop to purchase that headboard and desk?”

  She tried not to slump her shoulders at the rapid shake of his head that served as his answer.

  “Okay . . . Then is there any chance you remember her name?” she asked.

  “It was Fannie. Fannie”—he pulled out his notebook, flipped to the correct page, and tapped his finger near the bottom—“Amstutz.”

  An unusual name, but that didn’t matter. She committed it to memory and moved on. “Do you happen to remember the time frame between when Fannie moved into the house and when she sold you back that dresser?”

  Samuel’s gaze lifted from the notebook to Claire. “I do not know for sure, but I do not think it was long. Maybe a week or two at most.”

  A week or two . . .

  Certainly long enough to—

  A series of quick vibrations inside the front right pocket of her slacks alerted her to an incoming text message. She considered checking to see what it was, but she’d already taken enough of Samuel’s time. To take more simply so she could consult her phone would be rude.

  “Is there anything else you remember about her? Anything you found unusual?”

  Samuel’s Adams apple moved with a hard swallow. “I was going to tell the bishop, but when I shared with Ruth she said perhaps it belonged to a visitor.”

  “Are you talking about the necklace?” Thrusting her hand into her front left pocket, she fingered the pendant and chain she’d taken out and studied more than a dozen times so far that day.

  Confusion gave way to shame as his gaze moved to the floor. “No. I am speaking of the car I saw in the barn. I want to believe Ruth is right—that it belonged to a visitor. But I did not see anyone else when I was there.”

  “A car?” she echoed, only to freeze as Samuel’s earlier words looped their way back through her thoughts. “Wait. What’s this about telling the bishop? Why would this woman having a car matter to an Amish bishop?”

  “Because she is Amish.”

  Claire pulled back. “Did you say Amish?”

  “Yah.”

  The jingle of the door-mounted bell brought an end to the conversation and, when it became apparent the customer was going to stay for a while, Claire waved goodbye and headed back outside. Half a block later, she pulled out the phone to call Jakob but stopped as her gaze fell on the text message from her aunt:

  I think you are right about Ms. Barrett retreating. Her mother passed away shortly after the last book came out.

  With qui
ck fingers, she closed out of the text and dialed the inn. Two short rings later, Diane’s warm greeting filled her ear. “Good afternoon, Sleep Heavenly, how may I help you?”

  “It’s me, Aunt Diane. How did you find this out about Jane Barrett’s mother?”

  “I did a little searching online after the guests left to pursue their day, and I spotted it in a paper local to where Ms. Barrett lives.” Diane’s breath rose and fell in Claire’s ear. “Seems, from a follow-up story, that more than a handful of fans used the funeral as an opportunity to try and get an autograph.”

  She felt her throat tighten with sadness as she shoved her free hand into her front left pocket once again. “That’s awful.”

  “Maybe that’s why she disappeared,” Diane suggested. “Maybe that was her breaking point.”

  A few steps later, she stopped. “Aunt Diane, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “If you wanted to completely disconnect from the world, where would you go?”

  “I’d move to the other side of town.”

  • • •

  It had taken every ounce of restraint she had to wait until closing time to make the drive, but the forced delay had enabled her to quiet, if not completely mute, any lingering doubt. A secondary phone call from Diane with the lone missing tidbit of information simply served as the final nudge she needed.

  Glancing between the pink sticky note on the passenger seat and the mailbox just beyond it, she slid Diane’s car into Park and forced herself to breathe. There was a chance she was wrong. A good chance, in fact. But everything inside her was saying she wasn’t.

  In one interview, Jane had referred to her mother as her “grounding force” and her “one true happy place” . . .

  She’d become increasingly more unhappy with each new book and the attention that came with it . . .