“I don’t fight.”
My nerves were as fragile as wet tissue paper. “I’m not asking you to fight him, Evan. Just detain him until the sheriff can get here.”
Stubbornly, Evan shook his head.
“Then give me the damned lantern,” I said. “I’ll go after him.”
“No.”
“What?” I screeched. I was wet and angry. I hadn’t taken a beating from Moth just so he could climb in his car and drive merrily away.
I don’t know how long we would have stood there, Evan impassive, me doing an indignant burn. From up the hill came a harsh exclamation. It was followed by a scream of unadulterated terror.
Moth’s light had diminished in the distance. Now we saw it come bobbing back. He slipped and slid down the hill. His cry for help echoed in the night.
“Stop him!” he screamed. “It’s the devil himself.”
We watched in amazement as Moth sprinted toward us. Beside me, Evan began to chuckle. At first, it was a low, hollow sound deep within his throat. Finally, it burst from his mouth in great belly laughs. I thought he’d gone nuts.
I strained to see the humor. Slowly, a smile of satisfaction spread across my face. Saul, the wayward goat, had come to the Millers’ for a bedtime snack. It was Moth’s misfortune that he’d crossed paths with the goat: Moth’s instinct was to run. Saul’s was to give chase.
I wasn’t as amused as Evan, but I felt that my beating was about to be vindicated. Moth begged for us to rescue him. When we did nothing, his steps faltered. This was the opening the goat needed.
Saul lowered his head. He put on a fresh burst of speed. I saw it coming. I flinched as the horns dug into Moth’s soft posterior. Right on target. Moth stumbled, hit a patch of mud, and sprawled at our feet.
“Touchdown,” I said. “Score one for our side.”
Chapter Nineteen
My enthusiasm at seeing Moth bested lasted about as long as the storm. The clouds had already shuffled off to reveal a pale, watery moon. Biting my lip, I put my hand out to Moth in a gesture of reconciliation.
He looked at it, then said, “You accused me of murder.”
I retaliated. “You beat me with your umbrella and trespassed on Evan’s land.”
Moth nodded once. “So I did.” He put his hand in mine, and I jerked him to his feet. He was a pitiful figure, but he wasn’t the killer. Now that I had the chance to think calmly about it, his amazement at my accusation had had the ring of truth. He was only what he appeared to be—a sniveling sneak thief. The fight had gone out of him.
After Evan had grabbed Saul’s collar, we headed for the house—a dismal, silent group. Moth’s screams for help were loud enough that they should have alerted everyone within a two-mile radius. But our ruckus had been lost in the chaos of another brewing storm.
This one was centered in Evan’s yard. Lanterns were lit. Two trucks sat in the drive with their motors running and their headlights on. But there was no rain to dampen the ill will from this storm. Anger, hurt, distrust, and hostility pelted everyone until we were spotted.
A stillness fell. A fist raised in anger froze in midair. Mouths hung open. Eyes were wide with surprise. It might have been comical, but I’d had my laugh for the evening.
Rosalie was on the porch with the younger children. I looked for Katie but didn’t see her. Cleome and Edna faced Cecil. His fist was raised, his face twisted with rage. Sam Kramer and Eli Detweiler were squared off. The old bishop’s shoulders were stiff and uncompromising. Sam, his scrawny neck wrapped in a brace, was busy situating his teeth.
My voice was droll. “Having a party and you didn’t invite us?”
That broke the spell that held them. The shouting match took up where our interruption had stopped it. Cecil could be heard above everyone else.
He ranted, “Behind my back, Edna. You’d make me a laughingstock.”
“We’re friends,” Edna tried to explain.
“Friends?” shouted Cecil. “You have plenty of friends without her.”
“I saw you on my place today,” Sam said to Detweiler.
“I admit to being there,” replied the bishop.
“You’re the one who’s been letting my goat out,” said Sam. He crossed the yard to the animal. “Saul had better be okay.” He ran a hand over the animal’s wiry hair and glared at Detweiler. “You’re trying to cause me trouble.”
“And I’ll continue to say, I am not.”
“Then what the hell were you doing on my land?”
I shut out Cecil so I could hear Detweiler’s answer.
The bishop said, “I’ve purchased some trees on the land that connects with your property. Instead of harnessing up the buggy, I walked over there. I’ve done it before, and you never said anything.”
“That was before she”—here Sam dramatically pointed at me—“started coming around asking questions. The sheriff took me in for questioning. Said he found the murder weapon on my land. Then she dang near kilt me, ramming his car with hers, with me sitting locked in the backseat.”
Cecil abandoned his argument with his wife to side with Sam. “Damned right,” he shouted. “She came sneaking around my house while I was gone. Asking questions. Trying to get my wife to tell her where I was the night the Amish man died.”
He took a step in my direction. “My business is my business. I thought I’d made that clear. If need be, I’ll repeat it for you.”
“Now, Cecil,” began Edna.
He didn’t let her finish. He jabbed the air with his finger. “I don’t want to hear one word from you. I’ve seen and heard enough.”
“If you’ve heard enough,” said Cleome, “then you know Edna and I were talking about our gardens.”
“I don’t give a damn if you were talking about the second coming of Christ. I don’t want her talking about it with you.”
Evan had given over the care of Saul to Sam so he was free to go to Cleome. He faced Cecil. “There will be no more meetings between my wife and yours. There will be nothing between us as neighbors. I’m asking you to leaves.”
Cecil stared at Evan. The Amish man stood his ground. For a brief moment, I thought I saw respect on Cecil’s face. But if that unfamiliar emotion had been there at all, it didn’t tarry. He scowled. “Let’s go, Edna.”
When Edna turned to obey her husband, it was more than I could stand.
“Go,” I shouted, flapping my hands in the air. “Just climb meekly in that truck and toddle on home. I don’t understand you people. Can’t visit who you want. Can’t grow flowers. Can’t walk across someone’s property.” I shook my head and lowered my voice. “There was a time when neighbors helped neighbors. When ideas were exchanged. I don’t expect you, Cecil, to accept Evan’s way of life, but common courtesy is supposed to extend beyond all boundaries.”
As I paused in my tirade, Detweiler said, “Them going their way, and us going ours, is right.”
My eyes narrowed. “But neither of you are going anywhere. This is your home. You live within walking distance of each other. In the last few days, I’ve had the Bible quoted to me more times than I can count, from all kinds of people. What about ‘love thy neighbor’? Or do you choose to honor only parts of the Bible? The ones that suit your purpose?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” said Detweiler.
I threw up my hands in disgust. “You’re right. I don’t understand. All I see ahead for you is loneliness and sadness. If Edna and Cleome want to visit, what’s the harm? Neither woman is out to convert the other. All they want is to talk.”
“Edna has friends,” said Cecil.
“So does Evan’s Cleome,” countered Detweiler.
“This is all very entertaining,” said Moth, “but frankly, I’ve had enough. If you, sir,” he directed his query to Cecil, “would be so kind as to give me a ride to my car, I’ll be on my way to River City.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Cecil, his eyes measuring Moth’s worth.
The b
usinessman’s jeans were covered with mud. A large L-shaped tear in one pants leg revealed a garish white thigh. Part of his shirttail had come untucked and hung half in, half out. Completing his ensemble was the umbrella still dangling from the crook of his arm.
“I’m J. W. Moth, owner of River City Wholesale Floral Company. I’ll pay you handsomely if you get me away from this asylum.”
I’d had my say. In fact, I’d had my fill of the entire group. Wearily, I offered, “I’ll take you to your car, but first, I want to tell Katie good-bye.” I looked at Cleome. “Where is she?”
Cleome’s face was blank. Luke and John were on the steps. Rosalie was leaning against the railing, her arm around her daughter, Amelia.
The muscles in my throat squeezed shut. I could hardly speak. “Cleome, make sure Katie is all right.”
Cleome looked to Evan. He looked at me, then jerked his head toward the house.
Cleome took a lantern and hurried inside. Breathlessly, I watched the light travel from room to room. My eyes were glued to the back door. I prayed Katie would step out on the porch with that special smile on her face.
But it was Cleome who opened the door. She came to Evan’s side and took his arm in a tight grasp. “Katie’s not here. She’s not in the house.”
“Evan, tell me what happened,” I said firmly. “What did Katie say when she came to get you?”
“She said that you were in danger. That someone was in the field again, just like the night Isaac died.”
“Oh, no,” I breathed. “Who heard her say this? Who else was here?”
Evan frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with Katie being gone.”
Pieces were falling into place. Horrible pieces that were turning my heart into a rough-edged chunk of ice. The killer knew Katie had seen someone the night Isaac was murdered.
The killer feared that Katie might recognize who that someone had been.
The killer had taken Katie.
And I knew who the killer was, but I needed Evan to say the name aloud. “Who, Evan? Who was here?”
“Cleome wanted more tomatoes to make relish. Ours are just about through bearing—”
I wanted to pull my hair out. “Who was here, Evan?”
He blinked at me. “Don’t get upset, Bretta. Since it rained, Katie may have gone down to the creek to—” He stopped when he saw the fire in my eyes. “It was Margaret. Margaret Jenkins. She’s always willing to share the vegetables from her garden. She shares with everyone.”
Chapter Twenty
Margaret’s name didn’t cause a ripple of suspicion among the group of people in Evan’s yard. There wasn’t time to explain, and I wasn’t sure they’d believe me if I tried. I needed help. All I saw around me was malevolence.
I took a deep breath and stepped up to Cecil. Quietly, I told him to call Sid and send him to the Woodgrove Funeral Chapel. He listened, but his chin lowered until it rested on his chest. At the end, I offered a quiet, dignified, “Please do this. A life depends on it.”
He didn’t answer. There wasn’t time to plead. There wasn’t time to find a phone and call Sid myself. I’d wasted too many precious seconds already. I got in my car and drove away.
“Carl, you were right,” I murmured, as I headed for Woodgrove. “It was so damned obvious. I should have seen it sooner.” I cursed my stupidity and prayed that I wouldn’t be too late.
I parked a block away from the funeral home, took my keys off their chain, and palmed the miniature flashlight—an item I usually consider too small to be useful. I locked the car and stuffed the keys in my pocket. I tried the light to make sure it worked. It did.
I walked down the street, stalked the shadows, and mapped out my plan. I drew a shaky breath.
Katie.
She had to be safe. Would Margaret take the life of an innocent child?
An image of three boys killed on the curve of the road to Woodgrove flashed in my brain. An accident? Maybe. But tell that to three grieving mothers. Explain away parking on a road to steal an iron pipe to use as a murder weapon. Justify implicating an old man like Sam Kramer in the murder of Isaac, who had only wanted to grow flowers.
I built my courage on anger. Formed the foundation on injustice. By the time I reached the funeral home, I knew what I had to do.
If Cecil had made the call I’d requested, I could expect Sid or a deputy in about twenty minutes. In that time I had to make damned sure that I was right about Margaret’s guilt. I immediately suppressed the thought of Cecil not cooperating. In my house of courage, I added a window of opportunity. I’d have to leave the sash up so I could crawl through.
I crept to the side door and peeked in.
Lights. People. Tears. Flowers.
The main slumber room was diagonally across from my hiding place. I slipped unnoticed in the door and waited for my chance to take the stairs up to the second floor.
It was seven-fifteen. Most visitations last an hour. I had time to search Margaret’s apartment before the people left. If I could just get upstairs …
I craned my neck. Margaret was at the front door, bidding a couple good-bye. Her back was to me. I looked across the hall to the main slumber room. Only the closed casket. The name on the register: CLARENCE ENGELHART. My old friend.
On tiptoe I swung around the newel post and took to the carpeted steps. My heart pounded for those few seconds when I was in plain view. But once I’d made the bend and was out of sight, I leaned weakly against the wall and sucked a quivering breath into my lungs.
Thoughts flew fast and free in my head.
Margaret had tried to kill me.
Carl hadn’t prepared me for this rush of adrenaline that torqued through my body.
Margaret had raised that winch too high, knowing it would let Mr. Engelhart fall. She’d counted on knocking me out, but I’d come around too quickly. If I hadn’t, what would she have done then?
Another thought to squelch.
I took a step up and heard the rasp of my shoe on bare wood. The carpet ended at the turn of the staircase. Treading lightly, I worked my way up. At the top I flipped on the flashlight and guided its tiny beam around the room. It could have been inhabited by the Amish. Shades at the windows, no fancy drapes. Plain dark furniture. A kerosene lamp on a dresser. I tested a light switch and almost purred with satisfaction. Nothing. She’d removed the bulbs. No pictures on the walls. The room was as unadorned as Margaret herself. Dark dress. Braids in the Amish tradition.
Margaret had said “our Lord” when she’d comforted the woman the day I’d reported Leray’s murder. The use of that phrase should have alerted me, made me examine her involvement more closely, but I’d missed it. I’d allowed Margaret to guide me into believing that her speaking the Amish language and subscribing to the Amish magazine were because she didn’t want to make a blunder when she dealt with them.
This room went beyond any desire to please. I knew, as sure as I was standing here, that she’d grown up Amish. But why had she renounced her beliefs?
I picked up my feet so they wouldn’t scuff against the floor and went to her closet. I searched behind the dark clothes hoping to find Katie, but instead, I stirred up a soft, subtle scent that tickled my brain with its familiarity. I crossed the room to Margaret’s dresser and eased open a drawer. Nestled under her cotton panties was a round box. The lid read PERFUMED BODY POWDER.
I experienced a flash of doubt. Perfume, scents of any kind, even deodorants are considered by the Amish to be too worldly. I reminded myself that Margaret was playing two roles. For the Woodgrove residents, she’s Margaret Jenkins, modern funeral director and good friend. When she’s alone, she lives the life of the Amish.
I reached for the box and heard Carl’s voice rumble a warning, “Fingerprints, Bretta.” I nodded and used a pair of Margaret’s undies to cover my hand. I pried up the lid and saw cash. Four hundred-dollar bills, some twenties, and tens. Emergency money tucked away. Grimly, I put it back in the drawer and straightened the c
lothes.
Sid could make a comparison of this money with the packet of bills in my glove compartment. Would a residue of powder mark my bills as coming from this box?
If so, it was tied up. A done deal.
Katie.
I heard her name so plainly, at first I thought someone had spoken aloud. She was alive, I was sure of it. But she needed help. I made quick work of the few rooms upstairs. She wasn’t there, but I did find a back staircase. I eased my way down it, then opened the door a crack into an eight-foot-wide corridor. Murmur of voices. I was close to the slumber room. I stepped out and looked around. Another door. It led to the basement.
I didn’t hesitate. I took the steps rapidly, flashed my light at the concrete walls. Only a partial basement. Most of it was the garage. Boxes, empty. The hearse, zero. The family car. A wadded-up Kleenex on the floorboards. I put my ear to the trunk and rapped sharply. No response.
I was running out of places to look. All that remained was the ground floor. Where was Sid? Should I go outside and wait for him? I tried the doors. Locked; no bolt. I needed a key. I flashed my light at the exposed beams, looking for a nail and a key. Cobwebs. I could break a window, but someone might hear.
My only choice was to go back up a flight to the main floor. I didn’t feel at risk until I was at the top, then I hurried down the short hall to a pair of double doors.
The showroom, or “selection room.” Since the visitation was in progress, Margaret wouldn’t need this room. I clicked the door open and had barely gotten inside when I heard her voice. She was so close my heart threatened to become an ornament on the outside of my shirt. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.
“Here’s the restroom, Mr. Sadler. Watch your step,” Margaret cautioned.
I leaned weakly against the door. Suddenly, it was given a solid whack. My eyes binged open.
“What’s in there?” asked a gruff old voice that I took to be Mr. Sadler’s.
“I’d rather you didn’t hit the door with your walker,” admonished Margaret. “Here, let me show you.”
Roots of Murder Page 17
