by Marta Perry
Again he shrugged. “His work was here. He owned a little house in Springville, and they lived there until—” He stopped abruptly.
“Until she disappeared,” she finished for him. “My father and my grandmother believed she had gone back to her family in Indiana. Did you?”
He shook his head. “No. I would have heard if that were so.” There was a certainty in his voice that didn’t allow argument.
“Then why didn’t you go to the police, if you thought that wasn’t true?” If you thought something had happened to her.
“It is not our way to turn to the law. And Barbara was no longer Amish.”
She was speechless for a moment. “But if you were sure…”
He shook his head. “You do not understand, I know. But that is part of what it means to us to live separate.”
“No. I don’t understand.” She took a breath, reminding herself that she still needed this man’s cooperation. “I appreciate all you’ve been willing to tell me. It helps to understand that much.” But there was so much more she didn’t understand.
“You want more.” He seemed to read her thoughts. “I will ask my people to talk with you. If they are willing…” He left that open.
“Thank you.” She rose, not sure whether she felt better or worse for what she had learned. “I’d be very grateful.”
He nodded, the lines in his face seeming to deepen. “I hope that this search does not lead you into sorrow.”
She didn’t doubt he hoped that. But it was clear from his tone that he felt she was headed straight into trouble.
MARISA DROVE ALONG Springville’s main street on her way back to the bed-and-breakfast, her mind still occupied with her conversation with Bishop Amose. She’d learned more from him about her mother in one short talk than she had in twenty-three years with her father.
Dad found it too painful to talk about her mother. That was the answer she’d always come up with. Any man might feel that way about a woman who’d left him and their daughter.
But what if she hadn’t? What if Dad knew—
She stopped, not willing to let her thoughts go in that direction.
There was Springville’s minuscule police station, a reminder of that confrontation with Adam Byler and the district attorney, if you could call it a confrontation when one party could only say that she didn’t remember. She should have stood up for her father. She shouldn’t have let herself be bullied.
To do him justice, Adam hadn’t bullied her. If anything, she’d sensed that he hadn’t liked the DA’s tactics but had been powerless to stop him.
Her mind winced away from the man’s thinly veiled accusations. Dad, where are you? Why don’t you call?
The furniture maker’s shop was in the middle of the block. Impulsively, Marisa drew to the curb a few spaces down from it. She sat for a moment, letting her gaze wander over what there was of Springville.
She had been six when they left here. This street would have been familiar to her. Maybe she’d walked down it with her mother. She ought to remember.
She’d tried to dismiss the district attorney’s doubts about her convenient lack of memory, but they kept creeping back in when she wasn’t looking. Link had been doubtful, too, although he’d been more polite about it.
She frowned, narrowing her eyes as she focused on Market Square, a simple crossing of the two largest streets. An informal curb market appeared to be in progress, with several trucks and wagons pulled up to the curb and tables set out filled with produce.
She could walk down and take a look, strolling past Ezra Weis’s furniture shop as she did. She could go inside, for that matter. It was a store, wasn’t it?
She got out of the car quickly, before she could change her mind, and set off down the sidewalk, her steps slowing as she came level with the shop. Plate-glass windows allowed her to see the interior.
Several chairs, a large chest and a set of cabinets bore witness to the furniture maker’s craft. One side of the shop had shelves with a variety of small items, probably the sort of thing a tourist might buy. A couple who must be tourists, to judge by the cameras slung around their necks, were being waited on by a teenager in Amish dress. No one else was visible. She opened the door, hearing the tinny jingle of a bell, and stepped inside.
“Wilkom,” the girl called out. “Chust look around. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Marisa nodded, bending to study the carving on a three-drawer chest. The piece of furniture was solid, the wood—maple, she thought—polished to a high sheen.
She gave a sidelong glance toward the Amish teenager. Not Weis’s wife, obviously. Maybe a daughter. Her light brown hair was pulled back under her kapp, of course, as demurely as any Amish woman she’d seen. But the girl’s green dress and apron matched her eyes exactly, probably not a coincidence. Apparently even Amish teenagers cared about how they dressed.
The young woman took a step to the side to show the couple something, and Marisa suppressed a smile. With her dark stockings, the girl wore the latest in running shoes.
Marisa ran her fingers along the top of a chest that was painted with a colorful stylized design of birds and hearts. If her mother had married her Amish sweetheart, would this be Marisa’s life now? She glanced again at the girl. Would the young Barbara have looked like that, with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes?
“Well, you have just the most precious things I ever saw.” The female tourist’s voice rose. “I can’t decide what else to buy.” She gestured with the camera in her hand. “You stand over there by those shelves, and I’ll take your picture, okay?”
The young woman smiled. “You can take pictures, but not of me, please.”
The woman bridled. “All I want is one little picture. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”
“I’m sorry, but that is against our beliefs.” Judging by the young woman’s calm response, she’d dealt with this before.
“I don’t see what harm,” the woman began.
Marisa couldn’t help herself—she had to intercede. “Why don’t you and your husband pose over here by the display, and I’ll snap a picture of the two of you?” she suggested.
“Well, I really wanted…”
“Right over here.” Marisa gestured, taking the camera from the woman’s hands. “You want a photo of both of you to remember your trip, don’t you?”
The woman giggled. “That’ll be cute. Harvey, you hold one of these dolls, and I’ll point to you.”
Once they were arranged to the woman’s satisfaction, Marisa snapped the picture. The Amish girl slipped behind the counter and began wrapping their purchases. By the time the camera had been returned to its owner, she was handing them a package and wishing them a pleasant day.
The door closed behind them with a final jingle, and Marisa exchanged smiles with the young woman. “Some people make me embarrassed to be a tourist.”
“Ach, they don’t know any better, ain’t so? They don’t understand why we don’t want our pictures taken.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, either, but it was obvious you didn’t care for it.” Was the girl Ezra Weis’s daughter? She could hardly ask.
“The Bible teaches us not to make any graven images, that’s why.” She busied herself putting away the items the couple had been handling.
So if Marisa’s mother hadn’t left the church, she wouldn’t even have a photo to remember her by.
“Is there something special you are interested in?”
Obviously she was going to have to buy something to justify being here. Marisa pointed to a pair of wooden bookends, painted with the same design she’d seen on the chest. “Could I have a closer look at those, please?”
“Ja, for sure.” The girl lifted them down, putting them on the counter.
Marisa ran her finger over a painted heart. “These must be traditional designs, are they?”
“Ja, they are Pennsylvania Dutch. You will see them on everything from wood to metal. Straus’s Hardware has so
me nice metal trays with the design, too.”
A soft thud made Marisa glance toward the door behind the young woman. It apparently led to a back room, and it stood open, revealing a workbench and what seemed to be a rocking chair in progress. The sound she’d heard had come from a man who bent over the chair, seeming intent on his work. Before she could get a good look at him, he’d moved out of her line of vision.
The Amish girl waited, probably used to people having trouble making up their minds.
“Are these handmade?” Marisa asked, touching the bookends again. She couldn’t see into the back room without being obvious, but for some reason she needed to look at this man her mother had almost married.
“Ja, everything in the shop is made by my father. Well, my brothers help some, but they are only twelve and thirteen.”
“I’ll take these, then.” There was no use prolonging this visit. The man was apparently not going to come back where she could see him. She could ask, but it would be best to let Bishop Amos use his influence first.
“Gut. I will wrap them for you.” The girl pulled butcher paper from a roll and began wrapping them. “Are you staying in Springville or just passing through?”
“I’ll be here for a few more days, at least. I’m staying at the Plain and Fancy Bed and Breakfast.”
Was it her imagination, or did the girl’s hands pause momentarily in their work?
“That’s nice, ain’t so? I’m sure the Millers make you comfortable.”
“Yes, very.”
Marisa handed over the money and took the package. As she did, a step in the back room brought her gaze back to the door.
She’d wanted the man to move back where she could see him. Now that she had her wish, she wasn’t so sure.
He stood in the doorway, his hands braced on the sides, staring at her, black brows drawing down over his eyes, even his black beard seeming to bristle.
This was the man her mother had planned to marry, but no fond remembrance showed in his face. He looked at her as if he hated the sight of her.
LINK STOOD ON THE front steps of the Plain and Fancy. He’d come to see Marisa, primed to face her about her memories. Or rather, her lack of them. The more he’d thought about that, the more her inability to recall the events of that time didn’t make sense.
Or, looked at one way, maybe it did. If she’d seen something or heard something that made her believe her father had been responsible for her mother’s disappearance, she might well block that out.
Not that he had any possible excuse for thinking like a psychiatrist, but there were plenty of things he’d like to block out. Like lying trapped in the rubble of the school, hearing groans and knowing they were his wondering who else was alive, and for how long.
He was trying to shake that off when he saw Marisa’s car pulling up at the gate. She got out, her movement checking at the sight of him. Then she continued on, arranging her face in a smile that didn’t quite disguise the worry beneath.
“Were you looking for me?”
He managed his own smile. “Nice as they are, I didn’t stop by to visit with the Millers. I should have called first.”
“No problem. I was out at the Esch farm, talking with Bishop Amos. Your mother set it up.”
“Was that a help?”
She nodded, her eyes shadowed, making him wonder what insights the bishop had.
“Look, can we talk for a few minutes?” Or however long it takes to get you to level with me.
“Of course. There’s a garden seat around the side of the house.”
He followed her along the flagstone path, appreciating her foresight. She’d talk, all right, but in a spot where she could get up and walk away from him if his questions got too personal.
The bench was placed so that one could sit and admire the yellow and rust mums that sprawled against the fence separating the guest house from the neighboring yard. Link recognized the workmanship—this was one of Ezra Weis’s creations. His mother had one very similar. He waited until Marisa settled and sat down next to her.
“Was Bishop Amos willing to talk to the Zook family for you?” Obviously her relationship with her mother’s family would be a lot smoother if the bishop interceded for her.
“He said he would talk with them, as well as any of the other Amish who might know something.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “Like Ezra Weis.”
“Ezra?” He put his hand on the back of the bench Ezra had made, turning to face her more fully. “What does he have to do with this?”
“He’s the reason my mother came here the summer she met my father. They were…courting, I suppose the word is.” She darted a look at him. “I wondered if you knew.”
Apparently she was satisfied with his surprise. “I didn’t. I’d have told you.” He frowned absently at the weeping willow that overhung the yard. “What else did Bishop Amos say about him?”
“That he took it very hard. He didn’t marry for a long time after that.” Marisa was studying a cluster of bright golden mums as if they held a secret. “He might have been jealous.”
He saw where she was going with that, but he didn’t find it very convincing. “I suppose he must have been at the time, but your mother didn’t disappear until several years later. You think it likely he’d hold a grudge that long?”
“I don’t know.” She flung her hands up in a gesture of futility. “I don’t know enough about anything. Including your uncle.”
He stiffened. “We’ve been honest with you about him.” Had he, though? He hadn’t told her what Trey said about Uncle Allen’s eccentric behavior in his later years.
That didn’t need to have anything to do with Barbara’s disappearance, he assured himself. And what about Allen’s place being searched, the voice of his conscience asked. Maybe Allan wasn’t involved. But his house certainly was.
Marisa pulled open her bag and burrowed in it, coming up with a pad and pencil. “Do you mind?” she asked, holding the pencil up. “I think better when my hands are busy.”
“Not at all. I’m the same way, but I can’t very well hammer anything here.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of withholding information about your uncle.” Her pencil began to move on the pad almost without her attention. It was like watching automatic writing. Or drawing, in this case. The thick clumps of mums began to take shape on the page. “But there may be things about his relationship with my mother that you don’t know.”
He couldn’t argue with that. “True. But I don’t see how we’ll find out at this point. One thing, though. We were able to confirm that the addition was being built at the time your mother vanished. Trey is going through the old records, trying to find out who did the work.”
“That’s kind of him. And you.” A horse began to take shape on the page, with Bishop Amos delineated bending over its hoof in a few swift lines.
“We’re involved,” he said shortly. Whether he wanted to be or not. “The house belongs to us.”
And that set him thinking about the break-in. Except he couldn’t really call it that, since whoever it was had walked right in. He didn’t like that. Neither had Adam, when he and Trey had reported it. Chances were that it was just a curiosity seeker, but if not…
He found he was looking at the area behind the guest house from a different perspective, maybe getting the wind up since that incident. There were neighboring houses on either side, but at the back, the yard ended in a patch of woods. Easy enough for anyone to approach the guest house without being seen, and Marisa was alone here at night.
“You look like a thundercloud.” Abandoning Bishop Amos and the horse, she’d begun sketching the willow tree. “What’s wrong?”
Don’t tell anyone about the house being searched, Adam had said. Not until we know a bit more. But how could he justify that, remembering Marisa’s story of someone standing under the willow, watching her window?
“Adam told me to keep my mouth shut about this,” he said abruptly, before he could chang
e his mind. “But when I went back to the house the other day, I realized someone had been in there while I was gone. The place had been searched.”
Her pencil dropped, and she looked at him, eyes wide. “Did they…? Was anything taken?”
“Not that we could see. Trey was with me, and we checked it out as best we could.” He shrugged, frustrated. “There’s not much there to search. A few pieces of furniture, Uncle Allen’s books.”
“And the house itself,” she added, obviously thinking of the wall that had yielded her mother’s suitcase.
“That’s not as easy as it sounds. The old part of the house is solid double-plank construction.” Seeing her lost look, he demonstrated. “They built the walls using two layers of boards put in perpendicular to each other, with a layer of horsehair plaster finishing it. With age, those boards draw together so much that you can’t even fit an electric wire between them.”
“There’s still the floors,” she suggested. “A loose floorboard, maybe.” She paused, looking for a moment as if that started a train of thought. “Or something in a piece of furniture or a book.”
Next she’d be planning an all-out search. “I’ll have a look through everything. It all has to be sorted to be sold or trashed anyway.”
“I’ll help you,” she said quickly.
“That’s not necessary.” Maybe he said that with a little too much emphasis.
She gave him a steady look. “You mean you don’t want me.”
“You have better things to do with your time. Your illustrations, for instance.” He was grasping at straws and he knew it, but he just didn’t like the idea of Marisa looking through Uncle Allen’s belongings, looking for…well, looking for evidence that he’d been involved with her mother, he supposed.
“That almost sounds as if you’re afraid I’ll find something that compromises your uncle.”
That was exactly what he feared, but she didn’t need to point that out.
“Fine. You can help me search. We can start right now, if you’re so determined—” His temper ran out as he glanced at the drawing pad.
