by Marta Perry
There was the willow tree. But that wasn’t all. Under the tree she’d drawn a figure…the man in Amish dress she claimed to have seen.
But the man wasn’t the unidentifiable blur she’d talked about. The face was clear. It was that of Ezra Weis.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GENEVA HAD SHOWN UP at Allen’s house midway through the afternoon and joined their search, for which Marisa was thankful. The tension between her and Link had done nothing but grow when they were alone together.
It wasn’t her fault, Marisa kept assuring herself as she removed drawers from an old chest, looking for anything that had been left behind. Only dust and mouse droppings. Link ought to understand her need to know whether this old house had any other secrets to offer concerning her mother. Instead, he only seemed to care about his family’s good name. Small wonder that tension existed between them.
As for the other type of tension that seemed to vibrate between them whenever they got too close—well, if she didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it would go away.
She slid the last drawer back into place and glanced across the room. Geneva, generously covered in dust, sat on the floor, where she’d been tapping floorboards.
“Now, Link, be sure you check all those closet walls. There might easily be a cubbyhole behind one.”
Link tapped a closet wall, looking more than a little frustrated. “Mom, I’m telling you, there can’t be anything here. Look, you can see that this closet was built into the corner years and years after the house itself. The walls aren’t thick enough—”
“Try anyway, dear.” Geneva gave her most beguiling smile. “Please.”
Looking like a man whose patience had been tried to the utmost, Link began to tap on walls.
Marisa’s lips twitched. Geneva’s mastery of her two tall sons was something to behold. How was she with her daughter? That would be an interesting relationship, she’d imagine.
Her smile slipped a little. Whatever their relation ship was, it was better than what she’d had with her mother. She thought again of the girl in the shop, trying to picture her mother there.
“That drawing you made of Ezra Weis as the man under the tree,” Geneva said, as if continuing a conversation already begun. “How did you feel when you were drawing it?”
Link had told Geneva about it almost as soon as she arrived, obviously hoping to enlist her support in his contention that Marisa had let her imagination run away with her. But Geneva had refused to commit.
“I’m not sure I felt anything.” It was never easy to explain the workings of her subconscious mind. “We were talking about something else, and my hand just seemed to move automatically.”
“You connected the incident of the man under the tree with having seen Ezra.” Link ducked his head out of the closet to deliver his opinion once again. “Your imagination did the rest.”
“You could be right.” She had to admit it, even though her instincts didn’t agree.
“I am.” Link’s tone was firm. With one hand braced against the door frame, he gave an impression of wiry strength restrained but ready to spring lose in a moment.
“But then why did he look at me as if he hates me?” A shiver touched the nape of her neck despite the stale, dusty warmth of the room. “I didn’t imagine that.”
“You shouldn’t have gone into the shop alone.” He frowned, the hand on the door frame tightening until the muscles stood out on his arm.
“Why not?” Her temper flared, her gaze clashing with his. “Because I might learn something?”
“Because you shouldn’t go around antagonizing people.” A muscle twitched in Link’s jaw. “I don’t believe for a minute that Ezra would harm you. Anyway, you said at the time that you just saw a blur. That you couldn’t identify the man. So why pitch on Ezra?”
“Instinct,” Geneva said promptly. “Just because she didn’t consciously know who it was at the time, that doesn’t mean her instincts are wrong. Usually a woman’s instincts are right.”
Geneva looked so serious, sitting on the floor in her faded jeans, her white hair tousled, laying down the law to her son, that Marisa had to grin.
“There you have it, Link. Your mother believes me.”
Link’s only answer was a muted snort as he went back into the closet.
“It still might have been very innocent,” Geneva said. “Ezra is a bit of a prickly personality, but I shouldn’t think he could do violence.”
Link reappeared, cobwebs in his hair. “Explain to me how Ezra could innocently be in the inn’s yard at three in the morning.”
“Well, it is his brother-in-law’s place,” Geneva said. “Aaron Miller could have told him who was staying here. Ezra loved Barbara, after all. Learning her daughter was actually there might have upset him. He could have gone out for a walk and just been drawn there.” Geneva made an amorphous gesture, apparently intended to convey an irresistible urge.
“At three in the morning?” Link said again. “I still say Marisa imagined the whole thing.”
“Thanks,” she said, letting her sarcasm show. “I suppose that’s better than saying I’m paranoid.”
Link’s gaze met hers across the room again, and for an instant the air seemed to sizzle with heat. “I don’t think you’re paranoid,” he said.
The trouble was that Geneva wanted everyone to be innocent…that was her nature. And Link just wanted to be clear of the whole thing. She could hardly blame him for that.
“Have we finished everything on this floor?” she asked, trying to regain the balance that had been disturbed by his look.
“I think so.” Link ran both hands through his hair as if to dislodge any cobwebs. “The books downstairs will take some time.”
“Don’t forget the attic,” Geneva said, standing and dusting off the seat of her jeans. “That’s still full, I’d guess.”
Link groaned, obviously not having thought of that. “You’re kidding me. Far as I can tell, nobody who lived in this house ever threw anything away.
It’ll all have to be gone through before it’s sold.”
“It’s a shame. This was a happy house once,” Geneva said wistfully. “It could be again. I hate to see you sell.”
“I have a job in California,” Link reminded her, his tone gentle. “I don’t need a house here.”
Geneva made a noncommittal sound that might or might not have been agreement. She glanced at her watch.
“Goodness, look at the time. Now, Marisa, you and Link come right to the house for supper. You don’t need to go shower or change—it’ll just be a light meal for the three of us. I have chicken stew in the slow cooker.”
“I don’t think…” I don’t think Link would like any more of my company was what she wanted to say, but she couldn’t.
“No arguments,” Geneva said, as if Marisa were one of her kids. “We all need comfort food after this job. Don’t you be more than twenty minutes behind me, you hear? I just have to put biscuits on.” She trotted out of the room, and her light footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Marisa leaned against the chest, her gaze on Link. “I could go back to the B and B. You can make some excuse to your mother…”
She stopped, because he approached, bracing his hand against the bureau next to her so that he pinned her in place. Her pulse gave an extra little thud.
“No way,” he said firmly. “If I show up at home without you, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He was exaggerating, no doubt, but she smiled, wanting to keep the moment light. “Right. It’s easy to see that your mother rules the roost.”
“She’d never admit to that, but she generally gets her way with me and Trey.”
“Not about you staying here.” The words were out before she realized she was inviting a confidence he might not want to make.
“No.” Lines deepened in his face. “I’d like to make her happy, but I can’t do that.”
“You have to live your own life.” She focused her eyes on his chest. Look
ing up into his face would be a mistake. A cobweb had attached itself to the collar of his polo shirt. She reached up to brush it off.
He captured her hand in his, pressing it against his chest, and she couldn’t breathe.
“Thanks. For understanding.” His voice had gone low, and his heart thudded against her palm.
“It’s all right.” She was breathless, not sure she was even making any sense. “But I…” She let that trail off. He was so close she could feel his breath move against her cheek, feel the heat that emanated from him, wrapping around her.
“But you…?” he repeated, the words rumbling in his throat.
“I know what she’s feeling, too.” It wasn’t easy to concentrate on the words when she was so aware of his closeness. “Especially after your injury.”
He didn’t move, but it seemed the air cooled between them and the space widened. “My mother told you about that?”
“Yes.” And obviously he didn’t like that. “I didn’t ask her anything. She just mentioned it.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m fine now.” He released her hand, stepping back, not looking at her. “Good as new.”
“Are you?” She didn’t think so, but she was power less to do anything about it.
He didn’t deign to answer that. Instead, he turned toward the door. “We’d better get going, or Mom’s biscuits will burn.”
MARISA TURNED OFF the side street toward the Plain and Fancy, her low beams piercing the dark. It had rained while she was at Geneva’s and now a mist hung over the valley, distorting everything.
She shouldn’t have stayed so late. She wouldn’t have, but Geneva had begun talking about Allen, despite Link’s occasional efforts to divert her.
Geneva seemed determined to talk about her late brother-in-law. Maybe having been in the house that afternoon had brought back memories. She’d told story after story.
Marisa frowned. Geneva had given her a picture of the man…a person whose intelligence had set him apart but maybe also made him look down on his neighbors. He’d apparently had a malicious tongue that alienated people.
Geneva, always seeming to see the good in others, had struggled to be fair. She’d insisted Allen was lonely, even lonelier as he grew older.
Looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, Marisa couldn’t help but wonder if there had been any guilt involved in Allen’s eccentric behavior. Certainly Link hadn’t liked her hearing all that, probably because he guessed the interpretation she’d put on it.
She parked in her usual spot just past the gate. Rhoda had left the porch light on, and it made a welcoming yellow circle in the gloom. Beyond the main entrance to the bed-and-breakfast the Millers’ wing was dark. They must have gone to bed already.
She got out of the car, the sound of the door closing echoing like a shot in the still night. Fortunately she’d had a sweater in the car, because it had gotten chilly after the rain.
She walked toward the gate, her feet making little sound on the wet grass. As she reached for the handle, the lilac bush next to the gate seemed to shiver in the breeze.
Except that there was no breeze. The night was still; the air heavy with moisture.
Marisa caught her breath, trying to quell her fear. It was nothing. Some small animal, maybe.
Her hand tightened on the gate. She could get back into the car. Go to the police, tell whoever was on duty that she was afraid to go into the Plain and Fancy.
Wimp, she jeered at herself. No one is there. March up to the door and let yourself in.
Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, she opened the gate and strode up the flagstone walk. Was that a sound behind her? She hurried, reaching the pool of light with a sense of relief. She thrust her key in the lock, turned it and hurried inside.
With the door safely locked, she looked out at the lawn. It was still and empty.
Rhoda had left a plate of cookies and a thermos of cocoa on the counter for her. Marisa wasn’t really hungry after the meal Geneva had served, but it seemed impolite not to touch them. She sipped a scant half cup of the cocoa and nibbled on a cookie, then carried another cookie upstairs with her in case of a sudden attack of the munchies.
It was only after she’d showered and changed into a robe and pajamas that she realized someone had been in her room that day. Not just in her room. Someone had searched it.
She stood still at the dresser, staring down at the clothes that had been rearranged. Rhoda? Mary? Maybe just curious about her things and having a look while they were cleaning?
Or Eli? He had access to the room, as well. A shiver went through her.
It could be simple curiosity, but that was what they’d said about Allen’s house being searched. How could this be a coincidence?
Nothing had been taken, but the incident shattered whatever illusion she’d had of safety. How could she possibly sleep in this room tonight?
Get a grip, she scolded herself. Even if an outsider had gotten in here today, which seemed unlikely, they could hardly still be here. The wing where the Miller family slept was on the other side of the house, but if she screamed, they would certainly hear her.
This was hardly a call-the-police emergency, but she would definitely stop at the station in the morning and report it, no matter how many skeptical looks that got. And she’d make some excuse to ask for a different room—maybe one facing the street on the side closest to the Miller’s, she’d feel safer there.
When she crawled into bed, her nerves were still so jangled that she was convinced she’d lie awake for hours. Instead, she fell almost immediately into a deep, exhausted sleep.
She woke sometime later, disoriented, heart pounding, her throat choked with tears. She was clutching the pillow to her face, and she shoved it away with shaking hands, sitting upright in bed.
Not a nightmare, no, but certainly a bad dream. Even once she stood, the remnants of it clung to her. Angry voices, still ringing in her ears so that she almost thought there was someone in the house.
But there wasn’t. She knew that. The voices came from her past, from the memories of a small child huddled in bed, holding a pillow over her ears to shut out the sound of angry adult voices.
What had they been saying? She tried to grasp the dream, but it slid away, squirting through her fingers like a wet bar of soap. Gone before she could even be sure whose voices they were.
She crossed to her backpack and pulled out a water bottle, drinking deeply. Setting the bottle down on the dresser, she glanced out the window and froze.
He was there again. The man in the yard. Not standing under the tree this time but moving, an indistinct dark figure crossing the yard from the direction of the woods.
Instead of the fear she expected, a wave of anger swept over her. Searching her room, watching her window while she slept—it was outrageous. She would not let them get away with it.
Without stopping to identify who that amorphous “them” was, she snatched her robe from the foot of the bed and ran for the stairs. She didn’t stop to think until she’d switched on the outside light and opened the door.
The chill air hit her, bringing with it a sense of caution. Did she really want to do this? Could she do this? Still, what could the man do? If it was Ezra Weis, just knowing she’d identified him would surely make him stop this silent persecution.
And if not—well, she could scream, couldn’t she? Rouse the sleeping street if she had to. She would not huddle in her room afraid.
Crossing the porch, she stared into the darkness. The figure had been crossing the side yard. Headed for the front door? Or for the street?
Even as she thought it, she spotted him, walking down the street away from the B and B. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she darted down the walk, through the gate and down the grassy verge. When he reached the circle of illumination from the streetlamp, she caught him by the arm.
He swung around, face startled. It was Ezra Weis.
She experienced a moment’s hope that
Geneva had been right about the man. “What were you doing out in the yard, watching my window? Well?” Her voice sounded braver than she felt.
He looked down at her, his arm stiff as iron under her hand. “I do not know what you mean.”
“You were in the yard just now. And before…a few nights ago. I saw you, watching my window.”
“You are mistaken.” He spoke with a flat assurance that was almost convincing.
“No. I’m not. You were there. You were my mother’s friend, but she married my father. You hated her for it.”
How stupid was she, blurting that out to a man who might be her mother’s killer? But how could she go on, stumbling in a maze and learning nothing?
For a long moment Ezra Weis said nothing. Then he gave a stiff nod. “I thought your mother and I would marry. She went with the Englischer instead, and I was angry. But I would not hurt her. Or you.”
“What are you doing here in the middle of the night then?” Her certainty ebbed, leaving her aware that she was cold and her bare feet wet from the grass.
“When I have trouble sleeping I walk,” he said. He pulled loose from her grasp, but then took her arm.
“What are you doing?” Fear shimmered through her.
“You are afraid of someone being in the yard. I am seeing you to the door.”
“I don’t need—”
But he hustled her along, ignoring her protest. In the gate, up the walk. When they reached the porch he released her and stepped back.
“You didn’t need to do that.” She tried to hang on to her dignity, but it was a little hard in pajamas and bare feet.
“It is what I would wish for someone else to do for my daughter.” He paused, emotion moving in the stoic face. “And for Barbara’s daughter.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked quickly away, disappearing into the dark.
FINISHING THE BASEBOARD in the family room was a back-breaking job, Link decided. Maybe he should have followed Trey’s suggestion to hire out some of the renovation work. It certainly would have been faster.
