Dark Crossings

by Marta Perry

  The police chief had said he wanted to record her statement about Hank Mitchell, so that was why they were in his office. Leo Frost had arrived, looking flustered, and exclaiming over Sarah’s story as she told it.

  Once she’d finished, Chief Byler took the recording to the secretary in the outer office, and they could hear the murmur of voices from there. Jacob had hoped that they’d be able to leave once the story was told, but apparently not. He balanced his hat on his knees and prepared to wait.

  At least Sarah seemed calm about this. Oddly enough, he didn’t think she’d been afraid of Hank, although she was certainly disturbed by what had happened.

  Leo shook his head. “I never thought taking that young man in was a good idea, but Richard wasn’t one to listen once he’d made up his mind.”

  “I don’t think you could have changed anything.” Sarah’s voice was filled with sympathy. “Mr. Strickland said to me once that whether he liked and trusted Hank or not, family was family. He couldn’t turn him away.”

  “He didn’t even know that Hank wasn’t related to him.” Leo drummed his fingers on the edge of the chief’s desk. “I should have investigated his background myself, even if Richard didn’t want me to.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have found anything.” Chief Byler came back into the room. “Not unless you had access to police files.” He sat at his desk and pulled the computer keyboard toward him.

  “You mean he had a police record?” Leo looked about ready to explode.

  “My office staff started a search for him yesterday, after Sarah told us about the album disappearing.” He clicked a few keys on the computer and then turned it so they could see the photo displayed on the screen.

  “That’s Hank Mitchell, all right,” Leo said.

  “Hank Mitchell, Jason Davids, James Randall, and probably some other names, as well. He’s a con artist. His specialty is duping wealthy elderly people, but he has a somewhat unique method. He uses genealogy files to identify distant relatives of his mark, and then claims to be a descendant. It’s surprising how many people took him at his word, only to wake up one morning and find their valuables gone.”

  So Mitchell was a thief. Jacob would like to think that was why he’d disliked the man, but the truth was he’d been afraid Sarah was noticing him too much.

  “So the letter that Mr. Strickland’s cousin supposedly wrote…” Sarah said slowly.

  “Was a fake,” Chief Byler stated. “The woman in question actually died many years ago, when she was only twenty.”

  Sarah’s blue eyes darkened. “What a wicked thing, to lie to Mr. Strickland that way. But I don’t understand about the photo. Why did he take it? That’s what made you suspect him.”

  “He was put in an uncomfortable position by Richard Strickland’s death,” the chief said. “If he disappeared right away, that would have made us suspicious. He wanted to get rid of anything that might expose him for what he was. I can’t be sure about the photo, but I had a look at the others in the album. Strickland was apparently meticulous about recording information on the backs of pictures. There must have been something written there that would have given the masquerade away.”

  “He had just gotten those photos out,” Sarah murmured. “Something must have made him think Hank was lying to him. The girl in the photo was probably the cousin. Hank did say something about Mr. Strickland writing on the back.”

  Leo nodded. “I think you have it right, Sarah. At least now we know who was to blame for the odd things that have happened at the house.”

  Jacob stirred. “What about the accident? Do you think he was driving the car that hit us?”

  “That’s one of the questions we’ll be asking once we catch up with him. Along with some questions about how Richard Strickland died.” Chief Byler’s face set in hard lines.

  “Surely he didn’t harm Richard,” Leo said. “He had nothing to gain and everything to lose by his death.”

  “Unless Richard realized he was being duped, and threatened to have Mitchell arrested.” Chief Byler stopped when his phone buzzed. His face didn’t reveal a thing as he listened. When he hung up, he turned back to them. “Maybe now we’ll get some answers. The state police picked up Mitchell on Interstate 80, heading for New Jersey.”

  He was gone in a moment, leaving the three of them to stare silently at each other.

  “Well,” Leo said finally. “At least now we don’t have to worry about your safety, Sarah. But if you want to take the rest of the day off after all of this, I certainly can’t argue.”

  “Gut idea,” Jacob began, but Sarah was already shaking her head.

  “Mr. McKay is coming to do the evaluation. I don’t want to make him change his schedule. I’ll be fine.”

  Jacob shifted in his chair, uneasy. Sarah was probably right, but he still didn’t like it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE STRICKLAND HOUSE seemed emptier than ever when Sarah returned there after getting a sandwich at the tea shop. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind. Now that the truth was out, she no longer had the sensation of something threatening in the house.

  The place was just melancholy—that was the word. A resting place for Richard Strickland’s memories, but he didn’t need them any longer, any more than he needed the cushioned ottoman he liked to rest his feet on, or the dozens of figurines he’d collected.

  Now that Hank was under arrest, there was nothing to fear in this place. She’d finally even convinced Jacob he didn’t need to stay. He’d argued, but had agreed to go and run a few errands for the shop and pick up more packing boxes for her.

  She couldn’t really work on anything else until Mr. McKay came to do the inventory, so Sarah started a pot of coffee. It had no sooner perked than she heard the front doorbell ring.

  Walking quickly to answer it, Sarah realized she no longer felt uncomfortable when she passed the stairs. The image of Mr. Strickland lying there dead was being replaced by countless images of him alive. She recognized the feeling. It had been the same when Grossmamm died. After the first sorrow, she’d been able to think of the happy memories rather than the end.

  She opened the door to Donald McKay. The antiques dealer had a legal tablet, a couple of books and a clipboard in his arm, and he’d been glancing down the street in the direction of police headquarters. He stepped inside, smoothing his thinning, white-blond hair back where the wind had disarranged it.

  “Is it true what they’re saying?” He dropped his armload onto the hall table. “That you fought off Hank Mitchell single-handed and captured him, and that he murdered Richard?”

  She might have been upset had the words come from anyone else, but the whole town knew of Donald’s extravagant style of speaking. She just smiled.

  “Amish don’t do battle or arrest criminals, as you well know. The state police caught him trying to run away.”

  “That doesn’t make nearly as exciting a story.” McKay’s eyes twinkled. “So young Mitchell was a con artist, trying to bilk Richard of his money. That just goes to show that you never know about other people. I wouldn’t have thought Richard could be taken in by a smooth talker.”

  “He thought Hank was a relative,” she said, moved to defend Mr. Strickland. “Hank actually had a letter from one of Mr. Strickland’s cousins. Or at least Mr. Strickland believed it came from a cousin.”

  “Apparently there’s a downside to all that genealogy research people do. Besides the risk of discovering th
at your great-great-grandfather was a horse thief.”

  “I know who my great-great-grandfather was,” Sarah said, playing into his joking. “He’s listed right on the family tree.”

  “The Amish do it right,” he said. “Keep those records in the family Bible, not on the internet.”

  Sarah nodded toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee before we begin?”

  “Let’s put in an hour of work first,” McKay said, consulting his watch. “Then we’ll be ready for a break. Where shall we start?”

  “I know Mr. Frost wanted your opinion of the silverware. And I’d be glad to have it out of the house. I didn’t think it should be here in an unlocked cabinet.”

  “People often overestimate the value of silver flatware.” He led the way into the dining room. “But with the price of silver today, Richard’s is bound to be worth quite a bit.”

  They took the silverware chests out of the bottom of the china cabinet, laying the contents on the table. Some of the spoons were worn paper-thin, but all the silver glowed with recent cleaning. Mr. McKay handed her the clipboard and a pen.

  “It will be fastest if you write down the item in this column, how many there are of each item here, and my comments about the value in the last column. There will be some I have doubts about. I’ll have to do research on those pieces.”

  She took the clipboard and they began to work. It was easier than Sarah initially expected, and Mr. McKay seemed to know his business. He chatted amiably about the history of the different pieces as they went along. He was nearly as interesting as Mr. Strickland had been.

  They finished the silverware in little more than half an hour, and Sarah was impressed at the figures she’d entered in the column for the values of the items. Mr. Strickland had often said the silver was worth taking good care of, and he’d been right.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs next?” McKay headed for the staircase. “I know Richard kept a lot of his collectibles on the study shelves. Many of them are objects I acquired for him, so this won’t be difficult. I’ll already have records at the shop of how much he paid for them.”

  Sarah nodded, leading the way. Soon the house would be stripped of the things that reminded her of her late employer. She probably wouldn’t be in it again once the historical society took over.

  Working in the study was bittersweet. This was the place she associated most with Richard Strickland. He had often come in while she was cleaning this room, talking and telling her stories about each object, much as Mr. McKay was doing now.

  “Mr. Strickland always liked talking about his pieces,” she said, bending over the drop leaf table that held the collection of silver military figures. “I can almost smell the scent of his pipe tobacco. He’d lean back in his chair, smoking, with some favorite object in his hand.”

  Odd that even though his vision was very poor, he’d know each one by touch. It wasn’t part of the Amish tradition to collect things just because they were pretty, but she could understand that to Richard they had been part of his heritage—a reminder of family.

  Mr. McKay studied the figures. “The Revolutionary War soldiers, of course. I often looked for more to add to his collection, but they were hard to find—at least ones that suited his requirements.”

  He began picking them up, describing each one as she made notes. In the back of her mind, Mr. Strickland still seemed to be telling his stories.

  “That’s all of them,” McKay said. “An even dozen for the historical society’s collection.”

  “A dozen?” she repeated, looking at him blankly while memory came to her. A baker’s dozen, Mr. Strickland had always said. He had a baker’s dozen of the figures—thirteen.

  “Something wrong, Sarah?” McKay’s gaze was intent on her face.

  “No, nothing,” she said quickly, but her thoughts tumbled and spun as if caught in a whirligig. There weren’t a dozen of the figures. There were thirteen. She should know; she’d polished them often enough. They tarnished so, and Mr. Strickland had wanted them to gleam, even if he couldn’t see enough to appreciate the fact.

  She straightened slowly, holding the clipboard in front of her, trying to understand what this meant.

  “Something is wrong,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “There should be thirteen of the figures.” She picked one up, running her fingers over the piece. “There were thirteen the last time I cleaned them. I remember that…” She stopped, recalling a chance comment from Mr. Strickland.

  “What do you remember, Sarah?” McKay’s voice was urgent. “Hank Mitchell must have stolen one of them. That’s it, of course. He probably stole it and Richard found out. They quarreled, and he pushed Richard down the stairs.” The antiques dealer took a step toward the door. “Come on. We’ll go down to the phone and call Chief Byler. He’ll want to know.”

  She stared at him, shaking her head slowly. “Mr. Strickland wasn’t worried about one being missing. They were all here then. All thirteen.”

  McKay grasped her arm, urging her toward the door. She planted her feet, resisting.

  “Well, he must have stolen it later then,” he insisted. “Come on.”

  “Mr. Strickland was puzzled.” She could see it as clearly as if it were moments ago. He’d leaned forward in his chair, holding one of the figures up to the light from the window, running his fingers over it. “One of them was wrong.”

  “What do you mean, wrong?” McKay’s voice cracked with tension.

  “He said it wasn’t the right piece. That he’d have to talk to you about it.” She strained, trying to remember anything else Mr. Strickland had said, but he’d turned away then, looking puzzled and distressed, murmuring something to himself.

  She thought she knew what had happened, and she looked at McKay, unable to prevent the horror she felt from showing in her eyes. “It was you.”

  “Come now,” he said, smiling. “You’re confused, Sarah. I watched for pieces that would interest him, yes, but that was my only involvement. I didn’t…”

  His voice trailed off and his expression changed. Hardened. His smile turned into a grimace.

  “It’s no good, is it? You’ll repeat this to the police, and they’ll get an independent valuation of everything in the house. I know, because that’s what Richard said he would do.” His features darkened, distorted by the depth of his emotions. “Half-blind old fool, sitting here alone and gloating over his treasures. What difference did it make to him if a piece here and there was replaced with an imitation? He couldn’t see them, anyway.”

  “He knew,” she said, struggling to find her voice. “He loved them, so he knew.”

  “That’s what he said to me that night.” McKay’s hand tightened on her upper arm, and he pulled her toward the door. “Standing out here, shaking his fist at me, saying he’d call the police.”

  She didn’t have the strength to resist him. He shoved her and she stumbled, fighting to keep her feet under her. If she couldn’t break free and run—

  “He was off balance, waving his cane around like a crazy person.” McKay pushed her toward the top of the stairs. “All I did was grab the cane to keep him from breaking something. But he stumbled. Went right over the top of the stairs. Like you will.”

  They’d nearly reached the staircase. She struggled to plant her feet, but the rug was sliding under her. Her free arm flailed, and she tried to grab something, anything to hang on to
, but he was forcing her over—

  “Sarah!” The shout came from below, Jacob’s voice, Jacob’s feet pounding on the steps.

  McKay twisted at the sound, losing his footing. Her hand struck the railing, grabbed, held, but McKay was falling, dragging her with him. They’d both go down to the tile floor below….

  McKay’s grip slid from her. He screamed as he fell down the stairs, the momentum sending her over the railing. She clung there, her legs swinging in the air, but she couldn’t hold on—

  “I have you, Sarah.” Jacob’s strong hands gripped her wrists. He tried to pull her up, and she felt his muscles strain.

  “You can’t,” she gasped. “I’ll drag you over, too.”

  “We can do it together,” he said, holding her tightly. “Swing your leg up, just like climbing the apple tree in the backyard. You were always sehr gut at climbing, ja? You can do this.”

  He was so calm, so sure. And he was right. They could do this together. With Jacob’s powerful grip steadying her, she lifted her knee over the railing. He pulled, and they both tumbled to the rug, his arms holding her close.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE HOUSE SEEMED FULL of police, just as it had on the morning Sarah had discovered Mr. Strickland’s body. But it wasn’t the same, of course. She sat on the living room sofa, comforted by Jacob’s presence next to her, and stared down at her clasped hands.

  From the hallway, she could hear as the paramedics maneuvered the stretcher carrying Donald McKay out the door. He was alternately moaning and screaming at them to leave him alone. He had two broken legs, so they said. Sarah tried to close her ears to the sounds.

  The outer door closed behind the stretcher, and Chief Byler could be heard giving someone instructions to stay with McKay at all times.

  Jacob stirred slightly. “I know we must forgive him,” he murmured in Pennsylvania Dutch, the dialect comforting. “But I think it will take me a while. When I saw you—”