by Judy Clemens
She glanced up. “I figured I’d at least get things started. Besides, I only began work yesterday. Seemed a little odd to have a day off already.” She scooped another pile of grain and deposited it in a feeder.
“So how was church this morning?” I asked.
“Good.”
“And the Grangers?”
She gave a little smile. “You’re right. They’re the best. Although I can’t say I have them all straight.”
“Kind of hard, when there are eight brothers to remember. Although I can’t imagine you’ll forget Jermaine.”
She gave a quick laugh. “I’ll say. It’s not every day you meet someone who looks like the Refrigerator from the Chicago Bears. Especially in a family of white folks.” Another scoop of feed clattered into a holder. “They had Tess and me over for a potluck lunch, which was really nice, seeing as how I didn’t have any food to contribute. We met at Ma’s and ate outside at the picnic tables. And she sent me back here with a couple bags of groceries and some leftovers.”
“I knew she’d come through,” I said.
Lucy’s eyes angled toward me. “She asked me to remind you about the hymn sing tonight, and said you’re not to make any excuses.”
I groaned and patted Minnie Mouse, the cow closest to me. “Did Tess have a good time?”
“Couldn’t help it with all those kids around.”
“And did you meet Zach’s sister Mallory? You ever need a baby-sitter, she’s your gal.”
“Yeah, she told me. Even gave me a little business card she made up.”
I turned. “I’ll go change and be back out to help after I check on Poppy and see if she’s any closer to winning my bet for me.” At the door I stopped. “Anybody ask too many questions about your husband? Make you feel uncomfortable?”
She didn’t look up. “A few tried. Ma held them at bay.”
I wondered if I’d ever have any luck getting answers, myself.
“Where’s Tess?” I asked.
“In the apartment. Organizing and re-organizing all of her things for school tomorrow. The bus will pick her up at seven-thirty.”
“She excited?”
Lucy nodded. “But nervous, too. She’s only ever attended a small Mennonite school, so this big public one will be a change for her. But a good one, I hope.”
“There are a couple of Mennonite schools here, you know. Penn View and Quakertown Christian.”
Her eyes became veiled. “I know. But I can’t afford it right now. And I wasn’t all that thrilled with the school in Lancaster. It was the school my husband attended, but was way more conservative than I like. Some of the teachers…. Well, let’s just say they asked Tess too many questions.”
About Brad and his accident, I assumed.
“Lancaster Mennonite?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They don’t have elementary, and they’re not so conservative. This was a small feeder school.” A scoop of grain almost missed its target, and Lucy stopped, her shoulders sagging. “We’ll see how the public school pans out.”
I walked across the grass toward my house. Seemed to me we were waiting to see how a lot of things panned out. Including my own questions about Lucy’s past.
Chapter Eleven
The church parking lot was almost full when we pulled in at seven twenty-eight. I eventually found a spot in the row farthest from the door and Lucy, Tess, and I scooted into Ma’s pew, where she was taking out her blue hymnal. Abe sat on the other side of Ma and smiled at me, his eyes warm and inviting.
“Number One,” Ma whispered.
No time for dilly-dallying, or for catching up with Abe.
The song leader blew a note on her pitch pipe and the congregation flew right into “What Is this Place?,” accompanied only by the other voices around them. I was glad to have Jethro’s rumbling bass surrounding me from behind, which would blot out any attempts I made at participating. Lucy sang soprano on my left, while to my right Ma added a competent alto. Abe’s tenor floated toward me from time to time, and even Tess joined in on the melody. This left me free, thankfully, to simply listen and hum along when the notes were in the right range.
I tried to take comfort in the familiarity of the sound and songs as the music took over the air. The four-part harmony of the Mennonites is something that should never be taken for granted. Ma has told me that unfortunately some churches are forgetting this rich part of their heritage, and can’t sing a good unaccompanied hymn to save their souls. If you want to put it that way.
The little Sellersville church was plainly painted, the walls a light gray with shiny white trim. No ornaments graced the walls, and no flags. The only decoration was a banner in front with four differently colored hands grasping each other. “Members in Ministry,” the banner said, proclaiming the congregation’s belief that every person was meant as God’s “vessel of healing and hope.”
A few elderly women still bore the coverings Mennonites had worn for so long, a white mesh bonnet pinned lightly to the backs of their heads. Not practical for anything, the coverings are merely a symbol of submission to God. Ma had chosen long ago to stop wearing hers, but it was mostly because she was ready for a more stylish hair-do. She thought her hair would work better in a short cut, and once she got it done she decided the covering looked…well, a bit silly.
I think the whole idea of coverings is ridiculous, but then, no one cares what I think.
We slammed through “Come, We That Love the Lord,” the chorus making me tired just to hear it—“We’re marching to Zion, beautiful, beautiful Zion. We’re marching upward to Zion, the beautiful city of God.”—and “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” before the song leader finally gestured that we could sit. I was relieved, because holding the heavy hymnal was making my ribs ache.
“You okay?” Ma asked.
I nodded. I would be.
A small ensemble of instruments—guitar, violin, flute—joined the song leader up front, and we sang a few more hymns before being asked to stand again. The musicians sat, and, several a cappella hymns later, we were finally told to turn to number 118, to what’s thought of as the Mennonite Anthem. Known all over the country as “606,” the hymn’s number in the former Mennonite Hymnal, it’s a rousing tune able to shake the proverbial rafters. I was thankful not only that it was the last song of the night, but that it was okay to put away the now-leaden hymnal, since everyone knows the song by heart:
Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow,
praise him all creatures, here below,
praise him all creatures here below.
Praise him above, praise him above,
Praise him above, ye heavenly hosts…
The song rose in volume and speed until we reached the “Hallelujah, amens,” and I dropped out because the notes were clearly out of my range and league. When the hymn was finally over I sank down to the bench and took a deep breath.
“You all right?” Abe sat beside me, scooting behind Ma while she talked to friends in the row ahead.
“I will be. Now that I can sit.”
He smiled. “Ma coerced you into coming?”
“She took care of Lucy all day. It was the least I could do.”
Abe gestured to the aisle. “Shall we?”
We threaded our way through the people-crammed aisle to the foyer, where several tables were set up displaying plates of desserts. The MYF—the Mennonite Youth Fellowship, consisting of the church’s high schoolers—was offering delicious snacks for a small donation, which would land in the coffer for their trip to the nationwide Mennonite youth convention the next summer.
“Stella! Uncle Abe!” Zach gestured wildly from his table, and we wandered his way.
“So what are these?” I asked him. “They look incredible, but sinful.”
“Squares of shortbread with chocolate, caramel, and nuts melted over the top.” Zach smiled and puffed up his chest. “Homemade turtle cookies. Mom didn’t even help.”
“You’re amazing. And the calorie content of these miracles?”
His face fell. “You care about that?”
“Gosh, no. Just wanted to see your face when I asked.”
He grinned. “So how many do you want?”
I dug in my pocket and pulled out a rumpled dollar bill. “This is all I’ve got. What will it get me?”
Abe put his hand over my money and gently pushed it down. “We’ll take two plates.”
Zach lit up. “You mean it?”
Abe handed him a ten.
“Geez,” I said to Abe. “Your pockets are much more productive than mine.”
Zach shoved the ten into his donation can. “Pick the ones you want.”
Abe scrunched his forehead. “Stella?”
“I don’t care. They all look good to me.”
“Making lots of money, I see.” Willie Alderfer stepped up to the table, laying his arm across Zach’s shoulders. He’d been an MYF sponsor for at least five years and was as proud of the teenagers as any parent.
Zach peered up at him slyly. “Bet I’ve made more than anyone else so far.”
Willie laughed. “Good going. I’d better grab one of those before Abe takes them all.” He dropped some coins into Zach’s tin and picked a cookie, popping it directly into his mouth. “Oh, wow.”
“Told you,” Zach said.
Willie slapped his back and moved on to the next table while Zach called to other church members to come check out his merchandise.
Abe picked a couple plates of the turtles while I searched the room. I finally spotted Lucy and Tess in the corner surrounded by Grangers, so I figured she was as safe from prying questions as she was going to get.
“So what do you think of her so far?” Abe asked, following the direction of my eyes.
I hesitated. “She’s a great worker.”
“But?”
I sighed with exasperation. “It’s so stupid. And something I’d usually ignore. But it’s my farm….”
“What?” Abe’s voice sounded alarmed.
“Nothing that will endanger me,” I said. “I promise. It’s just…her husband died a year and a half ago, and there’s some question, apparently, as to whether or not she killed him.”
“What?” Abe sounded even more frantic.
“Nothing concrete. Just some vagueness on her part, and an anonymous call I received yesterday.”
“What happened?”
I explained what I knew about Brad Lapp’s accident and death, which wasn’t much.
“Sounds like you need to do some checking,” Abe said.
“But I hate—”
“Of course you do. But, as you said, it’s your farm.”
“Anywhere you think I should start?”
He pointed at someone across the room. “Right there.”
I followed his finger to a couple sitting at a table with Abe’s brother Jacob and his wife, Nina. “Who’re they?”
“Jacob’s roommate from the year he went to college, and his wife. Dan and Zelda Souder.”
I looked at them. “And?”
“They’re from Lancaster. They came up for the weekend, going back tonight.”
“I get it. Want to introduce me?”
“Sure.”
The two couples made room for us at their table, and Abe did the honors while unwrapping a plate of his cookies and passing it around.
“So how are you doing, Stella?” Nina asked. “Abe says your doctor wants you to take it a little easier.”
I kicked Abe under the table, and he winced.
“I’m fine. Especially now I’ve hired a new farmhand.”
“Which is the main reason we came over here,” Abe said. “I thought Stella could ask the Souders what they know.”
“About what?” Zelda looked surprised.
I explained who Lucy was and the questions that had come up, and our entire group turned to look at her, which of course she noticed. I smiled and waved, hoping she would assume I was simply talking about my new farmhand. I felt like a jerk.
“Well, sure, I remember that story,” Zelda said. “It was the talk of the town—and of the Lancaster Conference. Remember Yoder Mennonite about having a collective coronary, Dan? Everyone was convinced Lucy had done it.”
“But why?” I still was at a loss.
“No reason,” Dan said hotly. “People just wanted something to talk about. You know, Christmas spirit and all.”
Zelda grimaced. “He’s right. No one ever gave any good reasons. The most popular story was that she wanted his life insurance money to start her own dairy operation.”
“Bunch of crap,” Dan said. “Who in their right mind would want to run a dairy farm alone?”
Abe looked at me.
“But what happened?” I asked. “She obviously was never convicted of it.”
“Or even arrested,” Zelda said. “The police couldn’t find anything strong enough to hold her, even though she and her husband had taken out new life insurance policies within the past year. Anyway, a fat lot of good that money would’ve done her, seeing how he survived the fall and she had to quit her farm job to stay home with him.”
Dan grunted. “Bunch of gossipy biddies.”
“Any other people involved?” I asked, remembering Noah, the guy who had come by the farm. “Men? Women?”
Zelda and her husband looked at each other. “I can’t remember anything about that,” Zelda said. “You, Dan?”
He shook his head.
“Not much help, are we?” Zelda asked. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I feel like an ass even asking about it.”
“Check the Lancaster newspapers,” Dan said. “The Intelligencer Journal and the Lancaster New Era. It was the biggest story they’d had in years, and they ate it up. If I remember right, it all came back again when he died. When was that?”
“Year and a half ago,” I said.
Zelda nodded. “That’s right. It was at Christmas-time again, wasn’t it? A year after the accident? I remember feeling so sorry for that little girl.”
Our group took another look over toward Tess, which luckily escaped Lucy’s eye. I was feeling guilty enough without her assuming the worst.
A wave of exhaustion swept through me, and I glanced at the clock. “Well, it’s past my bedtime. Thanks for the info. I’m sure it will turn out to be nothing. At least nothing for me to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right,” Zelda said. “For your sake and for hers.”
Abe and I stood, saying our good-byes.
“I’ll walk you to your truck,” Abe said as we moved away.
“I’ve got to snag Lucy and Tess. They came with me.”
He looked uneasy. “Stella, are you sure—”
“—she won’t murder me in my sleep? Quite sure. Besides the fact I can’t believe the rumors, Queenie wouldn’t let her get near the house without causing a ruckus. Queenie may like her, but she’s pretty territorial, especially at night.”
Abe still hesitated, holding my arm.
“Abe, let go. I’ll survive the night, I promise. Now come and be your usual charming self to Lucy and Tess, or she’ll know exactly what we’ve been discussing.”
I managed to tear Lucy away from the friendly group surrounding her, and we made it out to the truck with only a few people stopping me to ask how I was doing. Luckily for Abe’s health no one else mentioned my doctor’s concerns. And I managed to grab the second plate of turtle cookies while Abe was busy studying Lucy.
On the way home, conversation was stilted. Lucy and I didn’t have a whole lot to talk about yet, and Tess about fell asleep. By the time I parked the truck and we went our separate ways, I was feeling claustrophobic and crabby. Thank goodness Tess had to get to bed.
I liked Lucy and Tess, but God…
I missed Howie more than ever.
Chapter Twelve
Once L
ucy and Tess had retired to their apartment, I headed to the office, even though I desperately needed to hit the sack. A welcome refuge from the heat, the office was also where I could do a little confidential detective work. If Lucy was going to hedge whenever I asked questions about her husband, I’d have to do some researching on my own, or I’d never get any sleep at all.
I logged onto the Internet, eating another cookie, and went to AskJeeves.com, my favorite site for finding out whatever I wanted to know. I typed in, “newspaper articles about Brad Lapp,” and got quite an array of hits. I then spent at least fifteen minutes weeding out the articles about Brad Lapp the painter in New York City, Brad Lapp the actor in Philadelphia, and Brad Lapp the rodeo cowboy in Wyoming. I pared it down to articles in the Intelligencer Journal and the Lancaster New Era—the papers the Souders had suggested and which I should’ve checked to begin with—about the Brad Lapp I wanted.
Factually, there wasn’t as much as I’d hoped for. As far as the actual event and physical trauma, it seemed Brad tripped at the top of the basement stairs and fell down the entire flight, breaking his neck and irreparably damaging his spinal cord. The newspapers didn’t go much farther than that about the injuries, except to say Lucy quit her job a week later to stay home and take care of her now quadriplegic husband.
The motive angle was much juicier. Everything was suggested, from Lucy being angry over a lover to Brad indulging in drugs and mistaking the basement door for the bathroom. Insurance policies, past relationships, and disagreements over religious issues were all discussed, as well. But as the Souders had said, the most popular theory—strangely enough, considering the usual societal fascination with extramarital sex—was Lucy’s desire to run her own dairy operation. There didn’t seem to be much of anything supporting all the gossip, but that didn’t keep the newspapers from speculating.
A few weeks into the investigation the articles petered out, and the most closure I could get was that the police were looking for whatever help people could offer. Didn’t sound too promising.
A year later a new rash of articles appeared on the occasion of Brad’s death. The whole sordid affair was brought up again, and several anonymous sources complained that Lucy had not been questioned more closely. It seemed someone at the paper wasn’t afraid to damage Lucy’s reputation. Perhaps it was already damaged beyond repair.
