Fall from Pride

by Karen Harper

  “Sorry,” Sarah said, interrupting his agonizing. “But I think I—Martha, too—have made a mess of the gravel there, walking in and out, so you won’t find footprints.”

  “That’s all right. You’ve done really well. I pretty much struck out yesterday asking if anyone recently bought artificial fireplace logs at the hardware store, so now, with this and the note you left me about Mike Getz, we have something to go on. Let’s just hope the perp—perpetrator—made a mistake and has his, or her, prints on this page.”

  Finally, her father spoke. He had looked pretty upset through all this, though Nate gave him credit for letting Sarah talk. He called Nate by his first name for the first time. “Nate, there’s no way we can just keep Sarah to home, and that doesn’t look like a refuge now, anyway. She said you have little handheld phones—no wires attached. I’ll ask Bishop Esh, but since all this—” he gestured toward the note in Nate’s hand “—I would say her idea you might let her borrow one when she goes into town and back could be a good idea.”

  “It would for sure. I’ll show her how to use it, and she can call me if she sees anything strange. The only thing is, when I need to drive somewhere, I have to put my antenna down so a tree limb overhead doesn’t damage it,” he explained, gesturing up at it, “and that might play havoc with our signals. I was going to ask, anyway, Mr. Kauffman, would it be permissible for Sarah to take me to see the other two barns that have her paintings—in her buggy? I passed one on the road coming in, but I’d like her to tell me something about the patterns she’s painted that may relate to a pattern with the arsons. Besides, I don’t want to be seen driving VERA there, in case the arsonist thinks I’m daring him or her to strike again. Of course, you or Gabe or Martha could go along.”

  Nate realized he’d said too much, but he’d really wanted to explain himself so he didn’t alienate Sarah’s family or hurt her reputation.

  “With plans for the big auction Saturday and buying the wood and hardware for rebuilding the Esh barn,” Ben Kauffman said, “we’re all pretty busy. But if you sit behind Sarah’s seat in her buggy, so you’re not real obvious, I say okay.”

  “Great. Would you like to come inside VERA, Mr. Kauffman, while I take Sarah’s fingerprints? We won’t be long.”

  “I’ll just sit right here on the back, then walk her home. You two can make plans about seeing the other barns.”

  Nate rolled Sarah’s prints as fast but as carefully as he could. Her fingers were delicate but strong. Talented hands, he thought. They sat, of necessity, very close together. Her hair smelled of that seductive lavender scent again. Was her friend Ella Lantz’s making and selling lavender soap and sachets so different from Sarah’s being able to paint scenes of Amish life? All three of the best friends—Hannah, Sarah and Ella—seemed to have special talents that didn’t fit the mold around here.

  He’d thought this assignment would be a piece of cake, but that old Amish saying was really hitting home right now. Sarah sometimes said quilts instead of cakes, but he was learning the hard way that dealing with the Amish was not all cakes and pies.

  When Nate found no prints but Sarah’s on the paper with the Bible quote, it only drove home again that the enemy was careful and clever. Would Hannah, Jacob or even Mike Getz have thought to keep the paper clean of their prints? Maybe Getz watched the forensic tech shows on TV. And both Hannah and Jacob were living out in the world where they could think of that, too.

  He glanced at his watch. He had time to go into town for breakfast at the Dutch Farm Table, then to visit the Buggy Wheel Shop where Jacob Yoder used to work. That would give him plenty of time to get back here to go with Sarah—and guard Sarah, truth be told—to the other two barns with her painted patterns. If the owners were home, he was tempted to tell them to stay home after dark every night. He didn’t want to panic them, but an empty house seemed to be part of the arsonist’s pattern. So how, then, were “the people” going to be “fuel for the fire”?

  As he drove past the Kauffman barn, he saw Sarah up on a ladder, chalking out the perimeter of the square for her painting. He stopped and unloaded his ladder and metal scaffolding, then set it up for her, so she had more stability. Since the barn burnings were at night—cover of darkness and more spectacular for the arsonist, he figured—he’d just take these back each evening when she was done in case he needed them. It would give him more excuses to see her, and not, he admitted to himself, just because she was proving to be such a help to him.

  “Thanks,” she told him. “I’ll really need those when I start painting. I think it might rain this afternoon, which may wash my chalk marks off, but I needed to do something on this today.”

  “The threat of rain won’t stop us from going out this afternoon, will it?”

  “This fiberglass buggy and even the Amish woman who drives it won’t wash away in a little rain—or a swim in a pond, Nate MacKenzie,” she told him, her voice teasing, almost flirty. His wanting to respond to that, but realizing he should keep this all business, made him almost tongue-tied as they looked into each other’s eyes a moment too long.

  “So what’s this pattern?” he asked.

  “It’s my favorite, because I’d like to see the Atlantic and Pacific oceans someday. I’ve seen Lake Erie and just imagined it was the ocean. It’s called Ocean Waves. A lot of triangles close up, but it looks like rolling waves with whitecaps from farther back.”

  “Like an impressionist painting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just what you said. Up close you can’t see the images, only the pieces, but if you stand back a bit, the impression of the big picture becomes clear. I think most of the impressionists were French. I’ll show you some on the laptop sometime.”

  “There’s sure a lot I don’t know about art and artists.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Maybe finding out who’s behind the burnings will be like that,” she said. “You know, we’re so close to things—to people—we can’t see the big picture. Nate, what if it’s someone right under our noses?”

  Nate finally got to meet Sarah’s friend Ray-Lynn Logan, and was surprised to hear she had a soft Southern drawl. She gave him a good looking over, even a bit of a quiz about whether he’d left a girlfriend behind in Columbus—which he truthfully denied—so he had to wonder what Sarah had said about him. He also ran into Peter Clawson, who said he ate most of his meals there.

  “Ray-Lynn tells me you own a piece of the Buggy Wheel Shop,” Nate said to Peter as they walked out of the restaurant together. “So you’re even into investments that sound as if they’re Amish-owned.”

  “A couple. I like to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. Some of these ma-and-pa businesses around here have taken a hit in the stale economy. It doesn’t just affect the big boys on the Wall Streets and Fifth Avenues of the country, you know.”

  “So you’re a local philanthropist.”

  “I never thought of it that way, more like a practicalicist—and I know that’s not a word. For instance, I’m offering a five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to an arrest of the arsonist, and I thought you should be the first to know. Besides the Saturday benefit auction information, the reward will headline today’s edition of the newspaper. I have no doubt the media flocking in to cover this second barn burning will have to quote the lowly Home Valley News on that. Now let me take a guess, Nate,” he went on before Nate could thank him for offering the reward. “You’re looking for information on the Yoder boy at the Buggy Wheel—well, not a boy by Amish standards.”

  “Did you know him well? I assume he left the Buggy Wheel Shop when he was shunned.”

  “Right on that. For someone Amish, Jacob was really volatile. Low tolerance for criticism, and I’d say shunning—their so-called meidung—is the ultimate criticism from his people. The boy got way out of line messing with a car theft ring and who knows what else. Not sure what Sarah Kauffman saw in him—an independent spirit, maybe.”

/>   “Volatile,” Nate repeated, not responding to the whoknows-what-else or the comment on Sarah. “You don’t have a forwarding address for him, do you?”

  “I doubt if even his parents do, but I’ll give you their address, in case you want to chat with them, too. Of course, you can always ask Sarah Kauffman more about him.”

  Not biting on that, either—Nate was starting to think Peter was quite a manipulator, but then a lot of what he called media mavens were skilled at spin—he took the page Peter ripped off a small spiral notebook. In taut back-slanted script—the man was left-handed—he’d scribbled an address on County Line Road.

  “Thanks,” Nate said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow morning just to chat about how you see this whole barn-burning situation. You’re obviously a great pair of eyes and ears around here.”

  “That I am. Eyes, ears—and mouth,” he said with a little laugh. Despite the lack of traffic on Main Street, the portly man looked both ways before he crossed toward his newspaper office. On the glass windows of the brick building was marked in big, bold print—black shadowed with gold—Home Valley News, Peter Clawson, Owner/Editor-in-Chief.

  10

  IT WAS A REAL PARADE OF INTERESTING MEN today, Ray-Lynn thought as she had a cup of sweet tea when the crowd slowed around ten-thirty, before the lunch rush. Not that Peter was intriguing to her, but he was a mover and a shaker and, despite lower subscription numbers for his newspaper, he evidently still had money to burn with that reward for information he was putting up. At last she’d gotten a close-up gander at that good-looking-in-a-kind-of-rough-and-hungry-way Nate MacKenzie. And now, here came Jack.

  “Morning, Sheriff,” she greeted from the front booth where she’d been sitting by herself to catch her breath, now trying not to be breathless at the fact he was here, for once off his precious schedule. Why, you’d think the man was still a marine drill sergeant. “A second breakfast or just coffee?” she asked. “Your usual counter spot?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit with you—coffee only.”

  When she nodded, he slid in across from her. Fortunately, Leah Schwartz came over with the coffeepot so Ray-Lynn didn’t have to get up to wait on him.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, trying not to sound concerned. If nothing else, she’d love to get something out of him about the arson investigation he and Nate MacKenzie were working on. “I’m sure you’re busy with the second arson and more news media in town.”

  “Yeah, well—thanks, Leah,” he told the girl when she poured his coffee. She widened her eyes at Ray-Lynn and beat a quick retreat. “The thing is, it’s a case, and one that means so much to the Amish, of course—and so to me. They’re the backbone of this community and, like you, I admire them a lot, so I want to catch the firebug fast, before he does more damage.”

  Ray-Lynn sat still as stone, her mind racing. As many times as they’d chatted, he’d never opened up to her like this. Here he was admitting his deepest frustrations, trusting her with his problems. Should she let up on the purely professional facade she’d erected toward him lately—the fence, as Sarah had put it?

  “I’m sure you and the arson investigator will solve this. You—are you thinking the arsonist might be Amish and that will upset the Amish?”

  “Don’t know. Could be. I know the crowds that are coming in are good for your restaurant and other businesses, but I’m having to spend too much time on PR and riding herd on traffic to focus on helping MacKenzie.”

  Her jaw could have dropped into her tea. Jack Freeman admitting he was upset? That he was anything but in total control? And unburdening himself to her as if he wanted her opinion or support?

  “Do you or Nate have any leads?” she dared to ask, wanting to reach over to cover his clenched hands with hers. He hadn’t taken one swallow of his coffee. “You know—thinking the arsons are hate crimes against the Amish or something like that. There was a rumor that even the FBI might be sent in. Surely, you and Nate MacKenzie can handle things without that complication.”

  “They won’t be called in unless the arsonist causes fatalities. Interesting that he or she—it’s usually young white males, from what I’ve been reading up on it—hasn’t even caused the death of a farm animal.”

  “Oh, great, an arsonist with a heart, with a soft spot for the Amish whose livelihoods he’s ruining.”

  “Yeah. Well, sorry I dumped all this on you. I know you’ve been extra busy in here lately. I could tell.”

  He looked up from the coffee cup he’d been studying as if he could read the future in it. She glanced down into her tea—no tea leaves to read.

  “I’m really glad you stopped by when it wasn’t so busy,” she told him. “And that you told me how you feel. It will be just between us, and that’s a promise. However many folks I talk to every day, I’m good at keeping confidences.”

  She watched him drain his coffee cup in a couple of quick swallows. When he went for his wallet, she shook her head and reached out to stay his hand.

  “It’s on me,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t catch so it sounded as if she was upset or hesitant. “You do so much for all of us, make us and me feel safe.”

  He cleared his throat. “I really appreciate it, Ray-Lynn, appreciate you,” he said, his voice gruff as he slid out of the booth, retrieved his hat from the wall peg and went out the door. But he did give a quick look back.

  Nate’s frustrating lack of progress continued at the Buggy Wheel Shop. Despite learning a lot about how they actually customized the buggy interiors for Amish buyers, he hadn’t learned much about Jacob Yoder. Maybe that was because he’d been shunned, maybe because he’d kept to himself and had worked hard despite getting in with the wrong bunch of “moderns” after work—he got that much out of Jacob’s former coworkers.

  Since that didn’t take long, Nate decided to drive out to see if Jacob’s parents could throw any light on things. He was so used to having Sarah tell him where to find something around here it took him a minute to remember to just use his GPS to find County Line Road. When he got there, he found a long, hilly road with lots of mailboxes bearing the same names—Miller, Garber and Yoder—but he had the exact address.

  Despite that, he drove past the place at first. Unlike the Amish properties he’d seen nearer to town, the small, gray frame house looked run-down. No barn, no outbuildings, no grossdaadi haus. But then it had no electric or phone lines running into it, either, no lightning rods. A buggy was almost hidden out back by the small garage that could house a horse. He never should have assumed that all the Amish around here were prosperous farmers.

  It reminded him not to stereotype anyone he met here or anywhere else—including the typical profile for an arsonist, one he knew so well. Young, white male, age seventeen to mid-twenties; poor relationship with his father; an overprotective mother; weak social skills; employed in low-paying jobs; possibly above-average intelligence but only poor to fair academic performance.

  He turned around in the next driveway and went back to the house, parking on the driveway in front. He saw a white-capped woman glance out through the green curtains, then disappear. A bearded Amish man came to the front door, even before he knocked. At least they were both home, a break he hadn’t had lately.

  He introduced himself and showed his credentials, but they seemed to know who he was. After all, VERA always announced him. The Yoders—he had a feeling they both looked older than they were—sat on their sagging maroon couch, facing him as he sat in a wooden armchair.

  “I realize your son, Jacob, is not part of the community right now, but I was hoping you could give me an idea where to find him. As you know, he phoned in the first barn fire and was a witness to it, so I’d like to get his description of it.”

  “What you know about Jacob, I’m not sure,” his father said. “But in a shunning, even the family doesn’t have anything to do with him.”

  “I understand that. But he could be living with friends you might have known or maybe you�
��ve heard where he’s employed right now.”

  Mr. Yoder shook his head. “He phoned the fire in from the Kauffman farm. He was at the Kauffman farm that night.” His expression didn’t vary from a stony frown.

  “Yes, he had stopped there either because he saw a lot of people at the party or perhaps wanted to see Sarah Kauffman.”

  “He shouldn’t bother her. She broke it off before he was shunned.”

  Jacob’s mother spoke for the first time. “It might have been one of the things that made him angry—then he made mistakes, hanging out with the wrong sort. Made the sheriff get after him.”

  “I understand the sheriff went to bat for him, though, didn’t file charges that could have meant prison time.”

  Mr. Yoder nodded. Mrs. Yoder began to cry silently, blinking back her tears but not wiping them away. “He was a good boy,” she said. “Worked hard. He is—was—our only child, you see.”

  That really surprised Nate. He hadn’t come across a small Amish family yet. So, the only child would have been especially treasured by the mother. Maybe his father had been strict with him and the boy had resented it, but he was reading into things here.

  Feeling he had walked into another dead end in a maze, Nate excused himself and got up to leave. Mr. Yoder accompanied him out onto the front porch.

  “Mr. Yoder, a fairly good source told me that Jacob was volatile. Did he have a temper?”

  The man sighed and glanced out at VERA. He closed the door behind him and led Nate away from the house before he spoke. “When crossed, ya. His mother—God help us—she spoiled him some. I guess Sarah did, too, at first. I pray you can find him and get him help if he needs it, Mr. MacKenzie—help for his head. I been trying to decide to come see you or not.”