Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery)

by Bradford, Laura

  She set down her glass and pushed her plate to the side, too. “Of course. Go ahead.”

  “Okay, so Patrick was around ten when his dad shot and killed John. Carl stays under the radar for nearly six months. When he’s fingered for the crime, he essentially confesses . . . proudly. He ends up in jail where he remains to this day.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “So Carl is hauled off to prison and his kid is left behind, angry at the world. He’s lost his dad, he’s probably taunted in school for being the son of a murderer, his mother takes a second job to make ends meet, and he suddenly finds himself alone in more ways than one. He starts acting out. You know, the whole negative attention is better than no attention you mentioned earlier . . .”

  “That’s what they say. And it certainly sounded as if that was the case listening to Rita a little while ago.”

  “The rare times he quieted down, it was in preparation for the next major meltdown. Which, if you think about that, could point to a period of plotting.”

  “Plotting?”

  “Yeah. Because if you think about everything Rita said, the times that he was quiet were probably when he was plotting his next move.”

  She traced her finger along the outer rim of her glass and tried to imagine what the past sixteen years had been like for Rita Duggan, the accidental single mom of an angry little boy. “That had to be a tough way to live, you know?”

  “My only question now is this: what was he plotting during the quiet period that ended a mere day or so before Harley Zook’s murder?”

  Her mouth gaped. “Wait. You think Patrick may have been plotting Harley’s murder during that time?”

  “Sure. Why not? It could fit.”

  “I suppose. But what would his motive be?” she asked.

  “Anger. Revenge. Take your pick.”

  “But sixteen years later?”

  “Sixteen years later . . . when the man who gained the most from Carl’s incarceration became a daily part of Patrick’s life.”

  She pulled her hand from the top of her cup and ran it through her hair, the dull but lingering scent of spoiled milk still clinging to its ends nearly two hours later.

  The Zook farm . . .

  Closing her eyes against the image of the spray-painted threat she’d managed to forget temporarily, she sighed. Nothing in the world would please her more than to see Jakob’s despair over his father’s potential role in Harley’s murder disappear once and for all. Patrick as the killer would make that happen.

  But to stay silent and let Jakob close in on that target without full disclosure would be unthinkable.

  “Did I say something wrong, Claire?”

  She inhaled the courage she needed to answer and prayed she was doing the right thing at the right time. “Jakob? I have something I have to tell you. Something I found after we hung up the phone earlier. You know, while I was still out at Harley’s farm . . .”

  Something about the tone in her voice made him pale. “Tell me.”

  “I . . . I . . .” She stopped, swallowed, then made herself start again. “I think I found one of the signs Isaac was talking about the other day. The ones he said prove Mose’s anger was gathering to a breaking point.”

  “Just one?”

  She thought back over the patches of paint she’d found in the barn earlier in her visit and shook her head. “When I first saw the swaths of paint in the barn, I figured Harley had been testing colors or something. But now, in light of what I found at the end, I think they were probably there to cover more of the same.”

  “I don’t understand. What did you find?”

  “I found a threat spray-painted across the foundation on one side of Harley’s house.”

  “A threat? What kind of threat?”

  “The worst kind.” She knew she was being a little evasive, but knowing her words were going to send Jakob right back to where he’d been in the investigation prior to their stop at Rita Duggan’s house made sharing them all the more difficult.

  He pushed back his chair and stood. “Tell me, Claire. What did it say?”

  “‘One more and you’re dead,’” she whispered.

  He staggered backward only to drop into his chair once again. “‘One more and you’re dead?’” he repeated.

  “Isaac could be wrong, Jakob.” This time, she reached across the table and patted his arm, any racing of her heart be damned. “It might not mean anything at all.”

  “Or it could mean everything.”

  At the crack in his voice, her pat turned into a squeeze and her report into a plea for caution. “Anyone could have written that, Jakob! Maybe it was a—a group of crazy English teenagers who dared one another to write on an Amish house instead of the usual overpass or playground wall.”

  “Or maybe it was a warning from one Amish man to another,” Jakob whispered, his pain so raw, so real she found it difficult to catch her breath.

  “C’mon, Jakob. The sentence doesn’t really even make any sense. One more? One more what?”

  For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer. Then, when he finally did, she couldn’t help but wish he hadn’t.

  “One more son out from under my father’s day-to-day scrutiny?”

  Chapter 18

  So far she’d counted ten buggies that had come and gone from Bishop Hershberger’s house in the thirty minutes they’d been sitting there. Each had pulled to a stop on the side of Route 100 to usher in the latest group of Amish wishing to pay their respects to Harley Zook.

  It wasn’t what Claire had thought they were going to do when Jakob first suggested they go together while walking out of Tastes of Heaven(ly). She’d almost declined in light of the funk she’d singlehandedly foisted on him with news of the threatening graffiti, but she decided to go in the end as her way of trying to make amends. Besides, paying her respects to the man she’d found strangled in a corn maze four days earlier seemed the proper thing to do.

  So far, though, they hadn’t moved from the car. Instead, they just sat there, watching and waiting. What, exactly, they were waiting for, though, was the part she didn’t quite get.

  “Jakob?” she finally asked. “Is everything okay?”

  Slowly, he turned in his seat to make eye contact for the first time since he’d shifted into park and cut the engine. “I’m sorry, Claire. Every time I want to spend time with you . . . and maybe even show you I’m a pretty nice guy . . . it seems something happens to prove otherwise.”

  “Wait a minute. I know you’re a nice guy. I knew that from the first day I met you and you actually liked the welcome to Heavenly gift I gave you.”

  The smile she loved crept across his face and set off the dimples she loved even more. “Liked that gift? Are you kidding me? I’ll never forget the sight of you standing in the lobby of the police department, holding that blue-and-green-striped gift bag.” He shook his head at the memory, the smile he wore as bright as ever. “I still have that, you know.”

  “Have what?” she asked.

  “The bag. It’s in the box where I keep special things.”

  She felt her cheeks warm and was glad the lack of streetlights on this side of Heavenly provided a cloak of privacy to the feelings she didn’t want on display. “It was just a bag, Jakob.”

  “But it came from you.” He stretched his arms above the steering wheel only to bring them back down to his lap once again. “I refuse to light any of the candles because I don’t want them to go away. I like the way they look around my otherwise stark home. And the framed photograph of Lighted Way in the snow? That holds a place of honor smack-dab in the middle of my mantel. I look at it every night when I find myself wondering why I ever bought a television set.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but closed it just as quickly when she realized the lump in her throat would call out the rush of emotions she wasn’t ready to share.

  “Sometimes, I let myself believe you had me at that blue-and-green-striped bag. But other times, I kno
w it happened even before that, when I first stepped out into that lobby and saw you standing there, waiting.”

  At a loss for what to say, she dropped her gaze to her own lap and worked to steady her breathing instead. She’d always suspected Jakob had some interest in her, but now, there was little doubt.

  “I’m sorry I had to dump that graffiti thing on you at the restaurant.” She knew it wasn’t what he probably wanted to hear at that exact moment, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge his feelings aloud yet. That would have to wait until she could examine the reason behind the tears that were no more than a blink or two away.

  She felt him studying her and instantly knew he was trying to decide whether or not to challenge her on the abrupt change in topic. Finally, though, his focus left her face and returned to the modest home on the other side of the street. “I needed to know it was there, Claire, even if I’d rather it wasn’t. Wishing away reality isn’t an option in my profession. And, whether I like it or not, the cold, hard reality I can’t get around is the fact that, for my father, my decision to leave the Amish will forever be linked to the murder of Harley’s brother. The fact that Harley then spoke out in favor of my decision—and continued to do so for the next sixteen years—only added salt to the wound. Isaac agreeing to work with him may very well have been the powder keg that made my father finally blow.”

  The resignation in his voice tugged at her heart, bringing with it an overpowering need to make things right. “You also have a twenty-six-year-old man with all sorts of anger issues and a whole lot of resentment toward Harley for being the roundabout reason he hasn’t had a father the past sixteen years of his life. Then, all of a sudden, that reason is in his life on a near-daily basis, telling him what to do and how to do it and giving you another potential powder keg to consider.”

  “Is it wrong of me to hope that’s the one that actually blew . . .” Jakob’s question petered off as a buggy approached from the opposite direction and slowed to a stop directly across from their car. Suddenly, the lack of streetlights that had saved Claire mere moments earlier and done a decent job of shrouding mourners’ faces thus far was no match for a brother when it came to his beloved sister.

  Instantly, he shifted forward in his seat, ducking his head back and forth between the windshield and the driver’s side window in an effort to gain the most unobstructed view. As they watched, a second buggy—an open top—pulled in behind the first.

  “I think that’s Esther and Eli,” she whispered, nodding confirmation of her own words as she, too, leaned forward in her seat. “They really are good together, aren’t they?”

  “Eli will be a fine husband for Esther,” Jakob agreed. “He is smitten with her, that’s for sure.”

  “As she is with him.” She followed both couples all the way to the door then leaned back in her seat when they disappeared inside. “I can’t think of two people I’d rather see get married. They’re going to have a beautiful life together.”

  “I’d give just about anything to be able to be there at the celebration.” The wistful quality of his voice was impossible to miss. “I’ve missed so much of Esther’s life these past sixteen or so years. When I left, she was turning three and chasing barn kittens around the yard in her bare feet. Now, she’s nineteen and weeks away from getting married and starting a family of her own. And all I can do is watch from a polite distance.”

  She sucked in her own breath and counted to ten in her head, savoring the one bright, shiny bit of news she could offer against an otherwise bleak backdrop. It was a tidbit she’d wanted to share with him several times over the past few hours but kept to herself for fear she’d put a hidden meaning where there had been none.

  Yet no matter how many times she replayed her last wedding-related conversation with Esther in her head, the same instinct kicked in and it was time to finally share it with Jakob. “The other day we talked about the wedding and Esther told me all about the food that would be prepared and the people that would come from far and wide to celebrate with them.”

  Jakob nodded. “They will build a temporary addition to the house just to hold the guests who will come.”

  “She mentioned that.” Claire took a second, longer breath and held it a beat. “But she also said she wanted me to come. That she and Eli are counting on it.”

  “That’s wonderful. But how will you handle the store that day? Will you be able to find someone to fill in for you or will you close for the day the way the Amish do?”

  Claire resisted the urge to tell him what was happening with the store. Now was not the time. Jakob had far more important things on his plate than the fate of her gift shop. Besides, she’d talked it through in her head a million times already. The subject didn’t need any more talking. “I’ll welcome that worry when it comes and enjoy Esther’s wedding, either way.”

  His smile stopped just shy of his eyes. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. How she looked, how he looked, what they said, how the celebration went . . . all of it.”

  “Actually, I won’t have to tell you anything. Esther wants me to bring you as my guest!”

  Whatever reaction she’d imagined in her head every time she thought of that moment, it didn’t come. Instead, he met her proclamation with a tiny shrug and an “I know.”

  “You know?” she echoed. “But how?”

  She didn’t need anything more than the touch of moonlight that finally peeked through the trees to see the way his face turned crimson. And at that very moment, she had her answer. The same answer that now made its way through her mouth in the form of a rhetorical question. “Martha?”

  “She thinks if I go with you, it would raise fewer eyebrows,” he said. “But I will never know for sure because all I’d see if I went with you would be the backs of heads.”

  “Maybe. But at least you’d be there to see Esther and Eli marry.” She used the approaching lights of an oncoming car to take advantage of a little eye contact, using the tip of her finger beneath his chin to insure that it held until she was done. “Come to the wedding with me, Jakob. Backs or not, Esther wants you there. Martha wants you there. In the grand scheme of things, does anyone else really matter?”

  “That depends. Do you want me to go as your guest?”

  She heard the slight rasp in his voice and knew he’d finally backed her into a corner with no alternate escape route possible. “Yes.” It was all she could trust herself to say at that moment.

  “Then you’re right. Backs or not, no one else matters.”

  The headlights that, only moments earlier, had allowed her to see Jakob’s face clearly disappeared into darkness and guided their attention to a nondescript four-door sedan parked behind Eli’s wagon. “Hmmm,” Jakob mumbled beneath his breath, “who do we have here?”

  Two figures stepped from the front seat of the car, one small and round, the other tall and lean. But it was the flannel shirt worn by the man on the passenger side of the car that confirmed her initial guess. “That’s Howard and Al. I guess they’ve come to pay their respects.” Then, taking hold of Jakob’s hand, she motioned her head in the direction of the bishop’s house. “Maybe this would be a good time for us to go in, too. Maybe you’ll blend in better if there are more English around when we arrive.”

  “There will be no blending in with Bishop Hershberger, but we can’t sit out here all night. I’m supposed to relieve McKenzie over there in less than an hour.” She followed his gaze to the patrol car parked farther up the road, only to return with his, to the home across the street. “I think I should warn you, though.”

  “Warn me?”

  This time, when he looked at her, there was no tenderness, only concern. “While the state of Pennsylvania mandates that all bodies be embalmed, the simple fact that the Amish wake their deceased in their homes removes the mortician from the equation in terms of”—he stopped and inhaled—“prettying up the body.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He lifted his chin as if he wa
s looking for something above her head then lowered it in time to offer an explanation. “Harley’s eyes won’t be open, but any bruising he sustained during the murder will be in plain view. The Amish don’t use makeup in life; they’re most certainly not going to use it in death, either.”

  “Oh.” For the first time since he mentioned driving out to the viewing together, she wished she’d said no. If she had, she’d be sitting in Diane’s parlor, happily reading away the remaining hour or so before bed.

  No, you wouldn’t. You’d be wearing out the numbers on the calculator trying to find money you don’t have . . .

  “Would you rather wait here?”

  She took a deep breath and held it to a count of ten then squared her shoulders and reached for the door handle. “Considering I’m the one who found Harley after he was strangled to death, the way he looks really shouldn’t come as any big surprise, right?”

  The warmth of his hand on her wrist made her gasp. “If you need to turn away, that’s okay. Either way, I’m right there next to you and we don’t have to stay long.”

  She felt the lump returning to her throat and knew it was one of fear this go-round. “Is it really going to be that bad?”

  “I don’t know. I just know it’ll be different than anything you might be used to.” He tightened his grip a hairbreadth then nodded at her door while simultaneously opening his own. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  She crossed around the car and met him on the approach to the house. “Martha is still inside, you know,” she whispered as they passed his sister’s horse.

  His only answer came by way of a pace that quickened, then slowed, and then quickened again. Step-by-step they made their way to the bishop’s front door. Inside, candles glowed in the window, bathing the traditional front room in muted light.