“Is that so?”
He cast her a side look, without turning his head. It reminded her of a gator.
“I’m surprised your people could afford it.”
There it was again. Did he even realize he was being patronizing? Agatha felt her hackles rise. Eric Thompson seemed like a rude fellow to her, but then again perhaps he didn’t realize that he came across that way.
Agatha took a deep breath, envisioned herself knitting, calmed, and asked, “You’re familiar with Amish?”
“A little. I’m working on a book—it’s crime fiction, and that subculture was part of my research.”
“I see.” Though she didn’t. “The Amish community here is relatively new. A local heiress, Mrs. Klaassen, had distant family members who were Mennonite. A few years ago, she learned a group of Amish families were considering a move to Texas. Wanting to encourage that, she offered quite a few land tracts at below market value.”
“You certainly have a prime spot.” This was tossed at her rather like an accusation.
Agatha was deciding she didn’t much care for the man in front of her. There was something about him, something more than his curt words and flung glances, that rubbed her the wrong way. Not a charitable admission, but an honest one.
She couldn’t resist the urge to defend her ownership of the property. “My brother, Samuel, moved to Texas with the first group. He’s the one who started the B&B.”
“Huh.” Eric looked back at the main house, studied it a moment, then shrugged, as if he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to stay in it, let alone purchase it. “But what do people do here?”
“Hunt is well known for its hiking and fishing, since we’re located at a juncture of the North and South Forks of the Guadalupe.”
“That’s the Guadalupe?” He motioned toward the water. “Not much of a river if you ask me.”
Agatha didn’t know how to answer that, and she definitely felt as if she’d spent enough time with the Thompsons. “If you need anything else, please let us know.”
She turned to go, but Eric wasn’t quite finished.
“The land across the river isn’t developed.”
“The majority of tracts on that side of the river are owned by various non-profit organizations.”
Eric scoffed. Agatha wasn’t sure she’d ever heard anyone actually scoff before, but that had to be the sound Eric made.
“A waste of prime real estate if you ask me.”
“The children don’t think so. The nonprofits have cabins and meeting halls and such. Their property is used in the summer as a camp for youth.”
“And in the winter?”
“Marriage retreats, corporate meetings, that sort of thing.”
“So it’s not for sale?”
“Nein. It’s not.”
But as she walked away, Agatha thought she heard Eric Thompson mutter, “Everything’s for sale. The only question is the price.”
Chapter Six
Henry was standing next to the shuffleboard courts with Emma when an old green pick-up truck passed them. “Looks like an early 1970s Ford.”
“My son has been a bad influence on you,” Emma declared, shielding her eyes from the sun to get a better look at the truck. “How you both could be interested in Englisch trucks—old dilapidated ones at that—is beyond me.”
“It’s a man thing. Doesn’t matter if you’re Englisch or Amish. Remember the old antique tractors they’d gather together in Shipshewana?”
“I do indeed. Some were steam.” Emma shook her head. “Looked dangerous to me.”
“Farming has been known to be dangerous, for sure and certain. As for me, I’m glad we still use horses and a plow, but that doesn’t stop me from looking when a classic Ford trundles by.”
Emma stood on tiptoe to kiss Henry’s cheek, sending a flush of pleasure through him.
“Beautiful woman and beautiful weather. Gotte is gut to this old man.”
Emma shook her head in mock exasperation at the compliment. “Say that after I beat you at another game of shuffleboard.”
Which Henry would have liked to have seen. He was moderately good at sending the disc down the court, but Emma? Emma could go professional. Was there a professional shuffleboard team? He didn’t know.
Unfortunately their second game didn’t happen. Tony pulled into his driveway, poked his head through Agatha’s hedge, and said, “Lieutenant Bannister will be here in ten minutes. Care to join us?”
“If you need me...”
“We do. Come on in the back door when you’re ready.” And with that, Tony disappeared back through the hedge.
“Saved by the bell,” Emma murmured. “You were worried about losing...again.”
Her tone was light, but the lines across her forehead indicated she was apprehensive about his interview with the Hunt police.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s our vacation.”
“No worries, Henry. Go and help as you can.”
“What will you do?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s sunny and sixty-two degrees.”
“I heard there was snow in Monte Vista.”
“Indeed, which is why I plan to enjoy today in the Texas Hill Country. I think I’ll take my knitting to Agatha’s garden and bask in the afternoon sun.”
So it was that Henry found himself making his way through the hedge and into Tony’s kitchen. He hadn’t noticed much about Tony’s house when they’d been there earlier with Agatha. Now he took the time to study the room. It was clean and sparse—rather like an Amish kitchen. He supposed that old bachelors and Amish had some things in common. Only Tony wasn’t an old bachelor. He was a widower, same as Henry.
Sitting down and accepting the cup of coffee Tony pushed into his hands, Henry realized they were similar in another way. They’d both peered over into the dark side—Tony because it was his job, and Henry because of his gift.
“Did the officers retrieve the bullet from the tree?”
“They did. The Medical Examiner thinks that it certainly could have caused the type of injury Nathan died from, but of course that’s a preliminary conclusion.”
“How will they know for certain?”
“Blood residue on the bullet. It’ll take a few days to get those results back.”
They both heard the sound of a car parking out front and the slamming of doors.
“About Bannister,” Henry cautioned. “He can be a bit arrogant, and his manners are not the best. Still, he’s a good cop. At least I think he is.”
“Gotcha.”
The doorbell rang, and then Tony was ushering in the lieutenant as well as the female officer who had given them a ride home the day before.
“Henry, this is Lieutenant Bannister and Officer Griffin, who you’ve already met.”
Henry nodded hello to the Lieutenant. The man looked to be in his early fifties, and if Henry wasn’t mistaken, had served in the military. His hair was buzzed short, his posture ramrod straight, and his uniform could have passed the toughest of inspections.
Griffin, like the day before, had her hair pulled back with a single elastic band. Henry would guess her to be much younger, maybe even still in her twenties. She somehow managed to display skepticism with her every move. Henry remembered his own self-confidence at that age and almost laughed. When he was in his twenties, he still had no idea how much he didn’t know.
The officers passed on coffee and soon all four of them were seated at the table.
Bannister opened with, “Tony has told me about your drawing ability, but I’d like to hear an explanation from you.”
So Henry went through the same summary of events he’d told Tony previously—being hit by the baseball as a child, being warned not to use his gift by his parents, and then many years later—involved in Betsy Troyer’s investigation.
“In fact, weren’t you arrested for Betsy’s murder?” Griffin peered at him, as if daring him to talk his way out of that.
“I was. A few
days before her disappearance, I had been to speak with Betsy—at the request of her parents. Later, when I was able to reproduce what I’d seen in her room in exact detail, the police thought I must have been involved.”
“But you weren’t.” Tony tapped the envelope of drawings, which was sitting in the middle of the table. “In fact, your drawings pointed the police to Gene Wooten. Subsequently, he was arrested, tried, and found guilty of Betsy’s murder.”
“Yes, he was.”
Those had been terrible days for Henry. He didn’t draw again for many years...not until a small group had moved with him to begin a community in Monte Vista, Colorado. He’d made sure they all were aware of his gift before they’d agreed to join him, and in the end it had been a good thing that he’d done so. Emma had been among the families that made the move to start the new community.
“I did a little research on savants,” Bannister admitted. “Still, I can’t say I understand it. What I do know for certain is that it’s unusual for a person to be involved in two murder cases, but you’ve been involved in four—one in Goshen and three in Monte Vista.”
Henry shrugged. “Five if we count Nathan’s death.”
“How do you explain that?” Griffin asked.
“I don’t. I can’t.” Henry had to fight the urge to answer defensively. He certainly hadn’t planned to spend his vacation this way, but saying so was stating the obvious and only served to make him look uncomfortable. He’d learned long ago that the less said when the police were questioning you, the better.
“I want you to walk me through the drawings.” Bannister reached for the envelope. “The sequence, your location, everything.”
So Henry did. He didn’t find Lieutenant Bannister to be friendly, but neither was he openly hostile. That changed once they’d finished with the drawings...
“Are you familiar with the term serial killers, Mr. Lapp?”
Henry frowned. “I suppose. Fortunately, it’s not something that we’ve dealt with in our Plain community.”
“Forensic scholars tell us that there are three categories of serial killers—organized, disorganized and mixed.” Bannister’s expression was grave, his voice devoid of emotion, almost as if he were reciting facts into an empty void. “The last two often return to the scene of the crime. They worry that they’ve missed something, or sometimes they’re simply fascinated with the investigation. It’s often how we’re able to catch them, by looking at pictures of the crowds surrounding the victim.”
Bannister turned to stare at Henry, his eyes cold and unblinking.
“But there was no crowd.” Henry met Bannister’s gaze. “There was myself, Tony, Agatha, and my fraa Emma.”
“Correct. I think we can eliminate Tony as a suspect, and few if any serial killers are women.”
“Which leaves me.”
“Yes, it leaves you.” Bannister’s lips pressed into a straight, flat line. He leaned forward a fraction of an inch, and now emotion flashed across his expression—anger, impatience, and disgust. He acted as if he was restraining himself from clamoring over the table and grabbing Henry by the suspenders. “Did you do it? Did you kill Nathan King?”
“I did not.” Henry knew that Bannister expected him to expound upon his innocence, but what was the point? The entire conversation was ludicrous, though not—in Henry’s experience—unexpected.
Bannister pushed away from the table, stood, and skewered Henry with one final glance. Officer Griffin, who had been silent throughout the exchange, popped up beside him. Bannister warned him to stay in the area, and left.
“That was awkward,” Tony noted.
“For Bannister, I suspect, and possibly for you.”
“Henry, I know you’re innocent. I was with you, remember? Besides, I’ve dealt with my share of killers—and you’re not it.”
“Indeed.” Henry asked. “So will Bannister use the drawings?”
Tony shrugged. “I hope so. Right now, he’s guessing.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
“According to the novelist Agatha Christie, unless you’re good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”
“So it’s part of the process.”
“It is.”
“In that case, I believe I’ll go and join Emma in Agatha’s garden. There’s some whittling I’ve been meaning to do.”
“Whittling?”
“Ya. For sure and certain. I make turkey calls, little toys for the grandkinner, that sort of thing.”
“Bannister thinks you’re a serial killer, and you’re going to go and whittle.”
“Be like the teakettle; when it’s up to its neck in hot water, it sings.”
“You’re going to sing while you whittle?”
Henry stood and clapped Tony on the shoulder. He seemed to be a good person, and he looked so very worried that Henry wanted to ease the man’s concern. Plus there were his obvious feelings for Agatha to consider. “Perhaps I will, my friend. Perhaps I will.”
AGATHA DECIDED TO DIRECT her mare Doc to Nathan King’s first. She’d thought it funny that her bruder had named a mare Doc. At first, she hadn’t understood the name at all. Then her bishop had shared that Samuel loved the soda pop Dr. Pepper, first made in the small Texas town of Dublin.
Riding in the buggy, Doc trotting merrily down the country road, Agatha could almost forget the reason for her visit. The smell of the casserole fresh from the oven filled the buggy, sunshine poured through the window, and the day was warm enough that she barely needed the sweater she wore. How she was learning to love Texas. In Indiana there was already snow on the ground. She couldn’t claim to miss shoveling snow or the way the cold temperatures had made her arthritis ache. She certainly understood the reason so many snow-birds chose to winter in the Texas Hill County.
Since Nathan was unmarried, he still lived on his parents’ property. Of course she knew Nathan’s parents. Their community was small enough that everyone knew everyone else, but she didn’t know them well. Titus and Naomi King were a good bit older than she was. In fact, she might have heard someone say that both Nathan’s father and mother had recently turned ninety.
Titus was sitting on the front porch, surrounded by several of the men from their congregation.
“I’m quite sorry for your loss, Titus.”
“Gotte’s wille, Agatha. But thank you for the sentiment.”
His eyes were red-rimmed, and his shoulders slumped. Surely all things were God’s will, since God was God. He was the creator of the universe. What could pass without His notice? And yet, Agatha understood that knowing someone was in the hand of God and missing them were two very different things.
She squeezed Titus’s hand, then made her way into the house. As she walked inside, Eunice Yutzy walked out. Eunice’s brother had moved to Hunt with the first group, and she had soon followed. As far as Agatha was aware, the woman had never been married. She was the same size as Agatha, which was to say a little round for her height, with blue eyes that darted about a lot and freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“Real tragedy,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“You’re the one who found him?”
“Ya.” Agatha thought of explaining that she had been with Tony, Emma, and Henry, but decided she didn’t have the time. “I need to get this casserole inside.”
“Sure, ya.” But Agatha had barely stepped toward the door when Eunice grasped her arm. “Be careful, Agatha. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
And then, quick as a fox, the woman was gone.
It was an odd comment to make, but then Eunice had always struck Agatha as being a tad off kilter.
Naomi sat at the kitchen table, alone. Her skin was paper thin, her hair pure white, and Naomi’s frame seemed to grow a tad smaller each year. She glanced up when Agatha walked into the room, but she didn’t speak.
“Naomi, I could have come earlier if I’d known you were alone.” Agatha hurried across the kitchen
, set the casserole in the oven and turned the temperature to warm. “Gina’s cheesy chicken casserole will be perfect for dinner, and I see you have plenty of fresh bread.”
Loaves lined the counter—more than Titus and Naomi could eat in a month, but there would be family and the gathering of church members before and after the funeral. In fact, where was everyone?
She poured Naomi a cup of coffee, grabbed a platter of cookies, and sat down at the table, pushing the coffee toward Nathan’s mom.
“Why are you alone?”
She didn’t think Naomi would answer, but after a moment she looked up and admitted, “I sent them away. Asked if I could just...spend a few minutes by myself.”
“Would you like me to go?”
“Nein. Turns out the pain is the same, whether you’re alone or in a gathering.”
“Naomi, I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault, Agatha.”
“And not what I meant. I meant that I’m sorry this shadow has fallen across your doorstep. Nathan was a gut man, and I know that you are going to miss him terribly.”
“The circle will be unbroken.” She spoke mechanically, as if she were quoting lessons she had yet to grasp.
“Indeed it will be. Until then, we will be beside you, Naomi. We don’t even have to talk if you’d rather not. I brought my bag with knitting.”
Naomi nodded as if that was preferable, but Agatha had barely begun purling the row of pale blue yarn she was using to make a baby blanket, when Naomi reached across the table and squeezed her hands.
“He was upset the last few days.”
“Nathan?”
“One of his goats had died, a doe that he’d had for about two years. Called her Jenny.”
“I didn’t know female goats were called does.”
“Ya.” Naomi smiled through her tears. “He treated those goats like they were his children—said they were Gotte’s creatures placed in his care.”
“What happened to Jenny? Had she been sick?”
“Not at all. That was the strange thing. Nathan would lose one now and then—animals die for a variety of reasons, but not because he didn’t care for them. He’d even take them into that Englisch vet.”
Dead Broke Page 6
