Tate was standing next to her on one side, Pam on the other, both trying to steady her. Hannah and Jesse remained perched on the edge of the crowd, apparently unsure where they should be.
“Why my office?”
“Because we need somewhere private, and it’s close.” Gordon studied the crowd and shook his head. “Johnstone, you stay in front of me—no fast moves, nothing suspicious, or I’ll cuff you and take you in. Tate, Amber . . . let’s go.”
“You’re not taking Amber without me,” Pam said. “I’m her backup. I need to be there.”
Amber shook her head. “Stay here.” Her voice was calm now, certain.
In that moment, Preston realized she had accepted the situation and begun dealing with it.
“Help calm everyone down. Set up a first-aid station in case anyone was hurt trying to run away from the scene.” Amber’s gaze flicked up and over to Hannah and Jesse. “Do whatever you can to help her.”
“I think . . . I think I should go with you.” Hannah’s voice shook and her face was nearly as pale as her kapp. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“All right.” Gordon nodded toward the men in suits. “On the off chance the poison incidents and this homicide are related, you should join us.”
Before Preston could turn toward Amber’s office, Gordon added, “And the dog stays here.”
It was Pam who came to the rescue. “That is a service dog.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion.”
“Would you deny a blind person his service dog?” Color flowed back into Amber’s face. “Do you want a lawsuit if Preston has a flashback and blacks out? Do you want to be responsible for that?”
“What I want is to process this crime scene and find the murderer.” Gordon’s voice was tired, as if the day had already required more energy than he could possibly muster. He glanced down at Mocha. “Bring her, but keep her out of my way.”
Preston clipped the leash onto Mocha’s collar. He followed Tate and Amber, and noticed that Gordon stayed three steps behind him as they walked toward Amber’s office. Far enough that Preston couldn’t grab his gun. Close enough that he could tackle him if he tried to escape.
But he had no reason to do either.
Because he’d had nothing to do with the murder of Ryan Duvall.
Thirty-Eight
When Amber walked into her office she was nearly overwhelmed with the sense of history repeating itself. This was the same room where she’d confronted Ethan Gray’s killer. From her window she could look out and see where the Pumpkinvine Trail intersected their property—where Owen Esch had been killed and ultimately she’d been confronted by his killer. She could also see the spot where Ryan Duvall lay, but his body was concealed by the emergency workers and officers who had flanked the area.
Three murders in one year.
All unrelated.
All on her watch.
She wanted to sink into her chair and cry out to the Lord. She wanted to ask why and how and what next.
But she didn’t.
She accepted the warm washcloth Tate had brought from the bathroom and used it to wipe the blood from her fingers. There was no removing the dark stain from her shirt, though. It would have to be thrown out. No amount of soaking could remove the spot where Ryan’s blood had seeped onto her.
She breathed a prayer for Ryan’s soul and for his parents. Did they even know yet?
“Are you okay?” Tate asked.
“No. Yes. I’m not sure.” She pulled in a deep breath, and took strength in Tate’s hand at the small of her back, Hannah’s weak smile, and Preston’s steady gaze. She even felt encouraged looking at Gordon Avery’s scowl. He was a good cop. He’d figure this out.
The room was already crowded before the two federal agents squeezed in. Elizabeth wasn’t working in the outer office. She rarely worked on Saturdays but today had offered to fill in at one of the shops during the race. Tate ducked into the reception area and brought in an extra chair. He headed back for more, but the agents waved him away. One took up a position near the window, the other near the door.
“I’m going to be crystal clear.” Gordon glanced out the window, then focused his gaze on their small group. “My instinct tells me to take Preston in for questioning. Preston, I want you to know that I don’t say that lightly, and it’s not personal. We both grew up in this town, and I admire how you’ve turned your life around. But when there’s a homicide and the victim previously issued a restraining order, it would be standard operating procedure to pull in the involved party.”
“Understood.” Preston’s voice held steady.
Amber noticed he stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back, feet slightly apart. Mocha sat beside him, ears perked as she glanced around the room and then back at her master.
“So tell me why I shouldn’t.”
“Because I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been there to shoot Ryan. I was working in the inn. Call Jake. He saw me leave. In fact, he was checking out a guest when I walked out the door.” His gaze went up to the corner of the room, then back to Gordon. “The guest’s last name was Andrews, no . . . Anderson. He saw me leave, too, even said good morning. Verify the time Jake printed the receipt for that guest, and you’ll know I couldn’t have been at the finish line in time to shoot a pistol.”
“How do you know it was a pistol?”
“Because it wasn’t a rifle. We both know I was in the military long enough to know the difference.”
Gordon unclipped his radio, requested the status on the scene, and then directed one of his officers to check out Preston’s story.
“Anything else?”
“Only that Ryan and I were on better terms than when he requested that restraining order.”
“Better terms? In what way?”
“He showed up at my house Thursday night, the same night Amber’s cat was poisoned.”
“Your restraining order specifically states—”
“I know what it states. What was I supposed to do? Call you and have you drag him off my front porch at two in the morning?”
Gordon pulled out his notepad and began to write. Amber knew his day was just beginning, that he’d be working straight through as long as he could—or until he caught the killer. She touched his arm and nodded toward the chair behind her desk.
He hesitated and then took a seat.
“So why did he show up at your place in the middle of the night?”
Preston told him everything about the visit, all the details he’d shared with her and Pam and Hannah.
“Ryan’s parents can verify this?”
“Yes. I didn’t go inside for long when I took him home. I walked up to the door with him, waited in the entryway after his father answered the door and his mother came downstairs. I waited long enough to make sure he was all right, and then I left.”
“Tell me more about this gambling debt you mentioned.”
“I don’t know anything more. Ryan said they paid the balance in Indianapolis.”
“And the people who were looking for him originally, when he still had the debt? Did you see them?”
“I didn’t. That happened before he showed up at my house. But he called me later and told me the debt was settled. His father had paid the balance.”
Gordon grunted but didn’t comment on that.
Silence filled the room, and Amber was suddenly aware of the ticking of a clock, the breeze outside her window, and her own breathing. Finally, she couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“I don’t think it was any mob person who did this. Who kills for money? Then there’s no chance of receiving what you’re owed, and besides the debt was paid.”
“In cash no doubt, which is a difficult thing to track.” Gordon tapped his pen against the notepad.
“I think it was someone different, someone else completely.”
“And why is that?”
“Because Ryan had other problems. It’s the reason Preston con
fronted him to begin with.”
“The girls—” Hannah said.
“The girls.”
“What girls?” Gordon scowled at his notepad.
It seemed inconceivable to Amber that they hadn’t mentioned this to Gordon when they’d met about the poison poet. But then it had seemed that the two situations were unrelated, though they did both start at the same time. Now she wondered why she hadn’t seen it earlier, why she hadn’t put those particular pieces of the puzzle together.
“Ryan was involved with three of the women here at the Village and possibly others.”
Preston shook his head. “He told me that he’d limited himself to Village girls in the last few weeks.”
“Names?” Gordon asked.
“Georgia Small, Letha Keim, Martha Gingerich.”
“The last two are Amish.”
“Correct.”
One of the federal agents, the one who was slightly taller and a good ten pounds heavier, cleared his throat. He’d introduced himself to Gordon, but Amber had trouble remembering his name.
“The name Small—it’s someone we’re investigating as well.”
“Why would you be investigating Georgia?” Amber started to rise from her chair, but Tate put a calming hand on her shoulder.
“We aren’t allowed to share that information, ma’am.” This from the shorter one with the buzz cut.
“We’ll come back to why you’re here and who you’re investigating.” Gordon turned his attention once more to Amber.
“You said you know who killed Ryan. Did you see someone pull the trigger?”
“Well, no—”
“Did someone confess to you?”
“Of course not. It just happened.”
“Then you don’t know who did it.” Gordon held up his hand to stop her protests and answered a squawk on his radio. Everyone in the room could hear the officer confirming that Preston’s story was true. Gordon uttered a gruff “Got it” and re-clipped his radio on the front of his shirt.
“Your alibi checked out.” He jerked his head to the left, motioning for the federal agent at the door to step aside. “You’re free to go.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Did I ask you?”
“I can help. I spent time with Ryan recently. It could be that what he was involved in is related to his murder.”
“And I expect you to give your statement to one of the officers downstairs.”
“How are you going to get statements from everyone who was at the race?” Amber asked. “Some of them left already, before you even arrived on the scene.”
Gordon was making a list on his notepad. He paused, pen hovering above the page. “Few of those statements will be useful anyway. They’ve all had a chance to talk and compare notes. What they saw is tainted by what they’ve heard other people claim to have seen.”
“What will you do?” Tate asked.
“The best we can. In a situation like this, where there’s a large number of witnesses and it’s impossible to retain them all, we hope someone with credible knowledge contacts us—”
“It was one of the women. I know it was.” Amber leaned forward, her hands on her desk, looking directly into Gordon’s eyes. “It’s been crazy around here the last few weeks. I thought we had it under control. I thought with you handling the poison poet, that I could handle this. But I didn’t. I failed Ryan—”
“You can’t possibly blame yourself . . .” Tate’s voice was both steady and certain. He didn’t blame her, that much she knew.
“No. No, I don’t blame myself. I blame whoever pulled the trigger. But it seems to me that one of those women decided to take matters into her own hands.”
“Because . . .” Gordon tapped his pen against the notepad.
“Because they felt slighted. They were hurt. People do terrible things when they misjudge a situation, Gordon. When their heart’s desire is involved. We know that from experience.”
“So you’re saying Georgia or Letha or Martha could have—”
“Not Letha,” Amber said. “She left town yesterday.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Amber turned to stare at Hannah. She had been standing silently toward the back of the room, her arms wrapped around her waist as if she could protect herself against the dangers of the world, Tate’s camera strap still around her neck.
Though her cheeks were stained with tears, she stepped forward and repeated, “No, she didn’t. Letha’s still here.”
Thirty-Nine
Hannah’s heart was overwhelmed with the tragedy of what had just occurred. She felt as if sorrow was literally weighing her down, and her desire to sit, or rather lie huddled, was nearly her undoing. Instead she’d insisted on coming with the group, with Amber and Preston and Tate. She’d insisted on being involved because several of the things she’d seen that morning had bothered her. She’d spent the last few minutes watching the group, listening, and praying. The warning bells she had ignored all morning were tearing at her heart. Maybe if she’d spoken up earlier, this wouldn’t have happened.
Now her friends were staring at her, as was Sergeant Avery and the federal agents—Watkins and Snyder.
“What do you mean she’s here? She left for Pinecraft yesterday.” Amber had turned in her chair and was studying her with a concerned look.
“Ya. She told us that, and I thought she had. But moments before . . . before Ryan was shot, I had to run back to the inn to pick up the finalist ribbons. As I was leaving, I saw her. She was walking toward the finish line.”
“You’re sure about this?” Gordon had stood. He looked as if he might dash out of the room at any moment.
Hannah fingered the camera strap around her neck. “Ya. I’m sure it was her. I’d know Letha anywhere.”
“Any idea where Martha Gingerich was at the time of the shooting?” Gordon sat back down.
“Working in the inn,” Amber murmured.
“Nein. She wasn’t.” Hannah felt the heat crawl up her neck to warm her cheeks when everyone once again turned to stare at her. “When I went into the inn, Jake was working the front desk alone. I asked him why, thinking maybe I should stay and help. But he assured me he could handle it. When I asked why he was alone, he said Martha had something come up and . . . and she had to leave. Martha told him she wasn’t sure if she’d be back.”
A shocked silence filled the room, finally broken by Gordon. “All right. So two of the ladies you think might have a motive to do this were here, probably on the scene at the moment Ryan died.”
“They didn’t do it.” Preston hadn’t spoken since Gordon told him to leave. Now he said, “I saw both Letha and Martha after the shooting. They were standing near me, weeping and holding on to one another.”
“They could still be guilty,” Gordon said. “They wouldn’t be the first killers to experience remorse.”
“If you’d seen them, you’d know they are innocent. That kind of grief can’t be faked. In addition, I heard Letha say she’d stayed so she could tell Ryan that she loved him.” Preston shook his head. “She also said she’d refunded her bus ticket. She couldn’t bear to leave. Besides—why would they stick around if they’d done it?”
“I’ve seen stranger things.” Gordon once again unclipped his radio. “Can you describe Letha and Martha to me?”
Amber gave him a fairly thorough description, which he relayed to someone still at the scene. As he re-clipped the radio, he muttered, “Sounds like any of a thousand young Amish women.”
“What about Pam?” Tate was still standing behind Amber’s chair. “She’s out there, and she knows what the girls look like.”
Gordon didn’t even hesitate. “Amber, can you contact Pam? Ask her to find both ladies and take them directly to Cherry Brookstone.”
While Amber was texting Pam on her phone, Gordon radioed Cherry and told her to check the women’s hands for gunpowder residue.
Hannah listened to all of this activity in a fog of disb
elief. But there was one thing she was sure of—her friends were incapable of murder.
Gordon turned his attention back to those assembled in Amber’s office. “That only leaves Georgia. Anyone know her whereabouts?”
“We had gone to the bakery to question her . . .” Watkins, the larger federal agent cleared his throat. “About a different matter.”
“Poison,” Amber said.
Instead of confirming that, Watkins added, “She wasn’t there. She’d gone out to watch the race, which is why we were standing at the sidelines.”
But Gordon wasn’t listening to the agent. He was staring at the camera around Hannah’s neck.
“What is that?”
Hannah looked down, surprised, as if she were seeing the device for the first time.
“That’s mine,” Tate explained. “I was taking pictures of the winners, but handed it to Hannah when we all reached Ryan’s body.”
Pulling the camera strap from around her neck, suddenly eager to be rid of it, Hannah caught it in the strings of her kapp. Tate freed it for her and handed it to Gordon.
“Where were you standing?” Gordon asked.
“South, so I could catch shots of the runners as they came in.”
Hannah had never owned a camera, but some of her friends had owned one during their rumspringa. She understood what Gordon was doing as he held the device and stared at it, thumbing through the buttons on the camera. He was looking back through the pictures, hoping to gain an understanding of what had occurred less than an hour before. When he let out a low whistle, goose bumps peppered her arms. He’d found something, maybe something that would help them catch Ryan’s killer.
“Talk me through this,” Gordon said.
Tate moved around behind the desk. “That’s the first group of runners that came through the arch. There’s the second. And there’s Ryan’s group.”
“This person.” Gordon tapped the screen. “She was in your way?”
“I guess. It was pretty crowded, so I had to continually move around to get good shots.”
“But you’re facing Ryan’s group here. Is there any way to enlarge this?”
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