Gideon groaned. What was it about belonging? Don’t I belong here just as much as Reginald?
As though reading his mind, Henry explained. “Reginald is the son of Luva Smithfield. You know Luva, don’t you?”
“Everyone knows Luva.”
“She’s a prominent citizen here. Her late husband donated money to every charity in this area. Benches at the local park have his name on them in memory.”
Gideon knew where the sheriff was headed with this talk. The Smithfields were the cornerstone of Twin Branches. Reginald was a Smithfield. It was going to be tough to put a member of such a renowned family behind bars for life.
“Everybody likes the Smithfields.” Henry drew a deep breath and ran a beefy hand over his chin.
“No,” Gideon interjected. “Everyone likes their money.”
Henry coughed a few more times and when his throat was cleared, stood. Using both hands, he pulled his pants up at the waist. “Well. Well.” After that, he seemed uncertain as to what else to say.
“Justice still prevails, even among the Smithfields, doesn’t it?” Gideon searched the sheriff’s face.
“Yes, of course. He will be tried by a jury. Just like anybody else would be and is.”
Minutes later when Gideon stood to leave his office, Henry bit his lip and then murmured a few lines which Gideon found inaudible. Finally, as he walked Gideon out the door, he looked him in the eye. “Things really got out of hand up there at that cabin. I wish it could have gone down differently.” Fingering his glasses, he added, “Reginald’s in custody now. He will have to answer for this.”
Gideon guessed he should feel some comfort in knowing that the loud-talking Reginald was off the streets. But he felt none.
His brother was still dead.
Gideon’s apartment was cold, damp, and smelled of lost causes. Weary from the day’s events, he sat at the kitchen table and thought of the apple orchard and the weeping willow Moriah had enjoyed as a boy. He’d only seen his mother cry twice in her life. Once, when her father died. The other time was when Moriah had been bitten by one of the pigs on the farm. After that, she hated pigs and didn’t want to have any.
He drank two glasses of water from the kitchen faucet and then downed another. The ringing phone pierced his thoughts and he debated whether or not to pick up. He was glad that he did; it was Mari.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Thanks.”
“Henry said that his body has been released.”
“I guess so.”
“Is it at the funeral home now?”
Was he supposed to call to arrange for this? He rubbed his temple and wondered why death was so complicated. “I think so.”
“Kiki and I will be glad to go up to Pennsylvania with you for the funeral.”
At her words, Gideon’s eyes clouded. “Thank you.”
“Have you told your parents?”
“I will.”
“They need to know, Gideon.”
“I suppose they do.”
Tentatively, she asked, “Do you want me to come over there now? I could help you.”
He was a Miller. Millers were strong, capable, born with fortitude. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, please.”
Before she arrived, he knew he had to make the inevitable phone call. Seated on the edge of the sofa, he pulled his laptop onto the coffee table. He did a Google search for the church Moriah had mentioned and found the number. Covenant Church in Harrisburg. Maybe now he knew why Moriah had brought it up.
Pastor Nate Mitchell’s secretary answered the phone at the third ring. She said the preacher was busy until Gideon cried, “My brother was murdered.” After a moment of silence, Gideon had the pastor on the line.
“Hello, Gideon,” the pastor said. “My secretary told me your awful news. I am so sorry to hear this. What happened?”
“Moriah was killed. Moriah Miller, my younger brother.” Gideon choked back the fear that came from hearing his own voice speak those words.
“I remember Moriah, Gideon. How did this happen?”
“He was twenty-one. He was only twenty-one—” Suddenly, Gideon halted, as though he couldn’t form any more words. Although he opened his mouth, his vocal cords would not produce a sound.
“I’m so sorry to hear this. That is young.”
Gideon, sapped of energy, sat speechless. This was embarrassing.
“What would you like me to do?” Nate’s voice gently asked.
“His wish was to be buried on our farm in Carlisle. It’s there, east of Carlisle, just before you get to …” Gideon’s mind went blank. The names for all of the old landmarks escaped him today. Finally, “Could you perform the service?” He hoped the pastor wouldn’t shoot off a bunch of questions, beginning with, “Why do you want me to conduct a funeral for an Amish man? Wouldn’t an Amish bishop be the one to do that?” Gideon didn’t want to have to explain that since Moriah had broken from the community, he doubted a bishop would be willing.
Pastor Nate only asked, “Are you in Carlisle now?”
“Moriah and I are in North Carolina. But I’ll be in Carlisle soon.”
“Which funeral home will you be using? Do you want to have the service at our church?”
“No. Just a graveside service. That’s all.” Gideon did not see the need for a formal service inside a building like the English held. Perhaps his Amish roots weren’t so far from him after all. “He wanted to be buried on our property,” he repeated. “At the orchard.” In his mind, Gideon saw the rows of fourteen graves on the grassy spot to the left of the orchard. By now, he was certain more graves had been added to the number.
“Okay. I’ll be glad to do that.”
“Thank you. It will probably be about a week from now.” Gideon knew if he could, he would prolong the service till next year. “I was thinking at two.” He hoped he wasn’t being too demanding, so to soften his words he added, “If that works for you.”
“Which day would you like the funeral to take place?”
Gideon felt silly. He’d been so adamant about having the service around two when the day might be warmer, that he’d neglected to suggest a day first. “Uh, well, what day is today?”
“Today is Thursday.”
“Saturday?” Didn’t people have funerals on Saturdays? Would that be enough time for the local funeral home to prepare the body? Thoughts collided through his mind. He wished there was some manual on what he was expected to do. Of course, he had to buy a coffin. The reality of that hit him hard. What kind of coffins did the Smithfield Funeral Home sell? Reginald Smithfield killed my brother. He supplied the bullet; his family should supply the coffin.
“Which Saturday? This one?”
“Yes. No. No.” He rose to check the calendar on his wall. “The Saturday after this one.”
“Saturday, the second of February at two,” said the pastor. “I’m making a note of that. When will you be arriving? If you could stop by and see me before the service, we can go over any last-minute details.”
Gideon felt the weight of the day pressing over his shoulders. “I’ll call you when we get into town.”
With those arrangements taken care of, Gideon knew he had one more phone call to make. Mari had insisted that he call his parents. While many Amish had phones in their barns—well apart from their living quarters—he knew his father would own no such device of the devil. With the help of the Internet, he found the number to the furniture store just two miles from their farm. He punched in the area code and then stopped. He needed a glass of water first.
He noted the time on the kitchen clock and wondered where Mari was. She’d said she’d be right over, or had she? Perhaps she had to make dinner for Kiki first. Suddenly, panic seared his skin. What if something had happened to her? What if she had been in an accident? Gripping the side of the sink, he tried to push aside his mounting fear. “God,” he said, “I promise to never be selfish again. I will be nicer to everyone and I
won’t get so angry about everything. I’ll go to church. I’ll cut back on those Twix bars. Just don’t let anything happen to her.” Silly, he scolded himself. You have never been one to bargain with God. He felt low, embarrassed, grateful that no one but God had heard his prayer.
He wondered if the furniture store was still open at five-fifteen on a Wednesday. He forgot the hours Joseph Swartz kept. But the old man’s voice was still the same when he answered the phone.
“Gideon Miller! You have blessed me today. How good to hear from you.”
His tone changed when Gideon asked if Mr. Swartz would tell his parents about the funeral.
“Moriah? Young Moriah Miller?”
“Yes,” breathed Gideon and as he admitted it, once again he had a hard time believing it himself.
“He’s dead?” Mr. Swartz’s accented voice had a faraway tone to it.
“He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Gideon wished he hadn’t provided the manner in which Moriah died. It wasn’t any of Mr. Swartz’s business.
“I will let your parents know. I’ll go over there right now.”
Gideon didn’t want to trouble the old gentleman. He looked out the window and knew that if it was dark in Twin Branches, it was even darker in a region where electricity was scarce. “It can wait till morning.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Swartz. “Not this, son. This is something you can’t wait till morning to tell parents.”
31
Mari was a lifesaver. When he saw her standing at his door, he quelled the urge to wrap his arms around her and do what he had only done so far in his dreams—plant a kiss on her beautiful lips. The very thought of kissing her brought him joy. Quickly, he brushed aside his emotions. Moriah was dead. How could he feel anything but sadness right now?
“Sorry I’m late. Kiki had math troubles.”
He took her coat and led her to the living room sofa. “You should have brought her along,” he said as they sat down.
She shook her head. “I had to bribe her to stay put and do her homework.”
“What did you bribe her with?”
“A pizza from Dominoes. They were slow in delivering it. That’s why it took me so long to get here.”
“I’m just glad you’re here. Have you eaten?”
“Don’t worry about me. How about you?”
He tried to remember if he had eaten today. “I think I had something earlier.”
“I want you to come to the tearoom and eat tomorrow. The meal will be on me.”
“Thank you.” He lowered his eyes from her face to his nails. It had been days since he’d worked on a car and yet the skin on his fingertips still held that mechanic’s perpetual mark of grease. Moriah had said no woman would want a man with so much grime. Yet Moriah had been terribly dirty, and Tamara, for whatever reason, was attracted to him. “He took Reginald’s girlfriend. Why?”
“She must have liked him. She had a choice and she chose him over Reginald.”
“And because of that, everyone is against Moriah.”
“No one blames Moriah,” she said gently.
“They don’t think Reginald’s at fault either,” said Gideon.
“I think they do. He killed Moriah. The evidence is there.”
“Have they really proved that it was Reginald’s gun that killed him?”
“Angie saw him from the front yard and overheard him and the other two talk about getting rid of a body. You were there when she told Henry that.”
He had been there, and yet, he wondered if the verdict would stick. Reginald was a Smithfield, one of Luva’s children. What if she bribed Henry to make it look like Moriah was at fault. Gideon leaned against the back of the sofa and let his eyes close.
“You need sleep.”
He forced his eyes opened. “No, no. I want to hear you tell me what happened. Again.”
“Okay. This is what I know. Tamara admits that both Reginald and Moriah were at the cabin where the meth lab was. She said there was an argument over her. Moriah stood up to Reginald, claiming that he was dating Tamara and that Reginald needed to get out of the cabin. Reginald told him to get lost. Moriah—much too high from meth, according to Tamara—punched Reginald in the jaw. Reginald hit him back, called him a bunch of derogatory names. There was a big fight, and then Reginald just pulled his gun out of his back pocket and shot Moriah in the chest. Tamara is a witness, and two others who were at the cabin said pretty much the same thing. Reginald’s been brought in and he confessed he killed Moriah.”
Gideon felt the heat rise in his face. “But they think Moriah deserved it. You know, he was with Reginald’s girlfriend.”
“I don’t think so at all. Deep down they know Reginald let his temper get the best of him. He’s guilty. They’ve all seen how he can be. It’s just hard because at one point, Reginald was well thought of.”
“Why?” Gideon had never seen any good in the loud man who flung around racial slurs.
“Well, he’s one of them. He’s raised here. I told you that before.”
“Are you getting exasperated, Mari?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve had to repeat yourself a lot over the last few days.”
“That’s okay. I know your brain has to be fuzzy.”
He sighed. Yes, it was. His brain seemed to be covered with a heavy morning fog similar to the kind that shadowed mountain peaks.
Hours later, when he laid down to rest his eyes, he finally fell into a deep sleep. In his dreams, Moriah was alive, healthy, whole.
When Angie Smithfield’s father told him that there was such a thing as a particle board coffin, Gideon said he’d take it. The coffin weighed sixty pounds when empty and was held together with hinges and a plastic clasp. The inside was laid with a blue cotton cloth, not silk or satin. A coffin like this was more like what he’d seen used on the farm to bury family members. Nothing fancy, nothing ornate. A plain box for plain people. This coffin resonated with him, with those roots he thought he had long buried.
On Friday morning, before the sun had a chance to peek over the Smoky Mountains, they set out. Seated in a black hearse, rented from Angie’s parents’ funeral home, Kiki, Mari, and Gideon headed to Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
As Kiki said, “A promise is a promise.” That weeping willow was calling Moriah’s name.
Mari had asked Amos and Della to run the tearoom for a few days, and willingly they agreed they could handle the job. When Gideon asked Ormond if he could have some time off, Ormond said, “Well, it’s about time you realize you need to take a break from the shop. Of course!” Then he handed Gideon some folded bills. “For gas and food and whatever else you need,” he said. Lifting his arms to encircle Gideon, he gave him a tight hug and muttered into his shoulder, “I hate this for you. Hurry back.”
When Gideon counted the bills, the total came to eight hundred dollars.
As planned, Mari had picked up the hearse last evening and parked it in front of her house. In the morning, she drove to Gideon’s apartment complex to pick him up. Gideon opened the door to the black shiny vehicle as Kiki greeted him from the backseat, her left hand holding Yoneko. “Good morning. Hurry inside. It’s cold.”
Formal drapes made from a tan velvet-like material hung in arches around the back windows of the hearse, reminding Gideon of old movie theater décor. The words to an obscure children’s song sprang into his thoughts. Did you ever think when a hearse goes by that you might be the next to die?
Mari said, “We put our bags in the back. You can open it.”
Gideon walked to the rear of the hearse and opened the back. He tried to avoid looking at the coffin that was lying on the right side. Seeing Kiki and Mari’s luggage, he placed his duffel bag by them. He had a sudden image of that bag. He’d carried his things inside it the last time he’d been in Pennsylvania. That had been fifteen years ago when he was determined to leave his life there … for good.
Gideon shut the door
to the back of the vehicle and made his way to the passenger seat. “I never realized hearses have backseats,” he said.
“They usually don’t,” said Mari, the streetlights casting their orange glow to her face. “I asked for this one. It’s a little longer than the other two the Smithfields have. Angie’s mom said it is a one-of-a-kind vehicle.”
Kiki waved a box of blackberry Nutri-Grain bars at Gideon, asking if he’d like one. “They’re blackberry, which is your favorite, right?”
Still Life in Shadows Page 22
