The Search

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  All of them would have to be at their best. Frannie was in a terrible way, for sure. Though the EMTs had checked her pulse and heartbeat and had started an IV drip, they had done little else.

  Well, as far as Beth could tell.

  After they’d very gingerly put Frannie on a stretcher, then carefully carried her to the ambulance, Beth asked why they hadn’t done more for Frannie’s hurt face.

  “We can’t take a chance on making things worse, miss,” a burly man in a crisp white shirt explained. “We want to wait for the surgeons at the hospital.”

  What he said made sense. But as she was standing off to the side while the EMTs efficiently packed up the ambulance, she heard them whisper. And with each technical word and warning, the knot in her stomach grew bigger.

  She figured it wasn’t going to take a surgeon to determine that things with Frannie’s right eye were really bad. There was a good size cut on the outside of it and a whole lot of swelling, too.

  After the siren’s blare faded, and she said goodbye to the few neighbors who had run up to see what was the matter, she went back inside Frannie’s little yellow bed-and-breakfast. When she closed the heavy oak door behind her, she sighed, strangely discomfited by the sudden silence. With Frannie, one never had to worry too much about things being quiet.

  Frannie was a gregarious sort, to be sure. Pleasant to be around, ready with an easy smile and conversation. Perfect for the host of a B&B.

  With some dismay, she was reminded of just how different Frannie’s manner was from her own. With children, she felt always easy and free, full of laughter.

  With adults, though, she’d always been far more reserved.

  “Well, you don’t need to be good at chatting with strangers to be good at cleaning,” Beth chided herself. In the midst of the commotion, she’d promised she’d hold down the fort until Frannie could come back. She was determined to keep her promise even though she didn’t have the first idea of what to do to keep things running.

  A quick search located some kitchen gloves. After her hands were protected, she got to work picking up large pieces of glass, sweeping up shards, and wiping up the blood that seemed to have spattered everywhere.

  Not wanting to risk the food, she threw all the mini quiches, cooked and uncooked, into the trash. Just thinking about making sixty pastry cups again made her exhausted.

  “Well, there’s no hope for that,” she told herself reasonably as she put out more margarine to make a new batch. Of course, that brought forth a whole new nest of problems. She could cook just about anything . . . as long as she had a recipe.

  Did Frannie even use a recipe book? From the time she and Frannie first met, her best friend had cooked well. Not once had Beth paid attention to how Frannie had known what to do. Beth had been as uninterested in Frannie’s recipes as Frannie had been in Beth’s many babysitting jobs.

  But now she didn’t have a choice.

  Panic surged forward as she felt the Lord gently remind her that sometimes it wasn’t the best idea to make promises that were difficult to keep. What was she going to do if she couldn’t make those quiches? Or the muffins Frannie was so proud of?

  Or the granola? Frannie was mighty proud of her inn’s granola, and rightfully so. The granola was a crunchy mixture of brown sugar and oats, raisins, dried cranberries and dates, too. Sweat beaded her brow, showing Beth once again that blood and accidents and ambulances didn’t affect her half as much as an empty bowl of granola.

  “Hey . . . is everything all right?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the English man who leaned against the doorway. He had crystal blue eyes that were peering at her curiously, and an arrogant-looking posture that was in direct contrast with his question. Instead of looking like he wanted to help, he looked like he was counting on her not being able to do anything.

  His arms were crossed over a scruffy-looking T-shirt hanging over a pair of jeans that had a rip in one of the knees. He was tan and fit and sure of himself. And all at once, he seemed to symbolize everything that had gone wrong over the last three hours. “Nee,” she finally replied. “I’m afraid everything is not all right. Frannie had to go to the hospital.”

  “Frannie?”

  “Frannie Eicher. She owns this place.” Glaring at him, she said, “You are a guest here, yes?”

  “Oh. I am, but I never paid too much attention to the woman’s name.”

  “Well, the woman you never paid too much attention to has gotten hurt.”

  He scowled. “Hey, I booked the room through the Internet, and got in late last night. We spoke with each other only long enough for me to give her my credit card and for her to hand me a key. I wasn’t about to start making friends at midnight.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Feeling rather shrewish, Beth forced herself to explain a little bit. “I’m Beth Byler. I’m a friend of Frannie Eicher’s. I don’t know much about her guests.” Or running a bed-and-breakfast, for that matter.

  Now that things were smoothed over a bit, he wandered in, his heavy tan boots looking dusty, but luckily not tracking any dirt on the freshly mopped floor. “So, is she hurt badly?”

  Beth hesitated. What was appropriate to share? She realized that she’d never paid too much attention to how Frannie dealt with her guests. “I’m afraid she’s hurt bad. Some glass got into her eye. An ambulance carried her away.”

  “I saw that.” He looked around, taking an extra second or two to stare at the lone stick of butter in the bowl. “So, do you need some help in here? This place looks like it was turned upside down. I can help you clean up, if you really need it.”

  Perhaps it was his confident tone and the way he said “really.” Or because he was pointing out the obvious. Whatever the reason, his offer rubbed her the wrong way. “There’s no need to help me clean. You’re a guest.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No. Like I said, I’m a friend of Frannie’s.” The moment she said the words, she wished she could have taken them right back. She sounded prissy and full of herself. As if she was someone’s maiden aunt.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, making Beth realize that he was a lot younger than she’d first thought. “So how does one become a friend of yours?”

  If she hadn’t been so stunned at the question she probably would have stood there with her mouth open. But instead, she glared. “What kind of question is that?”

  “An honest one.”

  “Why? Are you looking for friends?”

  “Maybe. I just got here. I could use a friend or two.”

  “As could we all.”

  “I hope you’re not always this suspicious of newcomers. You know I might be here for a while. I’m thinking about moving here permanently.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Seemed like a good idea,” he said, sounding like he was taking great pains to keep purposely vague.

  Which she did not appreciate. She was rattled and worried about her friend. And worried about her promise to Frannie. The last thing in the world she needed was a secretive guest who spoke in riddles! “I’m surprised you even found us on the map. We’re pretty out of the way.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. I mean nothing ever happens here.”

  “Short of that guy being murdered, huh?”

  Her breath caught. No one she knew spoke of Perry—or the mystery surrounding his life and death—unless it was in whispered tones in private.

  Or under duress. She shivered. “How do you even know about Perry?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised that I brought him up? Is his death a secret?”

  “It’s just that no one likes to talk about what happened.”

  “Just want to pretend it didn’t happen, do you?”

  She couldn’t lie. “Sometimes,” she said shortly. Wondering
selfishly why she’d ever decided to come to Frannie’s on a day off, anyway.

  Why she’d had to be the one to promise things that she couldn’t deliver.

  Why she had to be the person volleying words back and forth with a man who was so evasive, it was bordering on scary.

  Something flickered in his face. “That’s too bad.”

  “That I don’t want to think about Perry’s death all the time? I think it’s a normal reaction . . . Mr.? . . . I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t tell you,” he replied, turning to leave. Then he paused, just as if he’d suddenly changed his mind. “What do you know about the quarry?”

  She froze. “Not much.”

  “It looks pretty big.”

  “It’s not a part of town that I get to much.” But what she didn’t say was that her brother spent a lot of time there. Near the entrance to the quarry was an old, abandoned trailer, and that was where Eli used to buy drugs from Perry Borntrager.

  Until Perry had gone missing.

  Now she didn’t know where he bought drugs. He’d taken off to parts unknown and broken her heart.

  “What are you not telling me?” His tone had become harder, his easy cadence now clipped.

  Making her even more wary.

  She hoped he was safe to be around. She wished she didn’t feel so awkward and scared, standing alone with him in the kitchen.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What is wrong?”

  “Not a thing is wrong,” she lied. After all, why would she tell this man things she’d never told anyone? “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to move along. I have things to bake. Well, things to bake if I can find a recipe book. Dear Lord, please let Frannie have used a recipe book.”

  Only after he turned away and finally left did she realize that she’d never learned his name. She didn’t even know how long he was staying at the inn.

  The knot in her stomach hardened, threatening to overtake her. The fear that she’d tried to hold at bay rose as she realized that she didn’t know how Frannie was, she couldn’t cook very well, and she had no idea what to do next.

  “Oh, please get better quick, Frannie,” she whispered. “If you don’t come back soon, I don’t know what is going to happen.”

  Only after she said her prayers did she allow herself to fear for the worst.

  She was now going to be living in the same building as this Englischer stranger, who seemed far too interested in things that weren’t any of his business.

  Chapter 3

  “When Perry was twelve, he broke his collarbone jumping out of a hay loft. Until they found his body, I do believe that was the last time he’d been seen by a doctor.”

  ABRAHAM BORNTRAGER

  They called it a corneal obstruction. Through her haze and pain, Frannie was coming to understand that the glass had scratched the surface of her cornea, which was the covering of her eyeball.

  It was a painful thing, and an injury that would need to be looked after with care for a bit. But she wouldn’t go blind.

  The cuts around her eye, however, were another matter. A special eye surgeon was on his way to mend the torn skin at the corner of her right eye and to examine the abrasion on her lid.

  Someone had already stitched up the other cuts on her face. Though no one would let her see a mirror, Frannie could feel that her whole face was covered in stitches and bandages. Her face had become a pincushion for those shards of glass.

  All she wished for was a cooling ointment or cloth to cover her face with. The sensations were as if a hundred bees had launched themselves at her face and angrily stung her.

  As she held up her two hands, one with just two bandages and one completely covered in gauze, she sighed. Could she look any more terrible? How could one little bowl raise so much havoc?

  “Hey, look at you!”

  It was as if he had read her mind. Feeling like a puppet on too-stiff strings, she slowly turned her head so that her unbandaged eye could see who was speaking. “Detective Reynolds? Luke?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Did you come to make fun of my bandages?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Honestly, Detective—”

  “Nope. You are not allowed to start calling me detective again . . . just now you called me Luke. Now we’re on a first name basis.”

  Only this man seemed to be able to push away her anxiety and turn all the tumbling feelings into spunk. “Ha, ha. If you aren’t here to tease me . . . why did you come?” Truly he hadn’t thought her cuts were a crime?

  “I came because I had some time. And because I heard through the grapevine that you got yourself into a mess.”

  “I didn’t get myself into anything. A glass bowl fell and broke.” Even though vanity was a sin, Frannie felt herself frown. “Now I’m a scratched-up mess.”

  “You sure are. You are scratched up something awful.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Are you in a lot of pain? Do you want me to get you anything?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Okay, then.” For some reason he took what she’d just said as an invitation to stay a while. As he walked closer, she could feel his gaze settle on her. “You look like a prizefighter.” And with that, he took a seat right next to her.

  Even though he hadn’t been invited.

  The immediate flood of happiness that she’d felt by his sudden appearance slowly gave way to dismay. “What are you doing?”

  “This is called sitting in a chair, Frannie.”

  Oh! “I mean, why are you here? Why, really?” Embarrassed about her warming feelings for him, she lashed out. “Detective, I am sorry. I cannot answer any questions from you right now.”

  He stilled. “Did you really think I’d come here right now to question you about the case? Do you really think I’m that cold?”

  She didn’t think he was cold at all.

  But she also didn’t know why else he would have come all the way to the hospital to see her. Though she might have had secret wishes where he was concerned, he certainly didn’t need to know that. “I can’t think of why else you would be here.”

  “You can’t, huh?” The tender look that she’d thought she’d spied in his eyes vanished. “Well, I only came because I was worried that you’d be alone here. And it looks like you are. Or, are you waiting on someone else to visit?”

  She’d been tempted to tell him that there was no one else. But then she remembered her conversation with Beth.

  Which made her think of Micah. Would he come? Did she even want him to? “I’m not sure if anyone else is coming or not. It ain’t easy to get here by buggy you know.”

  “It’s easy enough to hire a driver, Frannie. Even I know that.”

  While she lay there, slightly embarrassed for being so snippy, Luke’s voice turned gentle. “Where is your father?”

  As usual, their topsy-turvy interactions made her mind spin. To buy herself some time, she said, “You’re only asking about my daed?”

  “I, uh, discovered your mother passed away a few years ago.”

  “Cancer,” she murmured, remembering those awful months all over again. It had been so difficult to keep her mother’s spirits up when the chemotherapy had made her so weak. “My daed, he is at home on the farm, I suppose.”

  “He didn’t think he should come to the hospital and sit with you?”

  “I don’t know if anyone has told him about my accident yet.” Or, for that matter, if the news would spur him to come.

  Little by little, she felt the tension leave him. “I’m sorry. I remember now that Mose was going to pay a visit to your father and tell him the news and see if he wanted to come up here.”

  Imagining her father leaving the safety of their farm was like imagining the detective suddenly feeling at home in Crittenden
County. “It would be best if he stayed home.”

  “Why? You don’t think he’d accept a ride from Mose?”

  Frannie struggled to describe her father’s personality. “He’s a cautious man. Shy, too. He wouldn’t venture far unless he was truly needed.”

  “And he isn’t needed right now?” His voice rose as he made no effort to conceal his confusion. “You’re badly injured, Frannie. ”

  “I know.”

  “Who knows how many cuts and stitches you received.”

  The reminder made her face throb even worse. “I know,” she said again.

  “He should be here for you. You shouldn’t be here alone.”

  But, yet . . . she wasn’t. “Next time I see my father, I’ll pass on your thoughts on the matter.”

  “I’m not trying to be critical.”

  “But you are.” Her good eye saw him flinch. And immediately she felt bad. She didn’t know the detective all that well, but she was certainly coming to understand that he was a man used to being in charge, and used to saying what he thought.

  Maybe a little bit like herself?

  “Luke, I’m sorry if I don’t sound grateful for your concern. I thank you for that. And I thank you for coming here to check on me. It was kind of you.”

  “What are the doctors saying?”

  “I don’t know. Everything’s been pretty fuzzy.” She thought for a moment. “I think I remember them saying that they’d come back soon.”

  “When they do, would you like me to talk with them, too?”

  Just the idea of someone taking over her worries and questions sounded wonderful. With the way her head was pounding and her cheeks and face stinging, she was having trouble even keeping her good eye open. “Thank you for that,” she said quietly. “If you could get some information and hold on tight to it, I would be most grateful.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  “You don’t need to thank me. I’ll be glad to help.” He paused. “I don’t usually argue with people all that much, you know.”