Secrets of Harmony Grove

by Mindy Starns Clark

  When I reached the shed, I found it humming with activity. It was also a big mess, and it looked as if the cops in protective gear had been carrying everything from inside the shed to the yard and spreading it out on the grass. Hanging back and listening to their conversation, I let my eyes rove over bicycles, tennis rackets, a croquet set, some clay pots, and old hose. Most of the recreational items had been purchased by my parents and me from yard sales we had visited during the renovation. I had forgotten about most of it, but now that things were lying all over the grass as if we were about to have a yard sale of our own, I felt sad. These items were for our guests. As I wasn’t even sure if we ever had any actual guests, I had a feeling that these things had remained untouched since the day we had put them here.

  At least there was one good find among the junk: my punching bag, one also bought at a yard sale but put here specifically for me. I had mounted a hook in the shed roof’s overhang and had pulled out this punching bag and hung it up every time I came out to work on the renovation.

  Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a good workout with that punching bag now! I decided I would come out here later and do just that, once I was sure all was well and I would be safe.

  Rip emerged from the shed, walked over to Mike, and began rattling off a list of all the chemical substances they had found inside, things such as paint, paint thinner, and antifreeze.

  “That’s about it, boss. No pesticides at all, and no yard tools except a big snow shovel.”

  Mike had acknowledged my presence with a nod when I had first come walking up, but now he turned and spoke directly to me, asking where we kept our lawn tools.

  “I know you said tools were in the basement, but all they found there were screwdrivers and pliers. What we need are the shovels and hoes and things like that.”

  “As far as I know, we use a lawn service. They bring their own tools.”

  “Yeah, but everybody has the basic stuff.”

  Seeing the blank look on my face, he persisted.

  “You can’t tell me this place wouldn’t have a rake. Maybe some clippers? Especially here, with all these trees. What about the grove? Surely you have some gardening tools for the grove.”

  I reminded him that the grove belonged to my grandmother. “But you’re right. There used to be some tools for that in the barn over at Emory’s. That’s where my grandfather kept them, and they probably stayed there after he died. Now that I think about it, during the renovation we needed some wire cutters. We sent Troy over there to get some from my grandfather’s old toolbox. He couldn’t find any, so he came back with garden clippers instead.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Speaking to the others, Mike told them he wanted them to take a good look at the barn next door. They worked out the logistics, and it sounded as though some would drive over and some would walk so that they could check the progress of the teams in the grove along the way. Mike said he wanted to speak to the homeowner before they started their search, so he told the ones who would be driving to wait to come over after he called and gave them the go-ahead.

  “Technically, we don’t need permission to search there, but we need to be careful on this one. I’d like him to be clearly informed. Trust me, the DA is not going to want any search and seizure problems down the line, not given the history.”

  I wondered what history he was talking about, but before I had a chance to ask, Mike turned to me and asked if I would come along to show them the best way to get there from here and to be there when he talked to my uncle. I was relieved to be included, and we all set off together, moving briskly across the lawn.

  We made good time as we headed through the main gates of the grove and up the path toward the bridge at the center. We talked as we went, and I couldn’t help but think how much safer it felt in here today than it had last night. Now that the sun was out—not to mention that the bear had been caught—the grove wasn’t nearly so terrifying. Instead, it was its beautiful, familiar old self, the slice of paradise I knew and loved.

  We made it to the bridge and onto the other side, pausing to speak with several teams of technicians we encountered along the way. Though everyone seemed to be working hard, it didn’t sound as though any breakthroughs had been made. As we neared the far side of the grove, Mike asked me to explain to everyone about my uncle’s mental condition.

  “Oh, yeah,” Rip said. “There’s something wrong with this guy, right?”

  “Yes, he has a mental disability,” I replied. “He’s impaired but high functioning.”

  “How is he able to live alone?” someone asked.

  In response, I explained about the evaluation my dad had had done after my grandfather died, and how Nina had subsequently been hired to check in on Emory every day and make sure his basic household needs were being met.

  “He’s a sweet man, very gentle,” I told them, wondering how to explain. “He just doesn’t always come across that way because he doesn’t understand things like social niceties and body language. But he has a great memory; his brain sort of locks in on facts. He loves birds and insects, squirrels and chipmunks.” A chipmunk scampered by just as I said that, darting up the nearest tree. “When I was in college, I told Emory that a bird had built a nest in a hanging plant outside my dorm and had laid some eggs in it. He started asking me questions about what color the feathers were, how big the eggs were, what color the eggs were, and on and on. Finally, I took a picture of the nest and its eggs and mailed it to him. Within a month, the eggs had hatched, the babies had grown and learned to fly, and the nest had been abandoned. But Emory has continued to ask me about those birds every time I’ve seen him since.”

  As we continued our passage through the grove, I thought about my great-grandfather, who had originally owned two hundred and fifty acres. When he died and his land was divided among his sons, my grandfather’s portion had included thirty-five acres of land and two houses. Abe had still been over in Europe at the time, raising his motherless son with the help of a German nanny, but when he received word that his father had died and of his inheritance, he had come home, his little boy in tow, and moved into the main house. He had hired a woman named Maureen to be Emory’s caretaker, putting her up in the smaller house for propriety’s sake. Despite their separate residences, Abe and Maureen had fallen in love. Once they were married, she moved into the big house, and they put the little house on the market as a rental. By that point Abe had installed electricity in both homes, much to the heartbreak of his Amish mother and siblings, who had long held out hope that he would one day return to the fold and be baptized into the faith.

  Maureen gave birth to my father a few years later, and their family of four lived there in the big house together—at least until Maureen filed for a divorce and moved out, taking my father with her. Eventually she settled in nearby Chester County, though as he was growing up my dad had spent summers back here in Lancaster County with his father and half brother.

  About fifteen years ago, Grandpa Abe had tripped on the basement stairs of the main house and broken his hip. After two surgeries and several months of rehab, he had decided that he had no business living in that big, two-story house, and that he would do better to move himself and Emory over here to the little house and rent out the main one instead. They had done exactly that, Grandpa Abe and Emory living here together without further incident until my grandfather’s death two years ago.

  Now Emory lives here all alone, I thought as we finally emerged from the far side of the grove and into Emory’s yard. Straight ahead and a little to the left was Emory’s home, a modest, one-story structure that had originally been built many years ago for an elderly family member. Once that person died, it was my understanding that over the years the house had been used by other family members as well. With just two bedrooms, it wasn’t big enough for a whole Amish clan, but it had done in a pinch for more than a few newlyweds.

  “You guys wait over here,” Mike was saying, interrupting my thoughts. He
pointed toward an old picnic table under a nearby shade tree. “Sienna and I will go the rest of the way alone. We don’t want to spook the guy. We just want to get permission to search.”

  Thus, while the rest of our group relaxed in the shade, Mike and I continued on to the house. When we reached the door, Mike stood back and let me knock. After a moment the door swung open, and I was face-to-face with Uncle Emory.

  NINETEEN

  My uncle looked the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, short and round with tufts of gray hair on his balding head and the sweet, vacant eyes of one who viewed the world with a mix of wonder and confusion.

  “Hi, Uncle Emory. Long time no see. How are you?”

  “Do you still have any common house finches?” he replied, opening the door wider so that we could step inside. As we did, I told him that no, I hadn’t seen any for a long time. I didn’t try to hug him. Emory didn’t like physical affection of any kind.

  “This is my friend Mike,” I added, gesturing toward the detective who came in behind me.

  “I had shoofly pie,” Emory said to both of us, not bothering to acknowledge Mike with a greeting or even a nod. “Nina couldn’t come today, but Liesl did. She’s a better cook than Nina.”

  I laughed, glancing at Mike.

  “Well, don’t tell Nina that or you’ll hurt her feelings,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  I heard a woman’s voice calling from the kitchen, and I realized that someone else was here. Moving further into the room, I was thrilled to see my cousin Liesl just emerging from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel.

  Dressed in the modest garb of the Amish, her hair tucked tightly under her kapp, Liesl looked far more appropriate today than she had last night. We greeted each other with a warm hug, but as we pulled apart the expression in her eyes warned me not to bring it up right now, not in mixed company, not even if I was dying to tease her. Which I was.

  “Can I have more pie?” Emory asked, moving to the table without waiting for a reply. As he sat down and carefully took a paper napkin from the holder and tucked it into his collar, Liesl introduced herself to Mike and whispered to both of us that Emory had had a difficult night but that he was doing much better today.

  She went to the kitchen to cut him another slice of pie, calling out to ask if we would like some as well.

  “I don’t think there is enough for everyone,” Emory said quickly, shaking his head. Though I felt sure there was plenty for all, I understood that he wanted to keep it for himself, so I said no thanks and that we hadn’t even had lunch yet, so we shouldn’t be eating pie anyway.

  I glanced at Mike, who was looking around the room, taking it all in. Seeing things through his eyes, I realized that this old place looked tired, in need of new carpet and drapes, its handmade furniture still solid but scratched and worn. Had Emory received the assets left to him by his mother as he was supposed to, we could have afforded to fix this place up for him.

  Though I truly hadn’t been fishing for a meal, Liesl returned with not just a plate of pie for Emory but also two plates of hot chicken salad on lettuce for Mike and me. I tried to refuse, but my growling stomach was giving me away. Mike seemed equally famished, and so we both gratefully accepted Liesl’s offering, especially after she returned with a plate for herself as well and joined us at the table.

  After a silent shared grace, we all dug in, that first bite so delicious that I had to take a moment just to savor it.

  “What’s the crunchy part on top?” Mike asked enthusiastically.

  “Crushed potato chips,” Liesl said, smiling. “Makes a nice touch, jah?”

  We chatted as we ate, and then turned to the task at hand. Getting Emory’s attention, I told him I had brought along my friend today because he needed to ask him something.

  “Okay, but he still can’t have pie.”

  “That’s all right. I enjoyed the salad instead,” Mike said easily. “Emory, I wanted to know if my people could take a look in your barn as part of our investigation. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure, go ahead. But be careful. There’s a Dark-eyed Junco by the door.”

  “A Dark-eyed Junco?”

  Emory put down his fork, tilted his chin upward, and began making a high-pitched, rapid tweeting sound with his lips.

  “Is that a bird, Emory? A Dark-eyed Junco is a bird?”

  “Yes, a common North American songbird. The nest has three eggs in it. I looked at it but I didn’t touch it.” In a higher, more singsongy voice, he added, “‘Never, ever touch baby birds or their nest because then the mother might not come back.’” I smiled, recognizing the patient, instructive tones of Grandma Maureen that he was quoting. Emory was almost as good at mimicking voices as he was at making bird calls.

  “Okay, then,” Mike said. “Since you don’t mind, we’re going to head on out to the barn. But I promise I’ll tell all of the policemen to watch out for the birds and their nest.”

  As if Mike had flicked a switch, suddenly Emory put down his fork and began rocking back and forth and humming. I knew it was the word “policemen” that had done it. Emory hadn’t realized what Mike was saying before, but he certainly got it now. Liesl saw what was happening and immediately placed a comforting hand on her cousin’s shoulder.

  “Remember, Emory? Jonah talked to you about this last night. Policemen won’t hurt you. They are our friends. They can help us if there is a problem.”

  “They’ll take me away.”

  “Not if you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Emory didn’t reply. Instead he simply continued the rocking and the humming.

  “I’ll be out there with them,” I told him. “Will that make you feel better?”

  He didn’t answer but simply began to hum louder.

  “He was like this last night,” Liesl said softly, looking from Mike to me. “It just got worse and worse. In the end, we had to give him some of his pills just so he would go to sleep.”

  “What kind of pills?” Mike asked, sitting up straight.

  “Um, I think they are called Ativan? He doesn’t need them very often, but we can give some to him if he gets worked up.”

  “Can I see the bottle?” Mike asked.

  Liesl looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I nodded that it would be okay. Turning my attentions to Emory as Liesl led Mike from the room, I tried to think how my grandfather would have handled this moment.

  “Hey, Emory, do you still have that movie called The Amazing Ibis?” He didn’t reply, so I simply got up from the table and moved over to the TV area in the next room. Making a big show of looking through old VHS tapes, I could see from the corner of my eye that I had his attention, at least somewhat. When we were younger, this was his favorite show, one he watched over and over.

  “Well, look at that. Here it is. Do you mind if I put it on right now?”

  He didn’t answer, but I turned on the TV and the VCR and popped in the tape anyway, adding that I could probably cut him one more sliver of pie to eat while he watched the show.

  Calmed somewhat, Emory carried his fork and plate to the easy chair that sat directly in front of the TV. Soon the old documentary was playing on the television, and Emory’s rocking slowed to a stop as he was swept into the action. I took his plate and carried it and our dirty dishes into the kitchen. When I returned with the promised extra slice, I gave Emory’s plate back to him and then stood there next to his chair and watched the show for a few minutes as he ate. Mike and Liesl returned, and then he and I were able to make our exit.

  As Liesl walked us to the door, I told her that my father was arranging for a caretaker and I would keep her posted on that.

  “I’ll come find you later so we can talk,” I added.

  “Please do,” she urged me, her voice and eyes emphatic. She gave me another hug and then softly closed the door behind us. Moving down the front step and onto the walk, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, thankful that the crisis had been
averted, at least for now.

  “Well, what did you see? Were his pills the same dosage that Nina had in her pocket?” I asked as Mike and I reached the end of the walkway and started along the worn path along the edge of the lawn.

  “Yeah, but the script was filled two months ago. Except for the few that had been recorded on his medicine log, there were only six other pills missing and unaccounted for.”

  “Meaning…”

  “Meaning that the six pills in Nina’s pocket no doubt came from here, but that she hadn’t taken any of them yet. Whatever she and Floyd were intoxicated with, it probably wasn’t Ativan after all, at least not Emory’s Ativan.”

  We headed toward the group waiting under the tree, both of us lost in thought. Up ahead they saw us coming, and when Mike gave them a thumbs-up signal, they all rose and began making their way toward the barn ahead of us.

  Feeling uncomfortable, I apologized for Emory’s behavior, adding that I had no idea why the mention of policemen had made him act that way.

  “Cops were here the night his father died,” I mused. “Maybe Emory associates the uniforms with people coming and taking his dad away.”

  “It probably goes further back than that,” Mike replied, pausing to step around a cluster of rose bushes that protruded into the walkway and needed pruning. “He probably associates uniforms with being arrested.”

  “Like on TV, you mean?”

  Mike didn’t reply, so I glanced at him and was startled by the sideways look he was giving me.

  “Wait. You mean Emory himself? He was arrested? When? Why? How do you know?”

  “I read through his records this morning.” Mike paused near my grandfather’s old vegetable garden, his eyes scanning the weed-filled furrows. “You didn’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry. It was a long time ago, before you and I were even born. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”