Secrets of Harmony Grove

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Floyd had finally convinced her to give up when they heard a strange sound from not too far outside of the fence, a low, deep rumble followed by a rustling. They both turned to look, and everything after that was fuzzy.

  “I’m awful tired of saying this and having people look at me like I’m crazy, but I know what I saw. It was some kind of creature, a big black thing that rose up from the bushes and shot out a burst of fire. I don’t remember anything after that. They said I was talking crazy in the ambulance, but I don’t remember any of that at all. I just remember seeing the flash, and then I woke up this morning in the hospital.”

  Having finished his tale, Floyd took another big scoop of chicken and popped it into his mouth.

  “What do you remember about the creature, Floyd?” Heath asked. “Any chance it could have been an emu?”

  Floyd laughed, nearly choking on his food.

  “An emu? Like, one of those big, stupid birds?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, man. No way. This thing wasn’t a bird. It had arms, not wings. It had hands.”

  “Hands? Like human hands?”

  “Kind of, I guess. When it stood up—”

  “On two legs?”

  Floyd hesitated, thinking.

  “Yeah, on two legs. It just rose up on its hind legs, like a polar bear or a gorilla might, but real fast like. Then it shot fire at me. I don’t remember anything else after that.”

  Heath and I looked at each other, and though we didn’t say anything, I knew we were both thinking the same thing, that it really didn’t seem that Floyd was lying. He may have been a criminal, but in this matter it sounded as though he was telling the truth—or at least what he perceived as the truth.

  “After dinner I’d like to try something, if you’re game,” Heath said to Floyd. “Maybe I can help you remember more.”

  “What do you want to try?”

  “It’s called ‘guided relaxation,’” Heath explained. “It involves closing your eyes and listening to my voice and letting my words help you to relax. Then we go through the whole sequence of events, step by step. Sometimes when your brain isn’t stressed and working so hard to recall every detail, you’re actually able to come up with more memories.”

  “Sounds like you want to hypnotize me or something.”

  “No, not at all,” Heath replied. “This is completely interactive, no altered states necessary.”

  “Heath’s a doctor,” I added. “They use this method sometimes when there’s been a trauma.”

  Floyd looked skeptical, but he agreed to do it if we thought it would help.

  “I think it’s worth a try,” Heath said, nodding.

  “Tell us about Nina,” I said next. “What was she doing over here?”

  Floyd shrugged, saying he didn’t know. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed, and then he added, “Maybe she and Troy were starting up again.”

  “Starting up again?”

  “They dated for a while. Well, if you can even call it dating.”

  Heath and I looked at each other, eyes wide.

  “What do you mean? When?”

  “Last spring, for a couple of months I think. It was no big deal. She would come over whenever Troy was here, stay with him, and then go back home when he left.”

  No big deal? Troy and Nina? Sleeping together? In my inn? The very thought made me sick. I put down my fork, thinking that, even for Troy, this was a new low. Oblivious to my reaction, Floyd went on to explain that Troy had broken things off with Nina a few months ago, but that with her being here yesterday, maybe they had gotten back together again.

  “For that matter, maybe that’s why Troy wanted me to go out of town,” Floyd added.

  “Do the police know about their relationship?” I asked, wondering why Mike had never brought it up to me.

  “Beats me.”

  Heath held out both hands to stop us both, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Wait a minute. I’m confused. Sienna, the way you talk about this Nina person, I’ve been picturing an older lady and not someone who would catch the eye of a mover and shaker like Troy, not even for a casual affair.”

  I apologized for giving Heath that impression, saying Nina and I were about the same age but that her life had gone down a different path than mine. I guess I did tend to think of her as older just because of all she had been through.

  “I mean, she was married at eighteen, had a child by nineteen, and divorced her husband a year or two after that. Then a few years ago, her daughter was in a serious car accident. The girl survived, barely, but then later she died from ongoing complications. It was tragic.”

  “Oh, wow, how sad,” Heath said.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “she wasn’t exactly Troy’s type, but I guess when in Rome, you know?”

  Floyd laughed.

  “You’re kidding, right? Nina is everybody’s type. Everybody with a pulse, that is.”

  Startled, I asked Floyd if he was implying that Nina made a habit of sleeping around.

  “No, not at all,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just saying she’s hot.” Looking at Heath, he winked and added, “Smokin’ hot, if you know what I mean.”

  Floyd’s words were inappropriate, but in light of Nina’s current plight, in the hospital in serious condition, I thought they were incredibly so. I was glad that Heath did not respond with a knowing leer or a wink of his own but instead simply turned his attention to the plate in front of him and ate some more of the Chinese food.

  “Hey, listen, folks, this was delicious,” Floyd said after finishing his last bite, crumpling up his napkin, and dropping it onto his empty plate. “Thanks so much for sharing with a hungry old man. Right now, I’m going to hit the sack. I’m bushed. Maybe you and I can try that relaxation thing tomorrow, okay, Doc?”

  Floyd scooted his chair back from the table, but before he stood I told him he wasn’t going anywhere, not yet.

  “We’re just getting started here,” I said, a reckless anger suddenly rising up inside of me and filtering out through my words. “I have questions and I want answers.”

  “Can’t it wait till morning?” Floyd said, avoiding my eyes as he grabbed his plate and stood up. “I’m just so exhaust—”

  “Sit down!” I yelled, slamming my hands on the table.

  The gesture was effective, and he sheepishly lowered himself back into his chair.

  “For starters, why don’t you tell me about your criminal record?” I said, focusing on the man sitting across from me, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

  “What about it?”

  “It wasn’t exactly on your resume when I hired you.”

  “I know,” Floyd said, barely audible.

  “Why not?”

  “Why do you think? ’Cause if you had known, you wouldn’t have hired me. And I really wanted this job.”

  I laughed sarcastically.

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Look, I know it sounds bad, but you need to understand the whole story,” Floyd said.

  Then he proceeded to give us that story in detail, from growing up as a street punk in Camden to falling in with a bad crowd as a young man to getting caught and convicted and then “fully rehabilitated” in prison. He went on to speak glowingly of his life after that, when a kind parole officer helped him land a job at a hotel in Philly. There, Floyd had begun to learn the hospitality business and soon realized he had a gift for it, which, according to him, had turned his life around. All in all, the story was quite compelling.

  But I knew it was just that. A story.

  “What crime were you convicted of, Floyd?” Heath interrupted to ask, the first words he had said in a while.

  “Yeah, Floyd, do tell. What could possibly have been bad enough to send you up the river for three years?”

  Eyes darting away, he replied that he had “just passed a couple bad checks, is all.”

  “Right. A couple of bad checks got you three years at Rahwey,�
� I scoffed.

  “Okay, well, so it was more than a couple. I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s not like I stabbed somebody. It was check kiting.”

  “Check kiting,” I echoed. “Is that anything like money laundering? Or was that a skill you learned after you decided to move out here to Lancaster County and turn my bed-and-breakfast into a cash-washing machine?”

  At first Floyd tried to look shocked. In a performance worthy of an Oscar, he was also by turns appalled, offended, and astounded. Between the faked customer records, the rooms that stayed clean, the gifts that never sold, and more, I had plenty of evidence to throw in his face to refute every protestation. But when it came down to it, I didn’t need to say a word. Like a mother waiting out a toddler who is pitching a tantrum, I simply sat there, arms folded across my chest, as he ran through his whole string of denials. Finally, he slumped there at the table, defeated.

  “You get your profit check every month,” he growled, eyes downcast, “what do you care if things don’t quite add up?”

  Again I didn’t reply, and after a moment he spoke again, this time looking right at me.

  “Frankly, Sienna, I think it takes a lot of nerve to show up here like this and pretend you wanna be so hands-on all of a sudden. You haven’t called or come by in almost a year. But now that the heat’s on, you show up, all indignant-like, asking questions, making accusations. Give me a break.”

  He was right, of course. That was no way for anyone to run a business, and there was no denying I had taken the hands-off approach far too literally. But that was also no excuse for what he had done. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to try to turn this back on me. Seething with rage, I took a deep breath, now clearly able to picture Floyd in that orange prison jumpsuit.

  “Whether Sienna involved herself with the day-to-day running of the inn or not,” Heath interjected calmly before I could speak, “she still had every right to expect you to conduct honorable business practices on her behalf. Instead, you took advantage of the situation in the worst way.”

  “I trusted you!” I blurted out loudly. “Yes, I was lax about keeping tabs on things here, but that was only because I thought you had a handle on it. You sure knew how to make it seem that way. I bought your lie, Floyd, every single piece of it, hook, line, and sinker. If any of this is my fault, it’s that I was too naive and too stupid and too trusting to look behind the pretty picture you painted to see the ugliness hiding behind it!”

  I was standing at that point and shouting at him. Both men were looking up at me in alarm, but I had more to say, so I kept going.

  “And what a brilliant plan too! Out here in Amish country, you knew this place could be run as an all-cash business with no eyebrows raised. You sent me a check every month to make me happy and e-mailed me your neat little financial statements to keep me away. Your books were perfect, Floyd, showing all sorts of logical, steady ins and outs. But they were fiction, all fiction! By creating purely bogus financial records, you were able to deposit your dirty cash into the bank with every penny ‘justified,’ at least on paper. You have customers staying at the B and B, paying in cash. Customers buying Amish-made goods, paying in cash. Guests splurging on fancy wine, paying in cash. You even made sure to file and pay taxes on all of that cash you were generating out here in Lancaster County. How very, very clever of you—especially when you look at the other column, the expenses that manage to keep this place just profitable enough to stay in business without going overboard. Housekeeping staff? You pay them in cash. Groceries to prepare breakfasts for the guests? You buy them with cash. The inventory of wine and quilts and toys? Purchased with cash. All cash, all the time, in and out. Amazing how that happens—and how there’s always just enough left over at the end of the month to send me a little profit check.”

  I paused, leaning forward, hands on the table, lowering my voice in volume, if not intensity.

  “But the books don’t tell the real story, do they, Floyd? For that—for the truth—we would need a second set of books, wouldn’t we? Those books would be the ones to tell where all that cash had really been coming from, of how this money had really been flowing in and out. Whose money is it, Floyd? Where has all of this cash been coming from?”

  My words hung in the air, but he didn’t answer.

  “I’m guessing the mob has something to do with it,” I added. “And Troy as well, of course.”

  “Of course,” Floyd echoed. He hesitated, biting his lip, obviously weighing his words before he continued. “It was Troy’s idea. He’s the one who thought it all up in the first place.”

  I glanced at Heath, lowering myself into my chair. While I was glad that Floyd had finally decided to talk, I would take his words with a huge grain of salt. How easy to blame the dead man, the one who wasn’t here to defend himself.

  “Go on,” Heath said softly.

  “Troy came up with this plan after your grandpa died,” Floyd admitted, tugging nervously at his shirt collar. “Said he had the perfect solution to a very big problem. It would take some work, but he just might be able to pull it off.”

  “Really,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  “Yeah. Bottom line, he said you were going to be the key to everything.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Troy said it all started with you,” Floyd told me, relaxing against the back of his chair, “and some big myth about the Amish you were always griping about.”

  “Myth?”

  “Yeah, how everybody thinks the Amish are so perfect and innocent and all?”

  “Oh, you’re talking about the ‘myth of the pastoral,’” I said, taking a moment to explain to Heath what that was. I couldn’t remember who first coined the phrase, but it had to do with the average person’s tendency to see the Amish as some sort of unique race, one whose members lived in perfect harmony with each other and with nature, never had any serious problems or concerns, and spent their days in barefoot splendor, romping around their bountiful fields and embodying the very definition of peace, purity, and the simple life.

  Because I was in advertising, I was particularly sensitive to how the tourism industry played on that ideal and worked to exploit it. Though this technique of idealization was often used to promote products to consumers, I was uncomfortable when I saw it being used to sell an entire people group, especially one so near and dear to my heart. In truth, though there was much to admire about the Amish, they were just people—flawed, normal people—who at their core were not all that different from the rest of us.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Heath told me. “The more unique and special and different and perfect we all think the Amish are, the more likely we are to want to come out here and see it for ourselves…”

  “And stay in the hotels and eat at the restaurants and buy the trinkets and on and on and on. And then we go home raving about everything we saw and heard, even if we never actually spoke to a real live Amish person, and thus we continue to perpetuate the myth.”

  Turning my attention back to Floyd, I asked him what that had to do with me and Troy. He said that when Troy and I had driven out here for my grandfather’s funeral, I had gone on my usual rant about the whole myth thing, and as Troy was listening to me, the word that had stayed in his mind the longest was how everyone saw the Amish—and, by extension, this whole Amish-filled area—as “innocent.” Right then, an idea had taken hold, the realization that he could capitalize on that “presumption of innocence” and use it to his advantage.

  “See, you have to understand that Troy was the money man for a certain group of people who needed to, shall we say, legitimize some cash flow. Troy had been trying to think up some new ways to do that when your grandfather died. After listening to your myth thing, he decided that this region might just be the perfect location for some sort of cash-heavy business venture.”

  Floyd went on to say that all Troy had at that point were some vague ideas, nothing concrete. Then about a week later, after the readin
g of my grandfather’s will, he and I had gone out to eat with my parents and brother, and we had all tossed around ideas for what we should do with our inheritance. As soon as Troy heard me mention opening a bed-and-breakfast, he knew that was it.

  “It was perfect,” Floyd said. “I mean, who would ever suspect a sweet little bed-and-breakfast in Amish country of doing anything seriously illegal?”

  Floyd described how Troy had “worked” me after that, encouraging the notion of a bed-and-breakfast, coming up with solutions for financing, and generally ushering me down the path toward what would eventually become Harmony Grove Bed & Breakfast. The key to making Troy’s plan succeed had rested in his assumption that once I had made it through all the thrill and excitement of planning and renovating and organizing and equipping this place that I would quickly lose interest in the far less exciting day-to-day workings of the inn. He had not been happy when he realized my parents were joining in on the venture with me, however, because he didn’t know whether the same thing could be said of them or not.

  “That’s why your mother’s illness was so perfect,” Floyd said, “because it gave him the excuse to talk you into buying out your parents’ share of this place.”

  Heath and I both gasped, startling Floyd.

  “Oh, sorry. That didn’t come out right. You know what I meant. Anyway, Troy felt better about things when he finally convinced you to hire me as your manager, and after you became the sole owner, he knew we were home free.”

  For the next few minutes, I sat there at the table listening as my feelings ranged from hurt to anger to embarrassment and back again. I couldn’t tell if Floyd was being intentionally cruel or not, but it didn’t really matter. In almost everything he said, there was at least a grain of truth.

  In some cases, there was far more than merely a grain.

  According to Floyd, Troy had always seen me as an excitement junkie, a strong starter who would shoot out of the gate at full speed, wow everybody with my gifts and intelligence and ideas, and give my all for as long as the situation felt new or exciting or challenging. Then, once the big and fabulous opening act was accomplished and it was time to move into the more mundane daily operations, I would quickly lose interest. Sometimes I would bail completely.