Dead Wrong

by Vannetta Chapman

  Bannister was right. The average age of a homicide offender was late twenties to thirties. Few elderly committed such crimes.

  “So why are you looking at Agatha?”

  “Because she isn’t as old as the others—”

  “By a few years.”

  “She had a prior connection with the deceased—”

  “As did all the people who were scammed by him.”

  “And she had means. Who else had a key to the cabin? Someone went in and stole his EpiPen, not to mention his phone and laptop. Plus she had a kitchen where she could bake peanut-laced muffins.”

  Tony waved away that point. “Anyone could have purchased those muffins in town.”

  “Dixon’s past is unexpected. I’ll admit that. I don’t need to tell you we don’t have the resources to track down every chump that ponied up his savings in a get-rich scheme.”

  “It could have been anyone, Jimmy.”

  “True.” Jimmy Bannister studied him a moment, then recounted his case on his fingers. “But only Agatha had opportunity, means, and motive. The others lost money, but Agatha lost two members of her family.”

  “She didn’t do it. She’s Amish. Like all Amish, she’s taken a vow of nonviolence.”

  “A vow is one thing. Responding to tragedy is another.” Bannister put his hands against his lower back. When it had made a satisfying pop, he turned his attention back to Tony. “The Amish hadn’t moved here yet when you retired.”

  “There was talk that they would, but no one had purchased land at that point.”

  “They were a novelty at first, but after a few months the new wore off for some people. I’m not saying everyone. But some folks resent their kind being here.”

  “Their kind?”

  “They work for low wages, taking jobs away from folks who grew up in this area.”

  “Since when is it a crime to be willing to work hard?”

  “And those buggies are a problem. You know they are.”

  Tony wanted to argue that they were no worse than a tractor travelling down the road at twenty miles an hour, but he knew Bannister was right. The buggies took some getting used to.

  “There have been some...altercations, harassment, whatever you want to call it. Now before you start in on me, we responded appropriately, but there’s not much you can do when the person being harassed refuses to file a complaint. But I’ll tell you, Tony...” He picked up a cold cup of coffee, drank whatever remained in it, and grimaced. “I’ve been there when some of those altercations took place. The Amish—the people you claim are so passive—they didn’t respond in kind, but I could see a cold anger brewing. No one likes to be treated unfairly, and in my opinion, it’s only a matter of time before someone snaps—vow or no vow.”

  “You think Agatha snapped?”

  “I think anyone can be provoked to violence.”

  “You’re wrong.” Tony stood and glanced around the office one last time. He didn’t miss it, not really. “You need to keep looking. Agatha did not kill Russell Dixon, and someone doesn’t want me finding out who did.”

  On his way home, he thought about what Bannister had said. Only Agatha had opportunity, means, and motive. But how did they know that was true? Anyone could have snuck on the property. They could have come through the front, down the river, across Tony’s place or across Daryl McNair’s place.

  Maybe it was time he paid Agatha’s other neighbor a visit.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Instead of going straight home from the bishop’s, Agatha drove to her friend Rebecca’s farm. The Miller clan was large, owing to the fact that Rebecca, Saul and all eight of their grown children had opted to move to Texas. Rebecca’s place was always full of grandchildren, and visiting her sometimes helped Agatha when she was feeling out of sorts.

  She directed the buggy mare to turn into the lane and wasn’t a bit surprised when Doc picked up her gait. Even the horse enjoyed visiting the Millers. Bicycles were scattered here and there across the front yard, and the garden was a riot of color. Becca was at the door before Agatha could even knock.

  “I came by your place earlier in the week.” Becca enfolded her in a hug then held her at arm’s length. “Are you okay?”

  “Ya. Of course. I’m fine.”

  Becca was the same age as Agatha—in fact, they shared a birthday month. Two inches taller and twenty pounds lighter, she felt as much like a sister as a best friend. Her blonde hair was now white, which always surprised Agatha until she remembered that her own hair had turned decidedly gray in the last year. Well, that was the way of things.

  “You were at the police station.”

  “I can assure you that was quite an experience.”

  They had walked into the kitchen, where there were always a pot of coffee on the stove and fresh baked goods on the counter. These days, there was also always a baby in the playpen set up in the corner.

  “Give me that boppli, please. I believe holding a child just might be the medicine I need today.”

  “Luke certainly enjoys being held. With all of his bruders and schweschdern, he spends next to no time in his crib.”

  Agatha stared down at the two-month-old in her arms. He’d stopped fussing and watched her as if she was the most surprising thing he’d seen all day. She found herself making cooing sounds to him, which caused him to smile, laugh, and kick out his feet.

  “Oh, he’s a charmer.”

  “For sure and certain. Put him on your shoulder. He’ll be out in five minutes.”

  By the time Agatha had recounted her visit to the Hunt Police Department, Luke was sound asleep. Becca carried him over to the playpen, then poured two cups of coffee and pushed one into Agatha’s hands. “Unless you’d rather have iced tea.”

  “I may live in Texas, but I am still Amish.”

  She realized she’d missed lunch, so it didn’t seem out of order to eat a few of Becca’s molasses cookies. It was important that she keep up her strength. She caught Becca up on all that had occurred, sparing no details. It helped to go over everything again, to realize all that had happened in the last week.

  They’d finished their coffee, and Becca had brought out her knitting. “Help me wind this yarn?”

  “Of course.”

  She slipped her hands through the yarn and held it twelve inches apart. Doing something so simple and natural as unlooping the skein of pastel blue yarn pulled all the tension from Agatha’s body.

  “I needed this.”

  “Did you, now?”

  “A little normalcy.”

  Two grandkinner ran through the kitchen, and Becca reminded them not to wake the baby.

  “It’s gut that you have so much time with your grandkinners.”

  “Do you still plan to go home in August?”

  “Ya. It’s my slowest month, and I’m looking forward to the trip.”

  “Having second thoughts about living so far away from your family?”

  “Not at all. In fact, Marcus wrote me about coming down to stay with me next year. He’s my oldest grandson and has always been the restless sort. His parents agree that time away might be good for him.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find plenty for him to do.”

  “Provided I’m not in jail.”

  Becca paused in winding the yarn. “Tell me you’re not worried that might happen.”

  “I know I didn’t kill him, but convincing Lieutenant Bannister of that is another matter. He seems rather focused on proving it’s me.”

  “It’s a gut thing you have Tony on your side. He’s been a real Godsend.”

  “And to think I barely knew him a week ago.”

  “Life is full of surprises. What’s he like?”

  “Quiet, kind, and still grieving. Though I’m not sure he realizes it. When I handed him a basket full of dinner the other night, he looked for all the world like a child who had lost his puppy. I could tell he was thinking of Camilla.”

  “He needs a friend, and you need a
detective.” Becca winked at her. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting there’s anything romantic between us.”

  “Nein.” Becca pressed her lips together, but her grin widened.

  “The last time you set me up with someone was a disaster.”

  “How was I to know Nathan loved goats so?”

  “He talked about them nonstop for three hours.”

  “Perhaps he was nervous.”

  Agatha rubbed her nose with her shoulder, then motioned for Becca to continue winding the yarn. “The only way to clear my name is to find out who did this, but I can’t imagine who that might be. Honestly, it’s difficult for me to conceive why one person would find it necessary to kill another. I can’t imagine harboring that kind of hatred.”

  Becca wrinkled her nose.

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing simple about people. It seems to me that our emotions and minds don’t always work together.”

  “Like when my mind tells me there’s nothing to worry about, that Gotte has my life in His hands, but my heart is still beating quickly from fear.”

  “Exactly.” Becca hesitated before going on, as if she were weighing her words. Finally she glanced up from the yarn. “Did I ever tell you about the time my mamm fell for a scam?”

  “Your mamm? She was the most practical person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying a lot given the general no-nonsense attitude of Amish folk.”

  “Right? Well, this must have been...oh, twenty years ago. She was in her seventies.”

  “Not that old.”

  “Ha, ha. Remember when we were youngies, and we thought thirty was old?”

  “Now seventy sounds like a spring chicken. Perhaps that’s a lie we tell ourselves.”

  “Or perhaps we have a better perspective on what aging does and doesn’t mean as we get older ourselves. Anyway, someone had contacted mamm through the phone shack. He claimed he was with the IRS and that she owed money.”

  They finished rolling the yarn into a ball. Becca dropped it into her knitting basket, then walked to the sink and fetched a glass of water. “It seems so long ago, but now with all this talk about Russell Dixon and his scams, well...it brings back what mamm went through.”

  “Your dat was already passed?”

  “Ya, and mamm was living with us. Probably that’s what saved her. This man told her to meet him at the bank and withdraw the money. If she did so, there wouldn’t be any additional penalties.” Becca pursed her lips, met Agatha’s gaze, and continued. “I happened to be gathering eggs and found her hitching our old mare to the buggy. She was so agitated. I can remember it as if it were yesterday.”

  “So you stopped her?”

  “We did, but it wasn’t easy. She was absolutely certain that this person was telling the truth and that she needed to go to town and pay him. Then later, after we’d finally convinced her otherwise, she was embarrassed and also quite angry.”

  “He’d made a fool of her, but she had to know that wasn’t her fault. That’s what scammers do. They prey on people’s fears and emotions.”

  “Exactly. Still, it took some time before she let that incident go.” Becca sat back down next to Agatha, close enough that their knees were touching. “I’d find her beating rugs clean, and I’d know by the way she was taking after that dirt—she was thinking of him.”

  “Big difference between being angry enough to take your frustrations out on a rug and being angry enough to kill someone.”

  “True, but then mamm didn’t have that much money to lose—though it was her little nest egg. Also, she had us to take care of her. Imagine if you’d lost your entire life savings.”

  “So you think it could have been one of the Amish couples who killed Dixon?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t met any of the parties involved.”

  “Joseph and Miriam Beiler, Jan and Henry Glick, and Ella and James Fisher. All pleasant, quiet couples, and they all seemed nice enough to me.”

  “But people only present the side they want us to see. That’s true of Amish and Englisch.”

  Agatha felt a tightening in her chest. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to still her heart, which suddenly acted as if she’d been the one standing outside beating rugs. “How do I know if someone is showing their true self or not?”

  Becca covered Agatha’s hand with her own, and that simple touch managed to calm the fear that had momentarily threatened to overwhelm her. “We will pray that Gotte directs your path and gives you wisdom.”

  “Yes, and if He could do both quickly that would be very much appreciated.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Tony didn’t expect Daryl McNair to be home on a Friday afternoon in the middle of June, but it never hurt to try. He’d learned long ago that a good portion of being a successful detective was simply chasing down leads, no matter how obscure.

  Eventually, a hunch would pay off.

  Eventually, the pieces would click together.

  Until then, he’d follow each and every lead.

  The entrance to McNair’s property was blocked by a large, ornate gate. Tony pulled up to the voice box, pushed the button, and gave his name.

  “Drive through.”

  The gate opened and Tony pulled into an inner courtyard and parked under a portico that stretched twenty feet high and was long and wide enough for at least four large pickup trucks.

  His knock was answered by a burly man in tan cargo pants and a black t-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. Apparently, the guy spent a good part of his days pumping iron at a gym. His pectoral, deltoid, and bicep muscles looked grossly inflated.

  Was he even able to lower his arms down to his side?

  Did he like having a neck as thick as his head?

  And what was the point?

  Tony was ushered into the main room with the assurance that McNair would be with him soon. The room was what some would call a great room. The ceiling rose two stories, and windows covered the east wall from the floor to the ceiling. The view of the Guadalupe River was tremendous—sunlight dancing off blue water, all beneath a cloudless sky.

  The decor was a tasteful blend of modern and woodsy. Pinewood accents adorned the fireplace, bookcases, and furniture. But the nod to a country look wouldn’t fool anyone. McNair had money and wasn’t afraid to spend it.

  Tony walked around the room, trying to get a bead on Daryl McNair. He’d met the man once or twice—they were neighbors and Hunt was a small town. But Tony didn’t know much about him.

  He counted at least half a dozen western sculptures, all originals by Richard Loffler according to the plaques inconspicuously placed on or near each item. Tony knew a small Loffler sculpture went for around five thousand. The ones in McNair’s main room were large and detailed—probably running closer to ten thousand dollars each.

  He wasn’t as familiar with paintings, but a quick peek at the landscape above the fireplace mantel revealed it was a Tom Browning. He’d read in the paper that Browning’s latest went for over thirty thousand dollars. McNair obviously had money, and he apparently enjoyed spending and displaying it.

  Before he could snoop any further, boots echoed in the front hall and the man himself appeared in the doorway. McNair was over six feet with a military physique and buzz haircut. Though his hair had grayed at the temples, nothing else belied the man’s age, which Tony thought to be in the mid-fifties.

  “Detective Vargas.” He crossed the room and pumped his hand.

  “Actually it’s just Tony—Tony Vargas.”

  When McNair raised an eyebrow, Tony explained, “I retired several years ago.”

  McNair snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Your wife had a terrible illness. I read about that in the paper. My condolences.” He waited until Tony acknowledged the sentiment, then released his hand and headed toward a liquor cart. Holding up a bottle, he said, “Glenfiddich, 1942. Join me?”

  “Sure. Why not.”<
br />
  McNair didn’t bother asking if he wanted it over ice. Pouring two fingers into each glass, he passed one to Tony and indicated the sitting area. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the murder that occurred next door—on Agatha Lapp’s property.”

  McNair swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I did. Of course, I did. The police came by here the same day to ask if we’d seen anything.”

  Tony waited.

  Waiting was one of the most effective tools of any investigator.

  “But I’m curious as to why you’re here, since—as you say—you’re no longer a detective.”

  “Agatha’s a friend of mine.”

  “I see.” McNair sipped the whiskey, then placed it on a marble coaster, sat back, and crossed his right foot over his left knee. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can, but I’m afraid I wasn’t home that night. I had business in San Antonio, so I stayed at my penthouse.”

  “Was anyone here on the property?”

  “I have a security team.”

  “And did they report seeing anything at all?”

  McNair picked up his glass, stood, and walked to the windows. When he didn’t return to the subject at hand, Tony joined him. He had a feeling that was what McNair expected him to do, and he was willing to play along.

  “Agatha’s guests seem to have a problem understanding property lines.” He said the word guests as if it were the equivalent of vermin. “We’ve posted signs, of course, but it rarely does any good.”

  Tony stepped closer to the window, glanced down and saw the Cox brothers standing near the far bank—directly across from McNair’s house. They were bent over and staring at something in the water, but Tony couldn’t see what.

  “Of course, the river is the property of the State of Texas, and I—like all the good citizens of Hunt—appreciate the tourist dollars that it brings to our good county. The problem is when they cross over to my property and tramp around, which those two have done several times.” He downed the rest of the liquid in his glass. “I’m afraid no one on my staff saw a thing the night in question. They were attending a seminar over in Fredericksburg. I sent the information confirming their whereabouts to Lieutenant Bannister.”