Fall from Pride (10 page)

“There's sure a lot I don't know about art and artists.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Maybe finding out who's behind the burnings will be like that,” she said. “You know, we're so close to things—to people—we can't see the big picture. Nate, what if it's someone right under our noses?”

 

Nate finally got to meet Sarah's friend Ray-Lynn Logan, and was surprised to hear she had a soft Southern drawl. She gave him a good looking over, even a bit of a quiz about whether he'd left a girlfriend behind in Columbus—which he truthfully denied—so he had to wonder what Sarah had said about him. He also ran into Peter Clawson, who said he ate most of his meals there.

“Ray-Lynn tells me you own a piece of the Buggy Wheel Shop,” Nate said to Peter as they walked out of the restaurant together. “So you're even into investments that sound as if they're Amish-owned.”

“A couple. I like to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. Some of these ma-and-pa businesses around here have taken a hit in the stale economy. It doesn't just affect the big boys on the Wall Streets and Fifth Avenues of the country, you know.”

“So you're a local philanthropist.”

“I never thought of it that way, more like a practicalicist—and I know that's not a word. For instance, I'm offering a five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to an arrest of the arsonist, and I thought you should be the first to know. Besides the Saturday benefit auction information, the reward will headline today's edition of the newspaper. I have no doubt the media flocking in to cover this second barn burning will have to quote the lowly
Home Valley News
on that. Now let me take a guess, Nate,” he went on before Nate could thank him for offering the reward. “You're looking for information on the Yoder boy at the Buggy Wheel—well, not a boy by Amish standards.”

“Did you know him well? I assume he left the Buggy Wheel Shop when he was shunned.”

“Right on that. For someone Amish, Jacob was really volatile. Low tolerance for criticism, and I'd say shunning—their so-called
meidung
—is the ultimate criticism from his people. The boy got way out of line messing with a car theft ring and who knows what else. Not sure what Sarah Kauffman saw in him—an independent spirit, maybe.”

“Volatile,” Nate repeated, not responding to the who
knows-what-else or the comment on Sarah. “You don't have a forwarding address for him, do you?”

“I doubt if even his parents do, but I'll give you their address, in case you want to chat with them, too. Of course, you can always ask Sarah Kauffman more about him.”

Not biting on that, either—Nate was starting to think Peter was quite a manipulator, but then a lot of what he called media mavens were skilled at spin—he took the page Peter ripped off a small spiral notebook. In taut back-slanted script—the man was left-handed—he'd scribbled an address on County Line Road.

“Thanks,” Nate said. “And I'll see you tomorrow morning just to chat about how you see this whole barn-burning situation. You're obviously a great pair of eyes and ears around here.”

“That I am. Eyes, ears—and mouth,” he said with a little laugh. Despite the lack of traffic on Main Street, the portly man looked both ways before he crossed toward his newspaper office. On the glass windows of the brick building was marked in big, bold print—black shadowed with gold—Home Valley News, Peter Clawson, Owner/Editor-in-Chief.

IT WAS A REAL PARADE OF INTERESTING MEN today, Ray-Lynn thought as she had a cup of sweet tea when the crowd slowed around ten-thirty, before the lunch rush. Not that Peter was intriguing to her, but he was a mover and a shaker and, despite lower subscription numbers for his newspaper, he evidently still had money to burn with that reward for information he was putting up. At last she'd gotten a close-up gander at that good-looking-in-a-kind-of-rough-and-hungry-way Nate MacKenzie. And now, here came Jack.

“Morning, Sheriff,” she greeted from the front booth where she'd been sitting by herself to catch her breath, now trying not to be breathless at the fact he was here, for once off his precious schedule. Why, you'd think the man was still a marine drill sergeant. “A second breakfast or just coffee?” she asked. “Your usual counter spot?”

“If you don't mind, I'll just sit with you—coffee only.”

When she nodded, he slid in across from her. Fortunately,
Leah Schwartz came over with the coffeepot so Ray-Lynn didn't have to get up to wait on him.

“Everything okay?” she asked, trying not to sound concerned. If nothing else, she'd love to get something out of him about the arson investigation he and Nate MacKenzie were working on. “I'm sure you're busy with the second arson and more news media in town.”

“Yeah, well—thanks, Leah,” he told the girl when she poured his coffee. She widened her eyes at Ray-Lynn and beat a quick retreat. “The thing is, it's a case, and one that means so much to the Amish, of course—and so to me. They're the backbone of this community and, like you, I admire them a lot, so I want to catch the firebug fast, before he does more damage.”

Ray-Lynn sat still as stone, her mind racing. As many times as they'd chatted, he'd never opened up to her like this. Here he was admitting his deepest frustrations, trusting her with his problems. Should she let up on the purely professional facade she'd erected toward him lately—the fence, as Sarah had put it?

“I'm sure you and the arson investigator will solve this. You—are you thinking the arsonist might be Amish and that will upset the Amish?”

“Don't know. Could be. I know the crowds that are coming in are good for your restaurant and other businesses, but I'm having to spend too much time on PR and riding herd on traffic to focus on helping MacKenzie.”

Her jaw could have dropped into her tea. Jack Freeman admitting he was upset? That he was anything but in total control? And unburdening himself to her as if he wanted her opinion or support?

“Do you or Nate have any leads?” she dared to ask,
wanting to reach over to cover his clenched hands with hers. He hadn't taken one swallow of his coffee. “You know—thinking the arsons are hate crimes against the Amish or something like that. There was a rumor that even the FBI might be sent in. Surely, you and Nate MacKenzie can handle things without that complication.”

“They won't be called in unless the arsonist causes fatalities. Interesting that he or she—it's usually young white males, from what I've been reading up on it—hasn't even caused the death of a farm animal.”

“Oh, great, an arsonist with a heart, with a soft spot for the Amish whose livelihoods he's ruining.”

“Yeah. Well, sorry I dumped all this on you. I know you've been extra busy in here lately. I could tell.”

He looked up from the coffee cup he'd been studying as if he could read the future in it. She glanced down into her tea—no tea leaves to read.

“I'm really glad you stopped by when it wasn't so busy,” she told him. “And that you told me how you feel. It will be just between us, and that's a promise. However many folks I talk to every day, I'm good at keeping confidences.”

She watched him drain his coffee cup in a couple of quick swallows. When he went for his wallet, she shook her head and reached out to stay his hand.

“It's on me,” she said, wishing her voice didn't catch so it sounded as if she was upset or hesitant. “You do so much for all of us, make us and me feel safe.”

He cleared his throat. “I really appreciate it, Ray-Lynn, appreciate you,” he said, his voice gruff as he slid out of the booth, retrieved his hat from the wall peg and went out the door. But he did give a quick look back.

 

Nate's frustrating lack of progress continued at the Buggy Wheel Shop. Despite learning a lot about how they actually customized the buggy interiors for Amish buyers, he hadn't learned much about Jacob Yoder. Maybe that was because he'd been shunned, maybe because he'd kept to himself and had worked hard despite getting in with the wrong bunch of “moderns” after work—he got that much out of Jacob's former coworkers.

Since that didn't take long, Nate decided to drive out to see if Jacob's parents could throw any light on things. He was so used to having Sarah tell him where to find something around here it took him a minute to remember to just use his GPS to find County Line Road. When he got there, he found a long, hilly road with lots of mailboxes bearing the same names—Miller, Garber and Yoder—but he had the exact address.

Despite that, he drove past the place at first. Unlike the Amish properties he'd seen nearer to town, the small, gray frame house looked run-down. No barn, no outbuildings, no
grossdaadi haus.
But then it had no electric or phone lines running into it, either, no lightning rods. A buggy was almost hidden out back by the small garage that could house a horse. He never should have assumed that all the Amish around here were prosperous farmers.

It reminded him not to stereotype anyone he met here or anywhere else—including the typical profile for an arsonist, one he knew so well. Young, white male, age seventeen to mid-twenties; poor relationship with his father; an overprotective mother; weak social skills; employed in low-paying jobs; possibly above-average intelligence but only poor to fair academic performance.

He turned around in the next driveway and went back to the house, parking on the driveway in front. He saw a white-capped woman glance out through the green curtains, then disappear. A bearded Amish man came to the front door, even before he knocked. At least they were both home, a break he hadn't had lately.

He introduced himself and showed his credentials, but they seemed to know who he was. After all, VERA always announced him. The Yoders—he had a feeling they both looked older than they were—sat on their sagging maroon couch, facing him as he sat in a wooden armchair.

“I realize your son, Jacob, is not part of the community right now, but I was hoping you could give me an idea where to find him. As you know, he phoned in the first barn fire and was a witness to it, so I'd like to get his description of it.”

“What you know about Jacob, I'm not sure,” his father said. “But in a shunning, even the family doesn't have anything to do with him.”

“I understand that. But he could be living with friends you might have known or maybe you've heard where he's employed right now.”

Mr. Yoder shook his head. “He phoned the fire in from the Kauffman farm. He was at the Kauffman farm that night.” His expression didn't vary from a stony frown.

“Yes, he had stopped there either because he saw a lot of people at the party or perhaps wanted to see Sarah Kauffman.”

“He shouldn't bother her. She broke it off before he was shunned.”

Jacob's mother spoke for the first time. “It might have been one of the things that made him angry—then he made
mistakes, hanging out with the wrong sort. Made the sheriff get after him.”

“I understand the sheriff went to bat for him, though, didn't file charges that could have meant prison time.”

Mr. Yoder nodded. Mrs. Yoder began to cry silently, blinking back her tears but not wiping them away. “He was a good boy,” she said. “Worked hard. He is—was—our only child, you see.”

That really surprised Nate. He hadn't come across a small Amish family yet. So, the only child would have been especially treasured by the mother. Maybe his father had been strict with him and the boy had resented it, but he was reading into things here.

Feeling he had walked into another dead end in a maze, Nate excused himself and got up to leave. Mr. Yoder accompanied him out onto the front porch.

“Mr. Yoder, a fairly good source told me that Jacob was volatile. Did he have a temper?”

The man sighed and glanced out at VERA. He closed the door behind him and led Nate away from the house before he spoke. “When crossed,
ya
. His mother—God help us—she spoiled him some. I guess Sarah did, too, at first. I pray you can find him and get him help if he needs it, Mr. MacKenzie—help for his head. I been trying to decide to come see you or not.”

Nate's heart rate jumped. “About what, Mr. Yoder? Do you know something that might help protect your fellow churchmen's barns?”

“Only that the boy used to like to burn the trash in the big barrel out back. And lit our cellar door afire with matches once when he didn't get his way and—” he gave a big sniff and wiped his nose with his sleeve “—carried
around with him in his buggy one of those fancy fireplace lighters you just hit a button on and a flame comes out. We been a'praying it's not him, Mr. MacKenzie.”

“The red car he drives—do you know its license plate number?”

“No, but I bet you can find out.”

“I will and hope to find Jacob, too. Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Yoder. I can tell you love your son.”

“The prodigal,” he said. “But if he comes home, can't say I'd kill the fatted calf for him. I also been a'praying I wouldn't want to kill him instead, putting his mother through all this.”

What an admission from an Amish man, Nate thought. Finally, he had a solid lead and prime suspect.

 

Nate texted an ASAP request to his office in Columbus for Jacob Yoder's license plate number before he drove into the Kauffman driveway. Despite the graying sky that Sarah had mentioned might mean rain, she had finished chalking the outline for her quilt square and had drawn some diagonal lines through the space.

As efficient and prompt as ever, she had her horse hitched to the buggy, so he parked VERA behind the barn instead of driving way back in by the pond. He'd been agonizing over how much to ask her about Jacob. Both Peter Clawson and Mr. Yoder had suggested he should, so why had he been hesitating? Was it the fact that she must have once cared deeply for Jacob that bothered him? It was a battle to keep things professional around her.

“Here,” he said, getting his thinking back on track. He produced a handheld two-way radio that looked more like a cell phone. “Let me show you how to use this, in case you
need to call me. But as I said, if I'm on the road with VERA, I'll have to put the antenna down that receives, so it might not work then—unless there are none of these beautiful hills between us. At least this is a broad valley.”

Hills between us…a broad valley…
There was so much that stood between the two of them. He had to stop thinking of her in personal ways, he lectured himself again as he demonstrated how to use the two-way, then walked back to VERA and took a practice call from her. Needless to say, she caught on right away as she did with almost everything.

“I've got chicken sandwiches and some lemonade,” she told him as he came around the barn to join her again. “They're in a basket on the backseat, so you can serve while I drive. That's one thing about a horse and buggy. You can safely eat and drive.”

She sounded nervous and her cheeks were flushed. Maybe it wasn't a good idea for him to go out with her like this, but he needed her help—talk time alone—and her father had okayed it. “Sounds great. Which barn first?”

“I was going to start with the Hostetler barn farther out, but considering the darkening sky, I think we should go to Levi Miller's first. Besides, that's closer to where I saw someone in the dark with your night glasses in case we want to look in that meadow. Upteyup,” she said to Sally.

They pulled away, then slowed as her sister Lizzie ran out with a small sack of fresh-baked half-moon pies for them. She and her mother were still baking as many as possible to sell at the benefit auction the day after tomorrow. Maybe Jacob Yoder would show up for that, he thought. Surely, it would be a mix of the Amish and the English. But if he could get his license plate number, he could ask Sheriff Freeman to keep an eye out for him in this entire area. Nate and
the sheriff had plans to join forces but, of necessity, they'd both been checking separate leads on this case so far.

 

Nate was really impressed with the interior of Sarah's buggy, as customized as those he'd seen being made in the Buggy Wheel Shop. Hers had roll-down leather curtains, a polished splashboard where a dashboard would be in a car, a hand brake that would rub against the tires, battery-operated front lights and turn signals and an emerald-green, crushed-velvet front seat.

“So how do you like the eight-to-ten-miles-per-hour pace of the buggy compared to racing around in VERA?” Sarah asked between bites of her chicken sandwich. Nate sat behind her as her father had instructed, but he was leaning forward and, despite the rising breeze, she could feel his breath and smell that clean, pine scent he always had on him. Would it linger in her buggy after he was gone?

“It sure gives me time to take in the scenery. Beautiful.”

He no doubt meant outside the buggy, but she felt herself blush, anyway. “So, any luck with finding out who wrote that note?” she asked.

“Do Amish kids learn to print and write cursive in school?”

“
Ya
—yes. Because of the Bible reference, you think it was written by one of my people?”

“Or former people.”

“Not Hannah again!”

“Probably not. Can you tell me anything about Jacob's personality?”

“A good worker but ambitious for more and fast. Maybe,” she admitted, “that's one thing that drew us together at first. But, like I said, he got in with some bad people.”