Vanish in Plain Sight (13 page)

There was a pause as Tom gave him a long look, probably to see if he meant that. “Well, yeah, I guess
I might. I looked through my old files, too, like you asked.”

“Good. I appreciate it. So, what can you tell us about that project?”

Tom waved them to a pair of Adirondack chairs, taking a seat facing them. “Wasn’t much that special about the job, except I have to say, Allen wanted stuff done on the cheap. Didn’t make much sense to me, but he was the boss.”

Link nodded. “That was Allen, all right. Always pinched every penny, unless he was spending on old books.”

“Yeah, he had plenty of those. So, anyway, I had a crew of maybe four or five on the job most days. The room went up pretty fast.”

“What about that Friday I asked you about? September 20?” Link could feel the tension in Marisa as he asked the question.

“Well, remembering one specific day after twenty-some years…” Tom shrugged, as if to indicate the hopelessness of such a task.

“You had job notes,” Link reminded him.

“Right. According to my records, we started putting up drywall that week. That Friday morning, I had a call about another job we had going…they’d run into problems, needed help. So I went over there, took part of the crew.” He frowned. “Funny how it comes back to me now that we’re talking about it. I left two guys to work on the drywall. They must’ve knocked off early, because when I got there on Monday, it had
been left half done. I chewed them out over that, you can bet.”

“So a suitcase could have been shoved into the wall that day after they left.”

Tom shrugged. “Or anytime over the weekend. We wouldn’t have noticed it when we came back on Monday—just slapped the rest of the drywall up. We were behind schedule, and your uncle was always on our backs.”

“Why was that?” Marisa spoke for the first time.

“He wanted it done, that’s all.” Tom looked at Marisa as if he’d forgotten she was there. “He complained about the dust, said it would damage his books. Complained about the noise. I remember he said he was hosting some meeting or something one day that week, wanted us to clean up everything we’d been working on. What difference did it make? It was a construction site, not a tea party.”

“Was Allen there that Friday?” Link asked. Much as he hated to admit it, Allen was the most likely person, aside from Barbara herself, to have put the suitcase behind that drywall.

“I don’t know. I was busy, concentrating on a couple different jobs.” Tom rose, poking at the fire again. “He didn’t like the noise, like I said. Didn’t want the guys having a radio on while they worked, even. Sometimes he’d go off. That day…” He shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

Link glanced at Marisa. This was unsatisfactory, and he didn’t know what to ask that would elicit
anything else helpful. He could see the frustration on her face that probably mirrored his own.

“Do you remember my mother?” Marisa asked suddenly.

Tom looked startled. “I…well, sure, I’d see her sometimes, when we were there working.”

“Did you ever talk to her?” Marisa persisted.

“I don’t know.” His jaw set, as if she’d accused him of something. “I suppose we might have said hello, talked about the weather. That’s all.”

“Was she there that Friday?”

“I don’t know.” His face reddened. “Look, I don’t know what you expect me say. I don’t know how that suitcase got inside the wall. Maybe she put it there herself after my guys knocked off work.”

Pressing him on that was obviously not going to pay off. “Can you give me the names of the two men you left there that Friday?”

“Sure. One was Len Barnhart… He passed away a couple years ago. Heart attack right on the job. Shame, that was.”

“I heard that. He was a good man.”

Tom nodded, pausing a moment as if in tribute to Len. “I had him working with a younger guy…Brad Metzger. Brad wasn’t with us all that long. He got a job at the inn, and he’s still there. Assistant manager now.”

“I know Brad.” At least he was available. It could well have been someone who’d moved away a long time ago. “What about the people you said were
coming for a meeting that week? Did you happen to see them?”

Tom seemed to freeze, his hand hovering over the grill top. “No.” He almost snarled the word. “Why would I? You think I had nothing better to do than take notice of who was coming to that house?” He slammed the rack down on the grill and then paused, his back to them. “Think this fire is about ready.”

“We’ll let you get on with your supper. Thanks for your help.”

Tom turned around, smiled, held out his hand. Perfectly normal. Just as he should be.

But Link knew he wasn’t imagining things. Tom hadn’t been particularly happy about being asked to remember that time. And he’d been downright upset at the mention of whoever it was who’d come to Allen’s house that week.

M
ARISA STEPPED OFF
the porch of the bed-and-breakfast, waving to Rhoda, who had walked to the door with her. Rhoda had been almost solicitous this morning, and Marisa couldn’t help wondering if she’d heard something about what happened at the auction. Perhaps Marisa had been the main topic of conversation at Amish worship yesterday. That gave her a prickling at the nape of her neck, as if she were being watched by unseen eyes.

Enough. She was letting herself get rattled, and she couldn’t allow that. The directions to her mother’s cousin’s house were tucked in her bag. It
shouldn’t take more than a half hour at most to find the house.

Elizabeth had said to come anytime, but she might not have anticipated Marisa’s appearance this soon. Still, the sooner the better. She didn’t want to give William time to influence his sister against her.

Marisa had just reached her car when a township police car pulled up, stopping directly in front of her. She stiffened automatically. Even an innocent person might tense at the sight of an officer in uniform headed toward her with a purposeful air. He wasn’t anyone she’d met before—brush-cut blond hair and a round, youthful face. He didn’t look old enough to be a cop.

“Ms. Angelo?” He didn’t pause for her affirmative answer. “Chief Byler wants to see you at headquarters.”

“Now? I was just leaving.”

“Now. He’s waiting.”

“I have an appointment this morning.” Well, that was almost true. Elizabeth didn’t know she was coming, but she’d said anytime. “Can’t I stop by when I get back?”

He took a step toward her and reached for her arm. “Get in the patrol car, please.”

Apprehension slithered through her. He acted as if she were a criminal. And she had no doubt at all that people were watching from behind the muslin or lace curtains along the quiet street.

She straightened. She would not be intimidated.
“I’ll drive my own car, thank you. You can follow me, if you feel compelled to be sure I get there.”

Before he could argue, she turned and yanked her car door open. Somehow she doubted that Adam Byler had ordered that she be picked up by the patrol car, and she wasn’t going to give the neighbors anything else to talk about.

Her guess must have been right, because the cop didn’t attempt to stop her. He marched stiffly to the patrol car, got in and slammed the door. And he did follow her all the three blocks to the township police station. When she got out, he was there at her elbow to escort her inside, hustling her past Link’s high-school friend at the desk and on into Adam Byler’s office.

Byler wasn’t there. Preston Connelly, the district attorney, waited, standing with his back to the window so that he was, for the most part, a bulky shadow against the light.

“Good morning.” She heard the door close behind her and knew the young patrolman had left. “I understand Chief Byler wants to see me.”

“Sit down, Ms. Angelo.” Connelly moved, going behind the chief’s desk, nodding to the visitor’s chair. “The chief was called out on another matter. I have a few questions for you.”

She sat, her uneasiness increasing instead of ebbing. “I hoped that he had some news for me about the investigation.”

Connelly frowned down at the scarred top of the
wooden desk, seeming absorbed in its battered surface. It was as if he didn’t hear her.

When he looked up, he focused on her, eyes intent. “I understand you’ve been conducting your own investigation, Ms. Angelo.”

“Conducting—no, of course not. I’ve been hoping to find someone willing to talk to me about my mother, that’s all.”

Connelly sat down, his face creasing in a smile, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to ease. “That’s difficult, isn’t it? I certainly sympathize, but I’m afraid the Amish tend to be very clannish. It’s unlikely they’d want to talk to an outsider about something they view as a bit shameful.”

She stiffened. “I don’t see anything shameful about my mother falling in love with my father.”

“Naturally not. Most people wouldn’t think such a thing, but the Amish are different.” His voice had warmed with sympathy, and she was suddenly glad that Byler wasn’t there. He would probably be frowning with disapproval.

“So I’ve noticed. Several people have refused to talk to me at all. They act as if it’s possible to simply close a person out of their lives and never think of them again.”

“Your mother was banned. They’re not going to want to talk about her. I know it’s hard to accept, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to learn anything here.”

“It’s not quite that bad.” She had to be fair, much
as William Zook’s attitude rankled. “Bishop Amos has been very helpful, and a few other people have been willing to talk.”

“That surprises me.” He leaned back, so that he was again silhouetted against the window behind him. “If you’ve learned anything useful, you know it’s your duty to pass it on to the police.”

“Nothing about my mother’s disappearance. Just—well, some memories of her.” Memories that were precious to her, even if not helpful to the police. “My mother’s cousin, Elizabeth Yoder, has also agreed to talk with me. She may know more. I’ve heard they were very close.”

“Well, I hope you’re successful. And you will keep us informed of anything we should know, won’t you?”

If there was a warning in that, it was well-hidden. “Yes, of course I will.”

“Good. Now, about your father.”

She leaned forward. “Have you heard from him?”

“Why would you think we’d hear from him? Surely it would be more likely for him to contact you.”

“It would, but I did give him Chief Byler’s number in the messages I’ve left for him.”

“Are you certain he hasn’t been in touch with you, Ms. Angelo?” His voice had hardened. “A text, an email, a phone call?”

“Nothing.” Did she really have to go through this again? “I’m sure he’s camping someplace where he
doesn’t have cell service. He’s not that good about using his cell phone even when he’s not out in the wilds, and as for email or texting… Well, he wouldn’t know where to begin. He’s avoided that technology like the plague.”

“Hmm.” The sound expressed skepticism. “So you didn’t talk to him, say, about two or three days ago?”

“I did not.” The pleasant atmosphere had disappeared from the office, reminding her that this was a police station. And she was, if not a suspect, still a person involved in a case.

“So you’d be surprised if I told you that two days ago, your father crossed the border into Canada.”

She couldn’t speak for a moment. She took a breath. That was a perfectly innocent action on Dad’s part, but she could just imagine how it looked to the police.

“I didn’t know that, no, but I’m not surprised. He enjoys the fishing in Canada.”

“You expect us to believe that your father would just head to another country on the spur of the moment without letting you know? Frankly, Ms. Angelo, I find that about as hard to believe as your singular lack of memories of the time when your mother disappeared. Particularly since both of those things might easily be designed to protect your father.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her lips were stiff.

“Don’t you?” He rose, coming around the desk
so that he loomed over her, trapping her in the chair. “Let me explain it, then. You might conveniently forget hearing your parents argue during that time before your mother disappeared. You might even manage to forget your father hitting her.”

“No.”

He swept on, ignoring her protest. “And now that some clues have turned up as to what happened to your mother, your father is conveniently missing. And you don’t know where he is. As I say, convenient. For him.”

“It happens to be true.” Her heart was pounding at the contempt in his voice, and his presence was so intimidating that she could barely catch her breath.

“You’re doing him no good, you know. This just makes him look even guiltier. An innocent man would be eager to come forward and explain himself in a situation like this.”

“My father doesn’t know anything about it. If he knew, I’m sure he would be here.” He wouldn’t let her be facing this alone.
You wouldn’t, would you, Dad?

“Well, we only have your word for that, don’t we?”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“For your sake, I hope that’s true, Ms. Angelo.” He leaned back against the desk, easing the pressure ever so slightly. “As for your investigations… Well, I do understand, but I think it might be better for everyone if you left that to the professionals. You’d
be wiser to go back home, redouble your efforts to find your father and hire a good attorney for him.”

Her throat was so tight she wasn’t sure she could speak, but she had to. “I don’t see why my father needs an attorney at all. You have no proof a crime was even committed.” She stood, forcing him back a step. “Until then—”

“Didn’t I mention it?” His tone was silky. “The DNA results came back. The blood on the suitcase may not be enough to guarantee that anyone was murdered. But one thing is sure. That blood came from your mother.”

B
Y THE TIME SHE REACHED
Elizabeth Yoder’s place, Marisa had stopped shaking inside, which was just as well. She had to put all the questions the DA had raised out of her mind and focus on what she was going to ask Elizabeth. This might be her only chance.

She already had gathered a general picture of her mother’s life as an Amish person. What she needed was someone who had remained in touch during the years from Barbara’s marriage to her disappearance. That field was pathetically small. Elizabeth was probably her best, maybe her only, hope.

Marisa drove down a narrow gravel lane to the white farmhouse, and then past it to the rear, looking for a place to leave the car where she wouldn’t block the lane. As the area behind the house came into view, she pulled off onto the grass verge and stopped, staring.

She was looking at the perfect image of an Amish farm. Neatly tended flower beds, filled with mums and asters, stretched across the back of the house. A few apple trees, their limbs bending with the weight
of their fruit, lined a massive vegetable garden. Elizabeth and another woman, aided by several children, seemed to be busy in the garden. Beyond that, a crew of Amish men unloaded something from a wagon in front of the barn.

Sliding out, she started toward the garden. As she neared, she realized what she was looking at. Elizabeth and her helpers were picking pumpkins and squash, loading them into several wagons parked along the side of the garden.

Marisa waved. Straightening, Elizabeth put one hand on her back, stretching, and waved back.

“Marisa. Ach, I am so glad you have komm. Just what I hoped.” She waved a hand. “This is my daughter, Mary Ann, your cousin.” The other woman, who must be about Marisa’s own age, smiled.

“Wilkom, Cousin Marisa. Here are my children.” She gestured toward the four youngsters who were loading pumpkins into wagons—the youngest must surely be not much more than four, her chubby arms clasped around a pumpkin that was half as big as she was. “Aaron, Katie, Anna and the little one is Mary Beth.”

“Hello. It’s nice to meet all of you.”

The children looked back at her with solemn blue eyes, all so alike that she’d probably not be able to tell them apart once they were no longer standing in a row. Their clothes were a miniature version of the adult Amish clothing—the boy wearing black pants, a blue shirt, suspenders and a straw hat, while the
girls wore the dress-and-apron combination the older women wore, in solid colors ranging from purple to rose to blue.

Elizabeth brushed her hands on her apron. “I want to sit and visit, but we must get these pumpkins picked today, and Mary Ann and the children have come to help….”

“That’s fine. I’ll be glad to wait for you.” She smiled. “I’d like to help, if—”

“Ach, no, you are not dressed for this. Sit on the bench, then, if you don’t mind waiting. We won’t be much longer.”

Marisa sat where she was directed, aware that her fingers were already itching for the pad and pencils that were always in her bag. “Cousin Elizabeth, would it be all right if I made some drawings? I wouldn’t show anyone’s face, I promise.”

“Ja, no harm in that.” She was frankly curious. “I have heard that you make the pictures that are in story books, like those we have for the children.”

“That’s right.” She hesitated, but since Elizabeth had indicated that the children read storybooks, surely it was all right to offer. “I have some back at the bed-and-breakfast that I’ve done. I could bring them for your grandchildren, if that’s all right?” She ended on a questioning note, hoping she hadn’t erred.

But Elizabeth beamed. “That would be wonderful gut. They would like to have those, that’s certain-sure.”

“I’ll drop them off sometime soon,” she said, feeling irrationally pleased.

Elizabeth and her helpers returned to their work, and she did the same, pencil flying across the page as the scene took shape. The lushness of the garden and the bright colors of the vegetables gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, contrasting with the sober dress of the workers.

But there was nothing sober about their manner, she realized. A flow of cheerful chatter in Pennsylvania Dutch accompanied the work, punctuated by laughter and what was probably some gentle teasing. Everyone seemed happy, and each person had a job suited to his or her size. The older children were quick to offer a hand to the younger ones. It was work, probably valuable work since she imagined the vegetables were headed for market, but they certainly seemed to have a good time while doing it.

This would have been her mother’s life when she was a child—growing up on the farm in Indiana, working with her family, probably enjoying it just as Mary Ann’s children seemed to. Would this have been her life, as well, if Barbara had never met Russ Angelo and fallen in love?

But that was useless speculation. If she’d had a different father, she’d be a different person. But at least she might have had her mother for longer than five years.

She forced her focus back to the drawing, losing herself in the scene as she so often did. When she
finally looked up, she realized she had an audience. The women and the two oldest kids were hauling the wagons to the lane, but the two youngest stood next to her, gazes glued to the drawing.

She smiled at them, almost afraid to speak for fear of scaring them away, turning it so they could see more easily. Would they even understand her? She wasn’t sure when Amish children learned English.

They edged a little closer to each other, smiling back shyly.

She put the pencil down, realizing that the stress of that interview with the DA had faded away. Perhaps that was the effect of the scene she’d been drawing. There was something so unhurried about the whole process. The family had been working, accomplishing something that must be done, but the rhythm was one of smooth, easy grace, without any sense that they watched the clock or needed to move on to something else. Maybe people who lived close to the land fell naturally into its rhythms.

“Now we can talk,” Elizabeth said, approaching. She put her hands on the children’s shoulders and looked over their heads at the sketchpad. “Ach, that is fine work, for sure. I can see the garden the way you do.” She didn’t wait for any response, just patted the children’s heads and started to the house. “Komm, we’d all like something cold to drink.”

Marisa followed her into the house, trying not to appear too curious as she looked around. At first glance, the kitchen looked like any modern kitchen,
but a second look showed her the differences. The appliances all seemed to be run on gas, and the lighting fixture over the long kitchen table wasn’t the usual electric lamp. No pictures hung on the walls, but the windowsills were crowded with pink and red geraniums.

“Sit now.” Elizabeth waved her to a chair. Mary Ann was already getting out glasses and what seemed to be jugs of lemonade and iced tea. In moments the two women had poured drinks and set out plates of cookies and some sort of round chocolate palm-size cakes.

Mary Ann saw her looking at them. “Whoopie pies. Try one.”

“They look wonderful.” And fattening, she thought, but picked one up and bit in. The vanilla filling spurted out, sweet as the chocolate. “Delicious.”

The children, in response to something their grandmother said, took snacks and drinks and headed out to the porch.

“Now.” Elizabeth sat down across from Marisa. “What can I tell you about your mammi?”

“Anything you tell me would be more than I know now,” Marisa admitted. “I’m really hoping you know something about her life those last few years, after she married my father.”

Elizabeth’s face grew serious. “That is the one thing I can’t say much about. You see, I married soon after she did and moved here. If I’d stayed closer, maybe things would have been different.”

Her eyes filled with regret, and Marisa could feel her pain. So many people had been hurt in such different ways by the decisions her parents had made.

“Or maybe not. We won’t ever know.”

“It is as God wills,” Elizabeth said. “Even when we don’t understand what happens to us.”

Marisa’s throat tightened. “That’s hard for me to accept.”

Elizabeth patted her hand. “I know. Hard for all of us, but it is best to accept that our loving Father knows more than we do.”

“After my mother left the church…” She hesitated, not sure of the right way to say what she wanted. “Would you have been able to stay close to her, if you hadn’t moved away?”

“You are thinking of the bann,” Elizabeth said. “But even those who are banned can still stay close with family, if both sides want it. They must simply obey the rules.”

She was tempted to ask about William’s attitude, but that would probably not encourage any confidences. “So you didn’t stay in touch with her?” They wouldn’t have had any long telephone conversations, she supposed.

Elizabeth looked surprised. “We wrote, of course.”

Of course. What was she thinking—people used to actually write letters to each other, instead of texting or emailing.

“She told you how she was getting along, then.”

“Ja, for sure. She was so happy when you were born.” Elizabeth smiled, clearly remembering that time. “We hired a driver to take us to see you. Mary Ann was not quite two, and she thought you were a baby doll.”

Marisa exchanged smiles with Mary Ann. So there was already a bond between them. If things had been different, they might have grown up as friends.

Or wouldn’t Barbara have wanted to keep up that relationship? Maybe she’d have found it a painful reminder of what she’d given up.

“Was she happy?” The question burst out before she could censor it. “Did she regret the choice she’d made?”

Elizabeth didn’t respond. Then she rose, and Marisa feared she’d offended her. But she held out her hand.

“Komm. I want to show you something.”

Together they went into the next room—what must be the living room of the house. Several bookshelves, a couple of comfortable chairs and three rocking chairs, one of which had a basket of sewing beside it. One entire end of the room was taken up by a large quilt frame, with a quilt spread over its surface.

“Mamm is having a quilting this week,” Mary Ann said. “We will all help to finish the quilt.”

Marisa realized she was looking at the top of the quilt, beneath which were the layers of filling and the backing. It was like a sandwich of fabric, not yet joined together. That was what would happen at the
quilting Mary Ann had mentioned…. Women would sit all around the quilt, stitching the layers together.

“The design is beautiful.” She touched the quilt top lightly. Rows of patches of different colors seemed to ripple across the surface in shades that ran from dark to medium to light and back to the dark again in gentle gradations. She didn’t know a great deal about quilting, but she knew enough to recognize the artistry shown in the quilt. It evoked an almost visceral response, as if it touched the emotions in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Sunshine and Shadows,” Elizabeth said. “That is the pattern, a very old one. I like the old ones best. They make me remember the generations of women who have made the same quilts.”

Marisa nodded, her throat tight at the thought.

“It is called Sunshine and Shadows because it is meant to look like the pattern of sunshine and shadows moving across the land,” she said. “That is also the pattern of our lives, ain’t so? We have the gut things and the sad, one after another, but all part of who we are.” She put her arm around Marisa’s waist, drawing her close. “That was your mamm’s life, too. Happy and sad things, all making up her pattern. Barbara understood that, I think. Do you?”

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “I’m beginning to.”

“Gut.” Elizabeth gave her a gentle squeeze and then let her go.

She hadn’t, perhaps, learned anything new, but
Marisa was still oddly comforted. “When you read her letters, did anything change in the time leading up to her disappearance? Did she seem depressed or worried about anything?”

Elizabeth studied her face. Finally she gave a short nod. “I did not know whether I would show you this or not, but now I think that I must.” She crossed the room to a carved wooden chest that stood against the wall, lifted the lid and returned a moment later with an envelope in her hand. “This is the last letter I received from Barbara. It came the week before…” She let that trail off and held the envelope out. “You should have this. You can decide if it means anything.”

Marisa’s fingers trembled as she slid the letter from the envelope. The folds were much creased, as if it had been read over and over. Very short, it didn’t take up even a page, written in a round, school-girl hand. She touched the writing, realizing she’d never seen anything her mother had written.

My dear cousin,
she read.
I don’t know what to do. I wish that you were here, so that we could sit at the kitchen table together, drinking coffee and talking the way we used to. Maybe then I’d know. You’ll say I should talk to Russ, but I can’t. I’m afraid to talk to anyone about it. They—

She must have stopped there, crossing out the pronoun and beginning again.
I know that if you were here you would help me. Perhaps William will, if he
is able to forgive. Pray that I will do the right thing. Your loving cousin, Barbara.

Marisa wiped away a tear before it could fall on the paper. Her mother’s words, written so many years ago, still seemed to carry the weight of her worry. Not just worry. Fear.

“Did you answer her?”

“Ja, I wrote to say that I would get a driver to bring me on Saturday. I went, but when I got there, your mother was gone, and no one could tell me what had happened.”

She looked from the letter to Elizabeth’s face. “Did you show this to my father?”

“No. Maybe I should have, but she says she couldn’t talk to him about it, so I thought I shouldn’t. If I was wrong…”

“It probably wouldn’t have made any difference.” She slipped the letter back into the envelope. “May I take this?”

“Ja.” Her cousin looked troubled. “Show it to anyone you want if you think it will help.”