Vanish in Plain Sight (17 page)

She looked up then, glancing from one face to another. “Were there any more of these?” She held up the book.

“We searched every shelf,” Trey said. “Maybe he stopped writing.”

“Or maybe somebody got rid of them and just missed that one,” Link added.

She considered that, still finding all this hard to believe. “What do you think it means? And how could it possibly connect with my mother’s disappearance?”

“It might. Suppose for a moment that Allen and some others had decided to revive the Brotherhood,” Trey said.

“Why?” Geneva sounded genuinely distressed. “Why would he want to do such a thing?”

“Mom, you know he wasn’t just interested in the history of the area. He was fanatic about it. This Brotherhood idea was just the sort of crackpot scheme that would appeal to him.”

“Goodness knows I didn’t think very highly of Allen,” Geneva said. “But there’s no proof. And what would he want from something like that, anyway?”

“Power,” Leo said. “That’s what every secret organization is about, in essence. It makes the insiders feel as if they have power over others. I’m sorry, Geneva, but you know as well as anyone how jealous Allen was of his older brother. He could never reconcile himself to coming second to Blake.”

Geneva’s brow wrinkled, her eyes filling with distress. “Blake wanted him to be a part of things. He did.”

“I know.” Leo patted her hand, his voice as tender
as if they were the only two in the room. “There was just something twisted in Allen that wouldn’t let him accept that. And I’m afraid Allen was involved in something.”

Trey’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What do you know, Leo?”

Leo folded his hands precisely in front of him. “It was years ago…thirty, probably. I didn’t even remember it until this came up.” He nodded toward the journal. “Allen stopped me after a historical society meeting one evening. Talked on and on about some research he’d been doing.”

He gave an apologetic glance at Geneva. “You know how he could be when he got on one of his hobbyhorses. I’m afraid I was only half listening. In any event, he said he had a small group of like-minded individuals who were meeting together. He invited me to join them.” He shrugged. “As I say, I wasn’t really paying much attention, and frankly, I didn’t have time for any more meetings. I begged off, and he never mentioned it again.”

There was silence while they absorbed that. Marisa could only wonder that they were taking this so seriously. It all seemed so vague and faraway.

But then, so had her mother’s disappearance.

“So there’s a little confirmation that a group existed,” Trey said.

“It fits with what Tom Sylvester said about a meeting at Allen’s house that week,” Link said.

Marisa had to readjust her thoughts from the
distant past to their conversation with the construction boss. “I’d nearly forgotten that. You think it means something?”

“I think Tom wished he hadn’t said it,” Link said. “He backed away in a hurry when I asked who was there.”

“I wish you’d listened a little closer, Leo.” Trey swung toward the older man. “You didn’t have any idea who those like-minded others were?”

“None.” Leo spread his hands, empty. “It doesn’t prove a thing, of course. But I can imagine a scenario where some people might be anxious that news of their activities not become public.”

“You’re not suggesting that they were doing anything illegal, are you?” Marisa could only think that sounded a little far-fetched for a group of history enthusiasts.

But Leo seemed to be taking it seriously. “The original purpose of the Brotherhood was to advance its members by any means possible, up to and including twisting the law to their advantage. I honestly don’t know what they might have been thinking of, but it opens up some possibilities. They apparently met at Allen’s house. Marisa’s mother was the house keeper there. Her suitcase was found there. Does that add up to something, or not?”

She found his words oddly compelling. Leo’s calm, judicial persona seemed to add weight to the supposition. And did it fit with her mother’s letter?

“Marisa?” Link’s fingers brushed her hand. “What is it?”

Tell them, or not? But she already knew the answer to that.

“My mother’s cousin, Elizabeth Yoder, gave me a letter she received from my mother shortly before she disappeared. A short note, saying she was afraid of something. She said she couldn’t talk to my father. She said she knew Elizabeth would help if she were there. That she might have to turn to William and hope he would help her. That was all. But Elizabeth came to Springville a few days later to find that Barbara had disappeared.”

“Did you tell Adam about this?” Link’s hand tightened on hers.

“No.” She didn’t want to look at him.

“Why not? Don’t you think that’s important?” Frustration edged his voice.

She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “That comment about not being able to tell her husband. I thought the police would interpret that to mean she was afraid of him.”

Their gazes met, crossing like swords. “It might mean that.”

“And it might mean that she saw or heard something at your uncle’s house that made her a threat to someone.”

“To my uncle, you mean.”

Leo cleared his throat. Marisa jerked her gaze away from Link’s, to find that the others were
watching them with varying degrees of surprise. She felt the heat flood her cheeks and wanted nothing more than to shove back her chair and walk out.

“There’s no point in arguing among ourselves about what this might mean,” Leo said. “I can certainly understand Marisa’s concern for her father. But that just makes it more important that we reach the truth.”

“And keep Marisa safe while we do it,” Geneva added. She rose, coming around the table to Marisa and putting her arm around her gently, wary of her sore shoulder. “Don’t you worry. We’re going to deal with this, I promise. Together.”

L
INK GLANCED AT
Marisa’s face as he drove down Maple Street. He hadn’t told her where he was taking her…only that he wanted to show her something.

She hadn’t protested. He had the sense that she’d had no emotional reserves left after that discussion this morning.

Now she moved, a bit restlessly. “Are you sure I’ll be back in time to change before I go out with your mother?”

“Plenty of time.” He still wasn’t sure he liked the idea his mother had come up with. She had a dinner meeting of the Spring Township Historical Association at the inn tonight, and she’d decided Marisa should attend with her.

On the surface it was a logical idea. Any friends Uncle Allen possessed would probably be there. Marisa would be able to meet them, and Geneva would encourage them to talk.

He didn’t know if he was more concerned about his mother’s efforts to play detective or about Marisa. She’d already had a difficult twenty-four hours, and
thanks to him, she was about to experience something that had to be emotional for her.

But it was too late to change his mind. He pulled to a stop in front of the house in which Marisa had lived as a child.

Marisa’s gaze sharpened. She gripped the door handle.

He waited for an explosion, but it didn’t come.

“Why did you bring me here?”

He made an effort to match her detached tone. “I thought it might help you remember when you were a child.”

She stared down at her hands. “I’m not sure I want to remember.”

“Is that why you haven’t made an effort to see it?”

“I suppose so.” She drew in an audible breath. “Well, now I’ve seen it.”

“Not yet.” He suspected she wasn’t going to like this. “The house is unoccupied right now, up for sale. I got the lock-box code from the real-estate agent. We can go inside.”

He could feel her resistance. He leaned toward her, feeling the by-now familiar surge of longing. It wasn’t getting weaker. It was getting stronger. “I don’t want you to be hurt.” His voice showed too much emotion, but he couldn’t help that. “I just want this to be over.”

She closed her eyes for an instant. When she opened them, they were filled with tears, and his
heart nearly broke. A faint smile trembled on her lips. “Guess I’m being a coward.”

He couldn’t stop himself. He had to touch her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft under his fingers. “You couldn’t be a coward if you tried.” His voice had grown husky.

For a long moment her gaze met his. Then, suddenly, she nodded. “Let’s go have a look.”

Getting out, coming around the car, gave him a chance to regain his balance. He hoped.

He opened the gate in what had once been a white picket fence and frowned at its shriek. “Fred Whitney owns the house now, along with a few other rental properties. He’s notorious for patching things together with binder twine and duct tape, then wonders why he can’t get good renters.”

Marisa glanced around the overgrown yard. “My mother had flower beds all along the fence. She’d be out there for hours, tending the plants.” A spasm of what might have been pain crossed her face. “She let me help her. She showed me the differences between the different flowers, talking about them as if they were people.”

Doubt was a lead weight in his stomach, but he tried to respond in kind. “You’ve seen my mother’s gardens. She was the same. Once I pulled out a whole row of sweet peas, thinking they were weeds. She just laughed and helped me plant a new row.”

She managed a more genuine smile at that. “She
reminds me of my mother. Maybe that’s why I can’t ever say no to her.”

“She has that effect on a lot of people.” They moved toward the porch that ran the width of the frame house, and he took her arm as they went up the porch steps, avoiding a hole.

“The house was white when we lived here. With black shutters. There was a swing on the porch.”

“It would have been a nice place to sit in the evening.”

“It was.” She looked at him as if he’d been sarcastic, and he realized his distaste had shown.

“I was reacting to how it looks now. Fred gives decent landlords a bad name. You’d never see the day when any of the Morgan rental properties would be in this condition.”

“I didn’t realize you had rental places.” She stood back, giving him room to get at the lock box.

“Too many, Trey sometimes says. Our grandfather and our great-grandfather, too, always believed money was safer invested in property. Now Trey’s got the management of all of them, along with the other companies we own.” He punched in the simple code—1, 2, 3. Took out the key.

He opened the door, but she stood for a moment, studying his face. “You don’t handle any of that?”

“No.” He wanted to leave it at that, but that would make it sound as if Trey had pushed him out. “It never seemed like my thing, so I left it to Trey. He’s just like Dad, taking over naturally.”

The front door opened directly into what was probably the living room. Marisa paused, putting up her good hand to touch her hair, smoothing it absently back over her shoulder.

His fingers tingled, as if he were doing it, feeling the soft curls running through his hands like water.
Back off,
he ordered his rebellious imagination. But he couldn’t seem to lose the vivid sense of touching her.

“This was the living room.” Luckily Marisa had no idea what he was thinking. “There was a braided rug on the floor, and I’d pretend the bands of the braid were roads for my dolls.”

She sounded lost in the past, and the qualm of doubt seized him again. Was he doing the right thing, pushing her to relive the past? This little adventure had been Adam’s idea, and at the moment he’d like to give Adam a solid punch on the jaw. If he tried, he’d probably end up flat on his back, but it might be worth it.

Get her into the house,
Adam had said.
She’d go if you took her. She must remember something from that time, and there’s no way of knowing what might help.

Marisa moved, walking through the dusty, empty dining room. If she found it distressing, she didn’t say so, just kept walking. She stopped when she reached the kitchen.

“This is the stove we had.” She gestured toward
the chipped surface of the gas range. “Mammi didn’t like cooking on electric.”

His heart did a stutter step at the sound of her voice. She’d slipped back into the time in her memory, probably quoting something she’d heard her mother say.

“It figures that Fred wouldn’t have replaced it in over twenty years.”

The urge to hit something grew. All very well for Adam to talk about helping Marisa remember. Adam wasn’t the one taking the risk of hurting her.

She seemed stuck to the spot on the worn, old linoleum, and he touched her arm lightly. “Let’s take a look upstairs.”

She nodded, but as they started up the flight of stairs, he could feel her stress increasing.

“Is this the way you remember it?” Maybe if they talked it would dispel the tension.

She shook her head, pausing in the doorway of the first room. “This was Mammi’s…” She stopped, seemed to realize what she’d said, and started again. “This was my parents’ room. There was a quilt she’d made on the bed.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if visualizing it. “Lancaster Rose, she called it.”

He nodded. “My mother has one in that pattern that an Amish friend made.”

Tears filled her eyes again. She turned quickly, nearly running into him as she hurried down the hall to the next room. He followed, heart thumping, trying to think of a suitable punishment for Adam.

“This was her sewing room.” Marisa’s voice was strained. “She had an old-fashioned treadle machine, and she made all my clothes.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Elizabeth and Mary Ann were talking about a quilting frolic. All the women of the family were coming to finish the quilt. My mother must have done that. Sometimes, when she was sewing, she’d look so sad. Maybe she was thinking about everything she gave up.”

He touched her arm tentatively, not sure what to say or do. She was remembering, but she was hurting, too. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

She shook her head, seeming to blink back the tears. “I’d rather remember, even if it hurts.”

Down the hall to the last room, but when she reached the doorway, her energy seemed to leave her. He waited, letting her linger in the doorway, sensing that the heart of her emotion was here.

“My room,” she said finally. “My father painted it yellow, because that was my favorite color.” She crossed the floor, moving as if she walked through water. “My bed was here, by the window. If I couldn’t go to sleep, I’d push the shade to the side and look out.”

“I remember doing that. Kneeling on my bed and looking out at the stars.” He came up behind her, needing to be close, not sure what he could do or say that would help.

Her fingers pressed on the window sill, and she gasped—a strangled breath that scared him.

“What is it? Are you all right?” He put his arm around her waist, needing to touch her.

Marisa put her palm to her cheek, cradling it as if to comfort herself. “I remember. I remember looking out one night. Mammi was there, under the oak tree.” She pressed her finger against the pane, pointing. “She was with a man.”

His mind spun. A man. A romantic triangle? Was Barbara’s disappearance going to turn out to be that most mundane of matters?

“What man?” He forced the question out.

“I don’t…I didn’t recognize him. But he was Amish.” A shiver went through her, and he drew her closer. “If I shut my eyes, I can see them. My mother and an Amish man, out there under the tree. They were arguing.”

Her voice quivered, and he thought she was on the verge of tears. He took her hand, hoping just a human touch would be comforting.

“How do you know they were arguing?” He asked the question softly, afraid to push her.

She blinked, seeming to come back from a distance. “Body language, I suppose. Even a child can understand that.” She rubbed her forehead. “That must be why it scared me so, seeing a man in Amish clothing in the yard at the Miller place. I connected it with that memory.”

She swung toward him suddenly, and they were only inches apart. “Link, I just realized—it can’t have been that long before she disappeared. I remember
the doll I was holding, telling her everything would be all right. It was a cloth doll my mother had made for my birthday when I turned five that August.”

Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. They were getting someplace, and it led away from his uncle.

And then her eyes filled with tears, and a shudder went through her.

“Marisa, I’m sorry…”

She shook her head, wiping the tears away with her fingers. “It’s not that. I just…I remember hearing them quarrel. My mother and father, at night, when I was supposed to be asleep. I put my head under the pillow, but it was no use. I could still hear them.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, longing to comfort her, feeling his own heart being wrenched open by her pain.

He pulled her against him. She didn’t draw back, just settled her face against his shoulder with a sob. She’d accept comfort from anyone right now. He stroked her hair gently. This wasn’t about love. It was about being there when she needed him.

“It’ll be all right,” he murmured, knowing he couldn’t guarantee that. “It will.”

They stood together for another moment. Then she drew back, fighting for composure. “I need…” Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together. “I need to leave.”

She bolted from the room. He followed close
behind her, ready to grab her if her headlong rush brought her to disaster.

Marisa hurried down the stairs, through the living room. She’d almost reached the door when she stopped. Stared at it.

“That day.” Her voice was so choked that she sounded like a child trying not to cry. “I ran in from the school bus. I had a star on my paper. I wanted to show Mammi. But she wasn’t here. She’d never not been here before.”

He couldn’t stand it. He reached for her and pulled her back into his arms, cradling her against him.

She sobbed, the tears spilling over, and buried her face in his shoulder again, holding on tight.

He held her close, murmuring softly, comforting her with words that probably didn’t even make sense.

Who was he kidding? It was far too late to worry about the risk of falling in love with her. He’d already fallen, so deep and hard he couldn’t begin to think what he’d do about it.

M
ARISA ENTERED THE
Springville Inn in Geneva’s wake that evening, trying to concentrate on what was to come. There was no sense in reliving that visit to the house on Maple Street, at least not now. She’d probably be thinking about it, about Link, most of the night as it was.

The glass-paned door led into a wide, high-ceilinged center hallway. This must be the oldest
part of the handsome Federal-style building…. The wings on either side looked newer, but blended with the brick core. To Marisa’s right, an archway led into the inn’s restaurant. To the left, an open area was furnished with groupings of love seats and chairs to encourage conversation.

And conversation there was. The historical group wasn’t all that large—perhaps twenty to thirty people here altogether, but they made up in volume what they lacked in numbers.

“I don’t know what those boys of mine were thinking.” Geneva paused, putting her hand on Marisa’s arm. “If I came parading in here with the two of them when they’ve never shown the slightest interest in the historical association in the past, that would certainly rouse suspicion. But it’s perfectly natural for me to bring you as my guest.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” But Marisa did have a bit of sympathy for Trey and Link. They so obviously wanted to protect their mother, whether she wanted that protection or not.

“People will mingle with drinks and appetizers for about an hour before dinner,” Geneva said. “That’s the perfect opportunity to introduce you to anyone who might have been in Allen’s confidence.”

“Don’t forget about Brad Metzger. I hope he’ll be here tonight.” The inn’s assistant manager had been somewhat elusive when Link tried to pin him down for a talk.