Vanish in Plain Sight (3 page)

Katie nodded. “Ja. Did you want me to dish up already?”

“Please. I’ll come and help you.” Mom rose, waving toward the dining room. “The rest of you find seats. We’ll get the food on right away. I’m sure
Marisa is starved, and here we’ve been keeping her talking instead of feeding her.”

“I’m not…” Marisa began, and let the word trail off when Mom vanished toward the kitchen.

“Pretend you’re hungry,” Trey advised, taking Jessica’s hand as they moved into the dining room. “Our mother is only happy when she’s feeding people.”

“Well, now, I might resent that if it weren’t true.” Mom and her helper carried steaming bowls and platters to the table. “Katie and I made chicken pot pie for supper. I thought Marisa ought to sample some traditional Pennsylvania Dutch food while she’s here.”

Link held Marisa’s chair while she sat down. Manners might be a vanishing art some places, but not in his mother’s house. Marisa, he noticed, was staring at Katie, something almost tragic in her eyes.

Thinking about that Amish apron and kapp in her mother’s suitcase? Both looked identical to the ones Katie wore at the moment. He sat down next to Marisa, turning that over in his mind.

By the time the food platters had circled the table, Marisa had regained her poise, as far as he could tell.

His mother glanced around the table, blue eyes sparkling. “This is nice, having a full table again. And you know, I think I can answer at least one of the questions that’s perplexing Marisa.”

Marisa’s fingers tightened on her fork. “What question is that?”

“How the suitcase came to be in Allen’s house, of course.”

Link exchanged glances with Trey. What was their mother up to now?

“How would you be able to explain that?” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“It’s simple, really. I thought of it last night, but then I never had a chance to tell you because you left so early this morning, Link.”

“Tell me what?” Dealing with his mother required more patience than he possessed at the moment, and Marisa’s tension seemed to vibrate through the space between them.

“Why, that Barbara Angelo was your uncle Allen’s housekeeper, of course.”

M
ARISA FOUND THAT
Link’s hand was in her line of vision, lying on the white tablecloth next to hers. Hers was clenched around a fork. His had tightened into so hard a fist that the tendons stood out on the back of it.

Did that mean he was as shocked at Geneva’s revelation as she was? Or did it mean that he hated the fact that it had come out?

“What are you talking about, Mom?” Across the table from her, Trey had found his voice.

Marisa studied him. A year or two older than Link, maybe, but his face, while serious, didn’t carry those lines of tension which marked Link. At the moment
Trey was staring at his mother in what seemed honest surprise.

“About Marisa’s mother, Barbara Angelo. She worked for your uncle for a while, taking care of the house for him. Although why he needed a housekeeper, I never understood. There he was all by himself, practically a hermit. You’d think he could easily have done for himself…”

“Give it a rest, Mom.” Trey seemed to relax during his mother’s wanderings. Maybe he was used to the track her thoughts took. “We all know you didn’t like Dad’s brother.”

Geneva straightened, her shoulders back. “Trey, that is absolutely not true. I didn’t dislike your uncle. I just said he didn’t need a housekeeper. He could easily have taken care of things himself. Why, your father—”

“Dad was a paragon,” Trey said, smiling a little. “But you know perfectly well he never washed a dish in his life. You wouldn’t let him.”

“You always thought Uncle Allen was lazy,” Link said. “Typical younger son, taking life easy while his older brother did all the work.”

That sounded like a teasing comment. Certainly the others took it that way, joining in kidding the older woman. But Marisa had heard an undercurrent in Link’s voice that made her wonder. Was that how they’d seen Allen Morgan? Or was Link feeling guilty over something he had or hadn’t done?

She expected Geneva to come back to the subject of
her mother working as Allen Morgan’s housekeeper, but that didn’t happen. At first she thought Geneva didn’t care to talk about it, but as Marisa watched them, she realized that Trey and Link were steering the conversation away from that revelation.

They were protective of Geneva. Even Jessica joined in, keeping the talk light as they ate their way through the delectable chicken pot pie and a sweet and nutty squash casserole. At least, Marisa tried to eat. She ought to be hungry, but her stomach seemed tied in a permanent knot since she’d come to this place.

How normal was their protectiveness? She couldn’t really compare them with her family. With Daddy away so much working, family had usually consisted of just her and her grandmother.

Finally everyone was finished, and Geneva suggested a move back into the living room for dessert and coffee. Jessica sat down next to Marisa, while Geneva disappeared into the kitchen and the two men halted in front of the fireplace, heads down in a low-voiced conversation.

“Don’t mind them,” Jessica said, nodding toward the two men. “I try to tell Trey he shouldn’t be so protective of his mother, but everyone does it.” She smiled. “I even find myself doing it sometimes, and the truth is that she’s probably wiser than all of us put together, despite that scatterbrained façade.”

“Is it an act?” She couldn’t help voicing her doubts.

Jessica seemed to consider. “Not entirely. I think
she has the sort of mind which jumps ahead of logic, very often arriving at the right answer without apparent effort. Of course, sometimes she’s completely wrong, too.”

“I’m not sure why she thought everything would be cleared up by knowing that my mother worked for Allen Morgan. If anything, it makes the whole thing more…” She hesitated. She’d been going to say
suspicious,
but that was hardly the thing to say to Trey’s fiancée. “…confusing, I suppose.”

Jessica nodded. “You’ve never heard anything from your mother in all these years?”

“No.” The word had an empty sound.

“I’m sorry.” Jessica touched her hand lightly. “My mother died when I was quite young. It’s so hard.”

She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. There was a lump in her throat to go with the knot in her stomach.

Ridiculous. She was just exhausted, that was all. Getting that call, loading the car, rushing up to Lancaster County, and then all the turmoil of the day—no wonder she felt emotional. She needed a good night’s sleep far more than she needed coffee and dessert.

She also needed to talk with Geneva at some point, to see what she actually remembered about her mother’s employment by Allen Morgan. But that conversation could wait until she could catch the woman alone, without her protective sons.

Geneva came back in the room with a coffee tray, followed by the Amish teenager with another tray of
dessert plates. Marisa found her gaze caught by the girl. Would her mother have looked like that, with the solid-color dress, the dark apron, the hair pulled back into a bun and covered by the white net cap? Would she have had those rosy cheeks, that shy manner? Was that what she’d run away to?

Marisa stood abruptly and then bent to retrieve her handbag from the side of the chair.

“This has been very kind of you, Mrs. Morgan, but I’m so tired I’m going to have to call it a night.”

“Please, call me Geneva, remember? And you can’t go without dessert. Just a little piece.” She sounded as if she were coaxing a toddler to eat her peas.

“I couldn’t eat another bite, really. Thank you, Geneva. It was nice to meet all of you.”

“But where are you going to stay?” Geneva put the tray on a drop-leaf table and caught her hand. “We’d be so happy to have you stay here with us. The guest room is always ready. You don’t want to go off looking for a motel at this time of night.”

“I already have a reservation,” she said quickly. “I’m staying at the Plain and Fancy Bed and Breakfast. I’m sure I’ll be fine there.”

“You’ll be fine once you find it.” Link rose from the chair by the fireplace, stretching as if he had to work out some kinks. “I’ll lead you there.”

“I’m sure I can find it—”

“No, no, Link is right. It’s impossible to read those street signs after dark, and I’ll never forgive myself if you have an accident.” Geneva patted her hand. “Just
follow Link, and he’ll lead you right to the place. Rhoda Miller will make you very comfortable if you’re sure you won’t stay with us.”

It sounded as if accepting Link’s guidance was the only way she was going to get out of here quickly. “Thank you again.”

Link was already standing in the archway. She went quickly to join him and followed him through the center hallway and out the front door.

Lights came on as soon as they stepped outside, revealing a sweep of gravel on which several cars were parked. Beyond that, the circle of light quickly petered out. The Morgan house was well out into the country, probably six or seven miles from Springville. Nothing out here but dark grass, dark trees and a chilly wind. She pulled her jacket around her.

“Cold?” Link said, walking beside her to her car.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

He stood next to her while she unlocked the door and opened it. She slid in. His hand was on the door, but he didn’t close it immediately.

“What my mother said about my uncle—I wouldn’t pin too much on that, if I were you.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” She looked at him, and his face was all craggy lines and shadows in the dim light.

He seemed to shift, as if tensing for an argument. “The fact that your mother worked for my uncle
doesn’t lead anywhere. I don’t know what you expect to find, but my mother can’t help you.”

“I just want—”

He stepped away. “I’ll pull my car around, and you can follow me. Just remember what I said. Don’t badger my mother about this.” He stalked off, and the darkness swallowed him up.

T
HE NARROW BLACKTOP
road spun away beyond the reach of his headlights. Link glanced in his rearview mirror to be sure Marisa was still behind him.

He probably shouldn’t have said what he did to Marisa about bugging Mom on this subject. Maybe he’d just given her ideas, but he’d seen her watching Mom after the shock of her revelation faded.

It had been obvious Marisa saw his mother as a source of information. Still, if Mom was determined, she’d most likely be the one asking the questions.

Protecting their mother was Trey’s job, had been from the day of Dad’s death, and he did it as well as anyone could. The best thing Link could do was get on with the renovation, get himself back to top shape and head out to California. How much was this issue going to set him back?

He could just leave. Deed the house over to Trey, let him renovate it or rent it or tear it down, for that matter. But Uncle Allen had left the place to him. Second son to second son, he’d said once, with a wry smile. Maybe he owed Allen some loyalty in return.

He pulled up at the Plain and Fancy, frowning a little. The house, a tidy Dutch colonial on one of Springville’s cross streets, didn’t show any signs of life except for the pole lamp by the gate. Marisa had said she had a reservation, hadn’t she?

He slid out, walking quickly back to the other car. He’d help her with her luggage, maybe try to smooth any ruffled feathers.

Marisa was already pulling a suitcase from the trunk. He reached over her shoulder to grab the handle, lifting it out.

“I’ll carry this. Do you want the duffel bag as well?” He paused, hand on the strap. No point in taking in anything she didn’t want. And given the size of the suitcase, she hadn’t planned to stay long when she left.

“I can manage.” Her voice was frosty.

“I’m sure you can, but you don’t need to.” He hefted the duffel bag. “Besides, when I get home, Mom will ask if I helped you in with your luggage. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?”

That earned him a faint smile, but then her gaze slid away from his as if she remembered that she was angry with him.

“Look, I shouldn’t have said what I did about bugging my mother, okay?” He slammed down the trunk lid. “It’s far more likely that she’ll be bugging you.”

“I take it both you and your brother think I should
leave my mother’s disappearance to the professionals.” She marched toward the gate, and he followed.

“Seems like the sensible thing to do,” he said mildly. “If there’s anything to be found, they have the facilities. You don’t.”

“They didn’t do so well before—” She stopped on the porch, taking in the dark windows. “Should they be closed this early?”

“Springville rolls up the sidewalks at eight-thirty.” He put his finger on the bell, hearing it jangle beyond the frosted glass of the door. “You did say you had a reservation, didn’t you?”

She nodded, the movement barely visible in the dim light. “I saw the place listed on one of those tourist maps. The woman I spoke to said they had a room available.”

“By the looks of it, they have plenty.” He eyed the dark windows. “They wouldn’t be busy on a weekday in October.” He set the bags down. “Maybe we should—”

“Who is there?” The gruff voice came from the dark side lawn. An instant later Eli Miller stepped into the faint light of the pole lamp, the breeze ruffling his beard, his black pants and jacket disappearing into the darkness. “What do you want?”

Marisa took a step back, sucking in a startled breath. She was so close Link could feel the tremor that went through her at the sight of the Amish man.

“Eli, it’s me, Link Morgan. I brought Ms. Angelo. She has a reservation.”

“Ms. Angelo?” Eli lifted the flashlight he held, switching it on.

Marisa’s face was white in the harsh beam of light. She didn’t speak. What was wrong with the woman, anyway?

“She called to make a reservation,” he explained.

“Ach, ja. I am so sorry. My Rhoda isn’t so gut at talking on the telephone. She thought you were coming tomorrow. It’s a mix-up for sure.” Eli didn’t sound put out at the prospect of an unexpected guest. “I’ll chust go back to our side of the house for the key. I’ll be right with you.” He chuckled. “I’ll tease Rhoda about being so ferhoodled, that’s certain-sure.”

He switched off the light and strode back toward the semi-detached wing where the family lived, apparently more comfortable without it.

Marisa let out an audible breath. He turned, frowning at her.

“What’s going on? You’ve seen Amish people before, haven’t you?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“When you saw Eli, you reacted as if he was some kind of monster.”

“I didn’t.” But her voice lacked conviction.

“You did. And you weren’t natural with Katie, either, back at the house.”

She might have told him to mind his own business, but she didn’t. “I…I just haven’t been around Amish people much, that’s all.”

“It never surprises me how prejudiced some people can be,” he said deliberately. “But your mother was Amish.”

“Yes. She was.” Marisa glared at him. “And all I ever heard about the Amish was how they wouldn’t leave her alone and how they lured my mother away from us. My grandmother said it was like a cult that wouldn’t let her go.”

“Cult?” He kept his voice low. Eli could be coming back at any moment. “That’s ridiculous. They’re as normal as anyone. More normal than most, in fact. If your father told you that—”

“Not my father. He never talked about my mother.” Some of the anger seemed to go out of her. “My grandmother. All right, maybe Gran was a bit judgmental about people who are different.”

“You see—”

“But I went out to Indiana a few years ago when I finally located my mother’s family. I thought…” Her voice trembled and fell silent.

But he could finish the sentence. She’d thought she might find her mother.

“They stonewalled me. They wouldn’t even talk to me about her. So I don’t exactly have any reason to like them.”

“I’m sorry.” He was. No matter how inconvenient her presence was for him, he couldn’t help feeling her grief.

A door closed next door, and he heard a jingling sound that might be a key ring. Eli was coming.

“Look, if you want, I’ll take you to a motel. I’ll make some excuse to Eli. But…” He was about to involve himself more deeply in Marisa’s problem, despite his determination to stay uninvolved. “But if you really want to find out what happened twenty-three years ago, you might need to have some allies among the local Amish. Eli and Rhoda Miller could be a good place to start.”

A little silence fell between them, and her reluctance was so strong he could almost feel it. Then she nodded.

“You’re right. I’ll stay.”

M
ARISA WOKE SOMETIME
in the dark hours of the night, a cry clutching her throat. She sat upright, heart pounding. Had she cried out aloud? She didn’t think so, but she cringed at the thought of Eli Miller hearing, running to her room…

But he wouldn’t hear. First, because the cry had only been in her dreams. And second, because the Millers slept in their own separate section of the house next door. She was the only occupant of the Plain and Fancy.

She rubbed her forehead, willing herself to re
member her dream. Something about herself as a child, waking in the night, calling out for her mother. Frightened when Mammi didn’t come. Crawling out of bed, drawn toward the window, her bare feet cold on the wide wooden boards of the floor.

She could almost see it, white net curtains billowing inward from the wind. Almost.

But even as she tried to focus, the dream began slithering away from her grasp in the manner of most dreams, vanishing faster the harder she tried to grasp it.

Forget it,
she ordered.
Go back to sleep.
But she was awake now, too awake to slip under the covers. She fumbled for the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock. And she hadn’t managed to drop off until sometime after midnight.

It was small wonder that she’d entangled herself in a bad dream, after all that had happened. That suitcase. The photo.

Her throat thickened at that. She had a copy of that picture, too, always kept carefully out of Daddy’s sight because she’d thought, with a child’s logic, that it would make him sad.

She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet encountering a braided rug. She might as well get up. Try to distract herself from the endless questions that circled in her thoughts.

But that was easier said than done. She switched on the lamp on the bedside table, and the room sprang into view. The Miller family apparently did without
electricity over on their side, but provided it for their business. The logic of that escaped her.

The second floor guest room was plain and simple, with good, solid-wood furniture pieces and a comfortable padded rocking chair. The handmade quilt that covered the bed was such a work of art that she had folded it carefully and placed it atop the blanket chest before she did anything else. The room had seemed somehow familiar, as if she’d slept here before, even though she knew she hadn’t.

After such an unpromising start, the Millers had done their best to make her feel welcome and comfortable. Rhoda had scurried over immediately behind her husband to show Marisa the room, and a teenage girl had followed in a few minutes with a tray containing a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of oatmeal cookies.

But despite their welcome, she still couldn’t feel at ease in their presence. Her grandmother’s words seemed to rattle around in the back of her mind.

They wouldn’t leave her alone. They didn’t want to let her go.

If she’d taken Link up on his offer, she’d be pacing the floor in some anonymous motel room. But little though she liked to admit it, he’d been right. If she was going to find out what happened to her mother, part of the answer must lie with the Amish people her mother had known here.

Not
if.
She would find out. She had to. She’d spent years trying to forget, trying to live without answers
the way Dad seemed able to do, and she couldn’t. Not when there was a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in her psyche echoing with the same whisper, over and over.
Your mother didn’t want you.

She forced herself to stop pacing. Gran would call these middle-of-the-night fears, treating them with a hot drink, a little comforting and the assurance that things would look better in the morning.

Gran might, as Link had hinted, have been prejudiced against the Amish, but she had devoted her life to taking care of Marisa, and she’d been the most stable force in Marisa’s life. She’d been gone nearly two years now, and Marisa still missed her.

This line of thought wasn’t helping, either. She might as well get out her drawing pad and look through the tentative sketches she’d made. See what else she needed for the current project. Maybe, as she’d told Jessica, she’d be able to do some work while she was here.

She picked up the duffel bag Link had carried in, setting it atop the suitcase rack in front of the window, and unzipped it. The shriek of the zipper broke the silence.

The old house was quiet—too quiet. She wasn’t used to this utter silence. Her townhouse in Baltimore was on a pleasant residential street, but even so, there was always noise—the distant thump of someone’s boom box, the sound of cars going past, the shouts of kids playing in the park across the street. Not so here.

Pad and pencil in hand, she paused, glancing out the window. She couldn’t even see any other lights. Link had been right—they did roll up the sidewalks.

She’d think that would seem natural to him. After all, he lived here, didn’t he? He must… She leaned close, shutting out the reflection from the bedside lamp with her hand. As her eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight, she could see the dark shadow beneath the huge weeping willow in the side yard. Had something moved?

A man-size shadow, moving out of the denser shadow of the willow, detaching itself as it took a step toward the house, the head seeming oddly misshapen until she realized it wore a black hat, the brim hiding the face. But he looked up, toward her window—

She bolted back, flattening herself against the wall, heart pounding as if it would leap out of her chest. The figure—a man, black clothes, black hair, a beard. Amish. Staring up at her window.

Memory stirred, someplace, sometime, she had looked out a window, had seen… The memory slid away, as elusive as the dream had been.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. Had she really seen someone out on the lawn? Or was it a figment of her imagination, stirred up by the dream?

She wouldn’t be a coward about it. She went quickly to the bedside table and switched off the lamp. In the dark, she could see without being seen.

She sidled to the window, grasped the edge of the curtain and peered around it cautiously.

The moon had come out from behind the clouds. It lit the side yard—faintly, but enough so that she could see. The lawn lay empty and unmarked, and nothing stood under the willow tree.

B
REAKFAST WOULD BE
served in a room at the rear of the first floor, Mrs. Miller had said. Marisa descended the stairs slowly. She had to find the approach that might make these people open up to her, but she hadn’t managed to think of one.

Lack of sleep had to be part of the problem. She’d already been tired, and then hadn’t been able to settle after her sighting. Or her overactive imagination, whichever it was. She’d gotten up several times to peer cautiously out the window. Nothing.

But she still couldn’t quite accept that she’d produced that staring figure out of her imagination, which left her…where, exactly?

She reached the downstairs hall. There was a closed door with a sign marked “Private,” which must lead to the Miller family’s side of the house. The aroma of fresh baking led her in the right direction. A long, sunny room stretched across the width of the house in the back, with an open kitchen on her left, divided from a bright dining room on the right by a long counter. Rhoda Miller was pulling something from the oven while the daughter she’d met briefly last night poured juice into glasses.