Vanish in Plain Sight (6 page)

“I’m sorry.” Her throat tightened. She’d guessed
there had been something wrong with him. Now she knew. “Was he injured?”

Geneva nodded. A tear spilled over, and she dashed it away. “In Afghanistan. Link was with an engineering unit. They were rebuilding a school that had been destroyed, and there was a terrible accident. Well, not an accident. It was blown up.” Geneva blotted tears again and gave a shaky laugh. “If he could hear me now, he’d be furious with me. But you know, as sad as it is, finding that suitcase seems to have brought him back to life. I don’t want him to slip away again. You understand, don’t you?”

Marisa nodded. “I do. I’m sorry. But I don’t see how—”

“How a walk in the woods will help?” Geneva finished for her, smile flashing through her tears. “Believe me, I’m thankful for every little thing that pulls my son out of his shell. Even a walk in the woods.”

Marisa couldn’t imagine that her presence and her problems were any antidote for Link’s ills, which sounded very serious indeed. But she could hardly refuse.

“Of course I’ll do it, but Link may not agree.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Geneva said. “I’ll handle him.”

Somehow she didn’t doubt that she would. She was beginning to feel that Geneva Morgan, in spite of her charming, insubstantial manner, was a force to be reckoned with.

B
Y THE TIME
L
INK HAD
dropped Marisa off, it had been time for lunch, so he’d stopped at home, mainly because it seemed to please his mother to feed him. Then he took off on his deferred errands at the hardware store and the lumber yard.

He glanced at his watch when he got back to what had been Uncle Allen’s house and was now his. Late afternoon, and most of the workday gone, thanks to his getting involved in Marisa Angelo’s troubles. Too late to start anything time-consuming now, but he could unload and organize his work for the next day.

He pulled around to the back and began lugging supplies onto the back porch. He’d barely made a dent in the job when Trey’s truck pulled up behind him and Trey slid out.

“Looks like you could use a hand.” Trey grabbed the end of a two-by-four as Link swung it out. “Is all this for the family room?”

“Most of it. Thanks.” He hated admitting weakness, but the truth was, by this time of the day it was all he could do not to resort to the pain pills the doctor insisted on giving him. “I need to fix a couple of the upstairs windows. The sills are nearly rotted through.”

“I figured as much.” Trey helped him carry a sheet of paneling. “Toward the end, Uncle Allen didn’t seem to care much about anything, including the house. Just shut himself up in his study with his books.”

Link nodded, leaning against the porch rail for a moment’s respite. “He always was kind of that way, wasn’t he? Liked his own company better than anyone else’s.”

“Yeah, but this was even more so.” Trey took off his ball cap, wiped his forehead and put it back on again. “You were away, what with school and the army, so you probably didn’t notice it, but he really turned… Well, Mom calls it
eccentric.
” He grinned. “Odd was more like it. Didn’t want anyone in the house. I had to twist his arm to let me send someone over to mow the yard.”

The worry that lurked at the back of Link’s mind poked out. “Is there anything in that to make you think he could have been involved in the Angelo woman’s disappearance?”

Trey’s answer didn’t come as quickly as he’d like. Trey actually seemed to be considering that as a possibility.

“I wish I knew,” he said slowly. “I’d like to say that was ridiculous, but I can’t. For Mom’s sake, I hope he wasn’t. She’s been through enough the past couple of years.”

A weight settled on Link’s heart. Dad’s death, thought to be suicide, something that seemed impossible to believe. And then the revelation that someone they’d known all their lives had killed him.

And only a few weeks later, Link had managed to get himself nearly blown to pieces. No, Mom hadn’t had an easy time of it lately.

“Marisa’s not going to give up until she knows the truth.” Link spoke with a sureness that surprised himself. He hadn’t realized he felt that convinced of what Marisa would and wouldn’t do. “If Allen was involved… Well, I don’t think we can keep it quiet.”

“It wouldn’t be right, anyway. Come on, let’s get this stuff unloaded.”

That was Trey, always determined to do what was right, even when it hurt. Just like Dad. Together they carried the rest of Link’s purchases to the porch.

“Thanks for the help.” Link hesitated, but Trey would have to know. “About this situation with Marisa Angelo… I stopped by the station this morning to see if Adam had come up with anything. She came in while I was there.”

“Why?” Trey fired the word, frowning.

“Adam had called her. He wanted her to take a DNA test. It seems the blotches on the suitcase were blood.”

Trey looked as if he’d like to cut loose with some colorful language, but he didn’t. “That’s torn it. It’ll turn into a murder investigation for sure.”

“Not necessarily. Adam says the amount was fairly small—not enough to indicate a fatal wound. But naturally they’ve got to find out if it was Barbara Angelo’s.”

“Yeah.” Trey rubbed the nape of his neck. “I can’t see Adam letting anything slide. He’ll be thinking the police did a lousy job of it twenty-three years ago.”

“Anyway, I drove Marisa to the hospital in Lancaster to have the test done. She told me something I found hard to believe.”

Too bad that just mentioning her name made him think of those moments when he’d been too close to her, the scent of her in his nostrils, the silky hair that had brushed his arm…

Trey lifted an eyebrow. “You going to tell me?”

Good thing Trey had pulled him back from that line of thought. “She’s got the idea someone was watching her room last night. A man, out in the yard at the guest house in the middle of the night. An Amish man.”

“That’s nonsense.” Trey’s first instinct was to reject it, just as Link’s had been. “She must have been dreaming.”

“That’s what I said, but she seemed pretty certain. She also said that the Millers wouldn’t talk to her about her mother. She seemed to think the Amish are hiding something.”

“Then she wasn’t just dreaming, she’s paranoid,” Trey said flatly.

It was what he’d thought himself, but it annoyed him to hear Trey say it.

“Maybe so. Except that when we were walking to the parking lot at the hospital, I happened to see Josiah Esch with his wife and little boy. And Josiah took one look at Marisa and very deliberately went the other way.”

Trey was still for a moment, weighing that. “You sure
your
imagination isn’t working overtime?”

His temper flared. “Listen, I’d like nothing better than to find out this is all some misunderstanding, but that won’t wash. Something’s going on, and like it or not, it involves us.”

“I don’t like it.” Trey held up his hand to forestall an angry comment. “But you’re right. Even if we could steer clear of the whole thing, you know as well as I do that Mom won’t.”

Link nodded, his momentary anger fizzling away. He and Trey were alike in this. They both wanted to protect their mother from any more hurt. “Any ideas as to how we keep Mom from getting involved?”

Trey looked harassed. “I’ve been trying to figure that one out since Dad died, without much success. But she does seem to assume you’re keeping an eye on Marisa. Maybe that’ll help.”

Keep an eye on Marisa. Stay close to her.
“I’ve got a house to renovate, remember?”

“You’re the one who found that suitcase, remember?” Trey turned his question right back on him.

“I should have thrown it in the trash without opening it.”

“You really believe that?” Trey gave him a questioning look.

“No.” He bit off the word, thinking of that photograph of Marisa and her mother. “But maybe we’ll all be wishing that before this is over.” He nodded
toward the door. “I could use something cold to drink. You?”

“Sounds good.” Trey followed him toward the door, still frowning, his mind obviously on the problematic possibilities. “You know Mom feels responsible. I wouldn’t put it past her to be scurrying around trying to find things out about Allen, and stirring up a lot of gossip while she does.”

“She’s got your wedding to look forward to,” Link said. “And don’t think Libby and I aren’t grateful for that.” He grinned, thinking of his twin. “Maybe it’ll distract Mom from both playing detective and our single state.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.” Trey smiled, his eyes softening at the mention of his and Jessica’s wedding. “Once Mom smells orange blossoms, she’ll try to get the whole lot of us married off.”

Link shoved the door open. Just inside he stopped, senses alert. He put out a hand to keep Trey from moving.

“What?” Trey said, his voice quiet.

“Somebody’s been in here.”

Trey looked around the barren room. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “The box on the workbench has been emptied out. I didn’t leave it that way.” He might be careless about some things, but not his equipment. “And there’s insulation pulled loose from that wall.” He pointed to the section next to the fireplace.

“We’d better have a look around.” Trey picked up
a length of wood from the workbench, hefting it like a bat. “I’ll check upstairs.”

It was a matter of minutes to check the house, empty except for a few pieces of furniture Link had been meaning to have a dealer come to evaluate and Uncle Allen’s books, which would have to be sorted. No one was in the house, but some books had been pulled from their shelves and a marble-topped table moved across a bedroom.

“Nothing missing?” Trey asked when they reached the family room again.

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugged, annoyed with himself. “I guess I should have locked up when I left to run to the hardware store this morning, but I figured I’d only be gone a half hour or so.”

Trey frowned absently at the fireplace. “Could have been somebody who was just curious. Talk’s been going around, probably getting exaggerated as it goes.”

“Maybe.” That was as likely as anything, so why did he have so much trouble buying it? “I suppose I still should tell Adam.”

“Yes.” Trey growled the word.

Link understood his feelings. No matter how much either of them wanted to be clear of this situation, they couldn’t ignore it. Barbara Angelo’s presence, whatever her relationship to his uncle, would certainly have been less complicated than her disappearance.

“I
DON’T SUPPOSE
I
could convince you to go home and let the police handle this situation.” Eileen Davies, Marisa’s agent, had become a good friend over the years, and she didn’t sound optimistic about Marisa’s plans.

“I can’t do that.” Marisa moved to the window of her room, her gaze lingering on the willow tree and the floating shadows it cast even in mid-morning. “If there’s anything I can find out about what happened to my mother… Well, I have to try.”

“I know. I just don’t want to see you get hurt by this.”

Eileen’s often brusque voice softened with sympathy. Marisa could picture her leaning across her always-cluttered desk, a pencil skewered through her wiry dark curls. Eileen was one of the few people who’d heard the whole story of Marisa’s mother, sitting over a late-night dessert during a children’s-book expo.

“Nothing could hurt more than not knowing.” She believed that, despite the nameless dread that filled her when she let her guard down.

“Just be careful, okay? Don’t trust people too readily. This Morgan family, for instance. They might have a very good reason for not wanting the truth to come out.”

True enough. Despite Geneva’s warmth, despite Link’s apparent openness when they’d talked the previous day, she couldn’t take their honesty for granted.

“I’ll be cautious about believing anyone.”

“About the project… Do you want me to talk to the editor and try to get you some extra time?”

“No, I can finish it.” Marisa touched the portfolio that held her sketches. She’d ignored the work for too long. “I’m getting back on the illustrations this afternoon. I can use the distraction.”

“Good. You’re a pro.” There was relief in Eileen’s voice. She’d go to bat for an extension, but she hated to have to do it.

“Yes, well, I’d like to stay an employed pro, so I meet my deadlines.” A gentle tap on the door punctuated her words. “I have to go, Eileen. I’ll check in with you in a few days.”

She clicked off and opened the door. Mary stood there, her hand raised as if to knock again.

“There is someone to see you downstairs. In the parlor, ja?”

Link? Geneva? Well, she wouldn’t find out standing here. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

She took a quick glance in the mirror. She’d put on jeans and a loose shirt in anticipation of working, but
it would have to do. Closing the door, she ran lightly down the stairs.

When she reached the parlor door, she came to an abrupt stop. Not one of the Morgans at all, but Adam Byler and another man…middle-aged, slightly balding, with a florid face and a barrel chest that strained at the dress shirt he wore with a lightweight tan suit. Unusual attire for Springville, she realized, and a whisper of unease touched her.

“Ms. Angelo.” Chief Byler stood as she entered, and after a second the other man did the same. “Sorry to bother you so early.”

“The DNA tests—you don’t have results already, surely.” That was impossible, wasn’t it?

“No, no, not yet.” There was something behind Adam Byler’s phlegmatic expression, some emotion she couldn’t identify. “This is our district attorney, Preston Connelly. He’d like to talk with you.”

District attorney. The flicker of apprehension turned to alarm. Why was the district attorney involved in this?

She turned to acknowledge the introduction, to find that the man had moved to close the parlor door. He must have seen her expression, because he smiled slightly.

“Just to make sure we’re not overheard,” he said. “How do you do, Ms. Angelo.”

Marisa nodded, glancing back at Adam. “District attorney? I thought my mother’s disappearance wasn’t considered a criminal case.”
Yet,
she almost said.

“That’s why I’m here.” Connelly answered for him. “Just to ask a few questions and be sure we’re handling the situation properly. I assume you’ll want to cooperate with us in learning the truth.”

Connelly’s words were pleasant enough, but his eyes were cold. Watchful.

“Of course. That’s why I’m here. To know the truth.”

“Good, good.” He rubbed his hands together…large, well-kept hands, with a gold and ruby ring on the right ring finger. “We’re on the same page, then. Let’s sit down.”

Marisa took her time about pulling up a rocking chair, her mind busy with the possible implications of this visit. Admittedly she didn’t know much about the duties of a district attorney, but was it usual for him to involve himself with a situation that might not even be a criminal matter?

“Now, then.” Connelly planted his hands on his knees, clearly taking the lead in this conversation. “I understand you were surprised when Chief Byler contacted you about finding your mother’s suitcase.”

“Yes.” Strange to think that had only been a few days ago. “Of course I was surprised.”

“You didn’t expect any information about your mother’s disappearance would show up after all this time?” He made that sound vaguely sinister.

“I suppose I thought…hoped…that my mother would contact me one day. As for disappearing, we thought that she had gone back to her family.”

“We?” His eyebrows lifted.

“My father. My grandmother. Apparently she’d said something about doing so.”

I don’t belong here.
A far-off voice seemed to echo in her mind.
I don’t belong anywhere.

She clasped her hands together, forcing the thought away. Where had that come from, anyway?

“Is that something you remember yourself, or something you were told?”

“Well, I—” The voice seemed to echo in her mind again, thinly, fading. “I’m not sure. After all, I was only five at the time.”

“Five isn’t that young. A five-year-old might know a great deal about what’s going on in the family, for instance. But I see from the case records that the police didn’t even talk to you at the time.”

Chief Byler stirred slightly. “I’m sure they didn’t feel there was any need to upset a child. It all seemed very straightforward.”

“You don’t need to cover for your predecessor, Byler,” Connolly said. “It’s obvious he didn’t take the situation seriously.”

Marisa took advantage of the byplay between the two men to consider Connelly’s comments. Should a five-year-old know more than she seemed to about that time? Her memories, except for fragments of images, didn’t seem to encompass much before the house in Baltimore.

Connelly turned back to her before she found
an answer. “Now, Ms. Angelo, just tell us what you remember about the day your mother went away.”

She looked at him blankly. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” His returning stare expressed disbelief. “Come now. You were there. According to the file, you attended kindergarten. Was your mother there when you returned home?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure.”

She tried to grope her way back through the years. She’d ridden the bus to kindergarten, she knew that. She’d come home on the bus every day, too. She’d scurry down the high step of the bus, clutching her papers from the day, eager to show off a star or a sticker.

“You must remember that day. After all, your whole life changed then, didn’t it?” His voice sharpened.

She was suddenly resentful of this stranger and his questions, probing into something that was hers, her private memories of Mammi waiting at the lamp-post in the front yard, reaching out to sweep her into a hug.

Her breath caught. She hadn’t thought of that in years, but suddenly it seemed she could see her mother, see the long denim skirt she always wore with a plain blouse, see the way her face lit with pleasure at the sight of her small daughter.

“I don’t know.” She spoke sharply, intent on that inner vision, unwilling to share it. “I don’t remember.
I’m sure, if I’d thought anything was wrong, I’d have told my father at the time.”

“Your father.” He leaned back, something speculative in his dark eyes. “What did he say when you told him about the suitcase?”

She blinked. “I haven’t told him. I haven’t talked to him.”

“Come, Ms. Angelo. Do you really expect us to believe that he’s been out of touch this long?”

The man was a hair away from being openly antagonistic. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Adam Byler leaning forward in his chair, frowning at Connelly as if about to speak. The room, with its solid Pennsylvania Dutch wood furniture, braided rug and simple muslin curtains seemed an odd place for an interrogation.

“Well?” Connelly snapped the word when she didn’t answer.

She took a breath and tried to find a reservoir of calm. “I’m not sure what you believe, Mr. Connolly, but it happens to be the truth. My father is on a Western trip in his camper. It’s something he always planned to do when he retired.”

“Without a cell phone?” The question dripped with doubt.

“He has a cell phone. But if he’s camping someplace up in the mountains or in the desert, it’s entirely possible that he’s not getting service. I’ve left messages. He’ll call when he gets them.”

He would call.

“That could well be,” Byler said. “I’ve lost cell service camping in places like that, no matter what the cell-phone companies claim.”

Connelly didn’t seem willing to admit that. “Hard to believe, his being out of touch with his only daughter for this long.”

He thought her father had something to do with her mother’s disappearance. Marisa clasped cold hands together. That was what he was really saying.

“I’m not a child, Mr. Connelly. My father and I are on good terms, but we don’t live in each other’s pockets. My father will call me, and when he does, I’ll tell him what’s happened.”

“What did you tell him when he came home the night your mother left?” Connelly’s question snapped at her out of nowhere, leaving her floundering for a moment.

“I don’t know. I’ve already told you I don’t remember.” Her hands were as icy as her heart, but she managed to keep her voice calm. She couldn’t do much more of this. “If that’s everything…” She pushed herself to her feet, pressing the backs of her legs against the chair for support.

Connelly looked as if he’d dispute that, but Byler stood.

“That’s all we need for now, Ms. Angelo. We’ll let you know if we have any further questions.”

She held her breath, waiting for Connelly to overrule him. But he didn’t, and in a moment they were gone, leaving the house empty and still.

Marisa discovered that her legs didn’t want to hold her up any longer. She sank into the rocker, clasping the curved arms until the wood bit into her fingers.

Why now? What had brought the district attorney into the picture? Why was he so antagonistic?

Unfortunately, she could think of plenty of answers.
Because he thinks the police are being too low-key. Because he thinks my dad had something to do with my mother’s disappearance.

She might as well stop skirting around it. If they believed her father had something to do with it, then they didn’t think this was a matter of a disappearance. They thought Barbara Angelo was dead.

Please, God, no.
The words formed without conscious thought.
No.

Was that what she’d been dreading? That her mother was dead and her father had killed her?

A shudder of revulsion shook her. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

She’d been there, Connelly had said. If there was anything to know, her five-year-old self might have known it. So why didn’t she remember?

“B
ETTER DOUSE YOURSELF
thoroughly with this stuff.” Link handed the insect-repellent spray to Marisa.

She looked at it, her expression reluctant. “Is that really necessary? I hate using things like this.”

“It is if you don’t want to risk a tick bite. And maybe Lyme disease.” He was probably overstating the case, but if he had to be responsible for Marisa’s
trek through the woods, he didn’t want anything happening to her.

Seeming to accept the lesser of the evils, she began spraying the legs of her jeans. At least she was dressed suitably, wearing a long-sleeve shirt over a T-shirt with the jeans.

He waited, trying to contain his impatience. He’d gotten in a good start on work at the house this morning, but when he’d stopped at home for lunch, Mom had informed him she’d made plans for his afternoon. Marisa was coming over, and Mom expected him to help her find places to sketch.

He’d have objected, but if he didn’t do this, his mother would have. Trey had been right in his assessment of Mom’s propensity for landing herself in the middle of things.

Marisa set the spray on the back porch step and swiftly pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. He supposed the small backpack she wore contained her drawing supplies.

“I’m ready.” She smiled as she said the words.

But there was something not quite right about the way Marisa looked today. Surely she wasn’t still obsessing about the DNA test, was she? Something had put new lines of tension around her mouth and shadowed her eyes.

Not your business,
he reminded himself.
You’re not responsible for her.

“Okay, let’s go.” Mom had insisted he take a thermos of lemonade, and he slung it by its strap from
his shoulder. They weren’t going to deepest Africa, just for a walk in the woods, but it was easier to take it than to argue.

He started off at a quick pace across the yard toward the barn. Beyond it, the trees in the orchard were heavy with apples. And beyond the orchard was the easiest path through the woods.

They walked in silence until they reached the orchard.

“Is this all yours?” Marisa looked up at the laden apple trees with wonderment in her voice. Fallen apples crunched underfoot, and their aroma filled the air with the scent of fall.

“Every last tree, unfortunately. When we were kids, we all had a quota of baskets to pick and lug into the storeroom.” That had usually led to a certain amount of wrangling, as he recalled.

“Do you still do that?” She was a few feet behind him, making him realize how fast he was walking…as if he could walk away from feeling he was saddled with taking care of her.

“Not so much anymore. We keep reminding Mom that it’s not necessary to use every single apple with so few of us to eat them.” Come to think of it, that probably wasn’t very tactful of them. “But Mom still likes to can applesauce and make apple butter, and she’ll give away what we can’t use.”