by CeeCee James
“I didn’t know I needed to let you know whenever a military buddy said hello.”
Okay, then. I was done. “You absolutely don’t. I look forward to meeting her. Maybe at the barbecue.” I have to admit, insecurity made me tack on, “If you want me to come.”
“Of course, I want you to come. Geez.” He rolled his eyes and shoveled in another bite.
Dinner conversation pretty much died out after that, despite Cecelia’s few attempts at resurrecting it. But even Cecelia didn’t have the power to stomp down the awkwardness swamping that room.
It was with relief when I finally finished and could start doing the dishes. Frank came over to help me. We washed in silence for a few minutes. I handed him the last plate, but instead of reaching for it, he studied my eyes.
“Hey. We’re okay, aren’t we?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course, we are.”
He smiled and took the plate and finished drying. After a good old fashioned make-up session, I said goodbye and headed home.
But that uneasy feeling stayed with me.
Chapter 8
Sleep didn’t come easy that night between nightmares about Frank and seeing Mary run away over and over no matter how hard I called. The next morning I threw myself back into what I’d named, “The Amish Chronicles.” Something was going on, and I didn’t care if no one believed me. Until I talked with Mary myself, I wasn’t giving up.
I poured myself some coffee and then reexamined the pictures I’d taken earlier from the wheelhouse. Mentally, I kicked myself. They were so dark! Why didn’t I use a flash?
Well, they weren’t going to be of use to anyone as they were, so I decided to upload to my computer and play around with them. It only took a few moments until I was lost in my work. My coffee was cold by the time I finished going through the layers and lightening them. But I finally cobbled out a fairly visible shot of the boot on the stairs.
I sipped the coffee and grimaced, then leaned in to study the photograph. The laces were strung along the tread with the tongue of the boot hanging out. Whatever had happened must have been violent. I sighed and scrolled to the next picture, the one with Jacob on the floor. But no matter how I lightened this one, it still wasn’t a very clear image.
There was something that stood out to me
His left foot was still in a boot. The shot had been taken from above, showing his toes pointed upward. What caught my attention was the fact that the boot had extra metal hooks right at the top and the laces tied tight through them, fully lacing it past his ankle.
A person usually doesn’t completely lace one boot and only partially lace the other one. So it stood to reason that both boots had been fully laced. That made it seem very unlikely—even impossible— that Jacob would have slipped out of his boot even if he had tripped.
I examined the first picture again—the boot on the stairs—specifically the laces. Sure enough, they were worn a few inches from the ends, as if they were always laced tight around the top hooks.
I pushed the computer away. Was this scene a setup? Was Mary or someone else supposed to walk in on him looking that way? But then, why clean it all up later and move Jacob?
The blood was another curiosity. From what I saw of his head wound, it had been devastating, but not open. So where did the blood come from? And why were the drops in the same spot as the boot? How was it possible to lose his boot and hit his head on the same stair tread?
My phone buzzed with a text, distracting me. —Hey Louise, come help Thelma out. You owe me.
I groaned. I knew it had to be bad for Kari to invoke the ‘owe me’ clause. —What is it?
She wrote back. —There was a cancellation today on the school field trip. I got roped into it. So did you. You’ll love it, it’s a historical tour.
Oh, no. I bit my lip and typed, —what ages?
She ignored the question, typing instead, —I’m bringing doughnuts!
Lovely. She was really trying to sweeten me up. That could only mean one thing. The age range was Junior High. The girls were okay, but those teen boys—oh geez.
But what could I do? Gritting my teeth, I typed back—I love doughnuts.
Two hours later found me sitting on a bus filled with twelve to fourteen-year-old kids.
I picked a paper airplane made out of a gum wrapper from my hair and said, “I wonder if talking with Mr. Murray would help? Maybe we just got on the wrong foot. I can see why he was defensive. After all, it seems there was some commotion from a bunch of guys threatening Jacob on his property. And it was his tractor that Jacob put in the pond.”
“I don’t know. I think you should drop it. It’s not our culture. I mean, what if Jacob is actually okay? He could be,” Kari said. Swaying a bit, she stood and reached into the seat behind her, snatching a straw. “No spit wads on my watch,” she said to the kid.
I closed my eyes, remembering the sensation of something hitting my back earlier.
A heavy breath escaped me. I was torn with what to do. Everyone was giving me advice to drop it, but I just couldn’t. Maybe I could track down who Jacob hung out with during his Rumspringa. Maybe find the girl that Mary had said he’d kissed. Or try to get back into Mr. Murray’s good graces and ask a few questions. Either one of those encounters could help shed light on the situation, but it also meant I was asking people about a possible murder that wasn’t even being investigated.
I listened to the chatter of the kids while Kari played on her phone. We were headed to a place fondly known as “Old Towne,” a section of Gainesville where the oldest school, church, and government buildings resided. The school and government buildings were simply tourist attractions, but the church was still operating as it had for over a hundred years.
Within fifteen minutes, we made it to Old Towne. That was about all I could stand in the moist air of the teen-sweat scented bus. It made Old Bella seem like a florist shop in comparison.
The bus door opened with a hiss, and I jogged down the stairs, followed by a horde of laughing, teasing, loud kids. Nerves jangled inside me since I had no idea what I was going to do to quiet them down.
I looked to Kari to lead, but she’d stepped back and was staring expectantly at me. Fine. I could see how it was.
I cleared my throat and began, “All right, ladies and gentlemen. If you can just follow me, we’ll get this tour going.”
For starters, I led the group of teens to the old school. There were framed photographs still hanging on the walls of the small building, most of women in long dresses with high collars, dour expressions and tight buns. Glass cases ran down on either side of the door, containing remnants of days long passed. Peeking inside showed crumbling textbooks, a tarnished bell, and writing implements that were no longer used. Along the back wall was a counter that was covered with colorful brochures of some nearby attractions and information on the history of the school.
The kids filed in, and I answered the usual questions, but most were smart-aleck remarks that I tried to ignore.
After that, we headed to the government building, which was a lot more interesting, at least to me. There were more framed photos and newspapers— this time showing men in wire-rimmed glasses and huge mustaches. There were books and artifacts placed on scattered tables around the room. The main room held a few busts of prominent figureheads, stamped below with brass plaques about their deeds. A few glass cases showed old laws that had been passed and the antiquated forms of punishment for the breaking of said laws.
In the back of the room was a long glass display case exhibiting a scaled down model of the gallows as well as several more miniature examples of forms of punishment. It was always the tourists’ favorite aspect of the building.
Naturally, it was the kids’ favorite, also.
“Were there witch trials here?” One of the girls asked.
I nodded. “Somewhat. It was nothing as big and severe as Salem, but as with many of the small settlement towns, it definitely occurred. There was a period in th
e late 1800s when a few women and one man were accused of conspiring with dark sources. They were found guilty of witchcraft and hung.”
“Was it the Amish who did it?” another kid asked.
“No. The Amish people came over in the 1700s and settled separately from our society. See, they were trying to get away from Catholic persecution in England but they didn’t like the loose beliefs and discipline of the main settlements over here. So they built their own town and lived apart from the ‘English’ as they call us.”
There were nods and raised eyebrows at the information.
“Do they have to obey our government?” asked another girl.
I answered with a shrug. “Yes and no. The government gives them some wiggle room with laws, permits, education, and other things, but they do have parts they have to live by. There’s some protection with being a religious sect, so their taxes and education issues are different.”
“Do they live the same as they always have?”
“Pretty much. They’ve made some adjustments to modern living in their own way, but they still do a lot that is reminiscent of the days of settlements.”
“What about bathrooms?” It was the girl again.
“They have indoor plumbing but it isn’t modern like our own. They don’t have electricity so any water for bathing has to be heated by fire. On the other hand, they also have outdoor toilets so they don’t have to track dirt or anything inside when they are working on the farm. Not to mention with large families, that makes a lot of people waiting for the bathroom, so it helps to have another alternative.”
I fielded a few more questions as we walked over to the church. The stained-glass windows and river rock walls were always a favorite target of photographs. A few kids went inside while I described the history of the old church, including one unfortunate fire.
Then we all climbed back on the bus to return to the school. Kari counted heads while I sat sideways in one of the seats, congratulating myself on a job well-done. I peeked through the crack to the seat behind me, where a boy sat with headphones on.
We met eyes and I asked, “What’d you think? Did you have fun?”
He slid the headphones around his neck. “That Amish stuff was interesting. I met one of them. He stayed with my brother, Dylan.”
“Really?” I asked. “When was this?”
“A couple months ago. He was a cool guy. Spoke funny but he was up to try anything.”
I straightened in the seat. Was this my chance to learn more about Jacob? “Do you remember his name?”
The kids shrugged. “Yeah, Jacob Dienner. I remembered it because his last name was like dinner. Funny, huh?”
“Very.” I nodded. Trying to be casual, I tucked my hair behind my ear and then continued. “Do you know if he had a job? Maybe a girlfriend?”
“Oh, a girlfriend.” The kid laughed. “Yeah, he was a little naive. Got the one girl who had a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend? That couldn’t have gone over too well.”
“Yeah. The guy was actually from Pittsburgh. He came over to my brother’s and tried to start trouble. My brother ended kicking Jacob out. I think that’s when he returned back to his village.”
“Really? Why did your brother kick him out? The boyfriend was too tough?”
“Too tough? He’s the guy. The one you don’t mess with. He drives a blue car with a spoiler. There are rumors he’s buried a few bodies.”
“Seriously?”
The kid shrugged again. “Who knows. Probably all talk, but my brother said he did put a guy in the hospital. Never did any jail time for it.”
I nodded again. “Has your brother had trouble with Jacob or the boyfriend again?”
“Nah, man. We aren’t close and I actually haven’t talked to him since. Last I heard, my brother got spooked and was talking about reenlisting with the Navy.”
I settled back into my seat. There was that word again. The same one Mary had applied to Jacob.
Spooked.
Just then I got a text. It was from Frank, and it read, —It’s official. Jacob’s dead.
Chapter 9
I texted back.—Where are you?
He wrote. —Outside the Amish church. You coming?
I told him I’d be there as soon as possible. After the bus returned to the school, I jumped into the van and headed over there, my mind spinning to be finally given information about Jacob.
I parked in the small dirt parking area at the Amish village center meant for visitors and got out, not sure where to even find Frank. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to figure that out. He was standing at the double doors of the church which were propped open. I gave him a tight smile as I walked over.
“I can’t believe it.” I shook my head. A large Amish man walked in front of me, making me suck in my breath. But it wasn’t Elder Yoder.
Frank came down the stairs to meet me, already talking. “Yeah. It appears Jacob is not only dead but already buried.”
“What? Really?”
“Funeral was this morning.” He cracked his knuckles and stared over my shoulder. I followed his gaze. Naomi, Mary’s friend, was walking up to us. She wore a dress in dark brown, her hair covered with a similar material.
I was ecstatic to see her. “Naomi! How are you?” Enthusiasm gushed through me and I mentally told myself to reign it in, especially on such a somber occasion.
“As well as can be. We had the wake for Jacob at his father’s house.” Her bottom lip quivered but she stiffened her shoulders and drew her chin up.
I frowned. “I’m so sorry. How is Mary?” The last question came out in a rush. I couldn’t help myself, so anxious for news of the girl’s whereabout.
Naomi seemed about to answer when a black buggy pulled in next to the church with a roar of “Whoa, now” and grinding wagon wheels. Several Amish men hopped out and opened the back. They lifted out several chairs while one of them waved Naomi over.
She nodded and hurried in their direction, making it a few steps before suddenly turning back. The girl winced slightly before saying, “She’s… she’s fine.”
My mouth went dry. She was lying to me, I could tell. Elder Yoder had lied as well. Where was that poor girl?
“Can I talk with her?” I asked softly.
Naomi picked at a thread on her sleeve. “She’s working right now.”
“Working where?”
“Ask her mother. Over at the milking barn.” Her eyes caught mine, looking large and beseeching. “I must go.” She continued over to the men.
Frank and I watched her walk away, her boots hidden by her long skirts. He pulled a toothpick from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.
“So, where we going next?” he asked and switched the toothpick to the other side with his tongue.
“Uh, how do you know I’m going somewhere?”
He looked at me now and his brows lowered over eyes. “Let me think of an Amish way to say this. I didn’t fall off the turnip wagon yesterday. I know you, and know how that brain of yours works.”
“I have twice the brain as you have,” I teased back, the old joke stemming from our childhood. “And I have a good feeling that’s not an Amish saying. But yes, you’re right. I want to find Mary and make sure she’s okay.”
“Let’s get going then,” he said. “I don’t have all day.”
I rubbed my forehead, not at all sure of where to start looking for a milking barn. Finally, I headed towards a group of women sitting in a circle under a tree, not looking to see if Frank was following me.
“Hello,” I waved as I approached. “I do historic tours in town and recently brought a couple of tourists through here a few days ago. I heard I should check out the milking barn. Can you point me in the direction of where that is?”
Several of the women glanced at each other before ducking their heads at the throat clearing of an older lady in the center.
“It’s over there,” a young woman chimed in. Her words were met with a disapproving gla
nce from the older woman. I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling caught in the middle of a stare down.
Well, you know what they say. Go big or go home. “Uh, do you know if Rebekah works there?”
A murmur of disapproval worked its way around the women’s circle. Every bonneted head—some black to indicate they were single, some white to show they were married—bowed over their sewing. The older woman’s flinty stare was more than adequate to let me know there would be no more talking.
I thanked them and backed away.
“Always with the silver tongue,” Frank said, suddenly appearing at my elbow.
“Where were you when I needed you?” I grumbled, heading in the direction of the barn.
“I figured you’d get more information from the women if I stayed out of sight.” He snorted, walking next to me. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
If we’d been anywhere else I would have socked him on the arm. But out of respect for the Amish, I bit my tongue and reigned in every reaction. He must have seen he’d hit a nerve because he covered quickly, “Hey, I’m just kidding. Geez. So sensitive lately.”
I sent him a stiff smile and lengthened my steps. As I got closer to the barn, the smell of cow manure made my nose wrinkle.
“Hey.” Frank tapped my arm. “You go on ahead. I’m going to wait here.” He pointed to the corner of the building.
I nodded and continued over to where I saw a side door open. Take a deep breath to strengthen my courage, I walked inside.
Several doors and side hatches were open, allowing the sunlight to brighten the majority of the dark interior. Women sat in the stalls, one per cow, milking them. Quiet chatter filled the air.
I glanced around but didn’t see Rebekah or Mary, and my heart sank. I walked down the row, giving smiles and nods to the girls on stools. It was with relief when, near the end, I spotted the girl’s mother.
I walked over to her and hesitantly reached out to pat the cow. “Rebekah, how are you?”
The woman glanced up before resuming her work. I raised my eyebrows, wondering if I was getting a tiny taste of being shunned.