I chuckled just a bit. “Let me in. I need to talk to our mother.”
Lily glanced over her shoulder and carefully opened the door. She had a long apron on over a well-worn green-flowered prairie dress that had probably been handed down for fifteen years from sister to sister. Two steps into the trailer, and I heard Mother banging around in the kitchen. I whispered to Lily, “Are you sick? Why aren’t you in school?”
She leaned forward and put her lips to my ear, her hand cupped to muffle her voice. “I only go to classes two days a week and do the rest of my lessons at home. Three days a week I help Mother.”
I frowned. “Go to your room while I talk to her.”
Lily nodded, turned and trudged off, just as our Mother shouted from the kitchen, “Lily, come here, girl. I need you.”
Mother had on her work clothes as well, topped by her own ragged, stained apron. Ever since I could remember, Mother had conjured up and sold herbal remedies, poultices, tinctures and the like for everything from gallstones to heart conditions. Only in dire situations, like Jacob’s, did members of Elijah’s People go to Gentile doctors. For nearly all maladies, we were told that our faith would heal us. Mother had a special place in our community as something of a healer. When Father was alive, the money Mother made bought extras; my assumption was that now it was sorely needed to pay living expenses.
Her steel-gray hair knotted on top of her head, Mother looked thinner and more fragile every time I saw her. On the table, she had dozens of small amber bottles lined up and a pile of caps with droppers. On the counter, a mixture that resembled weeds floating in dirty water filled a metal bucket. I caught a whiff and recognized Mother’s sleep potion, a tincture of alcohol, passionflower and valerian root. In her hands she held a strainer.
“Lily, come help. I only have two hands,” she said, not looking up.
I walked over and took the strainer from her. “Clara!” she said, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk,” I said. “While we do, I’ll help.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, irritated. “I told you not to come to the trailer, that you’re not welcome. Where is Lily?”
“I sent her to her room to study. She tells me she isn’t going to school three days a week,” I said.
Mother frowned, forming sharp arches in her dark brows. I thought she’d tell me this was none of my business, and perhaps she considered saying that, but I sensed the situation troubled her. Instead, she admitted, “Clara, this isn’t what I want, but I need help with my work. We have many to feed and clothe. We have bills to pay. And the prophet has said that girls really only need to go through the eighth grade. Lily is in the ninth.” At that Mother pursed her lips. “I don’t know why I’m explaining to you.”
“Probably because you know how bright Lily is, how gifted, and that it is wrong to keep her from her classes.” I held the strainer over a large pitcher, as I had often as a young girl when I’d helped her, and Mother poured the mixture through, filtering out the debris. The herbs had been sitting in the alcohol for six weeks, turning the clear liquid amber. “Lily needs to go to school, Mother. She’s smart enough to go to college, to get a real job.”
“Like you did?” Mother said pointedly. “So she can abandon her family?”
“A job that would help support the family,” I said.
“I provide for the family with my work,” Mother said, standing taller. In the last years, she’d become stooped, looking more like an old woman than she should at fifty-five. “Your three mothers work hard, Clara. Sariah makes beautiful quilt skirts she sells through the gift shop. And Naomi bottles her honey and sells it. We take care of our children.”
“Yes, I understand, but Lily—”
“Is that why you’ve come?” Mother demanded, her voice shrill. “To chastise me about Lily?”
“No, I… I’m here to talk about Mother Naomi and what happened at the Johansson house,” I said. “I’m working on the investigation, and I’ve been hearing some things.”
Mother finished filtering the tincture into the pitcher and glowered as she picked up a funnel and handed it to me. I inserted it into the neck of the first of the small amber bottles, and mother remained silent as she carefully poured in enough to nearly fill it. She put down the pitcher and capped the bottle with one of the droppers, then smoothed on a label that read: Sleeping Tincture. Mix 3 Drops In Water And Drink 45 Minutes Before Bed.
We moved on to the next bottle.
“What have you been hearing? Gossip, I assume?” Mother asked, her voice dripping with annoyance.
“About Mother Naomi’s interest in Jacob Johansson,” I said.
Mother didn’t look surprised. Filling the second vial, she repeated the process, screwed on the cap and pasted on the label. “Clara, Naomi is one of your mothers. You’re not to question her actions or her motives. To you she is above reproach,” she said.
“I am not questioning her as her daughter, but as the Alber police chief,” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could muster. “I take it that you were aware of her interest in Jacob?”
Mother shot me a suspicious glance, her dark eyes flickering over my own. “I know that Naomi saved Jacob by finding him and calling for help before he bled to death. I know that she visits him to pray for his recovery, and she tells me that his family is very grateful.”
“People in town say that Mother Naomi showed interest in Jacob even before all of this,” I said, and then I waited. She didn’t comment, so I went on. “I’ve seen some things that make me wonder if that’s true.”
For a moment, Mother remained quiet, then she looked over at me, narrowed her eyes and asked, “What if it is?”
“I don’t know what it would mean to the case, if it means anything,” I admitted. “But it is important for any investigation to understand the truth about all those involved, about their relationships. So, I need to know about Mother Naomi and Jacob.”
“The truth? You want to understand the truth?” Mother’s voice sounded strained as she placed the pitcher on the table, careful not to spill a drop. “Clara, look around. Do you see how we live?”
I bit my lip. I’d thought about this often, how far the family had fallen. “I do, Mother, but that’s not what this is about.”
“It’s not?” she challenged.
“No, it’s not. This is about my job. I need to understand how Naomi fits into the puzzle. If there was a relationship before the killings between her and Jacob, that could make a difference.”
“Clara, have you forgotten who we are? What we stand for?” Mother looked at me with disappointment. “Naomi isn’t involved in any killings, you know that.”
“But how do we—” I started.
“Clara, this is simple.” Mother cut me off, twisting to look at me through the corners of her eyes. “I am getting older, but Sariah and Naomi are young yet.”
“I realize that they’re younger women,” I said. “I’m thirty-five, which means that Naomi is in her mid-forties?”
“Yes, she is. And I’ve noticed for months that Naomi is interested in Jacob. I assumed that she hoped to become one of his wives, and I didn’t discourage that. We are too crowded in this old trailer and have too many to support,” she said. “If Naomi leaves and takes her children with her to a new household, it improves all our lives.”
“Of course,” I said, aware of the fragile walls of the trailer that protected my mothers and siblings from the world. “But, again, this isn’t about that. It’s just that I’m—”
“You are what?” Mother asked, her voice rising.
This time, I stood straighter and looked down at her. “Mother, it’s important for the investigation that I understand Naomi’s relationship with Jacob.”
“You’ve said that,” Mother reminded me. “And I’ve told you what you asked.”
“But not everything I need to know. What did you see pass between them?” Mother didn’t answer, just glowered at m
e. I sensed that she believed she’d told me enough. When Mother got like this, it had always felt to me as a girl that she threw up an invisible wall between us, one I couldn’t break through. But this time, I wasn’t going to be denied. I had to find a way around her blockade. “You can help the investigation, Mother,” I said, my voice soft, urging. “Help me understand so I can see the big picture here.”
“And I would do that because…?” she queried.
“Because Laurel, Anna and two beautiful children are dead, murdered,” I said. “And because I’m not sure who killed them, or if Jacob and his baby son, Jeremy, are still in jeopardy.”
Uncertain, Mother sighed. “Clara, I don’t know. To gossip is to sin.”
“I need to know what you know, Mother,” I said. “It’s important.”
Mother stood, lips tight, silent, then, biting off each word, she said, “I don’t know a lot. But off and on, I saw Naomi talk to Jacob after services, smiling at him, giggling like a young girl at his jokes.”
“How did he respond?” I asked.
“I saw interest in Jacob’s eyes as well, which I interpreted as a clue that perhaps one day Naomi might escape what our lives have become,” Mother said, weary. “He is a wealthy man, with a big house and a successful business. I was hopeful for Naomi. I said nothing to her about this, and she probably doesn’t know that I am in favor of her aspirations, but I am.”
“You who have always been so firm about the family staying together,” I noted.
Mother shook her head. “I am older now, Clara, and tired. I am working too hard since your father died. We all are.”
Seeing the dark shadows under her eyes, I felt sorry for Mother. Life had treated her harshly. Yet I didn’t try to console her. I knew my mother, and she wouldn’t have accepted my sympathy. “Anything else I should know about Naomi and Jacob?” I asked. Mother remained silent, and I pushed. “Think of those dead children mother, Benjamin and Sybille. Think of Anna and Laurel. I need to know.”
Mother hesitated, but then said, “It was only once.”
“What was?” I asked.
Although she appeared reluctant, Mother explained, “You can tell no one I’ve told you this, Clara. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Once when Naomi and I were at services, I heard Jacob whisper to her,” Mother said.
“What did he say?” I asked.
This was hard for Mother. That I knew. “Jacob said that he would see her the next day at the bee shack.”
“At the bee shack? That was all?” I asked, and Mother nodded. “Okay. Thank you. That does help.” I prepared to leave, but then turned back to her. I had another matter to discuss. “Mother, Lily needs to go to school,” I said. “I can help you and the family financially. I have my salary, and I live at the shelter so I have very few expenses. I have savings from my years in Dallas. Perhaps some extra money would make it possible for Lily to go to school and concentrate on her studies and also make life easier for all of you.”
“No, Clara—” she protested.
“I would like to help.”
Mother appeared exhausted, but she shook her head. “Clara, you make a good point, and I will try to get Lily to school three days a week instead of two,” she said. “But I will not take your money.”
“Why turn me down when it would help all of you?” I asked. “Accept my offer, if not for you, for the others.”
Mother shook her head. “That will not happen. You are no longer one of us, and it would be wrong for me to act as if that were not true.”
Her words cut into my heart. “I’m not asking for anything in return,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment and hurt that had crept into my voice. “I can have the money deposited automatically into an account for the family. You won’t need to have anything to do with me.”
Mother didn’t hesitate. “It would still be sinful of me to take money from you,” she said, her eyes firmly on mine. “Clara, you must leave. I have work to do, and you should not be here. I’ve explained before that you’re not welcome.”
I returned Mother’s gaze, swallowed my disappointment and wondered how far I could push her. She’d been more helpful than I’d anticipated. Could I get her to say more?
“One more question,” I said. This wasn’t about the case or about Lily but about me. My life. It was about the horror that had forced me to flee. “After I ran away, did you and Father ever regret making me marry as you did?”
Her eyes flickered wide, and Mother appeared startled, as if that had never occurred to her. “Why would we have anything to regret, Clara?” she asked. “Did we not do what the prophet ordered?”
Twenty-Six
The street overflowed with protesters when I drove up to the station. I figured there had to be fifty people or more milling about. Some stood around talking, animatedly waving their arms, I assumed debating my place in the community and whether or not I was fit for my job. I saw old friends, a few from my school years. They looked resolutely away from me. I waited for the crowd to clear on the side street so I could drive into the parking lot. Angry faces shouted at me, and I stared straight ahead and kept driving. The group parted, and I drove through without incident, but I felt shaken.
“Heck of a crowd out there,” Max said when I walked in. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “You safe with all that going on?”
I felt a wave of gratitude, and I wanted to lay my head against his chest and rest against him, to feel the warmth of him. It would have been a relief to let go and let him protect me. But I couldn’t take that step. Not yet. None of this was over. “Thanks, but nothing to be concerned about,” I said, conjuring up a rather slim smile. “Once we solve this case, they’ll get over it.”
“You had your meeting? How did it go?” Familiar with the gulf between my mother and me, Max understood she might not cooperate. He knew that any conversation with my family automatically carried an eighteen-wheeler full of emotional cargo. I was considering how to respond when Kellie glanced up from behind the front desk, interested.
“How did what go?” she asked.
“Nothing important,” I said. “Have those protesters been causing any problems?”
“Not really,” she said. “But I wish they’d give up and leave.”
“Probably won’t for a while. Looks like they’re enjoying it,” I said. “Any messages?”
Kellie handed me a pile of a dozen or so, and I rifled through them. One was from the state lab’s ballistics section. I turned to Max. “Let’s go to the conference room. We can call them back, and then I can fill you in on my conversation with Mother.”
Once I threw my leather bag down, I slipped my phone out, placed the call, and put it on speaker so Max could hear. “What’d you find out?” I asked the tech who answered. “Is the gun the murder weapon?”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “It’s been recently fired. We fingerprinted it, but it’s been wiped clean. No prints. We typed some blood found on the barrel, a very small amount, and we think it’s either Benjamin or Anna Johansson’s. We’ve sent it out for DNA to make sure it’s a match, but of the five victims, it’s their blood type.”
“Okay, good,” I said. “And you did ballistics?”
“And we did ballistics, fired it and retrieved the bullets. The rifling marks match a bullet removed during autopsy from the body of Anna Johansson.”
“Were there any bullets left in the magazine?” I asked.
“There were five remaining. The magazine holds ten,” the guy said.
“So, the killer could have shot all five victims if he’d wanted to,” I said, looking at Max. “But he chose to cut Laurel’s and Jacob’s throats.”
“Yeah,” Max said. He then asked the tech an important question: “Who is the gun registered to?”
“Not the killer,” the guy said, and Max and I looked at each other in disappointment. “While I worked on ballistics, another tech ran the serial number. This gun
was originally sold nine years ago to a guy in Colorado Springs. The registration never changed. We tracked him and interviewed him via phone. He says he sold that particular gun about six years ago through a private sale at a gun show.”
“No background check?” I said.
“Right,” the tech responded. “It fell under the private sale exclusion to the gun laws. The seller has an alibi. He’s seventy-eight and has been in the hospital for the past few days, just getting out this morning. He had heart surgery.”
“Send us the registration form and anything you have on this guy,” I said. “Doesn’t sound like he’s our killer, but I want to verify that he has nothing to do with this.”
“Will do,” the tech said.
“You think the seller might recognize a photo of the person he sold the gun to?” Max asked. “We could get together a couple of photo lineups, put our suspects in, email them to his local PD and ask them to go over them with him.”
“We asked that. The guy says no chance. He buys and sells guns like a hardware store owner flips hammers, dozens every year,” the tech said. “Sometimes, he buys new, gets tired of them and sells them, like he did with this gun. Other times he buys used, repairs and marks them up, then sells them for a profit. He says he keeps no records.”
This wasn’t good. We’d just lost what could have been a valuable lead. “Thanks,” I said. “Anything on the knife?”
“We sent photos of the blade over to Doc Wiley,” the tech said. “He says it could be the weapon used to murder Laurel Johansson. The serration of the blade is consistent with the cut in her throat. We’ve sent samples of the blood found on the knife for DNA.”
Her Final Prayer: A totally gripping and heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 2) Page 19