Shadows of Lancaster County

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “If you bothered to read that record, Detective Hernandez, you’d see that I was a juvenile when it happened. I got house arrest and probation. It’s not as though I went to prison.”

  “Maybe not, but someone who tends to…omit…pertinent information and misrepresent themselves makes me nervous.”

  I rested my forehead in my hands and took a deep breath, feeling that old familiar rush of despair and claustrophobia that always came upon me when yet another person wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt. It was hard enough to deal with the guilt I heaped upon myself, but I really didn’t need other people adding to it—especially when they filtered in the press’s ridiculous version of the events that occurred that fateful night so long ago.

  “If you bothered to read any of the details of my arrest, you’d know I was not involved in a malicious criminal act. We were just a bunch of kids who were caught up in a terrible tragedy.” He didn’t reply, so I continued. “I was only seventeen when it all happened, but the minute I turned eighteen a month later and the press could legally reveal my name and image, I was done for. The press coverage was brutal and unrelenting. When that news van showed up at the house this morning, it felt like history was about to repeat itself. It’s just my poor fortune that some random intruder chose my house to invade. The present situation has nothing to do with the past, and I was in no way obligated to tell you I had a record. Keep in mind, Detective, that this time I’m the victim here, not the criminal.”

  My face was burning hot by the time I finished my little speech, and I was surprised at the venom I heard in my own voice. I had worked hard to let the anger and resentment go, but now, when I was challenged, it was obvious there was still more angst buried deep inside. I wondered if I could ever rid myself of those old feelings entirely.

  At least the detective backed off a bit after that, the tone of his voice growing less suspicious. Finally, I was able to get to the first reason I was calling, to find out where the situation stood with the intruder. Detective Hernandez said that the man had gone through surgery around noon and was currently resting. The doctors thought he would be kept there for a day or two, at which point, barring any medical complications, he would be released into police custody.

  “Were you able to question him? Did you find out more about why he did it and what he wanted?”

  “We ran his prints, but they didn’t tell us anything. As far as questioning him, we’ve asked the questions, yes, but he’s not answering. He knows he has the right to remain silent, and that’s exactly what he’s doing, for now at least. We’ll be in a better position to interrogate him once he’s in our custody.”

  “You should have talked to him when he was under anesthesia.”

  “Yeah, right. Try taking that into a courtroom.”

  I needed to go, and I wanted to end this call. For now I chose not to give Hernandez the news about my missing brother. Though Bobby’s disappearance and my intruder might somehow be connected, I wanted Detective Hernandez to concentrate on my break-in as a single, isolated crime without unnecessarily clouding the issue. Considering his attitude about my police record, as soon as he heard that Bobby may in some way be involved, I knew he would jump to all the wrong conclusions.

  Instead of mentioning Bobby, I just asked if the house was still a crime scene or if I would be allowed to straighten up and pack.

  “We’re all finished there—though you might see some yellow caution tape around the back porch because of the hole. You’ll need to get that taken care of before someone else gets hurt.”

  “Will do.”

  When our excruciating phone call was over, I hung up, got out my purse, and turned to Norman, who had also neatened his desk and looked as though he was ready to leave. He was insisting that I let him come home with me, for safety’s sake, and then also give me a ride to the airport. Knowing I needed help, I put up only a minor fuss but I didn’t refuse.

  We headed out, my car leading the way, and were at the beach house within twenty minutes.

  As we parked our cars and walked to the door, it struck me that once Kiki understood the details of the situation, she might ask me to move out. I couldn’t imagine what the impact of that would be for my life. Besides the fact that she was a great housemate—easygoing and fun and nonintrusive—I literally couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. Except for this house and a small pension from her late husband, Kiki was as poor as I was, but she rented me one of the spare bedrooms for a pittance, and I made up the difference by doing most of the cooking and cleaning—an arrangement that had worked out well for both of us. Without that deal, I would be sunk for sure.

  Trying not to think about that for now, I unlocked the front door and we stepped inside, though Norman insisted on going first. His posture rigid and ready, he checked out every room in the house, including the pantry and all closets. At his age, I doubted he could fend off a criminal if one popped up, but it was very sweet of him to look, nonetheless. When he spotted the bullet hole in the wall in my room, he let out a low whistle. I wasn’t bothered by the bullet hole nearly as much as I was by the big bloodstain on the floor. Once Norman went downstairs, I quickly used bleach and rags to clean it as best I could.

  I didn’t have any idea how long I would be in Pennsylvania, so I threw together one suitcase’s worth of clothes and shoes, toiletries, and a blow-dryer. I also packed up my laptop, taking the time to print a few pictures of Bobby first.

  When I got downstairs, Norman was on the phone. After he hung up, he explained that his son would be here first thing Saturday to fix the back porch, fill in the bullet hole upstairs, and replace the wood flooring in my bedroom that had been ruined by Kiki’s blood. Before I could figure out how I was going to afford all that, Norman added that the labor would be free—though we could reimburse them for the supplies later, once Kiki’s insurance claim went through, if we wanted to.

  I thanked him profusely as I locked up the house and we carried my bags to the car. Driving toward the airport, Norman at the wheel, I tried calling Kiki at the hospital. I got her mother, who said that the CAT scan had come back normal except for a concussion, as expected, and that Kiki would be staying with her for a while after she got out of the hospital.

  When I was finished with the call, I tucked away my phone and asked Norman to check on Kiki while I was gone and tell her about the house repairs.

  Traffic was light, so the trip to the airport went smoothly. Norman and I said our farewells at the curb, and then I was on my own, checking my bags and making my way through security. By the time I reached the gate, I had an hour and a half to kill, which was good as there were a few things I needed to take care of before takeoff.

  EIGHT

  STEPHANIE

  November 21, 1828

  My Dearest Son,

  I do not understand your reaction to the letter I sent to you. How can you refuse to participate in what is to be your absolute destiny? Royal blood flows through your veins, my child! It is your duty to put down your farm implements and take up the scepter very soon. Enclosed is another piece from the Beauharnais Rubies, this time the Coronet, as yet more proof of my devotion to the cause of restoring you to your rightful place.

  You cannot know what was sacrificed for this moment! To impress this upon you, I am including with this letter pages written by my own hand sixteen years ago in the months before you were born. In reading my journal now, I see that I was a vain and frivolous girl, but my hope is that you will look beyond the trivialities to the love I held for you even before your birth, as well as come to understand why I made the decisions about you that I did.

  This is not a mantle you can refuse! As you read the following entries, my hope is that you will understand that truth above all.

  All my love,

  SdB

  JOURNAL

  March 5, 1812

  I fainted at court today, prompting Karl to summon the palace doctor. I told my husband not to worry, that no doubt my condition w
as caused by the unseasonably warm temperatures heightened by the new turban I wore. It was a gift from The Emperor, who says turbans are all the rage in Paris these days. I am not sure why, as I found the thing to be quite hot and uncomfortable—but I do love to be in fashion. And oh, how I miss Paris!

  In any event, after a private conversation with the doctor and a modest examination, he has confirmed what I have been suspecting since January: I am with child again, likely due to give birth in the fall. Oh, how I hope to give Karl a son this time!

  Princess Amelie is but nine months old today. Though her smile gives sunshine to me in this otherwise gloomy palace, her existence does little to secure my position or validate my marriage to Karl. Luise works hard to make certain I am not happy here, and I know she acts from jealousy and disdain.

  Once I give birth to a male heir, all will change.

  NINE

  ANNA

  Finding an empty area not far from my gate, I pulled out my cell phone and calculated the time in Pennsylvania. It was ten thirty p.m. on the East Coast, which would make a phone call at this hour rude but not ridiculous. I decided that one of my first goals should be to find out more about Doug Brown’s death. Given the timing and Bobby’s strange appearance at Doug’s house that very night, I knew there had to be a connection of some kind. In the past I would simply have asked my father to look into it for me. As a code inspector for the township, he had worked closely with the local police and was always up on town gossip. Now that he had retired and moved away, however, I would have to depend on someone else, maybe some old buddy of his who still worked in Hidden Springs and had an ear on the goings-on there.

  I thought of Mr. Carver, one of the few men who had stuck by my dad’s side and given Bobby and me the benefit of the doubt when he and I were arrested, tried, and convicted for our crimes. Back then, our whole family had been thrust into a very difficult situation, but at least we all found out who our real friends were—and there weren’t very many of them. From what I could recall, Mr. Carver had remained steadfast through all of it. I called information and got the man’s home number in Hidden Springs. He answered on the third ring, his voice warm and familiar.

  After apologizing for calling at such a late hour, I jumped right in, telling him who I was and saying that ordinarily my father would have been the one making this call, but he was currently on vacation in New Zealand.

  “New Zealand?” he cried. “What’s the old bugger doing way out there?”

  I explained briefly about the bird-watching and then said I was headed to Pennsylvania to find my brother, who was missing.

  “According to his wife, Bobby disappeared last night, and then today I heard about Doug Brown’s death. Considering that they were good friends, I thought it might help me in my search for Bobby if I could learn more about what happened with Doug. You were always such a good buddy to my dad. I was hoping it would be okay to impose on you with this call, to see if maybe there was anything you could tell me about the situation just so I could have all the facts straight.”

  Mr. Carver sounded happy to hear from me, but he wasn’t sure how much help he could be.

  “Of course, there has been a lot of talk rolling around the township building, gossip and whatnot. You know how those things are. It would probably be easier to discuss this in person. Did you say you were in town? Why don’t you come on over right now, and I’ll get Letha to heat us up a couple pieces of peach pie?”

  I thanked him, saying I was on my way but I wouldn’t be getting into Philadelphia until morning. He suggested we meet in a coffee shop once I had arrived, an offer for which I was extremely grateful. I told him my flight would be in around seven and that I could be in Hidden Springs by nine.

  “Actually, would you mind meeting somewhere else, somewhere not quite so close to my office? Just to keep tongues from wagging.”

  “Name the place and I’ll be there.”

  He suggested a coffee shop near Valley Forge, so I jotted down the address and agreed to meet him there at nine in the morning unless my flight was delayed, in which case I would call as soon as I landed. As we ended the call and I tucked my phone away, I said a silent prayer of thanks that at least one thing had gone right thus far.

  Glancing at my watch, I saw I still had time to accomplish several necessary errands before my flight would begin boarding. First stop was an electronics store, and I was relieved to find one in the same terminal as my gate. There, I bought a disposable cell phone, the kind that can be used and then tossed. It was for Lydia, so I could reach her more easily over the next few days. This phone shanty business was for the birds.

  After that I went right next door to a jewelry store. Bypassing two busy salespeople, I sought out the oldest, most experienced-looking person there and waited as he finished with a transaction. The woman in front of me dropped her jacket, and as I picked it up and handed it back to her, it dawned on me I was heading to Pennsylvania in the dead of winter and I hadn’t even thought to bring a coat.

  “May I help you?” the salesman asked as his customer walked away.

  Putting aside my concerns about a coat for now, I gave the man a warm smile and asked if he had ever heard of anything called the “Beauharnais Rubies.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, not missing a beat. “Right over here we have some lovely Burmese ruby pendants. We have gems in pear shape, marquis, oval…”

  Before he became too excited about making a sale, I explained that I didn’t want to know for shopping purposes. I was just asking him as an experienced jeweler for research purposes.

  “And not Bur-mese,” I said. “Bor-nays. Have you ever heard that term? Is that a type of ruby?”

  He said that hadn’t heard the word per se, but he suggested that “Beau-harnais” might be the place where they were mined.

  “Rubies are found in Thailand, Sri Lanka, Vietnam, Madagascar… Perhaps Beauharnais is over in that region.” He went on to say that “Beau-harnais” could also be the name for a new form of synthetic ruby. “These rings, for example, are made from Verneuil rubies. Very lovely, and much more reasonably priced than their Burmese cousins.”

  He was still trying to make a sale, but I couldn’t afford to even look at the rubies, much less buy any. I thanked him for his help and said I needed to be on my way. He was very gracious, apologizing that he hadn’t been able to answer my question. He then suggested that I contact a gemstone or jewelry museum and ask someone there. I thanked him, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that myself.

  As I left the store, I let my thoughts return to the coat problem. I knew I would never find one for sale in an airport shop, not in and among the sunscreen and the “So Cool in So. Cal.” beach towels. Swallowing my pride, I made my way to the Lost and Found department and asked what they did with older items that had never been claimed.

  “They go in there,” he said as he pointed to a large canvas bin on wheels, one that was practically overflowing with items. “Help yourself.”

  I had no problem wearing used clothing, and in fact much of my wardrobe had come from Goodwill. But I always thoroughly cleaned my purchases before I wore them. Here, I knew I wouldn’t have that luxury. Gritting my teeth and trying not to think about germs and body odor, I went through the cart until I found a cute little navy peacoat with matching gloves stuffed in the pockets.

  By the time I reached my gate a second time, I had only a short wait. I found a seat near the window, put down my things, and stared out at the busy ground crew. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I let my mind drift to Bobby’s email.

  Remember a while back when you said that if you could do one thing over again using the knowledge you have now, you’d do it differently?

  I had no recollection of saying that, but obviously it must have come up in some conversation a while back. I tried to think of what we could have been talking about at the time, but nothing that came to mind made any sense. It wasn’t until I was boarding the plane that
it struck me what Bobby might have been talking about: Disappearing.

  I vaguely remembered a telephone conversation we’d had about six months after I started working as a skip tracer, when I explained how much of my on-the-job training could have helped me do a better job of erasing my tracks and starting over. Had I been in hiding from a mafia don or a violent ex-boyfriend, I probably would have gone to the trouble to redo what I had already done but in a much more knowledgeable fashion. As it was, the only reason I had gone into hiding in the first place was to remove myself from the constant scrutiny of the media, and as long as the tricks I had used continued to prevent any aggressive journalists from tracking me down, my escape was sufficient.

  Still, I remembered saying to my brother, if I had to disappear all over again, my approach would be so much more sophisticated now. I’ve learned how to erase a paper trail so thoroughly I don’t think anyone could ever find me.

  Filing onto the plane now, I decided that must be it. From what I could recall, we had talked about it for a while as I had laid out the three steps a person could take to start a new life and thoroughly break away from an old one: misinformation, disinformation, and reformation. I didn’t remember Bobby finding the topic particularly fascinating, but I had told him about it anyway, probably to show off all of my newfound knowledge. All of those tricks he had done on the computer last night had likely been learned from me, during our conversation.

  The problem, of course, was that Bobby’s email ended by saying I should “communicate accordingly.” Unfortunately, I didn’t know how that would be. I must have mentioned some secure way a person could communicate back and forth with those who had been left behind, but for the life of me, I could not remember what it was. My mind flitted from leaving a written note in a designated spot to renting a bogus PO box in another city to leaving a message under a free online email account created just for that purpose. There were lots of ways to send and receive secure communications—or at least nonsecure communications in places made secure simply by the fact that no one would ever think to look there. But I didn’t know what method Bobby was using, and without any clear direction, poking around and trying to figure it out could take weeks.