Shadows of Lancaster County

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Other than Karl’s recent kindness, life at the palace is still quite disagreeable. This morning I came upon Luise and her son, Leopold, whispering in the salon. Upon realizing that I was there, they gave no greeting but simply turned and departed. Their snubs continue to sting.

  Someday, perhaps I will come to understand what my husband’s grandfather saw in Luise when he chose to take her as his second wife—in a morganatic union at that. I find her unattractive inside and out, and Leopold has inherited his mother’s bitter and vindictive manner.

  At least the palace is large enough that I am able to pass days at a time with only minimal interaction. I long for the day, however, when peace is made between all members of this family. I do not want my child to be born amid the whispers and snubs of such domestic distress.

  THIRTEEN

  ANNA

  Mr. Carver, my dad’s old friend, was waiting for me when I walked into the coffee shop in Valley Forge. He was sitting in a booth by the window, and I spotted him as soon as I came in the door. He gave me a smile and a wave, and I joined him at the table.

  We talked about the weather, me saying how cold it was outside and him replying with a chuckle that actually it wasn’t all that cold right now; it probably just felt like it because I wasn’t exactly dressed for the weather. He was right, of course. I had on a light cotton short-sleeved shirt under my peacoat. As soon as I got to Lydia’s, I was definitely going to have to borrow some sweaters.

  After making small talk and placing our order, Mr. Carver got right down to business. He lowered his voice and said he had agreed to meet me here for two reasons: Because my father had always been a good friend to him, and because he didn’t like the way the situation was unfolding, how everyone seemed to be jumping to the conclusion that Bobby had something to do with Doug’s death.

  “Your brother’s a good boy,” he said. “I know he could never kill someone on purpose, especially not a friend. People like to forget that that fire was an accident.”

  Mr. Carver said that the police weren’t using the word “murder” yet, but that Bobby was being “sought for questioning” in the “suspicious death” of his friend Doug. All signs pointed to guilty, which was bad news for Bobby, wherever he was.

  Bobby and Doug both worked for the same parent company: Wynn Industries, the large pharmaceutical firm owned by Doug’s father-in-law, Orin Wynn. According to Mr. Carver, Doug had last been seen on Wednesday night as he left his job at the Wynn Industries building in Hidden Springs around eight. Apparently, he then had driven from there to the town of Exton, which was about fifteen minutes away, and gone to the new Wynn Industries headquarters, a ten story building still under construction.

  The time of death wasn’t certain, but at some point between eight and midnight, Doug fell from the eighth floor to the ground floor lobby and was killed instantly. Mr. Carver said the building had a ten story atrium, but that not all of the guardrails had been installed yet, and the eighth floor had none at all. There were no signs of struggle up there, and in fact the whole area had been swept clean of the construction dust that seemed to coat almost everything else in the building. At some point after he fell, a heavy box of tiles fell as well, landing on the ground next to his body, denting the floor and shattering into pieces.

  Mr. Carver said the police weren’t sure if the fall was an accident or if Doug had been pushed, but for the time being they were proceeding with the assumption that it was a push—and that Bobby had been the one doing the pushing.

  “But why Bobby?” I asked, utterly dismayed.

  Mr. Carver replied that Bobby’s fingerprints were found on Doug’s body and on the handle of the main door to the building, both inside and out.

  “I’m sorry, but there is no way my brother could have killed Doug,” I said adamantly. “Fingerprints may prove he was there, but they don’t prove he pushed a friend to his death.”

  “Now you see why I agreed to meet with you. They’re saying Bobby is the primary suspect because of the fingerprints, but between you and me, I think their conclusion has less to do with fingerprints than it does with Bobby’s past police record. You know how it is. Once a criminal, always a criminal.”

  My stomach churning, I asked Mr. Carver to continue. He went on to talk about Doug’s wife, Haley, who was saying that Bobby showed up at her and Doug’s house around eleven thirty that same night, asking for a loan. She had given him eight thousand dollars in cash and sent him on his way, after which Bobby had snuck into the back shed and stolen Doug’s motorcycle. Bobby’s fingerprints were found on the key cabinet near the front door where the motorcycle key was stored, so Haley’s theory that he grabbed the keys while she was gone from the room seemed to be correct.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” Mr. Carver said, shaking his head sadly.

  I sat back, wiping my mouth with my napkin though I had hardly eaten a thing. Bobby’s disappearance had suddenly taken on a whole new level of complexity, leaving me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “What do you think happened that night?” I asked. “How do you think Bobby was involved in Doug’s death?”

  Mr. Carver shrugged, pausing to eat another bite of his breakfast before answering.

  “Well, Bobby was obviously in the building in Exton, but I’d be willing to bet that he was never up on that eighth floor. I mean, why would he go to the trouble to sweep up the dust and erase their footprints upstairs but not bother to wipe his prints off the front door handle? That’s just dumb, and Bobby’s not dumb.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Personally, I think Bobby either saw Doug fall or he got there after he had fallen. There were two of Bobby’s fingerprints on Doug’s wrist, right here,” he said, indicating the underside of the wrist, slightly to the left, “and on his neck right here,” he continued, placing his fingers under his chin and to the right. “That’s what you do when you’re checking for a pulse. You put your fingers there, on the wrist, and if you can’t feel anything, you put your fingers there, on the neck.”

  Instantly my mind jumped to yesterday morning, when I had done the very same thing with Kiki as she lay bleeding on the floor.

  “The cops tend to follow the pulse theory as well, but they say it’s just as likely that Bobby checked Doug’s pulse not in the hopes that he was still alive, but to make sure that he was dead.”

  Mr. Carver shook his head ruefully.

  “That’s why I agreed to meet with you, Annalise. I’m hoping you’ll be able to figure out the real truth here and not jump to conclusions just because Bobby happens to have a police record.”

  “Unfortunately, when you have a police record, people are always jumping to conclusions. It’s the nature of the game. All five of us have learned that the hard way.”

  We chatted a bit longer, and when the check came I reached for it, knowing that I should pay since Mr. Carver had come here at my request. He insisted on taking care of it, though, and I didn’t put up much of a fight. I just tucked my wallet away, grateful for his chivalry.

  Parting ways in the parking lot, I thanked Mr. Carver profusely. He went to shake my hand, but I gave him a hug instead, saying I was glad my dad had good friends like him we could count on.

  “Yeah, well, you need to keep it quiet or I could get in trouble,” he said. “But what’s the point of knowing all the gossip that’s going around the police department and the township building if I can’t share it once in a while?” With a laugh, he opened my car door for me and said to take care.

  As I pulled out of the parking lot, I had the odd sensation that someone was watching me. I kept an eye on my rearview mirror for a long time to see if I was being followed. Though it didn’t seem like it, I continued on my way thinking that with one man dead and another missing, it would be wise for me to remain vigilant.

  Back on Gulph Road, I thought about the three towns of Dreiheit, Hidden Springs, and Exton—all of which had played a part in the strange events that had taken p
lace on Wednesday night. Exton was located in Chester County along Route 30. Hidden Springs was about 15 miles northwest of there, just before the Lancaster County line. Dreiheit was another 20 miles southwest of Hidden Springs, below Lincoln Highway on the road toward Quarryville. All together, the three towns formed a sort of wide triangle.

  Hidden Springs was the town that Bobby and I originally called home, the place where we grew up and went to school for all twelve grades. We had also spent a fair amount of our childhood in Dreiheit, visiting our grandparents. Other than an occasional shopping trip to the mall, though, we had no personal connection to the town of Exton at all.

  Still, considering that that was where Doug had been killed and Bobby had gone online at an Internet café the same night, I decided to hop on 202 South and head toward Exton first. I wanted to get a look at the building where Doug died, if for no other reason than to orient myself to the happenings of that night. According to Mr. Carver, the new Wynn Industries building was located about a mile from the intersection of Route 30 and Highway 100, so I went there now, surprised to see the number of stores and other businesses that had sprung up around the Exton Mall. I turned onto 100 and drove until I spotted a ten-story building looming up on the right. Fortunately, there was a gas station to the left, so I pulled in there instead, for fear of being seen. I couldn’t have used more than a gallon or two of gas since picking up my rental car at the airport, but I pulled up to the pump anyway and took my time topping off the tank, using the opportunity to observe the construction site across the street.

  The building was the tallest thing around, and once it was completed it would be a striking structure of glass and steel, very fitting for the cutting-edge pharmaceutical company that it would house. The grounds around the building were filled with the detritus of construction: mounds of dirt, stacks of building materials, a small crane, and other machinery now sitting idle. The whole property was encircled by temporary orange-net fencing, and from where I was standing I thought I could see a strip of vivid yellow police tape across the main door to the building. A number of cars were parked near that entrance, not just police cars but a few high-end vehicles as well. I had a feeling they belonged to some of the Wynn Industries executives, who were likely keeping an eye on the situation. Haley’s father owned the entire company, so I felt sure it did not bode well that his son-in-law had fallen to his death in their very own building.

  I was just closing my gas cap when a Channel 6 Action News van came rumbling up the road and turned onto the property. Heart pounding, I quickly slapped the lid shut, got back in my car, and started it up. Tucking my credit card into my purse, I drove away, wondering how much longer it would be before the media found out I was back in Pennsylvania and on the case.

  My next stop was Hidden Springs, the town I would always call home even though my parents had sold the house and moved to Florida a few years ago. I went the back way, cutting across the countryside via a series of turns so familiar that it was as though I were driving on autopilot. I finally reached the old neighborhood and turned onto the street where I grew up. Our house was halfway down on the right, a three-bedroom ranch style. Pulling over to the side of the road and idling for a few minutes, I thought how much smaller the house looked now than it had when I lived there.

  Modest as it was, this had been a nice house to grow up in, with a neighborhood full of kids and an elementary school just a few blocks away. I never really made friends with Haley Wynn until middle school, but by the end of the eighth grade we were practically inseparable. Once I saw her gigantic, fancy home on the wealthy side of town, mine was never good enough again. I probably tormented my poor parents for the next few years, wanting to know why Haley’s family had a pool and we didn’t, why Haley’s father made lots of money and mine didn’t. I received several lectures about the benefits of being a civil servant, but they were all lost on me. As long as Haley had a TV in her bedroom and a walk-in closet filled with the latest fashions, civil service could never trump private entrepreneurship in my book.

  Thinking of Haley now made me feel kind of lost and sad. I felt guilty for having let our friendship fade away, especially knowing what I did about her unhappy marriage and her problems with alcohol. Maybe I could have made a difference in her life. Maybe I should pay her a visit right now.

  Summoning my nerve, I put the car in drive and headed across town to the home that had been given to Haley and Doug as a wedding present from her father. I had been there only once, a few days before I left for California seven years ago, but I had been duly impressed. Almost as big as the house she had grown up in, it had come complete with a pool and pool house and a detached three-car garage, the whole thing a stunning example of Pennsylvania stone-and-wood Colonial. Nestled on several acres in the costliest neighborhood in town only served to make it more impressive.

  “This place is so huge you guys are going to lose each other,” I had said to Haley with a laugh when she gave me a tour.

  Sadly, I thought now, losing each other was exactly what had happened. I wondered how it felt to be widowed at only twenty-nine.

  Turning into their neighborhood, I had second thoughts about showing up unannounced. Doug’s body had just been discovered the day before, so Haley was probably overwhelmed right now, dealing with funeral arrangements and out-of-town relatives, not to mention working through her own grief. On the other hand, a visit from her old best friend might be just what she needed most at the moment—not to mention that hearing her story firsthand would help in my investigation.

  I continued driving there, but when I was half a block away, I could see that her home was surrounded by the media, with three different news vans parked outside. Heart pounding, I put on my brakes and then quickly pulled into someone else’s driveway, turned around, and drove away.

  Of course they are camping out there, I thought as I raced out of the neighborhood. This was a big story, with ties to another, older big story that simply refused to die. My stomach still in knots by the time I turned onto Lincoln Highway, I decided I would try to connect with Haley later, via phone.

  For now, I needed to move on to Dreiheit, the very town where, on that fateful August night in 1997, an Amish farmer and his wife and their newborn baby died—but five other people essentially lost their lives as well. As I crossed into Lancaster County and turned onto a winding, picturesque road, I thought in detail about the tragedy that had so deeply marked the turning point in all of our lives.

  FOURTEEN

  The story actually began when Bobby and I were just children.

  Though we lived with our parents in Hidden Springs, we often visited our grandparents in Dreiheit. They owned a gorgeous old stone home on about five rolling acres there, and as children Bobby and I loved to explore the grounds and play with Grete and Lydia Schumann, the Amish sisters who lived next door with their parents and grandparents and baby brother, Caleb. Their whole family was just so different, so sweet, that I used to come home from our visits there and try to talk my parents in becoming Amish too.

  Our grandmother died of cancer the year I was twelve and Bobby was fourteen. Her illness had been so prolonged that her death hadn’t come as much of a surprise, but we were all stunned when an aneurism took our vibrant grandfather’s life just one year later. As my father was their only child, he inherited the beautiful old family home in Dreiheit that had been passed down through several generations of Jensens. Though our parents would have liked to keep the house in the family, they couldn’t afford the cost of maintaining it. As sad as it was, our family had had no choice but to clear out the century-old, Federal-style stone mansion and put it on the market. Mr. Schumann expressed an interest in buying the land, which worked out quite well because the Realtor was able to sell just the house to an architect who had property along the Susquehanna River and had been looking for a uniquely beautiful structure to move there. Once the deal was sealed, Bobby and I missed our grandparents terribly, of course, but we also missed the
ir gorgeous home in Dreiheit, not to mention our Amish friends from the farm next door.

  Over time, as Haley Wynn and I grew closer, I began to go back to Dreiheit occasionally with her. Her parents were divorced, and though Haley lived in Hidden Springs with her father, who had primary custody, she spent many weekends in Dreiheit with her mother, who lived in a little cottage about a mile away from the very place where my grandparents’ house had once stood. Though her small home was a far cry from the grandeur of the old Jensen homestead that was no more, it was still nice to visit the town I loved so much there in the heart of Amish country. As we grew older and got driver’s licenses—and Haley’s father gave her a car—we continued the tradition, driving out to Dreiheit for the occasional weekend of fun and relaxation at her mom’s. A hippie-type who had long wavy hair and wore peasant blouses, Mrs. Wynn was not a typical suburban mother. Once we started high school, she began insisting that I was old enough to call her by her first name, Melody, and that I make myself completely at home whenever I was there. She had an organic garden out back, one that was so prolific that it was like having our own personal produce stand. Though Haley was allergic to tomatoes, I loved nothing more than to pick them right off the vine, wash them, and eat them like apples.

  As nice as Haley’s mother was, though, I liked her father better. Melody was pleasantly laid back, but Orin Wynn had the sharp mind, quick wit, and boundless energy of a hugely successful entrepreneur. I was used to boring, mostly trivial conversations around my family’s dinner table at home, but whenever I was invited to dinner at Haley’s with her and her dad, the conversations were challenging and fascinating—and never predictable. On one evening we might debate the merits of capitalism versus socialism or name the Ten Places We Most Wanted to See in Our Lifetimes. When Haley and I were in our junior year of high school, I was eating over when the conversation turned to Bobby, who was in his first year of college at the University of Pennsylvania.