Chief Rose clicked her tongue. “Troyer, you are loyal to a fault.” She turned to me. “You’d better remember that about him, Humphrey. Could come in handy in the future.”
“I don’t think loyalty is a bad attribute,” I said.
The chief ran her hand through her brown curls, and they immediately sprang back into place. “Neither do I. Troyer, you know our visit to the Lambright farm didn’t go well. The Lambrights won’t talk to me about their daughter. That’s why I called the two of you here. I need someone,” she looked directly at me. “I need someone to poke around and find out who the Amish suspects are in this case.”
I pressed my palm to my chest. “You want me to do that?”
The chief sat back, eyeing me now. “Sure, why not? It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Troyer can help you out with it too.” She grinned. “I know you were planning to do it anyway. Why else would you be snooping around the car shop? This way it’s sanctioned by me. Unofficially, of course. My department is not liable if you break a leg or if you bust your spleen in pursuit of a suspect. Trust me, if it comes to that, I will deny this conversation ever happened.”
“Thanks,” I said, the sarcasm back in my voice.
As if she approved of my tone, the chief of police smiled. “That’s the right attitude.”
“Where do you want us to start?” Timothy asked.
“I want you to find out who was beating up Katie Lambright.”
I grew still. “Beating up? I thought she was strangled.”
“She was, but this wasn’t the first time she had been the victim of violence. Her body was covered with bruises, and even before the autopsy, the coroner could tell that a finger on her right hand had been broken.”
Timothy’s brows knit together. “Growing up on a farm, a broken finger isn’t that uncommon. Thomas breaks something every year.”
“True, but this isn’t any typical break. The coroner said it appeared to be a spiral fracture. He said the only way that could have happened was if the finger was twisted. So she either got it stuck in a vise or someone grabbed it and twisted it until it snapped.”
Instinctively my fingers curled into fists to protect themselves. I thought of what Timothy said of Katie’s father Jeb Lambright. Just how hot was his temper?
Chief Rose slid Billy’s photograph and rap sheet back into the envelope. “What do you say, Humphrey? Are you willing to help me out again?”
Timothy gave me the slightest of nods.
I licked my lips. “Yes.”
The right side of the police chief’s mouth turned up. “Terrific.” She made eye connect with me, then Timothy, and then back to me. “Do me a favor this time—keep me in the loop. You think of or find something important, you call me, night or day.”
“Even on Christmas?” I asked.
Her brows drooped low over her eyes. “Especially on Christmas.”
“Sounds fair,” I said.
On the other hand, Timothy said nothing.
Chapter Eight
Christmas Eve morning, the Harshberger College campus lay still and dormant under a blanket of freshly fallen snow. The students were home with their families for the next month until the new semester began in mid-January. Only essential faculty and staff were on campus, and as the director of computer services, I was one of those people. Even on Christmas, the computer systems that kept the college moving had to be up and running, from the protective firewall to the campus e-mail.
This was my first Christmas at Harshberger, and I found the quietness of the once-bustling campus both calming and eerie. Since I was new, I opted to be the on-call person during the holiday break, hoping my staff would take their turns during future breaks. Perhaps next year I would have enough money saved to spend Christmas in Italy with my best friend Tanisha. Tee taught English as a Second Language there, and I missed her terribly. We Skyped and e-mailed often, but it wasn’t the same as seeing her in person. Tanisha was more like a sister to me than a friend. Her family took me in when I was fifteen—after my mother died and my father dumped me for a new wife and new life in California.
Going to California to spend the holidays with my father, young stepbrother and stepsister, and my evil stepmother Sabrina was out of the question. Sabrina made it clear I was not welcome. Just a month ago, I had been uninvited to Thanksgiving so that the four of them could go on a cruise. At least she was upfront with her distaste for me.
My father was ambivalent, which was so much worse. The car accident that killed my mother destroyed what relationship I’d had with my father. Mom had spun off the icy road late one winter night when coming to fetch me from a sleepover party. This coming January would mark the eleventh anniversary of my mother’s death.
I stepped into the server room and examined the racks of black and silver boxes. Their little green power lights blinked pleasantly at me. No red flashing lights, no alarms sounding. All was well. At least, in the server room. All was not well in Appleseed Creek. I thought of Katie. To die the way she did, it seemed too cruel. A terrible waste. What could the Amish girl have done to make someone hate her so much to hurt her like that? I found the idea that she had been physically abused deeply disturbing. If Katie had been hurt, what about Anna? Was the younger of the two Lambright sisters in danger? The Amish were particularly closed-mouthed on the topic of domestic abuse. How were Timothy and I supposed to find out what really happened to Katie?
Locking the door to the server room behind me, my thoughts turned to Billy. Should I think of him as Walter now? He had only been Billy to me—and to everyone else in Appleseed Creek. Chief Rose asked us to keep his true identity a secret, because she didn’t want the information to leak in case Billy still hung around the area.
I stopped by my office to mark the log showing that I checked the servers and that all systems were normal. I wasn’t in a big rush to return home. Becky was in the middle of a full-on Christmas frenzy. When we moved to the Quills’ house, I told her that we could have a small Christmas party. I never expected her to jump into planning her first English Christmas party with so much enthusiasm. Our home looked like Santa’s elves had an ornament fight that started in the living room and carried on into the kitchen. Becky, apparently, took her first English Christmas seriously.
Becky’s favorite part about the house’s kitchen was Mrs. Quills’ television. When awake, she rarely left the kitchen. My cat Gigabyte was a big fan of the kitchen too, as he got the scraps from Becky’s experiments. Over the last two weeks, as Becky collected recipes for the party, Food Network played 24/7 in our house. If I saw one more episode about how to make a yule log, I thought I might scream.
To Becky’s delight, Young’s Family Kitchen and its shops were closed both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so Becky was home with her best friend Paula Deen and Company while I hid in my office. Our party—really Becky’s party because I had done little more for it than vacuum the carpet and clean the bathrooms—would be Christmas night. During the day Becky and I would be at her parents’ home.
The only damper on the party was that the Troyers were not coming. Becky wanted her family there, but it was not the Amish way to participate in such an extravagant gathering.
As I checked my e-mail, my thoughts wandered back to Billy. Timothy said in the mobile home that it looked like he had been gone for a few days. He could be on the other side of the world by now. Did Chief Rose check flights out of Columbus for Billy’s name? Was one of his automobiles missing? Did he drive out of Knox County? I made a mental note to ask the chief these questions, but it was likely she had already thought about all of this and would find my inquiries annoying. She wanted me to concentrate on the Amish, so questions about Billy’s car would not be fulfilling my assignment. I turned off the computer and grabbed my coat. As much as I dreaded it, I knew I should return home and offer Becky what little help I could to prepare for the party.
Outside it was snowing again, and even though I had only been on campus for
two hours, my Bug was buried under a couple inches of white powder. My only consolation? The weather was even worse back in Cleveland, as clouds full to bursting with lake effect snow blew off of Lake Erie.
I popped the trunk with my key fob and retrieved a window scraper, covering myself with snow in the process. I started in the back and began to wipe away snow, then moved around to the passenger side and ran the brush end across the window. As I did, a face stared back at me through the window.
I dropped the scraper and screamed.
The passenger door opened and Curt Fanning—the man who had harassed me since the day I arrived in Knox County and who I had hoped to never see again—stepped out of the car. I scooped my scraper off the ground and held it in front of me like a saber. I shot a look around campus in search of someone, anyone. Where was college security when you needed them?
A lazy grin spread across Curt’s thin face as he leaned back against my car. “There you are, Red. I nearly froze my keister off waiting for you to show up.”
“What do you want?” My hand began to ache from holding the scraper so tightly, but I didn’t loosen my grip.
He ran his hand along his jawline and across his bedraggled goatee. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
Curt was certainly not an old friend of mine. When I first moved to Appleseed Creek he harassed both Becky and me and even threatened to kill us both “to teach us a lesson.”
I waved the scraper in the air to show I meant business. “I don’t have time for this, Curt. Get away from my car.”
“Or what? You’ll call your Amish boyfriend to come beat me up? Sorry, sweetie, the Amish won’t fight for you.” He smirked, and drew closer to me. “Like I would.”
With my free hand, I reached into my purse for my phone.
He held up his hand. “There’s no reason to call that lady cop. It’s Christmas Eve, and I think both she and I would have a better holiday if we didn’t cross paths.”
“Then move away from my car, so I can leave.”
“I will in a minute, but I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” I choked a laugh. “What could you do that would help me?”
He frowned. “I heard that you were looking for Billy Thorpe.”
I nearly dropped the phone in the snow, but instead let it fall to the bottom of my purse. “How do you know that?”
“Little goes on in this county that I don’t know about . . . legal,” he paused, “or illegal.”
“I believe the illegal part,” I muttered. Worry bit into my gut. Did Curt have something to do with Katie’s death? After the events of the summer, would I always assume Curt was involved with the crimes against the Amish? Probably. “Where’s Brock?” I asked. Rarely did I see Curt without his constant companion, Brock Buckley, a huge bear of a man, bald, and with a killer temper.
Curt’s face pinched. “He had things to do.”
The cold began to seep into my bones. It was time to speed this up. “What do you know about Billy?”
Curt sucked on his front teeth for a second as if considering my question. “I saw him cut out of his place in a huge hurry a few days ago.”
“When was this?” My voice was sharp. “Exactly.”
“Let’s see, today is Tuesday, so I would say it was Sunday. He was mighty upset about something. ’Course I’d be upset too if I’d just killed an Amish girl.”
“He may not have done it,” I snapped.
“Now, Red, why do I think that you wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt like that?”
My face flushed because he was right. “Where was he going?”
He spiked the air with his palms “How should I know? It wasn’t like he stayed to chat. The guy was in a rush.”
“Did he drive away in a car?”
He nodded. “A junky brown station wagon.”
I cocked my head. “What time of day did you see him?”
“It was dusk. Four thirty or thereabouts.”
“What were you doing by Billy’s store?”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s beside the point.”
I didn’t think so, but I let it drop. “Did you tell Chief Rose this?”
“No, I much prefer to talk to you than to the lady cop.” He winked. “She doesn’t understand me like you do.”
My skin prickled, like it might crawl right off my body. “Trust me. I don’t get you at all.”
He laughed hoarsely. “Red, it’s too easy to rile you up.”
I ignored his comment and moved on to my next question. “Do you remember anything else about seeing him?”
Curt thought for a moment. “He had an orange duffel bag with him. I remember because it stood out so much next to the snow.”
I bet the duffel bag held Billy’s toothbrush and other essentials. “Thank you for telling me.”
He stepped away from my car. “Maybe things can be different,” he said, his voice was low and wistful—a quality I had never heard in Curt before.
“What things?” I asked, still holding the scraper like a sword about to strike a blow.
Curt opened his mouth as if to say more, then eyed the scraper and clamped his mouth shut.
I let it fall to my side.
The smallest of smiles curved his mouth.
“Why did you help me?” I asked.
A peculiar look crossed his face, a cross between a smile and a frown. “I think you have something I want.”
Even though the thought of his answer made me queasy, I heard myself ask, “And what’s that?”
“I’m trying to figure it out.” Then he shoved his bare hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket and loped across the snow-covered green without saying good-bye.
I stood there and watched him until he disappeared around the corner of a building. Then I brushed the snowflakes from my eyelashes and slid into my car. If Curt wanted something from me that could only mean he didn’t plan to leave me alone—which was all I ever wanted from him.
Chapter Nine
I started the engine and cranked the heater to third-degree burns, then tossed the scraper in the backseat. I didn’t want it in my line of vision. The first thing I should do is call Chief Rose and tell her what I learned from Curt. She would want to bring him in for questioning and would be annoyed that I didn’t call her the minute I saw him. That was our deal when it came to Curt or Brock.
My fingers hovered over the chief’s number on the touchscreen of my smartphone. Before I could change my mind, I pressed “call.” To my relief the call went directly to voice mail. I left a brief message with the details Curt shared.
I placed the phone on the passenger seat next to me. Why had Curt been so helpful? He had helped me solve a case in November involving Amish haircutting. However, he had only done so because I had saved his best friend, Brock’s, life. Could he still believe that he owed me? That didn’t fit with what I knew about Curt.
Then again, why was I questioning him? Couldn’t I just be grateful for the information? If it were true.
Memories of my tumultuous summer and Curt’s part in it hit me. Those memories were why I couldn’t trust him. My stomach clenched. Had I forgiven Curt and Brock for all their intimidation, for all their threats directed at Becky and me? I thought I had, but was it in speech only, not in my heart? Is it possible to forgive, and yet not trust?
I backed out of my spot. Now the thought of helping Becky with the Christmas party festivities sounded like the perfect way to spend the evening until it was time to leave for church. I was willing to help with whatever ridiculously complicated recipe she wanted to tackle—even a yule log.
Twenty minutes later I walked through the front door of the Quills’ house. The scent of pine, cookies, and ham hit my senses. The eight-foot tree in the front window swayed, and I dropped my purse and walked over to it. About halfway up the tree two glowing blue eyes stared at me. “Gig,” I said, “you know that you aren’t supposed to be in there.” I placed my hands on my hips. “Y
ou are in big trouble, mister.”
He gave me a Siamese yowl in return.
I reached for him, and he wiggled deeper among the boughs. The tree began to sway more, and I grabbed it around the trunk to keep it from toppling over. The last thing I wanted was for the tree to land on the Quills’ mini-grand piano. “Gig, you get out of there this very minute!”
“Yowl.” The tree stopped swaying.
I let it go. “You’re going to be grounded, which for you means no more of Becky’s sweet eats.”
His paw batted at me from two feet above my head. This was another one of those times when I wished I were six inches taller.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I threatened. I could have sworn I heard him laughing when I stomped away.
I stepped into the kitchen. “Gigabyte is inside the tree. I can’t get him out.”
Becky had the television cranked to the sound barrier, and—surprise, surprise—it was turned to a cooking show. She was at the stove, melting chocolate in a double boiler. A gingerbread house stood in the middle of the granite-covered island, and a piping bag with red icing dripping from its tip lay on the island next to the house. Powdered sugar dusted the floor as if a donut had exploded in the room. A buffet table stood against the wall opposite the sink, and that’s where Becky’s finished creations waited for tomorrow’s party. I was pleased—and relieved—to see that the yule log was already complete. At least I wouldn’t have to hear about that any longer.
A streak of green icing marred Becky’s right cheek. “Chloe, you’re home. Wonderful. Can you help me?”
I grabbed an apron from a peg on the back of the pantry door. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you finish piping the roof of the gingerbread house?”
I examined the intricate crisscross pattern she had applied to the roof. “Um, Becky, you’re the artist. If I touch that with a piping bag, you will have one huge blob on the roof.”
She laughed. “Okay, come over here and stir the chocolate. All you have to do is stop it from burning.”
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