by Marta Perry
“We’ve decided it was time for all of us to talk about this situation.”
“Past time, given what happened to Marisa last night,” Geneva put in.
Trey glanced at her, and she gave a rueful smile and shook her head. “I know, we decided you should take the lead. But when I think about what might have happened…”
“Thanks to Marisa’s ability to defend herself, it didn’t.”
“It could have.” Link’s voice was harsh, his words clipped.
Before the brothers could begin an argument, Leo intervened. “Given the fact that we seem to be up against someone quite ruthless, I consider the relatively minor nature of Marisa’s injuries nothing short of providential.” He glanced at Marisa. “I don’t mean to minimize your pain, my dear. But—”
“I know,” she said quickly. “That blow was aimed at my head.” She looked around the table, trying to assess their expressions. “Let me understand this. You agree that this wasn’t just a panicked burglar?”
“Yes.” Trey seemed to answer for all of them. “And I could tell by Adam’s expression that he didn’t buy that comfortable theory either, whatever he said. Maybe he should be here.”
“You’re jumping the gun,” Link said. “It’s possible that Marisa’s not ready to trust any of us.”
She turned to face him, trying to ignore the pain in her shoulder when she turned her head. “I still don’t know what you hope to accomplish. Trust you with what?”
Link met her gaze, and in that moment the battle was between the two of them. “Trust us with whatever you’re holding back.” Something that might have been concession appeared in his face. “And we tell you everything we know. Maybe, together, we can make sense of all this. If you’re willing.”
They were silent, all of them. Even Geneva, who looked as if she fought to keep from speaking.
You can trust them, Jessica had said. Heaven knew, she had to trust someone.
“All right,” she said, and it seemed to her that the very room let out a sigh of relief.
“Good.” Trey glanced around the table as if assembling a board meeting. “Well, we all know why we’re here, then. Suppose I begin by recapping for Marisa what happened back in June.”
Link stirred. “We can’t be sure that’s connected.”
“No,” Trey conceded. “But if there’s a possibility, we need to put our cards on the table.”
They’d be honest with her, in other words. And they trusted she’d be honest with them.
“Jessica came here in June to defend a young Amish neighbor of ours on a murder charge,” Trey said. “As soon as it became evident that she was going to fight the case, she was subjected to harassment, vandalism and a series of threats.”
Jessica looked as cool and collected as Marisa had always seen her, but she nodded slightly in agreement.
“The notes were marked with a peculiar design—something that looked like a hex sign of a bird. Leo was able to trace the history for us. It was the symbol of a secret society that vanished years ago.”
Leo looked as if he’d like to contribute something at that point, but Trey swept on without giving him a chance.
“We eventually found the guilty person.” Something that might have been grief darkened his eyes for a moment. “Someone I’d known and trusted most of my life. He’d killed our father, and he’d have killed me if Jessica and Leo hadn’t interfered.”
Jessica reached out to take his hand.
“In those last moments—well, I thought he was raving. He talked as if the Brotherhood was real and would punish him for involving it in his crimes.” He caught Marisa’s look and gave a wry grin. “Crazy, right? We thought he was off his rocker.”
“Until we found something in Uncle Allen’s journal.” Link held out his hand to his brother, and Trey passed over the book she’d found in the library days ago. “You can see for yourself.”
He opened the book to the first of several sticky notes. Pink sticky notes, she saw. Undoubtedly Geneva’s.
She bent over the page, reading the entry, frowning at the words Allen had written in the years after her mother’s disappearance. Disjointed words, it seemed, talking about “them” and how they’d brought him trouble. How he couldn’t sleep at night. A chill went through her. Because he was guilty? Was that what kept Allen awake nights? When he saw that she’d finished with each page, Link turned to the next one, holding the page flat. Most ramblings, none of it making a lot of sense, but all of it giving the impression of a man consumed with regret over something he’d been involved in.
When she’d read the final, sad entry, Marisa sat for a moment, staring at the faded writing. Nothing concrete, nothing to say outright that he’d had a hand in her mother’s disappearance or knew who did.
And yet there had been something raw and distressing about the passages. It had clearly meant something to Allen Morgan.
She looked up then, glancing from one face to another. “Were there any more of these?” She held up the book.
“We searched every shelf,” Trey said. “Maybe he stopped writing.”
“Or maybe somebody got rid of them and just missed that one,” Link added.
She considered that, still finding all this hard to believe. “What do you think it means? And how could it possibly connect with my mother’s disappearance?”
“It might. Suppose for a moment that Allen and some others had decided to revive the Brotherhood,” Trey said.
“Why?” Geneva sounded genuinely distressed. “Why would he want to do such a thing?”
“Mom, you know he wasn’t just interested in the history of the area. He was fanatic about it. This Brotherhood idea was just the sort of crackpot scheme that would appeal to him.”
“Goodness knows I didn’t think very highly of Allen,” Geneva said. “But there’s no proof. And what would he want from something like that, anyway?”
“Power,” Leo said. “That’s what every secret organization is about, in essence. It makes the insiders feel as if they have power over others. I’m sorry, Geneva, but you know as well as anyone how jealous Allen was of his older brother. He could never reconcile himself to coming second to Blake.”
Geneva’s brow wrinkled, her eyes filling with distress. “Blake wanted him to be a part of things. He did.”
“I know.” Leo patted her hand, his voice as tender as if they were the only two in the room. “There was just something twisted in Allen that wouldn’t let him accept that. And I’m afraid Allen was involved in something.”
Trey’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What do you know, Leo?”
Leo folded his hands precisely in front of him. “It was years ago…thirty, probably. I didn’t even remember it until this came up.” He nodded toward the journal. “Allen stopped me after a historical society meeting one evening. Talked on and on about some research he’d been doing.”
He gave an apologetic glance at Geneva. “You know how he could be when he got on one of his hobbyhorses. I’m afraid I was only half listening. In any event, he said he had a small group of like-minded individuals who were meeting together. He invited me to join them.” He shrugged. “As I say, I wasn’t really paying much attention, and frankly, I didn’t have time for any more meetings. I begged off, and he never mentioned it again.”
There was silence while they absorbed that. Marisa could only wonder that they were taking this so seriously. It all seemed so vague and faraway.
But then, so had her mother’s disappearance.
“So there’s a little confirmation that a group existed,” Trey said.
“It fits with what Tom Sylvester said about a meeting at Allen’s house that week,” Link said.
Marisa had to readjust her thoughts from the distant past to their conversation with the construction boss. “I’d nearly forgotten that. You think it means something?”
“I think Tom wished he hadn’t said it,” Link said. “He backed away in a hurry when I asked who was there.”
&
nbsp; “I wish you’d listened a little closer, Leo.” Trey swung toward the older man. “You didn’t have any idea who those like-minded others were?”
“None.” Leo spread his hands, empty. “It doesn’t prove a thing, of course. But I can imagine a scenario where some people might be anxious that news of their activities not become public.”
“You’re not suggesting that they were doing anything illegal, are you?” Marisa could only think that sounded a little far-fetched for a group of history enthusiasts.
But Leo seemed to be taking it seriously. “The original purpose of the Brotherhood was to advance its members by any means possible, up to and including twisting the law to their advantage. I honestly don’t know what they might have been thinking of, but it opens up some possibilities. They apparently met at Allen’s house. Marisa’s mother was the house keeper there. Her suitcase was found there. Does that add up to something, or not?”
She found his words oddly compelling. Leo’s calm, judicial persona seemed to add weight to the supposition. And did it fit with her mother’s letter?
“Marisa?” Link’s fingers brushed her hand. “What is it?”
Tell them, or not? But she already knew the answer to that.
“My mother’s cousin, Elizabeth Yoder, gave me a letter she received from my mother shortly before she disappeared. A short note, saying she was afraid of something. She said she couldn’t talk to my father. She said she knew Elizabeth would help if she were there. That she might have to turn to William and hope he would help her. That was all. But Elizabeth came to Springville a few days later to find that Barbara had disappeared.”
“Did you tell Adam about this?” Link’s hand tightened on hers.
“No.” She didn’t want to look at him.
“Why not? Don’t you think that’s important?” Frustration edged his voice.
She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “That comment about not being able to tell her husband. I thought the police would interpret that to mean she was afraid of him.”
Their gazes met, crossing like swords. “It might mean that.”
“And it might mean that she saw or heard something at your uncle’s house that made her a threat to someone.”
“To my uncle, you mean.”
Leo cleared his throat. Marisa jerked her gaze away from Link’s, to find that the others were watching them with varying degrees of surprise. She felt the heat flood her cheeks and wanted nothing more than to shove back her chair and walk out.
“There’s no point in arguing among ourselves about what this might mean,” Leo said. “I can certainly understand Marisa’s concern for her father. But that just makes it more important that we reach the truth.”
“And keep Marisa safe while we do it,” Geneva added. She rose, coming around the table to Marisa and putting her arm around her gently, wary of her sore shoulder. “Don’t you worry. We’re going to deal with this, I promise. Together.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LINK GLANCED AT Marisa’s face as he drove down Maple Street. He hadn’t told her where he was taking her…only that he wanted to show her something.
She hadn’t protested. He had the sense that she’d had no emotional reserves left after that discussion this morning.
Now she moved, a bit restlessly. “Are you sure I’ll be back in time to change before I go out with your mother?”
“Plenty of time.” He still wasn’t sure he liked the idea his mother had come up with. She had a dinner meeting of the Spring Township Historical Association at the inn tonight, and she’d decided Marisa should attend with her.
On the surface it was a logical idea. Any friends Uncle Allen possessed would probably be there. Marisa would be able to meet them, and Geneva would encourage them to talk.
He didn’t know if he was more concerned about his mother’s efforts to play detective or about Marisa. She’d already had a difficult twenty-four hours, and thanks to him, she was about to experience something that had to be emotional for her.
But it was too late to change his mind. He pulled to a stop in front of the house in which Marisa had lived as a child.
Marisa’s gaze sharpened. She gripped the door handle.
He waited for an explosion, but it didn’t come.
“Why did you bring me here?”
He made an effort to match her detached tone. “I thought it might help you remember when you were a child.”
She stared down at her hands. “I’m not sure I want to remember.”
“Is that why you haven’t made an effort to see it?”
“I suppose so.” She drew in an audible breath. “Well, now I’ve seen it.”
“Not yet.” He suspected she wasn’t going to like this. “The house is unoccupied right now, up for sale. I got the lock-box code from the real-estate agent. We can go inside.”
He could feel her resistance. He leaned toward her, feeling the by-now familiar surge of longing. It wasn’t getting weaker. It was getting stronger. “I don’t want you to be hurt.” His voice showed too much emotion, but he couldn’t help that. “I just want this to be over.”
She closed her eyes for an instant. When she opened them, they were filled with tears, and his heart nearly broke. A faint smile trembled on her lips. “Guess I’m being a coward.”
He couldn’t stop himself. He had to touch her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft under his fingers. “You couldn’t be a coward if you tried.” His voice had grown husky.
For a long moment her gaze met his. Then, suddenly, she nodded. “Let’s go have a look.”
Getting out, coming around the car, gave him a chance to regain his balance. He hoped.
He opened the gate in what had once been a white picket fence and frowned at its shriek. “Fred Whitney owns the house now, along with a few other rental properties. He’s notorious for patching things together with binder twine and duct tape, then wonders why he can’t get good renters.”
Marisa glanced around the overgrown yard. “My mother had flower beds all along the fence. She’d be out there for hours, tending the plants.” A spasm of what might have been pain crossed her face. “She let me help her. She showed me the differences between the different flowers, talking about them as if they were people.”
Doubt was a lead weight in his stomach, but he tried to respond in kind. “You’ve seen my mother’s gardens. She was the same. Once I pulled out a whole row of sweet peas, thinking they were weeds. She just laughed and helped me plant a new row.”
She managed a more genuine smile at that. “She reminds me of my mother. Maybe that’s why I can’t ever say no to her.”
“She has that effect on a lot of people.” They moved toward the porch that ran the width of the frame house, and he took her arm as they went up the porch steps, avoiding a hole.
“The house was white when we lived here. With black shutters. There was a swing on the porch.”
“It would have been a nice place to sit in the evening.”
“It was.” She looked at him as if he’d been sarcastic, and he realized his distaste had shown.
“I was reacting to how it looks now. Fred gives decent landlords a bad name. You’d never see the day when any of the Morgan rental properties would be in this condition.”
“I didn’t realize you had rental places.” She stood back, giving him room to get at the lock box.
“Too many, Trey sometimes says. Our grandfather and our great-grandfather, too, always believed money was safer invested in property. Now Trey’s got the management of all of them, along with the other companies we own.” He punched in the simple code—1, 2, 3. Took out the key.
He opened the door, but she stood for a moment, studying his face. “You don’t handle any of that?”
“No.” He wanted to leave it at that, but that would make it sound as if Trey had pushed him out. “It never seemed like my thing, so I left it to Trey. He’s just like Dad, taking over naturally.”
The front door opened directl
y into what was probably the living room. Marisa paused, putting up her good hand to touch her hair, smoothing it absently back over her shoulder.
His fingers tingled, as if he were doing it, feeling the soft curls running through his hands like water. Back off, he ordered his rebellious imagination. But he couldn’t seem to lose the vivid sense of touching her.
“This was the living room.” Luckily Marisa had no idea what he was thinking. “There was a braided rug on the floor, and I’d pretend the bands of the braid were roads for my dolls.”
She sounded lost in the past, and the qualm of doubt seized him again. Was he doing the right thing, pushing her to relive the past? This little adventure had been Adam’s idea, and at the moment he’d like to give Adam a solid punch on the jaw. If he tried, he’d probably end up flat on his back, but it might be worth it.
Get her into the house, Adam had said. She’d go if you took her. She must remember something from that time, and there’s no way of knowing what might help.
Marisa moved, walking through the dusty, empty dining room. If she found it distressing, she didn’t say so, just kept walking. She stopped when she reached the kitchen.
“This is the stove we had.” She gestured toward the chipped surface of the gas range. “Mammi didn’t like cooking on electric.”
His heart did a stutter step at the sound of her voice. She’d slipped back into the time in her memory, probably quoting something she’d heard her mother say.
“It figures that Fred wouldn’t have replaced it in over twenty years.”
The urge to hit something grew. All very well for Adam to talk about helping Marisa remember. Adam wasn’t the one taking the risk of hurting her.
She seemed stuck to the spot on the worn, old linoleum, and he touched her arm lightly. “Let’s take a look upstairs.”
She nodded, but as they started up the flight of stairs, he could feel her stress increasing.
“Is this the way you remember it?” Maybe if they talked it would dispel the tension.
She shook her head, pausing in the doorway of the first room. “This was Mammi’s…” She stopped, seemed to realize what she’d said, and started again. “This was my parents’ room. There was a quilt she’d made on the bed.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if visualizing it. “Lancaster Rose, she called it.”