by Marta Perry
He nodded. “My mother has one in that pattern that an Amish friend made.”
Tears filled her eyes again. She turned quickly, nearly running into him as she hurried down the hall to the next room. He followed, heart thumping, trying to think of a suitable punishment for Adam.
“This was her sewing room.” Marisa’s voice was strained. “She had an old-fashioned treadle machine, and she made all my clothes.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Elizabeth and Mary Ann were talking about a quilting frolic. All the women of the family were coming to finish the quilt. My mother must have done that. Sometimes, when she was sewing, she’d look so sad. Maybe she was thinking about everything she gave up.”
He touched her arm tentatively, not sure what to say or do. She was remembering, but she was hurting, too. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
She shook her head, seeming to blink back the tears. “I’d rather remember, even if it hurts.”
Down the hall to the last room, but when she reached the doorway, her energy seemed to leave her. He waited, letting her linger in the doorway, sensing that the heart of her emotion was here.
“My room,” she said finally. “My father painted it yellow, because that was my favorite color.” She crossed the floor, moving as if she walked through water. “My bed was here, by the window. If I couldn’t go to sleep, I’d push the shade to the side and look out.”
“I remember doing that. Kneeling on my bed and looking out at the stars.” He came up behind her, needing to be close, not sure what he could do or say that would help.
Her fingers pressed on the window sill, and she gasped—a strangled breath that scared him.
“What is it? Are you all right?” He put his arm around her waist, needing to touch her.
Marisa put her palm to her cheek, cradling it as if to comfort herself. “I remember. I remember looking out one night. Mammi was there, under the oak tree.” She pressed her finger against the pane, pointing. “She was with a man.”
His mind spun. A man. A romantic triangle? Was Barbara’s disappearance going to turn out to be that most mundane of matters?
“What man?” He forced the question out.
“I don’t…I didn’t recognize him. But he was Amish.” A shiver went through her, and he drew her closer. “If I shut my eyes, I can see them. My mother and an Amish man, out there under the tree. They were arguing.”
Her voice quivered, and he thought she was on the verge of tears. He took her hand, hoping just a human touch would be comforting.
“How do you know they were arguing?” He asked the question softly, afraid to push her.
She blinked, seeming to come back from a distance. “Body language, I suppose. Even a child can understand that.” She rubbed her forehead. “That must be why it scared me so, seeing a man in Amish clothing in the yard at the Miller place. I connected it with that memory.”
She swung toward him suddenly, and they were only inches apart. “Link, I just realized—it can’t have been that long before she disappeared. I remember the doll I was holding, telling her everything would be all right. It was a cloth doll my mother had made for my birthday when I turned five that August.”
Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. They were getting someplace, and it led away from his uncle.
And then her eyes filled with tears, and a shudder went through her.
“Marisa, I’m sorry…”
She shook her head, wiping the tears away with her fingers. “It’s not that. I just…I remember hearing them quarrel. My mother and father, at night, when I was supposed to be asleep. I put my head under the pillow, but it was no use. I could still hear them.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, longing to comfort her, feeling his own heart being wrenched open by her pain.
He pulled her against him. She didn’t draw back, just settled her face against his shoulder with a sob. She’d accept comfort from anyone right now. He stroked her hair gently. This wasn’t about love. It was about being there when she needed him.
“It’ll be all right,” he murmured, knowing he couldn’t guarantee that. “It will.”
They stood together for another moment. Then she drew back, fighting for composure. “I need…” Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together. “I need to leave.”
She bolted from the room. He followed close behind her, ready to grab her if her headlong rush brought her to disaster.
Marisa hurried down the stairs, through the living room. She’d almost reached the door when she stopped. Stared at it.
“That day.” Her voice was so choked that she sounded like a child trying not to cry. “I ran in from the school bus. I had a star on my paper. I wanted to show Mammi. But she wasn’t here. She’d never not been here before.”
He couldn’t stand it. He reached for her and pulled her back into his arms, cradling her against him.
She sobbed, the tears spilling over, and buried her face in his shoulder again, holding on tight.
He held her close, murmuring softly, comforting her with words that probably didn’t even make sense.
Who was he kidding? It was far too late to worry about the risk of falling in love with her. He’d already fallen, so deep and hard he couldn’t begin to think what he’d do about it.
MARISA ENTERED THE Springville Inn in Geneva’s wake that evening, trying to concentrate on what was to come. There was no sense in reliving that visit to the house on Maple Street, at least not now. She’d probably be thinking about it, about Link, most of the night as it was.
The glass-paned door led into a wide, high-ceilinged center hallway. This must be the oldest part of the handsome Federal-style building…. The wings on either side looked newer, but blended with the brick core. To Marisa’s right, an archway led into the inn’s restaurant. To the left, an open area was furnished with groupings of love seats and chairs to encourage conversation.
And conversation there was. The historical group wasn’t all that large—perhaps twenty to thirty people here altogether, but they made up in volume what they lacked in numbers.
“I don’t know what those boys of mine were thinking.” Geneva paused, putting her hand on Marisa’s arm. “If I came parading in here with the two of them when they’ve never shown the slightest interest in the historical association in the past, that would certainly rouse suspicion. But it’s perfectly natural for me to bring you as my guest.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” But Marisa did have a bit of sympathy for Trey and Link. They so obviously wanted to protect their mother, whether she wanted that protection or not.
“People will mingle with drinks and appetizers for about an hour before dinner,” Geneva said. “That’s the perfect opportunity to introduce you to anyone who might have been in Allen’s confidence.”
“Don’t forget about Brad Metzger. I hope he’ll be here tonight.” The inn’s assistant manager had been somewhat elusive when Link tried to pin him down for a talk.
“We’ll find him. He usually makes an appearance at these events. If not, I’ll make sure Owen Barclay rounds him up for us. Owen is the manager here, and he’s very supportive of the association.”
“Would he have known Allen?”
Geneva looked startled. “I suppose he would.” She gave a slight shake to her head. “It’s just hard to believe that any of these people might have guilty knowledge.”
Surveying the well-dressed, obviously well-heeled group, many of them in the category euphemistically called seniors, Marisa had her own doubts. Still, a person might have helpful knowledge without having been involved.
“I hope Metzger will be open with us. Maybe it would be better to leave him to Link.”
“Nonsense.” Geneva squeezed her arm. “You have every reason for asking questions about that day. And with me there, he’ll have to answer.”
What might have sounded arrogant coming from anyone else was just the simple truth from Geneva. She was so used to her position
in this community that she took it for granted. Metzger wouldn’t refuse to cooperate if she was present.
“Geneva, how good to see you.” The man who approached, both hands out to clasp Geneva’s, was probably in his late forties, well-groomed and well dressed in a gray pinstripe suit that matched the artistic graying at his temples. He had the jovial, welcoming expression of the born extrovert.
“Goodness, Owen, you make it sound as if I haven’t been around for years. You know I never miss a meeting.” She evaded the embrace he obviously intended with what seemed the ease of long practice. “I’d like to introduce my guest. Marisa, this is Owen Barclay, manager of the Springville Inn.”
“Ms. Angelo, isn’t it?” He clasped the hand Marisa offered in both of his. “I’ve heard about your visit. One of the perils of small-town life, I’m afraid. Everyone knows your business.”
She smiled, extricating her hand from his overlong grip. “Sometimes I think everyone knows more than I do.”
“Marisa would really appreciate talking to anyone who remembers her mother.” Geneva seized the opportunity. “I’m sure you do, Owen.”
“I?” Barclay took a half step back. “Why would you think I’d know her?”
Was that alarm in his eyes? Marisa couldn’t be sure.
“She was my brother-in-law’s housekeeper for a time. You must have seen her when you went to meetings at Allen’s place.” Geneva threw herself into investigating with a little too much gusto.
“Meetings?” The dark eyes were veiled now, giving nothing away. “I’m not sure I ever attended any meetings there. Historical-association events, would they have been?”
“Perhaps.” Geneva gave him what she probably hoped was an enigmatic smile.
“I can’t say I remember—ah, I see those appetizer trays need refilling. Let me get the girls working on them.” He faded toward the back precincts of the inn.
Geneva stared after him. “You know, I think I actually unnerved him. I wouldn’t have believed it of Owen. He’s always seemed so careful of his reputation.”
Marisa squeezed her arm. “We shouldn’t discuss him here. Someone might be listening.”
“Nonsense,” Geneva said briskly, not bothering to lower her voice at all. “They’re all too entranced with the sound of their own voices.”
Geneva might prove to be a dangerous ally if she kept on this way. Fortunately, Leo Frost approached, and the twinkle in his eyes told Marisa he’d overheard.
“I’ll have you know I prefer the sound of your voice to my own,” he said, taking Geneva’s arm. “Ladies, you look as if you need drinks and hors d’oeuvres.”
“An iced tea for me.” Geneva allowed herself to be led toward the table set up with beverages and appetizers. “I must say, Leo, that Owen Barclay—”
“Who else should I meet?” Marisa said, trying to head off anything too indiscreet.
“There are several old-timers in the association who knew Allen.” Leo caught on quickly. Apparently he was used to dealing with Geneva. “I’ll see who I can round up.” He slipped into the crowd.
Marisa picked up a glass of iced tea from the table. “Let’s save any discussion until afterward, all right? That way we won’t have to—” She stopped, her stomach lurching. “Isn’t that the district attorney?”
“Preston Connelly?” Geneva peered around. The DA stood in front of the brick fireplace, one elbow on the mantel, gesturing as he talked to a circle of people. “Probably. He used to be more active in the association. Now he generally just shows up when he’s running for reelection.”
“I hope that’s not what you say about me.” The woman who spoke was probably about Geneva’s age, but where Geneva was all quicksilver and charm, this woman looked solid and sensible…like someone’s grandmother, who would be more comfortable in the kitchen baking cookies. “Geneva, I see you’re as indiscreet as ever. At least you had sense enough not to wear blue jeans to this event.”
“Give me credit for some manners, Judith.” Geneva waved a hand toward Marisa. “I’d like to introduce Marisa Angelo. Marisa, this is Judge Judith Waller. For all I know, she may be up for reelection.”
The woman extended a strong, square hand. “I’m not, as it happens. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marisa. I’ve heard about you.” She must have detected something in Marisa’s expression, because she gave a rueful smile. “Sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say to someone on first meeting, but news does get around.”
“So I’ve heard.” She was still getting used to the idea that this maternal-looking woman was a judge.
“I hoped Geneva would bring you tonight. I remember your mother.” She eyed Marisa. “You don’t favor her a great deal.”
“I guess not. How did you know my mother?” This was the first non-Amish person, other than the Morgans, who’d admitted knowing Barbara, and she couldn’t imagine how their paths would have crossed.
“I met her when I went to some meeting or other at Allen Morgan’s place. She made the best apple walnut cake I’d ever had, and I asked her for the recipe. I still make it, especially this time of year when local apples are in.”
As far as she could remember, she’d never met a judge before, but she’d certainly never expect to be discussing recipes with one. “I’d love to have that recipe, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Not at all.” She waved her drink, which sloshed just short of spilling. “You’re staying at Geneva’s, aren’t you? I’ll email it to her.”
“Good,” Geneva said briskly. “About those meetings at Allen’s place—what did you say those were?”
“I didn’t.” Judge Waller smiled. “But as I recall, we were discussing plans for an historic display at the library for Founders’ Day. Allen wasn’t much use on the practical matters, of course, but he did have a solid grasp of the early history of the township, to say nothing of a better library than the historical association.”
“He never could resist an old book,” Geneva said. “Acted as if they were his children.”
Judge Waller nodded. “Speaking of which, I understand Lincoln is clearing the house. You will ask him to donate those reference books to the association, won’t you?”
She was looking right at Marisa, as if assuming that she had anything to say about it.
“I…I think he’s mentioned something like that. Geneva would really be the one to talk to him.”
“He’ll consider doing that,” Geneva said. “After we’ve gone through all of them, of course. He’s brought the most interesting ones to the house…Allen’s old diaries and that sort of thing.” Her voice seemed to ring above the surrounding hum of talk.
Marisa promptly choked on her iced tea. Maybe just as well, since that created a diversion. Geneva really was a loose cannon, announcing something like that here, of all places. She knew perfectly well there was only one journal.
Marisa realized Leo was the person patting her back and attempted a recovery. “I’m fine. Just went down the wrong way.”
“Would you like a glass of water? Geneva, why don’t you see if you can catch a waitress and get a glass of water for Marisa?” Leo’s effort to distract Geneva was a little blatant, but it seemed to work. Geneva scurried off toward the kitchen.
“Trying to keep her discreet, Leo?” Judge Waller chuckled. “Good luck with that. Anyway, everyone in the township knows that Barbara Angelo’s suitcase was found in the wall of Allen Morgan’s house, and half the small boys are hoping to find a body. Naturally you’re interested in anyone who might have been there around that time.”
Here was plain speaking with a vengeance. Before Marisa could word a response, Leo intervened. “It’s a good thing we don’t elect judges based on tact, Judith.”
She shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em. Always have. Still, Marisa, I forgot about Barbara being your mother. I apologize.”
“That’s all right.” But if the woman valued plain speaking, she shouldn’t object to a straightforward question. “Do
you have any ideas about what happened?”
Ms. Waller smiled, displaying a strong set of teeth. “Since the matter could conceivably come before me officially, I’d better have no ideas at all. But I do have a word of advice.” She included Leo in her glance. “Don’t play detective. If there is a case, let the police and the district attorney’s office handle it. Adam Byler is quite competent, and while Preston Connelly is a bit too political for my taste, he does know his job.” She paused, her glance again going from Leo to Marisa. “Poking into it yourselves… Well, that might prove to be dangerous.”
Seizing a drink, she forged a path into the crowd, which parted in front of her as she went.
Marisa turned to Leo. “Was that conversation as odd as I thought it was?”
“Rather strange.” He was frowning. “But at the moment, I’m wondering where Geneva has gotten to. Do you see her?”
Marisa scanned the room, nerves jangling. Geneva…what on earth was she up to now? Link had been right to be concerned about how this would go. “There she is, over by the hotel desk.” Her relief faded when she realized what Geneva was doing. She was deep in conversation with a man whose suit lapel bore a Springville Inn identification pin. There was no doubt in Marisa’s mind that it was Brad Metzger.
Leo spotted her as well and gave an exasperated snort. “That woman will be the death of me. We’d better get over there.”
When they reached Geneva, she had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
“Here she is now. Marisa, this is Bradley Metzger. He’s the young man Tom Sylvester was telling you about, and he’ll be happy to talk with you.”
How much had Geneva revealed in her artless chatter already? “That’s good of you, Mr. Metzger.”
“Brad, please. As I told Mrs. Morgan, I’m glad to help in any way I can.” He gave a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Slight and blond, he had a boyish look that belied his age, which must be over forty. He certainly didn’t fit her image of a construction worker.