by Karen Harper
“I suppose you’re really going to talk up the Saturday auction to benefit the barn raising,” she said to him as she rang up his evening meal at the cash register.
“If not talk up, print up. You bet I will,” he said. “And not only for a broader distribution of the paper. The regular Thursday edition will have a full-page spread on it. The layout is already done. Lots of folks far and wide will come in for Amish goods at an auction, especially the cooking and the quilts.”
“I just heard about the auction and chicken barbecue from one of my girls,” she admitted as she handed Peter his change and watched him take a peppermint and a toothpick from her counter. “But then you always have your ear to the ground when it comes to business.”
“That’s right, Ray-Lynn,” he said with a wink as he smoothed his straight brown hair back from his forehead. “And, let’s face it, you are one of my most important business affairs.”
She could have kicked him, but it seemed no one else had heard. She didn’t like the suggestive way he’d worded that, because she’d done a good job holding him at bay. A good business partner, yes, but not a partner for life—no way. He was single, but he didn’t seem to look at women—that is, besides her.
Peter, at age forty-five, was balding and it obviously bothered him. Why his being overweight didn’t, she wasn’t sure, if he was so doggone concerned about his appearance. At least with his hair, he wasn’t to the stage where he’d tried a comb-over, but he was always messing with it. “Even if it’s monkey business, I’m on top of it, so don’t get too close to our illustrious sheriff, you hear now,” he added with a smug grin.
For one moment, Ray-Lynn was at a loss for words. Now how had he found out about that? Surely, Sarah hadn’t talked, so it must have been her own falling all over Jack that Peter had seen. Well, ding-dang. He was kidding her, of course, yet there was a strange edge to his voice. Surely, as well as Peter had seemed to take it that she wouldn’t date him, he wasn’t jealous.
“Monkey business?” she countered, hands on hips. “You’d better keep your mind and newspaper on the serious stuff around here, and there’s plenty of that lately.”
“I don’t like to show off my extensive knowledge of newspaper trivia, my Southern belle, but monkey business was what brought down presidential candidate Gary Hart, not to mention John Edwards. I suppose you don’t remember the details, but Gary Hart dared the press to follow him around, and they did…and found that married man—pillar of American morality—with a young mistress aboard a yacht called Monkey Business. Do you remember that?”
“No, Peter, actually, I don’t. I must have been too busy serving up mint juleps and sitting on the veranda with Scarlett O’Hara that year.”
“My point is, the newspaper people Hart dared to find out his business brought him down, just as the National Enquirer torpedoed John Edwards. Goodbye presidency, goodbye power. Ah, the power of the press. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ray-Lynn,” he concluded, speaking as usual almost in one breath as he went out and let the wooden door swing closed behind him.
Ray-Lynn wouldn’t have minded a bit if it had swung closed faster and hit him in his big rear end.
There was still a good hour of daylight left when Gabe and Sarah accompanied Nate to see VERA and to check if his ladder would suit for the quilt square she planned to paint on her own family’s barn. Though she would have preferred to have painted the entire, realistic scene of the farm, Sarah was thrilled to have another pattern to paint, one she was being allowed to select this time. And she was touched that her father believed in her work, especially when he’d been reluctant at first. More than that, she was excited to see VERA’s insides at last. Gabe was, too. He kept chattering about wanting to sit in the driver’s seat, no doubt dreaming about driving the big truck, whatever was in the back of it. As for her own dreams…
“Gabe, I’d like to ask you a question about the night of the fire,” Nate said as the three of them walked along the farm lane toward the woodlot. “On the level now, I take it some of the kids in their running-around years try smoking cigarettes.”
“Some,” Gabe said, nodding so hard his bangs bounced on his forehead under his straw hat. “A few even try pot. We’re allowed. I know it’s not good. Some kids have problems giving it up later, even tobacco cigs, I mean. You know, after they join the church, but, yeah, it’s kind of common, like maybe having a coupla beers.”
“So is there any chance someone could have sneaked across the field, maybe been around the Esh barn the night of your party but, because the party, at least inside the barn, was chaperoned by your mother and sister, wanted more privacy?”
To Sarah’s dismay, Gabe cheeks went as bright as a polished Red Delicious apple. She bit her lower lip to keep from either trying to help him out or questioning him herself. She recalled how out of breath and red-cheeked he’d been when he’d rushed into the barn to tell her Jacob was outside. Could he have come from way across the field and not only been outside their barn?
“I don’t think so,” Gabe said. “A coupla guys were smoking regular cigs outside behind the buggies—not me—but I have a time or two.”
“I’m not blaming anyone for smoking or accusing them of being an arsonist,” Nate assured him with a pat on his shoulder. “As I said, a single dropped cigarette or match in the hay was not how the barn fire started, but if some kids were over there, maybe they saw something—something they don’t even know was important for my investigation. I’d love to talk to them. I need all the help I can get,” he added as they approached VERA. “And I can keep things confidential. You know that word, Gabe—confidential?”
“Ya, Mr. MacKenzie. I can ask around and keep my ears open.”
“Good man,” Nate said, and this time hit his shoulder lightly with a balled fist.
Sarah and Gabe watched as Nate took a small bit of metal and plastic out of his pocket—not quite a key—aimed it in VERA’s direction, then pressed something. They heard a double click and VERA’s lights blinked once as if in welcome—or warning.
“Like a magic lock,” Gabe said as he climbed up into the high cab next to Nate while Sarah sat by the passenger’s side window. “Way cool.”
Sarah kept silent while Nate explained and demonstrated the various dashboard instruments. He showed them how the GPS worked and how the computer could perform other tasks. But Sarah sensed that it was just being in the big truck cab that impressed Gabe most. He kept touching the outer edge of the steering wheel and glancing out through the windshield. So her brother had a good imagination, too, just different from hers, that’s all, she thought.
“Do you want to see the magic techno-cave in back now?” he asked the wide-eyed seventeen-year-old.
“Maybe later,” Gabe said, his eyes aglow. Barbara Lantz, Sarah thought, might be jealous if she saw how her brother lusted—yes, a sin, but so human—after this big, polished, black truck cab.
“Then while I show your sister,” Nate said, “why don’t you slide over in the driver’s seat?”
“Nate!” Sarah blurted.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he got down and closed the door on the rapt boy who now had his hands on the steering wheel. He came around to help Sarah down. “He can’t start it, can’t go anyplace.”
He gestured toward the back of the vehicle, and she went with him. She’d been tempted to see VERA up close earlier today and now she would. After all, as entranced as Gabe was up front, he was here as a kind of chaperone. So what could happen while an Englische ausländer, however entrancing he was, introduced her to his sleek, brilliant, mechanical partner?
7
AT FIRST, NATE SHOWED SARAH THINGS INSIDE VERA she’d expected to see, like firefighting gear and an ax and shovel he’d used to examine the ruins of the Esh barn. He explained a scene light and demonstrated the neat collapsible ladder he said he’d loan her. She figured that was all to break her in easy when he began to show her the array of amazing instruments and machines neatly stowed insid
e VERA. But she was even more amazed by her feelings being so close to him. Despite Gabe nearby and the back doors being wide open, she felt so alone with Nate as it went from dusk to dark outside.
Nate’s tour of VERA’s marvels with brief explanations of their uses blurred by: a thermal imager, a digital camera, a laser range finder. He showed her handheld, wireless phones. Several years before she’d heard Peter Clawson call them walkie-talkies when he used them with his reporter, before times got tough and he started doing everything at the paper himself, except for some volunteers. Nate showed her his laptop computer and his printer, copier, scanner and fax machine. He said he had a fingerprinting kit but didn’t show it to her. VERA had what he called a camcorder and a fourteen-inch color TV with a built-in DVD that played flat silver disks and worked off a generator or the truck’s batteries.
“The antenna system you’ve seen on the roof is invaluable in the rolling terrain around here,” he went on. “The tower retracts into a rear compartment—here, see—and is raised and lowered by a single switch to go thirty-four feet into the air. Five antennae then pop out so I can get signals for communication.”
Signals for communication—his words echoed in her head. She hoped he didn’t know how his closeness was getting to her, as if his occasional light touch on her elbow or back, the scent of his hair or skin, was giving her body silent signals.
He was right about it being cozy in here. Besides a narrow counter for lab work on both sides of the truck, a skinny central table with newspapers open on it took up some space. She saw the Budget, the latest issue she’d been reading to her grandmother, and the special edition of the Home Valley News spread out with some things underlined or circled in red ink.
“Any clues in there?” she asked.
“Just trying to learn more about the area and the people. You’ve been very helpful with that.”
“Good. We all want to help you find who did it. You told my father you didn’t think the fire had anything to do with my paintings. I appreciate that.”
“I think it’s more likely someone’s out for revenge against Bishop Esh. But I’m glad you’ll be working at home for a while, because I don’t want to imply you don’t have to be careful painting your patterns. That’s what I’m looking for, a pattern. I’m just hoping—praying, as your mother put it—that I can find something that makes sense and leads to the arsonist. I can tell how much those painted quilt squares mean to you.”
“What I’d really like to paint are entire scenes of Amish life,” she blurted, though she was usually so guarded about sharing that. “Ray-Lynn Logan at the restaurant, Hannah and Ella are the only ones I’ve told. To my people, it would be too personal, too prideful, even if I didn’t sign my name on them. Ray-Lynn said I have a folk style, kind of primitive, but that it would suit my subject matter. She said it would be something like a woman called Grandma Moses used to paint. She told me that several months ago, but I remembered the name.”
“So you’d risk being a rebel to paint like that?”
“No, I’m fine doing the barn art. That’s a big step for all of us.”
“Your work might be like Grandma Moses, huh?” he said, leaning over the keyboard of his laptop. He tapped something, and the screen came alive, a picture of a group of men, including him, together under the sign Fire and Explosive Investigations Bureau. Then he typed in the words Grandma Moses and art, then another screen lit up with a series of paintings. He enlarged them one at a time while she stared at them in awe.
“Oh, yes,” she said, her voice shaky, “if those rural hills and farm scenes were Amish—ya, I could do that, only with my own touches, in my own way.” They leaned toward the screen together, so close her bonnet bumped his cheek. “Well, good for Grandma Moses,” Sarah said with a huge sigh, “and that nickname probably means she was elderly, too.”
“She took up painting very late, it says here, leaving the art of embroidery to follow her heart toward a new kind of art.”
To follow her heart… Sarah suddenly felt almost as close to the long-gone Grandma Moses as she did to her own grossmamm Miriam. The Amish didn’t embroider—too fancy—but she’d long ago given up stitching quilts unless she absolutely had to, and she’d suffered socially for that. Still, she did not want to be elderly when she got the gumption to try entire paintings, not with the latex paint she used on the barns but in oil paint on stretched canvas like she’d seen for sale in the back corner of the hardware store in town.
Nate left a big painting on the screen, one called The Old Oaken Bucket, with horses in the field, barns and hills, women in long skirts, even an Amish-looking man in the lower left corner of it. As much as Sarah was impressed with VERA’s insides, that picture perked things up, almost as if it were hung on the wall. It seemed like a gift Nate had given her.
She meant to move away, but they were suddenly wedged in close. Her breasts brushed his chest as she sidestepped.
“Okay,” Nate said, as if he needed to agree to something or was warning himself. “You know, I don’t mean to pry, but I smell lavender perfume or something really nice on you.”
“Not perfume,” she told him, blushing. “My friend Ella Lantz has a great lavender garden and makes soaps and sachets to sell. That’s just my—her soap. If you have a special someone, you might want to buy some of her Lavender Plain products, a gift from Amish country to take home.”
“Ah, no. I mean, there’s no special someone at home.”
She nodded. Their eyes locked again. She felt his intense stare clear down to the pit of her stomach.
Wiping his palms on his jeans, he moved away and peeked out through a small front window at Gabe as he had several times already, then back at her. “He’s still entranced,” he said, tilting his head a bit as if to peer inside her bonnet brim. She had the strongest urge to take it off, but she tried to concentrate on what Nate was saying now. He seemed as desperate to get back to business as she did, so he showed her his firefighting gear and explained how it went on, piece by piece.
“In those storage bins,” he said, pointing, “are PPEs—personal protective equipment—for a chemical or biological incident, coveralls, gloves, overshoes and a filter mask, some overlap from the fire gear I showed you. I’m a first responder in case there’s a terrorist attack. VERA’s equipped for Homeland Security, too.”
“Like 9/11 or a chemical attack, but I feel like there has been a terrorist attack on our Homestead area, too—only, thank the Lord, no one got seriously hurt.”
As he reached past her to show her the tiny fridge and microwave, they were standing too close again. “I can heat up my supply of MREs—meals ready to eat—in here,” he said. “But the food everyone’s been so kind to share puts those to shame, so I won’t even show you. I keep a cot in there, but prefer my sleeping bag outside.”
“Staking out the Esh barn.”
“I haven’t seen any sign of activity since the other night. The arsonist usually returns quickly to the scene. Sarah, I’m going to interview Hannah tomorrow. I know—you think she’s innocent, but I have to follow every lead. I was hoping Mike Getz would come to me for another fellow fireman chat, but I’m going to check him out, too. And Jacob. But I don’t want you warning anyone, tipping them off I’m coming or that they’re on my list.”
For once, he wasn’t looking into her eyes but at her lips. That made her aware she had thrust out her lower lip, pouting over his still suspecting Hannah. He lowered his head just a bit. She could feel his breath, warm and strong. She tried to relax her mouth, but she was tense all over. She had the definite feeling he was going to touch her—kiss her. She almost swayed into him.
“Oh, what’s that?” she asked, like a coward, pointing at a pair of strange-looking binoculars hanging above his head.
He looked up, then turned around. “Night goggles so you can see in the dark,” he said. “Things look kind of greenish and grainy, but these can come in handy. I’ll show you sometime, but we have to get you and Ga
be back with the ladder before it gets too dark.”
“At least, when it looks dark, peering out from a lighted place, it’s always brighter outside than you think,” she said, feeling both relieved and regretful her private tour was over. “But you’re right. We’d better get back. I’ll see if I can pry Gabe out of the driver’s seat.” She beat a too-hasty retreat out the back of the truck, stepping down on the flat, back bumper.
But she jolted when a pulsing sound emanated from inside, like when Martha accidentally walked out of Wal-Mart with something she hadn’t paid for.
“What? What’s that?” she cried, but Nate was already snatching up his cell phone.
“Where? Yeah, I can find it. Sarah,” he shouted, jumping out of VERA and slamming the back doors, “get in the front seat and put Gabe in the middle. Sheriff Freeman says the Schrock barn’s on fire, and I want you two to show me the fastest way there.”
Nate lowered the antenna, swung VERA around and started down the lane, driving fast. He turned on his brights in the deepening dusk. Gabe was going to get his ride. “Sarah, how far to Schrock’s?” he asked.
“Maybe four miles—other side of town. Turn right on Oak Ridge.”
“Is he the church elder who was at the Eshes?”
“Yes, Reuben Schrock, the auburn-bearded man who announced the barn building and the auction.”
“And he has one of your paintings on his barn?”
“Ya,” she said as her voice caught. “Tumbling Blocks.”
He bit off a curse. As they roared past the farmhouse, he saw Anna Kauffman walking toward the grossdaadi haus. She stopped to stare at them. He rolled down his window and shouted, “Barn fire at Reuben Schrock’s! Sarah and Gabe will show me where.”