“She’s a gut friend.”
“That she is.” They were nearly out the door when Agatha turned to Emma and said, “Could you go and fetch Henry’s drawing journal?”
“Ya. Sure.”
Ten minutes later they had Doc hitched to the buggy and had hit the road. Agatha glanced at her watch. The note had said one hour, and they’d already spent twenty-five minutes just getting out of the house.
Emma drove the buggy while Agatha paged through Henry’s drawings. “Something has been driving me crazy. Something I saw in one of these drawings...”
“Do I turn here?”
“Nein. It’s another half a mile down the road.”
“Are you sure we should be doing this?”
“I am not, but on the other hand what else could we do?”
“True enough.”
Agatha stopped pawing through the drawings and looked at Emma. “I’m sorry to drag you into this.”
“There was no dragging involved.” She smiled, and though it was unwarranted considering where they were headed, it was also genuine.
Agatha liked Emma and hoped they would remain life-long friends. One could never have too many friends.
“My life was rather quiet before I became involved with Henry.”
“Was it now?”
“I knew what I was getting into...eyes wide open and all that. I didn’t know what being a bishop’s wife would entail. That kept me awake some nights...but this part? Dealing with his gift? I rather feel like it’s what Gotte intended me to do. Does that make sense?”
Agatha thought of Tony and how smoothly they worked together as a team. Tony, who had been so sad and despondent over the death of his wife. Tony, who had saved her on more than one occasion.
“It does make sense.” She glanced back down at the paper in her hands. “That’s it!”
Emma jumped and looked at her in surprise.
“Here. Turn here. Then pull over. I want you to look at this.” The day had turned cold and the wind had picked up. It was still Texas weather—no snow in the forecast, but the north wind had a bite to it. Agatha rather wished she was home, sitting in her rocker, reading a good book.
That wasn’t true.
She was glad she was here, with Emma, and hopefully about to put the question of Nathan’s killer to rest.
“We noticed something around the goats’ necks.”
“I remember that. It didn’t make sense though. It’s not as if you’d put a halter on a goat.”
“But I think someone did.” Agatha tapped the drawing. “I think those are rope fibers in the goat’s hair.”
“Okay. Maybe. But it still doesn’t make any sense.”
“And then there’s the bruising around Nathan’s neck.”
Emma touched the drawing. “If someone got close enough to choke him, why did they step back and shoot him?”
“Also, we have this bit of tire track...”
“Only Tony thinks it belongs to a mountain bike.”
“I think so too. And don’t forget the piece of paper.” She shuffled through the pages again. “Here. This was not written in Nathan’s handwriting. I’m sure of it. Last night I pulled out a note he’d written me. I don’t even know why I kept the thing. It wasn’t personal at all, just a note telling me he’d enjoyed our date. Anyway, it’s not the same handwriting. I’m sure of it.”
“Someone was threatening him.”
“Reminding him that he was going to pay...but for what?”
“And what does it have to do with the person who threw the rock onto your porch? Do you think the two notes are related somehow?”
“That’s what my mind was trying to remember.” She traced the letters on Henry’s drawing. “Look at the way the person makes their letter y, look at the loopy tail.”
“Huh.”
Agatha pulled out the note they’d found on her front porch only an hour before. The y’s were an identical match. “The same person who left this note to me, also sent a note to Nathan—a note he had in his pocket when he was murdered.”
“So both are from the killer.”
“Maybe.” Agatha reached for Emma’s hand. “Do you still want to do this? Because I wouldn’t blame you one tiny bit if you—”
She never finished the sentence. Emma squeezed her hand, picked up the reins and called out to Doc.
Ten minutes later they were pulling into a remote farm. The fields looked as if they hadn’t been planted in some time. The house’s roof had long ago caved in, and the barn was leaning slightly.
“There. A bicycle.”
It had been left near the corral to the east of the barn.
“And a buggy—an old dented one, near the door of the barn.” Agatha slipped the tablet under the seat.
“Should we wait?” Emma glanced back the way they had come. “Tony and Henry can’t be far behind.”
“The note said one hour. I think...I think it’s been close to that.”
“Okay. Fine. Then we go in together.”
“Let’s leave Doc back here. In case there’s any shooting.” Even as the words came out of Agatha’s mouth she had to suppress the urge to laugh. Surely she was being dramatic. Surely someone wasn’t lying in wait, pistol drawn, ready to put a bullet through their hearts.
Nein.
She wasn’t certain about much in this life, but she was certain that she wasn’t going to die today from a gunshot.
You would know.
Wouldn’t you know?
You’d have some sense of impending doom. All she’d woken with was a hankering to cook a cobbler and a pressing desire to finish the baby blanket she was knitting.
They walked toward the corral, holding onto their kapp strings, the north wind tugging at their dresses.
Agatha bent over the bicycle tire, comparing the treads to what she’d seen in Henry’s picture. If her memory was clear, and she knew it was, they were a perfect match.
She stood to call out to Emma, who was peering into the corral, when she heard a swish and then felt something tug her shoulders. She looked down to find a rope wrapped around her upper body, and then from behind she heard a satisfied laugh.
“Easier to rope than a goat, that’s for certain.”
Emma lurched toward her friend.
“Don’t do it. I’ll pull her off her feet and across that pasture.” Quick as a cat sprinting toward fresh milk, the other end of the rope was wrapped around a saddle which sat atop a pretty black gelding. “Beauty here likes to run. All it will take is one slap from me. So you best stay where you are, Emma Lapp.”
Agatha met Emma’s eyes. Neither said a word.
“What do you say we all go into the barn?”
Which was a terrible idea in Agatha’s opinion. The barn looked as dangerous as the person standing in front of them.
“At least it’ll be out of the wind,” Emma muttered.
She went first. As she passed Agatha, she pretended to stumble into her and whispered, “Henry and Tony will be here soon.” Then she marched forward, head held high and back straight. Agatha followed, and Nathan’s killer brought up the rear. The barn would have been dark, but there were holes in the roof that allowed some of the scant afternoon light to reach them.
Nathan’s killer stopped to free the other end of the rope from the gelding, then slapped its rear, sending the horse into a gallop across the pasture.
Agatha could have been dragged to her death!
She would have at least suffered a concussion and some good bruises. It was a sobering thought.
“Agatha, I want you to knock that crate over and sit down on it. That’s good. Now Emma, fetch another and put it beside your friend. Not facing, back to back.”
Again the cackle, but this time it sent shivers up Agatha’s spine. It was the laugh of insanity, of a person beyond reason.
Once they were both seated, Nathan’s killer fetched another rope off the wall, slipped it over Emma’s shoulders, and then walked around
the two women, binding them together.
“This is my best calf rope. Four-strand texturized poly-blend. It’s guaranteed to hold up in all weather conditions. Reliable. That’s important. Don’t you think? Reliability? You ought to feel honored.”
“Well, we don’t.” Agatha’s temper was rising. “This is ridiculous. Let us go this minute or...”
“Or what? You going to call the police? Oops. No cell phone so you can’t. You can’t even call that boyfriend dee-tective of yours. And by the time Henry gets here to draw what he sees, I’ll be long gone.”
Lickety-split, the killer had secured a tight knot in the rope. Agatha’s left shoulder was beginning to hurt already, and the throbbing pain wasn’t helping her temper one bit.
“Why did you do it? Why did you kill him? What did Nathan King do to you?”
“None of your bizz-ness, Agatha.” One jerk on the rope confirmed the knot was secure. “You wouldn’t understand anyway. You and your perfect little home with your long line of guests just waiting to hand over money so they can spend a few days on the river. You have a perfect life, Agatha. I wonder if you know that.”
“I do now,” Agatha muttered.
“And Emma, you and your savant husband, taking vacations in Texas. If that isn’t putting on airs, I don’t know what is. I had everything figured out, even waited for the rain so it would erase any clues. But you and Henry had to go snooping around. Well, now you’re going to pay for that.”
“What are you planning to do with us?” Emma’s voice didn’t waver at all. In fact, she sounded as if she was speaking to a wayward child.
“None of your bees-wax.” Quick as a wildfire crossing a dry Texas field, Nathan’s killer sprinted to the door.
Agatha couldn’t make out much in the darkness of the barn. Some old hay bales were stacked against one wall. Cobwebs covered the ceiling, and something...something with beady eyes stared at her.
“What is that?”
“Ha. You’ve noticed my little friends. Don’t worry about them. Bats are nocturnal. You’ll be dead long before they begin their nightly hunt.” And with a last cackle, the person Agatha had thought she knew, a member of their own congregation, Nathan’s killer, fled into the afternoon.
“Agatha, we have a problem.”
“Yup. I don’t like bats, though I am aware that they eat a lot of mosquitos and such.”
“Not what I’m talking about.”
“Rats? Did you see a rat?”
“Over there.” Emma must have nodded toward the direction that Agatha couldn’t see. She felt a tug on the rope as Emma leaned slightly forward.
“What is it?”
“A gas can.”
That was when Agatha finally admitted to herself that they were in very serious trouble.
Chapter Sixteen
The first two buggies Henry and Tony checked out were a bust. The first buggy had a license plate containing the same last two numbers, but it was in pristine condition—no dents on the back at all. The second was also clearly not the one they were looking for. It sat behind an old barn, cobwebs and bird nests covering it. Plainly it had not been driven in some time.
Which left them with one possibility. Henry had heard Agatha mention Clarence Yutzy. She seemed to be on friendly terms with him. It was doubtful the man had shot young Joey or killed Nathan, but perhaps they could find a clue. Maybe he could point them to the murderer. This could be over soon, and they could all go home. It was even possible that Henry and Emma could get in some bird watching before they left for Colorado.
Henry and Tony turned into Clarence Yutzy’s place.
They’d batted around possible scenarios on the drive over, but neither man had been able to come up with a reason that this investigation was pointing toward the Yutzy family. Was there a squabble between the two families? One worth killing over?
They saw only one buggy, off to the side of the barn. It was a newer model and in good condition. Still, something was off here. Henry could feel it like he could feel winter coming. After knocking on the front door, Clarence’s wife directed them toward the back pasture where Clarence was mending a fence.
As they walked toward him, Henry turned up the collar on his coat. “I thought Texas was always warm. This feels more like Indiana weather, or possibly Colorado.”
Tony was scanning the pasture, as if he expected a murderer to pop up from an adjacent field. “Yup. Folks say that Texas has four seasons.”
“Spring, summer, fall, and winter?”
“Drought, flood, blizzard, and twister.”
Henry laughed. “Let’s hope we’re not headed toward a blizzard.”
“Or a twister. Don’t like the weather? Hang around twelve hours. It’s bound to change.”
“Tumultuous.”
“Well, sometimes it changes for the better.”
Clarence greeted them, though he appeared to have no idea why they were there. After saying hello, he turned his attention back to the fence and proceeded to stretch wire around a post.
“Let me help with that.” Tony steadied the post while Clarence fastened the wire.
“Should hold.” Clarence wiped at sweat beading on his forehead. “What can I help you two with?”
“We have a few questions, Mr. Yutzy.” Tony tugged on his ball cap. “Is there somewhere else we could talk? Somewhere out of the wind?”
“We’ll try not to take too much of your time,” Henry added.
Yutzy put his hands on his hips and stared down the fence line, his mouth drooping at the corners down into a frown. Apparently he’d planned to stand out in the weather and continue working on the fence, but he motioned back toward the small cluster of buildings—a nice sized farmhouse, what looked like a Dawdi Haus, a large barn, and several smaller out buildings.
They never actually made it into the barn, but they did shelter on the south side. Once they were out of the wind, the weather wasn’t nearly as intolerable. It occurred to Henry that this community had picked a good spot to settle. Surrounded by hills, fertile fields and small towns, it was exactly what Plain people sought in an area. Other than the murders...
Tony jumped right to the point. “I suppose you’ve heard that we’re looking into Nathan’s murder.”
“Someone might have mentioned it.”
“And you know about Henry’s drawings?”
One curt nod was the only answer they received. Henry understood that they’d have to win this man over if they wanted to receive any answers. Unless he was the killer, in which case winning him over probably wouldn’t be possible.
“My wife, Emma, and I came to Texas to try the fishing.” Henry smiled and scratched at his left eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to be a witness in a murder.”
“But you didn’t witness it. Did you? Actually you arrived after the event, and it’s not like this...this gift of yours allows you to see into the past.” Yutzy pulled at his shirt, then crossed his arms, then stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat.
Henry glanced at Tony. Clarence Yutzy was obviously nervous about something.
Possibly it was time for Henry to slip into his role as a bishop. Maybe that was why Gotte had put him in this place, at this particular time—so that he could help this man who was so obviously struggling.
“Life often gives us something we don’t want. Ya? In the book of Corinthians, Paul tells us that we may be hard pressed on every side, but we won’t be crushed. We won’t be destroyed.”
Yutzy closed his eyes, then sank onto a bench against the barn’s wall. “Are you really a bishop?”
“I am. Our community is in Monte Vista, Colorado. It’s small—like yours.”
Yutzy seemed to consider that, then nodded. “And this drawing ability of yours...it’s something you didn’t want?”
“What I didn’t want was to get hit in the head by a ball my friend Atlee smashed with his bat. Should have been a homerun. Instead, it stopped here.” Henry tapped the side of his head. “The things that
came after were all a result of that moment.”
When Yutzy didn’t respond to that, he added, “And I have to think that...you know...Gotte didn’t have His attention turned elsewhere during that moment. He wasn’t simply distracted by something else, and it happened by accident.”
“Gotte meant for you to be hit in the head with a baseball? To suffer a brain injury?”
Henry shrugged, then smiled. “All things work together for the good...ya?”
“So I’ve always heard, but there are days I wonder.” Yutzy’s voice became choked with emotion. “Everything is...it’s out of hand. I don’t know how we reached this point. I don’t know what I could have done differently.”
Tony cleared his throat. “The reason we’re here, Mr. Yutzy, is because we think you know something about Nathan’s murder. No one is accusing you, and we’re not officially working for the police.”
“Then why are you involved?” Irritation once again won out over any need to unburden himself. “Why can’t you just let it be?”
“Because my friend, Agatha, needs my help. We think that whoever killed Nathan might not be done. I’m worried that next the killer will set his or her sights on Agatha. I can’t let that happen. Could you?”
Yutzy waved the question away, as if it were no more than a pesky fly. “Whoever killed Nathan King—I think it was a one-time thing. I think it was an accident.”
“And what about Joey Troyer?” Henry knew word would have already reached the entire community about the attack on Joey. Of course they didn’t know that his name was actually Joey Smith or that he lived in Dallas and wasn’t Amish. Those details would take a while longer to make the rounds.
“It’s true then...he was shot?”
“Looks like it was with the same caliber weapon.” Tony sat beside Yutzy on the bench. “Joey’s going to be okay, because Agatha found him in time. But the next person might not be. Whoever is doing this...they’re feeling cornered. When killers feel cornered, they tend to kill again.”
“But what if the person isn’t a killer?” Yutzy shot to his feet. “What if it’s just...someone who is confused?”
Which to Henry seemed like a mighty strange thing to say. It made him wonder. Was it possible that Clarence Yutzy knew the identity of the killer?
Dead Broke Page 15