Annie nodded affirmatively. “Both of us went and wished we didn’t. It was sad and bizarre.”
“What do you mean?” Sheila said in a hushed tone.
“Very few people were there. I mean, there were five of us. Bea, me, Detective Bryant, and her parents. There was no wake, no friends. Nothing.”
It was the second Christian funeral Annie had attended since she moved to Cumberland Creek. The two funerals were a year apart from one another. This one was so different from Maggie Rae’s, which was attended by everybody in town, and then some. The wake was huge, with tables and tables of food. Sarah’s memorial service was sparse, and it left Annie feeling weirdly frightened. Was Sarah that isolated that she had no friends? Or was there a statement being made? If so, what was it? Or were people afraid to show up for some reason?
Annie was met with silence from the scrapbookers.
“That makes sense,” Paige finally said, her blue eyes lit. “It makes sense in some weird kind of way. Those people are very superstitious, very backward.”
“Do you mean they think her bad luck would rub off?” Cookie asked with one eyebrow lifted.
“I don’t know, really. Who knows?” Paige said, waving her hand. “But there’d have to be a reason for it, and I’m betting it has to do with one of their strange beliefs.”
“I keep hearing about their strange beliefs,” Annie said. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is there a certain religion? What is it?”
“Who really knows?” Sheila said. “No outsiders know all about them. Some Old Orders don’t even believe in funerals. Maybe people didn’t even realize she was gone at the time they buried her. They bury their dead quickly, sometimes before the service. One thing I can say for sure is that some of them may call themselves Old Order Mennonites, but they are not Mennonite.”
“Oh, heavens no,” DeeAnn said. “That’s some odd brew of weirdness going on up there. They keep real close to themselves. I’ve heard of cousins marrying. I’ve heard of animal sacrifice. And even drugs and rituals.”
DeeAnn, hailing from Minnesota, had married a local man and had settled in Cumberland Creek with him. She was a culinary school graduate and owned and operated her own bakery, yet Annie had always thought she was a bit sheltered.
“Sounds a little far-fetched to me,” Cookie said.
“Humph. This coming from a witch named Cookie,” Paige said good-naturedly and rolled her eyes.
“They call me Cookie for one simple reason, Paige,” Cookie said. “If you bite me, I taste really, really sweet.”
Laughter ensued.
“Let’s turn up the music. Gosh, I love that new Usher song,” Sheila said.
Annie emptied her glass of beer, smiled at Sheila dancing between the chair and the shelves that held every color of paper you could imagine. Tomorrow she would be slaving over her next article for the paper, trying to keep Ben and Sam occupied, fixing some kind of supper, and trying to keep some semblance of sanity. But tonight she’d finish this book, eat some chips and salsa, and drink another one of those dark chocolate stouts. Yes, indeed.
Chapter 12
Vera loved the train. But as it moved away from the city this time, she felt it in her guts. Leaving Tony was getting harder and harder. They had both said this relationship was just for fun. Both of them divorced. She with a baby. He with a new teaching job. And besides all this, he was in New York and she was in Cumberland Creek.
She felt an intense pang for him move through her body—like a wave of heightened awareness. She ached; her guts twisted; her heart sank. And then she caught herself. Wasn’t this the stuff of cheap romance novels? She was almost forty-two years old and couldn’t continue this emotional roller-coaster ride with him. For how many years could it go on? Where could it lead? She could never leave Cumberland Creek to be with him—because of Elizabeth. She couldn’t take the child away from Bill and Beatrice. Meanwhile, he was so Brooklyn. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to leave behind his city—this place that pulsed with energy and life—for her sleepy little town.
Perhaps it wasn’t so sleepy anymore. Two murders within a month of one another. Both young women with red hair. Unique markings called runes were carved into their bodies.
“You don’t hear about that stuff in New York,” Tony had told her over bagels that morning. “It’s so safe here now.”
“Yes. I feel safer here now than I used to,” she said, looking around his tiny studio apartment. His years of dance had not left Tony well off—quite the contrary. He had to give up the touring because his knees finally gave way. But he was able to teach and commanded a decent salary, most of which he was saving for a knee replacement.
But she loved the simplicity of his place and his life. A wall with a desk that held his computer, next to that a keyboard and stereo, then what counted as his kitchen—just a wall with a sink, stove, fridge, and a few cupboards. She smiled at the thought of the first time she baked him an apple pie there. It was a challenge. But, oh, he loved it. Raved about it between fork-fed bites from her own hand.
Of course, along the opposite wall was mostly just his huge bed, where his touch made her feel more alive than she had in years.
Someone gave a laugh on the train—it had the same quality as Tony’s. He laughed again. It was so similar that she had to turn around and look. Of course, it wasn’t him. But when the laugh came again, Vera realized she was crying. That laugh. She could picture Tony’s smiling mouth, open, framed in deep dimples, with that sound rolling out of it. How could he fill her with such pleasure and such bittersweet longing at the same time?
Every time she left him, she was grateful for the transition time on the train or plane. The train was nicer for this very reason. She felt as if it was transporting her between two worlds. Two lives that she struggled to keep separate. Tony wanted to come to Cumberland Creek, and that thought made her uneasy.
“Are you ashamed of me?” he’d asked her just last night, his deep brown eyes softly looking at her through long black eyelashes. “What?”
She’d wanted to cry. “This time together has been like a dream I don’t want to wake up from. I don’t want to share you.”
He’d kissed her with such passion at that moment that it almost took her breath away. The next thing she knew, they had gotten so carried away that they knocked all his plants down that were perched along the headboard of his bed.
Vera smiled. She’d keep that to herself—along with all the decidedly kinky things that went on this weekend. He was leading her to explore a side of herself that had been stuffed inside for far too long. In a way, she felt foolish. Here she was, a slightly overweight new mother, feeling like a lithe teenager. She lost all sense of herself in his arms. What they had seemed to go beyond the physical trappings of their bodies, though the trappings were what brought them such joy.
She opened up her laptop and clicked on the local news, hoping there had been no more murders in her little town. She scrolled down and breathed a huge sigh of relief at the lack of news—there was only Annie’s recap of the events about Sarah’s death.
Jenkins Mountain—one of the biggest mountains in the Shenandoah Valley—houses several communities. One of the communities is a tight-knit Old Order Mennonite enclave, which is where Sarah Carpenter was raised.
“The Mennonite faith encompasses many branches,” says the Reverend Paul Thomas. “Some dress simply. Some dress in modern clothing. But we are all Mennonites, and we are all Christians seeking a simple, peaceful way of life.”
At first glance, one might think peace might be found surrounded by the pristine mountains and farm fields of the region. Long days are spent working the land or canning the garden’s crops or picnicking with your church. This place is far from the temptations of neighboring cities, like Charlottesville, Waynesboro, or even small town Cumberland Creek—which is where Sarah’s body washed up approximately ten hours after she drowned.
“We know it wasn’t an accident. There
are marks that indicate that she was held underwater until she died,” says Detective Adam Bryant of the Cumberland Creek police.
Sarah’s murder, the second murder in the area in two years, is shrouded in mystery. Part of that mystery is her life on the mountain. Given that the community is in mourning and enforces strict mourning precepts, many of her family and friends are not available for questioning.
But as a typical young Mennonite farm woman, she probably began each morning with prayer, then farm or kitchen chores. Sarah had three brothers and two sisters. Given her age, she may have begun each day in the kitchen, helping prepare food for the family.
One thing we know about Sarah is that she played the piano and gave lessons to the local children as a way to earn money—which she no doubt gave to her parents.
Her social life would have consisted of visiting with neighbors and friends who were also Mennonite. She would have attended church functions, since the Jenkins Mountain community does not have a bar, a grocer, or even a restaurant.
Just then Vera’s cell phone blared Beethoven’s Fifth. She brought it to her ear.
“I miss you,” Tony whispered into the phone.
She smiled and reached into her bag for a chocolate. “I miss you, too.”
Chapter 13
Nothing like a good funeral, even if it was a couple of hours away in Jenkins Hollow.
Beatrice dressed in her Sunday best, a dark blue suit, and placed a strand of pearls around her neck. Real pearls, mind you, and it was getting to the point where funerals were the only occasions she could wear them.
Not that she liked to see grieving. But what Beatrice did like was to see a community come together in fellowship and offer condolences. A keen observer of humanity—or at least that was what she thought about herself—Beatrice loved to see the spectacle of clothes and food at many of the local funerals. Southerners always brought out the best for such events.
She’d missed Maggie Rae’s funeral as she had just had surgery to remove a knife from her neck. Vera was supposed to report back to her, but her observations were weak.
“What did Violet wear? The same black dress she always wears? She’s been wearing it for thirty years. I swear.”
“Well,” Vera had said. “Hmm. I can’t remember what Violet was wearing. It seems to me it was dark. Yes. Maybe it was black. Oh, Mama, who cares?”
Beatrice was not so vacuous that she cared only about what people wore. But she made note of certain individuals’ clothing and what it said about them. For example, Violet’s husband was one of the wealthiest men in the town, yet she didn’t appear to ever buy anything new. Her funeral dress was a black shirtwaist dress, her spring and summer “wedding” dress was a light blue silk, and her fall and winter, a red wool. The same dresses for thirty years. Or at least that was how it appeared.
So Beatrice wondered if Violet chose not to buy anything new or if her husband refused to buy anything for her. And what was that all about?
And then there was Mathilda Rogers, who always brought a “little” something to wakes. Damn little. Once she brought a plate of a dozen chocolate chip cookies to a wake. A dozen? Why did she bother? Why bring anything at all if she was going to be so stingy about it?
She mentioned it once to Vera, who said that maybe there was a financial problem.
“Humph. I don’t think so. She plays bingo like it’s going out of style, and I’ve seen her spending money at the hair salon,” Beatrice had said.
“Really, Mother, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Don’t you ever notice anything about people? How do you function in the world?” Beatrice had said. Why couldn’t Vera be more like Annie, who noticed even more than Beatrice?
Vera had waved her off, as she often did, as if she were exasperated with her old fool of a mother. Damn her.
A car beep sounded at the front of Beatrice’s house. She stood at the door with her purse slung around her arm. Ready to go.
She mumbled as she crawled into the backseat of the car, next to Annie, who was looking elegant in black, with chunky gold earrings and a lovely gray angora scarf around her neck.
“Hey,” Annie said.
“Hey back. How are you?”
Annie shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”
“I’m fine, too, Bea,” Sheila said, grinning, from the front passenger seat of the car.
“Who asked you, scrapbook queen?” Beatrice said, turning away from her. Her relationship with Sheila was one of consistent, but good-natured banter. Her mother, Gerty, was Beatrice’s best friend—she died several years ago from breast cancer. “Listen, Annie, do you think we can get some clues today?”
Annie started to talk, but Vera interrupted.
“Mama! This is a funeral. Behave yourself.”
“I’ve been going to funerals since you were a glimmer in your daddy’s eye. Don’t tell me how to behave at a funeral. I just thought it might be a good place to observe the family, see if anybody suspicious shows up,” Beatrice said.
Vera stopped the car at a red light. “Well, don’t go around questioning people.”
“I am on a story,” Annie said. “But I certainly would be very careful about who I spoke to and what I asked.”
“Oh, Annie, I’m not worried about you,” Vera replied. “It’s Mama. Sometimes I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth—or who she is going to try to shoot.”
Sheila laughed. Annie smiled.
Beatrice folded her arms and leaned them on her purse, where, they all knew, she kept her gun. She looked at Annie and shrugged.
Chapter 14
Even though it was the opposite of the Cumberland Creek Episcopal brick building—which sprawled over half a city block with its cavernous hallways—the white-clapboard, one-room Jenkins Creek Baptist Church still reminded Annie of the day she went to Maggie Rae’s funeral. Witnessing Maggie Rae’s family, most especially her children, dealing with her death was gut wrenching.
As the four women approached the church, a cold wind swept up and Annie pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. The sound of the creek chilled her. Damn. She had to find the bathroom.
“Bathroom,” she whispered just as they entered the church.
Vera pointed her outside, in the direction of an outhouse.
“You are kidding.”
Vera shook her head.
Annie shrugged. She had used worse places. She padded over to the outhouse, opened the door, and was pleasantly surprised to find a clean experience.
When she was done, she made her way back to the church, just as a hush was coming over the funeral congregation. She glanced around for her companions. There they were in the middle, of course.
Annie found her way to the pew, feeling as if everybody was watching her, and sat down as delicately as possible. Nothing like making a grand entrance.
The minister, a much younger man than what Annie had expected, approached the pulpit and began to pray. She tuned him out. She was here to check out the crowd—except she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced around and saw what must have been Rebecca’s family, finally seated at the front of the room. While everybody’s heads were bowed, Annie took the opportunity to turn around quietly—and there he was, Zeb McClain, Tina Sue’s husband, who was not praying, but was instead looking directly at her. Zeb had been implicated in Maggie Rae’s case, but the Jenkins Hollow community had provided sound alibis for him.
He was dressed in Old Order Mennonite clothing, hiding his well-sculpted physique, for which Annie was grateful. She’d already seen too much of the man. His steely blue eyes, square jawline, and full lips were all a part of the man that visited her in her nightmares.
Her stomach twisted. She turned her face quickly, feeling the hot creep of embarrassment mixed with anger. Damn. Of course, he would be here. This church was on the outskirts of Jenkins Mountain proper. But even though he stood there, dressed in plain, dark Mennonite clothing, he was not
praying. He was watching her!
He wasn’t the only one watching her.
Detective Bryant sat two rows in front of her. His head wasn’t bowed, either. He turned and caught her eye. Nodded. She pursed her lips. Beatrice elbowed her. She didn’t miss a thing.
The piano started to play “Amazing Grace,” and a large woman stood and began to sing.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”
Annie didn’t know the song as part of her culture, but she still found it incredibly beautiful and moving. The sunlight was beaming in through the window, and it lit a corner of the piano and the singer. Twisty, bare branches visible through the window reached across the blue sky.
“To save a wretch like me . . .”
Wretch. Now that was an interesting word. She sighed and supposed that most of those gathered here today would agree that she fit the bill. Wretch. Annie smiled to herself. She turned to see if Zeb was still looking at her and was startled to see that his icy blues were refusing to leave her. She gave him her harshest stare. Who did he think he was? Beatrice elbowed her again. She turned back around and lifted her eyebrow.
“What?” she mouthed.
Beatrice motioned to her purse, opened it, and gave her a glimpse of her gun.
Annie waved her off. Beatrice and that gun were going to get into trouble one day. She hoped it wasn’t today. But then again, that gun could come in handy if the big brute of a man suddenly came at her. Annie decided to stick close to Beatrice.
Zeb, sitting at the edge of his pew, was one of many people in that section of the congregation who were dressed in the plain clothes of Old Order Mennonites. Annie flashed back to Maggie’s Rae’s funeral. Zeb was sitting in front with the rest of the family. But Annie distinctly remembered another group of Mennonites standing in the back. Seeing people dressed like it was 1900 always left an impression on her. She didn’t see such things while she was growing up in Bethesda, Maryland. The first time she remembered seeing anything like it was in Amish Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She realized some people equated their garb with a peaceful, simple life, but it unsettled Annie. She was aware of the “romantic” notions the public held about Mennonites and their “peaceful,” simple lives. Maybe she was too cynical and world weary, but she would not be surprised to learn of more stories like the one she’d just read about Mary Schultz. She was a young Mennonite woman who recently murdered her father with an axe, claiming he’d abused her. Now her lawyers were claiming she was mentally unstable. And who wouldn’t be after years of abuse? Annie knew that was one hell of a story—a story the woman was not telling and one the courts were also keeping under wraps.
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