“What do you mean?”
“I mean they lack experience with men. A handsome young man tells you you’re beautiful . . . that he loves you. . . . It feels real and right . . . even if your family and church tell you otherwise.”
Well, that sounds like a lot of young women—not just Mennonites.
“I must admit that I’m a little confused about Mennonites,” Annie said.
“There’s an Old Order here—of the strictest kind. And that’s what Sarah’s family is. Then you have the others . . . the more modern Mennonites. Several different sects.”
“But someone mentioned to me that there’s a different kind of Mennonite in the Nest.”
“They are not real Mennonites. I know who they are talking about. They dress like them. But they are into other things. It’s very secretive.”
“Secretive?” Annie asked.
“Yes, in fact . . . Um, what is that guy’s name? None of us trust him. What is his name? Oh yeah. Zeb. Strange name. Strange man. Do you know him?”
Annie remembered him vividly, given that she’d just seen him at the funeral. She’d never forget the first time she saw him in person, saw his dark hair, startling blue eyes, incredible physique, and a pistol tucked in the front of his blue jeans. She also remembered his comments about Jews as she was driving him, Bryant, and Tina Sue to the police station. Even more sickening to Annie than the comments from the backseat was the way Tina Sue looked at him as if he were her master, her God. Several times Annie caught that look washing over Tina Sue’s face. Childlike. Puppylike. And it was unnerving to see it on a grown woman’s face as she looked at her husband. A man whose piercing blue eyes rarely looked at his wife—even as she sat in the station, being questioned, or when he’d sat in the courtroom. The trial had stretched for days. Zeb had shown up only sporadically.
“Yes,” Annie finally said. “I remember him from the trial. Someone mentioned that he grew up Old Order.”
“Yes, but an awful event happened to his family a long time ago. A horrible murder of some kind. And he left the church. People say he’s not been right since.”
Annie’s stomach tightened. There was no mention of this when she was researching for her book. Of course, most if it was focused on Maggie Rae and her family—not her in-laws. Could it be that she’d have to talk with Zeb again? Would she have to go back to Jenkins Hollow or the neighborhood there known as the “Nest” for this story? An image of Cookie in prison flashed in her mind. If she needed to prove that Cookie was innocent, she’d do it—but damn, she would not go alone.
“He sort of gave me the creeps,” Annie found herself saying. Oh, great. So professional. “Um, Mrs. Collins, do you have any idea who the father of that baby was?”
“No,” she said. “I wish I did. I keep thinking of it alone in the hospital, with no Mama, no Daddy, not a friend in the world.”
Suddenly, a black emptiness overwhelmed Annie. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant, had formed no attachment to the baby she was carrying. But the minute it was pulled from her, she was filled with gut-wrenching sorrow.
She and Mike had decided not to have another baby years ago. She should have gotten her tubes tied, or he should have gotten an operation. Just to be sure.
Her doctor had assured her that her feelings were normal. It was hormonal. Even if she didn’t know she was pregnant, her body and her hormones did. She took a deep breath. She thought of the baby in the local hospital and wondered what would become of her.
“Did the girls have any other friends?” Annie asked.
“Oh, let me think.... There was Hannah,” she said. “She works at the bakery. You know which one I mean? It’s at the foot of the mountain. Harmony Bakery. Yes. That’s it.”
“Thanks so much for speaking with me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” Annie said.
Yes. She knew Harmony Bakery, which drew in the tourists like flies. It was a bee in DeeAnn’s bonnet.
“The tourists just want to go in there and look at all the Mennonites and say they bought an authentic Mennonite pie. If they only knew the markup on that stuff. They are gouging people,” DeeAnn would say.
Now that she knew that Hannah worked at the bakery, Annie decided to check it out. It sat at the base of the mountain, so she wouldn’t have to venture too far.
Once there, she was surprised to see how big the bakery was compared to DeeAnn’s quaint little shop. Cases of pies, bread, rolls, and cakes were lined up in rows. No trendy cupcakes, mused Annie.
She smiled at the young man behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” he said, smiling back.
“I’ll take a sweet potato pie,” she said. “And is Hannah here?”
He placed her pie on the counter. She could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg. It glistened deep orange. If you were going to have a pie, you might as well make it a nutritious one, full of beta-carotene.
His brow knit. “Yes, she just went on break.”
“I’d just like to speak to her for a few minutes. That okay?” Annie said.
He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be back.”
When Hannah walked through the doorway and saw Annie, she smiled and looked away. “Can I help you?” she said, looking back at her.
“Hi, Hannah. I’m Annie Chamovitz. Remember? We met at Rebecca’s funeral.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said, rubbing her hands on her light blue heavy cotton apron.
She was extremely clean. Her nails were short, and her hair was pulled back in a bun with a prayer cap on top, not a hair out of place. Not an ounce of make-up. Not one piece of jewelry. Simple. Clean.
“Can I ask you some questions? I’m working on a story for a newspaper.”
“Me?” she sputtered, her hand to her chest, her face reddening. “Why me? I don’t know anything.”
“You knew Rebecca?”
She nodded.
“Did you know Sarah?”
She nodded again.
The door to the shop opened, and the bell went off. The young man came back in to wait on the customer. Annie glanced at him. Looked like a tourist, agape over the baked goods.
“Then I’d like to talk with you.”
“Well, okay. Can you come back to the break room?” she said, turning.
Annie followed her through the massive kitchen, which was a hubbub of cleaning activity. The huge ovens were being preened over, and two young men were running mops over the floor.
When they entered the break room, Hannah sat down at a table and motioned for Annie to do the same. There were magazines scattered on it—Taste of the South, old issues of Gourmet and Saveur. Interesting.
“What can I tell you? I knew them both,” Hannah said.
“I know on the face of things they had several things in common. Jenkins Hollow. Red hair. Their age. They both played piano. What else?”
“Let me think. They both worked here at different points. Rebecca only helped out during the busy season. Sarah was a regular until . . .”
“Until she got pregnant and was shunned.”
Hannah’s eyes went to her hands as she nodded. This was painful for her.
“Hannah, I’m so sorry that you lost your friends. It must be hard for you,” Annie said.
She nodded and looked toward the door.
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know who the father of Sarah’s child is?”
“Even if I knew,” Hannah whispered, “I couldn’t tell you.” As she lifted a finger to rub her eyebrow, Annie noticed she was trembling. This wasn’t just sadness; it was fear.
“Are you in danger?” Annie whispered back.
Hannah shrugged. “We all are as long as someone is killing out there. Right?”
“Hannah, I can see you’re upset. When you feel better about things, give me a call so we can talk more.” She slipped her a card.
Hannah nodded as someone walked into the room. She sighed. “Back to work, Ms. Chamovitz,” she said and stood and slid
the card into a pocket.
After leaving the bakery, Annie sat in her car in the parking lot and called Detective Bryant.
“Bryant,” he said.
“I’m at Harmony Bakery,” she said.
“Annie? That you?”
“Yes. This is an interesting connection.”
“This is a murder investigation. All I can say is, I’m working with the FBI and I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Annie hung up. Nice.
She decided to check her messages. She heard the one from Beatrice about going to Sheila’s place, and she decided to stop by. When she walked in the door, she was surprised to find all the scrapbookers there, gathered around the table. Sheila and Vera had goggles on.
Sheila looked up. “Hi, Annie. How are you?”
“What on earth are you doing?” Annie said and squeezed herself into the circle.
“We’re trying to see what’s in this book,” Vera replied. “When I looked at it earlier, something flew into my eye.”
“And?”
“For the life of me, it looked like a fairy was flying off the page and threw dust in my eyes.”
“Probably a weird illusion with some kind of special ink,” Sheila said. “We are trying to figure out what kind of ink this is—without getting fairy dust or glitter or whatever in our eyes.”
“Damn thing is probably booby-trapped,” DeeAnn said.
“Why would you say that?” Annie said.
DeeAnn shrugged. “I wasn’t here when it happened. Sounded kind of freaky to me. Like maybe Cookie didn’t want anybody to look in her book. So she set a trap.”
“I don’t see that at all,” Sheila said.
“Yes. That seems kind of mean-spirited of you, DeeAnn,” Annie said. “Cookie is our friend.”
“Me?” DeeAnn said, drawing back. “It wasn’t me who was seeing things and lost her eyesight momentarily.” She nodded her head toward Vera.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Vera responded. “I’m the woo-woo nut in the crowd.” She slipped the goggles from her face, looking defeated, tired. “I just can’t make any sense of it.”
“I’m telling you that there’s something in that book Cookie doesn’t want people to see,” DeeAnn insisted. “First off, she didn’t want us knowing how accomplished she is at this—”
“Wait a minute!” Annie interrupted. “Give me the book. I’ll take it home and look at it in the morning. Maybe I can find something.”
Sheila looked at her, her goggles askew on her face. “I’m not done yet. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. This ink is fascinating. Also, she has an interesting blend of different paper—washi, I think, mulberry, and even silk— on her pages. I’m not even sure I could work with silk. It’s very complicated, not easy to work with at all.”
Annie suddenly saw the clock on the wall and excused herself. She had no idea it was so late. She needed to stop by Beatrice’s place before she went home. Mike’s recriminations about her being away from home so much were at the front of her mind. One hell of a day.
Chapter 39
Beatrice needed to think about something other than the murders, Cookie, and that strange but beautiful scrapbook of hers. It was giving her indigestion. She finally had some peace and quiet, so she sat at her computer and checked her e-mail. Aha. There was an e-mail from her friend in Paris.
My dearest Beatrice,
How are you? I hope that my e-mail finds you well. I have not heard back from you. Are you okay?
My ankle is healing nicely, and I will be as good as new very soon. The nights in my apartment have been gloomy and cold since you left. Will you come back soon? Next year? There is a place here for you.
Did I tell you about my grandson? He wants to study physics in America. Your field, yes?
Beatrice’s heart leapt. Of course he knew that.
I am hopeful to visit him (and you) when he settles in. We are not sure which university yet. Well, my dear, I am off to get a bite to eat with my grandson. Good boy. Very smart. I wish you could have met him.
No time for that, Beatrice thought and grinned, then clicked off the e-mail. It was good to make him wait a little. She didn’t want him to think she had nothing better to do than sit around waiting on his e-mail. She’d get back to him later. Even though he was in Paris, she still felt a little restricted by him. She didn’t want him to know that, nor did she want to feel anything for him at all. It was best for both of them to take their time about things.
Beatrice heard a car pull up to the front of her house. Its headlights shone briefly in her window. Who could that be at nine thirty on a Sunday night? She stood and looked out the window. Annie?
“What are you doing here?” Beatrice said, opening the door.
“I just need to talk to somebody. Run a few things by you,” Annie said.
“Come in. Sit down. Do you want a drink? Tea? Water?”
“No,” Annie said as she took off her coat and laid it on the back of the couch. “I won’t be long.”
“Okay,” Beatrice said, sitting in her rocking chair. Annie still looked pale—along with looking harried and tired. Circles under her eyes. Hair falling half out of her ponytail. Annie had never been like Vera, who used to be perfectly made up all the time, but tonight she looked particularly unkempt. That old University of Maryland sweatshirt should be put out to pasture.
“I’m trying to put this all together. I can’t stand the thought of Cookie in jail, you know?”
Beatrice nodded.
“So I visited with Mary Schultz today and confirmed that there was a shunning. The Carpenter girl.”
“Makes sense,” Beatrice said after a moment.
“She was pregnant. That baby is hers, of course.”
“Hmm. Well, now. Who is the father?”
“Good question,” Annie said, rubbing her hands together. Beatrice noted her fingernails were bitten down to their nubs.
“And what does Rebecca have to do with any of that?”
Annie shrugged. “They were good friends. I spoke with Rebecca’s mom, who didn’t know that Sarah was pregnant. She said she’d wished that she knew, but Rebecca never said anything to her.”
“That’s typical,” Beatrice said and rolled her eyes.
“Then there’s this odd business with this group of people at the Nest—”
“Whoaaa!” Beatrice said. “Who said anything about the Nest?”
“Well, I talked about it with Mrs. Collins today. She said that it’s a weird mix of people up there. They are not really Mennonite.”
“I’d say.” Beatrice had always felt a strange mix of fear and embarrassment when she thought of the Nest, especially when she was around the bright and cosmopolitan Annie, She didn’t want her to think badly about the Appalachian people. Annie had already seen some of the worst, and yet she was still here. So she must see the best in them, as well.
“I wouldn’t say this to just anybody, Beatrice, but I think there is something big happening. Something more than Cumberland Creek, more than Jenkins Hollow or the Nest. So far, the CDC has been involved, the FBI, and Detective Bryant is not letting Mary Schultz talk to me. And the murdered girls were onto something. Someone needed to shut them up. Those rune symbols? They mean those girls were a problem to someone, you know?”
“So,” Beatrice said, “you have two girls labeled as a problem . . . by someone. They know something. They both show up dead with the markings on them. One has had a baby. And that baby was almost killed on the mountain, left for dead.”
“On the same spot where they found Cookie’s earring.”
The women sat in silence.
“I looked Cookie up online,” Annie finally said.
“And?”
“The detective was right. There’s not a trace of her anywhere.”
“Pshaw. What does that mean?” Beatrice said.
“I mean, I can’t find birth records, work records, previous addresses, passports. Nothing.”
Beatrice
’s stomach sank. Maybe she shouldn’t have eaten that last slice of chocolate cake. All of the evidence seemed to point to their friend Cookie. Or at least to her knowing more than what she let on.
“But what would Cookie have to do with that mess up in the mountains?” Beatrice said.
“The only time I knew her to even be up there is when she went up for her retreat that day.”
“You mean the day we had the flat tire?”
Annie nodded. “And she had that character, Luther, in her car.”
Beatrice didn’t know what to say or to think. She decided not to tell Annie about the scrapbook—about the suspicions it had created. She’d tell her tomorrow, after she had a good night’s sleep. She could see this weighing heavily on Annie—and she didn’t want to add to her trouble. Not tonight. It seemed as if Cookie wasn’t who they thought she was. But Beatrice knew that very few people were what others thought they were. Look at Maggie Rae, who had quite the secret life. Look at her, Beatrice Matthews, soon to be eighty-two, with a beau in Paris. Who would’ve thought?
Annie went on. “There’s another thing Mrs. Collins mentioned. Remember Zeb? Tina Sue’s husband?”
“Of course.”
“He’s got something to do with that strange group of people in the Nest,” Annie said and yawned.
“Tina Sue didn’t mention that, eh? I told you she wasn’t to be trusted. Hell, I’d have trusted her sister over her any day of the week,” Beatrice said.
Annie looked deflated.
“Annie, I think you need to go home and get some sleep,” Beatrice finally said to her. “You look tired. Your body has been through hell. Your son was in trouble at school. Your friend Cookie is in jail. Things don’t seem to add up. I agree. But we are missing a huge part of this story. We’ll come up with a plan, just not tonight. The police will figure it out. It will be okay.”
Annie smiled at Beatrice and sighed. “I hope you’re right, but this whole thing gives me really bad feelings. I can’t even explain the way it makes me feel. The other thing is, Bryant is withholding information.”
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