There were two computers in the lobby for guests to use. Hannah had walked in to speak with Martha yesterday afternoon. As she waited for Martha to be able to take her break, she’d noticed Georgia on one of the computers.
“That’s interesting. What kind of program is it?” Hannah had peered over Georgia’s shoulder.
“Nothing. It’s nothing at all.” Georgia had quickly closed the program and stood, nearly bumping into her.
“Looked like a map of Middlebury,” Hannah had said, aiming for pleasant. “But all those dots . . . what were they for?”
“Lost a pet. I had my cat chipped. She ran off the other day, and I tried to track her on the computer, but I can never seem to catch her.”
According to Hannah, Georgia had rushed away without another word. She’d thought it odd enough to mention it to Preston later, only because Georgia had closed the program so quickly. Preston hadn’t thought much about it then.
What he was remembering now, however, what he’d remembered when he looked at Jake’s computer, was that Georgia hated cats. She wouldn’t even feed the stray that hung around the Village. He was surprised Hannah didn’t remember that.
So what had Georgia really been up to?
And why had she lied?
Preston shook his head and motioned for Mocha to follow him outside, waving to Jake as he went, continuing to mull over what he had remembered.
So she had lied. Lots of people wanted to keep certain things to themselves. It wasn’t that uncommon.
Or so he told himself as he made his way out of the inn.
Thirty-Six
Where is Preston?” Amber asked.
“Dealing with a maintenance emergency at the inn. I passed him on my way over.” Pam looked over her shoulder and then back at Amber. “He’ll be here. Don’t worry.”
Amber nodded, but saying she wasn’t going to worry and stopping were two very different things. She and Pam continued studying the crowd as Hannah walked up. It made Amber feel better, the fact that they were all together. These were her friends, in good times and bad. It seemed they had been together through so many tight spots—her and Pam and Hannah. Jesse was somewhere close and Tate was within eyesight. It was nice to be able to share a moment of celebration. The only person missing was Preston, and he’d texted that he would meet them soon.
“Tate’s in a perfect spot to see everything,” Amber said. “He’s even closer than we are.”
Pam craned her neck for a better look. “Last I saw he was in the parking lot, photographing the crowd as they arrived.”
“Well, now he has a perfect spot near the finish line.”
“Nice of him to hop over and give you that kiss, though—you two are like newlyweds.”
“We are newlyweds.”
Pam tossed her empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can. “He’s considerate and he takes his assignments seriously.”
“It wasn’t exactly an assignment. I asked him to take pictures and he—”
“I like that in a man. Someone who is sweet and doesn’t mind showing it, but he’s also serious about his work.”
“His work is actually on the farm.”
“You picked a winner, Amber.”
Amber stared across at Tate and nodded in agreement. “Don’t I know it, though I’m not sure I picked him as much as he rescued me.”
“I’d rather you don’t go into that story again. The details always give me the creeps.”
“It wasn’t all scary.” Memories of Ethan’s murder and all that had followed flashed through Amber’s mind.
Pam was right.
It had been creepy.
She’d had trouble sleeping for weeks afterward. Finally she had gone to meet with her pastor. He’d opened the Old Testament to the book of Genesis, chapter fifty. Amber had since committed much of that story to memory. Joseph, sold into slavery by his brothers. Joseph, suffering at the hands of his family! And ultimately, Joseph offering God’s mercy and grace. “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.”
She’d spent many a night dwelling on that verse, and thanking God that he had been in charge of her life even when she was at her most frightened.
“I don’t like stories with critters in them,” Pam added.
“That part was creepy—”
“Creepy? Try terrifying. You should know.”
“But Tate’s proposal was romantic.”
“I like stories that include flowers.”
“Should I send you some?” Amber smiled over at her assistant.
Pam waved away that idea. “And diamonds . . . stories with diamonds are very good.”
Before they could continue batting the topic around, Jesse arrived, slightly out of breath from hurrying toward them.
“Did you ask who they were?” Hannah worried her kapp strings as she glanced out over the crowd.
“Who? Is there someone here who doesn’t belong?” Pam scowled, as if they might have an intruder in their midst.
“Those men in suits. I thought they—well, I thought they looked out of place.”
“No worries, Hannah.” Jesse stepped to Hannah’s left. “I asked if I could help them, and both men said they were fine. Then I asked if they were here to watch the race, and they said ya. I got the feeling they might be with the National Cancer Foundation.”
“Did they tell you that?” Pam asked.
Jesse raised his hat, and resettled it on his head. “Maybe not word for word, but that was the impression I got.”
“That’s odd.” Amber brushed her hair behind her ears. “No one called me about sending a representative.”
“Maybe they decided to come at the last minute,” Jesse said.
“They still bother me.” Hannah stood on tiptoe and craned her neck in the direction she’d last seen the men, but they were gone. “They don’t look like charity people to me.”
“What do charity people look like, Hannah Bell?”
Amber smiled at the pet name. Jesse rarely let it slip in public, though Hannah had told her that he used it often when they were alone. When he did call her that in front of other people, Hannah’s cheeks always pinked up like a rose blooming in the spring.
Young love was a wonderful thing to watch.
“Humph. I spoke to someone in that office twice this week,” Pam said. “They didn’t mention to me that they were coming to visit. I would have made sure they got the VIP suite.”
“We don’t have a VIP suite.” Amber glanced at her quizzically.
“We could make one. Add a basket of fruit and some chocolates—”
Their conversation stopped abruptly as people in the crowd began to clap.
Hannah stepped closer to Jesse and put her hand on his arm. Pam and Amber turned to face the finish line.
The first group, most of whom participated on the high school track team, was soon followed by the second group—18 to 25. Group three was 26 to 39. And then behind them the 40-plus group—the one Amber knew Ryan Duvall would be in. They wore different color numbers that had been printed on copier paper and pinned to their chests. As Amber watched them run down the final stretch of the Pumpkinvine Trail and toward the finish line, it was easy enough to tell which competitors were running together. The third group pulled in behind the second and that was when she saw Ryan—at the front of his pack.
“There’s Ryan,” Pam said. “Looks like he’s leading in his group.”
“I’m glad he’s here,” Amber murmured.
He glanced up, and it seemed like his gaze found hers. He smiled slightly, almost waved, and then he set his sights on the finish line.
Thirty-Seven
Preston stepped out into the bright spring sunshine, grateful to be done with the plumbing problem. He didn’t mind the dirty aspects of his job, but anything he could do outside he liked better. Watching the race was no hardship at all. Amber had texted him where they were waiting, and she made him promise he would join their little group.
The text had brought a smile.
It had been many years since he’d felt like a part of a group, probably since his days in the military. That younger man he’d been could never have guessed what he would go through the next few years, and certainly couldn’t have foreseen him working for an Amish Village. Which all went to show there was no use trying to anticipate the twists and turns life would take—but in the end, they had been for his good.
He glanced down at Mocha and realized he needed to attach her leash before they made their way through the crowd. When they were indoors, he didn’t usually bother with it. Outside, though, he tried to be more conscientious. It wasn’t that he was afraid she’d run off—she stuck to his side like she’d been Velcroed there—but other folks seemed more at ease when she was on a leash. She was a gentle-looking dog, with her giant dopey grin. She was also quite large, weighing in at over seventy pounds. He understood that was intimidating to some people, so he kept the leash handy.
Mocha waited patiently at his side, tail wagging, ears alert.
She knew the routine.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out the leash, and stopped when he heard the pop of a pistol.
Several thoughts went through his mind instantaneously.
Definitely not a firecracker.
Not a car backfiring.
A higher pitch than a shotgun or a rifle.
It was a pistol, no doubt about it.
He had been convinced by the sound, by that place in his memories he didn’t like to go. What happened next left no doubt at all.
The pop was followed by a silence, and then the crowd reacted. Even as he began rushing toward where he thought the shot had been fired, people were screaming and running away from the scene. His heart sank as he realized it was the finish line. He couldn’t imagine what had happened, but from the reaction of the crowd, he understood it was something terrible.
He ran, never checking on Mocha, but somehow aware that she stayed at his side as they pushed through the crowd, straining against the mass of panicked people. For a moment he moved backward with the momentum of the crowd, but then he put his head down and trundled through—feeling like he had in Wanat, the reality of that bitter memory coming back and merging with the sunny Indiana day.
Mocha whined once and pressed her nose to his hand. He petted her, assured her he was fine, and darted left, then right. One minute turned into two, and two into five. When had the Village grounds become so crowded? All for a charity race? The sound of a siren split the morning, and still he couldn’t get any closer.
He caught a few words, “gunshot” and “runner” and “bleeding.” It was when he heard someone mention Amber that his pulse rocketed, and he knew he had to find a way past the crowd. He circled right, behind the dress shop, and then suddenly he broke through. The onlookers had formed a ring of sorts, as if an invisible barrier held them back. In the middle of the ring, on the ground, was Ryan Duvall—Preston recognized the curly black hair and the dark eyes that were now frozen open. He wasn’t moving, and blood had spread beneath him from a wound in his chest, staining the concrete.
Amber was sitting near Ryan’s body, pressing a bloody rag to the wound. Pam placed a hand on Amber’s shoulder, bent and said something to her. The ambulance had arrived and Jack Lambright jumped out. Not far behind him was Gordon Avery, shouldering his way through and barking orders.
Preston watched it all from his place at the rim of the crowd. He was about three rows back and could have easily pushed his way through, but he didn’t. It wasn’t so much that he was frozen by the violence of the event. He was assessing, deciding where he would be the most help or if he could be any help at all.
Tate had been attempting to administer CPR, but he stood, shook his head, and walked toward Amber.
He pulled her up into his arms, and when she nearly stumbled—nearly collapsed there next to Ryan’s body—Tate practically carried her to the curb. Now they were opposite from where Preston stood. Once again he hesitated, trying to determine how best to get to his friends.
He could cross the crime scene—it was obvious that’s what it was. Two officers from the Middlebury PD were already forming a perimeter, and soon they would string the yellow tape. He could cross or go around. Crossing would draw attention to himself, and he didn’t want to hinder Gordon’s assessment of the scene. Walking around—that seemed impossible at the moment, as the crowd had formed a tight circle.
So he waited.
Amber sank to the curb, with Tate on one side and Pam on the other. Hannah and Jesse stood behind her, heads bowed. Hannah had a camera strap around her neck. Tate must have handed her his camera when he rushed to help. The sight was incongruous—an Amish woman sporting a camera. But then the entire scene in front of him defied belief.
The paramedic was attending to Ryan.
Gordon finally made it to the side of the body, and that was when Amber struggled to her feet. The look on her face—agony, disbelief, and grief, mingled with a good dose of shock—tore at Preston’s heart. He cared for this woman as if she were his own family. She was his family, in every important sense of the word. He couldn’t abide the thought of her enduring another murder investigation.
Gordon was barking orders. “I want this immediate area completely clear. Secure the perimeter, but advise everyone to stay put where we can interview them. I don’t want a single person in this crowd leaving—”
Preston shifted his attention to the large crowd. A good portion had already fled, though many remained at a distance, watching and talking on their cell phones—some even attempting to take photos.
Then he heard his name, heard it coming from Officer Brookstone, and he knew he couldn’t stay in the crowd—hiding like a criminal.
Brookstone was reminding Gordon of the restraining order.
Another officer began moving back the closest circle of witnesses who had stayed, those who were nearest the body.
As one, they seemed to step back.
But Preston didn’t, which left him on the front row.
He stood staring, going through the possibilities in his mind and assessing his options.
Preston tore his eyes from Ryan. The man hadn’t been his friend, but neither had he been his enemy. He was someone trying to find the right path in life, and now his journey had ended. There was no doubt that he’d died quickly, probably instantly. From the sound of the shot and the size of the wound, Preston would guess the murderer had used a .38 caliber handgun at close range, and obviously no silencer since the sound had carried to where Preston had stood outside the inn.
Amber’s voice pulled his attention away from the body. “I didn’t see who pulled the trigger, but I know who killed Ryan.”
At those words, or maybe it was more the crack in her voice, Preston stepped forward, one foot after another, until he was standing close to Amber and looking down at Ryan Duvall.
Gordon moved back and put his hand on the butt of his firearm.
Amber had insisted it wasn’t Preston, that she knew who had fired the gun. Preston heard her as if from a distance. One look at Gordon’s face told him the officer wasn’t convinced.
Mocha whined, and Preston realized for the first time that he still hadn’t leashed the dog. He reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out the leash, and that was when Gordon raised his gun.
“Hands where I can see them, Johnstone.”
Preston froze.
“This is ridiculous.” Amber pushed in between Gordon and Preston, though Tate made a desperate attempt to snatch her back. “You’re not listening. I know who did this.”
Gordon’s eyes were still locked on Preston. He held his gun steady, and used his chin to nod. “Hands, up and away from the jacket.”
Preston did so, slowly, in as non-threatening a manner as he could muster. “I was going for the leash—the leash for my dog.”
Gordon barked orders to one of the officers, a young woman who looked as if she was fr
esh out of the police academy.
She stepped forward, met Preston’s gaze, and checked him. She ran her fingers up and down his arms, patted down his jacket and the back of his waistband, then checked for an ankle holster.
“He’s clear.”
“May I leash my dog now?”
Gordon nodded, even as he reached for his cuffs. Amber was still arguing with him, insisting he had the wrong guy, when two athletic men in suits stepped up and flashed their ID. “Federal investigators.”
“I’m Watkins,” the larger of the two said. “That’s Snyder. We’d like to offer our assistance.”
“Gordon Avery. You’re offering assistance on a homicide?” Gordon spoke into his radio, telling someone he wanted the forensic team on scene and he wanted them there five minutes ago. His eyes still locked on Preston, he waved away the two men. “Local matter. No, thank you.”
“Agreed. It is local, but if it has anything to do with the poison—”
“Poison? Someone’s been poisoned? The last thing we need to deal with this morning is that crazy poison poet.” Pam’s hand was shaking as she stepped forward and reached out to Amber. “Come away from there, honey. You can’t help Ryan now.”
“Who was poisoned?” Amber asked.
“We can’t discuss that, ma’am.”
Gordon studied the crowd, then turned to the woman who had frisked Preston. Three other officers remained vigilant, spread in a circle around the body, facing the crowd so that they formed a type of barrier between Ryan and the folks who had stayed to watch the tragedy unfold. “Make sure that tape is strung up to create a twenty-foot perimeter. Call in more help if you need it. We want witness reports from anyone who saw anything.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Gordon’s hand moved away from his cuffs. “I’ll be in Amber’s office. Call me when the forensics team is done.”
“My office?” Amber’s hands came up to push back her hair, and Preston could see that she was still trembling. She stared at her hands a moment, as if she couldn’t quite fathom how they’d become covered in blood, then dropped them to her side.
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