by P. L. Gaus
Ricky turned at a corner with a tidy pink stucco cottage under bushy cranberry trees, and then they saw a single-wide trailer of fifties vintage, with a broad, green-roofed carport over a patch of concrete only half long enough for a car to park. Under the roof, there sat an electric-motored wheelchair with the battery connected to a charger plugged into an outlet at the side of the house. The bicycle parked on the sun-withered lawn had a wicker basket fixed over the back fender, and next to it sat a three-wheeled cart with an electric battery and motor mounted underneath the frame.
Next came a weathered wood shanty that was improbably small, and then a cottage big enough to sleep only two or three people, with three tall solitaire palms waving overhead. On the next lot, there stood an old house painted a faded lilac, with a newer cottage built close against its side, tall jacarandas sweeping their wispy leaves against the blue sky overhead. Beyond the jacarandas, three trailers were lined up side by side, and on a larger lot further into the neighborhood, five more trailers fanned out to guard a semicircle lined with saw palmettos, with a broken sidewalk leading out to the lane. Other houses in the community were newer, but they were all uniformly small. Their windows were tiny, often shaded with canvas or wood awnings, and where there were carports beside the houses, adult-sized tricycles were parked in the shade of the covers.
At the address provided by Sergeant Orton, Ricky found Mrs. Laver’s single-wide trailer, three blocks south of the Pinecraft Post Office shed, on the street with the Mennonite Tourist Church. When they knocked on the door, it was answered by a silver-haired woman, wearing a plain gray dress that reached her ankles. Her hair was up in a bun, and instead of a prayer cap, she had tied a simple white cloth over her head. She wore neither jewelry nor makeup, and she greeted the two men with a simple, “Yes,” studying Niell’s uniform with intelligent eyes set off by a deep Florida tan.
Niell explained briefly their interest in Jacob Miller, and Mrs. Laver nodded and stepped aside to admit them into her small trailer home. She turned them left, into a living area with two soft chairs, and once they were seated, she excused herself, stepped into the kitchen area, and pulled a pitcher of iced tea out of her little refrigerator. Without asking, she poured tea into two green plastic tumblers, and brought the drinks to the men. Once they had each tasted it, she pulled a dining chair into the living area and asked, “Sugar?”
Branden answered, “No, thank you,” but Ricky handed his glass back, saying, “If you don’t mind.”
Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Laver stirred sugar into Ricky’s glass, and she carried it back to him, saying, “Jacob Miller came here nearly half a dozen times, I think. Anyway, it was something like six times, beginning September, a year ago.”
Ricky sipped tea and waited. Once Mrs. Laver was seated, he asked, “Did he just sleep here, or did he take his meals here, too?”
“Oh, he just used my spare room. It’s my sewing room, but he put a mattress on the floor and just slept here.”
Thinking about that, she added, “The only reason he stayed here, I suppose, is that he used to know my William, and since they were friends, I let him sleep here. He said he didn’t have a lot of money, but then, he did hire a private driver.”
Branden asked, “Do you know what he was doing, when he came down here?”
“He was out chasing around,” Mrs. Laver frowned. “Like I said, he hired a driver. He could have gone anywhere, for all I knew. Sometimes, he came back late, after I had retired.”
“You gave him a key?” Ricky asked.
“Oh, we don’t lock our doors, here, Deputy.”
“Was he just a tourist, do you think?” Ricky led.
“Right at first, I would guess so. Yes. But the last few times he was here, he was definitely looking for someone.”
“Do you know who?” Branden asked.
“The mother of a friend, was all he told me. But I gather she had died. Then, that last time, he was looking for someone else. But the only reason I know that is because he had an argument with his driver. Something about running all over Cortez and Bradenton Beach. The driver wanted better pay. Said it was going to take all day, and he had other things he could be doing.”
Ricky thought. “Was he here yesterday? Or maybe the day before?”
“No.”
“When was his last visit?” Branden asked.
“It was summer, this year,” Mrs. Laver said. She held up a finger, rose, consulted a wall calendar, and sat back down, saying, “August tenth and eleventh.”
Branden looked over to Niell. “Maybe he moved into a hotel.”
“I think he did,” Mrs. Laver offered. “That August eleventh, he packed his bag and told his driver to run him up to a motel in Bradenton Beach.”
“Do you know how long he stayed that time?” Ricky asked.
“No, and after that time, he didn’t come back here anymore.”
Ricky stroked a finger over his mustache. “Up in Ohio, Mrs. Laver, Jacob Miller was not known as a very generous man.”
“If you ask me,” Mrs. Laver said, “he was stingy.”
Smiling, Ricky asked, “Why do you say that?”
“He promised to help me with the rent, but he never gave me a dime. He ate snacks out of my refrigerator at night, too, and he never gave me a dime to help out.”
Leading the conversation, Branden said, “I suppose most people who visit down here expect to help out with food or rent.”
Mrs. Laver nodded. “The buses can bring anyone. So you don’t always know who is coming down. Folks up north don’t always give much warning. We all just ride our carts and tricycles up to the church parking lot and meet the buses whenever they come in. One day you’ll have company, and the next—maybe for a week or two—you won’t have anyone. But we all know each other, and whoever shows up, we find a place for them to stay.”
Still interested, Branden asked, “What do people do when they get down here?”
Mrs. Laver laughed and spoke through a broad smile. “Why, they ‘hit the beaches,’ Professor.”
“On the buses,” Branden concurred. “We just saw some kids at Lido Beach.”
Mrs. Laver nodded with a smile. “A whole family will go for the day. Parents, kids, grandfolks. They can ride the buses just about anywhere down here, and the first place they all want to go is Siesta or Lido. The beaches.”
“Do they do anything else?” Ricky asked. “Boats, fishing, shopping?”
“Oh, we all like to window-shop. And some go over to the causeway pier to fish. But mostly they go to sit on the beach. Walk in the surf. Maybe take a dinner cruise to look at the sunset over the water.”
“Then,” Branden said, “it really was unusual that Jacob Miller hired a driver to take him around, privately. If he were just a tourist, like everyone else, he could have taken a bus for far less money.”
Laver nodded. “Or, he could have gotten a ride somewhere in one of the vans people hire out. You know, to go to the malls. I think Jacob might have gone to the beach once, the first time he came down. After that, he went nosing around on his own. Nosing around all over the keys. Up to Bradenton Beach, even Anna Maria Island. He wasn’t on a vacation. Not Jacob Miller. He was looking for someone. And his driver wasn’t too happy about it, either.”
28
Friday, October 9
12:15 P.M.
CAL KNOCKED on Darba’s front screened door, and it was Katie Shetler who answered, dressed in plain surf turquoise, with a black bonnet on her head. She pushed the screened door open for Cal and held her finger to her lips, whispering, “Darba just fell asleep.”
Cal came in and asked softly, “Is she any better?” and Katie shook her head.
They sat in upholstered rockers in the living room, and Katie said, “She was up all night, Cal. Pacing the halls. She mutters ‘Billy’s not dead,’ like someone told her he was.”
“We really don’t know for sure,” Cal said, “but a Sergeant Orton in Bradenton Beach thinks he was killed by th
e same man who killed Spiegle and Miller.”
“But, why would he do all of that?” Katie asked, consternation plain on her face.
“Mike Branden explained a lot of that to me,” Cal said. “He called just now, from Florida.”
Cal told her what he had learned from the professor about Jacob Miller’s murder, and then he said, “Glenn Spiegle was driving drunk, Katie, when he was twenty-two. Billy was riding with him, and they killed a young girl with Spiegle’s car. She was only sixteen, and her father has always wanted Spiegle dead. Mike Branden figures that Spiegle was hiding from his past, up here. That he was hiding from Conrad Render.”
“We thought he just wanted to live Amish,” Katie said, shaking her head.
“He did, Katie. But he also knew Mr. Render would kill him, if he ever found him.”
“How did he find him, Cal?”
“I don’t know, but Jacob Miller has been nosing around down there, and maybe he tipped Render off. Maybe he told him, somehow, where to look for Spiegle.”
“Why would he tell him that?”
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just asking around about Spiegle, down in Florida, and Render caught on. Maybe Render followed Miller home one time, and figured out where Spiegle was.”
Katie shook her head sadly. “How is anyone ever going to know what really happened?”
Cal said, “We’re going to try to see how many times Miller went to Florida, and how many times Render came up here. Maybe there’ll be a pattern in their travels.”
Shrugging, Katie said, “It really doesn’t matter, Cal. The harm has been done.”
“No, I suppose not,” Cal said. “But Bruce Robertson is going to want to solve the Spiegle murder, if he can. Solve the Miller murder, too.”
“I thought you said that the professor said that they have a witness to the murder of Jacob Miller.”
“They do,” Cal said. “But now they want to catch the murderer.”
“What good will that do?” Katie asked. “It’ll just put more lives at risk.”
Cal smiled. “They wouldn’t just let it go, Katie.”
“They would if they were wise.”
There was another knock at the door, and Katie rose and opened the screened door for Evelyn Carson.
Carson came in and asked, “How is she?” She nodded at Cal.
“Sleeping,” Katie said, finger to her lips to whisper.
Carson took a seat on the couch. Cal related what he knew from his conversation with Mike Branden that morning, and finished by saying, “We were hoping you could tell Darba that Billy is probably dead.”
Behind them, from the long hallway back to her bedroom, they heard Darba say, assertively, “Billy’s not dead.”
When they stood to look back into the hallway, Darba came forward in her robe, saying, “Billy can’t be dead,” tears streaming her cheeks, her fingers knotting in tangles in front of her robe.
Carson stepped forward and brought Darba into the living room. Once she was seated, Darba shook her head, sluggish from the drugs, and said, “I just wanted them to have a safe place.”
“What, Darba?” Carson asked. “What are you talking about?”
“My Rum Room,” Darba said. “I just wanted kids like Vesta and Crist to have a safe place to go. To get away from their families for a while. To get away from Vesta’s father. A safe place for Rumspringe. A place to run wild.”
“It’s not your fault,” Carson said.
“It is,” Darba muttered. “It’s all my fault.”
“No, Darba,” Cal said. “This is Jacob Miller’s fault. He’s the one who pushed Vesta and Crist away.”
“And Mr. Render,” Katie added. “He’s the one who killed Glenn Spiegle.”
Darba turned her dull eyes to Katie. “Is he the one you think has killed my Billy?”
Katie turned to Cal, and Darba looked to him, too. Cal said, “Yes, Darba. We think he killed Billy.”
Darba pushed up and started down the hallway toward her bedroom, pronouncing, “You just don’t understand. Billy can’t be dead.”
* * *
Back outside, on Darba’s driveway, Cal asked Katie, “Do you think Leon is going to need any help with the Millers today?”
Katie shook her head. “He has the whole church helping, Cal. They’ll all be over there now, to sit with them.”
“Then can I bring anything?” Cal asked. “Food, drinks, something like that?”
“We Amish know how to tend to these matters better than anyone, Cal.”
“I know,” Cal said, smiling. “I’ll use the time to go see Vesta.”
“She’ll need to talk to someone,” Katie agreed.
Cal opened his truck door and paused before he got in. The clouds overhead were thicker and darker than when he had arrived, with a cold breeze blowing over the hilltops. “Do you know why Jacob Miller was so confident that he could get Spiegle to propose to Vesta?”
“No, Cal,” Katie said, hugging herself in the cold wind. “But, if you ask me, he shouldn’t have even tried.”
Cal nodded agreement. “Was he really like that? You know—thought he could boss his family like that?”
Katie nodded. “Leon was working on that. The bishop would have gotten that under control.”
Cal thought, studying dark clouds that were rolling in from the west. “Are you coming back here, today?”
“Later,” Katie said. “Along towards supper.”
“I have a friend who could use a little company. Maybe have a talk.”
“Who, Cal? Talk about what?”
“The professor’s wife, Caroline. She killed a man last year, in self-defense.”
“And now she’s sorry?”
“Tormented by remorse is more like it,” Cal said.
“I could talk to her. Maybe you could bring some pizzas.”
“When should I come out? About five or six, tonight?”
Katie nodded. “And I think she should talk with the bishop. He knows a thing or two about the torment of remorse.”
29
Friday, October 9
12:50 P.M.
ON MRS. Laver’s recommendation, Ricky pulled into the back parking lot at Yoder’s Restaurant on Bahia Vista Street and found a parking spot at the edge of some shade. Around front at the crowded door, they took a place in line to wait for a lunch table, sandwiched between a retired Amish couple ahead of them and a tourist family behind them, with three kids squabbling over two coloring books.
The line moved toward the door only slowly, and while they waited in the heat, trying to take advantage of a thin line of shade next to the building, Ricky offered the occasional speculative comment.
“Maybe Jacob Miller killed Spiegle,” he said.
“Motive?” Branden asked, eyeing the line ahead for movement.
“Don’t know,” Ricky answered. “Maybe Miller found out why Spiegle was in Holmes County.”
“And what, Ricky? Blackmailed Spiegle?”
An Amish couple came out of the restaurant, the lady carrying a take-home box, her husband picking at his teeth with a round toothpick.
“Could be,” Ricky said. “He could have blackmailed him, to force him to propose to Vesta.”
“She never would have married him. Spiegle had to know that.”
“OK,” Ricky offered, “then Miller could have demanded money from Spiegle. To keep quiet.”
The line shuffled forward.
“If that were the case, why would Miller kill Spiegle?”
“Back to that,” Ricky sighed. “OK, maybe Miller told Render where to find Spiegle.”
“More likely,” Branden said, “Render followed Miller or Billy Winters home a time or two and found Spiegle himself.”
“Then Rachel should find records of those trips,” Ricky said. “But a guy like Render would travel under an alias.”
“True,” Branden said, and Ricky nodded and opened his phone.
Ricky punched in Sergeant Orton’s number,
and after he had him on the phone, he asked, “Ray Lee, can you give us any aliases that Conrad Render has used in the past?”
After listening briefly, Ricky said, “OK, wait a minute,” and he fished a notepad out of his uniform breast pocket. Then with Branden turned around so he could write against his back, Ricky wrote as he repeated the names, “Daniel Walters. Scuddy Hawk. Peter Williams. Bobbie Jackmann. William Jeffries. OK, thanks, Ray Lee.”
* * *
As their line for lunch inched forward, Ricky called Bruce Robertson with his list of aliases for Conrad Render, and when he switched off, he said to Branden, “That’s funny. The sheriff said he was ‘taking a lesson’ at Rachel Ramsayer’s house. He said he’d have her run the aliases right then. He’s gonna have her work for the sheriff’s office, checking travel lists with the bus company, and with the airlines out of Akron/Canton and Cleveland.”
“Why is that funny?” Branden asked. They were inside the door now, joining the press of people waiting in front of the hostess’s podium.
Ricky studied the tables where people still sat with their meals. “It’s funny that Bruce Robertson would be taking lessons from Rachel, is all.”
“What kind of lessons?”
“Don’t know.”
The line moved forward as a party of six people was seated, and Ricky’s phone chirped. He answered it, listened, frowned, and said, “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
As he threaded a path back through the line to the outside of the restaurant, Ricky said over his shoulder, “That was Orton. The sheriff of Manatee County is organizing a joint team with the Coast Guard, to search the fish camps that Conrad Render keeps on the Manatee River.”
* * *
While Branden drove back north on Longboat Key, mumbling about missing lunch, Ricky got Orton on the phone again.
“Are we going out on a Coast Guard vessel?” Ricky asked. “They’ve got those UTB-41 boats, up on Lake Erie.”