Secrets of Harmony Grove

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “What about the dog’s pain and suffering?” I asked, though why I was sounding angry at this man I had no idea. He had been the victim here, not the perpetrator.

  I had never really liked Burl, but I realized now that he must be a good man to have forgiven his old friend of something like this. I wondered if somewhere along the way he might have been influenced by the Amish, who were emphatic on the topic of forgiveness. That would be about the only way I could think of to explain Burl’s ability to get over such a major transgression.

  “It takes a big man to forgive something like this,” I added.

  “Aw, my daddy didn’t care about that ol’ dog. He was jus’ happy to get some money.”

  “I was talking about you, Burl.”

  He glanced at me, eyes wide, and then he blushed and looked away.

  “When it happened with the dog,” he said gruffly, “your grandpa said that it musta been like in that famous book by, uh, Steinbrenner, I think, about the two brothers and the mouse?”

  I thought about that as he walked around the side of the building and retrieved a heavier piece of equipment, one with a handle and wheels. He lifted and rolled it to the doorway of the springhouse, and then he tried to get it inside and down the steps. I jumped in to help, and though he insisted on doing it alone, I insisted even harder on helping. Together, we got it over the threshold and down the steps, where the air was perceptively cooler inside.

  “Steinbeck?” I said, coming up with the name at last. “Of Mice and Men?” Looking around at the mossy stone chamber, I realized Burl had already brought several other pieces of equipment in here too and had propped them against the side wall, ready for use.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Mister Abe tol’ us how the retarded fellow in that story would just be loving on a mouse and would love it too hard and would end up killing it by accident.”

  So that was what my grandfather had done, explained this aberration in his son by giving it a literary reference? I had news for him. I had read that book, and the deaths caused by the man in the story had happened because he didn’t know his own strength, not because of anything that involved killing for pleasure. Not at all. To my understanding, that was the territory of serial killers, not simple but lovable literary characters. Watching Burl roll his machine to the base of the ladder and set it there, I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, everything shifting and realigning within my brain.

  No wonder the police thought Emory was a person of interest.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Burl wasn’t finished with his work, but he was clearly finished talking with me. He flipped on the machine, which I had a feeling was an air compressor, and then he grabbed some tools and headed up the ladder to go at his repairs from the inside.

  The sound of the machine reverberated within the old stone building so loudly that it hurt my ears. Stepping out of the building and onto the grass, I looked toward my uncle’s house just fifteen feet or so away and wondered if I could ever face him again. Had I ever known who he really was at all?

  It happened a long, long time ago, I told myself, but that didn’t help. All I could think was that any person—whether mentally disabled or not—who could kill an animal for no reason was one very sick, deranged monster. If Emory had done that to his only friend’s dog years ago, would he have hesitated to do the same to a person now?

  Emory was so protective of the grove, I had to wonder. Could he have caught Troy in there digging around and messing it up and then attacked him out of anger? Surely, that was the question Mike had been asking himself as well, regardless of Emory’s alibi. I had never really seen Emory angry before, but I had certainly seen him agitated. Was he really capable of something like this?

  Suddenly the familiar panic surged up again, and as my heart pounded and my hands began to sweat, I knew I had to do something fast if I didn’t want to end up completely incapacitated. Pressing my hand against the solid barrel of my gun for reassurance, I tried deep breathing, tried telling myself all of my little sayings, tried my three-sentence prayer.

  Keep me safe, keep me from harm, keep me in your loving arms.

  Keep me safe, keep me from harm, keep me in your loving arms.

  Nothing helped.

  Feeling almost dizzy from anxiety, I moved toward the driveway. Right now, more than anything, I needed to put some distance between myself and my uncle. Not sure where else to go but wanting to be safe, I walked over to rejoin the police. As I went I realized that most of the cops were no longer in the barn but were out in the grove instead. Mike was standing with several others in the shade of a nearby tree, but when he saw me he broke away and came walking over.

  “There you are,” he said. “I was looking for you earlier. Wanted to let you know…” His voice trailed off as he stepped closer and got a good look at my face. “Sienna? Are you okay? You look sick. I mean, you look fine, but you look as though you feel sick.”

  Acknowledge the anxiety to someone else, I could hear my counselor say. Admitting it freely robs it of its power.

  “I’m having a panic attack,” I whispered, my heart now pounding so loudly that I felt sure he could hear it too.

  He bent his knees slightly so that we were eye to eye, looked at me intently, and asked if something had happened. “Something new, I mean? Just now?”

  I shook my head, so ashamed of my trembling hands, of the sweat that was making my clothes cling to my body.

  “I was talking to Burl. He told me about Emory. About his arrests. The news just…it got to me.” I wanted to tell Mike it wasn’t a big deal in itself, that it was simply tapping into my own personal trauma from ten years ago. But my throat had grown so tight that it was hard to get words out. “I’ll be all right. I promise. It’s just my own…baggage. Things here keep stirring up feelings from the other…From the past.”

  “Gotcha,” Mike replied softly. Then he did the strangest thing. He simply stood up straight, placed one hand on each side of my shoulders, and pulled me toward him, just slightly, tilting his head forward so that his temple pressed firmly against mine.

  “Put your hands on my elbows, close your eyes, and just breathe,” he whispered, holding both of us perfectly still. Somehow, I found our strange stance instantly comforting and protective, as if we were in water and had formed a three-point hold to buffet ourselves against the waves. We stood there like that for some time, his hands strong and firm on my shoulders, the skin of his cheek blazing against mine.

  “I once had a dear friend who suffered from an anxiety disorder,” he said softly without moving. “She taught me how to help.”

  Closing my eyes, I wondered if I could teach this stance to Heath. Then I wondered if it was wrong of me to wonder whether Heath, with his feelings about nonresistance and his aversion to guns, could ever make me feel as safe as Mike was making me feel right now.

  “This does help,” I whispered. “Very much.”

  I knew we couldn’t stay like that forever, especially with others around. Finally, I told him I was okay and he could let go. He did as I asked, though he seemed reluctant to move away from me completely.

  “You need to do something physical, to exert yourself,” he said, trying to gauge by looking into my eyes whether I really was okay or not.

  “I saw my old punching bag behind the shed. But that’s too much trouble. I’d have to put all of the junk away first.”

  “Maybe you could jog the track around the grove a couple of times.”

  “I’d love to, but it’s not safe,” I replied, shaking my head. “Not yet, anyway. Not for sure.”

  Gesturing toward the grove, he assured me that with this many people around, he doubted that either murderers or wild animals or anything else could do anyone much harm today.

  “Between my department and the game commission and the USDA, we have about eight different teams in there looking for evidence. Must be forty or fifty people, at least. You’ll be safe. Just stick to the path so you don’t land in a hole
and twist an ankle.”

  “Have they found more holes out there?” I asked, noting that though my heart was still pounding furiously in my chest, my breathing was already a little more steady and sure.

  “In three different areas of the grove, yes. For one man, Troy did a lot of digging in just two days’ time.”

  “He must have been desperate to find those diamonds,” I replied.

  Running a hand through my hair and gathering it up off of my neck to cool down, I felt grateful that this man had been here in this moment to help me through. The panic was beginning to subside.

  “I do feel better. But you’re right, a quick run really would help right now.”

  “Then go for it. Stick to the outside path, and I’ll let everyone know we have a jogger coming through.”

  Before I could object, he whipped out his radio and started talking into it. I could feel the hot burn of my cheeks as I listened, waiting to hear what he would say and hoping he wouldn’t totally embarrass me.

  “Heads up, people, this is Weissbaum. I’ve asked Miss Collins to take a jog around the outer path of the grove a few times, just to give the whole place a once-over to see if she notices anything else amiss. Don’t interrupt her and don’t get in her way. Clear?”

  After a moment came the replies:

  “Clear.”

  “Got it.”

  “Understood.”

  And so on.

  Tucking his radio back onto his belt, Mike grinned at me mischievously and said that should suffice. “I’ll be here when you make it all the way back around, if you need me.”

  Studying the angled plains of his cheeks, the strong features, the intense eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder how this handsome man could be so kind despite working in a field where he dealt with criminals and violence and evil as a matter of course day after day.

  “Thank you,” I said softly before turning to go. “Oh, wait. What were you going to tell me?”

  “What?”

  “A few minutes ago. You said you had been looking for me to let me know something.”

  “Oh yeah. To let you know that the investigation has been expanded and that these other government agencies are joining in on it. Right now your driveway is probably as full of cars as it was last night. I just didn’t want you to worry if you went back over and saw that.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I didn’t ask if there was some specific reason for this new development or if it was all part of his investigation. But as I reached the path and moved from a walking pace into a slow jog, the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground began pounding out the words over and over: government agency, government agency, government agency.

  Did the investigation that had gotten me suspended involve any of the officials out here now? Was it possible that some of the people who had parked in my driveway weren’t even really here to learn more about Troy’s death but about me or my B and B instead?

  Feeling powerless and afraid I might once again be overwhelmed with panic, I forced my mind away from these unanswerable questions and instead decided to focus on my run, on the task that Mike had fictitiously laid out for me. I decided to actually look things over now, nodding at each cluster of people I passed, allowing my eyes to scan the grove around me for anything that might feel like a red flag. Focusing on something outside of myself seemed to help almost immediately.

  Just the sight of these beautiful trees, of the flashes of red and yellow and orange among the green, of the sun-dappled shade flickering on the path ahead of me, was so calming and peaceful that I already felt a hundred times better. I wasn’t thrilled to be running in blue jeans with a heavy gun strapped to my waist, but I could deal with it. This wasn’t about physical fitness anyway but about mental fitness. At least I wasn’t jogging in slacks and heels.

  I had come into the grove just past the German Gate, turning right to run forward toward the main road as I went around the wide oval, the grove on my left. I knew that the full loop of the path equaled exactly one mile, which meant that an easy jog should take about ten or twelve minutes to get all the way around once. Hopefully, just once would do. There were so many more important things I should be accomplishing than merely running from a panic attack.

  After jogging slowly for just a few minutes, I reached the first big curve, which turned me so that I was running parallel to the main road. I slowed to a walk as I neared the midpoint for this side, the entrance to the grove we always called the Peace Gate. Reaching the gate now, I paused to look up at it and enjoy its optical illusion, the curving wrought iron that at first glance always seemed to form a simple, abstract design but upon further study revealed within that design the outline of doves—some in flight, some nesting, one perched on a wrought iron limb. The inscription for this gate read:

  This was the Golden Age that, without coercion, without laws,

  spontaneously nurtured the good and the true…Without the use of

  armies, people passed their lives in gentle peace and security.

  The markers in this section were similarly utopian and benign, much as they were at the opposite end of the grove, in the area around that we called the Corn Gate. Filled with images of peace and prosperity and good will, for the most part they were simply boring. As kids, we much preferred the more dramatic verses in the center of the grove that dealt with the ill-fated romance of the poem.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Collins?” a voice called, and I looked up to see a cluster of technicians working nearby, eyeing me with concern, as if I had found something questionable in my survey of the grove.

  “No. No problem at all. I was just admiring the beautiful gate.”

  “This whole grove is beautiful,” one of the women in the group said as they got back to work. “Once this case gets solved, it really ought to be opened up to the public, you know?”

  “That’s true,” I said, giving them a wave as I started moving again. As I ran I wondered why my grandfather had chosen to keep the grove private and within the family rather than donate it in his will to be used as a public park.

  Maybe because diamonds really are hidden in here. Maybe he couldn’t risk taking this place public because someone else might find them before we did.

  Trying to keep my mind clear and refusing to think about that now, I continued jogging along the path and around the curve that positioned me so that I was running away from the main road, with the B and B off to my right. In a few minutes I would reach the grove’s main entrance, the gate with the two arrows and the words “Harmony Grove.”

  For some reason, that was the gate that always made me miss my grandfather the most—probably because of the many times I had seen him standing there in its opening, surveying the grove in front of him, and observing us children as we ran and laughed and wove in and among the trees.

  Though we had visited here a lot when I was a child, always spending plenty of time when we came, I hadn’t loved the man who was my father’s father, mostly because I hadn’t known him well enough. Abe Collins had been an incredibly silent person, and when he spoke at all it was always about mundane matters, never of thoughts or memories or revelations or matters of the heart. Lack of communication had been a big issue during his marriage to Grandma Maureen. Though he hadn’t been much of a husband to her, he had been a good father to his two sons and had deeply loved them both to the day he died. Grandpa Abe had been so reclusive in his lifetime that we had expected his funeral to be a quiet affair, with only a few family members and neighbors in attendance. Instead, we had been deeply touched by the entire Coblentz clan, who had come out in force, filling the parking lot with their buggies and the pews with their peaceful stillness. At the front of the room had been no casket, open or closed, but instead a single, framed photo of my grandfather, who had asked that his body be cremated instead. Thanks to a very thorough eulogy given by his pastor, by the end of that service I knew more about Grandpa Abe than I had ever learned during his lifetime.

 
Passing the main gate now, I pictured him and thought of all the surprising facts I had learned about him the day of his funeral.

  Born to Amish parents, the youngest son of seven children, Abe Coblentz had shown a flair for art at a very young age. Afraid his special talents might create pride in the young man, his parents had attempted to channel his artistic abilities in a practical and useful direction by arranging for an apprenticeship with a blacksmith once Abe’s official schooling was complete. A quick study and a hard worker, Abe had soon proven himself invaluable on the job.

  He was sixteen and still working for the blacksmith when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. One by one, each of his older brothers had been called into the service and subsequently approved for conscientious objector status, though their road during the war years had not been easy. Tormented by soldiers, demeaned by officials, and treated almost like prisoners of war throughout every stateside work assignment they had been given, Abe’s brothers had written home weekly, asking for prayer for the strength to endure. In the fall of 1942, the government lowered the age of the draft from twenty-one to eighteen, so by the following February Abe’s invitation from Uncle Sam had arrived as well.

  Soon he, too, was approved for CO status, but unlike his brothers, Abe had shocked his entire family by requesting to serve in the war as a noncombatant. Once all the red tape had been cut, Abe found himself in training as an army medic, after which he was sent to Europe and into the very heart of the action.

  Not much was known about Abe’s war years, except that they had changed him in many ways. Rumors back home were wild and varied—that he was a coward, that he was a hero, that the men in his battalion hated him, that they loved and respected him—though no one knew which rumors were true and which were not. About all that was known for sure was that, as a member of a unit of the American Fourth Armored Division of the Third Army, Abe had been among those liberating several Nazi concentration camps, including Ohrdruf and Buchenwald.

  Abe had not been baptized into the Amish faith before going off to war, but his entire family had held out hope that once he returned he would confess and repent of his sins of supporting the war effort, join the church, and find himself an Amish bride. Instead, word was received in the summer of 1945 that Abe had married a survivor of Buchenwald, a Jewish woman named Daphne, and that he intended to stay there in Europe after his tour of duty was complete. Months later, the family learned that Abe and Daphne were expecting a baby, due to be born just a few weeks after their first anniversary.