“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Rachel?” a young voice called. “Rachel?”
“In here, Stephanie,” Rachel called. “Gotta go, Joe.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
A wave of tropical scents hit Rachel as soon as Stephanie entered the room. The girl had obviously helped herself liberally to the inexpensive bath salts Anna bought Rachel each and every Christmas. They’d been accumulating for a while. Rachel figured she’d finally found a good use for them.
“Feel better?” she asked the girl.
Stephanie’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah. I’m ready for the movie now.”
Rachel tucked her into the corner of her couch with an afghan and started the movie. Stephanie divided her attention between the movie and detangling her mass of curly black hair.
The girl is beautiful, Rachel thought as she went to make popcorn. As she waited for the microwave to finish, she glanced into a mirror over the kitchen sink. What she saw when she looked in the mirror was…just okay.
She knew she could attract more male attention if she bothered with makeup or a fancier hairstyle, but most of the time she’d rather spend her free time at the shooting range.
Joe’s wife, however, had been truly gorgeous. A woman didn’t become a Miss Texas runner-up without knowing her way around a mascara wand. Grace probably wouldn’t have been caught dead in the clothes Rachel habitually wore.
Caught dead. Was she jealous of a dead woman?
Grace was evidently the kind of woman Joe preferred. She was probably the kind of woman who had her nails done on a regular basis and owned shoes to match every outfit. She probably even wore underwear that matched—every day.
Rachel’s mouth quirked at that thought. Her underwear matched. It was white. All of it.
The microwave’s bell went off, and she dumped the contents of the bag into a large bowl.
She was who she was. A small-town police officer whose beauty routine consisted of soap, water, and whatever shampoo was on sale when she ran out. She kept her nails short and her shoes low, and her off-duty clothes—even with the new ones she had just purchased—could fit into a large suitcase with room to spare.
She put a half stick of butter into a bowl and watched it melt in the microwave.
Joe’s good looks had probably made a whole lot of women’s hearts flutter. He was probably accustomed to women falling at his feet. She’d have to make certain their relationship stayed on a friendship-only basis. Not a problem for him. More of a problem for her.
Someday he would leave Sugarcreek and go back to his former life. Just because he was keeping a low profile and she was the only woman his age in his life right now, it wouldn’t be smart to start thinking she could ever be anything more to him than a friend. Men like him probably had to fight women off in every city they went. They married movie stars and fashion models. They did not fall for women who carried guns and locked up drunks for a living.
Although, deep down, she wished they did.
She squared her shoulders. So, okay. She would value their new relationship for what it was—a friendship—and when she was in her dotage, she’d be one of those old people who would tell people who didn’t really want to hear how she had once known the great baseball player Micah Mattias.
She saturated Stephanie’s popcorn with melted butter and then popped a low-fat bowl for herself. Her figure wasn’t a huge factor in her decision to forgo the calories, but her speed and endurance as a law officer were. As a woman, she had to have every advantage she could—and staying at peak form was part of the tools of her trade.
She would need to be in peak form if she was going to watch Joe’s back as she had promised. A man like him couldn’t hide from the public forever.
Joe stared at the book on archaeology that lay open in front of him. Slowly he turned the pages. Once again, on the twentieth page, was another twenty-dollar bill. A small pile grew as he leafed through the book. Over five hundred dollars had been secreted between its heavy pages, all stuck with a dot of rubber cement.
He pulled another book off the shelf, this time one at eye-level, and leafed through it. Nothing. He pulled another one out. Again, nothing. He stepped back, far enough away that he could see the entire wall of books at one time. There was something odd about the configuration, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong.
Then he realized that the largest books were shelved on the very top. That made little sense. Most people would choose to put the largest books on the bottom shelves. Especially for an aged man like Abraham.
Joe pulled another book off the top shelf, settled down at his desk, and turned to page 20.
Another twenty-dollar bill.
Page 40. A ten.
Again and again, he found the books on the top shelf meticulously filled with either a ten- or a twenty-dollar bill.
And there were at least fifty volumes on the top shelf. He checked a few more at random. Each one held cash.
If his estimate was correct, here was several thousand dollars of the old man’s savings that apparently no one but him knew about.
He stared up at the books, wrestling with his conscience.
With this money, he could hide away with Bobby for months in the hunting cabin his college roommate had offered. He wouldn’t have to contact Henrietta or anyone else for help. It wouldn’t exactly be stealing because he would pay back every dime—eventually. His truck was right outside. Rachel was distracted by Stephanie and wouldn’t notice him quietly rolling out of town.
Even though they had grown apart over the years, he trusted his old roommate, Aaron, as much as anyone. If he could just remain anonymous a few months longer, perhaps it would buy enough time for the LA police to find the killer. Enough time for Bobby to grow up and stabilize a little more. Enough time for the media and public to bury him even further down the list of interesting topics.
The thought of leaving niggled at Joe like candy tempting a child.
He trusted Rachel. Every nerve in his body cried out that she was someone upon whom he could absolutely depend. But it was no small thing that she held his and Bobby’s immediate future in the palm of her hand.
Perhaps, he rationalized, this discovery was God’s way of encouraging him to leave while he still could. Or perhaps it was Satan tempting him to break the hearts of three elderly women who had helped him even when they didn’t know who he was.
As he pondered what to do, he wandered into Bobby’s bedroom and stood there, watching his son sleep. He did this every evening. Sometimes he checked on him several times during the night, reassuring himself that his son was still with him, still alive.
He could leave right now, in the middle of the night. The truck was running well. They could be hundreds of miles away before Rachel and the aunts even knew he was gone.
Bobby had kicked the covers off, and Joe bent to tuck them in more securely. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for this child. Was it wise to risk staying here now that he had a way out? Wasn’t protecting Bobby his top priority?
Rachel might decide, after all, to confide in one of her coworkers…or to make a few indiscreet phone calls to check further on the murder. Her logical cop’s mind must be itching with the need to try to solve this mystery. Could he trust her enough to resist the pull of solving a crime? He wasn’t sure. But one thing he was sure of—he couldn’t risk Bobby.
The image of his son proudly holding that sack of hardware came to mind. “Am I a good helper?” Bobby had asked.
“The best,” Joe whispered now, looking down on his son’s sleeping form. “You are the best helper-boy I could ever hope for.”
No, he could not allow Bobby to go through the trauma of another media circus. He had to keep Bobby safe—even if keeping him safe meant disappearing again.
Joe pulled the duffel bag out of Bobby’s closet, opened the top dresser drawer, and lifted out a small stack of tiny underwear. Oddly e
nough, toward the back of the drawer and hidden beneath the underwear was a carefully folded piece of paper Joe had never seen before. Puzzled, he opened it.
His son had drawn a crude stick-figure house with smoke curling out of the chimney. It was a simple drawing typical of a four-year-old’s concept of home. The house was purple and the smoke was yellow. In front of the house was a little boy holding hands with a man on one side. Four women held hands with the little boy on the other side. One of the women had a ponytail. The other three wore barely recognizable little prayer kapps. Everyone was smiling.
There was a sixth figure in the picture. Up in the sky where most children would have drawn a sun was a woman with long blond hair and wings. Much loving care had been put into coloring this woman. Joe knew in an instant that it was Grace. She, too, was smiling, as she looked down on Bobby and his purple house and stick-figure family.
His heart aching, Joe folded the paper with reverence and put it back beneath the tiny underwear. Bobby drew pictures all the time. Abraham’s refrigerator was covered with Bobby’s drawings. Every picture his son had ever made had been stuck under Joe’s nose to admire. At least Joe had thought he had seen every picture Bobby had ever made.
But not this one.
This one was Bobby’s secret, and it was a secret he knew he needed to allow his son to keep.
He slowly closed the top drawer, returned the duffel bag to the closet, and sat down on the edge of Bobby’s bed.
The choice of whether or not to run had been taken away from him. Bobby was not a newborn infant who could be whisked away with no conscious memory of the people left behind. He had his own worries and grief and hopes and attachments that Joe had no business destroying.
The three aunts and Rachel had been good for his little boy. The stability of living here had been healing. The changes in his son had been dramatic.
He smoothed Bobby’s tousled curls off his forehead and planted a light kiss there.
His son had drawn a picture of his family—and everyone, including Bobby, was smiling. There was no way on God’s green earth that he would destroy this bit of security to which his little boy clung.
“Whatever you do, Rachel,” Joe whispered, “please don’t betray us.”
Chapter 19
After taking pictures of Stephanie’s bruises and writing up a report with the few bits of information about “Mack” the girl had given her, Rachel took Stephanie to see the doctor.
“She’s about seven months along,” Dr. Harold Walters said. “And except for these bruises, she’s strong and healthy. There’s no reason she can’t have a normal delivery.”
The doctor moved the ultrasound wand over the girl’s protruding belly while Rachel held onto her hand. “Ah. A little girl. And look at that!”
Rachel and Stephanie both stared at the screen where the doctor pointed. “What?” Rachel asked. She couldn’t make heads or tails of the fetus—literally.
“She’s sucking her thumb,” Dr. Walters said, smiling. “I love it when they do that.”
Stephanie was entranced. “A real baby.” She tightened her grip on Rachel’s hand. “I have a real baby inside of me.” Her voice was awestruck.
“Well, it’s definitely not a doll.” The doctor chuckled. He wiped the gel off Stephanie’s belly and began putting the instruments away while Rachel helped the girl climb off the table.
“I knew it was a baby,” Stephanie said. “But it just didn’t seem real until now.”
“You have a little person inside of you that will be depending on you to take care of her,” Dr. Walters said. “You’ll have to grow up fast and make good decisions for both of you.”
“Like what?”
“Like not going back to whoever gave you these.” Dr. Walters touched a bruise on Stephanie’s arm. “Like telling us who you are. I don’t buy your amnesia story, Stephanie. I know that’s big in soap operas, but it’s pretty rare in the real world.”
Stephanie shook her head. “I really can’t remember.”
The doctor wrote out a prescription and handed it to Rachel. “It’s late in the pregnancy, but something is better than nothing. She needs to be taking these vitamins. And she needs to see me—or preferably her doctor at home—in a couple of weeks.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Rachel said.
Dr. Walters waved her thanks away. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Stephanie was chatty after they left the doctor’s office. She talked about the baby, possible names for the baby, her favorite rock groups, a boy back home she had liked before “Mack” came into the picture… .
Then she said she was hungry. Rachel stopped at Beachy’s and watched with amazement as Stephanie polished off a heaping plate of food that most truck drivers would have found daunting.
Rachel had no idea what she was going to do with the girl if she didn’t break down and give her a name and an address. She had already checked all recent missing persons reports, and Stephanie didn’t fit any of them. She hated to turn her over to Social Services—although that might eventually be her only option. Taking her in had been a stopgap measure. Not a permanent fix—although Stephanie seemed to be settling in for the long haul.
“I need to stop by and check on my aunts for a couple of minutes,” Rachel said. “Are you okay with that?”
“Sure.”
As they pulled into the farmhouse drive, Rachel saw a fresh sign at the end of the road. It read:
* * *
Cakes/Pies/Cookies/Bread
Today 8-2
Haitian Orphanage Fund-raiser
* * *
Rachel sighed. What was it with her aunts? They would rather work than eat. Of course, they seemed to enjoy both a great deal. Their idea of a perfect day was to have what they called “work frolics,” which took the form of barn raisings or quilting bees combining communal labor with large amounts of food.
As Rachel and Stephanie got out of the car, Joe strode past, pushing a wheelbarrow mounded with dirt.
“Hey there.” He set the wheelbarrow down. “Are you feeling better, Stephanie?”
“I’m having a little girl!” she said.
He turned to Rachel. “Is everything all right?”
“She’s fine. The doctor prescribed vitamins.”
“I’m glad everything is okay.” He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Any luck in remembering your last name?”
“Sorry.” The girl looked anything but.
“What does Bertha have you doing today?” Rachel was curious about the wheelbarrow’s load of dirt.
“I decided to fill in some low places in the yard. It’ll make it easier to mow come spring.”
“You’re staying until spring?” She tried not to show how pleased she felt at that news.
“We’ll see.” Joe shrugged. “I sure wouldn’t mind.”
“I see they have their sign up again.”
“Buggies and cars have been coming all morning. Lydia’s in her element. In fact, this evening I’m supposed to hitch up the buggy and go down to the IGA to purchase more supplies.”
“What am I going to do with them?” She shook her head in mock frustration.
“I think your aunts are out of your control, Rachel.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I get the distinct impression that we’re just along for the ride. Maybe Bertha too.” He chuckled. “I think Lydia may be the one calling the shots this time.”
“Can we go inside?” Stephanie pleaded. “Reading that sign made me hungry again.”
Rachel was incredulous. “You just cleaned out Beachy’s!”
Stephanie smoothed her hand over her belly and smiled like a sleek little cat. “I’m eating for two.”
“I’ll leave you women to sort that out,” Joe said. “I’d better get back to work.” Joe pushed the wheelbarrow to a dip in the front yard and began to shovel dirt.
His back was broad and the muscles beneath his T-shirt were outlined with sweat. He was s
o obviously an athlete, Rachel wondered that she hadn’t ferreted out his secret long before.
“Is Joe your boyfriend?”
Rachel’s head whipped around. She’d forgotten about Stephanie—who was watching her with interest.
“No.”
Stephanie smiled knowingly. “You look like you wish he was.”
“He’s just a friend.”
“Uh-huh. Take my word on it. That’s how it starts.”
Rachel laughed. “You’re, what, fifteen? And you’re giving me advice about relationships?”
“Face it, Rachel. The guy’s a hunk.”
Rachel smiled. In spite of everything, it was sort of fun having Stephanie around. Of course, she reminded herself, the girl must have family somewhere who were worried sick.
She headed toward the farmhouse with Stephanie trotting along beside her. “Do you wish he was your boyfriend?”
Rachel hesitated. She really didn’t know what to say. How could she explain to Stephanie that no matter how much she wished things were different, Joe was entirely out of her league?
“He’s a nice guy, Stephanie, but I don’t think he’s interested in me in that way.”
“Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.” Stephanie shook her head. “You’re never going to get a guy with that attitude. You have to go after him before someone else beats you to it.”
“You think?” Rachel stole one last glance at Joe as she entered the kitchen door.
Anna pulled back from the kitchen window when they came in. There was a small smudge on the window where she’d pressed her nose. A worry line creased her forehead. “Joe’s digging.”
“He’s just filling in holes.”
“My flowers?”
“I’m sure Joe won’t hurt your flowers, Anna.”
“Oh my!” Stephanie’s voice was filled with awe. “Look at that!”
The table and shelves were spread with three kinds of pies, several dozen cookies, and four cakes. A small cash box sat on the counter. The kitchen smelled like a bakery.
The Sugar Haus Inn Page 19