by Kelly Irvin
Old enough to know better.
The sound of something—a plate or a bowl crashing to the floor—broke the peaceful silence.
The pen slipped from her hand. She froze.
Thump, thump.
Vermin, mostly likely. A skunk or a possum or even a raccoon. They were famous for finding their way into homes and scavenging for food. It would make a big mess in her kitchen.
Or an intruder intent on stealing something no one else would miss, except her.
Mary Katherine popped from her chair and raced to the far wall where Moses’ hunting rifle rested high on a rack, its home for the last thirty-odd years. Moses wanted to make sure little hands couldn’t reach it. She stood on tiptoe and stretched until her fingers reached the stock. It was covered with dust.
She’d never shot a gun of any kind.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Funny, Moses.
“Best check to see if it’s loaded.”
As if she wouldn’t know to do that. Men were so bossy. Thankfully it was. If there were cartridges in the house now, it was news to her.
If she could reach the broom in the kitchen, she would simply sweep the critter out of the house. It likely would be more scared of her than she was of it.
Let it be a critter, Gott. Please let it be a critter. Not a two-legged vermin.
She slapped her kapp on her head despite the fact that her hair hung down her back below her waist. Even if it was vermin of the four-legged variety, it didn’t need to see her uncovered head. It wouldn’t be right. A skunk or a possum wouldn’t mind her ankle-length nightgown.
She scurried from the safety of the lit room and down the dark hall to the top of the stairs. Her eyes adjusted after a long, breathless moment.
Dish clinked against dish. A sound that could only be the door opening and closing on her propane-driven refrigerator echoed in the empty night air.
Not a four-legged vermin, then.
The two-legged variety had decided to make himself at home in her kitchen.
FOUR
Mary Katherine tightened her grip on the rifle. She eased down the stairs, avoiding the spot that squeaked on the fifth step. At the bottom she sucked in a breath. The oxygen made her light-headed.
One. Two. Three. Go.
A thin, weak light seeped from the kitchen. She stormed in. “Whoever you are, you weren’t invited.”
A man stood in the middle of her kitchen, a large sandwich made with her homemade sourdough bread and ham in one hand. A large flashlight had been set up so its light shone on the ceiling. The sandwich dropped. His hands shot into the air.
He chewed and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
At least he had the good manners not to talk with his mouth full.
“Now look what you made me do.” His blue eyes sad, he frowned and gazed at the floor. “That was a good sandwich. Homemade bread.”
“I’m glad you like the bread. I made it.” Her voice sounded cool as a December morning, much to Mary Katherine’s delight. “I always have more than enough to share, but people usually ask first.”
“I was hungry. I planned to leave an IOU. As soon as I get a job, I’ll reimburse you.”
As if that explained it all.
She let the rifle barrel shift so it was aimed at the wood floor. “At least pick up after yourself.”
As if the mess on her kitchen floor topped the list of her problems.
Without a word, he squatted and reassembled the sandwich. In the meantime Mary Katherine edged toward the lantern on the table. She lit it with surprisingly steady hands. She needed plenty of light to examine her intruder.
The nails on his bony fingers were jagged but clean. His scarred deck shoes squeaked. He wore no socks. The knobby bone of his ankle stuck out, a detail that somehow made him seem less scary. He did wear a baggy black T-shirt and faded blue jeans with white strings across holes in the knees. His sandy-brown hair sprinkled with gray was cut in an old-fashioned military flattop that thinned noticeably toward the back. Salt-and-pepper stubble darkened his chin. Lines around his blue eyes and mouth told her he was no spring chicken. Not as old as she was, but old enough to know better. His eyes were red rimmed.
“Did you break into my house to steal something?”
“Only food.” His gaze stayed on the sandwich. “Just a sandwich, I promise.”
Food had not been the object of the other break-ins. This man was hungry. Mary Katherine had food to spare. “Whatever made you think it was all right to come in my house in the middle of the night to steal a sandwich?”
“You left the door unlocked.” He rose, the bread and ham cradled in his hands. A smear of mustard decorated the spot on the floor where the sandwich had landed. “That seemed an invitation.”
In the thirty-seven years she’d lived in the house with her family, they’d never locked the door. They had nothing to steal and not much to fear in this rural community. “Not if your mother taught you any kind of manners.”
“That’s true. My mother would be horrified. Be assured she taught me better.”
Mary Katherine waited for him to elaborate. His gaze unfocused, he stared into space. The weight of the rifle increased with each passing second. “What’s your name?”
He jumped as if aware of her presence for the first time. “Burke McMillan.”
“I’m Mary Katherine. I’d say help yourself to some food, but you already did.”
“It’s not like a man takes joy in stealing food.” His voice dropped lower yet. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Takes more than a man with a ham sandwich to scare me.”
“Hence the rifle.”
What kind of burglar used the word hence? “I could’ve shot you, you know.”
“I read that you were pacifists.” He shrugged. “I assumed there weren’t any guns in the house.”
“You figured wrong. My husband liked to hunt. Most Plain men do. Throw that sandwich away. My floor is clean, but I don’t expect you to eat from it.” She settled the rifle in the corner and padded to the counter. He was right in one respect. Plain folks didn’t shoot people. “Sit. I’ll make you some eggs, bacon, and toast.”
“I may be hungry, but I promise you, I don’t eat from even the most sparkling floor.”
He had a way of talking that was delightful. A person should not be delighted by a burglar. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Sit. I’ll fix you breakfast.”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.” Disbelief dusted his words. “You really should follow your first inclination and send me packing.”
“You break into my house in the middle of the night and you don’t want to cause me any trouble?”
“There are degrees of trouble, I suppose.”
“Why did you decide to raid the refrigerator in my house?”
“I thought you’d be asleep by now. I’d be in and out without disturbing you. I didn’t count on being so clumsy. I’m not usually. But I don’t usually break into houses either.”
Concern sent a chill up Mary Katherine’s spine. He’d been watching her. On the other hand, if he’d intended to hurt her, he would’ve headed for the stairs, not the kitchen. Or maybe he needed to fortify himself first. She shivered and picked up the knife lying on the cutting board next to the hunk of ham. “I really should call for help.”
The sheriff? Would Freeman and the elders want her to involve the Englisch police in this? Probably not.
“I suppose you could run out to the phone shack.” He edged toward the door and picked up a faded blue duffel bag that gaped open. “You can put down the knife. I mean you no harm. If I did, I would’ve whipped up the stairs instead of heading for the kitchen.”
A mind reader?
“Also, I understand you are a forgiving lot. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me my trespasses, so to speak.”
The words of the Lord’s Prayer echoed in her head. She’d recited them every day of her life. Freeman and th
e others would have to forgive her. The mother in her had to feed the man. “Maybe you needed to eat first to get your strength up.”
Burke chuckled. “You’re one cool customer, Mary Katherine Ropp.”
“How do you know my last name?”
“It’s on the mailbox down the road.”
“Have you been watching me?”
“Not just you. That would be creepy. I’m a student of human nature.” His arms tightened around the duffel bag. “I’ve been . . . looking for something. I was wandering around lost and found Jamesport. You Amish folks interest me so I’ve been hanging around taking notes. Observing. Thinking.”
A notetaker like her. “Writing an article or a book, then?”
“No. Just following bread crumbs, hoping they lead me somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t lost.” He shifted and took another step toward the door. A slim paperback with a bookmark stuck near the back toppled from the bag. Burke scooped it up. “Your house probably isn’t it, though.”
“You read books?” A person who packed books at the expense of socks couldn’t be all bad. “What are you reading?”
“The Odyssey. By Homer. It’s really a poem, not a book.”
“What’s it about?”
“A man who’s on a long trip trying to get home.”
Mary Katherine pulled ham and a chunk of cheddar cheese from the refrigerator. “I’ll make you a sandwich.” She itched to look at his book. “You eat and then you go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No need to ma’am me.”
Burke cleared his throat. “I thought maybe I could do some work for you. Like a farmhand.”
“You break into my house and you expect me to give you a job?” She laid the sandwich on a white ceramic plate and added a pickle. It didn’t seem enough for a hungry man. She rummaged in the refrigerator, extracted a plastic container of macaroni salad left over from the wedding, and added a scoop to the plate. She carried his dinner to the table along with a paper napkin. Or was it a breakfast of sorts? The night had taken on a surreal feel. Maybe she was sleepwalking—and talking. “I don’t work the land. One of my sons does. We really can’t afford to hire workers.”
“I understand.” He took a huge bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed, quickly working his way through one half and then the other. Still standing by the counter and the knife, she watched and waited. He glanced her way. “I could take it to go if you’d rather I get out of your hair more quickly.”
Mary Katherine’s hand went to her head. Heat burned her cheeks. She’d forgotten the state of her hair and her dress. Or lack thereof. “That’s for the best, I reckon.”
The macaroni salad and the pickle went the way of the sandwich. It was a wonder he didn’t choke. He wiped his mouth with the napkin, folded it in half, and dropped it on the plate. He stood and picked up the plate.
“Do you have a place to go?”
“I do.”
“I don’t believe you.” Why she cared wasn’t clear. “You’re welcome to bunk in the barn for the night.”
Thin gray eyebrows rose and fell over his sharp blue eyes. “That’s probably not a great idea.”
“Are you dangerous?”
“Not to others.”
“Then the offer stands. You’ll find some old horse blankets on the shelf. Throw them on a pile of hay in the empty stall.”
He moved past her, ignoring her outstretched hand, heading to the counter where he dropped the napkin in the trash pail and placed the plate in the tub of water in the sink. “That’s very kind of you.” He washed the plate and laid it on the towel on the counter. “I’ll see myself out. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
“Or you could apply for a job at the Purple Martin Café if you’re not too proud.”
“They have an opening?” He dried his hands on his jeans. “I’d work for food at this point—which would work out well at a restaurant.”
“I know the owner.” Ezekiel needed a cook, not a dishwasher. He would have to take both Mary Katherine and this man. A package deal. “I have a quilt frolic in the morning and then something I have to do after that. Meet me at the porch around suppertime. We’ll drive into town.”
“I’ll be here.” Burke nodded. “You’re a kind person, Mrs. Ropp.”
“It’s Mary Kay to my friends.”
“Are we friends?”
“That remains to be seen.”
He slipped through the back door and was gone.
Mary Katherine stood in the middle of the kitchen for a long moment. She sucked in a deep breath and went to get the mop. No way she would sleep now.
She had a new project.
FIVE
If Dottie’s reaction was any indication, Mary Katherine might have a spot of trouble on her hands when it came to her new project by the name of Burke McMillan. In the light of day, she could see why. “Yes, I let him spend the night in the barn.”
For one moment Dottie seemed to lose her single-minded focus on the store space she’d insisted Mary Katherine see without delay. The airy room, flooded with late-afternoon sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows, was meant to be a bookstore. Even through bleary, sleep-deprived eyes, Mary Katherine could see that. She stood in the middle of the room and turned so she could examine every nook and cranny. The walnut shelving was perfect. The counter would have to be moved to one side, but that presented no problem.
Her expression expectant, Dottie smoothed her hand over the polished wood of a shelf. She wore her librarian uniform—white blouse, blue A-line skirt, sensible low-heeled slip-on shoes. Her hair was caught back with rhinestone combs, and silver-and-turquoise earrings shaped like leaves dangled from her ears, her only nod to her love of Western fashion.
“He broke into your house and you offered him a place to sleep.” Dottie looked around as if Burke might lurk in some dark corner of the big, empty room. “Walt would have a fit if I did that.”
Moses would have done the same as Mary Katherine, but he would’ve been there to make sure she and the children stayed safe.
Walt was in the back room looking over the electrical wiring and plumbing with Jim Tompkins and Jerry Rivers, electrician and plumber respectively. Walt might not know anything about such things, but he knew people who did. He did their taxes.
“When you say it like that, it sounds crazy.”
“It is crazy. He could be a hatchet-wielding serial killer who breaks into houses and kills women and then eats their flesh and buries their bones in their own backyards. You could be gone, and no one would know what happened to you.”
“There was no hatchet, Dottie. I had the gun.”
Dottie, who loved to binge-watch NCIS and Bones, should write suspense novels. She loved to regale Mary Katherine with her TV “stories” after she watched them. Like story hour for adults. Her friend had an imagination and she was surprisingly bloodthirsty.
Mary Katherine moved to the counter. It was a lovely varnished oak, polished to a high sheen. It had some gouges, some scars, but the back side had dozens of shelves and compartments for storage. “He ate a ham-and-cheese sandwich, macaroni salad, and a pickle. That doesn’t seem like something a cannibal would do. Besides, he had a book.”
“He had a book. Which one?”
Like any book lover, Dottie knew the important questions. “Something called The Odyssey.”
“A serial killer who likes the classics. Maybe that’s his calling card. Maybe he likes to lull his victims into trusting him before he pounces.” Dottie arched her back like a cat and thrust both hands, fingers curled, in the air. “Then he reads to them while their last breaths fade away. Did you tell your quilting peeps about this nocturnal visitor?”
Far too bloodthirsty. “I did not.”
“Because you know they wouldn’t approve, and with good reason. What if he was one of those burglars breaking in to steal you blind?”
“They’re not stealing us blind. T
hey take two or three possessions of no material value. And they’ve never hurt anyone.”
“Yet. No one has caught them in the act.”
“They don’t steal food. The man was eating a ham sandwich.”
“You caught him before he had a chance to steal anything else. Laura and the others will have a fit when they find out. Not to mention that bishop of yours.”
They would find out soon enough. Mary Katherine hunched her shoulders and brushed the thought aside. Time to change the subject. “Do you think Bill really has other offers, or is that just a negotiating ploy to get us to bite?”
“I heard the Johnsons were thinking about opening a smelly store. You know, homemade candles, sachets, potpourri, incense.” The question took Dottie’s mind off Mary Katherine’s thief-slash-alleged serial killer for a second. “Just what we need, more smelly stuff in Jamesport.”
Mary Katherine tried to fend off the onslaught of mental images. Books here. Books there. Books everywhere. Even her own books. Pride and vanity, twin sins, popped up their nasty heads. “It’s a wonderful space. Perfect, really.”
“That’s what Walt says and he doesn’t even read books. And you know him—if it doesn’t have numbers in it, he’s not interested. I can see a few small love seats, some benches, places for people to sit and read.” Dottie threw her arms out in a flourish. “We could stick a Keurig on the counter and bottled water. Serve cookies. Over there we can create a children’s area and have story time. You’d be so great at reading stories to the kiddos.”
“You too.”
Dottie’s cheeks flushed. “I practice with our grandkids every chance I get.”
Dottie and Walt’s two daughters lived in Texas. Their son had moved to California to make animated movies, according to Dottie. Mary Katherine didn’t really know what that meant, but it seemed Chad was good at it. Between the three of them, they had produced six grandkids. They didn’t get to see them as much as Dottie liked. Their plan was to buy an RV when they retired and roam the country spoiling grandkids. Only five more years to go. Mary Katherine counted it a blessing that most Plain kids settled close to home.