Murder Tightly Knit Page 9

  “You will talk about it, or I’ll wake Dat and tell him—”

  “Tell him what?” Andrew’s eyes stared into his. He looked like a different person suddenly, older and tired.

  “I don’t know. Maybe that you’re in some kind of trouble. If you cared about him at all, you would respect him. You wouldn’t be sneaking around like this. All you think about is yourself. Isn’t that right? You never stop to consider how the things you do affect our parents.”

  Something crossed over Andrew’s features—something akin to regret. “You think you know my mind.”

  “I do! I’ve been following in your footsteps since I learned to walk.”

  “Not something I’d recommend at this point.”

  “Why? Because you’re selfish? Because you are intent on choosing the wrong path?”

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve got me figured out. There are parts of my life you know nothing about. Parts you couldn’t begin to understand—”

  “I don’t understand any of it. You’re like a stranger to me. Nothing you’ve done makes any sense, so how can I understand you?”

  “I suggest you stop trying.”

  “Why?”

  “There are things I can’t explain to you right now, and I have to go.”

  A deep sorrow filled Jesse’s heart, one that cut almost as deep as the sorrow he felt the first day he’d awakened to find his brother gone. “Why don’t you care about us at all? What kind of person can be so cold to his own family?”

  “You have no idea how I feel. Don’t think you can see inside me.” Andrew left the lantern on. He walked across the barn and stopped with his hand on the barn door. “But there’s one thing I can tell you without any doubt. I do care about you. I care about every person in our family.”

  “But you keep making the same mistakes over and over.”

  Jesse thought his brother would leave, walk out into the night without another word. “I have made mistakes. I’ll own up to that. There are many things I wish I could change. Things I know I should have left alone. But this? Nein. This I will fix.”

  Then he was gone.

  Jesse waited a span of about ten seconds, then he doused the light and took off after him. He’d follow Andrew. He’d make him see reason.

  He half ran to catch up with his brother, who was moving quickly and was already a good ways from their house. But then he saw the small automobile pull off the blacktop, stop in front of their lane, and wait with its lights turned down to dim.

  Andrew never looked back.

  He got into the car and it sped away, leaving Jesse with his own regrets.

  Thirteen

  He didn’t know whether it was wise or foolish to leave his home, especially after what had happened. He only knew that he had to go. He left well before nine on Saturday morning and walked as far as St. Joseph Valley Parkway, also known as Highway 20. From there he hitched a ride to the outskirts of South Bend. The day was pleasant, as fall was still gently coming in, and he didn’t mind the time he spent walking. On several occasions he had hired a driver for the trip, but today hitching seemed more prudent. He woke convinced he needed to lie low. He woke with the desire to be in South Bend burning deep in his belly.

  He’d barely stepped onto Highway 20 when the long-haul trucker carrying taco shells pulled over. He hopped into the truck quickly, knowing that the less he was out in public, the less visible he could make himself, the better.

  Both of his bags fit easily at his feet as he slammed the truck door shut, and they roared off west. The larger of the two bags held all his turkey call samples. The smaller one held clothes. Though he wouldn’t need the clothes, it was best to keep up the right appearances. After all, this was supposed to be a business trip, and in some ways it was. He did intend to visit a few of the local hunting stores. More important was the meeting he would be attending later that evening.

  He exchanged pleasantries with the trucker, who was white-haired with a large belly and muscular arms. The man was a talker, who fortunately was able to maintain both ends of the conversation. All he had to do was nod at the appropriate times. Perhaps the trucker had needed someone to talk to. Maybe as he barreled down the freeways of Indiana, he had felt alone.

  Forty minutes later they passed the Welcome to South Bend sign.

  “You can let me off here.”

  “I’m going through town. Be happy to take you farther.”

  “Thank you, but here is good.”

  He climbed down from the truck, pulled out his two bags, and waved a hand at the trucker. As he began walking, his mind flitted back over the morning. He’d finished what chores needed to be done, made sure everything was in place in the event of an emergency, and then gone on his two errands.

  Had that been a mistake? It seemed necessary, though, to absolve him of his sins—if that was possible. And in the second case, to avoid future problems. Worry crept through his heart, but he pushed it away.

  What was done was done.

  There was no turning back now.

  At least he had tried to make it right.

  Fourteen

  Saturday started out calmly enough. Amber and Tate spent most of the day working in the yard. The last of the vegetables had been harvested from their fall garden.

  “Next year we could expand it a little.”

  Tate raised an eyebrow skeptically.

  “One more row. So we can have corn and maybe some green beans.” She offered her brightest smile.

  Amber could practically read her husband’s thoughts. They had been married only two months, but that was long enough for her to understand the expression on his face. Tate’s opinion was that when you considered the cost of watering the garden, the seed, and the fertilizer if you used any, it was less expensive to purchase the vegetables at the grocer. Not to mention it was much easier given the man-hours they had both spent.

  But Amber was swayed by her Amish friends and employees. Hannah, in particular, had explained that it wasn’t only what was harvested that made a garden worth the effort. It was also the time spent together tending the plants and appreciating the way God provides.

  Tate remained skeptical.

  They’d finished with the garden and cleaned off the front and back porches when Gordon Avery drove up in his police cruiser. Amber tensed immediately, worried first that Roland Shaw, aka Creepy Federal Guy, would be with him, and then, when she saw he was alone, that he was bringing more bad news.

  “Saw you both outside and thought I’d stop for a minute.”

  Gordon was in his uniform, so Amber knew he was on duty. At two in the afternoon, his shift wouldn’t be over yet. She’d dated him long enough to understand the rotation schedule at the police department. He worked one Saturday a month.

  “We were wrapping up with the yard work.” Tate stopped at Amber’s side, stepping close enough that she could feel steadied by him. Then he reached out and shook Gordon’s hand. “How are things going?”

  “Not bad, but then again, it could be better. Do you two have time to talk?”

  Amber hurried inside and returned with three glasses of sun-brewed tea on a tray. They sat on the front porch—Amber and Tate in the swing, Gordon in the chair facing them. When they’d first married, she’d thought it might be awkward being around Gordon. She had been dating him when Tate stepped into her life. Her relationship with Gordon had been hobbling toward its obvious conclusion, but it had taken falling in love with Tate to see that. She’d been relieved when there were no hard feelings and hopeful that the three could become fast friends. A year ago, she wouldn’t have thought that possible, but God could do amazing things.

  “I was worried you’d brought Shaw with you.” Amber had told Tate all about Roland Shaw, but it was possible that he thought she was exaggerating. Maybe it would have been good if he’d met the man, though she supposed she would spare him that aggravation if at all possible.

  “Roland is . . . an interesting guy.” Go
rdon rubbed the condensation from the side of his glass. “And he is one of the reasons I stopped by. It was pretty apparent you two didn’t exactly hit it off from the start.”

  “Not my fault. He thinks all Amish are survivalists. He thinks they’re crazy.”

  Gordon held up his hand to stop her attempt at self-defense. “I’m not saying I agree with his beliefs, but he is on the right side of this. He wants to find Owen’s killer as much as we do.”

  “But he’s ignorant and he—”

  “I checked him out, Amber. He has a good record. He doesn’t prosecute unless he can convict. Roland won’t do anything without evidence.” He struggled to repress a small smile. “But yeah, he can come across a little strong.”

  Amber humphed and sat back against the swing.

  “Why did this become a federal investigation?” Tate asked.

  “Because of the possible connection to the ISG, which was something we had to report to them as soon as Mary mentioned Owen’s recent activity with the group. So the feds sent a man over from Indianapolis to work in cooperation with us. Nothing more.”

  Amber still didn’t like it, though it was possible she had the wrong attitude. There probably was a way to change the man’s preconceived notions. Maybe they could take him to a work-in or a charity auction, or better yet, an Amish church service.

  “The reason I came by today is to show you this.”

  Amber hadn’t noticed that he was carrying his satchel. It was an old, battered, leather thing. He must have retrieved it from the car while she was fetching the glasses of tea.

  He opened the clasp and pulled out a sealed evidence bag. Inside was a note.

  “One of Naomi Graber’s children found this in her mailbox. Naomi had sent the girl out this morning to put a letter to her aunt in the box. The girl, Lucy, says it wasn’t there yesterday, so whoever left it did so last night or early this morning.”

  Amber had pushed thoughts of Owen’s sister from her mind. She didn’t know much about the woman, as she rarely came to the Village. She did know that she had an invalid husband, an older man she had married after her and Owen’s parents died. Naomi and Jonas quickly had six children, but now raising those children fell squarely on Naomi’s shoulders. Hannah had mentioned her in passing, never providing much detail. If Amber remembered correctly, Hannah sometimes took day-old bakery items to her. Amber was more than happy to see the leftovers put to good use. It might seem odd that her own path was now crossing with Naomi’s, but that was often the way of things in a small town.

  Tate had accepted the note. Amber scooted closer to him on the swing, and together they read it, quickly the first time and then more slowly the second.

  Naomi,

  I regret your bruder is dead.

  I don’t regret my part in it, only that it had to happen.

  We know that when a life ends, it is complete.

  I pray that you are able to heal and forgive.

  At least Owen was trying to prepare. You should do the same.

  Amber blinked, rubbed her eyes, and read the note a third time. It didn’t make any more sense than it had the first or second readings. She glanced up at Tate and then over at Gordon. “This was left in her mailbox?”

  “It was, along with five hundred dollars.”

  “I don’t understand.” Amber shook her head as she pointed at the evidence bag Tate was still holding. “What does it mean?”

  “And why are you showing it to us?” Tate’s voice had grown somber. Apparently he was as shocked by the note as she was.

  “I was hoping you might recognize the handwriting.”

  “Why would I?”

  “As you can see, he makes his letter I in a pretty distinctive way. If the killer is a Village employee, you could have seen it before.”

  “He’s not!”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Why would you even think he would be?”

  “There’s a connection to the Village through Mary, and we have to follow up on any possible clue.” As an afterthought, he added, “I’m asking all of the businesses who hire a large number of Amish. Don’t think I’m zeroing in on you.”

  Amber closed her eyes and sighed heavily. She was too jumpy about all of this. But her emotions were like untrained horses, dashing here and there at the slightest provocation. “If you’ll e-mail me a copy, I’ll show it to Elizabeth. She handles most of our employment paperwork. Maybe she’ll recognize the handwriting.”

  Gordon nodded.

  “Fingerprints on the note?” Tate asked.

  “Yeah. Lots of them. But whoever it is must have a clean record. They’re not appearing in any of our databases.”

  “So he hasn’t done this before.”

  “He hasn’t been caught before. We also keep a record of fingerprints from unsolved crimes, and his don’t match up with anything there.”

  “You’re sure it’s a he?” Amber was remembering the last investigation she’d been involved in. It was best not to assume anything.

  “Given the violence of the crime and the amount of money—most Amish women don’t have that much lying around—yes. I’d bet my pension that it’s a man.”

  “What about the money?” Amber felt as if her insides were quivering, but she forced herself to think about this logically. They needed to catch this creep, and Gordon was actually asking for her help, at least in some small way. “It’s pretty odd for someone to anonymously leave money with a note. Isn’t it?”

  “It is odd, though not completely unheard of. Occasionally a murderer experiences remorse and tries to atone for what he’s done—not that five hundred dollars is much atonement.”

  “So you’ve seen this before?”

  “Once or twice, when I worked in Indianapolis.”

  “What will happen to the money?” Tate asked.

  “At the moment it goes in the evidence locker, though eventually it will be returned to Naomi.”

  “Maybe they were trying to buy her silence.” Amber worried a fleck of dirt out from under her thumbnail. “Or trying to frighten her by establishing contact.”

  “Can’t say, but the Amish believe in helping one another through difficult circumstances. It could be as simple as that.”

  “So you think the killer is Amish?”

  “I think he could be. There’s enough Amish language in the note to indicate that. Or he could be someone who wants to appear Amish.”

  “To confuse your investigation.” Tate sipped his tea.

  Gordon shrugged.

  “Sounds like a confession to me.” Amber pulled the note back toward her and ran her finger down the lines. “ ‘I regret your bruder is dead . . .’ ”

  “The next line is curious.” Tate drummed his fingers against the back of the swing. “ ‘I don’t regret my part . . .’ ”

  Gordon finished his tea and set the glass on the floor. “Seems to indicate there’s more than one person involved, which also would suggest it was premeditated.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “ ‘My part in it’ . . . as if there was more than one part. As for the premeditation, I’m not surprised. People don’t usually shoot arrows at one another in a fit of rage.”

  “So you’re looking for two people?”

  “Or a group.”

  “ISG.” Tate handed back the evidence bag.

  “Could be. Roland is leaning that way, especially given the last line. ‘Owen was trying to prepare. You should do the same.’ ”

  “Prepare for what?” Amber asked incredulously.

  “Preppers prepare for all sorts of things.” Gordon placed the evidence bag back in his satchel. “Economic collapse, famine, plagues, government oppression.”

  “Hang on, Gordon.” Tate sat forward, planting his feet firmly on the floor and stopping the gentle motion of the swing. “I know some of the men in our local group, and they’re not the nuts you’re making them out to be.”

  Gordon laced his fingers together a
nd stared down at them, but he remained silent.

  “They’re folks who are doing some commonsense things, and most of those things are encouraged by FEMA and the Red Cross.”

  Gordon stood. “I’ve never had any problem out of them, but then, I’ve never been to a meeting. Probably isn’t cool to invite the local police sergeant. My attitude until now has been to honor their right to free assembly. But if this was a group effort to kill Owen, I will see them disbanded in our town.”

  They walked with him back to the police cruiser. “If either of you sees anything, or if you hear anything at the Village, please let me know. Amber, I’ll e-mail you a copy of the note. Have Elizabeth look at it first thing Monday.” He hesitated, then added, “We can’t be sure that whoever did this—whether it’s a single person or a group of persons—will stop at one murder. We can’t know until we understand who it is and why they chose to kill.”

  Then Gordon got into the police cruiser and drove away.

  Fifteen

  It was with conflicting emotions that Jesse joined his family in the sitting room Sunday morning.

  The chores were done, breakfast had been consumed, and now it was time for their Bible study. As he listened to his father read from the twelfth chapter of the book of Romans, Jesse stared down at his hands.

  He would have been more comfortable if they’d had church service today.

  Meeting this way, surrounded only by his family, seemed too personal. His feelings were raw, and he was still uncertain whether his brother’s return home was a good thing or a terrible thing. Moreover, his family was so happy, so relieved to have Andrew home, that he was becoming consumed by guilt over his attitude. Was he supposed to just trust his brother? Should he accept him back into their lives with open arms?

  His father’s voice continued—low, solid, sure. Jesse had heard the scripture many times. Perhaps as a child, he’d even memorized Paul’s admonition to present your body as a living sacrifice, “holy and pleasing to God.” When he’d heard it before, he’d always thought back over the sins he committed. Those transgressions were minor, he supposed, in most people’s eyes, but actions that raked against his heart all the same.