A Plain Disappearance (8 page)

Outside it was snowing again, and even though I had only been on campus for two hours, my Bug was buried under a couple inches of white powder. My only consolation? The weather was even worse back in Cleveland, as clouds full to bursting with lake effect snow blew off of Lake Erie.

I popped the trunk with my key fob and retrieved a window scraper, covering myself with snow in the process. I started in the back and began to wipe away snow, then moved around to the passenger side and ran the brush end across the window. As I did, a face stared back at me through the window.

I dropped the scraper and screamed.

The passenger door opened and Curt Fanning—the man who had harassed me since the day I arrived in Knox County and who I had hoped to never see again—stepped out of the car. I scooped my scraper off the ground and held it in front of me like a saber. I shot a look around campus in search of someone, anyone. Where was college security when you needed them?

A lazy grin spread across Curt’s thin face as he leaned back against my car. “There you are, Red. I nearly froze my keister off waiting for you to show up.”

“What do you want?” My hand began to ache from holding the scraper so tightly, but I didn’t loosen my grip.

He ran his hand along his jawline and across his bedraggled goatee. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Curt was certainly not an old friend of mine. When I first moved to Appleseed Creek he harassed both Becky and me and even threatened to kill us both “to teach us a lesson.”

I waved the scraper in the air to show I meant business. “I don’t have time for this, Curt. Get away from my car.”

“Or what? You’ll call your Amish boyfriend to come beat me up? Sorry, sweetie, the Amish won’t fight for you.” He smirked, and drew closer to me. “Like I would.”

With my free hand, I reached into my purse for my phone.

He held up his hand. “There’s no reason to call that lady cop. It’s Christmas Eve, and I think both she and I would have a better holiday if we didn’t cross paths.”

“Then move away from my car, so I can leave.”

“I will in a minute, but I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” I choked a laugh. “What could
you
do that would help me?”

He frowned. “I heard that you were looking for Billy Thorpe.”

I nearly dropped the phone in the snow, but instead let it fall to the bottom of my purse. “How do you know that?”

“Little goes on in this county that I don’t know about . . . legal,” he paused, “or illegal.”

“I believe the illegal part,” I muttered. Worry bit into my gut. Did Curt have something to do with Katie’s death? After the events of the summer, would I always assume Curt was involved with the crimes against the Amish? Probably. “Where’s Brock?” I asked. Rarely did I see Curt without his constant companion, Brock Buckley, a huge bear of a man, bald, and with a killer temper.

Curt’s face pinched. “He had things to do.”

The cold began to seep into my bones. It was time to speed this up. “What do you know about Billy?”

Curt sucked on his front teeth for a second as if considering my question. “I saw him cut out of his place in a huge hurry a few days ago.”

“When was this?” My voice was sharp. “Exactly.”

“Let’s see, today is Tuesday, so I would say it was Sunday. He was mighty upset about something. ’Course I’d be upset too if I’d just killed an Amish girl.”

“He may not have done it,” I snapped.

“Now, Red, why do I think that you wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt like that?”

My face flushed because he was right. “Where was he going?”

He spiked the air with his palms “How should I know? It wasn’t like he stayed to chat. The guy was in a rush.”

“Did he drive away in a car?”

He nodded. “A junky brown station wagon.”

I cocked my head. “What time of day did you see him?”

“It was dusk. Four thirty or thereabouts.”

“What were you doing by Billy’s store?”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s beside the point.”

I didn’t think so, but I let it drop. “Did you tell Chief Rose this?”

“No, I much prefer to talk to you than to the lady cop.” He winked. “She doesn’t understand me like you do.”

My skin prickled, like it might crawl right off my body. “Trust me. I don’t get you at all.”

He laughed hoarsely. “Red, it’s too easy to rile you up.”

I ignored his comment and moved on to my next question. “Do you remember anything else about seeing him?”

Curt thought for a moment. “He had an orange duffel bag with him. I remember because it stood out so much next to the snow.”

I bet the duffel bag held Billy’s toothbrush and other essentials. “Thank you for telling me.”

He stepped away from my car. “Maybe things can be different,” he said, his voice was low and wistful—a quality I had never heard in Curt before.

“What things?” I asked, still holding the scraper like a sword about to strike a blow.

Curt opened his mouth as if to say more, then eyed the scraper and clamped his mouth shut.

I let it fall to my side.

The smallest of smiles curved his mouth.

“Why did you help me?” I asked.

A peculiar look crossed his face, a cross between a smile and a frown. “I think you have something I want.”

Even though the thought of his answer made me queasy, I heard myself ask, “And what’s that?”

“I’m trying to figure it out.” Then he shoved his bare hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket and loped across the snow-covered green without saying good-bye.

I stood there and watched him until he disappeared around the corner of a building. Then I brushed the snowflakes from my eyelashes and slid into my car. If Curt wanted something from me that could only mean he didn’t plan to leave me alone—which was all I ever wanted from him.

I
started the engine and cranked the heater to third-degree burns, then tossed the scraper in the backseat. I didn’t want it in my line of vision. The first thing I should do is call Chief Rose and tell her what I learned from Curt. She would want to bring him in for questioning and would be annoyed that I didn’t call her the minute I saw him. That was our deal when it came to Curt or Brock.

My fingers hovered over the chief’s number on the touchscreen of my smartphone. Before I could change my mind, I pressed “call.” To my relief the call went directly to voice mail. I left a brief message with the details Curt shared.

I placed the phone on the passenger seat next to me. Why had Curt been so helpful? He had helped me solve a case in November involving Amish haircutting. However, he had only done so because I had saved his best friend, Brock’s, life. Could he still believe that he owed me? That didn’t fit with what I knew about Curt.

Then again, why was I questioning him? Couldn’t I just be grateful for the information? If it were true.

Memories of my tumultuous summer and Curt’s part in it hit me. Those memories were why I couldn’t trust him. My stomach clenched. Had I forgiven Curt and Brock for all their intimidation, for all their threats directed at Becky and me? I thought I had, but was it in speech only, not in my heart? Is it possible to forgive, and yet not trust?

I backed out of my spot. Now the thought of helping Becky with the Christmas party festivities sounded like the perfect way to spend the evening until it was time to leave for church. I was willing to help with whatever ridiculously complicated recipe she wanted to tackle—even a yule log.

Twenty minutes later I walked through the front door of the Quills’ house. The scent of pine, cookies, and ham hit my senses. The eight-foot tree in the front window swayed, and I dropped my purse and walked over to it. About halfway up the tree two glowing blue eyes stared at me. “Gig,” I said, “you know that you aren’t supposed to be in there.” I placed my hands on my hips. “You are in big trouble, mister.”

He gave me a Siamese yowl in return.

I reached for him, and he wiggled deeper among the boughs. The tree began to sway more, and I grabbed it around the trunk to keep it from toppling over. The last thing I wanted was for the tree to land on the Quills’ mini-grand piano. “Gig, you get out of there this very minute!”

“
Yowl
.” The tree stopped swaying.

I let it go. “You’re going to be grounded, which for you means no more of Becky’s sweet eats.”

His paw batted at me from two feet above my head. This was another one of those times when I wished I were six inches taller.

“We’ll talk about this later,” I threatened. I could have sworn I heard him laughing when I stomped away.

I stepped into the kitchen. “Gigabyte is inside the tree. I can’t get him out.”

Becky had the television cranked to the sound barrier, and—surprise, surprise—it was turned to a cooking show. She was at the stove, melting chocolate in a double boiler. A gingerbread house stood in the middle of the granite-covered island, and a piping bag with red icing dripping from its tip lay on the island next to the house. Powdered sugar dusted the floor as if a donut had exploded in the room. A buffet table stood against the wall opposite the sink, and that’s where Becky’s finished creations waited for tomorrow’s party. I was pleased—and relieved—to see that the yule log was already complete. At least I wouldn’t have to hear about that any longer.

A streak of green icing marred Becky’s right cheek. “Chloe, you’re home. Wonderful. Can you help me?”

I grabbed an apron from a peg on the back of the pantry door. “What do you want me to do?”

“Can you finish piping the roof of the gingerbread house?”

I examined the intricate crisscross pattern she had applied to the roof. “Um, Becky, you’re the artist. If I touch that with a piping bag, you will have one huge blob on the roof.”

She laughed. “Okay, come over here and stir the chocolate. All you have to do is stop it from burning.”

Easier said than done. I didn’t tell her that, though, because it was a much simpler task than the roof piping.

Becky picked up the piping bag and began making slate rectangles on the roof with red icing. She worked quickly and with zero mistakes. Becky excelled at every form of art she tried. She had the dexterity and the eye to make a simple piece spectacular. She blew a lock of her white-blonde hair out of her eyes as she worked. “I think I might have made too much for tomorrow’s party.”

I pointed a thumb at the buffet. “You think?”

She chuckled. “We can take some to the Christmas program at the schoolhouse. I’m so happy that we are able to go. It was always my favorite day when I was in school.” She frowned. “I miss it sometimes.” She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile. “That’s silly. I’ve been out of school for years.”

“But you’re going back,” I reminded her.

Her clear brow creased. “If I pass the GRE.”

I stirred the chocolate. “You will pass. You’ve passed every practice test I’ve given you.”

“That’s different. I know those tests don’t really count, so I’m not nervous.”

“Then pretend the test is practice. That will help.”

She set the piping bag down and started placing candy pearls strategically around the roof. “But it’s not true.”

Chocolate dripped from my spoon. Should I tell Becky about my run-in with Curt? “That’s the most blinged-out gingerbread house I’ve ever seen.”

“You think so?”

“Trust me—everyone will think so.”

She grinned. “Timothy is bringing Aaron to the party,” she said cheerfully. Her voice was light and bright now that the conversation had moved away from school and onto a subject that she enjoyed—Aaron.

I frowned. Aaron Sutter took a risk by coming to our home for the party, even if he was Timothy’s best friend. He was Amish, baptized and everything, and the son of Deacon Sutter. The deacon barely tolerated Becky and Timothy visiting the Troyer family and would have put a stop to that all together had Bishop Hooley not stepped in and allowed it.

Recently, Aaron started working at Young’s Family Kitchen as a host. I suspected the close proximity to Becky everyday was the main reason Aaron took the job. He was smitten with his best friend’s little sister. Becky cared about him, but I wondered if her affection for him ran as deeply as his did for her.

“Did I tell you that he was coming?” Becky asked.

I laughed. “Only fifteen times.” The chocolate was becoming more difficult to stir. I made a face. Some must have burnt on the bottom. Maybe Becky wouldn’t notice.

Her forehead creased. “Do you think he will be in trouble for coming?”

I shrugged and pretended to concentrate on the chocolate. “He knows how his father would feel about it. How is he going to leave his family on Christmas Day? Isn’t that a time his family will get together?”

She worried her lip. “He said his sisters are coming to his farm in the morning, and then in the afternoon the family is going to his oldest sister’s farm. She lives in Holmes County. Aaron is going to beg off, saying he’s too tired for the long drive.”

Aaron was paralyzed from the waist down as the result of a construction accident during his
rumspringa
when he was about Becky’s age. An accident that Timothy felt partly responsible for, so much that it was the catalyst that caused him to leave the Amish district.

“So, he’s going to lie to the deacon?” The chocolate began to smoke, and I stirred faster. Double boiling was no joke.

“No,” she said aghast. “He really will be too tired. That’s a long day for him. He can come here and head back long before his parents arrive home from his sister’s house. That will be a much shorter day for him.” She set the container of candy pearls on the island. “Okay, maybe he’s not telling the deacon the whole truth, but there’s no other way for him to come. You know what the deacon would do if he found out. He would forbid Aaron to speak to me, or worse, have him shunned from the church.” She picked the piping bag back up again and held it listlessly in her hands. “He’s taking a risk because of me.” Red icing spurt on the countertop. “But . . .”

I stuck the spoon in chocolate. It stuck straight up like a peg in a board. “But what?”