Anathema (26 page)

“Oh, we can talk over laundry. It was always our favorite chore to do together. Remember how we used to throw suds at each other?
Mamm
was so mad the day we had more suds on us than on the clothes. What were we—thirteen or fourteen?” Hannah had to smile at the memory.

Sarah’s lips twitched, but the smile never reached breaking point. “I cannot accept a favor from you.”

Hannah’s smile vanished. “It’s a favor to me that you would allow me to do my laundry too. I didn’t bring many clothes with me, and most of them are dirty.”

Sarah still looked uncertain, but finally she nodded. “Get your clothes.”

Hannah flew up the steps to gather the laundry. She yearned to see Sarah smile, to resurrect some tiny part of their friendship again. She took Asia’s clothes with hers in a basket she found in the hall closet upstairs. By the time she got to the laundry room, an enclosed back porch, Sarah had already fired up the gas-powered wringer washer.

Hannah dumped the clothes onto the concrete floor and sorted them. Sarah kept glancing at her from under her lashes. She almost looked . . . scared. Hannah wondered if Sarah feared she ’d ask about the missing ring.

The gasoline-powered washer chugged along, stirring up a fresh batch of suds. Before Hannah could talk herself out of it, she plunged her hand into the cold water and scooped up a handful of foam. She flung it onto Sarah’s head, then started back for more. Giggles burst from her at the bewildered expression Sarah wore.

White bubbles dripped down Sarah’s hair onto her forehead, and she wiped them slowly. She didn’t crack a smile, and Hannah became aware of how inappropriate her actions had been. She opened her hand and watched the suds slide back into the washer. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Sarah reached over and grabbed a dish towel lying on the pile of towels. She dabbed at the top of her head.

“Here, I’ll help you.” Hannah took the towel and cleaned the suds from her friend’s head.

Sarah still hadn’t said anything. Maybe she was too shocked. After all, they were a sedate thirty-two years old. Matrons didn’t behave like giddy teenagers about to enter their
rumspringa
.

Something cold hit her neck and slid down the back of her blouse. She stepped back to find Sarah with the suds still in her hand and a wicked smile on her face. “You suckered me in,” Hannah said. She dove for the washing machine again, and ten minutes later, there was more water on the floor and on each other than in the washer.

“Oh my,” Sarah said, collapsing onto a cane-backed chair in the corner. “I’m glad the children didn’t see their mother acting
dumm
.”

“It’s not foolish to have fun.” Hannah wiped the suds from her cheeks. She pulled the chair from the other corner over next to Sarah. “I’ve missed you, Sarah.”

“
Ja
, and that is why you’ve come to visit so often and sent so many letters.” Sarah turned her back and began to run one of Luca’s shirts through the wringer on the washer. She dropped the garment into a basket and reached for another.

“My husband wanted me to break all ties. He thought you’d coax me back. He knew how many times I cried to know I was shunned. And I wanted to please him, to be faithful to him.”

“Yet still, you left him.” Sarah’s voice held censure.

Divorce was not accepted in the Amish community. A woman who left her husband would be shunned. Hannah stared into Sarah’s face. “He beat me, Sarah. He shoved me down the steps on purpose so my baby would die,” she said, her voice hard. “Would you accept that? Just say it’s okay and go on living with him, sharing his bed?”

Sarah bit her lip and looked away from Hannah’s gaze. “It is required by the
Meidung
to be faithful and respectful to my husband.”

“He would have killed me if I’d stayed, Sarah.” Hannah watched Sarah’s face, but the other woman said nothing.

Hannah hated divorce. Hated that she was separated. In a perfect world, a man cherished his wife and put her above himself. In a perfect world, a man was gentle yet strong toward his wife. In a perfect world, marital strife never happened. Too bad the world wasn’t perfect. Hannah wished she could live in a world like that.

Hannah decided to change the subject. “
Mamm
had a ring in the keep-sake box. Do you know where it is?”

The sympathy on Sarah’s face vanished. “I don’t know.” She stood and grabbed a towel from the heap on the floor and began to mop up the water left around the floor drain.

The goodwill had fled the room. Sarah’s cheeks were red, but Hannah saw no reason for such agitation over a perfectly reasonable question. The ring had to be here somewhere, and she meant to find it.

nineteen

“The Amish didn’t invent quilts, but they brought
their own unique style to the craft.
Only solid colors in hues worn in clothing are used,
and the bright colors are often paired with black.”

HANNAH SCHWARTZ , ON PBS’s
The Art of Quilting

A
ny trouble over the weekend?” Matt asked Sturgis, who leaned out the window of his car with a cigar clamped in his teeth.

“Quiet both nights,” he said. “Any new leads?” Sturgis had dark circles under his eyes. “The media has been hounding me for news. And there ’s nothing to throw to them to get them off my back.”

Matt nodded. “I brought hard copies of all the data we ’ve collected. I’ll go over it again. I don’t think the family will be in danger during the day. There are too many people coming and going at the greenhouse. I’ll sleep here at night and work the investigation by day.”

“Ah, I see. And Blake?”

“I’m meeting him at the coffee shop to prepare new questions for some of the family. Anything else happening?”

“Another burglary.”

Matt frowned. “Where?”

“John Deere. Some electronics taken, computers, things easily sold for hard cash. The camera didn’t pick up a thing. It looked like it was switched off. But I’ve got detectives looking over the scene for anything we missed on the once-over.”

“The fourth one in three months. He’s getting bolder.” He hesitated, unsure whether he should voice his suspicions. “What if it’s one of us, Captain?”

Sturgis sighed and leaned his head against the window frame. “I haven’t wanted to think about it, but the thought crossed my mind.”

“The guy has to be local. He knows when to slip in and how long to stay before getting away. He knows just how long before the canaries show up.”

“Anyone special you suspect, Detective?”

The things Blake had been buying flashed through his head: a fancy sports car for Gina, a gift to the spa, that five-thousand-dollar ring that prob-ably went to Vanessa. All guilt gifts. Was it possible? He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“Check it out, Beitler. I run a clean department, and I want it to stay that way. If you suspect anyone specific, I want to know.”

“No one specific,” he muttered. He couldn’t turn Blake in without evidence. As if Matt didn’t have enough to worry about. The captain drove off, and Matt glanced at his watch. He was supposed to meet his mother in an hour. If it really was his mother who had e-mailed him. “Come on, Ajax.” He whistled to the dog lying under the tree with three cats sleeping atop him, but Ajax just lifted his head and briefly looked at him before plopping down again.

“Traitor,” he told the canine. “You’re an insult to dogdom.” Ajax stretched as if to show him just how little his condemnation hurt. “Stay here, then.” He didn’t think Hannah would need the dog during the day, but just in case, it wouldn’t hurt to let Ajax stay. Just when he’d made the decision to leave the animal, the cats scurried away. Ajax got up and trotted over to stand by the rear door of the SUV expectantly. Matt let him in.

Hannah stepped to the back door of the house just as he climbed behind the wheel. “Is there a McDonald’s around? I’d love an iced coffee—vanilla.”

“Nope, no McDonald’s. But Rockville has a Burger King. They’ve got a pretty good iced mocha. And there ’s a coffee shop in town.”

“Thanks, I’ll check it out.” She disappeared inside again.

He drove to his place in Rockville. He hadn’t been back to the house since Friday. He parked at the street and let Ajax out. The dog chuffed at his feet and whined. “You miss your toys, boy?” Matt unlocked the door and opened it, and stale air rushed out. The dog went inside ahead of him, and by the time Matt shut the door, Ajax had returned with his stuffed cat.

Matt went down the hall to his bedroom and packed a small suitcase of clothing before shucking his jeans and taking a long, hot shower. With his hair still wet, he padded in bare feet and jeans to the living room. Caitlin’s baby book used to be in a drawer in the coffee table. He sat Indian-style on the carpet and pulled everything out of the drawer but didn’t find it. His gaze studied the bookcases behind the sofa. No sign of it.

Caitlin liked to look at pictures of her mother. Maybe she ’d taken it. He got up and went to her room. They’d left in such a hurry he hadn’t made her bed. He straightened the pink ruffled spread and put her shoes in the closet. He glanced around the room but saw only dolls and toys until he got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed.

He pulled out the slim volume that chronicled the advent of his daughter into his life. Sitting with his legs straight out in front of him on the floor and his back against the bed, he began to flip through the pages. Ajax flopped down beside him and put his head in his lap.

“I miss Caitlin too, boy,” Matt said. “Look, here’s her first picture with you.” The photo showed Caitlin two days after they got her. Her tiny face was screwed up as Ajax licked her cheek. His muzzle had been pure black then instead of laced with gray like now. “She loved you right from the start.”

He turned the page. Ah, here was what he was looking for. The baby shower. Seeing the photo of Analise holding Caitlin made him pause. She looked so happy. Two years of bliss as a complete family followed Caitlin’s arrival. “You big ham, you’re in this picture too,” he told Ajax. The dog woofed as though he understood. Most of their church family was there, standing in for the lack of grandparents. Analise ’s parents lived in Florida and rarely came to town.

There was a picture of the quilt with Caitlin lying on it. Ajax sprawled beside her. The next page held a list of the gifts, but there were several holes regarding who gave what. At least half of the items were not attached to a name, and he remembered why. Analise had given the job of making this list to two little girls from church who wanted to be included. Their childish scrawl showed their age. They’d been about ten.

If only he could remember. Maybe Gina would know. He’d ask her about it. He glanced at his watch and realized he ’d better get moving. His heart thumped against his ribs.

AT THE COFFEE shop, he had trouble finding a place to park. For just a moment as he stepped onto the walk, he became that frightened eight-year-old boy. He shook off the sensation and strode with all the confidence he could muster to the door. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon rolls lingered in the air when he stepped inside.

He made a quick perusal of the room. Two women sipped frappés at a table in the back. Too young to be his mother. A man and a woman old enough to be his grandparents were standing at the counter arguing over how many shots the man usually took in his latte. Two men occupied a table by the door, no help there.

His stomach plunged. She wasn’t here. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was barely nine. Maybe she was just a little late. And maybe he was just a sap.

He ordered a black coffee and took it and the newspaper to a table by the window at some distance from the other coffee drinkers. Opening the paper, he noticed his hands were shaking a little. For half an hour he sat pretending to read the paper and jerking to alert status anytime the bell on the door jingled. He checked in with Blake, then settled in to wait.

At nine thirty he folded the paper and laid it on the table. He ’d wasted half an hour he could have spent with his daughter. As he stood, a woman stepped into the room. He appraised her appearance. About sixty, so the age might be close. Her hair looked dyed. Her height seemed about right.

Ajax whined at his feet, and he put his hand on the dog’s head to calm him. Or maybe to calm himself. He wasn’t aware of standing. She looked around and caught his gaze. With an uncertain smile, she approached and looked up at him. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Seeing her nervousness gave him courage.

“Are—are you Frannie Beitler?”

“Yes. Are you Matt?”

Her low, modulated voice struck him wrong. He’d remembered a higher pitch. But that was a long time ago. Age roughed up vocal cords. “Sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

“I’d love a mocha.” She fussed with her bag, opening and closing the latch.

He ordered the coffee and stood watching her from the corner of his eye. Had her hair been so straight? He used to wrap her curls around his boyish fingers. But maybe she ’d had it straightened. The barista handed him the mocha, and he carried it back to their table.

His head on his paws, Ajax lay watching her. Matt wished the dog could tell him his impression. Matt handed her the drink, then picked up his own coffee. The strong, hot liquid fortified him.

“How did you find me?”

“Through the Web site,” she said. “I was surprised to find you still looking.”

“Why did you leave, Mom?” The words burst out of him. “You just walked out on us and never looked back.”

She stared down at her hands, tightly clenched in her lap. “I wasn’t cut out for motherhood.”

“Don’t give me that. You were a great mother until the day I came home and found you gone.” His voice vibrated with passion.

“Let’s not talk about the past, Mattie.”

She’d never called him Mattie. Not ever. He studied her face. The nose wasn’t right. His gaze dropped to her chin. He looked for the scar she ’d received from falling on ice when he was seven. Her chin was smooth. “You’re not my mother.”