Plain Killing (12 page)

She nodded. “I have.”

“And you think this is what God wants you to do? To go to this New Orleans and find Hannah Verkler? To bring her home?”

“Yes, I do.”

He frowned. “But your friend Evan Parks, the policeman, thinks that you should do nothing?”

Rachel sighed. “That’s true.”

Uncle Aaron’s features hardened. “Then it is plain to me that there is only one thing you must do.”

Rachel held her breath. Now that the decision was about to be made, she realized that she wanted Mary Aaron to go with her. She didn’t want to do this alone.

“You must do what you know to be right,” Uncle Aaron said. “You must go to this city and look for her.”

For an instant, Rachel was speechless with surprise. “I . . . I’m not even sure it isn’t a waste of time. I don’t know how we’ll find her. New Orleans is a big city. I have no idea—”

“God will lead you,” Uncle Aaron interrupted firmly.

Rachel wasn’t sure she believed that, but she knew better than to speak her misgivings.

“I agree,” Mary Aaron said. “And I have to go with her because Hannah is my friend. Rachel doesn’t even know what she looks like.”

Uncle Aaron looked at Aunt Hannah. “Do you agree, Mother?”

Tears ran down her aunt’s cheeks, and she pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket. “I will not sleep for worry for you both, to go so far among them Englishers,” she pronounced. “But Rachel must not go alone. Better they go together to watch over each other.”

Her uncle cleared his throat and got to his feet. “
Ya.
Both must go. You will need money for the ticket of the airplane. Tell me how much is the expense, and I will give you what you need.”

“We will call on the bishop,” Aunt Hannah said, “so that he can ask everyone to pray for your safe return.”

“After they are on the plane,” Uncle Aaron added. “If Bishop Abner is unhappy that I let you go, he can be unhappy with me, but he cannot stop you.”

“I . . . I have money,” Rachel said, still almost tongue-tied by their reaction. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that Uncle Aaron would urge her to go off to New Orleans on a wild-goose chase, nor insist that Mary Aaron accompany her. “You don’t have to give me—”

“Thank you,
Dat,
” Mary Aaron said, cutting her off. “But I have savings from the sale of my quilts.”

“Do you insult me?” he asked gruffly. “That I cannot assist my daughter and my sister’s child to accomplish this brave, good thing? I will buy your tickets, and there will be no more discussion about it. And you will go tonight.”

“You can use my new suitcase,” Aunt Hannah said to Mary Aaron, between audible sobs. “The little . . . little black one that I bought to go to Ohio. It’s on . . .” She wiped her tears. “On the attic stairs.” Her mouth quivered. “And you must take care that you are not robbed in the airport. I hear about thieves of the pocket. They rob travelers. You must trust no strangers and stay only in decent lodgings. Maybe there is a Mennonite church. They would help you.”

“I doubt that they will find Mennonites in such a city,” Uncle Aaron said. He looked from his daughter to Rachel. “You must be wise and trust in the Lord to protect you. Stay away from places where strong drink is sold, and take your Bible, daughter, so that you can read from the good book at night.”

“Well, what are you sitting here for?” her aunt said, making shooing motions. “Go. Pack your suitcase and go and get Hannah. I will wrap some sandwiches. Lord knows what you will find to eat in the airport.”

Still in a state of shock by the turn of events, Rachel followed Mary Aaron up the stairs to retrieve the black suitcase and then to the bedroom Mary Aaron shared with two of her sisters. She watched in silence as Mary Aaron placed the suitcase on the white iron bed, opened it, and began to remove clothing from an old oak dresser.

“You might want to wear some of my things,” Rachel suggested. “So that you won’t . . . won’t stand out on the plane or in New Orleans . . . To keep people from staring at you.”

“Your things?” Mary Aaron gave her a puzzled look. “You mean I should wear English clothes like you?”

“It might be easier. Better.”

“
Ne.
Best you should go back to the Jeep, get your cell phone, and call the airline for reservations. I will wear my own clothes, cousin. I may be going among the heathen, but I’m not yet one of them.” Calmly, Mary Aaron began to pack the small black suitcase. “I will pack clothes for Hannah, and I will wear my good leather shoes,” Mary Aaron said, “because I don’t know how far we will have to walk to find Hannah.” She gave a wry grin. “I will ride on this airplane, and I will ride in a taxi cab, but I will not go in a subway under the ground like a mole.” She shook her head. “No way will I do that.”

“I think we’re safe on that account,” Rachel answered with a chuckle. “New Orleans has horse-drawn carriages, taxis, buses, and trolleys, but so far as I know, no subway.”

Mary Aaron closed the suitcase and snapped the lock shut. “I’m ready, cousin. What are you waiting for?”

 

Rachel moved away from Mary Aaron and the waiting passengers to an area by the window as she waited for Evan to pick up. It was late, nearly two in the morning here in the airport, and she’d been trying to reach him since before she’d left home. They’d been lucky to find two open seats to New Orleans on this flight out of Harrisburg.

“Come on, pick up, Evan,” she said.

Reluctantly, she’d accepted a stack of cash from Uncle Aaron to pay for the tickets to New Orleans. Sort of. She didn’t have the heart to tell him what last-minute tickets would cost or that they had to go on her credit card so she could purchase them over the phone.

She’d been worried that Mary Aaron wouldn’t have an acceptable ID to be allowed to board at all, but her cousin had surprised her by producing a two-year-old Pennsylvania driver’s license. How or why Mary Aaron had a driver’s license was a mystery, and when she’d asked, she’d received only a shrug and a smile for an answer. “It’s real,” Mary Aaron had assured her.

Mary Aaron was still seated, engrossed in an amateur sleuth novel she’d found under the front seat in the Jeep. An elderly woman stopped and stared, but whether it was because of the book cover or Mary Aaron’s Plain garb, Rachel couldn’t tell. Because it was Harrisburg and Amish were a fairly common sight in the area, they hadn’t attracted as much attention as Rachel had thought they might. She supposed that this woman must be from out of town, but as usual, Mary Aaron paid no attention. She may as well get used to it, Rachel supposed, because her attire would definitely not be run-of-the-mill in the French Quarter.

A clipped voice came through the speakers. “Now boarding at Gate 14, US Airways Flight 132 for New Orleans.”

Mary Aaron caught Rachel’s eye and pointed toward the boarding gate. An attendant began taking boarding passes and allowing passengers to move through the open doorway.

The phone clicked. “Rachel?”

“Evan? I’ve been trying to get you.”

“It didn’t occur to you that I might be asleep at this hour?” He sounded grumpy, and she guessed that she’d woken him. Of course she had. He’d gotten off at eleven. “What’s up?”

“Uhh, just wanted to check in and let you know that I’m at the airport. I’m going to New Orleans.”

His reply was definitely not G-rated.

Rachel lowered her voice. “You don’t have to worry about me. Mary Aaron’s with me,” she continued in a rush.

Mary Aaron stood and picked up both of their carry-ons. For the first time, she was beginning to look anxious as she gestured toward the boarding gate.

“I’m coming,” Rachel said. “Just a sec.”

“Mary Aaron? Mary Aaron is going with you?” Evan’s volume rose. “Did you get another phone call?”

“No, just the one. Listen, I’ve only got a moment. They’re boarding. I just didn’t want to leave without telling you I was going. We’re not going to do anything crazy. Have you got a pen? So you can write down where we’re staying?” She gave him the name of a hotel on Canal, near the French Quarter. She’d found it on the Internet when she’d gone back to her place to get her bag.

“Rachel, this is crazy. No way you can find this woman down there. You’re wasting your time, and it could be dangerous.”

“Evan, it’s not like I haven’t traveled before. For work. Remember? I’ve even been to Florence, Munich, Prague. All by myself. Was pickpocketed in Prague, as a matter of fact.”

“You should have stayed home,” he argued. “If that
was
Hannah Verkler, she might call again.”

She started walking toward the dwindling boarding line. Mary Aaron was ahead of her. “I had all the B&B calls forwarded to Hulda’s cell, and I asked her to call me immediately if there was anything else from Hannah. Or anything suspicious. Hulda’s going to mind Stone Mill House for me while I’m away.”

“Is there anything I can say to keep you from getting on that plane?” he asked.

“No,” she said truthfully. “Don’t worry, tourists survive Bourbon Street all the time.”

“If you run into any trouble, call NOLA PD. Do you want me to give them a heads-up?”

“And tell them what? That your girlfriend is visiting their town and needs protection? No, don’t call them. Hannah made it clear she didn’t want the police involved, and I promised her.”

“Final call for boarding, US Airways Flight 132 to New Orleans,” came an announcement.

“Got to go,” Rachel said.

“Rae-Rae!” Mary Aaron called from the doorway. “Come on.”

“Call me,” Evan said.

“Will do,” Rachel told him. “And don’t worry.”

He was still talking when she powered down her phone and hurried to hand over her boarding pass.

“The coffee shop should be on the next block, across the street,” Rachel told Mary Aaron. “The bellhop said it’s called PJ’s. She said you can’t miss it.”

Canal Street was crowded, but not as much as she’d expected. The afternoon heat was probably keeping people indoors. By the time they’d picked up the rental car and driven in from the airport early that morning, it was daylight. Hotel parking was dear, but in an unfamiliar city, Rachel was glad that she’d reserved a room for the evening before and took advantage of the valet parking. She and Mary Aaron had showered and fallen into bed for a few hours of much-needed sleep, and now were hungry for breakfast, despite the hour.

“I don’t know why people go on about the heat here. It’s no hotter than home,” Mary Aaron said, striding along the main thoroughfare with a self-assured gait in her sturdy black leather high-tops. She seemed unperturbed by the gawking passersby, the polyglot assortment of tourists, the tattooed and spike-haired natives in scant attire, or the multitude of in-your-face massage parlors that lined the street. The only things that did seem to draw Mary Aaron’s wide-eyed attention were the red-and-yellow streetcars that rattled past.

“But you have to admit, it’s more humid here.” Rachel wiped her damp forehead.

She’d donned modest walking shorts, a short-sleeved flowered T-shirt, and a favorite pair of slip-on Toms while her cousin was in full Amish dress, including apron and
kapp
. Yet despite the ninety-degree heat, the high humidity, and the dust and noise of the traffic, Mary Aaron’s white prayer cap was crisp and spotless. She had not a hair out of place, and her fair and rosy-cheeked German complexion revealed not a drop of perspiration. Over one shoulder she carried a black nylon purse shaped like a horse’s feed sack and every bit as voluminous. In it, Rachel had seen her tuck all manner of articles, including the mystery novel she’d been reading in the airport.

“You can leave it here in the hotel room,” Rachel had advised. “The maid won’t move it.” But Mary Aaron had paid no attention, as if fearful that a cat burglar would break in and snatch up
Chocolate Chip Demise
before she could finish it and learn who’d killed the bakery chef.

“I’ve read it,” Rachel had said. “If it does get lost, I can always tell you how it ends.”

“Don’t you dare,” Mary Aaron had hissed in Deitsch. “You’ll ruin the story for me. The most fun is trying to guess who to trust and who is the villain.” So the book had accompanied them on their quest for breakfast, although Rachel couldn’t imagine when Mary Aaron would find time for reading.

They halted at a side street, and Rachel pushed the
WALK
button. Again, Mary Aaron watched but made no comment. When the pedestrian light flashed, the two dodged potholes and delivery trucks, reaching the safety of the far sidewalk just before a tour bus wheeled past, expelling a haze of diesel fumes. Dozens of pairs of Asian eyes peered curiously from the windows. Mary Aaron smiled and waved, and one teenage Japanese girl waved back excitedly. “Tourists,” Mary Aaron observed. “They must feel a long way from home.”

And you don’t?
Rachel thought as she glanced at her cousin with admiration. So far as she knew, Mary Aaron had never in her life ventured to a city larger than Lancaster. She had an eighth-grade education, and she’d never been to a train station or taken a commercial flight before yesterday. If anyone had the right to feel out of her depth, Mary Aaron did. Yet, as always, she seemed completely at ease. Rachel didn’t doubt that—armed with a street map, her ready cash, and her common sense—Mary Aaron was equal to any challenge New Orleans could offer.

“There!” Mary Aaron grinned and pointed. “PJ’s.” Triumphantly, she pushed open a heavy glass door, and the two were hit with a welcome blast of air-conditioning. She threaded her way through a throng of customers, leading the way to an area crowded with small round tables and chairs. Nearly every table was occupied, including two that teetered on a raised platform that must have once served as a clothing store’s display case. A couple with a baby was just getting up, and Mary Aaron maneuvered around a table of senior citizens to secure the two chairs. “A latte for me and whatever else looks good,” she said, motioning toward the line at the register. “I’m starving.”

Rachel nodded. It was her turn to pay because Mary Aaron had bought them each a sandwich and iced tea at the airport. When Rachel got to the counter, she snagged two yogurt parfaits and an assortment of Danish pastries to go with the coffee. The young man at the register stared past Rachel at Mary Aaron. “First time here?” he asked. “Been to the Quarter yet?”

“Yes and no,” Rachel replied. She didn’t usually answer questions from strangers, but he seemed harmless and friendly enough.

“Are you Quakers?” he asked as he took Rachel’s twenty.

“Amish.”

“Enjoy your visit,” he said, handing her the change, two paper cups, and a bag with the pastries, yogurts, and plastic spoons. “You should take a carriage ride from Jackson Square. But wait until later in the day, when it’s cooler. Better yet, take the night tour of the cemetery. Spooky!”

She smiled politely, not wanting to explain that they hadn’t come to New Orleans on vacation, or that a carriage ride, while pleasant, really wasn’t anything special to either of them.

A second employee, a ponytailed young woman wearing a tee that read
PJ’S CANAL ST
across the front, came out of the back carrying a fresh tray of baked goods. She caught sight of Mary Aaron and did a double take. “Look!” she said in a stage whisper to the boy. “Isn’t she that girl from
Breaking Amish
? You know, the show on TV?”

Rachel pretended she hadn’t heard her as she dropped the change into the tips can. She then carried the coffee and bag to the table where Mary Aaron was waiting.

“What did he say to you?” Mary Aaron asked.

Rachel shrugged. “He wanted to know—”

“Behind you. She’s coming over.” Mary Aaron reached to take a cup of coffee and gestured.

The employee with the ponytail approached the table. She was wearing denim Daisy Dukes shorts. “Are you that TV star? What’s her name? I’m a big fan.
Breaking Amish
?” She whipped a phone out of her pocket. “Do you mind?”

Mary Aaron didn’t miss a beat. She smiled at the girl, raised her apron over her face, and replied with a flood of Deitsch.

“No photos, please,” Rachel said. “It’s a religious thing.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” The enthusiastic fan lowered her phone. “You mean, she’s the real deal?”

“She’s Amish,” the boy at the register explained. “Her friend told me.”

Ponytail stood there, blue eyes wide and eager. “Right. Sorry. No offense. But . . .” She snatched a brochure advertising a plantation house tour from a display in the window. “Could I have an autograph? It’s not for me. It’s for my boyfriend. He thinks you’re hot.”

Rachel glanced around the room at the interested spectators, then spoke quietly to Mary Aaron in Deitsch. “I don’t know which would be easier, to sign or not sign, to get rid of her.”

“I don’t look anything like those girls,” Mary Aaron said, still hidden by her apron. “But I’ll give you my autograph if you’ll promise not to take our picture.”

“Sure.” The woman glanced around at the other customers.

“She needs her privacy. No pics.” She waved the brochure.

“Could you make it for Gia?”

“I thought it was for your boyfriend,” Rachel said, reading the woman’s nametag:
Gia.

Gia giggled.

Mary Aaron lowered her apron, dug a ballpoint with the name of the hotel on it out of her bag, and signed the brochure with a flourish:

Two older women at a table near the entrance clapped. Ponytail gushed her thanks, and Rachel hurried Mary Aaron out of the coffee shop, grabbing some napkins as they went out the door.

“Why did we have to leave?” Mary Aaron asked. “It was nice and cool in there.”

“Why are you giving autographs? Have you forgotten why we’re here?”

“I signed my own name. What was wrong with that?” Mary Aaron took the paper bag. “What did you get?”

“Muffins and scones. We’ll have to find a place to sit to eat. A bench, maybe.”

Rachel sighed. She’d hoped that she and Mary Aaron would be able to sit, have their breakfast, and brainstorm. Now that she was here, she had no idea how she was going to find Hannah. She kept thinking that Hannah would call again, or something would come to them, but so far, neither had happened. The suspicion that Evan was right and this was a wild-goose chase went through her mind.

Holding her coffee in one hand, she fished her cell phone out of her bag; she’d made sure it was fully charged before they left, but she would have to keep an eye on the battery level. Having her cell phone die here would be a disaster. “I’m going to check in with Hulda to see if Hannah called again.” She didn’t have much hope of that being true. Hulda had her cell number, and she would have contacted her if she had. But at least it was taking action rather than standing here in the middle of Canal Street without a clue.

“We could go back to the hotel and eat there,” Mary Aaron suggested. “They had that garden with the fountain and the flowers. I think I saw some benches.”

Hulda picked up. They exchanged pleasantries. Hulda assured her that everything was fine at Stone Mill House, and there’d been only two calls, both prospective guests. It was raining there, and the main traffic light in town was out. She wanted to know if they’d been to Bourbon Street yet.

Hulda was still talking a blue streak when Rachel saw that another call was coming in. “Sorry, got to go. I’ll call you back later today,” she said and hit the button to switch calls. “Hey,” she said to Evan.

“You’re all right? I was worried when you didn’t call this morning.”

“We slept in.”

He didn’t sound worried. He sounded upset, annoyed, on the verge of angry. “Do you want me to take off and fly down there? Better yet, maybe you two should get on a plane and come home. You have no chance of finding—”

“Evan. Peace.” She exhaled and then spoke calmly. “Look, if there’s no way we can find Hannah, then we’re just going to wander around, see the sights, and come up empty-handed. And if we’re really wasting our time down here, then there’s no reason to worry. Right?”

“Seriously, I can take vacation days.”

“That’s sweet of you, but we’re fine. Right now we’re taking coffee and Danish back to our hotel. If we don’t step out in front of a streetcar, I think our chances of getting back to the hotel are pretty good.”

He was quiet on the other end of the phone for a moment. “Do you still have the number from the caller you think was Hannah?”

“I do.” She’d put it into her notes on her phone. Not that she’d needed it. She’d memorized the number, a weird thing of hers. She remembered numbers. She gave it to him. If he was asking for the number, obviously he was having second thoughts about trying to help her. “That’s a New Orleans number—I checked the area code.”

“I’ll call this guy I know, Larry,” he said.

She waited.

“He owes me a favor. But it’ll take time, maybe a day or so. Go back to your hotel and stay there. I’ll get back to you as soon as I find out anything. It’s probably a cell, but he might be able to get a location at the time the call was placed.”

“That would be wonderful, Evan,” she said excitedly, making eye contact with Mary Aaron. “Just having an idea of where to start. Maybe she was calling from her apartment or something.”

“Go back to the hotel. Understand? No running up and down back alleys and playing Sherlock Holmes.”

He hung up. He was obviously pretty angry with her.

“He wants us to go back to the hotel and stay there,” Rachel told Mary Aaron. “But he’s going to try and find out where Hannah’s call originated.”

Mary Aaron munched her Danish and arched one brow.

Rachel grimaced. “Sitting in the room doesn’t sound very productive, does it?”

“I don’t think Hannah is staying in our hotel, do you?” Mary Aaron offered the remaining Danish to Rachel.

“You’re right,” Rachel said. “It would make a lot more sense if we took advantage of the city. What harm could it do for us to do a little sightseeing?”

 

By evening, Evan hadn’t called back, and they still hadn’t returned to the hotel. Instead, they’d spent the afternoon wandering through the French Quarter, peering into quaint shops, admiring the ornate ironwork balconies, the varied architecture, and the narrow cobblestone streets. They’d stopped for coffee and sugary square doughnuts called beignets and stood in line for forty minutes outside a tiny restaurant on a side street to share a supper of crawfish and shrimp po’boys. They strolled down Decatur and Royal, stopped to listen to live jazz played by musicians in porkpie hats and striped vests, and walked up to watch boats passing on the Mississippi. Afterward, they returned to Jackson Square to admire the displays of artwork and the line of carriages and mules waiting to take tourists around the French Quarter.

Sometime after seven, Mary Aaron convinced Rachel that they should take a carriage ride, if only to rest their feet and to get a better knowledge of the history of the old section of New Orleans. When their guide stopped outside the walls of one of the oldest of the city’s cemeteries, Mary Aaron refused to budge off her seat. “You go, if you want.” She shook her head. “Not me.”

“I’ll stay here with you,” Rachel said.

The four other passengers who had shared their carriage climbed down and followed the driver into the cemetery. Only then did Mary Aaron move from her place. She got out of the vehicle, walked to the front, and offered half of a crumbly beignet to the gray mule. Rachel climbed down, too.