Secrets of Harmony Grove (24 page)

With one hand resting lightly on the bulge of the gun at my waist, I followed the sound of voices around the fencing and crossed the yard to the far side of the shed. As I went, I thought again about Floyd and his possible involvement with the Mafia, and it struck me that there might be another explanation for the baby naming business on his computer in the office. What if the guests who stayed in the inn were mobsters? If so, then perhaps the reason the records were falsified was to allow them to be here incognito. That wasn’t a comforting thought—mobsters sleeping in my beds, eating in my kitchen, swimming in my pool—but at least it might answer one question in a way that made sense.

When I reached the shed, I found it humming with activity. It was also a big mess, and it looked as if the cops in protective gear had been carrying everything from inside the shed to the yard and spreading it out on the grass. Hanging back and listening to their conversation, I let my eyes rove over bicycles, tennis rackets, a croquet set, some clay pots, and old hose. Most of the recreational items had been purchased by my parents and me from yard sales we had visited during the renovation. I had forgotten about most of it, but now that things were lying all over the grass as if we were about to have a yard sale of our own, I felt sad. These items were for our guests. As I wasn’t even sure if we ever had any actual guests, I had a feeling that these things had remained untouched since the day we had put them here.

At least there was one good find among the junk: my punching bag, one also bought at a yard sale but put here specifically for me. I had mounted a hook in the shed roof’s overhang and had pulled out this punching bag and hung it up every time I came out to work on the renovation.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a good workout with that punching bag now! I decided I would come out here later and do just that, once I was sure all was well and I would be safe.

Rip emerged from the shed, walked over to Mike, and began rattling off a list of all the chemical substances they had found inside, things such as paint, paint thinner, and antifreeze.

“That’s about it, boss. No pesticides at all, and no yard tools except a big snow shovel.”

Mike had acknowledged my presence with a nod when I had first come walking up, but now he turned and spoke directly to me, asking where we kept our lawn tools.

“I know you said tools were in the basement, but all they found there were screwdrivers and pliers. What we need are the shovels and hoes and things like that.”

“As far as I know, we use a lawn service. They bring their own tools.”

“Yeah, but everybody has the basic stuff.”

Seeing the blank look on my face, he persisted.

“You can’t tell me this place wouldn’t have a rake. Maybe some clippers? Especially here, with all these trees. What about the grove? Surely you have some gardening tools for the grove.”

I reminded him that the grove belonged to my grandmother. “But you’re right. There used to be some tools for that in the barn over at Emory’s. That’s where my grandfather kept them, and they probably stayed there after he died. Now that I think about it, during the renovation we needed some wire cutters. We sent Troy over there to get some from my grandfather’s old toolbox. He couldn’t find any, so he came back with garden clippers instead.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Speaking to the others, Mike told them he wanted them to take a good look at the barn next door. They worked out the logistics, and it sounded as though some would drive over and some would walk so that they could check the progress of the teams in the grove along the way. Mike said he wanted to speak to the homeowner before they started their search, so he told the ones who would be driving to wait to come over after he called and gave them the go-ahead.

“Technically, we don’t need permission to search there, but we need to be careful on this one. I’d like him to be clearly informed. Trust me, the DA is not going to want any search and seizure problems down the line, not given the history.”

I wondered what history he was talking about, but before I had a chance to ask, Mike turned to me and asked if I would come along to show them
the best way to get there from here and to be there when he talked to my uncle. I was relieved to be included, and we all set off together, moving briskly across the lawn.

We made good time as we headed through the main gates of the grove and up the path toward the bridge at the center. We talked as we went, and I couldn’t help but think how much safer it felt in here today than it had last night. Now that the sun was out—not to mention that the bear had been caught—the grove wasn’t nearly so terrifying. Instead, it was its beautiful, familiar old self, the slice of paradise I knew and loved.

We made it to the bridge and onto the other side, pausing to speak with several teams of technicians we encountered along the way. Though everyone seemed to be working hard, it didn’t sound as though any breakthroughs had been made. As we neared the far side of the grove, Mike asked me to explain to everyone about my uncle’s mental condition.

“Oh, yeah,” Rip said. “There’s something wrong with this guy, right?”

“Yes, he has a mental disability,” I replied. “He’s impaired but high functioning.”

“How is he able to live alone?” someone asked.

In response, I explained about the evaluation my dad had had done after my grandfather died, and how Nina had subsequently been hired to check in on Emory every day and make sure his basic household needs were being met.

“He’s a sweet man, very gentle,” I told them, wondering how to explain. “He just doesn’t always come across that way because he doesn’t understand things like social niceties and body language. But he has a great memory; his brain sort of locks in on facts. He loves birds and insects, squirrels and chipmunks.” A chipmunk scampered by just as I said that, darting up the nearest tree. “When I was in college, I told Emory that a bird had built a nest in a hanging plant outside my dorm and had laid some eggs in it. He started asking me questions about what color the feathers were, how big the eggs were, what color the eggs were, and on and on. Finally, I took a picture of the nest and its eggs and mailed it to him. Within a month, the eggs had hatched, the babies had grown and learned to fly, and the nest had been abandoned. But Emory has continued to ask me about those birds every time I’ve seen him since.”

As we continued our passage through the grove, I thought about my great-grandfather, who had originally owned two hundred and fifty acres. When he died and his land was divided among his sons, my grandfather’s portion had included thirty-five acres of land and two houses. Abe had still been over in Europe at the time, raising his motherless son with the help of a German nanny, but when he received word that his father had died and of his inheritance, he had come home, his little boy in tow, and moved into the main house. He had hired a woman named Maureen to be Emory’s caretaker, putting her up in the smaller house for propriety’s sake. Despite their separate residences, Abe and Maureen had fallen in love. Once they were married, she moved into the big house, and they put the little house on the market as a rental. By that point Abe had installed electricity in both homes, much to the heartbreak of his Amish mother and siblings, who had long held out hope that he would one day return to the fold and be baptized into the faith.

Maureen gave birth to my father a few years later, and their family of four lived there in the big house together—at least until Maureen filed for a divorce and moved out, taking my father with her. Eventually she settled in nearby Chester County, though as he was growing up my dad had spent summers back here in Lancaster County with his father and half brother.

About fifteen years ago, Grandpa Abe had tripped on the basement stairs of the main house and broken his hip. After two surgeries and several months of rehab, he had decided that he had no business living in that big, two-story house, and that he would do better to move himself and Emory over here to the little house and rent out the main one instead. They had done exactly that, Grandpa Abe and Emory living here together without further incident until my grandfather’s death two years ago.

Now Emory lives here all alone
, I thought as we finally emerged from the far side of the grove and into Emory’s yard. Straight ahead and a little to the left was Emory’s home, a modest, one-story structure that had originally been built many years ago for an elderly family member. Once that person died, it was my understanding that over the years the house had been used by other family members as well. With just two bedrooms, it wasn’t big enough for a whole Amish clan, but it had done in a pinch for more than a few newlyweds.

“You guys wait over here,” Mike was saying, interrupting my thoughts. He pointed toward an old picnic table under a nearby shade tree. “Sienna and I will go the rest of the way alone. We don’t want to spook the guy. We just want to get permission to search.”

Thus, while the rest of our group relaxed in the shade, Mike and I continued on to the house. When we reached the door, Mike stood back and let me knock. After a moment the door swung open, and I was face-to-face with Uncle Emory.

My uncle looked the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, short and round with tufts of gray hair on his balding head and the sweet, vacant eyes of one who viewed the world with a mix of wonder and confusion.

“Hi, Uncle Emory. Long time no see. How are you?”

“Do you still have any common house finches?” he replied, opening the door wider so that we could step inside. As we did, I told him that no, I hadn’t seen any for a long time. I didn’t try to hug him. Emory didn’t like physical affection of any kind.

“This is my friend Mike,” I added, gesturing toward the detective who came in behind me.

“I had shoofly pie,” Emory said to both of us, not bothering to acknowledge Mike with a greeting or even a nod. “Nina couldn’t come today, but Liesl did. She’s a better cook than Nina.”

I laughed, glancing at Mike.

“Well, don’t tell Nina that or you’ll hurt her feelings,” I said.

“Okay.”

I heard a woman’s voice calling from the kitchen, and I realized that someone else was here. Moving further into the room, I was thrilled to see my cousin Liesl just emerging from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel.

Dressed in the modest garb of the Amish, her hair tucked tightly under her
kapp
, Liesl looked far more appropriate today than she had last night. We greeted each other with a warm hug, but as we pulled apart the expression in her eyes warned me not to bring it up right now, not in mixed company, not even if I was dying to tease her. Which I was.

“Can I have more pie?” Emory asked, moving to the table without waiting for a reply. As he sat down and carefully took a paper napkin from the holder and tucked it into his collar, Liesl introduced herself to Mike and whispered to both of us that Emory had had a difficult night but that he was doing much better today.

She went to the kitchen to cut him another slice of pie, calling out to ask if we would like some as well.

“I don’t think there is enough for everyone,” Emory said quickly, shaking his head. Though I felt sure there was plenty for all, I understood that he wanted to keep it for himself, so I said no thanks and that we hadn’t even had lunch yet, so we shouldn’t be eating pie anyway.

I glanced at Mike, who was looking around the room, taking it all in. Seeing things through his eyes, I realized that this old place looked tired, in need of new carpet and drapes, its handmade furniture still solid but scratched and worn. Had Emory received the assets left to him by his mother as he was supposed to, we could have afforded to fix this place up for him.