Secrets of Harmony Grove (7 page)

Passing one patchwork farm after another, barely visible now in the fading light, I couldn’t help but think how different my life would have turned out if my grandfather hadn’t broken away from the Amish faith back in the forties and gone down a different path. If my father had been raised Amish, would he have stayed in the fold? If so, if he had raised me to be Amish too, would I now be living on a farm of my own somewhere, wearing a
kapp
and picking vegetables with my five children and cooking meals on a propane-powered stove? Would the man who took me in his arms after a long day have a beard with no mustache and wear broadfall trousers I had sewed for him with my own hands?

Slowing as I reached the entrance to Harmony Grove Bed and Breakfast, I put on my blinker and turned into the driveway. Flanked on the right by thick woods and on the left by an open pasture, the long driveway made for a spectacular sight when there was light enough to see.

Uncle Emory’s driveway ran parallel to mine but on the other side of the pasture. And though my house was twice the size of his, he had something I didn’t: a covered bridge, very near the road, through which ran the beginning of his driveway over a lazy, trickling stream. Though technically not on my property, that bridge was part of the allure of the B and B, and it was clearly visible from the front windows of the bedrooms upstairs. The left windows looked out over the grove, which was placed at an angle between Emory’s land and mine, and the back windows looked out on parts of the grove as well, plus the graceful, tree-lined yard, and the small swimming pool behind the inn that I’d had put in during the renovation.

Reaching the end of the driveway now where it widened into a small parking lot, I saw two cars there. If memory served, the Honda was Floyd’s. I supposed the BMW was Troy’s, though it could also have belonged to a guest. I wondered if Floyd had just arrived home or if he’d been here all along and Troy had lied to me earlier when he said Floyd was out of town. Coming to a stop in the farthest slot, I got out of my car and placed my hand on the hood of the Honda.

It felt slightly warm, which meant it may have recently been driven. Perhaps Floyd really had been gone.

Leaving all of my things in the car, I headed up the walk to my inn, startled to see that the exterior was completely bare of landscaping: no flowers in the flower beds, no hanging plants along the back porch, no blossoms beside the walkway that led to the pool. I peered into the distance, trying to see if anything was planted in the two giant clay pots that flanked the gate to the pool area, but it was too dark to tell right now.

Shaking my head, I paused at the bottom of the back steps, remembering what my father had told me. Last spring, when my mother was feeling better than usual, he had brought her out here for a mini vacation. I had been so excited for them and eager to hear how their trip went, but after they were back home my dad told me that I might want to know that as beautiful as I had managed to make this place on the inside, the outside was still incredibly bland and sparse, with no flowers—not even a single hanging plant. He knew I’d had trouble with this same issue the previous summer and that I would want to get a jump on things this time. I had e-mailed Floyd about the matter, and he had responded that he would take care of it. After that, I had never thought of it again until now. As I reached the back door and pulled it open, I realized that despite Floyd’s assurances, nothing had ever been done in the matter. That made me nervous, because it led me to wonder what other tasks Floyd was supposed to have handled but hadn’t.

At least the interior is nice and clean
, I thought as I moved into the large sitting room inside the back door. I glanced at the elegant furnishings and fixtures, wishing I could simply enjoy wandering around the entire inn, inside and out, and letting my eyes linger on all the fabulous little touches that we had included in the renovation. It had been a while since I was last here. But that would have to wait for another time. Right now I needed to speak to Troy and most definitely to Floyd as well.

Despite the little bell that had jangled over the door when I came in, no one seemed to realize I was here.

“Troy? Floyd?”

I called out both men’s names several times, and when they didn’t reply I checked the kitchen and the office, both of which were empty, and then I
went to the far end of the hall and knocked on the door to the room I knew Troy stayed in when he was here. He didn’t answer, but I pushed it open anyway to see if maybe he was lying on the bed. I could tell that he was indeed staying in this room, as his suitcase was near the window and what looked like a wallet and keys were on the dresser. The bed was made but not neatly, as if he had simply gotten out of it and smoothed the covers. His window was open, and white lace curtains fluttered gently in the evening breeze.

I closed the door and returned to the main sitting area, coming back around to the door of the room where Floyd lived. I knocked on it, but he didn’t answer, and so again I opened it up anyway and peeked inside. Floyd’s bed was neatly made, with a navy duffel bag sitting on top. But he was nowhere in sight, and through the open door to his darkened bathroom I could see that no one was in there, either.

I decided they must be outside. Taking one more quick look in the kitchen just to be sure, I saw that at least one of them had recently been in there making themselves a sandwich. On the counter was an open jar of mayonnaise with a knife sticking out of it, and beside that a bag of bread and a plate with half of one sandwich made. As I had done with the car, I put my hand on the mayonnaise jar. It was cold.

It was growing so dark outside that I flipped on the exterior lights before going back out. I didn’t see or hear anyone, but I called out their names again several times, each time progressively louder. When no one answered, I stood there in the silence for a moment, trying to see if I could hear anything.

Unlike Troy, I had always appreciated the outdoors and enjoyed getting back to nature, but that didn’t mean it didn’t take some adjusting for me too. Ears used to city noise always had trouble getting a handle on such complete country silence.

With only the chirp of crickets as accompaniment, I called out the men’s names yet again and decided they must be further out back or maybe over in the grove. Perhaps Troy hadn’t made it to the house after all, and Floyd was out looking for him.

Gripped by a disturbing sense of urgency, I called Troy’s cell phone one last time, but he still didn’t answer. Taking a deep breath, I then decided to
try Floyd’s phone. If he also didn’t answer, I would call the police. Hoping it wouldn’t come to that, I punched in Floyd’s number and waited for it to ring at the other end of the line.

Much to my surprise, however, not only could I hear it ringing through the phone, but I could also hear an actual phone ringing somewhere not too far away.

“Floyd?”

He didn’t answer, so I followed the sound, moving toward the solid fencing that surrounded the pool area. Could he be inside there? If so, why? It was too late in the year to go swimming, that was for sure. And he obviously wasn’t planting flowers. His phone went to voice mail, so I disconnected the call and then redialed it again.

“Following the sound, I reached the gate and pulled it open.

That’s when I saw Troy.

He was lying on his back beside the pool, dripping wet, with a huge, gaping wound that had been ripped through his trousers and clean into his thigh. Blood stained his pants around the wound and his eyes were open, frozen in a horrifying death stare.

Troy was dead. Looking at him, there was no question that he was dead. Yet still, instinctively, I ran to him—or I tried to, anyway. My foot caught on something on the ground beside the gate, something soft but solid that caused me to trip. I fell forward, landing on my knees and on both hands. Screaming more from the surprise than the pain, I turned to see what had caused me to fall.

It was Floyd, lying on the ground, facedown, a handgun clutched in his lifeless right hand. On the cement near his other hand was his cell phone, still ringing from my call. After one more ring it stopped, no doubt having gone into voice mail again. As I sat trembling—from pain, from fear—rocking back and forth, I couldn’t help thinking, absurdly, that it didn’t matter if I left a message or not.

He wasn’t going to be answering it now.

The 911 dispatch officer was excellent, his actions immediate, his voice deep and extremely calming as we stayed on the line together while I waited for the sound of approaching sirens. I hadn’t heard anything yet, but he assured me emergency responders were on their way.

I couldn’t begin to guess at what had happened here, but as I sat on the ground where I had fallen and looked around me and waited for help to arrive, I forced myself to take in everything and try to figure out what I was seeing. The first thing I noticed were footprints, faint marks on the cement that led from the pool to the gate. I was trying to describe them to the dispatch guy when I realized the prints were disappearing before my eyes.

“Water!” I said finally. “They’re from pool water, and as they dry they’re disappearing.” I thought about that and then added, “Someone with wet feet walked from Troy’s body across the patio and out the gate.”

I thought I should take a few photos with my cell phone while the prints were still there, so I put the call on speaker phone, switched it over to camera mode, and snapped a few shots as best I could. The lighting wasn’t great, so I didn’t know if the images would be viewable or not, but I knew it was worth a try. In a few more minutes the prints would be gone completely.

I had just switched my phone off of speaker and put it back to my ear when I thought I heard a sound nearby. Whipping my head around, I realized, much to my astonishment, that the sound was a moan—and that it was coming from Floyd.

He was alive!

I was only a few feet away from him and could easily have checked his pulse, but suddenly I was frozen to the spot, my eyes glued to the gun in his hand. To my knowledge, Floyd wasn’t a violent man, but for all I knew that gash in Troy’s leg had been made by a bullet—and Floyd had been the one to pull the trigger.

Quickly and silently, I managed to get up and move backward until I was able to crouch down behind a canvas lawn chair. Perhaps in the semidarkness he wouldn’t notice me. At least I hoped he wouldn’t. Positioned as he was on the cement between me and the gate, Floyd’s body blocked my only exit from inside the fence.

Why hadn’t I kicked the gun out of his hand when I’d had the chance? More important, why had I left both of my own guns in the car instead of bringing at least one of them with me?

Listening to him now, I decided that though he was still alive, he was completely incoherent. Still mumbling, his legs began twitching, though his hands remained still. I whispered all of this to the dispatch guy, adding that between moans Floyd’s breathing sounded strange, heavy but with long, frightening pauses where he didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Watching closely from my perch behind the chair, I noticed that his right hand had begun to move. Holding my breath, I waited to see if he might rise up now on his knees, gather his wits about him, and shoot me at point-blank range. Instead, his hand simply opened and shifted a little, unknowingly releasing his grip on the gun.

Without thinking, as fast as I could I jumped out of hiding, ran forward, and kicked that gun off to the side and out of reach. It skittered across the patio, coming to a stop at the base of a wrought iron table. Without a gun in his hand, this barely conscious Floyd wasn’t nearly as much of a threat. And though I knew how to handle a gun myself and probably should have grabbed it for safety’s sake rather than kicked it away, I had merely been moving on instinct.