Shadows of Lancaster County (18 page)

Melody had to go, but as we said our goodbyes I asked her to please not tell anyone I was in town.

“I know the press will find out eventually,” I explained, “but I’d like to keep it quiet as long as I can.”

“Can I tell Haley at least? I know she’ll want to see you.”

“Lydia already told her I was coming. But if you do speak to her, tell her I drove to her house today on my way here, but there were so many news vans parked out front that I turned around and left. I hope we can figure out a way to get together that doesn’t include the media.”

Melody put a hand on my wrist and looked deeply into my eyes.

“Please do, Anna. Even if Haley doesn’t want her mother around, she still needs her friends. Services for Doug won’t be for a few days yet, so give her a call and try to find a way to make it happen before then, okay?”

“Okay,” I promised, and with a final hug and a goodbye, Melody was gone.

As Lydia closed the door behind her, I said that if she didn’t mind, what I’d like to do next was listen to the messages on their answering machine.

“
Ach,
the machine!” she cried, obviously forgetting that their messages had likely been piling up since she had left here Wednesday night. Rushing to the machine, which sat on a corner table in the living room, she was shocked to see she had twenty-two messages. “I cannot listen. Please,
Anna, do this for me and just tell me what you hear. Unless it is the sound of my husband’s voice telling me where he is, I do not want to know.”

Glad to be left on my own, I told her that was no problem.

“
Gut.
You focus on this. I will wash the dishes and pack up the things Isaac and I need.”

I asked if she could loan me some warmer clothes, especially sweaters, and she said that would be no problem.

Grabbing my skip tracing forms and my laptop, I sat down and took a look at their machine, noticing as I did that the bodyguard repositioned himself near the door, right within earshot. Feeling uncomfortable, I wondered if part of his job description included listening to our conversations or monitoring our activities—and reporting back to the man who was paying for his services. I couldn’t fathom why Mr. Wynn might want to do such a thing, but just to be prudent I unplugged the machine, carried it to the privacy of Isaac’s bedroom, shut the door, and plugged it back in. Settling down on my nephew’s the little bed, I listened to the messages that had come in over the last few days.

The first message of any importance had come from Doug on Wednesday evening at 6:58 p.m.:
Hey Bobby, it’s Doug. Give me a call ASAP. I’m still at the office but use my cell, not the office line, okay?

A second message from Doug showed up at 8:40 p.m. This one was especially disconcerting and sounded even more urgent than the first:
Bobby, it’s Doug again. Listen, man, we need to talk. I’ve got the, um, info you wanted, including some you didn’t expect. Call me back on my cell the second you get this message. I’m in the car now, driving to the construction site in Exton. You know where that is, right? I should be there in about fifteen minutes, so if you can’t reach me on the phone, just come on out there and find me. We really need to talk right away.

Next was a call that had come in at 11:58 that night. It was Haley, and she sounded drunk:
Bobby? It’s Haley. Man, I saw what you did after you left. I don’t know if you’re stupid or crazy, but you better get that motorcycle back here before Doug comes home, or he’s gonna kill you.
The phone made a few clunks and then she spoke again.
’Course, if you’re with Doug now and the two of you are out on some joyride or something,

then I’m gonna kill both of you. Do you guys have any idea what time it is?
The message ended after that, though from the various sounds that followed, she’d had a little trouble hanging up the phone.

Ten minutes later Melody called, saying Haley was trying to track down Bobby and had asked her to help since she was there in Dreiheit:
Bobby, can you call her when you get in? She wants me to go over to your place and bang on the door, but I’m already dressed for bed so I’m not going to do that. Just call her as soon as you get this, okay? Doesn’t matter how late, just call.

Next was Haley again, the next morning. That time she sounded sober but hung over, and very, very angry. She was looking for Doug and/or Bobby, demanding to know where the motorcycle was and why her husband had never come home. She called twice more during the next hour, each time sounding a little less angry and a little more worried.

At 10:12 a.m., Melody called, saying that Haley was having a fit trying to locate Doug or Bobby:
She still wants me to go to your apartment and bang on the door, but I don’t think anybody’s home. Bobby or Lydia, when one of you gets in, would you please call me? Haley is practically frantic.

At 12:15 p.m. the same day, there was a brief message from a man with a deep voice:
This is the Exton Police Department, trying to locate a Mr. Robert Jensen. Would you please contact us at your earliest convenience?
The man went on to leave his name and phone number.

At 2:45 p.m., the Dreiheit police had also called looking for Bobby and asking that either he or his wife please call them back as soon as possible. After that, there were a number of messages from various reporters and a few nosy friends who wanted to know what was going on, but nothing else of any importance.

No calls had come in from Bobby at all.

Lydia came in twice while I was working, the first time to get some of Isaac’s clothes, the second time to see how much longer I would be because she wanted to get back to the farm before dark, especially because it was supposed to start snowing any time now. Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that it was almost 3:30 in the afternoon—and in Pennsylvania in January it would likely be dark within an hour.

Before we separated, I wanted to reconstruct the events of Wednesday evening from her point of view one more time. Lydia said that she and Isaac had left for choir practice around six and returned a little after nine, to find that while they had been gone not only had Bobby run by the house to grab dinner and leave her a note saying that he would be working late, but also, apparently after he left again, the apartment had been broken into by someone else, someone who had poked around but seemed to have taken only one thing, the envelope containing information on how to find me.

Just minutes after Lydia and Isaac had arrived after choir practice and discovered all of this, Bobby called to tell her that they were in danger and that they needed to leave immediately. She had done as he said, racing to her sister’s farm. Though she had sent her brother Caleb over yesterday to fix the lock on the door and retrieve her box of important papers, she hadn’t returned to the apartment herself until this afternoon, when she met me here. At no point during any of that had she ever contacted the police about the break-in nor filed a missing persons report on Bobby. When I asked why, she seemed confused and said that once I was on the case, it had never crossed her mind to do so.

“Not even after you heard about Doug’s death?” I asked. “What if the person who broke in here was the same person who killed Doug? The police need to be notified.”

When I said that, Lydia put her head in her hands.

“I do not think as you do, Anna,” she cried. “So much evil around, so many confusing things. I just assume when Bobby finally comes home, he will explain it all to me. I thought this would be over by now.”

She seemed so upset and remorseful that I didn’t press the issue. I just suggested that she head over to the Dreiheit police station on her way home and file a missing persons report on Bobby. Against my better judgment but knowing it was the right thing to do, I also advised her to bring them the message tape.

“When you are ready to come out to the farm,” Lydia said as we were leaving, “call me on the cell phone you gave me, and I will tell you if the reporters are gone yet.”

“Are you sure this isn’t too much of an imposition on your sister and the rest of the family?”

“Of course not, Anna. My family is your family.”

Once the bodyguard had checked to make sure no reporters or bad guys were lurking outside, we walked to the parking lot, and as we parted ways, I gave Lydia my most encouraging smile.

“You hang in there,” I said. “We may have a lot of questions right now, but I promise you, I will stick with this until I find him.”

Tears filled Lydia’s eyes.

“I am just so scared for him,” she whispered. “Thank you, Anna. Thank you for being here.”

I didn’t reply but merely nodded, knowing that if I tried to speak I would start crying as well.

June 7, 1812

Despite the winds that carry hints of warmer weather from the south, I have taken to strolling each afternoon around the grounds of the palace. The doctor tells me that such activity can lead to a healthier pregnancy, easier delivery, and a more robust child. As this thinking is quite unconventional, I began these endeavors with some trepidation, but of late have come to anticipate them greatly. Now each day, after dispensing with my duties of the morning and taking lunch and a nap, my attendants prepare me for an outdoor afternoon stroll, though they are also skeptical and look upon this action in a somewhat condescending manner.

June 20, 1812

The doctor’s advice has proven true, for I feel much healthier than I did when I was in my seventh month with Princess Amalie. I stayed mostly in bed that time, as per the normal conventions, and I felt sickly to the very end. This time, however, I find that I grow stronger each day despite the bulging belly that protrudes from the folds of my gowns.
My confidence in the doctor’s advice has been increased by the frequent sightings of one of our tenant farmer’s wives, a lovely young woman who seems to be with child also, and perhaps in the same month in which I find myself. I have seen her numerous times on my walks, and each time, though her stomach also protrudes from the folds of her much plainer gown, she is forever working: hanging laundry, feeding chickens, even carrying tools for her farmer-husband—and all of this with a toddler often propped on her hip! Taking the evidence of her obviously robust health and my own good humour, I now firmly believe that fresh air and hard work can be healthy for a woman who is with child.

July 3, 1812

Against all propriety and convention, I have taken to speaking with this young tenant farmer’s wife, whom I see daily now on my afternoon strolls around the grounds. Her name is Priscilla, and she is a twenty-four-year-old Amisch woman who moved here with her family from the Palatinate about ten years ago. Up close, her face is fair and lovely, though her hands are gnarled from hard work and look like those of a much older woman. As I suspected, her child is to be born at approximately the same time as mine, and she confirms that she has also felt a distant kinship with me when she spotted me strolling the grounds with my bulging midsection. Though I know it is frowned upon by the palace, society, and even my own attendants, I intend to visit with this exceedingly pleasant young woman again.