The Lesson (18 page)

So maybe Danny’s detective skills needed a little bit of work.

She took a few steps, then stopped.
I am a bad teacher. I am!
M.K. realized.
And while I am not dumb,
I have been acting dumb. I have been acting like
a bad, dumb teacher.
There was no gainsaying what Jenny Yoder had said. It was just true. Just true.

But that was about to change.

The cramp of panic inside her chest eased a bit. She marched through the cornfield and into the schoolhouse, her sails full of wind, and dropped anchor.

Deep in the barn, Amos could hear Uncle Hank ranting and raving. He finished adding oats to Rosemary and Lavender’s buckets—a small thank-you for a good day’s work in the fields—and walked over to the buggy shop to see what was eating his uncle.

“I CAN’T FIND MY MONEY!” Hank roared when he saw Amos approach. “I kept it right there.” He pointed to an open drawer in the workshop, filled with screwdrivers and hammers and receipts. “That’s always where it’s been. Until now.”

Now, that was an amusing thought. Hank Lapp was many things—inventive, bighearted, a dedicated fisherman—but organized? That would be a quality Uncle Hank would never be accused of possessing. The buggy shop was a disaster. And his Dawdi Haas? Fern refused to step inside.

Come to think of it, Amos hadn’t been inside Hank’s
apartment for over a year. For one, there was no free space to sit down. Everything was covered with newspapers and shoes and dirty laundry. And two, the heavy smell of cigar smoke made Amos hack and cough. And that brought back unpleasant memories of the year leading up to his heart transplant, when he would cough relentlessly, trying to get air.

Hank was pulling everything out of the drawers of his workshop. “Edith Fisher has been missing some cash lately too.”

That was interesting. Not about the missing money—it seemed to Amos that Edith Fisher was always sputtering away about not having enough money—but it was interesting that Edith was talking to Hank again. Maybe the spurning over Doozy and the puppies wasn’t as final as it first sounded.

That was another thing that puzzled Amos about women—they said things they didn’t really mean. Just last night, M.K. said she wanted to move to Oslo, Norway. She thought it would be too cold for children to survive in Norway and that sounded like an ideal climate to her. Certainly, she didn’t mean that. He knew she was upset about having to finish Alice’s teaching term. He felt a tug of pity for her, but it vanished when he caught a warning glance from his wife. Fern knew best about this kind of thing.

Finally, Hank threw his hands in the air. “AMOS! I have come to the conclusion that there is a thief in Stoney Ridge. Maybe a crime ring. Targeting us older folks.”

That,
Amos thought,
or
more likely, us older folks won’t admit we’re
getting older. And forgetful.

M.K. rang the school bell and called everyone in, five minutes before school began.

“You’re too early, M.K.,” Eugene Miller complained as he came inside and saw the clock.

She noticed a fresh bruise on his cheekbone. “Are you all right? How did you get that?” She reached out a hand to touch him, but he flinched and shrugged her off.

“I have some news to share,” she said. “Everyone take your seats.”

Eugene started to head back outdoors.

M.K. blocked the door. “I don’t want any arguing. If I say something is to be done, then it is to be done. And here’s another thing. From now on, you call me Teacher M.K. Is that quite clear?”

She gave Eugene a glance of reprimand. He straightened to his full height, towering over her as he glared at her. She glared back. She held his stare. She would not back down. There was too much at stake. Amazingly, he seemed to wither under her fierce glare. He smirked, turned, and plopped in his seat. The rest of the children remained still and silent, all but Barbara Jean. She nodded her small head enthusiastically.

“Teacher Alice is not going to be able to return to teach this year,” M.K. said. “So I am going to be her replacement for the term.”

Barbara Jean Shrock grinned.

Danny Riehl poked his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Eugene Miller groaned.

Jenny Yoder clunked her head on her desk.

As Amos crossed the threshold of the farmhouse, he practically tripped over a cardboard box left by the kitchen door. It surprised him to see a box left out, unattended. Fern was a dedicated housekeeper—a bit on the fanatical side, he
thought. He often teased her that he didn’t dare release his fork during dinner for fear it would be washed and cleaned and put away before he swallowed the bite of food. To see a box left out was unusual, but there it sat, gathering dust, as Fern worked in the kitchen.

She was furiously whisking her new starter—the one she had made after M.K. had knocked over her great-great-great-grandmother’s starter, which, Amos suspected, wasn’t really as old as she liked to claim. But Fern did this every few days without fail—she called it refreshing her sponge. The tangy smell of yeast filled the air, so powerful that it made Amos sneeze. “A starter is a living organism,” Fern often said in its defense, “that needs to be fed and tended. Like a family.” He felt a wave of fondness as he watched her give the starter a good stir to bring in fresh oxygen. He sneezed and she glanced up, noticing him for the first time. “Look inside.” The box, she meant.

He unfolded the top flaps of the box and crouched down to look. “Why, they’re M.K.’s detective books. Is she getting rid of them at last?”

“She came home from school, asked me for a few boxes, and packed them up,” Fern said, still whisking.

Amos closed the box up and crossed the room to the kitchen. He folded his arms and leaned his hips against the kitchen counter. “What do you suppose has caused this? Teaching?”

“Maybe.”

He grinned. “My little girl is finally growing up. You were right, Fern. This teaching job has been good for her.”

Fern didn’t seem as convinced. “Seems like something else happened lately, but I’m not sure what. Haven’t you noticed how quiet she’s been the last few days? Thoughtful and reflective. Very, very unusual.”

Amos hadn’t noticed. It always irked him that Fern was so observant about his own children, and yet he was grateful too. Irked and grateful. That just about summed up his feelings about his wife. And love. There was love.

They wouldn’t even have Windmill Farm today, he was quite sure, if it weren’t for Fern. The year his heart was failing, she had become his guiding force, his rudder. She had kept things going. She had kept his family together.

He took the whisk and bowl out of her hands, set them down on the counter, slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her. A kiss that meant serious business too. A down payment for later.

She put her hands against his chest, surprised. “What was that for, Amos Lapp?”

“That was for paying attention to the most important things.”

Fern smiled, pushing him away playfully. She picked up the bowl as M.K. bounded down the stairs with another box.

“What are the most important things?” M.K. asked. “I want to know.”

Amos looked at her. What were the most important things for his youngest daughter to learn?
Think before
you act. Understand the big picture. Put the needs of
others above your own wants.
Start thinking long-term.

He glanced at Fern. Or was the most important thing to find the right partner to help M.K. become the person he knew she could be?

Maybe it was all of those things. Serious stuff for a man with an empty stomach. Amos picked up the whisk. “Never miss a chance to refresh the starter!”

One week had passed and Chris hadn’t seen any sign of Sheriff Hoffman. He was just starting to relax, to not keep looking over his shoulder when he went into town or tense up when he heard a car drive by. And then one morning, after Jenny had left for school, he walked out of the barn after he finished feeding Samson, and there the sheriff was, leaning against his police car with one ankle crossed over the other.

“Morning, Chris,” Sheriff Hoffman said. “Did you give some thought to our conversation?”

Chris put the empty bucket down. “I thought I was clear. I told you everything.”

“I need ideas about anything else you can remember.”

Chris took a metered breath. “I don’t know anything.”

“I know. I know you were only seven. I know you had already seen too much for a boy your age. But I’m guessing there might be something else. Something more you might remember if you really tried.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Anything that might trigger a memory. Anything that comes to mind.”

Two or three small bright-winged birds hopped about on the ground, pecking at the stale bread crumbs Jenny had sprinkled before she left for school.

The sheriff took a few steps closer to Chris. “Look, if you cooperate, I might be able to overlook the fact that you crossed a state line with your sister without the permission of Child Protective Services, and that you’re squatting in your grandfather’s house.”

Chris snapped his head up. “This house will be legally mine as soon as I turn twenty-one. My grandfather wanted me to have it. He wanted me to take care of my sister. I have papers to prove that.”

“But you’re not twenty-one yet. I checked.” The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “So maybe you want to try again to remember. Try real hard.” He took his keys out of his pocket and went back to the car.

Chris took a few steps. “That day . . . the day we left . . . I might remember one or two things.” There was, he understood, no going back.

The sheriff put his keys back in his pocket and took out his notepad. “I’m listening.”