Vanish in Plain Sight (7 page)

“That’s very…thrifty.” She sounded a little surprised.

“My parents didn’t believe in waste. And they
thought we should learn the importance of work at an early age.” He shrugged. “It’s the way things are in the country. I guess we took it for granted.”

They were nearing the woods now, and he pointed. “See the path? Trey keeps it cut for Mom. She insists on walking, and he says at least this way he knows where to start looking for her. You can take this on your own any time you want.”

They stepped into the shadow of the pine trees, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Marisa shivered, looking around with what he thought was apprehension.

“You okay?”

“Yes, fine.” Her smile just deepened the impression of strain. “I was surprised that it’s so dark here.”

“Once we’re past this stand of pines and hemlock, there’ll be more sunlight coming through the trees.” He looked a little more closely at her face. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“I grew up in a suburb. Parks and playgrounds, but no real woods. I wouldn’t want to get lost out here.”

“You can’t,” he said. “Just stay on the path, and you’ll be fine. And even if you got off the trail, all you’d have to do is walk downhill. Sooner or later you’d get to the road.”

There was more to her tension than that, he thought, but he didn’t intend to pry. Everything he learned about her just brought them closer, and that was the last thing he wanted.

The pines thinned out, replaced by the mixed deciduous trees that had grown up when this land had been timbered generations ago. Last season’s leaves covered the path, and sunlight slanted through the trees.

Marisa sucked in a breath. “This is lovely. So much better than the setting I’d intended to use.”

“Which was?” They’d reached the low stone wall that was all that was left of the railroad embankment, and he put out a hand to help her up.

“Oh, a park.” She laughed…at herself, he thought. “My editor will thank you. This is going to be much more realistic.” The color had come back to her cheeks, and her eyes lit with enthusiasm, the tension he’d seen earlier ebbing. “That fallen tree is perfect for one of the illustrations. Look at the way the branches arc, and the color of the moss where the sun comes through.”

“If you say so. I just see a fallen tree that should have been cut for firewood.”

“You’re used to it, that’s all.”

“True.” And he’d longed for it when he was overseas, dreamed he was walking this path instead of a dusty road that might well be mined. “This was our backyard when we were kids. Trey and Adam had a fort right over there, and they wouldn’t let us in, so Libby and I built a treehouse that looked down on them.”

“Libby?”

“My sister. Twin, actually. You’d have a lot in
common with her. She’s a photojournalist, working on the West Coast right now.”

“Does she look like you?” Marisa seemed to be assessing his claim to have a twin.

“She’s much prettier, as she always reminds me.” He put out a hand to halt her. “Look.”

Twenty yards away a doe stood, her head lifted to nibble the tender shoots on a bush. The delicate curved line of the creature’s neck moved him… Maybe Marisa had him noticing things.

And then he realized it wasn’t just noticing. The deer reminded him of Marisa: the same timid grace, the same wariness in wide brown eyes.

He must have made some involuntary movement, because the doe turned her head, ears coming forward. In an instant she was gone, the white tuft of her tail visible as she fled up the hill toward deeper woods.

“Beautiful.” Marisa said the word on a sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath.

Like you.
“I’m afraid we can’t get her to pose for you.”

“Seeing her was enough.” She seemed to realize she was clutching his hand and let go.

“It’s just as well we stopped. I wanted to point out one thing. See that place up ahead where it looks like a trail cuts off through that thick stand of rhododendrons?” She nodded.

“You can go as far as you want on this path—it’s
the old railroad bed, and it runs clear around the hill. But don’t take that trail. It leads to an old quarry. Been abandoned for years, and it’s a steep drop.”

“Dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough if you came to the edge suddenly and didn’t realize it was there. It was strictly forbidden when we were kids.”

She eyed him. “Something tells me you might have considered that a challenge.”

“You figured that out, did you? Yeah, I broke the rules a time or two. Decided I was going to climb down. There’s a path of sorts, and the hillside is riddled with little crevices and caves. I figured I’d get clear to the bottom and have something to crow about.”

“What happened?”

“About what you’d think. I got stuck halfway down, Libby had to run for help and Trey pulled me out. He lambasted me all the way home. Made me feel about six inches high. He never told Mom and Dad, though.”

“Of course not. You two are loyal to each other.”

It startled him, coming from Marisa. She didn’t have siblings. How much did she understand of that complex relationship? He didn’t answer, because any thing he said might show her too much of himself, but she didn’t seem to expect it.

She’d turned, looking back the way they’d come. “Would you mind if I made a few sketches of that
hollow log? You can go on back, if you want. I’m sure I can find my way.”

She didn’t sound all that sure. “It’s fine. I’ll wait for you.”

They walked back along the trail. As they reached the log, a volley of shots sounded in the distance. Marisa made an involuntary movement.

“Do people hunt here? I wouldn’t want someone to mistake me for a deer.”

“No danger. Rabbit season doesn’t start for a while yet, and deer season not until after Thanksgiving. Our land is posted, anyway.”

“But someone was shooting.” She dropped the backpack to the ground and pulled out a sketchpad and pencils.

“It’s probably someone sighting in a gun or target shooting.” Would she even know what that meant? “Sighting in means trying the gun out before hunting season, making sure the aim is true. That was far away…maybe even the other side of the valley. The sound carries, that’s all.”

She seemed to accept that. Sitting down on the backpack, she began to draw. It didn’t take a minute until she was completely absorbed, the pencil flying across the page. He propped his back against a tree and prepared to wait.

He expected to feel impatient, but he didn’t. It was oddly restful, listening to the soft rustling of the leaves, the faraway hum of a car. He could even hear the movement of Marisa’s pencil on the page.
Sometimes he thought he hadn’t really relaxed since he’d left the hospital.

He studied Marisa, liking her total absorption in what she was doing. The tension had left her face, replaced by a sort of inward look that told him she didn’t see anything except the scene she transferred to the page.

But somehow he didn’t think she’d lost the tension. It was simply in abeyance while she worked.

He found his mind drifting back to that incident with Trey and the quarry. Funny that the day should be so clear in his mind. He remembered everything about it, from the heat of the sun on his back to the cool of the rocks under his hands. He seemed to smell the tiny plants that grew between the rocks, releasing their aroma where his body brushed against them.

He remembered the fear, too. And the relief when Trey had come. As soon as he’d heard Trey’s voice, he’d known he was going to be all right, although he’d never admit that to his brother.

Marisa leaned back abruptly. She studied the page for a moment, then closed the pad and looked up at him.

“Good enough. That’ll let me rough it out. I hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

“No problem.” He put out a hand to help her up. Still clasping her fingers, he found himself asking the question he hadn’t intended to. “Something happened since yesterday, didn’t it? Something that upset you.”

Her eyes were as wide and startled as the deer’s. “How did you know?”

He shrugged, not willing to put it into words. “What was it?”

“Adam Byler came to see me this morning.” She pressed her lips together for an instant. “He brought someone. A man named Preston Connelly. The district attorney.”

It hit him like a blow to the gut. “The DA. That means they’re treating it as a criminal case.” And their probing would be bound to lead to Uncle Allen.

“He said not necessarily, but I didn’t believe him. I think they suspect my father.”

He wasn’t surprised, but he could hardly say that. “I’m sorry.” But was he? Would he rather see Marisa’s father a suspect than his uncle?

“He—Connelly, that is—seemed to think it’s odd that I remember so little from that time. I don’t think he believed me when I said I didn’t know anything.”

She was looking for reassurance now, and he wasn’t sure he could give it. “What do you remember?”

“Next to nothing. I was only five, after all.” Defensiveness threaded her voice. “Do you remember things from when you were that age?”

He considered. “I remember things from kindergarten pretty well…kids I played with, trips we took. I’m not sure I could pin down what happened when I was five compared to when I was six. But you—” He stopped.

Her eyes sparked as she must have finished his sentence in her mind. “You mean I should remember because that’s when my mother went away. That’s when my life changed. That’s what Connelly said.”

He wouldn’t know Connelly if he fell over him, but he had to agree. “That’s true, isn’t it? I mean, your life did change. You must remember when your grandmother came to live with you.”

He was probably pushing too hard, but wouldn’t she remember? He’d think anyone would have such a pivotal moment burned into her mind.

“I don’t remember.” Her face closed, shutting him out. “There’s no point in saying that I must, because I don’t.” Her voice rose on the last word, and it was punctuated again by shots off in the distance.

M
ARISA LOOKED DOWN
at her clothes when she got out of the car the next day, wiping her palms on the gray slacks. She had an appointment with the spiritual leader of the district’s Amish, Bishop Amos Long. She wasn’t sure what one wore to talk with a bishop, but since they were meeting in a barn where he was apparently shoeing horses, she’d decided slacks and a jacket would do.

Geneva had set up the meeting at the Esch farm, just down the road from her house. The directions were to park in the lane and walk back to the barn behind the house, where Bishop Amos would be working. That was the correct way to address him, Geneva had assured her.

Clutching the strap of her shoulder bag, Marisa strode toward the barn, whose doors stood open, disclosing a shadowy interior. The lane led past a garden, obviously still producing. Rampant green vines wove over and around pumpkins and squash, and the tomato plants still bore a few heavy red tomatoes. Someone, probably Mrs. Esch, must can all that produce for her family’s use. Even as she
thought that, she glimpsed a white prayer cap where a woman bent over a plant, basket in hand.

She reached the barn door and stepped inside. The interior was dark after the bright sunshine outside, and she paused, letting her eyes adjust. A horse stood in the center aisle, tied to a post, and a man bent over the massive hoof he held in his hands. He straightened at the sound of her footsteps.

“Ach, you must be Ms. Angelo. Komm. I am Bishop Amos.”

He regarded her gravely. Did he see her mother in her face?

“Yes, I’m Marisa Angelo. It’s good of you to see me, Bishop Amos.”

Apparently he’d finished his inspection, because he gave a short nod and turned back to the horse. “You will not mind if I work while we talk. I have said all week I would get here today.”

“That’s fine.” In fact, she felt a little calmer now that he wasn’t looking at her with that assessing impression in his shrewd blue eyes.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of an Amish bishop, but he wore the same sturdy work clothes she’d seen on other Amish men, with the addition of a heavy apron. His beard was almost completely gray, and it came nearly to mid-chest.

“I didn’t realize you did another job in addition to being a bishop,” she said, moving a step closer so that she could see the hoof he held braced against the leather apron over his knees.

“I am a farrier, like my father and his father before him. For the Amish, to serve the community as a minister or bishop is not a job. We work for our keep, like Paul in the Bible.”

If there was a challenge in the comment, she knew the answer. “Making tents, you mean.”

“Ja.” A quick smile warmed the austere features. “So you are Barbara Zook’s daughter, komm back here at last. I remember you as a little child.”

That startled her. “You do? But after my mother left the church…”

“She was no longer a part of us by her choice.” His words held a tinge of sorrow. “But still I saw her from time to time in Springville. You had a look of her then. You still do, I think. Something about your eyes.”

“I don’t remember her very well.”

She glanced around the barn, not sure she wanted him to see what was in her face when she made that admission. Stalls ran along both sides of the aisle, several of them occupied by horses probably waiting their turn. The loft above them was filled almost to overflowing with bales of hay.

“That is a shame.” Bishop Amos seemed to measure a horseshoe against the shape of the hoof. “She was a gut mother, I think, from all I heard. But a little sad, maybe, at all she gave up. Still, you would know that better than I, ain’t so?”

She was beginning to become accustomed to the almost singsong quality of his speech, to the upward
inflection that turned a statement into a question inviting agreement.

“I don’t know.” She took a steadying breath. This was what she had to say to the man…the chance that Geneva’s influence had given her. “I know almost nothing about my mother’s life. My father never talks about her. And now that her suitcase has been found, it raises so many questions.”

“Ja.” He frowned a little, putting the hoof down. In a quick movement he braced the shoe against a toolbox, hitting it several times with a hammer, she supposed to reshape it. The metal rang in the still air, and the horse threw its head up.

Bishop Amos straightened, meeting her eyes. “Some folks think it would be better if it had never turned up. You don’t feel that way.”

She met his gaze steadily. “I have to know what happened to her. The truth is better, even if it hurts.”

“Ja.” The word was heavy with regret. “I can see why you feel that.”

“None of the Amish people want to talk to me about her. Geneva Morgan said that you might help me.”

“Geneva is a friend to us. To the Esch family, whose farm this is. Did you know that she provided a defense for their son when he was accused of a crime?”

“No.” Although…had something been said that
night at dinner, about Geneva bringing Jessica here to defend a case?

“She did. It was such a difficult time. I think people want to forget, but it is not so easy. There are still those who think that the Amish were involved, and others who are embarrassed by what happened.”

“You mean that people fear this business about my mother will rake all that unpleasantness up again?”

He studied her face again. “You think that is strange, but to us, any publicity is bad. We try to live quietly, separate from the world.” He made a small movement with his shoulders. “Sometimes the world won’t allow that.”

Her heart sank. He was going to turn her down. “So you won’t help me.”

“I did not say that. I would like to do what Geneva Morgan asks, both for her sake and for the sake of that little girl I remember.” He smiled, kindness in his face. “I will try. But I cannot make people talk to you. If they don’t want to…” He gave an expressive shrug.

She could breathe again, relief easing tense muscles. “I understand that. I’d appreciate anything you can do.”

“You want to ask me something more, ain’t so?”

He was perceptive. That was probably a good quality for a bishop.

“I hoped you could tell me what you knew about my mother. About why she came here in the first place. About what happened.”

He nodded. “Let me finish this last shoe, and I will tell you what I know. Will you hold Blackie’s head? He is a bit nervous when the shoe goes on.”

She was a bit nervous about the idea of holding so large an animal, but it was the least she could do since the man seemed willing to cooperate. She took hold of the halter gingerly with one hand and stroked the silky neck with the other. The horse’s skin moved under her hand.

“Gut.” Bishop Amos fitted the shoe to the hoof and positioned a nail against it. “Chust talk to him.”

What did one say to a horse? “There, now.” The hammer rang against the nail, and his eyes rolled. “It’s all right. You’re getting a new pair of shoes, aren’t you? You’ll like that when they’re all finished.”

The animal trembled a little but seemed to calm under her stream of nonsense. In a moment Bishop Amos had finished pounding. He clinched the nails down with another tool, his movements sure and steady.

“Ach, gut, all done.” He straightened, hand on his back. “Farriers end up bent over, that’s for sure.” He untied the horse, led him to a stall and ushered him in. Then he came back to her.

“A straw bale makes as gut a seat as any. We will talk.”

She sat where he indicated, next to him on a bale of straw, glad she hadn’t worn a skirt. He leaned back against the side of a stall, seeming lost in thought for a moment.

“It was a long time ago, ja? Thirty years since the summer Barbara Zook came here to spend a couple of months with her cousins. The Zook family has a farm over on Liberty Road, the other side of Springville. Nate Zook was brothers with Barbara’s father.”

She pulled out a notebook, jotting down the name. It was already more than she’d known before. “Was there any special reason she came that summer?”

He shrugged a little. “The way I remember it, she had been writing to Ezra Weis, a neighbor of the Zooks. They were both eighteen, thinking about finding a mate, and she came to stay so as to get to know Ezra better, to see if they’d make a match of it.”

Eighteen seemed young to be thinking of marriage to her, but probably not to an Amish person.

“Also Nate had a daughter and son about Barbara’s age, so that was a gut enough reason.”

“Does the Zook family still live around here?”

“Ach, ja. Amish don’t usually move around much once they’re settled. William Zook runs his father’s farm now. Elizabeth, she married Thomas Bell, from over on the Paradise road.”

She added their names to her list. “The man she was interested in, Ezra Weis. Is he still here, as well?”

Bishop Amos seemed to take a long time to answer that—long enough to make her wonder. “He is. He has a cabinet-making business in Springville.”

“I think I’ve seen it. Right on the main street?” A
flicker of anticipation went through her. He, at least, would be easy to find.

“Ja.” Again that hesitation. “Ezra… Well, he took it hard when your mother didn’t feel the same way about him as he did about her. He may not want to talk about it.”

She had a sense of something held back. “What do you mean by taking it hard? Did he threaten her?”

“Ach, no. Ezra would not do that. But he thought she loved him. He talked about marrying her, and then she went off to be with your father. His heart was sore, maybe his pride hurt, as well. It was a couple of years before he even thought again of marrying.”

“But he’s married now?”

Bishop Amos nodded. “Ja, he married…a sister of Eli Miller, who has the guest house where you are staying.”

“I see.” That no doubt explained why Eli didn’t want his family talking to her. “How did she meet my father?”

Bishop Amos shook his head. “That I don’t know. It wondered me at the time, but sometimes the young people went to parties with Englischers. I’m thinking that Nate and his wife got suspicious that Barbara wasn’t where she was supposed to be. They confronted her, and it all came out. She declared she loved Russell Angelo and was going to marry him, and she left the house that night.”

She tried to picture it. Her memories of her mother were of a soft-spoken, gentle woman. Hard
to believe she’d been able to stand up to everyone for a stranger.

“You…the Amish, I mean, must have tried to dissuade her.”

“Ja. The family talked to her. I talked to her. Her mother came on the bus all the way from Indiana to try to change her mind, but no one could. She left the church and married your father, and that was the end of it.”

The end. It sounded so final. “You shunned her.” The words came out more accusingly than she’d intended.

He sighed. “It is not what anyone wanted. But she left. We would have welcomed her back at any time, but she did not come. And her cousins… I think, after the first shock they would have wanted to stay in touch with her. That is possible, you see, even when someone is under the bann. Maybe she didn’t want to. She had made her choice.”

“I don’t understand how she and my father could stay here.” She tried to imagine that and failed. “I’d think they’d want to go away where no one knew them.”

Again he shrugged. “His work was here. He owned a little house in Springville, and they lived there until—” He stopped abruptly.

“Until she disappeared,” she finished for him. “My father and my grandmother believed she had gone back to her family in Indiana. Did you?”

He shook his head. “No. I would have heard if
that were so.” There was a certainty in his voice that didn’t allow argument.

“Then why didn’t you go to the police, if you thought that wasn’t true?”
If you thought something had happened to her.

“It is not our way to turn to the law. And Barbara was no longer Amish.”

She was speechless for a moment. “But if you were sure…”

He shook his head. “You do not understand, I know. But that is part of what it means to us to live separate.”

“No. I don’t understand.” She took a breath, reminding herself that she still needed this man’s cooperation. “I appreciate all you’ve been willing to tell me. It helps to understand that much.” But there was so much more she didn’t understand.

“You want more.” He seemed to read her thoughts. “I will ask my people to talk with you. If they are willing…” He left that open.

“Thank you.” She rose, not sure whether she felt better or worse for what she had learned. “I’d be very grateful.”

He nodded, the lines in his face seeming to deepen. “I hope that this search does not lead you into sorrow.”

She didn’t doubt he hoped that. But it was clear from his tone that he felt she was headed straight into trouble.

M
ARISA DROVE ALONG
Springville’s main street on her way back to the bed-and-breakfast, her mind still occupied with her conversation with Bishop Amose. She’d learned more from him about her mother in one short talk than she had in twenty-three years with her father.

Dad found it too painful to talk about her mother. That was the answer she’d always come up with. Any man might feel that way about a woman who’d left him and their daughter.

But what if she hadn’t? What if Dad knew—

She stopped, not willing to let her thoughts go in that direction.

There was Springville’s minuscule police station, a reminder of that confrontation with Adam Byler and the district attorney, if you could call it a confrontation when one party could only say that she didn’t remember. She should have stood up for her father. She shouldn’t have let herself be bullied.

To do him justice, Adam hadn’t bullied her. If anything, she’d sensed that he hadn’t liked the DA’s tactics but had been powerless to stop him.

Her mind winced away from the man’s thinly veiled accusations.
Dad, where are you? Why don’t you call?

The furniture maker’s shop was in the middle of the block. Impulsively, Marisa drew to the curb a few spaces down from it. She sat for a moment, letting her gaze wander over what there was of Springville.