Janice Kay - Her Amish Protectors

He gave her one last penetrating look with those disconcertingly dark eyes and said, “Think, Ms. Markovic. This wasn’t a stranger. He or she had to know not only who had the money, but how to get into your apartment without making a sound. He could have had a penlight—probably did—but it’s also possible our thief already knew the layout.”

He also asked her to walk him to the foot of the stairs and lock behind him. Which, like replacing the locks, was closing the barn door after the horses were out... Except, what if last night’s intruder had been thinking about her, and decided to come back?

Alone, Nadia scuttled upstairs to an apartment that no longer felt like a refuge.

CHAPTER THREE

NADIA HAD BEEN to the Bairds’ house several times, because Julie had hosted some auction committee planning sessions. Sprawling and open, it was the fanciest house in town except possibly for a couple of the huge nineteenth-century mansions. The interior was light and airy, the colors all pastels. Nadia had noticed before that Julie only purchased quilts in soft colors. She was currently taking a beginner-level class, having decided to take up quilting herself, and—no surprise—she’d chosen a creamy yellow fabric as centerpiece, to be accented with paler creams and delicate pinks.

Not much older than Nadia’s thirty-two, Julie was an attractive, slender woman with a shining cap of blond hair. Nadia had wondered if she went to a salon in St. Louis or Kansas City. No other women around here had hair as skillfully cut.

Leading Nadia to the living room, Julie said, “I’ll have Mary bring us iced tea. Or would you prefer lemonade?” Mary Gingerich was a young Amish woman who kept the house spotless and served as maid when Julie had guests.

“Oh, thank you, but no. I can only stay a minute,” Nadia said, smiling apologetically. The smile probably looked as forced as it felt. “I...have something I need to tell you.”

Looking concerned, Julie faced her. “What is it?”

Nadia blurted it out, just as she had half an hour ago to Katie-Ann. “The money from last night was stolen.”

Julie stared, comprehension coming slowly. “What?” She gave her head a small shake. “How?”

Fingernails biting into her palms, Nadia told her.

“You’ve informed the police.”

“Yes, of course. I called 911 as soon as I discovered the money box was gone. Sheriff Slater seems to be taking charge of the investigation himself.”

“And what does he say?” Julie sounded...cool. She hadn’t suggested Nadia sit down.

“He’ll be talking to everyone working on the auction. I’m sure you’ll hear from him. He’s interested in who might have been hanging around without an obvious reason, and whether anyone was asking questions about the evening’s proceeds.”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “You mean, about who was taking charge of the money?”

“Yes, or seeming curious about how much of it was cash versus checks and credit card slips.”

“I see.” The pause was a little too long. “I don’t really know what to say. I’m certainly...shocked.”

And she wasn’t going to be supportive, Nadia could tell that already. “I’m devastated,” Nadia said frankly. “I don’t know what I can do other than help Chief Slater to the best of my ability.”

“Perhaps you should consider making some financial recompense,” Julie said, her voice having chilled even more.

“Julie, I’m a small-business owner. I have no cushion that would allow me to do anything like that.” Feeling the burn in her cheeks, Nadia said, “I must be going. I need to tell everyone who was on the committee what happened in person.”

“I appreciate you doing that. I’ll walk you to the door.”

In other words, if she didn’t hustle, the door would slap her in the butt. She had no doubt that the moment she was gone Julie would start calling everyone but the Amish volunteers, who didn’t have telephones. Nadia thought of asking her to wait, but keeping herself together was a strain already. She said, “Goodbye,” without adding her usual, See you Wednesday for the class. Somehow, she felt sure Julie Baird would have an excuse for dropping out. Or she might not even bother with one.

Nadia drove half a mile from the Baird home, which was on landscaped acreage on the outskirts of Byrum, before she pulled over, set the emergency brake and closed her eyes. She had known—feared—that some people might react like that, but Katie-Ann’s warmth and sympathy had given her hope that these women she had started to think were friends would believe in her. She wanted to go home, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.

The image startled and dismayed her. This wasn’t close to the worst thing that had happened to her. Nobody was threatening to hurt or kill her. This was all about shame and her sense of responsibility. So suck it up, she told herself.

Her appointment with the locksmith wasn’t until four. She still had time, and she had to do this.

Karen Llewellyn next, then... Nadia made a mental list of who she needed to see and in what order, talked herself through some slow, deep breathing, then put the car back into gear.

* * *

WHEN LYLE WARREN saw Ben, alarm flared in his eyes. Now, why would that be? Ben asked himself, his instincts going on alert.

“Mr. Warren.” He held out a hand.

The older man, tall and bony, eyed that hand dubiously before extending his own. Ben was reminded of Nadia Markovic doing the same last night. The shake was brief. Lyle said, “I’m surprised to see you here, Chief Slater. What can I do for you?”

Ben had first visited the Brevitt mansion, where Warren maintained an office, then tried him at home. At last he’d tracked him down to what he’d been told were the remains of a gristmill a few miles outside of town. Walking the distance from where he’d had to park, Ben had begun to think he should have waited until Warren returned to town. He’d done some hiking in Upstate New York and New England, but he wasn’t much of an outdoorsman, and he’d had the unfortunate experience of encountering poison ivy not long after moving to Missouri. He thought that was Virginia creeper growing thick among the trees here, but wasn’t positive. It and poison ivy looked too much alike. One of them had three leaves, the other... He couldn’t remember. Five? But the answer was irrelevant, since he also didn’t remember which was which.

He’d found Lyle Warren prepared for the trek in heavy canvas pants and boots, in contrast to Ben’s dressier shoes and slacks. Warren hadn’t seemed like the woodsy type.

Now Ben surveyed the ruins. “You’re thinking you can do something with this?”

“If we can purchase the property. We could restore the building.”

Okay, the brick walls still stood, although Ben wouldn’t have risked leaning on one. Graffiti had been sprayed on a couple of those walls, and when he walked a few feet to peer inside, he saw cigarette butts and discarded condoms. Nice.

“According to records, the original mill on this site was built in eighteen thirty-seven,” Lyle said, in his precise way. “It was burned down in the Civil War. This one was erected using the original foundation in eighteen sixty-nine, shut down at one point, then restarted in the eighteen nineties. The steel rollers were, unfortunately, removed during World War II to be melted down. We do have some of the other equipment in storage.”

“Huh.”

Lyle’s mouth tightened, making him look as if he was sucking on a lemon. “This land is owned by Aaron Hershberger, who is Amish. Although he isn’t farming this strip, he is reluctant to sell any part of the land. He doesn’t want a tourist site right next door, he says.”