A Marriage for Meghan Read online

  The sheriff gripped his elbow and led him back to the doorway. “I don’t know, but I won’t rest until we find out.” Strickland’s words held conviction and determination. “Whoever did this is just plain sick. This goes beyond mean-spirited.” The two men walked from the shambles back into bright sunshine.

  The bishop spotted the two women who owned the shop cowering under a tree. They looked frightened and bewildered, as though the vandals might still lurk nearby. “Oh, goodness,” he muttered to Strickland, realizing the full repercussions. “It’s not just months and months of hard work that’s been destroyed, but other women bring quilts to be sold on consignment here. Most of those quilts would have sold for seven or eight hundred dollars. Families were depending on that income to pay household bills.”

  Strickland stared at the widows, his expression filled with pity. “I understand, Bishop Yost.” A muscle twitched in his neck. “I’ve sent word to their bishop and deacon. They should arrive soon.”

  “I’ll go wait with them, Sheriff. These women shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  Gideon joined the sisters under the tree to offer whatever reassurance he could. Within the hour, Amish folk arrived with packages of sandpaper, cans of paint, and plenty of brushes. Family members soon surrounded and consoled the widows. They were herded into the house until every trace of hatred could be removed from the shop.

  “What’s your opinion now, Bishop?” asked Sheriff Strickland. “Have you changed your mind about the Amish community being the target of someone?” He spoke without an ounce of censure in his tone.

  They were standing close to his sedan, alone, while more Amish wagons arrived with materials to build new display tables. Gideon looked into the sheriff’s narrowed eyes. “I have,” he stated succinctly. “I wish to fully cooperate with your department in the investigation. My sons will sign those complaints you spoke of. This cannot continue, even if I must go against the wishes of my congregation.”

  Strickland opened the passenger door for him. “All right. I’ll drive you home and then take your sons down to the Justice Center to fill out the paperwork. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll bring them home to chores as soon as possible. This will start the wheels turning, but there’s something you ought to know.” He angled his head toward the quilt shop. “This case will soon be out of my hands. The things written on those walls make this officially a hate crime, so it becomes the FBI’s jurisdiction. Agent Mast, whom you have met, will probably come down again and take over.”

  The bishop nodded, although he didn’t fully understand what the difference would entail.

  “One thing has me confounded,” said Strickland. He turned the car around on the grass.

  “What’s that?” asked Gideon, without much interest in the answer.

  “The shop doesn’t have a sign down by the road like ‘Ye Olde Quilt Shoppe.’ Seems to me a person had to be seriously interested in what these ladies were selling to even know about the place.” Strickland pulled onto the township road and drove away slowly as Amish buggies continued to arrive.

  The bishop stroked his beard, pondering the sheriff’s observation. And the more he thought about it, the less he liked it.

  Thomas had been home only a little more than two weeks when the call came in from Wayne County to Cleveland’s FBI office. And it took the bureau chief less than ten minutes to track him down and reassign him to the case.

  Thomas would return to the Amish settlement alone because thinly stretched department resources couldn’t rationalize two agents for an as-of-yet nonviolent crime. He would certainly define beating people up as violence, but considering the heinous nature of crimes they usually investigated, no other agents would be assigned without significant escalation. At least he’d have assistance from the sheriff’s department, plus the extensive database of the federal government just a phone call or mouse click away.

  He didn’t mind going back down to Wayne County, which he had come to think of as God’s country. Besides, Victoria had called not less than a dozen times since he’d been home—sometimes coy, sometimes conniving, once or twice indignant, but always manipulative. She insisted the conversation about the airline flight to New York to pick out a wedding dress had been a misunderstanding. “Pressure from her mom” had been one day’s excuse, while “she’d misread signals from him” had been another day’s explanation. She wanted to put the matter behind them and let things return to how they were.

  Either way, it didn’t matter because that would never happen. When he tried to gently explain they had no future, her behavior turned hostile . She’d left a few blue-tinged messages on his answering machine that he wouldn’t want his mother to hear. Victoria needed time to recover from the shock of not getting her way. And he needed to distance himself from her venom until she found another man to date.

  Thomas packed a bag twice as large as the last one he used, watered his two houseplants, and turned down the thermostat. No sense heating a home he wouldn’t be in. After a final check around the apartment, he headed out the door, grabbing his hiking boots as an afterthought. On the phone last night Strickland had brought him up to speed on the case. James and John Yost agreed to press charges and had signed formal complaints. Strickland sent him plenty of photos of the quilt shop destruction attached to an e-mail that Thomas printed for his file. Because the sheriff said Amish neighbors had already cleaned up the damage and painted over the slurs, Thomas saw no point in stopping at the vandalized shop first. None of the sheriff’s arguments had convinced them to wait for the FBI. The two elderly women wished to put the matter behind them as quickly as possible and wouldn’t sign a complaint. Good thing Strickland had been fast and thorough with his digital camera and forensic team, because by now fingerprints or other evidence would be long gone.

  Thomas couldn’t imagine the campground punks picking on two ladies who spent their days sewing. Punching out other men, yes, but not this. But as suspects went, the Misty Meadows hooligans were all he had. And that knowledge didn’t bode well for a speedy resolution to this crime spree. The case would now be his. He would run the investigation, turning to the sheriff’s department for backup. Strickland probably relished the role reversal, recognizing a corn maze of dead ends and a woeful lack of evidence when he saw it. Evidence collection followed by quick processing looked easy on television, but reality was usually quite different. Stretched resources of law enforcement agencies across the country made the collection of trace evidence hit or miss. But a break would come in this case if Thomas had to turn over every stick and stone in the county.

  As he exited the highway heading south on familiar two-lane roads, he felt the muscles in his back and shoulders begin to relax. The headache he’d woken up with that morning was gone, and even his sour stomach from too much black coffee felt better. He drove straight to the Yost farm. Apparently the bishop had had a change of heart regarding law enforcement and the matter. Maybe he would be willing to share other information, such as which among the Amish had past run-ins with Englischers, however minor or seemingly harmless at the time. A man couldn’t live immersed within a community without hearing things and knowing just about everything that went on.

  He liked Gideon. The man reminded Thomas of his own grandfather—crusty and blunt, but fair-minded and tenderhearted. He hadn’t seen his grandfather in too many years. A vague sense of shame and guilt trailed him up the Yost walkway to the side porch.

  After a sharp knock, the subject of his musings opened the door. “Agent Mast,” greeted the bishop. “Sheriff Strickland mentioned you would probably be back. Come in and have a seat.”

  Thomas couldn’t help staring for a moment before following him into the kitchen. The man seemed to have aged ten years since their previous conversation. Dark smudges underscored the thin skin beneath the bishop’s eyes. And those eyes—red-rimmed and watery—looked as though they had seen the face of evil. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to see you again, but unfortunately the circ
umstances haven’t improved any.” Thomas sat down in the same chair he had occupied before.

  Gideon placed two cups of coffee on the table. “My sons signed those papers. I…we will cooperate with you in every way. I saw what someone did in the next district.” His pale face lost whatever color it had still possessed. “You were right, Agent Mast. These people…they are not going away as I’d hoped. Someone must stop this.” His voice was barely a whisper in the silent kitchen.

  Thomas sipped the strong coffee without bothering with milk and sugar. “How did your meeting go after church a few weeks back?”

  “Not very well,” the bishop said, shaking his head. “Some members agreed with my logic, but not the majority. And not the other district ministers.” He paused for Thomas to absorb the implication. “I am acting today on my own, and I will live with the consequences, whatever they may be. But better to sacrifice my standing than allow more folks to be traumatized the way those quilt makers have been.” His expression revealed a glimmer of fortitude.

  “I saw the photos taken at the shop. They were nasty,” murmured Thomas. Unfortunately, he’d seen far worse than spray-painted slurs and ripped-to-shreds bedcoverings. He’d seen bodies, posed in the anguish of death, worse than anything portrayed on TV. But to this gentle man, a farmer and preacher in a peaceful rural community, the effect was undoubtedly the same. “I will have the full resources of the federal government at my disposal. We will find them, sir. Rest assured.”

  Gideon leaned back in his chair. “You’ll stay here until the criminals are caught?”

  “You have my word on that.” Thomas finished his coffee in one long swallow.

  “Where?”

  The question took him by surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Where will you stay?”

  “I suppose I’ll move back to the Best Western. It was a nice room, and they serve a decent breakfast buffet each morning. Plus, it was reasonably priced for the U.S. taxpayer.” Thomas felt like one of those annoying television infomercials.

  Gideon reflected for a moment. “We have an empty dawdi haus. Eventually Ruth and I will move there and give James this house after he marries, but I’m not ready to be put out for pasture yet.” A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “It’s fully furnished and quite comfortable. We use it whenever we get relatives from out of town.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t accept—”

  The bishop waved his hand. “No freebies. I would charge you, young man. You could pay me the same rate you would pay the hotel. And my Ruth could serve your breakfast right here.” He thumped the table with his knuckles. “I would make a little money for the district’s medical fund, and you would be closer to your investigation.”

  Thomas thought about the idea and couldn’t come up with any reason not to go along with it, except for the fact innkeeper Yost probably didn’t take Visa or MasterCard. “If you’ll accept a check from the bureau every week or two in the mail, that should work out fine.” He stretched out his hand.

  “Jah, a check would be all right.” Gideon shook heartily. “Breakfast will be at seven prompt. We don’t sleep late around here.”

  “I don’t either. Seven will be great.” Mast pulled his pen and notebook from a pocket. “And now that we’ve settled the matter of my accommodations, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  The bishop’s smile faded as his expression turned resigned but determined. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Twelve

  Meghan walked home from school with a heavy tote bag of teacher manuals and an even heavier heart. Yesterday had been the district singing, but she hadn’t attended. Not after Jacob’s astounding announcement…or her impetuous response. Why had his declaration of love so surprised her? Catherine always said that he loved her. And in a private corner of her heart, she had always known it.

  Yet his forthright proclamation that they should marry in the fall startled her. What happened to officially courting? Romantic, slowpaced buggy rides home from social events on back roads. Strolls through the orchard to the waterfall, holding hands if nobody was nearby. A chance meeting of their eyes during preaching service, along with a smile reserved only for each other.

  Instead, Jacob came to a decision by his own determination, similar to choosing between Percherons or Belgians for his next plow horses. Meghan ground her teeth with the same irritation she’d felt that afternoon in the schoolyard. If this kept up, she would crack every one of her back molars.

  And yet…she should have discussed the matter with him rationally instead of flying off the handle. But she wasn’t ready to marry someone so bossy and domineering—a man who would make decisions without even asking her opinion. And she certainly wasn’t ready to give up the dream of her own classroom someday. Maybe the members of the school board would grind her dream under their boot heels, but for now she would work hard and continue to improve. And she would pray that God would bring the right man for her—someone soft-spoken and malleable—when the time was right.

  Hefting her tote bag higher on her shoulder, she lengthened her strides. Tonight was her night to help mamm with dinner, and then she would wash dishes and rinse out a few clothes. With plenty to do before settling down with her manuals, Meghan flinched when she spotted a car in their driveway. Who in the world comes to visit at the supper hour?

  Her father must be busy with important district business. Entering through the back door, she quietly hung up her cape and bonnet and tiptoed into the kitchen. She halted one step past the doorway as her jaw dropped open. Daed and mamm were nowhere to be seen. For several seconds she stared at the sole person at the table—the FBI agent from Cleveland. Their gazes met and held until she felt herself blush and glanced away.

  “Miss Yost, what a pleasure to see you again!” He scrambled to his feet.

  “I live here,” she stated, setting her tote bag on the counter. Does the color of his blue eyes really exist in nature?

  “Yes, of course you do. Did I sound surprised to see you?” He laughed, ran a hand through his hair, and straightened his tie. His haphazardly scattered papers covered half the surface of their oak table.

  She approached cautiously, as though encountering a large, unfamiliar stray dog. “Where are my parents?” she asked. This question was the politest one of the three that popped into her head, the other two being: Why are you alone in our kitchen? And why have you turned our table into an office just before the dinner hour?

  As though reading her mind, he shuffled his papers into tidy stacks. “Your father said he needed to visit the next-door neighbor for a while, and your mother decided to go with him.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Your mother said she breaded chicken for you to fry, and that you are to fix parsley potatoes and green beans. Oh, and she shredded a head of cabbage for coleslaw, so all you need to do is add dressing.” He grinned as though pleased with his recollection.

  “Thank you for the message. Would you like more coffee?” she asked, noticing his empty mug.

  He glanced at his cup. “Why, yes. I’d love some, if it’s no trouble. Maybe you’ll join me in a cup?” His tawny complexion darkened with a flush.

  An Englischer more flustered and out of sorts than me? Meghan held back a giggle. “Yes. It looks as though my mother fixed a fresh pot, and I usually have an afternoon pick-me-up while I make dinner.”

  “Good grief, am I in your way here?” He began shoving papers into color-coded folders.

  “Not at the moment you’re not. I have to cook the food before we can sit down and eat it.” She offered a smile as she filled his mug and poured a cup for herself.

  “Of course you do. Should I wait in the living room? Unless drinks shouldn’t be taken from this room.”

  Meghan rolled her eyes. “You’re okay for now. But I must ask you, Officer, what you are waiting for if my folks are gone. Do you have questions for me?” She took a sip of her coffee.

  “Apparently, I’m waiti
ng for my common sense to return.” He lowered himself back into the chair. “I beg your pardon, Miss Yost, for not making things clear. Your parents invited me to share dinner with your family tonight. When they suggested I wait in here at the table, I decided to catch up on some paperwork. Your father answered my questions earlier. I’ve been here off and on all day, except for a trip to a quilt shop in the next district.”

  While he talked, she noticed that his teeth were the whitest she’d even seen. Everything about the man’s coloring seemed to be extreme, from his blue eyes to his white teeth to his black hair. “You spoke with the two widows?” she asked as she filled two frying pans with oil.

  “I did, as much as they were willing, but let’s not talk about that anymore. How was your day? Were those boys a pack of rascals or well behaved?”

  “School went well today. Other than some of my eighth graders failing their spelling test, we suffered no major mishaps.” She cast a curious glance over her shoulder.

  “No further mischief in the classroom?” he persisted.

  “None. Our crisis seems to have passed.” Meghan lined up pieces of chicken in the skillets, turned on the burners, and dumped some green beans into a saucepan. “And one mystery, at least, has been solved.” She turned around to meet his gaze.

  He watched her intently. “Would you care to share the details with me, Miss Yost?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” She felt beads of sweat form across her hairline beneath her kapp.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciated the tip you gave us a while back. It was the only helpful information I’d received until I spoke with your dad today.”

  She wiped her damp palms down her apron, unable to hide a shocked expression. “It was? That little tidbit I heard from Mr. Santos about the campground?”

  “It was. The sheriff and I drove out there the next day. Frankly, those men are our most likely suspects.”