A Marriage for Meghan Page 20

  She shook off her silly insecurities and dog-in-the-manger feelings. She found what she wanted after all, so his indifference should be of no concern. Yet while she brewed another batch of tea to chill, arranged the lunch meats, cheeses, pickles, and olives on several trays, and then filled fabric-lined baskets with sliced bread, thoughts of Jacob Shultz drifted back to torment her. The more she tried to think of something else, the more she fixated on him.

  She remembered one warm May afternoon when she had been eight and Jacob had been ten. He had passed her a note in class telling her to excuse herself to the girls’ lavatory. He pleaded the urgent need to use the boys’ facility. Once outdoors, they crept away from the schoolhouse, careful to stay out of the teacher’s view. When sufficiently safe from detection, they ran across the field. Like wild colts broken free from the paddock, she and Jacob scampered through woods and meadows down to their favorite swimming hole. Where the river flowed over the ravine’s granite outcroppings, there was a small waterfall. At the bottom, the clear-water collection pool formed the perfect spot to cool off. The two truants shed shoes and socks and then waded in up to their chins. With the crystalline shower from above, the squishy mud between their toes, and the warm sun filtering through the tree canopy, the day had been the most delightful of her childhood. But one warm afternoon, splashing around like two river otters, couldn’t last forever. The teacher had not been amused by their escape, and trouble awaited both of them at home. It had been the only time Meghan could remember her daed spanking her backside. Yet it had been infinitely worth it.

  Shaking off the pleasant reverie, Meghan dragged over a five-gallon container of water and carefully added powdered lemonade mix with a funnel. After rocking the jug back and forth to mix the batch, she sliced up lemons to float across the surface. She would set out a bowl of lemon slices to add to individual glasses for a fresh-squeezed touch. She loved the smell of lemons, but as she cut up the fruit another memory of Jacob drifted back unbidden—one not of balmy summer days but of the cold, dead of winter.

  She’d lain in bed for days, bundled with quilts and hot water bottles, dreadfully ill with pneumonia. Her mamm brought her endless cups of lemon tea to keep her hydrated. A trip to the doctor produced antibiotics but no immediate relief to her aches and pains. Dozing fitfully, she awoke to the sound of something hitting her bedroom window. Dabbing her nose and wiping her reddened eyes, Meghan hoped the hailstorm would soon pass. After a while she heard the distinctive sound of her name being called. Curiosity overcame discomfort, and she threw back the covers and padded across chilly floorboards to the window.

  The sight below warmed her heart enough to forget about cold feet. A six-foot snowman stood facing her window. He wore an old straw hat and a tattered muffler, and a hand-lettered piece of wood rested against the bottom snowball. The sign read: “Get well, Meghan.” After a moment, Jacob Shultz stepped out from behind his creation. He stuck in a carrot for the nose, waved at her enthusiastically, and then disappeared into the lightly falling snow.

  How could a person not recover quickly after such a get-well card?

  How could she ever replace a friend like Jacob?

  How could she ever find another man who would love her so much, or one she could be so utterly herself with—runny nose and all? Two large tears ran down her cheeks and dropped onto the cutting board.

  “What’s wrong?” exclaimed Catherine from the doorway. “Did you cut yourself?” She flew to her sister’s side.

  “No, and I wish folks would stop sneaking up on me!” Meghan didn’t try to hide her irritation.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” As usual, Catherine ignored her crustiness and slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  “Nothing, I’m fine.” Meghan softened her tone and wiped a sleeve over her face. “It’s a reaction from squeezing all those lemons.”

  “You’re talking to me, dear heart.” Catherine tightened her embrace.

  Meghan allowed herself to be enfolded in her sister’s arms. “I’m crying because I’m sad, that’s all. Just plain, old, garden-variety sadness.”

  Catherine patted her back but blessedly didn’t press the issue. “It happens to all of us, sooner or later,” she murmured. “But God makes sure our melancholy doesn’t last too long.”

  Fifty men could accomplish a truly amazing amount of work in one day. By the time the Yost sisters helped set out the evening meal, the Yoder produce market was almost finished. With that many workers, teams had assembled the twelve-foot walls individually. Once the four walls were stood in place and anchored to the foundation, ceiling joists and roof rafters could be hung from the center beam. After lunch, the men laid plywood sheeting across the rafters, while skilled carpenters framed the window openings to the exact dimensions of the double-hung windows on order. A team of Amish roofers finished the shingles within four hours, while the rest of the men installed doors and built interior partitions and display tables.

  Thomas had been impressed with the progress, although his personal involvement had consisted of carrying loads of two-by-fours, feeding sheets of plywood up the ladder, and cleaning up the building site. Even considering his limited carpentry abilities, he still felt more successful on the construction project than with his surveillance. He’d neither seen nor heard anything useful all day long. The men talked mainly in Deutsch except when addressing him, while the women chatted exclusively in Deutsch, peering at him warily when he subtly tried to eavesdrop. Absolutely no unknown or irate Englischers lurked around the site, no unfamiliar cars stalked the road in front of the house, and no suspicious packages arrived by clandestine foreign couriers. Nothing to warrant the services of a Quantico-trained federal agent. During supper he devoured baked ham, German potato salad, and spiced apples to the point of exploding, and then he nearly jumped a foot off the bench when his cell phone rang.

  “Where are you, Agent Mast?” barked the familiar voice of Sheriff Strickland. “I’ve been calling you for hours. I’m at the Yost farm right now, and nobody’s here but a bunch of cows and horses.”

  “I accompanied the family to an Amish construction project to get a feel for what’s going on in the community. The ladies are also replacing quilts destroyed by the vandals.” Thomas stood and moved away from the table so he could talk without curious ears listening in.

  “Catch any bad guys while you were up on the scaffolds?” asked Strickland.

  Thomas grinned as he said, “No, but I gotta do something with my time. I’ve had few leads to go on while waiting for the evidence results to come back from the lab.”

  “Then you should have answered your cell phone sooner.”

  Thomas glanced down at the phone’s display. He’d missed three calls while immersed in the noisy beehive of market rebuilding. “Sorry, Bob. I didn’t hear the thing ring. What have you got?” He felt the same surge of adrenaline he had each time a case opened up a notch.

  “The trace evidence and DNA results are back from your lab. They copied me on the report. Nothing turned up on those two spray paint cans we found in the bushes outside the quilt shop, but remember that ball cap we found?”

  “Of course,” Mast said. Detectives had found a dirty hat stuck in some rhododendrons, close to the paint cans. It could have been discarded by a tourist months ago and gone unnoticed by the widows, but the investigator had sent it in to be analyzed. “Were they able to pull DNA out of the sweatband?”

  “They were.” Strickland’s answer was concise and to the point. “I know you ran a check on Justin King, the ringleader of that merry band of thugs at Misty Meadow Campground.”

  “We got lucky. He’s in the system for a misdemeanor involving disorderly conduct.”

  “So I’m thinking if we run a comparison between the two DNA samples, we might just get a match. Of course, I don’t want to tell you your business, Thomas. You might be on to something at that barn raising and bake sale.” The sheriff injected a slow, Southern drawl into his voice.
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  Surprisingly, Thomas felt no irritation from the ribbing. It seemed as though they had been colleagues for a long while. “It’s a farm market, not a barn, and a quilting bee. There are no pies for sale, or I would pick up a few for your department.” He paused before adapting a serious tone. “Send my lab the DNA profile of our suspect and order the comparison. I’m on my way in to your office now.”

  “What, and miss the bonfire and sing-along?”

  Thomas chose to ignore the question. Instead he asked one of his own. “You know any friendly judges you can call after hours? Sounds as though we’re in need of a search warrant. And because I’ll probably miss the bonfire and s’mores, you might brew some coffee. I’d love a fresh cup, not that reheated sludge from the last shift.”

  “You got it,” Strickland said before hanging up.

  After Thomas snapped his phone shut, he turned to find himself face-to-face with Meghan Yost.

  “Did you get enough to eat, Thomas?” she asked, her dimples deepening with her grin. “My bruders said you worked very hard.”

  “I amazed even myself. I believe you witnessed how I loaded my plate, and I especially enjoyed your apple pie. Thank your sister for including me, and thank your parents too. But right now I need to get to Wooster.”

  “You spotted a suspect at the frolic?” Her pretty eyes rounded with alarm.

  “No, no. Nothing here seemed out of the ordinary, but evidence left at the quilt shop has turned up a lead.”

  “That’s nice.” Meghan clasped her hands and smiled politely, not understanding but not particularly interested in clarification either.

  “I’ll see you back home, Miss Yost.” He doffed his Indians hat and sprinted to his car.

  Deciding not to waste time changing clothes, he drove to the Justice Center in his jeans and work boots. Sheriff Strickland handed him a cup of coffee the moment Thomas sat down in front of his desk.

  “What have you got?” he asked, taking an appreciative sip.

  “You’re gonna love this. The DNA they pulled from the sweatband matched that of our charming Justin King. How’s that for a solid lead?”

  Thomas leaned forward in the swivel chair. “Best news I’ve had all day.”

  “Better than that slice of apple pie I know you ate?”

  “Well, it wasn’t à la mode, so I’d have to say yes. How soon can we get that search warrant?” Thomas scrambled to his feet as his energy level ratcheted up.

  “Easy, Agent. We’re working on that right now. My detective is trying to track down a judge, but we might not have one willing to sign a warrant until tomorrow or Monday.”

  Thomas nodded. “I’ll be at my desk updating files if you hear anything.” He walked to his assigned cubicle to work on everything and anything he could find. With his blood pumping at the thought of moving forward with the case, he couldn’t relax and didn’t want to go back to the Yost farm until ready to fall into bed. He’d had enough of the tight-knit family stuff for one day. The up-close-and-personal look only reminded him of what he didn’t have and probably never would.

  Fourteen

  Thomas worked at his desk until eight o’clock that night. The sheriff had already gone home as well as his detectives. Finally, when he concluded nothing else would happen today regarding the search warrant, he went to a sports bar in Wooster for a pizza and Coke. Few other dining options remained open at this hour in a small city. In a town the size of Shreve, his choices would have been even slimmer.

  Eating his dinner, he watched CNN and caught up on international events. The troubles in the world continued unabated while he searched for a vandal with a particular mean streak. Yet for some reason, Thomas felt as committed to solving this case as any he’d investigated before. Hates crimes in a country of multiple religions and diverse ethnic backgrounds couldn’t be tolerated. The Amish would always hold a soft spot in his heart, even though he felt his parents had made the right decision. His grandparents lived somewhere in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and he wouldn’t want to see them traumatized as those two widows had been.

  He boxed up the remaining pizza to take home and stepped out into a cool evening. The streets were nearly empty at nine thirty at night. Home. Driving back to his austerely furnished dawdi haus behind the big farmhouse, he contemplated how easily he’d adjusted to living off the grid. His leftovers would be kept cool in a propane fridge. He would read the sports section of the paper by the light of a kerosene lamp. His shower would be as soothingly warm as the one in his condo, while his sheets and towels, dried on a clothesline outdoors, would smell like fresh sunshine. A hot breakfast awaited him each morning in the Yost kitchen, and because he preferred a cool bedroom, he didn’t even bother with the woodstove anymore. He shaved with a triple-blade razor and gel, used a normal toothbrush, wouldn’t even know what to do with a hair dryer, and didn’t miss electric blankets, toasters, CD players, or even his microwave oven. Because he could charge his cell phone and laptop in the car, his job performance hadn’t suffered at all. And, surprisingly, he hadn’t missed television or his DVD player yet. Would he like to live without the Indians, Browns, or Cavalier games on Sunday afternoons forever? No. But he had kept busy enough to not miss them so far.

  The next day, however, offered more free time than he would have liked. The detective found a judge to review the evidence over the weekend, but because the case might be bumped up to federal court, the judge wasn’t willing to make a hasty decision. Thomas spent Sunday wandering the Yost farm and the surrounding hills and meadows. Everywhere he explored—barn loft, woodlot, riverbank, or rolling pastures—he found another scenic photo op for a wall calendar. It took him half the day before he spotted a hulking pile of rusty farm equipment. But even that had become overgrown with vines of wild morning glories.

  On Monday morning Thomas wolfed down his breakfast of bacon and eggs and then arrived at the sheriff’s office by seven thirty. He was pacing the floor with his third cup of coffee when the detective sauntered in with a signed search warrant to accompany his arrest warrant for Justin King. The sight made Thomas’ heart beat a little faster…or maybe it was from all the caffeine.

  Thomas and Bob drove out to Misty Meadows Campground in the county’s SUV. Although neither anticipated off-road chases through bogs and scrubland, they wanted to be ready for anything. Thomas had his bureau-issued semiautomatic, while Bob carried a pump-action shotgun in addition to his sidearm. Six deputies with a variety of weaponry followed behind to provide backup. The firepower seemed over-the-top, considering the charges were property destruction and breaking and entering, but everyone in law enforcement knew of officers who had been shot while issuing routine speeding tickets. Those living on the fringe of society often acted rashly to avoid going to jail, even for minor crimes. And hate crimes happened to be felonies.

  They pulled into the campground, noticing a distinct change in the landscape since their previous visit. What had been desolate, frozen tundra now showed signs of life. Although tree limbs remained bare, daffodils and crocuses bloomed in neat rows next to parking spots and public buildings. But Thomas kept his mind focused on the three silver trailers near the pond. The same cars and trucks were parked haphazardly around the campsites, including the four-wheel-drive truck with huge knobby tires. Unfortunately, today no young men milled outdoors with their heads under car hoods.

  Once the deputies blocked off any possible escape route, positioning themselves unseen until needed, Mast and Strickland pounded on the door to the largest trailer. “Justin King, this is Special Agent Mast of the FBI and Sheriff Strickland from the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department. We have a warrant for your arrest. Please step outside.”

  Water dripped from a clogged overhead gutter.

  A stray yellow cat eyed them warily from the bushes.

  The soft drone of talk radio emanated from behind the closed mini blinds, but no human sounds could be heard.

  Mast raised his voice, shouting at the dirt-streaked wind
owpane. “We also have a warrant to search these premises. If you don’t open the door, we’ll be forced to knock it down.”

  After a moment they heard the distinctive click of a dead bolt drawn back. With his fingers inches from his weapon, Thomas held his breath as the metal reinforced door swung open.

  “What’s this about? What do you want with my boy?” A thin, middle-aged man stood in the half-open doorway, squinting from the sun glare in his eyes. He wore dirty blue jeans, a ripped undershirt beneath a plaid flannel shirt, and badly scuffed work boots.

  “Step aside, sir,” ordered Mast as he climbed the concrete block steps.

  The man complied just as Thomas and the sheriff entered the trailer. A ten-second perusal of the room confirmed this family had no permanent home. Plastic crates and cardboard boxes had been stacked in every nook and cranny, yet the sofa and small kitchen table remained clear and usable. Children’s artwork held by colorful magnets decorated the face of the refrigerator and hung in windows. A laundry basket near the door held clean, folded clothes.

  “Justin, get out here!” hollered the elder King.

  Strickland crossed the room, but he couldn’t conceal himself with so many stacked boxes in the way. Mast remained by the doorway.

  The angry young man they had interviewed after the pizza shop beating sauntered past the sheriff, while a woman about forty years old followed close behind.

  “What did you do, Justin?” she asked, her face a roadmap of deep-seated wrinkles.

  “I didn’t do nothin’.” Justin King crossed muscular arms over his cutoff athletic shirt, which revealed several inches of taut stomach muscles. Both knees were missing from his jeans.

  “You’re under arrest for trespass, malicious destruction of property, breaking and entering, and vandalism at the quilt shop on Township Road 405.”

  “Quilt shop?” Mother, dad, and son chimed simultaneously.