A Marriage for Meghan Page 21

“I ain’t been to a quilt shop.” Justin’s tone expressed contempt for the idea.

  “Just like you and your friends didn’t beat up some Amish men leaving Santos Pizza of Shreve.” Thomas closed the distance between them and stood six inches from King’s nose.

  A sneer pulled Justin’s lips into a thin line. “I get it. This quilt shop is Amish, so you’ve come round to shake my tree. You got nothing on me.”

  Now it was Thomas’ turn to smile. “They found your baseball cap mere yards from the shop’s front door. You must have lost it in your hurry. You’re in the system, King, thanks to that ruckus you caused in Wheeling.”

  Justin’s hands clenched into fists. “That’s baloney. I was never at any quilt shop!”

  “Hands behind your back,” barked Strickland. He roughly yanked King’s arms back, snapping on handcuffs.

  Justin released a string of foul language but didn’t resist the sheriff.

  “You do this, boy?” asked his father. He wedged himself between Agent Mast and his son. “You tear up some lady’s store and wreck stuff? I know you got some bug up your nose about Amish people, but I don’t know where that came from.”

  Strickland dragged the young man back from his father.

  Justin rolled his eyes. “You ain’t exactly helping here, Dad.”

  “If we find even one shred of evidence regarding this ‘bug up your nose,’” said Thomas to the suspect, “you’ll be charged with a hate crime and the stakes will go up a few notches. How does twenty years in federal prison sound?” Agents didn’t usually taunt suspects, especially not while still inside their residence, but King’s swagger and arrogance needled him.

  “I ain’t seen that hat in a couple weeks. The last time I saw it, it was in my pickup. Somebody’s setting me up!” Justin shouted over his shoulder as Strickland dragged him out the front door.

  “A lot of men wear baseball caps,” said his mother, gripping the kitchen counter. She looked on the verge of tears.

  “It was from Appalachian State College and had your son’s DNA in the sweatband,” said Thomas. “Are there other family members at home? It would be better if your family remained outside while these officers search the trailer.”

  As though on command, a young child stepped into the crowded room just as two Wayne County detectives entered the camper. She ran to wrap arms around a considerably paler Mrs. King. While the detectives disappeared down the short hallway, Mast herded the rest of the King family down the steps. They watched as Strickland locked Justin into the back of a deputy’s cruiser.

  “I can’t see my son doing something like this,” said the elder King. “He gets into fights all the time on account of his temper, but he’s never broken into places before.”

  If Mast had a dollar for every time he heard parents doubt their offspring’s capability of committing crimes, he could take early retirement. “Where are his friends, Mr. King? The other young men he was with when we visited here before?”

  “You mean his cousins? They’re at the library using their computers. They have résumés out and are trying to line up interviews.” Mr. King shook his head. “I prefer to show up in person to fill out job applications.”

  Mast glanced again at his attire and hoped he had other clothes for job hunting. “So Justin doesn’t own a computer or have Internet access here?” He angled his head toward the residence.

  Mr. King shook his head. “Nah. Justin’s wife took the laptop, all his cash, and just about anything not nailed down when she ran off. All she left Justin with was their little girl.” He pointed a finger at the skinny child, about four years old, clinging to her grandmother’s leg.

  “That’s Justin’s daughter?”

  “She is, and he’s a good dad too. That’s why he’s not with his cousins today. He’s watching his daughter while I take my wife to the doctor. I don’t think he would do anything to be sent away for. He’s all Jessie has, except for us grandparents. Her worthless mother ain’t coming back.”

  Thomas tried not to look too long at the big-eyed child in a Shrek sweat suit. He was law enforcement, not a social worker. But he wouldn’t have long to worry about kids tugging at his heartstrings.

  “Agent Mast,” called an officer, appearing from behind the trailer. “Look what we found tossed under the camper.” With a gloved hand, he held out a spray paint can, the same brand and color as those found at the crime scene. “What do ya wanna bet batch numbers match up?”

  “We don’t toss trash under our home,” said Mr. King, indignantly.

  “Bag and label the evidence,” said Thomas to the deputy. “Good work, Officer.” To the father he said, “I suggest you get your son a lawyer. He’s going to need one.”

  Sensing the serious mood, little Jessie King began to cry. Thomas left the family standing with blank expressions in the cramped campsite and walked back to the sheriff’s SUV. He was glad Strickland had locked the suspect in the back of another vehicle. A short wish list ran through his head as he slouched down in the passenger’s seat. He wished they had found a laptop with an incriminating history of websites—specializing in spewing hatred—that Justin had visited. Even with the physical evidence tying King to the break-in, a federal prosecutor might not want to move forward without collaboration of a religious-oriented targeting. Otherwise, the crimes remained county matters and third-degree misdemeanors at best. And Thomas had just been wasting Ohio taxpayers’ money.

  After the comments made by the senior Mr. King, Thomas felt confident the grand jury would indict. And because Justin’s family lived a transient lifestyle, he would request that the judge hold him without bail as a flight risk. Until further evidence turned up, at least the Wayne County Amish population would be spared further harassment.

  Saturday

  Meghan couldn’t contain her exuberance. She had hardly slept a wink last night, yet she brimmed with energy. At long last the day of the school fund-raiser had arrived. Joanna Kauffman had set the wheels in motion last January by sending letters to everyone in the district to save the date and gather items to sell. Since then Catherine had posted notices in both Amish and English newspapers of the all-day auction. A local furniture maker donated a dozen pieces from their showroom that had been scratched or unclaimed by buyers. Candle makers, bookstores, bulk food outlets, tack shops, woodworkers, and metal fabricators also donated items to be sold. District members would bring handmade quilts, birdhouses, jams and jellies, toys, wall-hangings and, of course, every imaginable type of pastry for the bake sale.

  An Amish school received no government funding and relied on tuition paid by district families and the annual fund-raiser for books, supplies, loads of coal, and the teacher’s salary. Meghan and Catherine were hoping Amish and English customers would turn out in droves to bid on bargains in both new and used treasures. They had even canceled school yesterday to prepare for the event. Most of the students, along with many parents, showed up anyway to help arrange merchandise on the long tables under a circus-style tent. Catherine prepared an inventory list to be used by the auctioneer, while Meghan and Joanna priced the items to be sold outright. Ruth and several friends would run the food wagon, selling sloppy joes, hot dogs, chips, and soft drinks. After all, no event would be complete without plenty of food.

  As Catherine carried a final load of paper products to the buggy, Meghan ran to the dawdi haus and knocked impatiently. “Hello in there,” she hollered, unable to wait.

  After a minute, a disheveled Thomas Mast pulled open the door. “Good morning, Meghan. You’re up rather early.” He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw.

  “There’s no time to sleep in. You need to come to our school fundraiser and bring your checkbook.” She giggled like one of her eighth graders. “We’re raising money for the next school year. There will be wonderful bargains and a bake sale.” She winked impishly, and then she noticed his suitcase close to the door. “You’re leaving?” she asked, feeling a wave of disappointment.

  “I plan to leav
e later today, but not before talking to your family first.”

  “But why?” she asked, sounding very childlike.

  “I’ve gone over the evidence carefully this week to present to the federal prosecutor in Akron. Now it will be his decision whether to take the case to court or not.”

  Meghan tried to understand his explanation but couldn’t get past the fact her newest—and maybe only—friend was about to skedaddle. “So you must leave?”

  “I believe we’ve put the man responsible in jail, and he’ll be there for a while. Your community should be safe from him. And I don’t think his friends will act without their ringleader.”

  “That’s good to hear, but there’s no need to hurry off. You said you like living here and we like having you. I can tell by the way you’re always studying and sniffing things around the farm.” She stretched on tiptoes, trying to stand as tall as possible.

  “That’s true, Meghan. I love this place. I’ve never lived anywhere quite this peaceful. You can just about listen to the corn grow on my back porch. But my job is in Cleveland, I’m afraid. I was only loaned to Wayne County, sort of like a library book.” His blue eyes sparkled when he laughed.

  On impulse, she reached out and grabbed his arm, dragging him out the door. “Well, you’re still here today. Come to our auction. It’s the most important day in the school year.” She suddenly released her impetuous grip.

  He smiled, but with more sadness than merriment. “I’ll come, Meghan. I wouldn’t miss a fund-raiser thrown by my two favorite teachers. Let me shower and change. I’ll meet you at the school.” His gaze bored right through her.

  Suddenly her courage evaporated. “You know the way. And you can’t miss the big tent,” she called over her shoulder.

  Catherine and her parents were waiting patiently for her. Her brothers had gone ahead to organize the parking for cars and buggies. Meghan hoped no one would notice how nervous she’d become during the past five minutes. Why were her palms sweating and her heart pounding loud enough to be heard? That FBI agent had a strange effect on her—one her parents wouldn’t like one bit.

  Once on school grounds, Meghan had no time to think about young men, Amish or English. She double-checked that each item on the sale tables had been priced and then set up folding chairs in front of the auctioneer’s podium. Joanna Kauffman and her husband volunteered to handle the cash register. James would carry items to be auctioned up to the podium in the numbered order assigned by Catherine. John would tag the sold item and move it off to the side. Glen would help her bruders move heavy furniture to people’s buggies, cars, or trucks. Her daed volunteered to keep a tally of items sold, along with the final bidding price. Annabeth Selby would carry carbon copies of his sheets to Joanna for record keeping at the checkout table. Her mamm opened the lunch wagon for business, while parents of her students would monitor the display tables of crafts and used appliances, wrapping purchases and replacing stock as needed.

  And Meghan? She would oversee the whole operation, including directing students to take water to tied-up horses, picking up litter, greeting new customers, and explaining procedures to first-timers. She loved her position of responsibility. Yet with such a competent staff, she had plenty of time to stand around, amazed by the high bidding prices. While she was standing around grinning, she noticed Jacob Shultz duck into the tent with a group of his friends. She lifted her hand in a friendly wave, but he acknowledged with only the barest of nods.

  Turning away from Jacob’s less-than-enthusiastic greeting, she spotted Thomas Mast enter the tent on the other side. She sucked in a deep lungful of air. He looked handsome in dark blue jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’d combed his hair, still damp from the shower, straight back from his face. Although it was only April, spring sunshine had already tanned his ruddy complexion. Meghan hurried to his side.

  “Thomas, welcome,” she said, grinning with pleasure. “You’ve come, and I trust you’ve brought your checkbook.”

  “Of course. I’ve already bought several things from the tables set up on the lawn.”

  She clapped her hands. “Wonderful! What treasures did you find?”

  Thomas took her arm and gently pulled her to the side. “Let’s talk over here so you’re not crushed by the throng. Let’s see…I bought a mantel clock for my parents’ anniversary next month, candles for my sisters, and some dried potpourri for the neighbor who waters my plants.”

  “Nothing for yourself?” She tucked her hands beneath her white apron. “How positively unselfish.” An uncommon trait among English men.

  “Don’t be too impressed with my character. I bought a couple books for myself. One is a fictionalized account of the Anabaptist martyrs living in the sixteenth century. And the second is a collection of Amish photographs—scenes mostly, no facial shots—taken both here and in Lancaster County.”

  “Ah, you have your pleasure reading taken care of for whenever you decide to stop working so hard.” She rocked back and forth on her heels.

  He lowered his chin to gaze into her eyes. “I am going to miss you, Meghan Yost, when I return to Cleveland. With your personality, you’ll be the best schoolteacher this district has ever known.”

  She felt her face grow warm. “Don’t flatter me, Thomas. I don’t need to be the best—only adequate in God’s eyes and those of the district parents.” She reached out to grasp his hand. “But thank you for saying that. Your opinion means a lot to me.” She released her grip and laughed much too loudly for a demure Amish woman. “Because you’re an outsider, an objective observer. Oops, gotta run.” She hurried away to where students were eating up all the free samples. “Hey,” she called, “those cookies are for the shoppers, not the workers.”

  With hungry boys to shoo and cookies to replenish, Meghan didn’t notice Jacob Shultz staring at her from across the tent. His brows had converged above the bridge of his nose, while his hands had clenched into fists. Nor did she realize she’d attracted the attention of Catherine, her father, and several parents, two of whom happened to be on the school board.

  Jacob’s expression could be described as furious, Catherine’s as worried, and her father’s as disappointed. The parents looked confused more than anything else, but not one of her onlookers looked happy.

  Gideon left the auctioneer’s side for five minutes to get a cup of coffee. And in that short time he saw something that set his teeth on edge. His youngest daughter was talking in low whispers with the FBI agent in the entranceway to the tent for the whole district to see. Giggling and carrying on as though she were a silly girl instead of a grown woman hoping to be rehired by a conservative school board. Meghan had made great strides these past months, improving both her teaching skills and her dependability, yet here she was boldly grabbing a man’s arm with no restraint whatsoever.

  Inviting the Englischer to the fund-raiser was one thing—all were welcome to help support Amish schools. But the bishop wouldn’t permit Meghan to flirt with a man she had nothing in common with.

  What happened to that Shultz boy? Gideon remembered Ruth saying he was sweet on their daughter. He would make a good match for his lively, impulsive girl—a no-nonsense blacksmith who worked hard on his daed’s farm. The bishop relaxed a bit when youngsters finally caught Meghan’s eye. Off she marched to do what she was here for instead of entertaining young men with foolishness. Gideon started back to the auctioneer’s platform with his coffee, but he was soon halted by another interruption.

  “Guder mariye, Bishop,” hailed Stephen.

  “Good morning to you, Deacon. Have you come to haggle for bargains?” Gideon sipped his fraa’s coffee. Ruth had made him pay a dollar for the cup, the same as everyone else.

  “Jah, I brought my wallet in case I spot something I can use. Of course, with all the tourists here, prices will probably soar beyond my limits.”

  “That’s what the school board hopes for to replenish the coffers,” mused Gideon. “My Catherine says they
need to replace the primers and the math textbooks for the fall.”

  “Why? Is two plus two no longer four?” A twinkle in Stephen’s eye betrayed his joke.

  “Everything wears out, my friend.” The bishop absently rubbed his lower back. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the podium before Catherine sends someone to look for me.”

  The deacon stopped him from leaving. “Another moment, Gideon. Paul and the other board members want a word with you when you’re done working up front.” This time Stephen’s expression revealed nothing.

  “All right, until then.” The bishop wound his way through the crowd to the platform with anxiety nipping at his heels.

  The spirited bidding and high selling prices failed to cheer him as they had earlier. For the next two and a half hours, Gideon worried about the upcoming meeting. Did they witness Meghan’s inappropriate boldness? Or did she do something in the classroom to raise the ire of some parents? Or did they find another candidate for the head teacher position? He didn’t wish to be the one to tell his daughter that kind of news.

  When the auction concluded, buyers exited the tent and headed for the food line or to the outdoor flea market. Gideon looked for the school board members, finding them clustered around the bake sale tables. One elderly member, with powdered sugar dusting his beard, still managed to look stern and imposing.

  “A well-run fund-raiser,” greeted Paul. “Along with tuition, the proceeds should adequately supply the financial needs for the next school year.” The other three men nodded in agreement.

  “Jah, once the food receipts and craft tables are tallied, we should have sufficient funds.” Gideon looked from one to the other.

  “To free up dollars for new textbooks, we propose paying only one teacher salary next year. If the class size is too large for one person, perhaps some parents can assist as volunteer aides.”

  “Gut, gut. That was my idea also.” The bishop pulled on his beard, ignoring his grumbling stomach. He should have taken a lunch break.