Her Amish Protectors. Janice Kay Johnson
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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.”
Ben wasn’t about to say so, but he could sympathize. The Amish were tourist attractions themselves. They might take advantage of that fact commercially—their fine furniture, quilts and other products were profitable—but they had to be annoyed by the outright nosiness of visitors who didn’t respect personal boundaries. Ben didn’t know Hershberger, but he’d noticed the farm as he passed, with dairy cows grazing in a pasture, an extensive orchard, several acres of what Ben thought might be raspberries, neatly tied in rows, and a handsome huge barn with a gambrel roof and stone foundation. If the mill became starred on maps, he’d have a steady stream of cars passing his place and a lot of strangers tramping through these woods. Maybe through his fields, too, in a quest to get an up close look at a “real” Amish farm.
Lyle planted his hands on his hips and gazed yearningly at the crumbling brick walls and burbling creek overhung with maples, sycamore trees, dogwoods and some others Ben didn’t recognize. “The fool is too shortsighted to recognize how critical historic preservation is. If we dawdle another five or ten years, this site might be lost to intrusive vegetation and the teenagers who obviously use it for...for...” Apparently, sex wasn’t a word he was actually willing to speak.
Ben hadn’t noticed any drug paraphernalia, only cigarette butts and beer cans, or he would have planned to speak to the Henness County sheriff, Daniel Byler. But what was going on here... Kids would be kids. He’d had sex for the first time himself in a boarded-up house.
Of course, all he’d had to worry about was an unstable transient climbing in the same broken window he had. Here, the mill looked like a great hangout for cottonmouths and rattlesnakes.
“I don’t suppose you came out here to look at the mill,” Lyle said, shoving his hands in his pants pockets.
“You’re right. I didn’t. I need to ask you some questions about yesterday’s event.”
He frowned. “I was told it went well.”
“It did. Very well.” Ben barely hesitated. “However, the proceeds were stolen during the night from the volunteer who had taken them home.”
Lyle blinked a couple times. “Stolen? But...how?”
“It would appear somebody waltzed into the woman’s bedroom and helped him or herself to the money box.”
The guy took a step back. “But...why are you talking to me?”
Did he receive a salary from the historical society? Ben found himself wondering. Even if he did, the odds were it wasn’t much. Did he have family money? Lyle might have the mannerisms of an elderly man, but he wasn’t more than mid to late forties. He could be struggling financially, but didn’t want to lose his status by quitting the historical society gig. Or...was he passionate enough about his cause to steal to benefit the historical society? Say, to buy this piece of property? Would he be making Aaron Hershberger a new, higher offer soon?
“Because I understand you were in and out last night,” Ben said. “I’m compiling a list of who was present, particularly locals, and thought you might be able to add to it.”
“Oh.” His features slackened briefly in what Ben took for relief. “Well, it’s true I’ve had people remark on how observant I am. I suppose...”
Ben suggested they walk and talk, so they made their way back to the cars. A couple of names did pop up in Lyle’s recollections that surprised Ben a little. Lyle was quite sure no one had asked him about the money.
“Why would they? I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t even know who took it home.” He unlocked his car door and opened it, stepping behind it as if to put a barrier between him and Ben.
“I’ll bet you could make a good guess,” Ben suggested, trying to keep the dryness from his voice. “Observant as you are.”
“Well...” Lyle appeared briefly pleased. “I suppose I would have assumed that Ms. Markovic had it. She’d