Vanish in Plain Sight

“Yes, I know. It’s another thing to ask Dad when he calls.” Her lips tightened. “I’m sure the police chief would find this very suspicious, but just because my father doesn’t like to talk about his wife leaving him, that doesn’t mean anything sinister.”

“I know.” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “I mean it. There are plenty of things adults don’t talk to kids about. Your questions about my uncle make me realize how little I really knew about him. It’s odd, but when you’re a kid, you just accept things as they are. Probably a lot of people never have reason to question those assumptions.”

She nodded. “You’re right. I simply accepted the fact that Dad didn’t talk about my mother, and that if I wanted to know something, I had to go to Gran.”

That brought up something he’d wondered about. “How did she know?”

Marisa blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She didn’t live with you until after your mother left, did she? So how did she know the things she told you?”

“I suppose my dad must have talked to her.” She frowned. “That’s true. She didn’t live with us. I remember her coming. It must have been a few days after…after I realized my mother was gone. But I suppose my dad talked to her about it. Why? Do you doubt what she said?”

He shrugged. “The idea that the Amish kept after Barbara, trying to get her to leave…well, that doesn’t sound right to me. That’s not the way the Amish behave toward someone who’s decided to leave the church.”

That soft mouth of Marisa’s could look remarkably stubborn. “Are you an expert?”

“No, but I grew up with Amish neighbors. I think I know a bit more about them than you do.”

“Oh, yes. You’re the one who suggested enlisting the Miller family’s help.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm. “They admitted that they remembered my mother. But they wouldn’t tell me a thing. Just said I’d have to talk to the bishop.”

He had to be honest with himself, at least. He hadn’t expected that response.

“Well, maybe you should start with Bishop Amos. It’s possible that Rhoda and her husband felt it would be gossiping if they talked about the Zook family. I’m sure they didn’t mean anything else by it.”

“According to you, the Amish can do no wrong, it seems.”

“I didn’t say that.” She’d succeeded in getting under his skin. “I just think you’re misjudging them.”

“Really. Like the Amish man who was out in the yard last night—” Marisa clamped her lips shut, as if she hadn’t intended to say that.

He frowned. “What are you talking about? What Amish man?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Her gaze evaded his.

“If you think someone is spying on you, it does matter. What happened?” He clasped her wrist firmly, determined to get an answer, and felt her pulse against his fingers.

She jerked her hand away. “I was awake sometime in the night. I looked out the window. A man was standing in the side yard. He seemed to be looking up at my window.”

There were a lot of things he could say to that, including the suggestion that she’d been dreaming. Or was paranoid.

“What makes you think he was Amish?” And are you sure someone was there?

“The hat. The beard. The dark clothes.” Color came up in her cheeks. “I know. You think I was dreaming or imagining things. I wasn’t.”

“Dreams can seem very real.” He ought to know. He’d dreamed that explosion in Afghanistan enough times, waking up covered in sweat, a cry strangled in his throat.

“I wasn’t dreaming.” She rose suddenly. “Forget it. Let’s get back.”

He stood, not sure what to say. “Maybe you ought to tell Adam about this.”

“So he can suggest I dreamt it, too?” She started toward the car.

He fell into step with her, still bothered. If Marisa was talking about something that really happened, that was troubling. And if she was imagining it, maybe that was even worse.

Marisa was wrong. She had to be. This figure in the night was a product of all the upsetting news she’d had to face in the past few days. The Amish people he knew just didn’t behave that way.

The Amish couple he’d seen earlier came out of the clinic door, their little boy skipping between them. They started toward the main walk. The man looked up, his gaze going from Link to Marisa. Then he took his wife’s arm, clasped his son’s hand and deliberately walked back the other way.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARISA FELT QUITE sure that if Link knew what she was doing, he would not approve. In fact, he’d probably try to stop her.

Still, Geneva Morgan was a grown woman, well able to decide for herself what she wanted to do. All it had taken was a thank-you phone call for the dinner, a little gentle steering of the conversation, and Geneva had suggested meeting her for coffee.

Geneva had wanted Marisa to come to the house, but she’d managed to avoid that. She didn’t want this conversation taking place where any of Geneva’s protective family was likely to interrupt.

They were getting together at a place called Emma’s Teashop at two. Marisa glanced at her watch. She was early, and she’d been walking down Springville’s main street as if she were in the city. She forced her pace to slow. People didn’t walk that way here. They didn’t avoid eye contact.

Except, of course, for that Amish couple at the hospital, who seemed to go far out of their way to avoid coming near her. Link had noticed that. She’d been sure he had, even though he hadn’t spoken of it.

There wasn’t really much to Springville—one main street that became a state road at the end of town and several side streets lined with shade trees and well-kept houses. A brick bank rubbed shoulders with a Victorian house whose decorative carving was freshly painted. The township library was housed in a two-story brick building whose historic plaque indicated it had been built in 1740 as the home of a wealthy merchant.

Straus’s Hardware seemed to be doing as much business as any establishment, and in addition to parking spaces for cars along the street, it had hitching rails for buggies along the alley. Three Amish buggies stood there at the moment, the horses seeming to wait patiently.

As she passed the front window, she could see several bearded men inside who were deep in conversation. One glanced at her, and she forced down the suspicion that they talked about her. That was paranoid.

Geneva had been right about the tea shop; it was virtually empty at this time of day. Even though she was early, Geneva herself was already seated at a small glass-topped table in the back of the room, shielded from view of the street by a white latticework screen. She waved, a silver bangle sliding on her arm, and Marisa went quickly to join her.

“This is a lovely place to chat.” Geneva smiled as warmly as if meeting Marisa was exactly what she’d most wanted to do with herself this afternoon. “I’ve ordered tea and sticky buns, because that’s Emma’s specialty, but if you’d rather have coffee…”

Marisa slipped into the chair across from her, hanging her bag from the back. “Not at all. That sounds lovely.” She’d have happily consumed whatever Geneva wanted to order for the chance to talk with her.

Geneva had been a contemporary of Allen Morgan—his sister-in-law—living in the same small area. She must surely know more about him than Link did. There had to be some fact, no matter how small, that would lead Marisa to understanding.

“You look tired, dear.” Geneva spoke as if Marisa were one of her children. “Link told me you had a bad night last night.”

She hadn’t expected that, and it took a moment to regroup. “He probably told you I have a too-vivid imagination.”

“Don’t mind him. Both my boys focus too much on what can be proved and not enough on intuition. Just because Link couldn’t imagine someone watching your room, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” Geneva’s eyes sparkled at the thought, and her silver and turquoise earrings seemed to sparkle, too.

Marisa felt a momentary qualm. Geneva looked a little too enthusiastic, bright blue eyes snapping, cheeks rosy with excitement. All she wanted from the woman was information, not a partner.

“I could have been wrong, I guess. That’s part of being an illustrator—responding to everything in visual terms. Sometimes my imagination gives me images that aren’t real.”

Like the recurring image of her mother that haunted her dreams, walking away from her, disappearing into the dark woods where Marisa couldn’t reach her.

“Well, naturally. You’re an artist. I’m sure it must be fascinating to illustrate children’s books. Some of them are so beautiful that I can’t resist buying them even though I don’t have any children in the house any longer.”