Cast a Blue Shadow (19 page)

46

Monday, November 4 7:30 P.M.

JUST three days after Juliet Favor’s murder, Dr. Evelyn Carson sat at Mike and Caroline Branden’s kitchen table with a mug of coffee. Caroline had chosen the mug for her, and said it was her favorite, a New England scene of a historic dockside town, with seagulls perched on harbor buoys.

“She’s doing much better,” Evelyn said. “Talking about Sonny Favor, today, was a good start. As I was leaving her room, Ben Schlabaugh came in, wearing a new suit and tie, flowers in hand. He had a short haircut and a fresh shave. Looked handsome.”

“Was Martha happy to see him?” Caroline asked.

“Seemed to be,” Evelyn said. “I only stayed a minute.”

“It’s funny,” Caroline said. She halted, thought, shook her head. “Well, it’s just kind of strange, that’s all. To think Ben Schlabaugh could be this good for her, now.”

Evelyn said, “She needs someone who understands her. Someone who won’t be scared off by the hard times to come.”

“Does Schlabaugh understand that?” Caroline asked.

“I think he does,” Evelyn said, optimistically. “Now, tell me, Mike,” she continued. “Where did Pomeroy make his mistake?”

“Oh, it was a lot of things,” Branden said. Caroline nudged him in the ribs, and he said, “OK,” with a groan.

“I guess the first thing was the spigot on the ultra-pure water system. Pomeroy swabbed that out with a Q-Tip. Problem was, he shouldn’t have swabbed it with anything. I took a few chemistry classes in college, and as hard as it was, then, to get pure water, one never introduced a foreign object to a sample.”

“You didn’t suspect Pomeroy before that?” Evelyn asked.

“Well, actually, I did. When I was in Missy’s lab, she had one bottle of DMSO up on her shelf. It came from Favor’s place. I had to wonder. Why only one bottle? Daniel Bliss put me onto that one, Sunday night. He said Juliet Favor had two empty bottles Friday night, and Pomeroy was supposed to have brought her one more. Favor actually used the third bottle before dinner, so there couldn’t have been any poison in that one. But that would have been three DMSO bottles, anyway.

“I figure Pomeroy went up the rear staircase before he left that night, and put a doctored bottle in Favor’s medicine cabinet, or somewhere. Then, he had to take all the other bottles with him to make sure she would use the doctored one. He would have known, from past intimate experience, that she always went to the medicine cabinet to brush her hair at night, or at least that is what I infer from what Mr. Bliss said. But, Pomeroy could have gone up or down either the front or the rear staircase without drawing attention to himself. My guess is that Missy Taggert is going to say she found the fourth bottle in the bathroom. Favor dismissed her guests, went upstairs, brushed her hair, dabbed on the poison, put the bottle back in the cabinet, stumbled to the end of her bed, and died face down on the covers. That’s how Sonny found her.”

Caroline asked, “But what made you suspect poison in the first place? Especially if Missy couldn’t detect any poison in the one bottle she had?”

“Juliet Favor was a workout nut. Even Bobby Newell, who has muscles ‘out to here,’ thought her routine was rigorous. She should never have had a simple heart attack.”

“OK,” Caroline said. “What made you think it was Pomeroy? It can’t have been just the swabbing thing with the water spigot. After all, Missy couldn’t detect poison in the DMSO.”

“Pomeroy told me himself. At the faculty meeting. He made a big speech about the hydrolysis of pesticides, as a means of making them biodegradable. That’s what I remembered when I finally figured out about the water. He put precisely enough water in with Favor’s DMSO to hydrolyze the poison slowly, but not so much that the concoction would lose its potency too fast. Pomeroy could not resist making a speech about the one clue that, correctly understood, would prove him a murderer. And it proves my rule about faculty meetings.”

Caroline and Evelyn waited.

Branden explained. “Faculty meetings last way too long, because professors love too much to hear themselves talk.”

47

Thursday, November 7 7:30 P.M.

THREE days later, the Brandens rented the fellowship hall at Cal Troyer’s church building and invited all of the officers and staff of the sheriff’s office to a party for Ricky and Ellie Niell, and for Bruce Robertson and Melissa Taggert. The gathering served as an opportunity for a belated wedding shower for the Niells and an engagement party for the sheriff and the coroner. Simple refreshments of cake and punch were served, and the greatest attention was given to the gifts for Ricky and Ellie. Several toasts were made, congratulating either one or both of the couples. As the party moved along, Bruce Robertson found the professor at one of the back tables, and he took a seat there, next to his friend.

“You had it all wrapped up for us, Mike, by the time Missy and I got back from Chicago,” Robertson said.

Branden sipped punch, nodded, and smiled.

Robertson said, “Now, how’s ’bout filling me in on the motive.”

“The motive was secondary,” Branden said. “I figured out the ‘how’ first. Remember, we said early on that motive wouldn’t solve this one.”

“Right. Too many motives,” Robertson said. “It could have been anyone, for nearly any reason.”

“So, the motive was actually fairly obscure,” Branden said. “Plain enough, once I had the facts, though.”

“Enlighten me,” Robertson said.

“First, Phillips Royce had Juliet Favor convinced that the sciences got too much money compared to the humanities. That’s been his big kick for some time now. So, she was thinking about pulling out of grant support for science projects like Pomeroy’s.”

“I hope you’re gonna tell me there was more to it than that.”

“She was also going to sell him out on his industrial connections. Pomeroy had a sweet deal under the table with several firms, but the biggest was with her Yabusan Pharmaceuticals, in Tokyo. He was pulling down something like $70,000 per year by sending them processed natural products he found in Peru. He’d do all the key extractions in his lab in Peru—and that was paid for by Yabusan Pharmaceuticals, by the way—and ship the pasty extracts back here for analysis and workup.”

“What can you do with something like that?” Robertson asked.

“It’s a standard method, Bruce. How do you think they found Taxol, penicillin, all that stuff?”

“Seventy thousand a year for plant goo?”

“If you want to look at it that way, yes. He’d separate all the compounds and then screen each batch for undue toxicity. No point sending out toxins for drug testing. That he did with rats. Things that weren’t toxic got sent to Tokyo for further analysis.”

“Sounds like a tough way to do business.”

“Like I say, it’s a standard method. You know, the race to test the rainforest before it disappears. Anyway, Favor was considering two or three moves that would have put Pomeroy out of business. Mostly, she was going to shut down his lab in Peru. And she had started negotiations to sell Yabusan Pharmaceuticals, so Sonny Favor wouldn’t have so much on his plate when he came into the family businesses.”

“So, Pomeroy was takin’ it on the chin,” Robertson said. “How’d he know about it all?”

“He was on the board at Yabusan, but my guess is Favor told him outright. They used to be lovers, and she would have found some special satisfaction in watching him squirm. More, though, I think she really bought Phillips Royce’s pitch for the humanities. She wanted to be chairperson of the board of trustees, but Arne Laughton had successfully blocked that appointment. So, instead, she saw a chance to change the nature of the institution another way. By changing her donations.”

“Mike,” Robertson teased. “I don’t get the impression you liked her plan too much.”

Branden shrugged. “People with a lot of money are accustomed to power and privilege.”

“No doubt a reason,” Robertson said, “why you and I are still making car payments each month.”

“Don’t get started on that one again, Bruce,” Branden said, while trying to manage a frown.

Robertson laughed and held his hands up, surrendering. “Now, watch this,” he said, and winked.

Getting up from the table, Robertson came forward to stand next to Missy. He clinked a fork against a glass to get everyone’s attention. “Thank you all,” he said, “for this party. It’s real touching, and all, but Missy and I plan to get married in Las Vegas, so none of you can torment me at our wedding.”

There were raucous protests and catcalls.

“You’ll get over it,” Robertson said.

Branden stood up in the back of the room and started clapping. Soon, everyone had joined him. Robertson, embarrassed, slipped his arm into Missy’s and headed for the door.

As they were putting on their coats, three people eased into the room, unobserved by most, and stood along the wall. Cal Troyer saw them, and motioned to Branden. The professor caught Caroline’s eye, and they met Cal with the three newcomers. The whole group of six ducked circumspectly through a door into the quiet sanctuary of the church.

Evelyn Carson took down the hood of her coat, and Ben Schlabaugh and Martha Lehman unzipped their coats and stood awkwardly, waiting for someone to talk.

Caroline took Martha’s hands in hers gently and asked, “How are you, Martha?”

Martha checked Evelyn Carson’s expression and said, “We’re going to keep the baby.”

Ben Schlabaugh nodded his agreement, and watched Caroline’s eyes for a reaction.

Caroline looked first at her husband and then at Evelyn Carson. She studied the resolve in Schlabaugh’s expression, smiled, and said, “Congratulations, then.” She looked down to Martha’s left hand, saw a diamond ring there, and added, “On both counts.”

Branden saw relief in Ben Schlabaugh’s eyes. To Martha, who was smiling, he said, “When you’re ready to go back to school, your scholarship will still be there.”

Evelyn said, “See, Martha, I told you so,” and Martha teared up.

“I thought I had blown it, so bad,” Martha said.

Caroline reached out for her, embraced her, and said, “You be happy, Martha Lehman. You just make sure you can be happy.”

Back in the fellowship hall, Professor Branden made the announcement of the Lehman-Schlabaugh engagement, and many congratulations followed.

Martha took Caroline aside and spoke softly. “Ben is good for me,” she said. “Don’t worry. He’s helping me remember.”

Caroline started to speak, but Martha cut her off. “In all my dreams, nightmares really, there has been a man from whom I could not escape. I am a child, maybe five years old, and he is fast, strong, cruel, and dressed in blue and black. He is the blue shadow of my nightmares.

“Now, I understand that this man was real. I had forgotten about what he did to me when I was so young, because I was too young to face the truth. The nightmares are real, Caroline. They really happened. I know that, now. I can face them. Dr. Carson says I can.

“And that’s what we’re working on. Ben is there to hold me, when I wake up screaming in a child’s voice. He is there, in sessions with Dr. Carson, to help me remember. Now, Dr. Carson says I have remembered only some of the times that man hurt me, but I have to be able to remember them all. It’s going to take time. The last things I remember will be the worst. But, that’s how I’ll get better. By remembering, so that man can’t hurt me anymore, in my mind. God has given me the meaning of the blue shadows now, so that I can be free of them for good.”

Sometime later that evening, Martha found the professor, seated by himself at a back table. She sat next to him and asked, “What will become of Sonny Favor?”

Branden thought for a long time before answering. “He has been asked to withdraw from Millersburg College.”

Martha seemed neither surprised nor sad. “What about all his money?”

“He has to stay in school to keep it.”

“But, where?”

“Oh, there are plenty of schools where someone with his means would be welcomed.”

“I feel sorry for him, Dr. Branden.”

“I know,” Branden said.

“Ben says he has a hole in his heart. Says it is money that put it there. Calls it a pierced heart.”

Branden saw genuine sorrow in Martha’s expression. “I think that’s probably right, Martha,” he said.

1

Friday, July 23 7:45 A.M.

SARA YODER drove her black buggy in bright sun up to the high ridgeline at Saltillo and stopped the Standardbred horse on the blacktop at the intersection of county roads 407 and 68, southeast of Millersburg. It had been two and a half years since she had entered her wild period, her Rumschpringe, quitting school on her sixteenth birthday. Just a week ago she had crossed this ridge in a red Firebird, heading north for the weekend out of her little Amish valley along Township 110 to the bars in Wooster. Dressed English and running wild. Freed from the everyday constraints of Old Order Amish life by the Rumschpringe.

Her horse was lathered from the climb out of the valley, so she popped her whip in the air and pulled forward into the shade of an oak, thinking that Bishop Raber just might have been right all along. The preachers, too. Life out there with the English was dangerous. The winds of temptation were too strong for anyone. But hadn’t the Old Order allowed it? Hadn’t she been set free by tradition, to get the wildness out of her system, to see all of the English world she could handle, knowing that soon, at this reckoning point in her life, she’d be asked to make a decision? To turn from the world and come home to a lifetime of Amish obedience? To know full well what was out there among the English and freely decide to turn from that sinfulness and join the Old Order?

But Sara Yoder also knew too much now of what the English had to offer. She knew firsthand what life could be like out there in the world. What the real differences between an Amish and an English life were. And it surprised her that she wasn’t at all sure that the English were right. Perhaps it really was all vanity and pride, as her parents had assured her.

Truth be told, Sara wasn’t sure about even the small things anymore, much less about the consecrated life her parents expected her to lead. Marry at eighteen, join the Old Order congregation, raise a dozen children, and submerge her identify in conformity. Surrender who she was for the sake of humility. To be the same, act the same, live the same as everyone else. To live only for the community of believers. No longer to be an individual. No longer to be just Sara.

In the English world, Sara Yoder was beginning to like the separate person she was becoming. She liked the choice of clothes, the modern conveniences, the pace and feel of freedom. She liked the vision she had of Sara Yoder separate from everyone else, a unique and distinct personality. Free to act and do as she felt. Free to move, breathe, live in the open. Free to be herself.

In the end, though, the scrap of newsprint she held on her lap gave the lie to all that English freedom. It called her to face the truth about the dangers that were out there in the world. It reminded her that John Schlabaugh and Andy Yoder no longer answered their cell phones or returned text messages. Just when John had promised them all the means to free themselves from the vise grips of backward Amish traditions, he had disappeared. Andy Yoder, too. There wasn’t going to be any great emancipation for the John Schlabaugh Rumschpringe gang of Saltillo. There weren’t going to be any easy answers. No easy escapes.

Sara cast her eyes to the newspaper clipping and read the cryptic lines in the correspondence section of the
Budget.
Four lines of numbers, demanding attention from the handful of readers who could decipher them, inserted among the scores of family letters from Amish all over the world. The
Sugarcreek Budget,
published each Wednesday, and mailed to anyone, anywhere, who might be interested to know what had happened recently in the lives of the Helmuths in Kansas, or the Peacheys in Ontario. Troyers, Millers, or Yoders. Who had been born, and who had died, in Texas. The quality of the wheat harvest in Mexico that year. Family news from around the world, in an Amish paper published for Amish readers everywhere.

But Sara was concerned only with the four lines of type that were meant, ominously, for her. A greeting number. A location—latitude and longitude. And a salutation number:

3
N 40° 31.174’
W 81° 53.890’
2

Only she and eight others would know what it meant. Anyone in the John Schlabaugh Rumschpringe gang that year. This was their meeting place. This was where they gathered, out of sight of their families, for their running-wild trips to town, once their chores were finished. Once the weekend had come, and they had changed into English clothes. Their parents discreetly looking aside. Pretending not to worry.

Sara folded the paper, set it beside her on the leather seat, and snapped her whip lightly over the withers of her horse. She worked the buggy slowly past the traffic triangle at the top of the ridge and dropped down through the cool shade of the tree farm on the gravel lane of Township 129. At the bottom of the hill, she turned south on County Road 58, crossed Lower Sand Run, and turned eventually onto a narrow, pebbled drive that took her through a stand of pines, around a curve, and up to a small clearing. Near a pond at the edge of a cornfield stood a small red barn. As she pulled to a stop in front of the barn doors, a raccoon with dirty paws scrambled out from under the exterior wall of the barn and scurried off into the corn.

She hitched her horse to a wooden railing that John Schlabaugh had posted in the ground beside the barn, and a rusted, blue Buick Skyhawk rolled into the clearing. As she tugged the looped reins tight on the railing, Henry Erb climbed out of the little sedan. He was dressed in English clothes—designer jeans, a yellow golf shirt, and white running shoes—but his Dutch-boy haircut gave him away as Amish.

Henry said, “You saw the
Budget,
too?”

Sara nodded and asked, “Have you seen John or Abe?”

“No,” said Erb, and glanced around expectantly. “Anybody else been here?”

He saw that the lock on the barn doors was hanging loose, and he came around the front of his car to open the doors.

Sara joined him and said, “I should have come out here yesterday.”

“It was just coordinates in the newspaper,” Henry said. “What are we supposed to do with that?”

Sara said, “I wouldn’t think anything of it if John and Abe weren’t missing.”

“I tried their cells again this morning,” Henry said. “Still nothing.”

Sara took the left side and Henry the right, and they swung the heavy wooden doors open. There was a damp and musty odor as they entered the gloom of the barn. Henry reached up to a kerosene lantern hanging on the inside wall, lit the wick, and carried the sooty lamp into the barn. At the far edge of the light, an old, red Pontiac Firebird sat with its stern backed up against the far wall.

Sara followed Henry to the car. He held aloft the light to shine it into the front seat. Sara peered into the passenger-side window, touched the vinyl seat, and brushed off a crusty rust-red residue. She showed her fingers to Erb. “John and Abe must have had another fight,” she said. “Right? It doesn’t mean anything more.”

Erb shrugged with a grimace, and walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, looked in, and said, “Keys are missing.”

Sara said, “Did you ever know John to park his car here?”

Erb frowned. “No. He keeps it out at his trailer. With mine and Jeremiah’s.” With a clipped, stuttering cadence, Erb added, “John would never leave his car. If he’s parked it here, then something’s wrong.”

“It’s gotta be the drugs,” Sara said ruefully, backing away from the Pontiac. “They’ve gotten themselves in too far.” She looked furtively around the barn, anxiety showing on her face.

“John’s too smart for that,” Erb said, closing the car door.

“I’m not so sure,” Sara countered. She turned from the car and saw something in the near corner. “Bring the light over here,” Sara said, kneeling on the dirt floor of the barn. When Erb brought the light, they could see a ragged hole scratched in the dirt.

“I scared off a raccoon when I drove up,” said Sara. The edge of a plastic bag showed in the hole. Sara scooped dirt out from around the bag and pulled it loose.

Inside the bag were a black leather wallet, two car keys on an antique Pontiac fob, a GPS receiver in a plastic camouflage case, and a cell phone. Erb said, “Those are John’s keys. For the Firebird.”

Sara took out the wallet and thumbed it open. “This is John’s wallet, too.” She pulled out the GPS receiver and asked with growing dread, “Is this John’s GPS unit?”

“Can’t tell,” Erb said. “John’s is like all of ours. I guess it’s his.”

Puzzled, Sara said, “This is not John Schlabaugh’s phone.”

“Right,” Erb said, “but whose?”

Sara frowned, shook her head, and dropped the items back into the plastic bag.

Erb stepped back toward the doors of the barn and said, “Look, Sara. I don’t like it here. John’s got some kind of funny business going on, and I don’t think we ought to be messing in with it.”

Sara asked, “Who put those coordinates in the
Budget,
Henry?”

“I don’t know.” Backing out the door.

“You need to stay and help me figure this out,” Sara insisted.

“I was going up to Wooster. You ought to come along,” Erb said sheepishly. He reached his car, got in quickly, cranked the engine to life, and spun around in the dirt to point his Buick back down the lane. With his left arm hanging out the window, he said, “Look, Sara. This is John’s business. He calls the shots. So I’m not getting involved.”

Sara shook her head, not bothering to hide her mounting consternation. “There’s something wrong here, Henry. And none of us is innocent anymore. We need to face this.”

“I can’t get mixed up in any more of John’s schemes. The bishop has been to see my father already.”

Sara took her cell phone out of the front pocket of her apron and said, “I know someone who can help.”

“I can’t stay,” Erb said, his voice strained. “I’m going up to Wooster tonight. If you want to go, come down to the schoolhouse. I’m going to get the others to come along.”

Sara gave a dissatisfied shake of her head and waved Erb off. She stood in front of the barn doors, punching in the phone number, and watched Henry Erb speed down the lane toward County 58 and disappear into the overhanging pines.

While she waited for the call to go through, Sara held the plastic bag up to her eyes and studied the contents with growing apprehension. The call went dead. She lowered the phone from her ear and saw a “No Signal” indication on the display. She untied the reins, got back into her buggy, trotted her horse up to the higher ground at Saltillo, and tried the call again. With better reception on the ridge, she got Pastor Cal Troyer at his church in Millersburg. She explained where she was and asked him to come out to meet her at the barn. When he asked what her problem was, she gave an evasive answer.

Pressed further, Sara said, “It’s two of my friends, Cal. They’ve been gone for a week now, and I just found one of their cars parked in this little barn. It shouldn’t be there. And some of his stuff was buried in the corner.”

“I’m with a friend, Sara. OK if I bring him along?” Cal asked.

“Can’t you just come out here yourself, Cal?”

“It’s someone you can trust, Sara.”

Sara hesitated, thinking she shouldn’t have called.

Cal said, “Professor Michael Branden, Sara. You know who he is. Teaches history at Millersburg College.”

“Is he the one who rescued Jeremiah Miller a few years back?”

“Yes. The Millers know him and his wife Caroline well. They are Amishleiben, Sara.”

“Then I guess he can come. But just the two of you, Cal. I don’t know what’s going on out here. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble with the law, but I’m starting to get a little rattled, and I don’t like it.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on, Sara.”

“When you get here, Cal. I’ll tell you what I know.”

“OK, but are you still going to come in to the church this afternoon? For our regular talk?”

“I don’t know, Cal. Maybe I shouldn’t talk with you anymore. Maybe something’s gone wrong out here. Right now, I just want you to come out and tell me what you think.”

“Can I tell the professor a little bit about what you’ve told me in the past several weeks?”

“Why?”

“I just think it will help if he knows a little of the background. How you kids are getting along. The Rumschpringe.”

“OK, but I’m not sure we’ve even got a Rumschpringe gang anymore. The group has kind of fallen apart.”

“OK, Sara. Tell me how to get there.”