Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery) (10 page)

T
here was something about the lazy, rhythmic creak of the porch swing beneath her body that called to her at the end of a long day. It was as if the staccato-like sound slowly sucked away the busyness while the panoramic view of the Amish countryside ushered in the sense of peace and tranquility that was Heavenly, Pennsylvania.

The trees that only a week earlier had exploded in a final brilliant bouquet of crimson, orange, and gold were beginning to show their yearly bow to a season that demanded a different, starker beauty. Even the lush green of the crops was gone, the land turned over in preparation for spring.

Yet despite the duller colors synonymous with the start of November, there was still something magical, almost awe-inspiring about the sight of so much uncompromised land. Suddenly it made sense why the Amish were so quiet and calm, why they were able to resist the often too-fast pace of the English world.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Startled, Claire stopped the foot-powered sway of the swing and turned toward the familiar voice coming from the bottom step of the front porch. “Jakob, hi . . . I . . . I didn’t hear you drive up.”

“That’s because I walked.” The broad-shouldered detective made short work of the steps and the distance between them. When he reached the swing, he pointed toward the empty space beside Claire. “May I?”

Nodding, she scooted to the left, the warmth of his shoulder as it grazed hers quickly changing the tempo of her heartbeat. “It’s nice to see you,” she said in the best matter-of-fact voice she could muster.

The question she saw behind his large hazel eyes made its way past his lips in short order. “So where were you just now when I walked up?”

She looked again at the fields in the distance, shrugging as she did. “I wasn’t really anywhere. Just enjoying the view and finding it immensely relaxing.”

“Long day?”

She felt him studying the side of her face as she contemplated her answer. Did she tell him she was disappointed in the way he bailed out of their time together the day before with nary an explanation? Or did she move on, coming to terms with the fact that she’d put far more importance on their fence-fixing mission than she’d allowed herself to believe?

Move on . . .

Lifting her hand from her lap, she waved it toward the Amish countryside now slowly disappearing in the gathering dusk. “I wish it could be like that around here all the time. There’s more than enough real world everywhere else.”

She didn’t need to look at him to know his gaze had left her face. She could feel its absence like a tangible thing. “Claire, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m terrified of where this case might take me, because I am. I got into police work because I wanted to help people—both Amish and English, alike. But if this case plays out in the way I’m dreading it might, that work will lead me to hurt the people I love in ways I can’t ever erase.”

“But Jakob, if, by chance, your father
did
kill Harley, the consequences will be on
his
actions, not yours.” Hiking her bent leg onto the swing, she pivoted her body so as to face him. “Please, Jakob, tell me you know this. Tell me you believe this.”

“But Mose is my dat, Claire. My
dat
. No one wants to arrest their dat and see him locked away for the rest of his life for murdering a good and decent man.”

She grabbed hold of his hand and held it tight, the coolness of his skin surprising. “If that happens, Jakob, it’s not because you told him to do it. He will have made that decision all on his own.”

“A decision he was led to by me.”

She stopped the swing with her opposite foot. “Led to by you?” she gasped. “How on earth could you even
think
that let alone say it?”

“Because it would be true?” Gently, he disengaged his hand and ran it down his face in despair. “C’mon, Claire, think about it. Mose’s hatred of Harley began sixteen years ago when I broke the vow I made at baptism in order to help solve his brother’s murder. If I hadn’t done that, Mose never would have become so bitter, so”—he stopped, swallowed—“so
hateful
.”

“Mose is bitter because he chose to be bitter,” she protested. “Look, you know I have the utmost respect for the Amish. I love so many things about the way they live, their respect for God and the land. But you have to know that I think the way they treat you is awful. You didn’t leave to become some sort of drug dealer. You didn’t leave because you wanted to get into a business that would bilk innocent people of their hard-earned money. You got out so you could become a police officer.” She hooked her finger underneath his chin and guided his focus until it was squarely on her face. “A
police officer
, Jakob. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or feel guilty about. If anything,
they
do. For turning their backs on such an honorable man.”

For just a split second she saw it—the kind of raw emotion and heartfelt appreciation that no words could ever do justice. Yet, as quick as it came, it was gone, hidden behind a set of beliefs no amount of time in the English world could ever stamp from his makeup. “I knew the consequences of my decision, Claire. And I left, anyway. The repercussions are mine alone.”

“Fine. But Mose’s decision to kill another man is not one of them.” At Jakob’s noticeable slump, she altered her words to include the subordinating conjunction she knew he needed to hear. “
If
Mose is even the one responsible at all.”

Wrapping his hand around hers, he lowered it from his face to the limited space between them, his grip never wavering. “I need you to know that it’s only because of this case that I ended our time together so quickly yesterday. I hated doing it, especially when I’d been looking forward to it all night long . . . but I had to. I had to spend a little time with the first potential non-Mose thread to cross my path since you stumbled across Harley’s body in the middle of my father’s maze.”

“Non-Mose thread? I don’t understand.” She heard the hope in her voice, knew his explanation meant way more than it should in light of the way she tried so hard to convince herself and everyone else they were just friends.

“It’s what you said yesterday out at Zook’s farm. About Carl Duggan’s kid working with Harley. I had no idea.”

“Okay . . .”

“Don’t you see? There’s potential baggage there. Baggage that could lead to a motive for murder for some.”

For the first time since he took her hand, the thumping in her chest ceased. “What are you talking about?”

Releasing her hand, he rose from the swing and wandered over to the porch railing, his focus somewhere other than her aunt’s front porch. “Sixteen years ago, Patrick Duggan was robbed of his father. And, from the little I’ve been able to piece together over the past twenty-four-plus hours, his life hasn’t been terribly easy since that time. Money struggles set in motion by attorney fees and the loss of an income made things more than a little difficult for Carl’s wife and son over the years. Those money struggles made it so Rita Duggan had to take on a second job just to keep their heads above water. Her increasing time out of the home each day to work those jobs left young Patrick alone for long stretches of time—stretches of time that some kids might use to be productive, while others use it to get in trouble.”

“They say negative attention is often better than no attention, don’t they?” she offered.

“Exactly. Then, suddenly, in his mid-twenties, Patrick wants to get his life in order? By signing on as an apprentice to the man who could be seen, by a troubled kid, as the person ultimately responsible for the loss of his father?”

“And thus you have revenge . . .” She, too, abandoned the swing in favor of the same railing where Jakob was now perched. “So it was me mentioning Patrick’s apprenticeship that got you researching his life post murder trial?”

He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, flashing a quick dimple-laden smile as he did. “Trust me, Claire. That’s the
only
thing that could have made me skip out on a breakfast date with you.”

She felt the warmth rising in her cheeks and was instantly glad for the increasing shadows engulfing the porch. “But why wait sixteen years for revenge? I mean, I get a ten-year-old boy not being capable of murder. But he’s been a grown man for some time now, right? So why now?”

“Which brings me to the first big sticking point”—Jakob slid his hands down the railing on either side of his body—“and keeps my father still very much on the top of the list. Isaac
just
took the job with Harley. That’s a far more recent wound.”

“Have you questioned your father yet?”

“One of my other officers did. Mose refused to talk to me. But either way, they were the basic ‘where were you when the body was found’ kind of questions.”

“And Patrick? Have you questioned him? Do you think there’s a chance he’s responsible?”

“No, I haven’t questioned Patrick yet. I’m trying to piece together a timeline for the past sixteen years for the Duggan family before I even talk to him. I’m almost there, but there’s still a few more things I want to nail down. I don’t want to stir up any more grief for Rita Duggan than absolutely necessary, especially considering the word around town that her health may be starting to fail.”

“His mother’s health is failing?” she repeated.

At Jakob’s noncommittal nod, she posed another theory. “Let’s assume Rita is all Patrick has left. Couldn’t grief and fear make the loss of his father rise to the surface in an all-new wave of anger?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, his gaze dropping to the wood-planked porch floor.

Feeling suddenly foolish, she walked around Jakob and took a seat on the top step. “I’m sorry. I imagine the last thing you need right now is me trying to play Nancy Drew.”

“No!” He shifted his view upward to the porch roof. “Actually, there could be some merit to what you said. If nothing else, it could be used to address that first big sticking point where Duggan’s son is concerned.”

“Which, in turn, adds someone other than your father to the list of suspects.”

Jakob puffed his cheeks with air only to let it diffuse slowly through pursed lips. “Claire, I want nothing more than to get my father’s name off the suspect list. For him, for Mamm, for Martha, for Isaac, for Esther—oh my gosh, Esther!” He pushed off the railing with a sudden urgency. “Esther shouldn’t have something like this shadowing her wedding plans!”

“No, she shouldn’t.” It was a simple reply, yet no less accurate.

“Claire, I’ve got to fix this. I’ve got to find out who murdered Harley, and I’m praying with everything I am that Mose isn’t that person,” Jakob murmured, his frustration-laced desperation palpable. “He just
can’t
be responsible.”

“But what if he is?”