Vanish in Plain Sight

“Ja,” Rhoda said. “Cousins. She came from Indiana, I think.”

Another silence. Clearly they weren’t going to offer anything she didn’t ask. A month ago she’d have said she wasn’t interested in how and why her mother came to Lancaster County, but now she realized that wouldn’t have been true.

“Had she been here before to visit?”

“We don’t know much about it,” Eli said before his wife could answer. “If you want to know, you should talk to them. Not us.”

A look at his stern, closed face was enough to convince her that he wouldn’t tell her anything else. With the beard reaching to his chest, Eli looked like an Old Testament prophet.

He also looked like the man she’d seen from her window. But what point could there be in his standing out there?

“I can see that you don’t want to be involved,” she said carefully. “I hoped maybe you’d be willing to tell me what you remembered about my mother. There’s so much I don’t understand.”

“Poor child,” Rhoda said, her voice soft. “Don’t you remember her at all?” She asked the question despite the wave of disapproval emanating from Eli’s end of the table.

“Not very much.” Her throat tightened. “I was only five when she left. I have little bits of memory—of her making cookies, sewing a rag doll for me. Singing a little song in a language I didn’t know. Pennsylvania Dutch, I guess.”

The woman nodded, eyes filled with sympathy. “Of course you want to know more.”

“Rhoda.” There was warning in Eli’s voice. “This is not our concern.”

His wife answered him in the dialect, her voice filled with urgency. He seemed to argue with her. Finally he shook his head, mouth set.

Rhoda looked back at her. “Eli feels we should not interfere. That you should talk to your mother’s kin. It is for them to tell Barbara’s story, not us.”

She saw her chance of learning anything fading away, if they were anything like the people she’d encountered in Indiana. “But I don’t even know how to find them. Or if they’ll talk to me.”

Another quick exchange of glances. Eli pushed his chair back.

“You should talk to Bishop Amos. He can help you, if he thinks it the right thing to do. Rhoda will tell you how to find him.” He rose, dropped his napkin on the table and walked out.

She glanced at Rhoda. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“Ach, he is not upset. He chust isn’t sure what is right, and that makes him annoyed with himself.”

“Isn’t it right for me to know about my mother?”

Rhoda looked down at her plate. “You’ll talk to the bishop. He’ll know what’s best. I’ll write down for you how to find him.”

Door closed, it seemed. She didn’t pin much hope on this bishop, whoever he was, wanting to help someone like her.

She tried to marshal an argument that might sway the woman. “You understand what I feel. I know you do. If you know something about my mother, please tell me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

Because her husband had told her not to, Marisa supposed. She wanted to argue, but obviously that wouldn’t do any good. Maybe, if she approached Rhoda when they were alone, she’d have better luck.

Her cell phone rang, and she dived into her bag to find it. Maybe her father—

But it wasn’t Dad. It was the police chief, Adam Byler.

“Wonder if you might stop by my office some time this morning, Ms. Angelo? No hurry.”

“Why? Have you found out something?” It was all she could do to stay in her seat, and she realized that Rhoda and her daughter were both looking at her with slightly scandalized expressions. Surely they were used to guests with ever-present cell phones, weren’t they?

“No, not really.” Byler sounded evasive. “There’s just something I’d like to talk over with you, that’s all. Come by anytime.”

He rang off before she could ask him anything else, and she stared at the phone for a moment, her mind teeming with questions.

Despite his denial, she couldn’t stop a feeling of optimism. Maybe, just maybe, she was about to learn something.

CHAPTER FOUR

LINK PARKED IN FRONT of Straus’s Hardware in Springville, got out and hesitated, glancing down the street in the direction of the tiny office that housed Spring Township’s police station. The village and the surrounding countryside that made up the township were served by the same small police force.

Forget it, he ordered himself. Pick up the hinges you need, go back to the house, get on with the work.

But forgetting wasn’t as easy as all that. Lying in the military hospital, day after day, he’d had no choice but to accept the fact that he’d survived when the others had died. He’d made his plans. He just hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to carry them out.

First his family, so sure they could turn him back into the person he’d been before. Then there was the old house that had sheltered generations of Morgans, and even Springville itself, little changed since he’d trotted down Main Street at eight or nine with a dollar in his pocket, intent on spending it as soon as possible. All demanded he be the person he was before he left.

He could resist them. He wasn’t so sure he could go on resisting the appeal of that little girl’s pictured face. Or that same little girl hiding in grown-up Marisa Angelo’s eyes.

He wheeled, striding down the street toward the police station. He needed to understand what was going on. Adam would level with him.

He swung open the door, and a woman seated at the counter swung around to look at him, eyes widening.

“Well, if this isn’t a blast from the past. Link Morgan. I heard you were back in town. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks, Ginger. I didn’t know you were working here.” Ginger Morrison had been class comedian, cheerleader and the girl most likely to cut class if anything more interesting beckoned.

“Yeah, my youngest went off to school this year, so we figured I’d better start bringing home a paycheck.”

“You? A kid?” He perched on the corner of her desk. Ginger didn’t look much older than she had the day they’d ditched school together and headed for a rock concert in Baltimore on his motorcycle, which had conked out thirty miles short of their destination. “You have a kid?”

“Three.” She grinned. “I’ve been busy. You know I always—”

But he wasn’t destined to hear the rest, as the door opened behind him and Ginger assumed a professional expression.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

He swung round, instinct telling him who it was even before he saw her face. “Marisa. Ginger, this is Marisa Angelo. I imagine she’s here to see Adam.”

“Good morning.” Dismay at the sight of him was quickly masked, and Marisa focused on Ginger in stead. “Chief Byler asked me to drop by.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Angelo. He’s on the phone right now, but it shouldn’t be more than a couple minutes.” Ginger raised her eyebrows at him. “You here to see Adam, too, I suppose. It’d be too much to think you stopped by to chat about old times with me.”

He managed a grin, glancing at Marisa. “Ginger and I used to cut class together, back in the day.”

“Not just me,” Ginger said. “The wonder is that this boy ever managed to graduate, let alone get into college.” She winked at Marisa. “Any girl he could talk onto the back of that junker of a motorcycle would do. I figured he’d go off the road at Horse shoe Bend one night, and that’d be the end of him.” A buzzer went off on her phone. “You folks can see the chief now.”

Link fell into step with Marisa. “You look as if you didn’t sleep well.” Purple shadows were like bruises under her eyes.

“I’m fine.” The words were snapped off so quickly they denied their meaning. She gave a quick nod back toward the desk. “Nice for you to see old friends.”

He grimaced. “Especially when they go on saying the same thing they did ten or twelve years ago.” He opened the door to Adam’s office and let her precede him.

Adam rose when Marisa entered, then looked over her shoulder at Link with an expression that suggested he’d be better off elsewhere. Link gave him a bland smile. Adam should know better than to think he’d be discouraged by a look.

“Ms. Angelo, thanks for stopping by.” Adam pulled out his only visitor’s chair for her. “Link, I wasn’t expecting you, as well.”

“Why not?” He perched on the corner of Adam’s desk. If Adam thought he’d come with Marisa, so much the better. “I’m an interested party.”

Adam didn’t respond. Marisa leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the strap of her shoulder bag. “What’s happened, Chief Byler? Have you found something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Adam wore that stolid mask he did so well…the look that had sometimes fooled people into calling him a “dumb Dutchman,” that being the sort of sophisticated epithet folks around here came up with. Adam was not that.

And Link had known him too long not to see beyond the mask. Adam wanted something, presumably from Marisa, and it was something he felt reluctant to ask.

“You asked me to come by,” Marisa said. “There must be a reason.”

“Out with it,” Link said. “What’s going on?”

Adam shot him a glance that told him to shut up. “Ms. Angelo, would you be willing to take a DNA test? Just as a matter of routine. It—”

Marisa had gone dead white. Link couldn’t help himself. He was beside her before he realized he’d moved, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“You’ve found a body?” Marisa’s voice rose.

“No, nothing like that. It would simply be a help…” Adam let that die off, probably because both of them stared at him with disbelief.

“Come on, Adam. Level with us. Why do you want a DNA sample from Marisa?” He tightened his grasp on her shoulder, feeling the bones beneath the skin, and he felt a surge of protectiveness.

She didn’t pull away, maybe because she was too shaken.

Adam lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. “You know those dark splotches on the suitcase? They were blood.”

Marisa’s hand closed over Link’s, gripping almost painfully. “My mother died. Is that what you think?”

Link’s mind raced. Blood on the suitcase, so naturally Adam assumed it was Barbara’s. The suitcase hidden in the wall of Uncle Allen’s house. It was impossible to escape a link.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Adam said. “If you remember what the stains looked like, they were relatively small patches. Certainly not enough to warrant an assumption that there was a fatal wound.”

“Are you treating it as a murder case?” Link’s voice sounded harsh to his ears. How would his mother cope with this, murder coming close to her family after all that had happened this year?

“Not at this time.” Adam’s face was his official one. “The lab says this amount could have come from a cut finger or a nosebleed. For all we know, the stains might even have been there for months or years before the suitcase was hidden. That’s why it would be helpful to have Ms. Angelo’s DNA for comparison.”

“Will that be enough to be sure?”

Adam shrugged. “According to the lab, they’ll be able to tell with a reasonable degree of certainty if the blood wasn’t her mother’s, and a fair degree if it was. So, if Marisa agrees…?”

“Yes. Of course.” She seemed to be gathering her composure around her. “Where and when?”

“Lancaster General’s lab will do it. They’ve al ready been notified, so just walk in and give them your name.”

Marisa had regained some of her color, but strain still seemed to draw the skin tight against the bones. “I’ll go now if you can give me directions.”

“No need for that.” Link heard his own voice speak without conscious volition. “I’ll take you there.”

BY THE TIME THEY’D reached the edge of Springville, Marisa felt herself beginning to thaw. It was as if the word blood, coming from Chief Byler’s lips, had flash-frozen her.

So much so that she hadn’t objected when Link Morgan steered her toward his car, but maybe that had been the best thing that she could have done.

There were far too many questions that, as yet, the Morgan family hadn’t answered. Each time the conversation had swerved in the direction of that house and its owner with Geneva Morgan, one of her sons had managed to divert it. And as for Link Morgan…

She stole a sideways glance at him. Lean, strong hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly, and he frowned at the road ahead. Link had avoided telling her anything more than what she might have learned from the police chief.

But surely he knew more. The man who owned the house had been his uncle. And Link had apparently been the favored nephew, since he’d inherited. There had to be things he could tell her, even if he wasn’t old enough to remember her mother.

And after only twenty-four hours here, she’d begun to realize that the Morgan family loomed large in the power structure of this area. How hard would Adam Byler, obviously an old friend of the family, press them?

Well, no matter how big a deal the Morgans were, they weren’t above suspicion as far as she was concerned.

She felt, rather than saw, Link focus on her face.

“Are you all right?” He asked the question almost grudgingly, as if he already regretted the impulse that had led him to offer to drive her.

He’d regret it even more if he knew how she expected to make use of this time.

“I’m all right. The idea of blood…” She let that trail off, not bothering to suppress the quaver in her voice. If Link thought her bowled over by this, so much the better. It might make him more talkative.

“Adam did say the amount was small.” He ran one palm restlessly along the steering wheel. “It could have nothing to do with…well, with your mother’s disappearance. It might not even be hers.”

“I suppose they’ll know that much from the DNA test. It seems to me I remember reading that the testing is more definitive when it’s the female side of the family.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t prove it by me, I’m afraid. That subject didn’t come up in the course of illustrating children’s books, did it?”

“I’ve looked into some odd things, but not that. That article on DNA was just random reading. I was the kind of kid who’d read the backs of cereal boxes if there was nothing else around.”

“Not me. Always outside, running wild, my mother used to say.” He gestured, the movement seeming to take in the patchwork quilt of cultivated farms and woodlots on either side of the road. “This was a good place to grow up for that.”

“I guess it would have been. I don’t remember much about Springville, or about the people we knew here. If my mother worked for your uncle, I suppose I might have met him.”

That was a tactful way to bring Allen Morgan into the conversation, wasn’t it?

“Could be.” Link glanced in the side mirror as he merged onto a four-lane road. “Your mother might have taken you along with her to work, I guess.” He spoke off-handedly, concentrating more on the traffic than the question.

“What was he like?”

“Allen?” Now he glanced at her, his attention sharpening. “Why do you want to know?”

She tensed at the direct attack. So much for being subtle. “It’s natural enough, isn’t it? Your uncle was my mother’s employer. Her suitcase was hidden in the wall of his house.”

He stared at the road again, lips tight, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth. “The suit case being there might have nothing to do with my uncle.”

“Really?” She let disbelief show in her voice. “How do you explain it, then?”

He yanked the wheel a bit harder than was war ranted to exit at the sign for the hospital. “If your mother was working for him at the time the room was being built, she could have put suitcase there herself.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Say the stories were right, and she planned to leave. She could have brought the suitcase with her to work, slid it into the unfinished wall so no one would see it and ask questions.”

Much as she hated to admit it, his suggestion made a certain amount of sense. But…

“Then why was it still there? If she planned to run away from your uncle’s house, why wouldn’t she take the suitcase with her?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled into a parking lot marked Visitors and stopped, turning to face her. “Look, I don’t know anything. I’m just trying to come up with some reasonable explanation, so you’ll—”

Link stopped, but she knew what he’d been going to say.

“So I’ll go away and leave you alone, is that it?” It was rare for her to lose her temper, but she was on the verge of that now. “I’m sorry my mother’s disappearance has inconvenienced you so much.”

She grabbed the door handle to get out, but he reached across to stop her hand. He was very close, and for an instant she could smell the fresh male scent of soap and shaving cream, could see the fine sun lines that fanned out from his eyes, could feel the heat that emanated from his body.

Her gaze met his, her breath catching abruptly. His brown eyes grew even darker, and the air between them seemed to thicken with something she didn’t want to name.

He drew back abruptly. “Look, I didn’t mean that. Yes, this is messing with my plans, but I know that’s not your fault.”

She took a ragged breath. “Don’t you understand? The least thing, no matter how unimportant it might seem to you, could lead me to the truth. I have to know what happened to her.”

“The truth.” He seemed to muse for a moment, the lines in his face deepening, growing harsher. “Even supposing it’s possible to find the truth, you might not like it. Have you considered that?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else. But I have to know.” Her mind flickered to her father, and she forced herself to concentrate on this moment, on this man who might be able to help her. “I’ve spent my life wondering. Whatever the answer is, knowing has to be better than this.”

He sucked in a breath so deep that his chest heaved. “All right.” He nodded toward a bench set under the hospital’s portico. “I’ll wait for you there while you have the test. Then we’ll talk about my uncle. I’ll answer as many questions as you want. But I’m afraid it’s not going to lead you anywhere at all.”

LINK SAT ON THE bench, outwardly relaxed, trying to watch the world go by. Or at least, that portion of the world that had reason to be at the hospital on this sunny fall day—an extremely pregnant woman with a nervous husband in tow, an elderly woman carrying a handful of mums, an Amish couple with a young child.

People were sometimes surprised that the Amish availed themselves of modern medical facilities, but the Amish had no quarrel with the medical profession. They didn’t believe in insurance, however, so if someone needed expensive care, the whole Amish community would pitch in to help.

He nodded as the couple came closer—they lived in Spring Township, although he couldn’t call their names to mind at the moment. The two adults nodded back, and the little boy gave him a wide grin. Whatever brought them here today, it didn’t seem to bother the child.

Unfortunately, focusing on the passersby didn’t really resolve the dilemma he faced. Why had he agreed to talk to Marisa about Uncle Allen? For that matter, why had he brought her to the hospital to begin with?

The second question was easier to answer. She’d looked so flattened by Adam’s revelation that Link couldn’t help himself. His parents’ training ran too deeply to be ignored, especially when he was here in Lancaster County.

It is our duty to help those who need it.

He could almost hear his father’s voice saying the words. They’d come in answer to his whining about the fact that they’d stopped to help an Amish couple whose buggy had been run off the road by a speeding car, making him late for a baseball game. He could still remember the mix of fear and pride he’d felt watching Dad lead the frightened horse out of the twisted buggy shafts.

Pride. He’d always been proud of Dad, even during that terrible time when everyone thought he’d committed suicide. Link’s chest tightened. Mostly he’d felt guilt then, that he hadn’t been around when Dad needed him.

Even when they learned Dad had been killed by an employee who’d been ripping off the company, he’d still felt that somehow he’d failed by not being here.

His father had taken responsibility for others as a matter of course, and Trey was just like him. As for Link… He’d never forget what happened when he’d tried to follow suit.

He forced his thoughts back to Marisa. If he didn’t talk to her about his uncle, she’d go to other people for her answers. He could imagine the talk that would generate, and there had been enough talk already.

So he’d answer her questions, drive her back to Springville and that would be an end to it. As for that sizzle of attraction when he’d gotten too close to her in the car…well, that was best ignored. He didn’t need anything else tangling him up with Marisa Angelo’s problems.

He tilted his head back, letting the slanting autumn sunlight touch his face. Gentle sunlight, a far cry from the blazing sun that dazzled the eye and made a man see things that weren’t there—

A shadow bisected the light, visible even with his eyes closed.

“Link? You look as if you’re going to sleep.”

He hadn’t seen Marisa approach, but she was there. She sat down on the bench, a careful foot away from him, which might mean that she’d felt exactly what he had in the car and was inclined to be just as cautious.

“That was fast,” he said.

“It’s an awfully simple process, given what’s riding on it.” Her eyes were shadowed for a moment, but then she focused on his face. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“Nope. Ask me anything you want about Uncle Allen. I’ll try to answer.”

She studied him, those golden brown eyes seeming to weigh the sincerity of his words. Or maybe his motives.

“What did your uncle do? For a living, I mean.”

“As little as possible,” he said, his tone wry. “He always said that my father inherited the family work ethic. Allen had a teaching degree, but I don’t think he ever taught.”

“He could afford to do nothing, in other words.” She sounded as if she didn’t approve.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he did, either.

“Uncle Allen had a nominal title in the family corporation, and he made a token appearance at the office once in a while.”

“Corporation?” Her eyebrows lifted.

He shrugged. “That makes it sound more important than it is. Morgans have been here a long time. They acquired things—land, businesses, rental properties.”

“You help to run those?” She was probably trying to equate that with the manual labor she’d caught him doing.

“Trey’s in charge since Dad died. I was in the military by then, so I let him.” He’d taken as little responsibility as Allen had, in fact.

“I see.” She was frowning, as if trying to figure him out.

He’d do better to keep this on Allen, not on him self. “Anyway, Allen’s main interest was local history. He wrote some articles, did a little dealing in Pennsylvania Dutch folk art and furniture. Ostensibly that was his business, but he didn’t have a shop—just bought and sold out of his home.”

“He never married?”

“No. I suspect my mother tried to play matchmaker a few times, but nothing ever came of it. Allan was just…a loner, I guess. He never seemed to need anyone else’s company.”

She was silent, as if absorbing his impressions. Or maybe now that she had her opportunity, she didn’t know what to ask.

“You don’t remember my mother working for him?”

The question was the one he’d expected her to start with. “I don’t think so. I didn’t spend all that much time at Uncle Allen’s place.”

“So you don’t know if she was working there the summer she disappeared.” Her voice flattened on the last word.

He hesitated, but she had a right to know. “My mother says she’s relatively sure she was.”

“Relatively sure,” she repeated.