Chapter 12

“Am I a good helper, Daddy?” Bobby clutched the plastic sack of copper pipe fittings tightly in his hands as they drove Nellie home from Holmes Lumber, the local hardware store.

Joe was concentrating hard on driving the buggy. Nellie was swinging her neck back and forth in obvious irritation at her harness.

“You’re a great helper, son,” he said, absentmindedly.

This had been a short practice run, and things were not going well. Nellie wasn’t happy. Joe wasn’t happy. The horse was still stubborn about being caught unless Bertha was present. But they were progressing, and none of the harnesses had fallen off. Yet. His respect for the Amish who used this mode of transportation daily rose even higher.

“Lydia says I’m a hard worker just like you.”

“You are.”

Joe remembered dogging his father’s footsteps as a child. His dad had always been patient with him as he repaired the various homes they had occupied. Dr. Robert Mattias was a rarity—a scholar who could work with his hands as well as with his mind. The training Joe had received at his father’s elbow was coming in handy these days.

So far, in addition to scraping the farmhouse, he had replaced some rotted wood he’d found beneath the old paint, washed all the windows, and was now involved in fixing a minor plumbing problem. This evening, if he had time before the sun set, he would replace some rusted guttering.

When they arrived home, he let a relieved Nellie into the pasture, ate a simple lunch, and then repaired the toilet, as Bobby watched raptly.

“What should we do next, buddy?” Joe asked once he finished.

“You said we could make the floors shiny.”

“Shiny floors it is, then.” Although he had scrubbed the wooden floors clean, they did need a good polishing. He tore rags for both of them, and they went to work.

Bobby soon lost interest and began to play with a marble he’d found wedged into a corner. The wooden floor had a slight slant—just enough to make an interesting game to a small boy.

The repetitious task of rubbing lemon-scented oil into the heavy oak was satisfying as he watched the dull grain take on a luster. The long-standing wood soaked up the polishing liquid as though it were parched.

There was a feeling of peace in this old house, especially now that the large multipaned windows were cleaned of the grime. The late afternoon sun streamed in, bouncing off the cream-colored walls and filling the room with light. One thing he had learned was that the Amish preferred plenty of windows in their houses. With their dependence on kerosene lights, they tried to eke out as much daylight as possible.

His son made spluttering car noises as the marble turned into a race car. He remembered doing the same when he and his brother were small.

His brother—another ache in his heart.

They had slept in the same bed as kids, eaten the same food, fought over the same toys, and been each other’s shadow. But Darren had turned into someone he didn’t know—a dreamer who dished out new business ideas as easily as Lydia dished up mashed potatoes. He had talked Joe into funding more than one of his get-rich-quick schemes. When Joe had stopped bankrolling his failed business plans, Darren had moved on to other potential “clients.”

“Suckers” is what Joe called them.

It wasn’t possible to be close to Darren anymore without getting burned. Darren thought that getting rich was the only way to happiness. Joe knew firsthand that it wasn’t.

One of their father’s favorite Scriptures from the New International Version came to mind—a prayer from Proverbs.

“ ‘Give me neither poverty nor riches,’ ” Joe said aloud, savoring the sound of the ancient words echoing in the sparkling clean house, “ ‘but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, “Who is the Lord?” Or I may become poor and steal and so dishonor the name of my God.’ ”

“Are you praying, Daddy?” Bobby scrambled under a chair to retrieve his marble.

“I guess I am, son.” He was bemused by the fact that Bobby had noticed. He wondered what else his son had picked up on when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. Probably a whole lot more than he had realized.

His little boy deserved at least as good a childhood as he and his brother had enjoyed. It was high time he got serious about living an open life of integrity. Time he got serious about church attendance too. He was looking forward to going back to that church he had attended with Rachel.

Rachel. The woman was intruding on his thoughts more and more often. He had even dreamed about her last night—a pleasant dream. They were picnicking beside the Sugar Creek again. He had found himself missing her when he awakened.

A noise on the porch broke into his thoughts. He glanced up and saw all three Troyer sisters standing outside on the little porch, looking at him through the screen.

“Come on in,” he said, standing.

They bustled in.

“The floor looks wonderful,” Bertha commented.

Anna sniffed the air. “It smells good!”

“It does,” Bertha said. “What are you using on that wood?”

“A man at the lumber store suggested I use a combination of olive oil and lemon juice.”

“I like the smell of lemon,” Lydia said.

Joe felt a small measure of pride. The daadi haus did smell and look good.

“Can I do something for you ladies?” he asked.

“We need to talk to you,” Lydia said.

Bertha sank into one of the chairs and placed her walker at her side. Lydia and Anna perched on the couch.

“We have received a letter from an old friend of mine who is helping out at one of the many orphanages affected by that terrible earthquake in Haiti,” Bertha said. “The children there are in need of so many things, but she has specifically asked if my sisters and I could manage to send them a sewing machine. The two sewing machines they had were ruined by a roof that collapsed. She says that the children need clothing, but they also need occupation. The plan is for the older girls to once again begin making clothing for the younger children as well as for themselves.”

Lydia leaned forward, her brow knit with concern. “Can you imagine not having a sewing machine?”

Joe could imagine it very well, but he knew that a world without sewing machines was probably inconceivable to Lydia.

“We were wondering… ,” Lydia began.

“…if you would mind helping us… ,” Bertha said.

“…have a bake sale… ,” Lydia continued.

“…at our house!” Anna finished.

“I think we could make a fair profit on my baked goods.” Lydia scooted to the very edge of her seat in her eagerness.

“One bake sale would pay for a new sewing machine?” Joe wasn’t sure how much one would cost, but he thought they might be overly optimistic.

“No, no, no.” Bertha shook her head. “It is impossible to purchase a good new treadle sewing machine anymore. The new ones are cheaply made and do not hold up. Eli has promised us his wife’s old one. We are simply trying to make enough money to ship it.”

“Eli said he would oil it and make certain it is in good working order.” Lydia’s eyes were dancing with enthusiasm.

“The need is extreme,” Bertha concluded. “Some of the children have little but rags to wear.”

“I’d be happy to help.”

“Dank,” Bertha said.

“What do you need for me to do?”

“Some open shelving in the kitchen would be most helpful. We need a place to display our baked goods. I will give you money to purchase lumber. It does not have to be fancy, just sturdy.”

“I can do that.”

“We will also need many supplies purchased.” Lydia pulled a list from her pocket. “I will need much flour and sugar.”

“No problem.”

“And spices and lard and eggs.”

“Of course.”

“And milk and raisins and nuts.”

“I’ll get everything you need, Lydia.”

Lydia handed him the list, her face aglow with happiness. “Oh, Joe, just think. Those young girls are going to get a sewing machine!”

Rachel had never been able to leave a puzzle alone. In fact, she had learned to not even begin a jigsaw puzzle unless she had several uninterrupted hours in which to finish it. She was simply unable to stop until every piece fit neatly together.

At the moment, she was entertaining herself by trying to piece together a very different sort of puzzle. It was a slow night at the station, and she was researching unsolved murders involving married women in the past year. She had searched for those by the name of Matthews, looking for one that had a child with her when discovered. The last part was especially important.

But she was having no luck. Joe had either lied about the crime, or Grace Matthews was not his wife’s real name.

Was there some other piece of the puzzle she was missing?

She rose from her seat, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sipped it while pacing the floor. Then she pitched the empty Styrofoam cup into the metal trash can and sat back down at the computer.

Her nickname at the academy, based on her inability to let go of a problem, had been “Bulldog.” An instructor had said that her tenacity was her greatest strength, but if she didn’t watch out, it could also become her greatest weakness.

Sometimes, he said, a good cop had to know when to throw in the towel and concentrate on something else—like a case that actually had a chance of being solved.

With no crime on the books, she knew it was probably ridiculous to keep digging for answers to this puzzle. Most other cops would have lost interest in Joe Matthews long ago. But she wasn’t wired like most cops. She couldn’t let go. Somewhere, somehow, she would find the key to who he really was.

Unfortunately, her need to know had expanded completely out of proportion in comparison with her desire to protect her aunts. The man had begun to occupy nearly every waking thought. Something she had never experienced before.

She was searching for answers now…to protect her own heart.