After returning to my office, I went online to find Grayson Mathews’s company website. Most of it crowed about his victories as an Ohio State football star back in the late 1980s, the colors scarlet and gray prevalent on his site. If all the hype could be believed, Mathews was a savvy businessman.
I clicked on a link called Success Stories. He developed a planned community south of Columbus and another in Licking County, just west of Knox. Were there really enough people to live in all the mini-mansions Mathews planted across central Ohio?
The plans for the Knox County Community sat dead center on a page called Future Communities. It boasted a clubhouse with gym, swimming pool, and even a general store. The fine print at the bottom of the plans read, “pending.” Pending what? Pending because he didn’t own the land, that’s what.
I clicked on an aerial view of the planned community. I zoomed in to find the Troyer house and the Glick farm. My jaw clenched. I’m sure Mathews knew there was no risk of the Amish seeing his master plan since they had no access to the Internet. I printed the pages and tucked them in a folder. I had a feeling I’d need them for our meeting with Mathews. I also e-mailed his Web site link to my phone for good measure.
Next, I checked the Knox County bar association website for information about Billy’s attorney recommendation, Tyler Hart, and found glowing references—even one from Chief Rose. I removed the scrap of paper Billy gave me from my purse and called Tyler Hart’s office. My call went to voicemail, so I left a message and asked him to call me back.
I looked out my office doorway to see the conference table still littered with camcorder parts.
Miller caught my eye. “It’s a goner, boss.”
“I know. We’ll get a new one.” I made the promise not knowing if I could keep it.
Joel peeked out from his cubicle and scowled. “With what money? Or are you too busy with your boyfriend to read campus e-mails.”
“Man,” Clark said. “Lay off.”
Joel scowled at him, but to my relief, he slid back behind his fake wall.
I shook my head and called Becky at work.
“Little Owl Greenhouse. How may I help you?” Becky’s voice held a slight tremor, as if unsure of herself.
“Hi, Becky.”
“Chloe!” She sounded relieved. “Cookie asked me to answer the phone, and I’ve been dreading the calls all day. You were my first one.”
The greenhouse’s first call was at four in the afternoon?
“How’d I do?” she asked.
“Excellent.” One call or not, I hoped I reassured her. “I got my rental car and thought I’d pick you up from work tonight.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m off at four thirty.”
Instead of avoiding Butler Road as Timothy had, I let Pepper take me that way to the greenhouse. I pulled over on the side of the road before reaching Becky’s work. “Continue one point two miles.” Pepper’s instructions came with her usual irritation.
“I’m glad you didn’t lose any of your spunk in the accident.” I exited the car. Didn’t everyone talk to their caustic GPS guide?
The tree that the bishop hit was badly damaged. Most of its front bark had been torn away, revealing soft white wood underneath. A bright orange spray-painted X marred the wood, indicating that the county thought the tree, which I guessed by its broad leaves to be a sycamore, had suffered too much damage to be saved.
In the mud below the tree, I saw what looked like hundreds of shoe prints. Probably police and other first responders. There were hoof prints there, too, and two deep ruts cut into the earth where the buggy’s wooden wheels had been pushed off the road.
Nothing else from the accident remained, not even a shard of glass. I wasn’t surprised. Chief Rose was very good at her job. I wasn’t a crime scene tech and wouldn’t know a clue if it sat up and said, Look over here! Clue!
And yet I couldn’t stop searching.
A chill ran down my spine as I remembered another accident scene. My mother’s. On the day of her funeral, my father drove to the scene. A condemned tree marked with orange paint had stood there as well. Nothing else about the scene would tell you there had been an accident. As a family, we hadn’t placed a white cross with ribbons as a makeshift memorial on the side of the road like so many others had done. Dad would not allow it.
My father turned off the car. We sat there on the side of the road, snow falling. Cars blared their horns at us as we sat in my father’s car on the other side of the curve. The curve that had been covered in black ice the day my mother died, sending her small car spinning into the tree.
“Daddy?”
He didn’t look at me. “This is all your fault.”
I started to cry. “Daddy. I didn’t—I’m sorry.”
“We won’t speak of this again.” He started the car.
I shook the memory from my head and concentrated on the scene in front me. Could Grayson Mathews have had something to do with the accident? It seemed far-fetched. Surely there was enough countryside in central Ohio to satisfy his craving to develop if the Amish in Knox County wouldn’t sell.
There was also another small fact I kept coming back to. If the bishop was the intended victim, how could the perpetrator know Becky and the bishop would be on the road at the same time? Who knew about her interview at the greenhouse? The police said the brake line had been recently cut. What if someone knew Becky would be the next person to drive the car?
At four thirty on the dot, I turned into the empty parking lot next to Little Owl Greenhouse, my mind still whirring. Scotch was out front watering the hanging baskets. He put down his hose as I exited the car. “From Uncle Billy’s?”
I nodded.
“Been there.” He removed a red bandana from his overall pocket. “Phew, it’s a hot one today. Big storm is comin’. You can bank on that.”
The sky was periwinkle blue without a cloud in sight. “Did you hear that on the news?”
“Naw, I don’t put much stock in weathermen. Bunch of suits sitting in the air-conditioning. What do they know? The plants tell me, and they say a big storm isn’t that far off.”
O-kay.
Becky walked out of the greenhouse store wearing dark blue eye shadow from her eyelashes to her brows, hot pink lipstick, and red blush. She could double as a circus clown. Cookie followed her out.
I gasped. “What happened to you?”
Her face fell. “You don’t like it.”
I glanced over at Cookie. She folded her arms over her ample chest. The Cookie makeup treatment. I plastered a smile on my face. “It’s colorful.”
Cookie nodded. Her oversprayed, overdone hairdo attracted a bee, and she swatted it away. “That’s right. I thought I should teach Becky the way around a makeup counter, seeing how she’s never worn any before. I think she came out real good. I did the right side of her face, and she did the left. You can’t even see any difference, and she did it with her left hand too.”
“I don’t notice any difference at all,” I said.
Becky stared at the Prizm sitting in the parking lot. “Chloe, is that your car?”
I nodded.
“Wow.”
That pretty much sums it up.
Scotch hooked a thumb at the car. “One of Uncle Billy’s.”
“Thought so,” Cookie replied.
“Since I have a car now, such as it is, I can pick up Becky from the store each day. Can you still give her a lift here? I leave for work much earlier than she does.”
“No problem at all,” Scotch said. “Becky is a real delight to have around the shop. We are real proud of her.”
Becky still beamed under his praise as we left the parking lot. “We deserve a girl’s night out,” I said.
She bounced in her seat. “Really?”
I nodded. “We need to celebrate your new job and my new car.”
She scrunched her nose. “This thing is worth celebrating?”
“Sure. It is has wheels. It moves. What more do you want?” I grinned at her, then turned in the opposite direction from Butler Road, hoping Becky didn’t notice. “But,” I added, “before we go anywhere, you need to wash your face. I’m not going out on the town with you looking like that.”
She examined her reflection in the visor mirror. “You don’t like it.”
I bit my lip. “Let’s just say it suits Cookie, not you.”