I stumbled out of Dennis, the academic building that held the computer services department, carrying the jumbo mums. It wasn’t until I shoved the flowers into the backseat of my car that I realized I’d forgotten to ask Clark and Miller what they knew about Dylan Tanner. I had promised Timothy I would. No time to worry. Both men were long gone and I was late for my appointment at the elementary school. I promised Becky I would be there for the end of her site visit with her probation officer.
It was 4:15 already, so the after-school art program was wrapping up. Thankfully, the elementary school was only a block away from Harshberger.
I pulled into the back lot of the elementary school. Parents sat in their cars with motors running waiting for children to emerge. One by one, fourth and fifth graders stepped out of the school carrying newly fired clay pots and lopsided vases. I moved against the tide of children in the direction of the art room.
Two children remained in the room along with Becky and the art teacher, Ms. Snow. Becky sat across from a freckle-covered eleven-year-old boy. “If you press down on the brush, do you see how the stroke gets wider? The harder you press, the wider your stroke.”
The child nodded and stuck out his tongue a little as he painted a red line the width of his vase.
A voice rumbled behind me. “She’s doing a great job,”
I spun around to find Carl Fisher, Becky’s probation officer, sitting on a stool in the corner of the art room as if the teacher had sent him there for bad behavior. Carl was the size of a lumberjack and had the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. I was sure those eyebrows, not to mention Fisher’s size, could be intimidating when he got angry, which came in handy in his profession. He’d never used them when speaking of Becky. He held a clipboard and made notes on an evaluation form.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I replied.
He eyed me. “I heard about Ezekiel Young.”
I wasn’t surprised the probation officer knew about the murder.
Fisher squinted at me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Instinctively, I touched the bump on the back of my head. It felt smaller. “I feel horrible for the Young family though. I know how much they relied on Ezekiel to run the business. Ellie, his mother, must be heartbroken.”
“It’s a horrible thing to lose a loved one to murder.” He said this as if he knew something about it. “Who does Greta suspect?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t told me, not that I thought she would.” I shot a quick glance in Becky’s direction to make sure she wasn’t listening to us. “Curt and Brock are a possibility. They were released from prison.”
“I heard that too,” Fisher said.
What hadn’t the probation officer heard?
He folded his arms. “I was Curt Fanning’s PO a few years back. That boy is as bad as they come.”
“Chief Rose doesn’t think Curt and Brock would resort to murder.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the probation officer murmured. “You and Becky need to be careful. Lock your doors and pay attention to who is around you at all times.”
My pulse quickened as his warning sunk in.
Becky waved at us. “Pack up,” she told her student. “Your mom’s waiting for you outside.”
The boy frowned as if he could listen to Becky’s instructions forever, and reluctantly began packing his backpack.
“I wish I had a dozen Beckies,” Fisher said.
Ms. Snow, a petite woman in her mid-forties, joined us. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and a peasant skirt. “I do too. I’ve noticed a big increase in the numbers of boys interested in the after-school art program since Becky started helping out.” She signed the form on Fisher’s clipboard.
The other student left the room, and the freckled boy and Becky walked to the classroom door. “Bye, Miss Troyer,” the boy said with a slight blush on his cheeks.
Becky smiled. “Bye, Cameron. Happy Thanksgiving.”
He grinned back at her and disappeared through the door.
Fisher stood up. “Becky, Ms. Snow tells me you are doing an excellent job, and I can see it with my own eyes. You only have three hundred hours of community service left. I’m sure you will finish that in record time between this and the other places you are volunteering. When you do finish, I’ll recommend to the judge that he grant you an early release from probation for good behavior.”
Becky’s face lit up. “Really?” Her original probation sentence was for one year and wouldn’t expire until August of next year.
“I completely support that,” Ms. Snow said, giving Becky a little squeeze. “You’re doing great and will make a wonderful art teacher one day.”
Becky beamed.
Fisher held out his clipboard and a pen. “Sign here to say you received your monthly evaluation.”
I found myself smiling. Becky left the Amish to pursue her art as she saw fit. Finally, she received praise for her talent instead of criticism as she had from the leaders in the district.
Fisher set his bowler hat on his head, which made him look like a 1920s mobster, and tipped it at us before leaving the room.
Ms. Snow smiled at Becky. “I want you to seriously think about teaching art, Becky. You’re a gifted artist and good with children. That’s a hard combination to come by. You will make the perfect art teacher.”
“I will think about it,” Becky promised.
Ms. Snow nodded. “Good. Now, the classroom door is locked. Just pull it shut when you leave after you finish cleaning up.”
“I know what to do.”
Ms. Snow nodded at me. “Nice to see you again, Chloe.”
I offered to help Becky clean up. We made short work of emptying dirty water cups into the stainless steel sink and rinsing out the paint brushes.
Becky’s cell rang. She pulled it out from her pocket and checked the readout. “It’s Timothy. I’ll get it.”
“Go ahead.” I held up a blue-tipped paint brush. “This is the last one.” I almost asked her to thank him for the flowers but stopped myself. I thought they were from Timothy, but what if they weren’t?
I heard the low murmur of Becky’s conversation on the phone, but with the water coming full force out of the faucet I couldn’t make out the words. I turned off the water and reached for a paper towel to dry the paint brush. I faced Becky, and she looked like someone had just told her Iron Chef America was canceled.
I blotted the brush on the paper towel. “What’s wrong?”
She swiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s Grossdaddi.”
The throbbing began again in my head. “Is he all right?”
“No. He’s at the hospital.”
I dropped the paint brush onto the linoleum floor. “What happened?”
“Someone cut off his beard,” she whispered.