Chapter 18

Rachel stood on the cobblestone sidewalk and stared at the iPhone in her hand. A street lamp shone over her shoulder; it was almost dark and the town was quiet. At the top of the screen, in masculine printing, was the date, October 1, and the letters A.T.B.R.

Accounts to be reconciled—that’s what she’d told Evan it meant . . . or might mean. She stared at the list written by Willy, probably hours before his death, and she shivered, despite the warmth of the May evening.

The words on the list made no sense. Evan had said they were in code. This wasn’t exactly code, not like the kind spies used or anything, but the list certainly needed to be deciphered. Rachel ran her fingertips over the screen to expand it, making the words bigger, then scrolled down. She read through the list written in Willy’s handwriting again:

Stamp Collecting
Fencing Fred
Bearded A
Sophia Loren

It made no sense. The police arrested and charged her uncle with murder because of this? It was practically gibberish. She tucked the phone into her pocket and headed for home, but twice, on the way, she read the list again. Obviously her suggestion that “A.T.B.R.” meant “accounts to be reconciled” was wrong. What account would Willy O’Day have been settling with an Italian actress from the ’50s and 60s? Rachel wasn’t even sure if the film star was still alive.

Rachel reached home and crossed the wide, grassy lawn in the dark. The square fieldstone house loomed in front of her; light glowed from both sides of the door. She was glad she had thought to leave the front porch lights on. She salvaged those carriage-style lamps from a box of junk she’d bought at a yard sale. No light shone from any of the windows. Because of the cancellation, she’d be alone tonight, something that happened less and less often as her B&B became more popular.

The May air had turned chilly on the walk home, and she hurried the last few steps. She plucked a house key from under an iron boot scrape to the right of the door—another yard sale find—and let herself in. Inside the door, she looked at her phone again. Bearded A . . . Did that refer to Aaron? Did the police arrest him on the basis of that?

She took the time to return the key to its place, then checked the other doors in the house to be sure they were locked and headed upstairs. Some people might have felt uncomfortable, even afraid, alone in such a big house, but not Rachel. Tonight she was almost glad she had no guests to check on. She was eager to have a good look at Willy’s journal page. And have time to think. She might even print it out if she could remember how to use the printer app on her phone.

As Rachel headed up the stairs to the third floor, she didn’t bother with any lights; electricity was money, and though she was beginning to turn a profit, there was no cash to be wasted. She could navigate the entire house, cellar to attic, with her eyes shut. When she’d first taken possession of the property, there had been no electricity. She’d climbed the stairs plenty of times in the dark in those early days without so much as a flashlight.

At the top of the second flight, she turned toward her door and bumped into something on the floor with the toe of her sneaker. Something soft and unexpected. She gave a startled squeak at the same time that Bishop howled and raced down the hall.

“Bishop! I’m sorry. You okay?” she called after him, her hand on her pounding heart. “What are you doing, standing in the dark like that?”

Inside her room, she flipped on the light switch. “Come on, if you’re coming,” she called to the cat. “I’m closing the door.” No matter that she’d insulated the house, it still seemed drafty at night.

She removed her cell phone from her jacket pocket, tossed the jacket over a chair, and sat down on her bed. She held the phone, poised to text Evan.

Should she ask him questions? For one thing, she was curious as to how he had been able to take the photographs. She knew he was working tonight, but wasn’t evidence locked up? Did he have a key to evidence storage? As happy as she was to have the photos, she hoped Evan hadn’t done anything that could cost him his job.

Besides wanting to know the particulars of how he had been able to take pictures of the journal with his iPhone, she had questions about the actual journal. Did the other pages make as little sense as this one? Had George been asked to translate the list? Were they even sure the journal was Willy’s? She glanced up to watch the Siamese stroll into the room and rub up against one leg of her desk.

After a moment of uncertainty, she decided that it was better to not ask Evan any questions. At least not yet. She knew this had to be a big deal to him, to take these photos of the journal and send them to her.

Got it. Thanks, she texted him back.

She opened the list again: Stamp Collecting, Sophia Loren, Bearded A, Fencing Fred. What did they mean? Could something on this list be a reference to someone other than Uncle Aaron? Maybe one of the people she’d been looking into? Could “Bearded A” mean something other than Bearded Aaron?

She closed her eyes and opened them again. Stared at the white dry-erase board in the corner of the room. She needed to pay her gas bill and order a new hinge for one of the bathroom doors.

She looked at the phone in her hand again and jumped up off the bed. Tucking the phone into the back pocket of her jeans, she grabbed the eraser off her desk and wiped the board clean. Then she took a teal dry-erase marker, drew a rectangle right in the center of the board, and copied the text from Willy’s notebook, letter for letter.

She stepped back. Stared at the board. Then, on impulse, she wrote Willy O’Day across the top in the same teal marker. Next, she grabbed a blue marker and began to make a list, on the left-hand side of the board, of the people she knew Willy had seen the day of his disappearance: George, of course; Dawn, the waitress from the diner; Blanche; Alvin and Verna; Buddy. Those, she knew of. Then, she took a green marker and added Steve’s name, Eli Rust’s, and . . . Teresa’s.

She stood back to study her handiwork.

Dawn had gone back to Florida to be with her children and mother, and the conversation Rachel had with her by phone convinced her of the waitress’s innocence. Rachel crossed her name off with a red marker.

She stared at Steve’s name. He said he’d been at a wedding in Williamsport the weekend Willy disappeared. She studied the board for another minute, then went to her computer and searched for Weddings in Williamsport, October 1.

She got lots of hits. None helpful. She sat back in her chair. Bishop jumped up on the desk and rubbed against the laptop, moving the screen back and forth. She stroked his head. “Knock it off.” She adjusted the screen.

Next, she typed in Steve Barber’s name. Again, several hits, but after two false tries, she found a social network page with Steve’s grinning face plastered across the top.

Rachel scowled and clicked on a bar giving details of his life, where he was born, where he graduated high school. She read that he liked to collect model trains. She clicked on his photo album and flipped through it. They were all photos of him: Steve, in a ball cap, pointing at a daffodil; Steve wearing a colorful knit cap and shoveling snow; Steve wearing a red-and-white Santa’s hat; Steve in a tux, wearing a bride’s tiara with a veil. There seemed to be a theme. Next, Steve in an engineer’s hat, holding up a model engine. It was dated a week previous.

She scrolled back and stared at Steve in the tux. He looked inebriated. She checked the time and place tag: Williamsport, PA, October 1, 9:05 p.m. The wedding.

She sighed and closed her laptop. At the whiteboard, she took the marker and ran it through the middle of his name. Steve Barber didn’t kill Willy.

Who was she kidding? None of these people had killed Willy.

She stared at the list in the middle of the board again. Her gaze crossed Fencing Fred, then went back.

Fred . . . Fred Wright . . . He was putting the fencing for the goats in for her. Was Fred Wright “Fencing Fred”? Had Willy settled business with Fred the day he disappeared?

And what was the deal with the money Willy had been depositing in Teresa’s account? The fact that the deposits had stopped and then Willy disappeared was suspicious, wasn’t it?

After getting into her PJs, Rachel lay in bed for a long time, staring at the dry-erase board, going over and over in her mind all the possibilities each name or phrase in Willy’s ledger could mean. When she slept that night, she dreamed of Sophia Loren and Teresa Ridley sunbathing on an Italian beach.

 

The next morning, Rachel had the house to herself. After breakfast, she made herself busy emptying the trash and recycling bins, replacing lightbulbs, and doing other menial tasks. She kept an eye on the clock, and when eleven thirty finally came, she went into the kitchen.

Taking a wicker basket from a tall shelf, she spread a blue-and-white-checkered cloth over the bottom and helped herself to several banana muffins Ada had made the previous day. She added two blueberry scones and a wrapped slice of Dutch apple cake to the basket. She snipped several blossoms from a flower arrangement on the table and tucked them around the goodies, covering the basket with a second square of the checked material.

It was such a nice day that Rachel considered walking to Teresa’s, but she decided that the baked goods would fare better if she took the golf cart. The streets were quiet, but a few cars passed. Church services were letting out; people waved to her as she drove by.

Ell’s mother lived on a quiet street four blocks away. Hers was a modest beige ranch with dark-brown shutters, surrounded by a neatly trimmed lawn. A small sign in the picture window read Piano Lessons. A heart-shaped grapevine wreath hung on the front door with the word Welcome spelled out in artificial red grapes.

Rachel rang the doorbell, which played “Amazing Grace” inside the house. She waited a few seconds and then pushed the button again. This time she heard footsteps.

“Coming.” Teresa opened the door. An expression of surprise was quickly replaced with pleasure. “Rachel Mast? Whatever . . . why . . .” she stammered, and then said, “Please, come in. I just walked in the door from church.”

Rachel held out the basket and whisked away the top cloth. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by unannounced, but I’ve been worried about you. You seemed so upset at the funeral. So I brought you some snacks.”

“You brought those for me?” Teresa backed away and held the door open. “How nice of you. I so rarely . . . I couldn’t imagine who it was. I have a student coming for a lesson at one, but . . .” She still seemed surprised, but also pleased.

Rachel followed her into a living room dominated by a piano. The floors were hardwood, which Rachel loved, but the fussy faux-country furnishings and hanging baskets of artificial flowers were definitely not her thing. Studio portraits of Ell lined three of the four walls. One wall was completely covered with baby pictures progressing from newborn to toddler stage. In every photo, Ell was buttoned, sashed, and wrapped in an overabundance of ruffled bonnets, lacy dresses, and shoes more suited to a boutique display case than a baby’s feet.

On the next wall was a row of school-age portraits, and in every one, Ell was garbed in ruffled frocks, frilly lace-edged socks, and Mary Janes, white or black patent leather, depending on the season. Her light-brown hair was tortured into long corkscrew curls, à la Shirley Temple. On the third wall were high school portraits, including four versions of what could only have been Ell’s senior portraits. Rachel studied the photographs, finding it hard to imagine that this child was the Ell she knew.

Rachel smiled reassuringly at Teresa but couldn’t help thinking that, at least in this case, there really could be too much of a good thing. Maybe the Amish custom of not allowing photographs of people wasn’t such a bad idea.

“I’ll put on some coffee,” Teresa said. “If you’d like to stay a few minutes.”

“As long as I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all. It was sweet of you to think of me. I know that I must have looked . . . I’ve known, or rather I had known Willy since I was a child. It was very hard to see him taken from us in such a violent manner.” She kept walking and Rachel followed her into a small kitchen with a table against one wall. The table was so small that there was only room for two chairs, and the surface was nearly taken up by a fifteen-inch glass cookie jar shaped like a red rooster with a bright blue comb.

Rachel slid into one of the chairs. “I’ll be honest. The treats weren’t the only reason I stopped by. I was wondering if you could help me,” she said. “I’ve been attempting to help Uncle Aaron. You know, because of his arrest.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” Teresa filled a teakettle with water from the tap. “Aaron Hostetler couldn’t have done such a thing. I know people say he has a temper, but he’s never been anything but nice to me.” She took down two matching cups and saucers. The china was red and white, decorated with red hens and baby chicks. “I hope you don’t mind instant. I have those little coffee pouches that make one cup at a time. I try to limit myself to one cup a day. Milk?”

“Just black, please.” Rachel forced another smile, wondering what her mother would think of all the poultry décor. “The court has appointed a lawyer for Uncle Aaron, but I’m talking to everyone who saw Willy that last Friday. Just looking for anyone who might have noticed him talking to a stranger or seen anything out of the usual.”

“I see.” Teresa’s mouth tightened. “Of course, if I could be of any assistance, I’d be happy to see justice prevail.”

“Did you see Willy that day?”

“Me?” She looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I didn’t—”

“You’re certain? Maybe at the restaurant or the grocery—”

“I said I didn’t.” Teresa’s face paled. “Why are you asking me these questions?” Her hand tightened on the back of the other chair. “I’m suddenly feeling a little light-headed. This might not be the best time for us to visit.” She seemed to sag. “I think it’s best if you go and come back another day.”

“You want me to leave?”

“It would be best.”

And as swiftly as Rachel had talked her way into Teresa’s home, she found herself gently ejected and standing on the walk outside the closed front door. “Interesting,” Rachel muttered to herself. What was Teresa hiding?

 

Rachel’s next stop was Wagler’s Grocery. She didn’t really need anything, but she took a cart, threw in some staples, and wheeled it up and down the aisles until she found Buddy stocking cans of tuna fish on an end cap. She waited until two women that she knew passed by and there was a lull in the flow of shoppers before approaching him.

He’d obviously already seen her because his face had taken on the same shade red as the Wagler’s apron he wore over his khaki pants and blue shirt. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for an escape route, but Rachel was too quick for him. She shoved her cart forward, pinning Buddy between a five-foot-tall dancing tuna fish and the towering display of cans.

“I know that you didn’t tell me the truth about the night Willy disappeared,” she said in a low but determined voice. “I’m giving you one more chance before I go to the authorities with what I suspect.”

“Please.” Buddy groaned. “I’m working.” He glanced around. “I can’t talk here.”

“We couldn’t talk at your place, and you made it clear that you didn’t want to see me there again. So it’ll have to be here.”

“You’ll make me lose my job.”

A loaded cart nosed around the end of the aisle, manned by a young couple. “Rachel,” the woman said. “How are you?”

“Good.” Rachel gave her a big smile. “And you? How are the sheep?”

“Good, good,” the husband said.

“And your mother?” Rachel asked. “Her sprained wrist is better?”

“Praise be to God,” the woman answered. “And your parents?”

“Well, well,” Rachel said, ignoring Buddy. The three exchanged a few more pleasantries before the couple moved on.

When they were out of earshot, Rachel returned her attention to Buddy, only to find that his eyes were welling up with tears.

“Are you crying?” she asked, staring at him. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not . . . crying.” Buddy trembled and a large tear slid down a five-o’clock-shadowed cheek. “Just . . . just something in my eye.” He rubbed at his face with the back of a big, hairy, tattooed hand.

Rachel put her hand on his arm. Suddenly she felt terrible. She hadn’t meant to make him cry. Apparently, he wasn’t the tough guy he pretended to be at his house the other day. “It’s all right, Buddy. Just tell me the truth now.”

“If I get fired, I’ll lose my new truck. And my new girlfriend. There’s no way she’ll stay with me if I don’t have a car and I have to borrow her Bug again to get to work.”

“I don’t want you to be fired,” she said, keeping her voice down. “But I want to know what happened that night with Willy. I already know you argued about your rent.”

“Yeah,” Buddy admitted. “I lied to you. Please don’t say anything to my girlfriend. She’s real religious. I had a little too much to drink, and I lost my temper with Willy. I didn’t want you to know that I’d said some bad stuff to him, but I didn’t mean it. I’ve just got a big mouth when I drink.”

She patted his shoulder. “Tell me what did happen.”

“I got mad because Willy locked me out of my house. Put a padlock right on the door. There’s hasps on all the doors—even Blanche’s and she owns her own trailer.” He hung his head. “It was my own fault. I’d already been late twice. Three times and you’re out. That was Willy’s rule. I can understand why he’d have to be tough. Nobody would pay their rent if he let you slide too many times.”

George hadn’t said anything about Willy locking Buddy out, only that Buddy brought him the rent the next day. “So,” Rachel said gently, “what happened after Willy put the padlock on your door?”

“Put one on the back door, too. He actually carries padlocks with him. Carried,” he corrected.

She waited a moment, then went on. “Did you kill Willy, Buddy? Did he make you so mad that you followed him and—”

“Did I kill him? Heck, no. I did what any guy would do. I bought another six-pack and went to a friend’s to crash on his couch. The next morning I went to the bank as soon as it opened and cashed a check. See, I had the money to pay my rent because I sold my old truck to a buddy. But he said I couldn’t cash the check till the second.”

“So that’s the money you used to pay your rent to George?” she asked. And not money from Willy’s pocket? she wondered.

“How’d you know I gave George the money?” He wiped his eyes. When she didn’t answer, he went on. “I took it right over to Willy’s house, but his brother said he wasn’t there, so I gave it to him. George was real nice. He followed me back to the park and used Willy’s keys to take off the padlocks. It was decent of him. He didn’t have to do that. He could have told me to wait until Willy got home.” He pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “I haven’t been late once since then. I pay George every month on the dot. You can ask him.”

“If you lied to me before, Buddy, how can I be certain that you’re telling the truth now?”

“I am. I swear it. I didn’t hurt Willy. I never saw him again after he left the trailer park.” He blew his nose again.

“So,” she said, thinking out loud, “you went to a friend’s house that night?”

“Ricky’s. Ricky Truder’s. He and some guys play Call of Duty every Friday. I was there all night, killing Nazi zombies.”

“So if I asked Ricky, he’d tell me that you were with him all night?”

“Sure. I whipped his butt at Call of Duty. I had a real good night.”

She arched a brow. “I hope so,” she said quietly, “because I will find Ricky and ask him if you were there.”

“That’s okay,” Buddy said, nodding. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Evan.”

“Evan?” she said.

“Evan Parks. I know you know him.” He smiled. “I’ve also heard he’s sweet on you. But I’m probably not supposed to tell you that,” he added quickly.

“You were playing video games with Evan Parks the night Willy O’Day disappeared?” The minute he said it, she knew his alibi was solid. Evan did play video games on Friday nights, once in a while, with some guys he had known from high school. Ricky was one of those guys.

Rachel went home, went straight upstairs to her bedroom, and crossed Buddy’s name off on the dry-erase board.