Operation Bonnet Page 18

  “You look lovely today,” I said, a glutton for abuse. “That shade of gray suits you.”

  She sniffed. “‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,’ and that is my focus.”

  I turned to close the door behind me and took the chance to roll my eyes. Couldn’t she fear the Lord and look good in gray?

  The kitchen was vacant, but I could hear a murmur of voices coming from the living room.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked. “And is that … is someone crying?”

  “Phst.” Granny Mary shook her head and started for the door leading to the living room. “You are to sit and listen. Speak only if a person asks a question to you. Perhaps you can help the woman that cries.”

  I followed Granny into the spacious room. Wooden chairs and benches lined the perimeter, but only those gathered around the hearth were in use. I smiled what I hoped was a humble, antitechnology smile. Sarah’s eyes met mine, and she beckoned me to stand near the semicircle of chairs.

  The room fell silent as I crossed the room. I noticed John Yoder in the center chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked at me with a laser gaze, intent enough to give me a shiver in the heat of summer.

  “Katie is gone,” Sarah said quietly when I reached her side. “She did not come home the night before last.” She gestured to the group and raised her voice a notch. “This is Nellie Monroe. She is the English girl learning to cook from Grandmother Mary.”

  I recognized Sarah’s husband, Samuel, who nodded to me from where he stood by the mantel. John Yoder said nothing, staring at the cold fireplace. A middle-aged couple sat to his right. The woman looked over her handkerchief and attempted a pleasant expression. The man nodded in my general direction but made no eye contact.

  “Katie’s parents,” Sarah said quietly. “Rose and Joseph Lapp.”

  John cleared his throat. “God forbid it, but she is injured. Or lost. She would not leave of her own accord.”

  Mrs. Lapp sniffed into her hankie. Mr. Lapp sat in stony silence.

  Sarah took a deep breath before speaking. “Forgive me, but did she talk of discontent or worries about anything? The wedding perhaps?”

  John stood abruptly and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at Sarah. “No, she did not. Could not everyone see how happy she is?”

  There was a moment of quiet. My heart raced. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I thought, recalling the plaintive smile Katie had summoned when telling me about her wedding dress. I tried to believe Katie was limping home with a broken arm, but all I could see was Amos and his goofy hairstyle.

  “Nellie Monroe.” Grandmother Mary barked at me from her station by the kitchen door. “It is possible we could use your help.” I could see it pained her to say the words, so I kept my mouth shut out of respect. “We would prefer to keep this experience inside the family. Would you”—she stopped a beat and met eyes with Rose Lapp—“Can you help us to find Katie? She is probably in the world you know more about.”

  I recognized this comment as lightly veiled contempt. Granny Mary and I had some pastry-rolling hours under our belt, after all. From that time together, however, I could remember not one time when the Granster had asked anything of anyone, other than a glass of water or more lye soap to wash away the dirt of the world, literal and otherwise.

  “I would be honored to help in any way I can.” I could feel John Yoder watching my face. If there was one thing all my hours of PI prep had given me, it was the ability to stare anyone down, even strapping Amish men with surly expressions. Bring on the surly, I say. “I’d love to help you find Katie. And find out the truth.”

  As anticipated, John Yoder was the first to look away.

  I sprinted to my car, hidden, as always, in the grove of trees near the road. On the way back to Casper, I stopped at Frank’s Diner. Judging by Amos’s euphoria over milkshakes, I could imagine him forcing Katie to try every one on the menu before they’d greeted each other with a holy kiss. Or any other kind of kiss for that matter.

  A wash of air conditioning pulled me over to the counter. I scanned the booths, but the place was deserted during the mid-afternoon slump, not a slurping Amish in sight.

  Frank himself peeked through the order window. “Nice outfit.”

  I tugged the strings on my bonnet until it gave up its battle with my hair and fell to the counter. “I’m, um, going to a costume party.”

  “In the middle of the afternoon?” Frank shook his head. “I’d wait until it was dark if I were you.” He laughed at his own joke and went back to chopping something with a cleaver.

  “Frank, did you see any Amish people in here today? Last night?”

  “Nope,” he said, not looking up.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He paused in the cleaver work. “What, Monroe? You looking for some friends so your costume isn’t so sorry?” He pointed in the direction of the highway with his knife. “There are lots of ’em down the road. I’m sure they’d love to party it up with Miss Little House.” This one got him laughing so hard, he began to wheeze.

  “Thanks,” I muttered and pulled open the heavy glass door. I’d wanted a Maytag burger to go, but a girl could only stand so much.

  Two hours later, I had nothing to show for my efforts. I’d called Amos’s cell eight times and had left increasingly irritated voice mails, the last three with paltry words: “Six.” “Seven.” “Message numero ocho.” He could at least call, I thought. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d lecture him. What he did with Katie was no business of mine. In fact, the more I drove around, stopping at his apartment, the golf course, his favorite McDonald’s, the more offended I became. Worry wasn’t on my radar. I knew to the fiber of my PI being that Katie and Amos were all right, probably canoodling somewhere by a lake, sipping virgin daiquiris. But the least the male lovebird could do was contact me. It was I, after all, who had kept the flame burning.

  Tank answered my call as I pulled into the parking lot of Games Galore. “Any sign?” he asked. “That boy BETTER not have skipped town. I owe him money, and he owes me a finished mini-golf course.”

  “No word yet,” I said. “I just pulled up to the arcade he haunts. I’ll take a look.” I swung my legs out of the car and stood to stretch. Audibly.

  “For the love of PETE, Nellie. It’s not exactly WINSOME to moan and GROAN like that, no matter how long you’ve been in the car.”

  I finished a hugely satisfying yawn. “Sorry, Tank. You let me know if he shows up, all right?”

  “GOT it, sis. Take care, now. Never know what’s going on under all that hair gel, you know? We don’t know very much ABOUT that boy when it comes down to it.”

  I hung up, not having the heart to take away the drama from Tank, a man who watched General Hospital on rainy days at the course. Amos was an all-out prude when it came to illegal or risky behavior. I’d heard him lecture teenaged smokers about the dangers of nicotine and how he’d smoked his lungs to a crisp during his rumspringa but now suffered from asthma as a result. Once when we were cleaning out golf carts, he’d picked up a half-full can of Budweiser and carried it with pursed and prissy lips to the nearest trash can. He’d had enough, he’d said, during his “running around time,” and the smell of it still reminded him of unfortunate mornings spent hugging the toilet.

  No wild parties, I knew, so I scanned the dark interior of Games Galore while my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. A mangy teen stood at the front counter. He looked at me through a crop of bangs.

  “Welcome to Games Galore, where fun is what we do best.”

  I couldn’t help it. I was tired and hungry and miffed and my filter had eroded to nothing. So I laughed, really loudly and a bit too long.

  Mangy Teen watched with droopy eyes. When I got it together, I straightened up and forced my mouth into a frown.

 
; He stared at me through his hair. “Your nostrils flare when you laugh.”

  I cleared my throat and decided to ignore that comment. “Um, I’m looking for a semi-Amish guy. Medium height, muscular, wears lots of wild shirts, talks funny?”

  He nodded once. “Amos. Yeah, I know him.”

  “Right! Amos. Have you seen him the last couple of days?”

  He paused. “I saw him this morning. He came in wondering if we could sell him corn dogs to go, but we hadn’t defrosted them yet. They’re disgusting before we defrost them.”

  I saw a glass case of golden dogs turning behind him. I sighed and said, “I’ll take one. With ketchup.”

  While Mangy Teen turned to get my order, I watched the goings on in Games Galore and could just imagine Amos getting riled up and yelling at the screens like some of the fourth and fifth graders next to me. A slight girl with cornrows was mopping up on Dance Dance Revolution while her mother talked on a cell phone. I took my first bite of the corn dog and regretted never asking Amos over for dinner. Food this rubbery could make a man drop off the grid without a moment’s hesitation and take an innocent Amish girl with him.

  I left the kid my name and number in case Amos came looking for breakfast again. The sun sank below a line of maple trees as I headed toward home and a real dinner. I would need my wits about me in the morning and a good night’s sleep. Half a defrosted dog wasn’t going to do it.

  25

  Prison Break

  By seven the next morning, I was out the door and on my way to Margot’s Coffee Nook for a quick shot to the system. I sat down with my caramel macchiato and took a deep breath while the coffee cooled. Settled into a chair by a window already perspiring with the day’s demands, I made a mental run-through of where I’d been and where I was headed. One of the many gems I’d gleaned from StraightTalkWithSergeantJack.com was that organization was a private investigator’s best friend. Sure, a high-speed chase through the alleys of downtown was an adrenaline boost. Stakeouts that involved the firing of weapons could get anybody’s blood pressure up in a healthy way. But when it came right down to it, good work often relied on nothing more than a Venn diagram and a yellow legal pad.

  Nona had always loved what she called God’s mercy of morning. Everything looked better, felt better, and weighed less in the morning, she said. The night before, when I’d collapsed in exhaustion on my bed, I’d felt certainty slipping through my fingers. My sleep was fitful, myriad questions unnerving me even through my subconscious. Maybe Katie isn’t with Amos. Maybe she really is in trouble, just as John Yoder believes. I should call the police. This is too big for me. What if she’s hurt and I’m wasting time on a chase? What do I really know about finding missing people anyway? Doubt was my bedfellow, and let me assure you, he hogs the covers.

  But the mercy of morning had renewed my determination to find Katie and my wobbly hope that all was well, albeit cloaked in secrecy. I made my list of potential stops and was tipping back the final dregs of coffee when my cell phone rang. I looked at the clock on the screen: 7:38. Two hours too early for Annette, Pop, or Matt. It was an unregistered number, but I picked up.

  “Nellie Monroe?” Amos sounded wide awake.

  “Finally!” I sounded just a hair this side of whiny, but I let him have it anyway. “Amos, I’ve left sixteen messages on your phone, and I’ve been looking for you everywhere—the arcade, your apartment, the diner—”

  “Nellie Monroe, I am sorry not to call promptly. I am certain you know why I am not myself.”

  I let out a breath I must have been holding since the Schrock powwow. “So she’s okay. She’s with you.”

  He sighed with such dramatic contentment, I might have heard birds chirping. “Yes, she is most okay. And she is with me.”

  I rolled my eyes but allowed myself a smile. “All right, Romeo. I’ll let you get back to your rocking chair or bundling or whatever you call it.”

  He gasped. “I take great offense to what you say, Nellie Monroe. We are not doing anything of those activities. Katie is pure as snow that is driven. I would never make her dirty snow.”

  It’s a challenge to make snow an image of indignation, but he did it, to his credit. “I’m sorry,” I said, a fresh wave of admiration for the two of them filling my chest. My tone softened. “I didn’t mean to imply you would dishonor Katie, Amos. I know how much you care for each other.”

  “This is the truth,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll just head over to the Schrocks and let them know she’s with you and not to worry.”

  “No! Do not tell anyone I have called you. We cannot—she cannot …” He seemed to be searching for the right words to string together. “We need more time. You cannot go to the farm or to Katie’s parents and tell them we are together. The shock would be too much.”

  “The shock? Are you kidding? At this point they are worried their daughter is passed out somewhere with buggy tracks on her face. They asked me to help, Amos. The least I can do is tell them she’s all right.”

  “No. No and no.” I could imagine him shaking his spiky hair. “Nellie, you do not understand the Amish. If there is a rumor that Katie is alone with me, a male who is shunned, even though we know we have done no things to be raunchy, her image as a pure girl will be ruined. Her family will suffer.”

  I held my head in my hands, my thoughts reeling. “But they need to know the truth, and I said I’d help them. Their daughter is missing, and they’re panicked.”

  “I know this. I will not take long before calling to you again. But please, Nellie. Please, give us time.”

  I couldn’t remember hearing Amos sound this desperate, not even in that first conversation on the playground. “All right,” I finally said. “I won’t say anything. But—”

  “Thank you, Nellie Monroe! You are the greatest of Magnum PIs I have ever known.”

  Tough to take that as a compliment, considering the source.

  He continued. “If I am all alone in a dark parking lot and a bad guy jumps on me with knives or metal objects, I will call you to defend me! You are fierce!”

  “All right already,” I said, allowing myself a moment of customer appreciation. “You’re being too kind.”

  I heard a quiet female voice in the background, muffled by Amos covering the mouthpiece. “Nellie,” he said, “Katie says to thank you for everything and that she would eat anything you have baked before Granny Schrock’s food.”

  I smiled. “She’s on.”

  “She is on what? Right now she is not on anything. Right now she is standing by the door.”

  It could get cumbersome, having a friend like Amos.

  “You call me soon, got it?” I had my tough voice on again. “I’m serious, Amos. Don’t make me come for you.”

  He giggled. “I do not ever want that, Nellie. You are a very scary broad.”

  Amos, as usual, was completely off the mark in his assessment of me. I was not and had never been a very scary broad. Yes, I could drop-kick grown men and bring them to their knees. I made Amos scream like a little girl on more than one occasion. And that foul-mouthed frat boy deserved his broken nose. But with each hour I marked after my chat with Amos, the more I had to face the fact that I was all talk and no action when it came to being tough. In fact, I was one big-haired, cranky, freckled pansy, that’s what.

  The morning passed well enough. I’d racked up a list of past-due errands to run and groceries to gather what with my preoccupation with all things Amish. I hit Target, TasteWay, and the drugstore for Nona’s refills all before noon. After a lunch of roast beef, provolone, and pickles on toasted focaccia, I went up to my room to read. The UPS man had brought my special order, a copy of Love Is a Battlefield: A Private Investigator’s Guide to Estranged Marriages. I’d waited for that book for months, preordering it when I saw it
reviewed in PI Today. Yet with the phone at my elbow irritatingly silent, I couldn’t concentrate on what to do when a wife asks for copies of indicting transcripts or photographs. For a full hour I tried to get hooked on the words before me but to no avail. At last, I shut the book, grabbed my phone, and left the room.

  I paced the house for a few hours, checking in on Nona, who was happy to be painting and didn’t seem to notice if I was there or not. It did feel good to unload the whole story again, sparing no detail and with full confidence my words would never leave the cocoon of Nona’s attic. When I’d talked through the peaks and valleys and Nona had said not a word in response, I headed downstairs and tried listening to Mrs. H. while she mooned over Arthur and his “way.”

  “We went dancing down at the Val-Air,” she said, all girlish and pink in the cheeks. “And he has this way. I can’t really explain it, but it honestly reminded me of Fred Astaire.”

  Puke.

  “Last week he brought me a bouquet of irises because he knows they’re my favorite flowers. He said these wonderful words about how indigo reminds him of me or something like that.… I can’t remember precisely, but Arthur, he just has this way. The way he speaks, the words he uses.… It’s a lot like Cary Grant.”

  Heave.

  After the story of Arthur’s way of washing cars, I had to take my leave. I’m all for true love, but there was a limit, and I think Mrs. H. crossed it about the time she brought up windshield-wiper fluid. Also, and much to my dismay, the mention of a DuPage man was making my heart feel sick. I needed to hit the road.

  After an hour of aimless driving, I found myself heading toward the course. I pulled up slowly to the clubhouse, hearing through my open window the gravel crunching under my tires. On the sidewalk leading to the clubhouse, I passed a family of four in matching visors.

  Tank called to them. “Have a GREAT time! Golf brings families TOGETHER!” He saw me approaching. “Did you find him?”