A Path Made Plain Read online

  The idea followed him to a restless night of sleep, even as he dreamed of being back in Dish and Spoon, with the senator, Mitch, and Pete all chasing him with carving knives.

  27

  Pete Stucenski had driven all over the place last night, trying to see where Thad had gone off on his Harley. The guy had never returned to his grandma’s house; his parking spot remaining empty. Saturday morning right at dawn, before anyone rolled out the streets of the sleepy neighborhood, Pete drove by at a crawl. No red motorcycle.

  Had he left town? Or moved?

  Pete should have asked a few more questions the other night at Rochelle’s, but he didn’t want to arouse anyone’s suspicions about why he was so interested in what Thaddeus Zook was up to. He paused the car for a moment, the sound of the engine masking the soft whoosh of the breeze through the palm trees.

  An early morning thunderstorm left the streets damp, but it would soon burn off once the sun rose.

  Pete figured Thad would show up at the pie contest this morning to cheer on his girlfriend. Pete might as well grab breakfast, then resume his search for Thad.

  Wearing his Plain garb, he headed for Yoder’s restaurant, where the first few customers lined up for a hearty meal. His chin itched and he tried not to rub it and remove the beard. This was the last time he’d do anything like this. Mitch’s fault, all of it.

  Within a few blinks, he’d gotten his breakfast of eggs, toast, and hash. A familiar-looking figure stopped at his table. The Mennonite handyman, Henry Hostetler.

  “Good morning. Daniel, isn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “Mind if I sit for a moment?”

  Yes, he did mind.

  “No, go right ahead. I’m kind of in a hurry to get this eaten, so I can get over to the pie contest.”

  “Yes, big news today. Are you entering anything?” Henry’s eyes twinkled, but something in their depths made Pete pause.

  “Nah, I’m better at eating pie than making it.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  A waitress stopped at the table. “Coffee, Henry?”

  “No, thanks, Mary. I’m on my way out.”

  Pete kept eating, feeling as though he were on display. Thankfully, he’d ditched the watch a while back. The nosey Amish girl had made him aware of how out of place that accessory was. He ought to be grateful to her. If Thad and she ended up together, she’d definitely keep the guy on his toes.

  “So, do you have any family coming to visit this winter?” Mr. Hostetler asked.

  “No. They, ah, don’t like to travel in winter. My trip has been cut short. There’s been a problem at home, so I’m needed to go help them.”

  “You’re from Ohio, right?”

  What was with all the questions?

  “No. Indiana.”

  “Okay. My mistake. I thought Rochelle had said Ohio.” Henry studied him with an even expression. “Rochelle is like a daughter to me. We’re only related by marriage, through my late wife’s family, but I stay close to them. It’s good to have people watching out for you, you know?”

  Pete didn’t know. The question made a sensation of longing echo somewhere deep inside him. “Yes, there’s nothing like it. As far as Rochelle goes, I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  Pete polished off the last of his biscuits. “Truthfully, I wasn’t looking to meet someone like her.”

  “She’s special.” Henry paused. “Mr. Troyer, if you don’t mind, would you mind joining me somewhere where we can talk? It’s important. But not here.”

  “Sounds serious.” Pete picked up the check, and his hat. “Sure, where at?”

  “How about the park? It’ll be fairly empty, with the rain earlier.”

  “Certainly.”

  After Pete paid his check, he followed Henry in his vehicle to the park. The man was right. A lone fisherman sat on the banks of Phillippi Creek, oblivious to the rest of the world.

  They began to walk. “This park brings people together, all kinds,” Henry said as they approached the shuffleboard court. “It’s unique, Pinecraft is.”

  “It’s true.”

  Henry stopped and faced him. “Daniel, I wanted to tell you before I went to Bishop Smucker, but I’m concerned.”

  “Concerned, how?”

  “Some people think it would be easy enough to come into our community with, shall we say, ulterior motives?”

  “As in, how?” Pete wasn’t sure he liked the direction this conversation was headed. He glanced around the neighborhood. The street beside the shuffleboard courts was empty, but wouldn’t be for long.

  “People think they can hide out from the law, or try to fool people into thinking they’re someone they’re not.”

  “Huh.” Pete glanced into the opening to the shuffleboard court, where the wooden long-handled paddles hung, waiting for players to come.

  “So, what I’m trying to say is, Mr. Troyer, if that is your real name, I’ve done some checking on you. And I know you’re not who you claim to be. I’m not the only one who thinks so. Who in the world are you, and why are you here?”

  “Hang on, I’ll show you why.” Pete gritted his teeth. What came next would be this nosy man’s fault. Pete stepped over to the shuffleboard paddles and yanked one down.

  *

  Betsy’s palms were sweating a river, and so slick she was afraid the tiramisu pie would slip from her hands. The Pinecraft Bank parking lot was lined with a set of tables covered in white cloths.

  “Where do I put the pie?” she asked the lady at the registration desk.

  “Over on the end, with the single crust pies.” The woman gave her two stickers covered with the number twenty-nine. “Put one sticker on the pie plate, the other you keep.”

  “Okay.” Now her hands shook.

  A few people stopped her, saying they’d seen her on television. She nodded and gave her thanks, but hurried to the table.

  The crowd swelled to at least one hundred people. Everybody seemed to like pie, from the news reporters to the photographers who paused at the tables, photographing the entries.

  Betsy scanned the faces. No Thaddeus. Surely he hadn’t forgotten? She wanted to surprise him, and if the pie won any kind of ribbon, she’d give him the credit for the recipe. Her heart sagged a little when she didn’t see his face. But then, he hadn’t shown up at the bakery this morning either. Unless he’d left before she arrived.

  She’d already begged Emma to mind the bakery for her, just in case someone stopped by for a doughnut. Maybe it was silly to stay open, with a lot of the village coming to the contest.

  Betsy set her pie on the table, and gave it a backward glance. There was her heart, her love for what she did, sitting on a plate.

  Oh, she so wanted to win. Something, at least.

  Vera Byler didn’t acknowledge her as she passed, carrying her own pie covered with a topping of intricate latticework.

  “Mrs. Byler, what kind of pie did you bake?”

  The woman skidded to a stop in her sensible sturdy black shoes. “Strawberry-rhubarb.” Then she kept on her journey to the pie table.

  Evidently word had gotten around that Betsy and her family knew about Vera’s phone call. After the flash of anger, Betsy felt pity. Sorry the woman felt so threatened and jealous of Betsy’s situation. Gotte, I’m so thankful. For my family. For Aenti Sarah’s help. For Thaddeus.

  She reminded herself of the prayer she prayed for Thad each night, that he’d find the way Gotte had for him, a way of peace, comfort, safety. A way of assurance. Even with her roundabout journey here because of Jacob Miller—whom she’d see in passing and it no longer stung—Gotte had shown her the path to walk.

  Here came the welcome, the judging, and tasting. The formidable judges—someone from Yoder’s restaurant, a local food writer from the newspaper, a Beachy Amish Mennonite woman from the village who authored cookbooks, and the Pinecraft Bank president—all had a chance to nibble a sample from each
of the pies.

  The judges laughed and joked as the cameras did their job of documenting the event. The pie contest was only a few years old, but its popularity seemed a fun way to celebrate during December.

  An ambulance screeched by on Bahia Vista, its siren blaring. Betsy glanced up—the vehicle was headed down Kaufman.

  *

  Thaddeus woke to his phone alarm shrieking at him.

  “Ow.” He rolled over and reached for the phone. His head ached, and he might as well be having a hangover from the old days. “Stop.” He punched the button.

  He took in his surroundings. The little apartment on Turtle Beach. The night alone and fitful sleep.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and headed for the coffeepot. How in the world would he fill his day? Mammi was probably plenty worried he hadn’t come home. And Betsy; he’d let her down by not going to the bakery.

  But this morning was the Pinecraft Pie Contest, and he was missing it. He’d told Betsy he’d do his best to be there, and he had a hunch she was entering the tiramisu pie.

  His phone rang out again. He picked up the phone. Henry Hostetler? It also showed Henry had called early this morning, and left a message.

  “Hello, Henry—”

  “Thaddeus, it’s Rochelle Keim. Henry’s just been admitted to Sarasota General. He was found in Pinecraft Park, inside the shuffleboard court. Someone attacked him, hit him on the head.”

  “Oh no. I’ll—I’ll be right there. Is he awake?”

  “No.” Rochelle’s voice shook. “He’s lost a lot of blood. They have him sedated because his brain is swelling. It doesn’t look good.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “He called you this morning, right before he was attacked.”

  “I’m going to check my voice mail now, then head your way. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  “I will.” He jabbed the phone button and checked his voice mail.

  Call at six-forty-five a.m.

  “Thaddeus, it’s Henry. You were right. Daniel Troyer is a fraud. I’m going to find him and talk to him now. He’s here at Yoder’s. And then, we’re going to the bishop. I was going to ask if you’d come with me, but you’re probably asleep.” The message ended.

  Thad couldn’t get to the hospital soon enough.

  28

  Second place overall, first in single crust pies.

  Betsy clutched her red ribbon. She’d always liked red better than blue, anyway. The man with the microphone even told the crowd about her bakery, and how it had been on the “Around Town” show the day before yesterday.

  Ida Mae Graber, the first-place winner from Shipshewana, Indiana, beamed as she accepted her blue ribbon and certificate. Vera Byler stood nearby with her third-place ribbon. According to the judges, it had been a “tight” contest for overall winner.

  The crowd lined up to congratulate the winners and to taste samples of all the pies. One woman at the edge of the crowd stood frowning. She’d been disqualified for bringing a pie baked from a box mix. The idea of bringing a commercial pie to a homemade contest made Betsy shake her head.

  Aenti Chelle hadn’t arrived yet. She’d said she would after running a quick errand, but she too was absent. All the same, Betsy smiled and accepted the congratulations from those who came down the line.

  At last, the pie samplers drifted off to eat. One more stepped up to Betsy. Daniel Troyer. His hat was askew, his hair sticking out wildly from under the brim of his hat.

  “Betsy, you need to come with me. Quickly. It’s your aunt. She said something’s happened to Henry.”

  “Henry?”

  “Just come, quickly. He’s been hurt.”

  Should she go with him, alone? Well, Daniel was old enough to be her father, and she could always explain later.

  Betsy saw Vera Byler standing a few steps away and called out to the older woman. “Vera, I’m off to meet Aenti Chelle. Something’s happened to Henry Hostetler. Could you please call the bishop?”

  Shock registered on Vera’s face. “Oh, goodness. Of course I will.” The woman might be jealous, but she was efficient.

  “Come. Now. It doesn’t look good.” Daniel grasped her elbow and led her off to a vehicle parked under a spot of shade in the far corner of the bank lot. With a flick of the button, the door locks clicked up.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly.”

  She hesitated a moment. Something didn’t feel right. And, why hadn’t Aenti Chelle simply phoned her? Betsy opened the door. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit in the back.”

  “Suit yourself.” His words sounded clipped.

  They shot out of the parking lot and zoomed off along Bahia Vista.

  “So what happened? You said you weren’t exactly sure?”

  “I don’t know if he fell, or what. But it’s some kind of head injury. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “I should call Aenti Chelle.”

  “Don’t. I mean, she told me she was turning her phone off. To save the battery.”

  Betsy nodded, then glanced at the street sign as they went through an intersection. “Daniel, Sarasota General is in the other direction.”

  He remained silent.

  They passed through the world outside, filled with sunny and happy people. What was wrong with this man?

  “You’re not Daniel Troyer, are you?”

  “Aren’t you the smart little—” Then he used a word that made Betsy’s eyes widen, the kind of word she heard when some of the rougher kids from the city would play basketball in the park.

  “I—I don’t have money to give you.” But her family had some money.

  “Just be quiet. It’s not about money. Not yours, anyway.”

  They came up to a red light and the stop-and-go traffic. Betsy reached for the handle. She could run if she made it out while they were stopped, or leap out of the car as it started to move.

  Daniel glanced into the rearview mirror. “Don’t bother trying the handles. Those are child safety locks. They only unlock when I want them to.”

  The light turned green and Daniel, or whoever he was, turned the corner and headed south. The beach. They were heading for the beach. But which one?

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot. Take your cell phone out of your bag and throw it in the front seat.”

  Eyes stinging, Betsy complied. Oh, Gotte, please. Protect me. Help me find my way home. She wiped away a tear. No, she wouldn’t let him see her cry.

  “Good. I thought you’d melt into a puddle of saltwater. Don’t bother crying. This has nothing to do with you.”

  She fought to find her voice around the lump in her throat. “Then, who?”

  “Thaddeus Zook. He has something of mine, and I want it back.” He pulled something out of the console between the front seats. A gun. “Now, be quiet for a while.”

  *

  Rochelle sat in the waiting room of Sarasota General’s ER, ignoring the stares at her cape dress and kapp. When she’d passed the park and saw the ambulance, she’d stopped to see if she could help. They were wheeling an unconscious Henry, his face ashen, from the shuffleboard court area.

  She’d never seen so much blood since her daed was injured in a farming accident when she was nine. Daed … He’d recovered, but slowly, and her parents had paid a hard price for leaving their Ordnung, being shunned, yet living so close to family.

  Gotte, not Henry. Please. He’s been like a second father to me.

  Thaddeus burst into the ER. She waved at him and he shot over to where she sat.

  “I know who did this,” he said as he took the seat beside her. “Daniel Troyer.”

  “No. No. It couldn’t be.” She shook her head, trying to wave away his words. Not Daniel.

  “Miss Keim, please, listen to me. Henry called me early this morning. He’s been helping me do some checking around on Daniel, thanks to Betsy. She was worried about you, and she didn’t t
rust he was who he said he was. Turns out, she was right.”

  Daniel. No, not Daniel.

  And the other night, she’d been changing her mind about her resolve not to see him anymore. To let him go back to Indiana, and not expect to hear from him again. And Betsy?

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Because she loves you and she didn’t want to hurt you. She wanted to be wrong, so she came to me. She had me do some calling around. But then I reached a point where I couldn’t find out more, so I asked Henry to help. He called me this morning, saying he verified Daniel isn’t Daniel, and he was going to talk to him and take him to the Amish bishop.”

  “Oh, no. So he met Daniel, and then …” Rochelle shook her head again. “But what could Daniel have done that was so bad that he didn’t want anyone to find out who he was?”

  Her stomach plummeted into her feet. What kind of man was this Daniel? To hurt a kind, generous, caring man like Henry Hostetler? And she’d trusted him, too.

  Thaddeus’s phone started to buzz, so he pulled it from his pocket. When he saw the number, the blood drained from his face.

  “Pete.” He frowned at Rochelle and shook his head.

  “Zook, I’ve got your girlfriend here. And you have something I want, and I want it now.”

  “Put her on the phone.” He motioned to Rochelle to find a pen. She pulled one, and a notepad from her bag. “I want to talk to her.”

  “Hang on.”

  “Thaddeus?”

  “Betsy, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m all right.”

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “I’m—”

  “I’ll let you know where to meet me. You have the video files, I assume?”

  “I do, but listen—”

  “No, you listen. You’ve cost me weeks and weeks I can’t ever get back. Don’t call the police, either.”

  He then chose not to tell Pete he’d already sent a copy of the files to Columbus. Likely, they would be delivered today by two p.m.

  He scribbled on the paper. Get police on phone. Tell them a man named Peter Stucenski has taken Betsy. Tell them to call Columbus PD about Mitch—He stopped writing.