A Rose Revealed (13 page)

“Rose Grayson Martin! What have you done now? Call me immediately.”

What have you done now?
I hadn’t the vaguest idea. I waited for the third message.

“Rose, call me immediately.” Mom again, her voice tense but not quite as angry. “If you need a lawyer, I know who to call.”

I blinked. Why would I need a lawyer? My lease wasn’t that tight. And she didn’t know I was moving.

“Rose, you’re upsetting me! How could you get involved in something so, so…Well, how could you?”

How could I indeed. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Have you skipped town, Rose? Is that it? You’ve run away without even telling your mother you were leaving?”

That message gave me pause. I hadn’t told her I was staying the weekend at the Zooks. But literally speaking, that wasn’t skipping town. It was still Bird-in-Hand. Somehow I didn’t think that’s what she was referring to.

“Rose, I’m getting scared now.” I could hear a distinct tremor in her voice. “They were here looking for you. I didn’t know what to tell them. I don’t want to make things worse for you. Rose, if you hear me, please, please call.”

I blinked. Mom had abandoned her general-commanding-the-troops persona of the first message for that of a very upset, no, distraught, mother hen, certain the sky has fallen on her chick. Was she upset about me and whatever she thought was my problem? The thought warmed me. Or about them coming to her house, whoever they were?

“Rose, it’s me,” Mom literally sobbed in her next message. “Please call. I’m dying here.” I stared at the answering machine. My mother? Crying? About me?

There were two more frantic messages from Mom and another from Lem Huber.

I decided to call my mother first.

“Rose, oh, Rose!” She started to cry when she heard my voice. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried!”

“Mom, I’m fine.” I tried not to let exasperation sound in my voice even though I thought she was overreacting a tad to the absence of a return telephone call. “Truly I am.”

“No,” she said. “You’re just saying that so I won’t worry. I know you are.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re looking for you. I heard it on the radio and saw it on TV. And they were here.”

I’d never worried about my mother’s mental stability before, but I did now. She made it sound like a posse of extraterrestrials was after me.

“The police. They were here looking for you.”

“Oh, that. I know. I just got a message to call them.”

“Don’t do it without a lawyer,” Mom said. “I’ve seen enough cop shows to know you need a lawyer. And make sure they read you your rights.”

“Mom! What are you thinking! I’m not under arrest.”

“I don’t know, Rose. The TV even showed your picture and said they were searching for you as a ‘person of interest.’ A person of interest! They probably have an APB out. You know what that means.”

“Mom, easy. There’s no all points bulletin out on me.”

“Guns,” she said, ignoring me. “Lots of them! Shootouts. High speed car chases. Oh, Rose. They’re going to shoot you!”

I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in disbelief. “Mom, calm down and think for a minute. Ask yourself if that conclusion is at all logical. Why in the world would they shoot me?”

“Because of the bombs!”

“What bombs?”

“You know! That family that got blown up. And you were there!”

“Because of the Hostetters?”

“That’s the name!”

“It was a bomb?” I felt dazed. A
bomb?
It couldn’t have been a bomb. Bombs were set on purpose. Bombs were evil and ugly.

Bombs were murder.

Suddenly I was sitting on the ugly orange rug, my hand over my heart. Sophie and Ammon hadn’t been killed in a freak explosion. Someone had premeditated their deaths.

I think on some deep level I always knew it was a bomb that exploded. Cars didn’t just go
boom!
I knew that. But the truth was so devastating that I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. Now I had no choice. My stomach curdled, and I swallowed several times to keep from being ill.

Another thought struck me between the eyes. I was the closest thing they had to a witness!

“Look, Mom,” I managed. “I’ve got to call the police. I’m sorry you’ve been worried about me. If I had known about the TV and radio announcements, I’d have called right away. But I truly am fine.”

“But where have you been?” she asked.

“I spent the weekend with friends on their farm because I didn’t want to be alone after all the emotion of the explosions.” I noted that I couldn’t bring myself to say bomb.

“You should have come here,” she said.

Not quite the comforting atmosphere I’d needed. “They were closer. In fact, I’m moving there permanently even as we speak. They have an apartment I’m renting.”

“An apartment on a farm. That sounds nice,” Mom said, approving. “What’s their phone number?”

“They don’t have a number. They’re Amish. But you have my cell phone number until I get my land line connected. I think I can have a phone in my apartment.”

“You’re not becoming Amish, are you, Rose?” She spoke with hushed horror.

“Of course not, Mom.”

“I’ve worried about you doing something like that for years, ever since your father and sister died. Sort of like penance, you know?”

The thought of my mother worrying about me like that was so beyond my comprehension that I had no response. Equally strange was the notion of joining a sect as penance, no matter how nice the people were. The idea had never crossed my mind.

“Look, I’ve got to go,” I said.

“Call me, Rose,” she pleaded. “As soon as you’re finished with the police, call me. I’ll just worry myself sick until I hear from you.”

As I put the phone back in its cradle, I heard Jake calling for me.

“Rose! Rose! Come down here a minute. I need to talk with you!”

I picked myself up off the floor and went down to him.

“You’re on the radio,” he said. “The police are looking for you.”

I nodded. “I just spoke to my mother and she told me. There was also a message to call the police. I was just getting ready to do so.”

Jake looked at me in a way that made me nervous.

“What?”

“You need to know there’s been another bombing.”

My heart stopped. “What? Who?”

“Peter Hostetter’s car.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“But Peter wasn’t in it at the time,” he hastened to say.

I sagged against the porch post in relief. “What is going on here? Evil Ernie?”

Jake took my hand and began patting it. “Who in the world is Evil Ernie?”

“Peter’s uncle. Sophie’s brother-in-law. And he wants the company.” I straightened. “I’ve got to tell Lem.”

I pulled my cell phone from my belt, read the paper with Lem Huber’s number, and punched it in.

“Well, Rose,” Lem said when we were finally connected. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“So I hear.” I cleared my throat nervously. “I’m sorry. I’ve been visiting friends for the weekend and haven’t listened to the radio or seen a TV.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry it ever got into the news. It never should have. They made you sound like you were a suspect or something.”

“A person of interest which is code for suspect. But I’m not, right?”

“But you’re not. Unless you’ve got some deep, dark secrets we haven’t discovered yet?” He sounded almost hopeful.

I thought of Dad and Rhoda, but I knew that wasn’t what he meant. “No secrets, deep or dark or otherwise. I’m a very uninteresting person.”

I heard Jake snort.

“I originally called to make certain you came in and signed your statement,” Lem said. “Then when we couldn’t find you, we began to get concerned for your safety. We are, after all, dealing with a murderer here, and a nasty one. Somehow a reporter got wind of your name and took it from there.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I doubt there’s any harm done. I’ll stop in some time tomorrow to sign my statement.”

I closed the phone.

“It was a bomb,” I said, shaking my head. “Who would want to kill nice people like Sophie and Ammon? And Peter?”

“They were rich, weren’t they?”

I ran my hand through my hair. “Sure, but….”

“But nothing. Money’s one of the big motives for murder. Everyone knows that. Who in the family would benefit most?”

“I don’t know. Evil Ernie?”

We were quiet for a minute, thinking about greedy people, family fortunes, and murder.

Jake slapped his knees. “One thing I don’t have to worry about is someone killing me for my money. I haven’t got any. Now let’s get you moved so I can start building my fortune with your rent.”

We got to work. I went up to my apartment, accessible only by stairs, filled a box or suitcase, brought it down, and gave it to Jake. He took it to the van and loaded it. In no time we developed a good rhythm. We finished much more quickly that I expected.

I was bringing down one of my last loads when a loud voice said, “And just what do you think you’re doing, young woman?”

I looked up to see my landlord, a round, cherry-cheeked man who looked like St. Nick and had the disposition of the Grinch.

“Hello, Mr. Metz.” I smiled warmly at him, hoping to thaw his demeanor some. No such luck.

“Are you moving, Miss Martin? Or are you officially running from the police?”

“Mr. Metz!” I looked at him in astonishment. “What a terrible thing to say.”

“Don’t give me your wide-eyed innocent stare, Rose Martin.” He glared at me as he shook his forefinger under my nose. “I heard all about you on TV.”

“An inaccurate report,” I said quietly.

He either didn’t hear me or made believe he didn’t. He continued without taking a breath, “I had the cops here all weekend looking for you.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Metz. I’ve been staying with friends.” I indicated Jake, who had returned from the van for another load.

Mr. Metz glanced at Jake, and then rounded on me. “Visiting friends. So that’s what they call it these days.”

It took a minute for his implications to sink in. Then I was so furious that my voice shook.

“Be careful what you say, Mr. Metz, because you are very wrong.”

“Right,” he said sarcastically.

“Mr. Metz.” Jake’s voice could have frozen the Caribbean. “My name is Jake Zook. My family and I have been pleased to have Rose as our guest this weekend. We are delighted that she has decided to move to an apartment that we rent, though why she would want to leave such a considerate and kind landlord as you is hard to imagine.” He smiled with such disdain that even obtuse Mr. Metz felt the insult.

“Now wait a minute,” he said. “You can’t talk to me that way.”

“And you can’t talk to Rose as you did either.” Jake’s black eyes snapped with anger.

Mr. Metz looked down at Jake, sniffed, and swung to me. “You’ve got a lease. You can’t break your lease.”

“I’m afraid you’re hoist by your own petard, Mr. Metz,” I said, trying not to be petty enough to enjoy pointing out his self-made trap. “You’ve never been willing to give me a lease for longer than a month at a time, just in case you wanted to evict me for unseemly behavior.”

“And wasn’t I just right about that!” He puffed his chest self-righteously as he glanced at Jake.

“Well, no, not in the least,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t believe me. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I can leave. As you know, I’ve paid you through the end of November. As of the first of December, you can rent this place to someone else.”

“I’m not giving you any money back even though there’s more than a week of November left, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” He glared at me like a kindergartener trying to start a fight over whose father was bigger.

I refused to lower myself to his level. “I’m not asking for anything back.”

“And don’t give me your forwarding address,” he hissed, “because I’m not forwarding nothing!”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll contact the post office.”

“And I’m coming up to make sure you’re not running off with what’s not yours.”

I looked at Mr. Metz and wondered, not for the first time, how someone who looked so cuddly and Santa Claus-y could be so vile and judgmental. “Be my guest.”

“And I’m calling the police!” He leaned toward me, his plump rosy cheeks shaking with the intensity of his venom.

“You needn’t bother. I already called.”

“Like I can believe that!” He turned away in a huff, but he didn’t go upstairs. He went inside the front door of the first floor which he shared with his little hesitant wife, who always reminded me of a kitten that had been abused so long that she ducked even when there was no threat. In a minute he came to stand in the doorway, a phone in his hand.

“Nine, one, one,” he said very loudly as he depressed the numbers so we’d be certain to know he was indeed calling the cops.

Jake and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

“Is there much more?” he asked.

“About two more loads.”

An hour later I surveyed the mess in my living room at the farm and shuddered. I glanced at my watch. Almost time for the TV news. Quickly I set my small, flat screen TV on the battered old desk and plugged it in. I turned to WGAL to hear what, if anything, they were still saying about me.

“Another bomb.” Matt Dolman, the anchor, looked seriously at the camera. He was the picture of pained disbelief. “And another death.” He paused as if giving his audience time to give a mental tsk-tsk. “Our Patty Carlson is at the scene with the latest report on what has become a story of tragic proportions.”

I sank into a chair in a daze. Another bomb? Another death? Peter?
Please, dear God, no!

Then the face of reporter Patty Carlson filled the screen. I stared in disbelief as I realized she was standing in front of my old apartment. It was easy to see flames ripping through the roof of the house, smoke billowing into the night sky, and emergency vehicles littering the street.

“Yes, Matt,” Carlson said earnestly to the camera. “This is a tragic story. Just thirty minutes ago, a bomb ripped through the second-floor apartment of Rose Martin in that house behind me. Martin is the home health nurse police have been looking for all weekend. Martin was present on Friday when Pockets CEO Ammon Hostetter and his mother Sophie died in another bombing outside their Lancaster home.”