Dark Crossings (16 page)

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
S
TRICKLAND
HOUSE
seemed emptier than
ever when Sarah returned there after getting a sandwich at the tea shop. Oddly
enough, she didn’t mind. Now that the truth was out, she no longer had the
sensation of something threatening in the house.

The place was just melancholy—that was the word. A resting
place for Richard Strickland’s memories, but he didn’t need them any longer, any
more than he needed the cushioned ottoman he liked to rest his feet on, or the
dozens of figurines he’d collected.

Now that Hank was under arrest, there was nothing to fear in
this place. She’d finally even convinced Jacob he didn’t need to stay. He’d
argued, but had agreed to go and run a few errands for the shop and pick up more
packing boxes for her.

She couldn’t really work on anything else until Mr. McKay came
to do the inventory, so Sarah started a pot of coffee. It had no sooner perked
than she heard the front doorbell ring.

Walking quickly to answer it, Sarah realized she no longer felt
uncomfortable when she passed the stairs. The image of Mr. Strickland lying
there dead was being replaced by countless images of him alive. She recognized
the feeling. It had been the same when
Grossmamm
died. After the first sorrow, she’d been able to think of the happy memories
rather than the end.

She opened the door to Donald McKay. The antiques dealer had a
legal tablet, a couple of books and a clipboard in his arm, and he’d been
glancing down the street in the direction of police headquarters. He stepped
inside, smoothing his thinning, white-blond hair back where the wind had
disarranged it.

“Is it true what they’re saying?” He dropped his armload onto
the hall table. “That you fought off Hank Mitchell single-handed and captured
him, and that he murdered Richard?”

She might have been upset had the words come from anyone else,
but the whole town knew of Donald’s extravagant style of speaking. She just
smiled.

“Amish don’t do battle or arrest criminals, as you well know.
The state police caught him trying to run away.”

“That doesn’t make nearly as exciting a story.” McKay’s eyes
twinkled. “So young Mitchell was a con artist, trying to bilk Richard of his
money. That just goes to show that you never know about other people. I wouldn’t
have thought Richard could be taken in by a smooth talker.”

“He thought Hank was a relative,” she said, moved to defend Mr.
Strickland. “Hank actually had a letter from one of Mr. Strickland’s cousins. Or
at least Mr. Strickland believed it came from a cousin.”

“Apparently there’s a downside to all that genealogy research
people do. Besides the risk of discovering that your great-great-grandfather was
a horse thief.”

“I know who my great-great-grandfather was,” Sarah said,
playing into his joking. “He’s listed right on the family tree.”

“The Amish do it right,” he said. “Keep those records in the
family Bible, not on the internet.”

Sarah nodded toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee
before we begin?”

“Let’s put in an hour of work first,” McKay said, consulting
his watch. “Then we’ll be ready for a break. Where shall we start?”

“I know Mr. Frost wanted your opinion of the silverware. And
I’d be glad to have it out of the house. I didn’t think it should be here in an
unlocked cabinet.”

“People often overestimate the value of silver flatware.” He
led the way into the dining room. “But with the price of silver today, Richard’s
is bound to be worth quite a bit.”

They took the silverware chests out of the bottom of the china
cabinet, laying the contents on the table. Some of the spoons were worn
paper-thin, but all the silver glowed with recent cleaning. Mr. McKay handed her
the clipboard and a pen.

“It will be fastest if you write down the item in this column,
how many there are of each item here, and my comments about the value in the
last column. There will be some I have doubts about. I’ll have to do research on
those pieces.”

She took the clipboard and they began to work. It was easier
than Sarah initially expected, and Mr. McKay seemed to know his business. He
chatted amiably about the history of the different pieces as they went along. He
was nearly as interesting as Mr. Strickland had been.

They finished the silverware in little more than half an hour,
and Sarah was impressed at the figures she’d entered in the column for the
values of the items. Mr. Strickland had often said the silver was worth taking
good care of, and he’d been right.

“Why don’t we go upstairs next?” McKay headed for the
staircase. “I know Richard kept a lot of his collectibles on the study shelves.
Many of them are objects I acquired for him, so this won’t be difficult. I’ll
already have records at the shop of how much he paid for them.”

Sarah nodded, leading the way. Soon the house would be stripped
of the things that reminded her of her late employer. She probably wouldn’t be
in it again once the historical society took over.

Working in the study was bittersweet. This was the place she
associated most with Richard Strickland. He had often come in while she was
cleaning this room, talking and telling her stories about each object, much as
Mr. McKay was doing now.

“Mr. Strickland always liked talking about his pieces,” she
said, bending over the drop leaf table that held the collection of silver
military figures. “I can almost smell the scent of his pipe tobacco. He’d lean
back in his chair, smoking, with some favorite object in his hand.”

Odd that even though his vision was very poor, he’d know each
one by touch. It wasn’t part of the Amish tradition to collect things just
because they were pretty, but she could understand that to Richard they had been
part of his heritage—a reminder of family.

Mr. McKay studied the figures. “The Revolutionary War soldiers,
of course. I often looked for more to add to his collection, but they were hard
to find—at least ones that suited his requirements.”

He began picking them up, describing each one as she made
notes. In the back of her mind, Mr. Strickland still seemed to be telling his
stories.

“That’s all of them,” McKay said. “An even dozen for the
historical society’s collection.”

“A dozen?” she repeated, looking at him blankly while memory
came to her.
A baker’s dozen,
Mr. Strickland had
always said. He had a baker’s dozen of the figures—thirteen.

“Something wrong, Sarah?” McKay’s gaze was intent on her
face.

“No, nothing,” she said quickly, but her thoughts tumbled and
spun as if caught in a whirligig. There weren’t a dozen of the figures. There
were thirteen. She should know; she’d polished them often enough. They tarnished
so, and Mr. Strickland had wanted them to gleam, even if he couldn’t see enough
to appreciate the fact.

She straightened slowly, holding the clipboard in front of her,
trying to understand what this meant.

“Something is wrong,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “There should be
thirteen of the figures.” She picked one up, running her fingers over the piece.
“There were thirteen the last time I cleaned them. I remember that…” She
stopped, recalling a chance comment from Mr. Strickland.

“What do you remember, Sarah?” McKay’s voice was urgent. “Hank
Mitchell must have stolen one of them. That’s it, of course. He probably stole
it and Richard found out. They quarreled, and he pushed Richard down the
stairs.” The antiques dealer took a step toward the door. “Come on. We’ll go
down to the phone and call Chief Byler. He’ll want to know.”

She stared at him, shaking her head slowly. “Mr. Strickland
wasn’t worried about one being missing. They were all here then. All
thirteen.”

McKay grasped her arm, urging her toward the door. She planted
her feet, resisting.

“Well, he must have stolen it later then,” he insisted. “Come
on.”

“Mr. Strickland was puzzled.” She could see it as clearly as if
it were moments ago. He’d leaned forward in his chair, holding one of the
figures up to the light from the window, running his fingers over it. “One of
them was wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” McKay’s voice cracked with
tension.

“He said it wasn’t the right piece. That he’d have to talk to
you about it.” She strained, trying to remember anything else Mr. Strickland had
said, but he’d turned away then, looking puzzled and distressed, murmuring
something to himself.

She thought she knew what had happened, and she looked at
McKay, unable to prevent the horror she felt from showing in her eyes. “It was
you.”

“Come now,” he said, smiling. “You’re confused, Sarah. I
watched for pieces that would interest him, yes, but that was my only
involvement. I didn’t…”

His voice trailed off and his expression changed. Hardened. His
smile turned into a grimace.

“It’s no good, is it? You’ll repeat this to the police, and
they’ll get an independent valuation of everything in the house. I know, because
that’s what Richard said he would do.” His features darkened, distorted by the
depth of his emotions. “Half-blind old fool, sitting here alone and gloating
over his treasures. What difference did it make to him if a piece here and there
was replaced with an imitation? He couldn’t see them, anyway.”

“He knew,” she said, struggling to find her voice. “He loved
them, so he knew.”

“That’s what he said to me that night.” McKay’s hand tightened
on her upper arm, and he pulled her toward the door. “Standing out here, shaking
his fist at me, saying he’d call the police.”

She didn’t have the strength to resist him. He shoved her and
she stumbled, fighting to keep her feet under her. If she couldn’t break free
and run—

“He was off balance, waving his cane around like a crazy
person.” McKay pushed her toward the top of the stairs. “All I did was grab the
cane to keep him from breaking something. But he stumbled. Went right over the
top of the stairs. Like you will.”

They’d nearly reached the staircase. She struggled to plant her
feet, but the rug was sliding under her. Her free arm flailed, and she tried to
grab something, anything to hang on to, but he was forcing her over—

“Sarah!” The shout came from below, Jacob’s voice, Jacob’s feet
pounding on the steps.

McKay twisted at the sound, losing his footing. Her hand struck
the railing, grabbed, held, but McKay was falling, dragging her with him. They’d
both go down to the tile floor below….

McKay’s grip slid from her. He screamed as he fell down the
stairs, the momentum sending her over the railing. She clung there, her legs
swinging in the air, but she couldn’t hold on—

“I have you, Sarah.” Jacob’s strong hands gripped her wrists.
He tried to pull her up, and she felt his muscles strain.

“You can’t,” she gasped. “I’ll drag you over, too.”

“We can do it together,” he said, holding her tightly. “Swing
your leg up, just like climbing the apple tree in the backyard. You were always
sehr gut
at climbing,
ja?
You can do this.”

He was so calm, so sure. And he was right. They could do this
together. With Jacob’s powerful grip steadying her, she lifted her knee over the
railing. He pulled, and they both tumbled to the rug, his arms holding her
close.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE
HOUSE
SEEMED
FULL
of police, just as it had on the morning Sarah had
discovered Mr. Strickland’s body. But it wasn’t the same, of course. She sat on
the living room sofa, comforted by Jacob’s presence next to her, and stared down
at her clasped hands.

From the hallway, she could hear as the paramedics maneuvered
the stretcher carrying Donald McKay out the door. He was alternately moaning and
screaming at them to leave him alone. He had two broken legs, so they said.
Sarah tried to close her ears to the sounds.

The outer door closed behind the stretcher, and Chief Byler
could be heard giving someone instructions to stay with McKay at all times.

Jacob stirred slightly. “I know we must forgive him,” he
murmured in Pennsylvania Dutch, the dialect comforting. “But I think it will
take me a while. When I saw you—”

Sarah put her hand over his, stopping him. “I’m safe now. It’s
all right. We will forget.” Usually it was Jacob’s job to keep her calm. They
seemed to have changed places.

“Ja.”
His low voice was husky, his
hand warm in her grasp. “Sarah…”

“I wouldn’t have believed it.” Leo Frost came in, shaking his
head. “Donald McKay, of all people. What possessed him to do such a thing?”

Sarah could only shake her head, as well. She had no answer to
that question.

“I suspect his tastes were more expensive than his income.”
Chief Byler stood in the doorway. “He started off saying he didn’t mean to do
it. That it was an accident. Then he backed up and said that he didn’t do
anything wrong and had no idea that anything was missing from Strickland’s
house.”

“But that’s not true.” She shouldn’t be surprised, she
supposed. A man who would do what McKay had wouldn’t hesitate to lie about
it.

“We know that, Sarah,” Leo said. “If it comes to testifying at
a trial, all you have to do is tell what happened. Jacob saw McKay trying to
push you, as well. No one will doubt you.”

“A trial.” She couldn’t help it if she sounded horrified at the
thought.

Jacob squeezed her hand. “I will be there, too, don’t
forget.”

“Ja.”
The fear slid away when she
met his steady gaze. Jacob would be with her.

“I’ve sent for a state police team to look into McKay’s shop
and check out his business records,” the police chief said. “I suspect they’ll
come up with enough evidence to convict him a couple of times over.” He shook
his head. “I’m afraid the historical society will have to delay their plans for
the property. The state police will want access until their investigation is
complete, and I’ll have to insist that nothing be touched until the
investigation into Richard’s death is finished. And then there are the charges
against Hank Mitchell. Two bad guys caught in as many days, thanks to you,
Sarah.”

“Not me,” she said quickly. “I didn’t do anything.” A question
stirred in her mind. “But I still don’t understand about how Hank got into the
house even after Jacob put the dead bolts on.”

“Somehow he’d gotten hold of the new key. It was found on him
when he was caught.” The chief looked at her quizzically.

Sarah felt her cheeks grow red. “That morning when he was going
to stop at the store for me, he came in the house. I had put the new keys on the
shelf in the back hall. If he was quick enough, he could have taken one while my
back was turned.”

“I’m sure he was an expert at that kind of thing,” the chief
said. “Don’t blame yourself, Sarah.”

Maybe not for the keys, but she did feel ashamed of having let
Hank’s innocent face and friendly smile deceive her.

“What about the car that hit us?” Jacob was frowning, as if he
found it hard to believe so much wrongdoing.

“Neither is admitting to it, but now that we’re fairly sure it
was one of them, trying to keep you away from the house for a while, we’ll find
someone who saw them where they shouldn’t have been that day. It will just take
time.” Chief Byler looked from her to Jacob. “I think you’ve both had as much of
this as you can stand for now. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

“
Danki,
Chief, but I have Bess and
the buggy,” Jacob said, rising.

“Take a look outside.” Chief Byler jerked his head toward the
window. “There’s a crowd of the curious out there. You don’t want to go through
that. I’ll have the horse taken care of and returned to you this evening, once
the curiosity has died down.”

Sarah glanced out the window. People crowded along the
wrought-iron fence, many with cameras. One man even had a pair of binoculars
trained on the house. She drew back, shuddering.

Jacob nodded. “We will get Sarah’s jacket, and then we’ll be
ready. We are grateful for your kindness.”

For once Sarah was glad to let Jacob speak for both of them.
She hurried toward the hallway, relieved to be away from the prying gazes.

Jacob took the jacket from its peg before she could reach for
it. He helped her slip it on and then paused, his hands on her shoulders and his
face very close to hers.

“Thank the good Lord that you are safe. When I saw you hanging
from that railing…” His voice choked. “If you had fallen, I don’t know how I
could have gone on.”

She couldn’t bear the pain in his eyes. “It’s all right.” She
touched his face, the movement tentative. His skin was warm and alive,
reassuring her. “I knew you were there. I knew you would not let me fall.”

His gaze was so intense it was as if he was stroking her.
“Sarah, I cannot wait any longer to say this to you. I don’t want to be your big
brother anymore. I love you with all my heart. I want to be your husband.”

She hesitated a moment, wondering at herself. All her doubts
seemed to have vanished, all her thoughts of independence seeming foolish now.
Loving someone was about depending on each other, and that was surely a better
way to live.

“I love you, too,” she said, knowing it was true deep in her
heart. “And I stopped thinking of you as a brother the moment you kissed
me.”

A smile lit Jacob’s face, and love shone in his eyes. “My
Sarah,” he said gently, and then he kissed her again.

They stood together in the privacy of the small space, and
Sarah wanted this moment to go on forever. But it couldn’t, she knew. The chief
would come, they’d be rushed away from those who would question them, and when
they reached home, there would be more questions waiting. But at least now the
truth had come out.

She rested her cheek against Jacob’s chest and listened to the
steady beating of his heart. “Poor Mr. Strickland,” she said softly. “Two people
he trusted were out to harm him. They could only do that because he was so
alone, with no one to love and protect him.”

“
Ja.
But he is at peace now, and
you must let that comfort you.” Jacob dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and
his arms tightened around her. “That will never happen to us, Sarah. We will
have each other.”

She nodded, knowing what he said was true. That sort of
loneliness didn’t happen in the close-knit Amish community, even to someone as
fussy and cantankerous as Richard Strickland had been.

As Jacob said, the man was at peace now. And she was ready to
move on to a new life with Jacob. She smiled.
Mamm
would say she’d been right all along.