Authors: Marta Perry
“Marta Perry illuminates the differences between the Amish community and the larger society with an obvious care and respect for ways and beliefs…. She weaves these differences into the story with a deft hand, drawing the reader into a suspenseful, continually moving plot.”
Murder in Plain Sight
by Marta Perry, is a knowing and careful look into Amish culture and faith. A truly enjoyable reading experience.”
New York Times
bestselling author of
Let Darkness Come
takes us into the heart of Amish country and the Pennsylvania Dutch and shows us the struggles of the Amish community as the outside world continues to clash with the Plain ways. This is a story of grace and servitude as well as a story of difficult choices and heartbreaking realities. It touched my heart. I think the world of Amish fiction has found a new champion.”
—Lenora Worth, author of
Code of Honor
“Marta Perry delivers a strong story of tension, fear and trepidation.
Season of Secrets
(4.5 stars) is an excellent mystery that’s certain to keep you in constant suspense. While love is a powerful entity in this story, danger is never too far behind.”
RT Book Reviews,
“In this beautifully told tale, Marta Perry writes with the gentle cadence and rich detail of someone who understands the Amish well.
kept me reading long into the night.”
—Linda Goodnight, author of
Finding Her Way Home
MURDER IN PLAIN SIGHT
Thank you for deciding to read this second book in my Amish suspense series. As a lifelong resident of rural Pennsylvania, I have always lived near the Plain People. My own family heritage is Pennsylvania Dutch, so it has been a pleasure and a challenge to draw on those experiences in my books.
It can be difficult for outsiders to understand the tight bonds of the Amish community, so that it is sometimes seen as secretive or unkind in its efforts to avoid conforming to the world. For many people, the extent of their knowledge about the Amish is derived from the movie
but there is far more to be understood about a unique people trying to live as they believe God wishes.
In this story, Marisa Angelo is the outsider whose personal needs require that she penetrate Amish society to learn about her mother’s disappearance. She comes in with a great many preconceptions, most of which are put to the test as she tries to uncover the truth about her mother’s background and the events that led up to her disappearance. I’ve tried to present Amish belief and practices as honestly and respectfully as I can, and any errors are my own.
I hope you’ll let me know how you like my book, and I’d love to send you a signed bookmark and my free brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can email me at [email protected], visit me on the web at www.martaperry.com or on Facebook at Marta Perry Books, or write to me at HQN Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
This story is dedicated to my husband, Brian, who always believes I can find another story to tell.
I’d like to express my thanks to all those whose expertise helped me in writing this book: to Erik Wesner, whose Amish America blog is enormously helpful; to Donald Kraybill and John Hostetler, whose books are the definitive resources on Amish life and beliefs; to the Plain People I have known and respected; and to my family, for giving me such a rich heritage on which to draw.
The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness.
his focus to the heavy sledgehammer and the satisfying thwack it made when it broke into the old paneling.
The paneling shattered beneath Link’s sledgehammer, its shoddiness a contrast to the solid double-plank construction of the rest of the old farmhouse. Setting the sledgehammer down, he pulled fragments loose with gloved hands, tossing them into a pile in front of the fireplace. The last bit of the section came free, revealing what lay behind it.
He stared, methodically wiping the sweat from his forehead. Shaking off the foreboding that gripped him, he reached into the wall and pulled out the object that lay there. A suitcase. Not empty, by the feel of it.
Carrying it to the makeshift worktable, he set down his find. An inexpensive suitcase, its fabric sides coated in dust and marred by stains. How long had it lain there, inside the wall of Uncle Allen’s house? More important, why was it there?
He snapped open the latch and swung back the lid. Women’s clothes, by the look of it—slacks, a skirt,
several blouses. Beneath them something black. He picked it up, shook it out and recognized it. An Amish woman’s black apron. His stomach twisted, rebelling the way it had in Afghanistan when they were coming upon a perfect place for an ambush.
Taking out the apron revealed what lay under it: a white Amish prayer kapp. At the very bottom was a framed photograph. He picked up the picture, bad feelings growing. A woman and a young girl, looking at each other, faces lit with laughter and love. Mother and daughter, he’d guess from the similarities in the faces. The child looked to be about four or five.
He set the picture down gently and took a step away from the table. Something was wrong here. The pair in the photo wore typical, though a little outdated, clothing. So how did that square with the Amish clothing in the suitcase? The pressure that had driven him for months urged him to ignore this, to get on with his plans. Whatever had led to this suitcase being placed inside the wall of the old house his uncle had left him, it was no concern of his.
If he hadn’t opened the suitcase, maybe he could have bought that. But the contents raised too many questions. Too late now to take the easy way out. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the Spring Township police.
Ten minutes later a police car pulled into the driveway. The occupants got out and headed for the back door, as country people always did, and he walked out to the back porch to meet them. Before he had a
chance to speak, his brother Trey’s pickup drew to a stop behind the cruiser.
He’d called Trey right after he’d called the police, figuring he would want to know. After all, he was the one who’d been here for the past six years while Link was off at college and then in the army. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on this, but even if he couldn’t, Trey was the kind of person you turned to when there was trouble.
Besides, Trey knew everyone. Adam Byler, now the township police chief, had been friends with Link’s big brother since they were kids, running around together, usually trying to brush off Link, the bratty little brother tagging after them and getting into trouble.
“Hey, Link.” Adam pulled off sunglasses and started toward him, followed by another cop…Dick McCall, fiftyish, balding, with a paunch that strained his uniform shirt a bit more each year. Mac had been a township cop when Link had been soaping windows at ten.
“Sorry to call you out.” Link leaned against the porch post, hoping it didn’t look as if he needed its support. “It’s probably nothing, but I figured you’d want a look at this.”
“No problem. That’s what you pay taxes for, right?” Adam punched his shoulder lightly, the tap a hint of the power that lay behind it. Adam was as solid now as he’d been in high school, with not an
ounce of fat on his muscular frame. “Let’s have a look.”
Trey joined them, giving Link the worried look he’d been using since Link got out of the military hospital and came home to recuperate.
“What’s up?” Trey’s voice was so much like Dad’s that it still shocked Link sometimes. “Adam said you found something inside the wall of the addition.”
He jerked a nod and headed inside. “See for yourself.”
The family room, stretching across the rear of the centuries-old farmhouse, seemed smaller with four men in it. They stood in an awkward circle around the opened suitcase.
Adam took the photo, setting it so they all could see. He glanced at Link. “You know who the woman is?”
Link shook his head, frowning at a vague memory that teased at the back of his mind. “The face seems a little familiar, but that’s all.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Trey said, sounding annoyed with himself that he didn’t have the answer.
Mac picked up the photo. “You three boys are too young to remember, that’s all. It’s Barbara Angelo, that’s who it is.”
“Angelo.” The frown on Adam’s stolid face deepened. “Wasn’t there a scandal or something about her?”
“Ran off from her husband and kid, that’s the way I heard it.” Mac looked gratified at their attention.
“Russ Angelo, the husband, said she’d gone back to Indiana to her family, leaving the little girl with him and his mother. Barbara was Amish, see, left the church to marry him, but the marriage didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “It happens. Nobody questioned her leaving all that much, as I recall.”
“But if her suitcase is here…” Trey let that trail off.
No point in going on. Trey was thinking what they were all thinking. If Barbara Angelo had deserted her husband and small daughter, what was her suitcase doing in the wall of Allen Morgan’s house?
Adam closed the suitcase, scanning the sides with his eyes, not touching. “No ID tags. The kind of cheap bag you could pick up at any discount store.”
To Link’s eyes, the bag looked worn and battered, but maybe that was just the effect of being inside the paneling all these years. It was thick with dust, splattered with darker stains and a few nicks here and there.
Adam seemed to scan the stains more closely, then looked around the room. “Where was it?”
“Right here, next to the fireplace.” Link showed them, concentrating on not limping as he crossed the room. Maybe that sledgehammer had been a bit much. The army said he was as well as they could make him, after what had happened in Afghanistan.
Adam squatted down, studying the area as deliberately as he did everything. “Well, it’s not a crime
to put a suitcase inside a wall. You two know when this work was done?”
“We were kids when Uncle Allen built the addition, that’s as close as I can come,” Trey said. “Mom would know exactly, though.”
Adam let his gaze move around the room. “I hate to say it, but I think we’d best make sure there’s nothing else inside that paneling.” He shot a glance at Link. “You mind?”
“Hey, I’m tearing it off anyway. I’ll take any help I can get. One thing’s sure—if there is anything, it has to be in this room. The rest of the house has solid double-plank walls. Not room even for a mouse.”
Let alone a human body, if that’s what they were talking about.
“Well, let’s have at it.” Trey picked up the sledgehammer before Link could reach it. He managed a grin at Link. “You sure this isn’t just a ploy to get us to do the work for you?”
“How else would I get you to do it? You’re still dead set against my selling the old place, aren’t you?” Link softened the question with an attempted smile, but he’d be glad if everyone would stop hovering over him.
“I just wish you’d stick around for a while, that’s all,” Trey said. He punctuated the words with a swing of the sledgehammer. “Seems like Morgans belong here in Lancaster County.”
Trey didn’t understand this drive of Link’s to leave—that was clear. Link wasn’t sure he understood
it himself, but life had to be easier someplace where people weren’t worrying about him all the time. A buddy of his was keeping a job for him in California. He had a simple plan: renovate the house, sell it, move to California and forget what had happened to his team in Afghanistan and the career he’d once thought to have in the military.
With four of them working, the job didn’t take long. Soon all the old paneling lay in dusty stacks on the floor.
“Nothing.” Adam summed it up, brushing off his hands. “Maybe that’s what the whole thing amounts to. I guess there could be some innocent explanation for the woman’s suitcase being inside the wall of your uncle’s house.”
“Can you think of one?” Trey challenged. Link could hear the worry in his voice. He’d be thinking about how Mom would take this.
“Not off the top of my head,” Adam admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Still, crime or no crime, I guess I’d better look into it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
That was aimed at both him and Trey, Link supposed. After all, it had been their uncle’s house. There would be talk, speculation about the possible relationship between Allen Morgan and the Angelo woman. Adam might want to keep it quiet, but they all knew how impossible that was in a place like Spring Township.
Link picked up the photograph, looking into the
big brown eyes of the little girl, feeling again that sense of something wrong he’d had the first time he looked at her face, reminding him of those other children who saw death and destruction everyday. Stronger than that—it was a sense of empathy, as if the child meant something to him.
“One thing I do know,” he said. “This kid, or rather, the woman she is now—she deserves to know what happened to her mother.”
as if she hadn’t taken a breath since she left Baltimore. Cutting the car engine, she stared at the house in front of her. It stood on the fringe of the village of Springville, but still gave the illusion of privacy, hidden as it was behind a hedge of lilac bushes so high that nothing could be seen from the road.
Marisa got out slowly, pushing the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, unable to take her gaze from the house. It was probably like a hundred other farmhouses in this rural area of Pennsylvania; a two-story white frame with black wooden shutters on the windows. But instead of being surrounded by neat flowerbeds, it hid behind overgrown trees, its windows shielded by blinds so that it seemed to sleep.
A shiver slid through her. She was being morbid. She shouldn’t let this experience get to her. From the moment the police chief called her, after being unable to reach her father, she’d been focused on one thing only: get here. Find out what this place had to
do with the disappearance of her mother that had left a hole in her heart nothing seemed to fill. She’d packed a bag, collected the materials she needed for her current set of illustrations, and set off.
She’d been five when her mother left, six when she and her father and grandmother moved to Baltimore. This area ought to be familiar to her, but she seemed to have only fragments of memories that didn’t amount to anything—an image of herself jumping rope on a sidewalk, the scary feeling of standing onstage in what must have been an elementary-school program.
They’d left, they’d never come back, she’d forgotten this place, even though her dreams were haunted by the need to know. To understand what happened.
Gradually, over the past few years, when every line of inquiry came up empty, she’d thought she was accepting the fact that she’d never know. But when the call came, it was as if she’d been waiting for it all her life.
She closed the car door and walked toward the house. Blank and shuttered, it looked deserted, but someone must be here. The police chief had said the owner was renovating the place. Seeming to understand her need to see for herself, Chief Byler had agreed to meet her here.
She had one foot on the porch step when she heard the noise—a steady series of thuds coming from the rear of the building. Maybe the renovator was still at work.
The yard behind the house proved just as secluded as the front. A stand of pines pressed close, reaching over a fieldstone wall to threaten a garage and a couple of outbuildings that tilted into each other in a dispirited manner. The source of the noise was instantly obvious.
The man, in jeans and a T-shirt, worked steadily, oblivious to her presence. Pick up a short log, set it on a stump, split it with an axe, toss it aside. His movements were smooth, efficient and almost angry in their intensity.
From the top of the stone wall, a large black cat watched with the casual indifference of its kind. He put up a lazy paw to swipe his face, his eyes never leaving the figure.
The contrast between the lean ferocity of the man and the lazy feline grace of the cat had her fingers itching. She pulled the ever-present pad and pencil from her bag, intent on capturing the scene in quick strokes. With a few changes, this might fit into the children’s book she was illustrating. Even if it didn’t, she couldn’t resist.
The image was nearly complete when the man clutched his side with a grunt, dropping the axe. The cat vanished over the wall. She must have made some move, because the man spun and strode toward her, transferring that angry intensity from the logs to her.
“What are you doing?” He reached her, grabbing the pad from her hand and giving the drawing an
angry glance. “What right do you have invading my privacy? Well?”
Panic clutched her throat at the angry voice. She forced it back, a millimeter at a time. She would not give in to it.
“I’m sorry.” She found her voice. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the contrast between your work and your cat’s laziness.” She tried for a smile that felt stiff on her lips.
“Not my cat.” He handed the pad back to her and made a visible effort to contain himself, strong mouth firming, lashes shielding piercing green eyes for an instant. He yanked a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped away the perspiration that beaded his forehead in spite of the coolness of the October day. He ran the cloth back over short dark brown hair and along his neck. “Are you looking for directions, Ms…?”
“Angelo. Marisa Angelo,” she said, and saw his face change when he heard the name. This must be the man who’d found the suitcase, then, the man who’d inherited the house from an uncle, according to the police chief.