Her Amish Protectors Page 3

  “Not usually, but I don’t think I’ve ever in my life been as tired as I was when I got home last night.”

  “That’s understandable.” He took his hand back. “So you were locked up tight last night. The money box was sitting on your dresser when you fell asleep.”

  “I had to have slept more deeply than usual. I never even got up to use the bathroom. I turned my air conditioner off because it’s so noisy, but for once it might not have bothered me. If not for my alarm, I wouldn’t have woken up when I did. I was still tired.”

  He nodded his understanding. He gave passing thought to whether she could have been drugged, but her eyes were clear, she was unlikely to have been drinking anything during cleanup at the end of the evening, and he’d heard from more than one person that she’d been at the mansion from the beginning of setup early in the morning to the very end, at close to eleven. She had to have been dead on her feet.

  Her teeth closed on her lower lip, the eyes that met his desperate. “Without the air conditioner, it was hot up here.”

  An upstairs apartment like this would be, even though it was still early summer.

  “All I had on was this—” she plucked at her camisole “—and panties. I didn’t even have a sheet over me.”

  Horror to match hers filled him. No, she hadn’t been raped, but she’d been violated anyway.

  “He—” her voice shook, and she swallowed “—he could have stood there and looked at me. And I never knew it.” She went back to trying to hug herself.

  “Officer Grumbach, please go find Ms. Markovic a sweater or sweatshirt.”

  He nodded and disappeared into her bedroom. She didn’t even seem to notice until Grumbach handed her a zip-front, hooded sweatshirt. After a moment, she put it on and hunched inside it.

  “This morning?” he nudged.

  She accepted the cue. “This morning, I got up, grabbed clothes and started into the bathroom. That’s when I realized the box was gone. I knew where I’d left it, but I ran around searching anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I sleepwalked? Hallucinated last night? Anyway, I searched this whole damn place, then I ran down to my car to make sure I didn’t leave it on the seat. I parked in front last night,” she added.

  “That was smart.” He nodded his approval. “Do you lock the car?” Not everyone in Henness County did. Law enforcement kept busy enough, but the crime rate per capita was substantially lower in what was usually a peaceful town and rural surroundings than it had been in urban Camden, New Jersey.

  “I always do. And it was still locked, so I knew—” She gulped to a stop.

  Ben straightened, careful not to let her see what he was thinking. Because there were two possibilities here, and the most obvious was that she was lying through her teeth. If so, she was one hell of a liar, but he didn’t know her well. Nobody in these parts did. The first thing he’d do when he got to the station was run a thorough search on Nadia Markovic’s background.

  Possibility two was that somebody had somehow unlocked two doors without leaving a scratch or making a lot of noise—because however sound her sleep, Ben was betting she’d have woken if she heard a strange sound right there in her apartment—and walked out with the money. And if that was the case...odds were good the thief had been a participant or volunteer at the auction. Who else would know who had the money?

  What would have happened if she had awakened to see someone looming in her bedroom? Had the thief been prepared to kill if necessary?

  A question he didn’t need to ask himself until he eliminated the possibility that she had either planned the entire event with the intention of profiting from it, or had succumbed to temptation at some point and decided to keep the money.

  “Have you had anything to eat or drink yet this morning?” he asked abruptly.

  Comprehension was a little slow coming. “No. No.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t eat.”

  “You can,” he said firmly. “Let’s go in the kitchen, and I can at least pour you a cup of coffee.”

  “Tea. I drink tea.”

  “Tea it is.” He rose and held out a hand. Just like last night, she stared at his hand for a split second longer than would be usual before taking it. He boosted her to her feet. “Officer Grumbach, I think you can go back to patrol now.” On a twinge of memory, Ben glanced at her. “Unless you’d be more comfortable not being alone with me, Ms. Markovic.”

  “What? Oh, no. That’s fine.” She summoned a weak smile for the young officer. “Thank you. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “You were understandably upset, ma’am.” Grumbach nodded and departed in what Ben suspected was more relief. He was a new hire, barely experienced enough to be out on his own. He’d done fine, though; Ben made a mental note to tell him so.

  Nadia wanted to make her own tea, but he persuaded her to sit and let him do it. Waiting for the water to boil, he investigated her refrigerator and cupboards, finally settling on a croissant he heated in the microwave before splitting it open and slapping on raspberry jam from a local Amish woman. He recognized the label. He added extra sugar to the tea before setting the cup in front of her, then the croissant.

  Under his stern gaze, she did eat and sipped at her English breakfast tea. Finally, she admitted to feeling better.

  “Then let’s talk.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He thought being recorded might stifle her. “Who knew you were taking the proceeds home?” he asked bluntly.

  She blinked. “I can’t imagine...”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “But the thief had to know.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Nadia whispered. She stared into space for a minute. “Well, Katie-Ann Chupp, of course. Julie Baird, Karen Llewellyn, probably Rachel Schwartz.”

  Two Amish, two Englischers. Even he’d come to divide his citizenry that way. From what he’d learned since moving to Byrum, it would be a cold day in hell before either of the warmhearted Amish women would so much as give a passing thought to stealing, never mind carrying out a heist like this. They’d have no need. If either woman’s family was struggling financially, all they’d have to do was ask for help, and it would pour forth. That’s how the Amish worked; they took care of each other. On the other hand, he knew both the other women, at least in passing, and felt reasonably sure neither made a likely suspect, either. Julie Baird’s husband was a doctor, Karen’s a representative for a farm equipment company. Still, he noted all four names.

  Nadia reeled off a few more, then admitted that anyone helping with cleanup might have heard or guessed that she would be taking the money.

  Yes, it would have been logical to suppose the event chair would deal with the evening’s take, which could widen the suspect pool considerably. But would somebody really break in to look for the cash box without being 100 percent certain Nadia had taken it home? Ben didn’t think so.

  Of course, that somebody could have been lurking outside to see who carried the box out, and even though Ben had been watching for just that eventuality, landscaping around the historic mansion included a lot of dark bushes and trees.

  “Did you see anyone around last evening who wasn’t involved with the auction?” he asked.

  Her forehead crinkled. “I don’t think... Only Mr. Warren, wanting to be sure everything was going smoothly. He left after I promised to lock up and then return the keys sometime today, but I bet he went by after we were gone last night to make sure I had.”

  Ben would bet the same. Lyle Warren, head of the historical society that maintained and showed the house, was anal to an extreme. He fussed.

  “Anybody ask questions about the money?” Ben asked.

  She stared at him. “Well...of course they did.”

  “No, I was thinking about interest in how much cash you had versus checks or credit card slips.”

  Nadia moa
ned, and he didn’t blame her. Once word got out, people would have to contact their credit card companies, maybe wait for new cards, put a stop on checks. Those among them with a strong conscience would then reimburse the auction committee, meaning the total sum wasn’t lost. But if the thief made use of credit card numbers or altered and cashed checks, everyone would be pissed, whether the credit card companies and banks took the loss or not.

  Unfortunately, some inks were easy to “wash” from a check, allowing the thief to change the recipient’s name and even the amount the check was made out for. Depending on what info the auction cashiers had written down, checks could be an aid to identity theft, too.

  And anyone who had not just a credit card number, but also the expiration date, name on the card and the code from the back was home free to spend up to the limit.

  When she finally answered, he could tell her thoughts had gone a different direction.

  “Nobody asked,” she said, her voice thin. “I think...most of them are so used to transactions with the Amish being primarily cash, nothing about the evening would surprise them. You know? But every time I opened the box, I was surprised. I mean, there were wads of money. So many of the sellers during the day were Amish, I bet three-fourths or more of that twenty thousand dollars was cash. And last night... I’ll have to find out, but even if it was only half...”

  In other words, somebody might have gotten his or her hands on between sixty and seventy thousand dollars in cash. Even if the thief didn’t make use of the credit card numbers, the loss was substantial, even cataclysmic.

  “Have you told anyone yet?”

  She shuddered. “No.”

  He decided to ease into the personal stuff. “Will you tell me why you moved here, Ms. Markovic?”

  That had her staring. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Was she really that obtuse? He studied her face and couldn’t decide.

  “I’m wondering whether you left behind somebody who dislikes you enough to want to do you a bad turn, and profit from it, too.”

  “Oh. You mean an ex-husband or something?”

  “A stalker, anyone who feels wronged by you.”

  She started to shake her head again.

  “Have you ever taken out a restraining order?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Were you married?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been in a relationship that ended badly?”

  “No. Really.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “That takes us back to my original question. Why did you move and why here? And where did you come from?”

  “Colorado Springs. I grew up in Colorado, even stayed there for college.”

  Big change, Ben mused, to leave a town of half a million residents at the foot of the Rockies for Byrum, with its flat terrain and 3,809 residents. He’d guess Colorado Springs to be politically liberal, too, while this part of Missouri was anything but. Of course, he was one to talk, coming from the urban jungle of Camden, New Jersey.

  Nadia drew a deep breath. “I wanted—I needed—” The words seemed to be hitting a blockade.

  Once again, he reached across the table and took her hand, which felt damn cold in his, considering the air temperature.

  “I was running away,” she whispered.

  * * *

  SHE COULDN’T HAVE just said, I needed a change? But, no, the down-deep truth had slipped out. Nadia wanted to bury her face in her hands. Except one of hers was engulfed in his big, warm, comforting hand.

  “From my family,” she added hastily. Like that helped. There was no getting out of this now, even if her past couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the money being stolen.

  “I...had something traumatic happen. I couldn’t get past it. I thought making a change would help.”

  The intensity in his dark eyes made it hard to look away. “You wanted a peaceful small town.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely there are nice small towns in Colorado.”

  His speculative tone unnerved her. Evading the question wouldn’t be smart. “I wanted to get farther away from home. Everyone I knew either babied me, or they kept thinking of fun things we could do. And I know they were trying to cheer me up, but...”

  “If I do some research, would I find out what happened?”

  Had he even noticed his thumb was circling in her palm, which was way more sensitive than she’d ever realized?

  “Probably,” Nadia said. “But it really didn’t have anything to do with this. I mean, the money.”

  He didn’t say anything, just watched her. Why had she opened her big mouth?

  She bent her head and looked at the tabletop. “It was a domestic violence thing I got caught up in by chance.”

  “Not your family.”

  “No. And...I have to tell you, I really hate to talk about it.” Even trying to get out of talking about it caused the memories to rush over her, still shockingly vivid, colored in blood.

  He saw more than he should, because his hand tightened. Or maybe it was because in his job he saw the horrifying aftermath of similar scenes. On a swelling of remembered bitterness, she wondered whether he would have made the same decisions those cops had.

  “Will you give me the bare bones anyway?”

  “You don’t need to hear this,” she said stubbornly.

  He waited, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “I stopped by a friend’s house.” Oh, heavens—she was going to do this. “I’d obviously arrived at a tense moment. My friend—Paige—tried to hustle me out, but too late. Her husband had gone to get his gun. He shot all three kids, me and Paige. I...pretended to be dead. It was, um...”

  Ben Slater made a low, guttural sound. The next thing she knew, he’d circled the table and crouched beside her chair. So close. He laid a hand on her back. Nadia was shocked by how much she wanted his arms around her, to bury her face against his neck, but she made herself stay where she was, focused on the grain of the oak table.

  “Did anyone but you survive?”

  “Their daughter. She was six. She’s seven now.” The little girl’s recovery was the only spark of hope emerging from the horror. “Otherwise...even he killed himself at the end.”

  Ben breathed a profanity. “How badly were you injured?”

  “I was lucky.” She touched the spot where she knew the scar was on her abdomen. “The bullet came at an angle and missed everything important. I bled enough that I guess my acting was believable.” She even managed a sort of smile.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A year and a half. It left me really jumpy, and I had bad dreams. And, like I said, my friends and family were driving me nuts. Plus, I’d been teaching quilting classes and selling my own quilts, but also working for the assessor’s office. My dream was to have my own store. Property values and rents are lower here, so I could swing it with what I’d saved. And interest in quilts is high anywhere the Amish live.” She might very well lose her store now. The reminder was chilling. If people didn’t think she’d stolen the money herself, they’d see her as careless.

  Not just people. Chief Slater. Of course he had to suspect her! Nadia couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized that sooner. He didn’t think someone from her past had pursued her here to Byrum; he needed to investigate her, and she’d just given him a jump start.

  So much for wanting to sink into the safety of his embrace.

  Her spine stiffened and she felt his hand drop from her back. “As I said, what happened is irrelevant.”

  A flicker in his eyes told her he’d noted her withdrawal. He rose and looked down at her. “To the heist? Probably. But in other ways? Of course it isn’t.”

  Pulled by the power of that velvety voice, roughened now
, she couldn’t help but look at him. His eyes were nearly black, the bones in his face prominent, his mouth tight.

  She swallowed a lump in her throat, and waited.

  “Aren’t there a couple of other apartments on this block?”

  He was thinking someone might have been awake to see an intruder. She wished that was possible.

  “The one next door is empty right now. The florist went out of business.”

  He frowned. “Right.”

  “I heard a group of Amish furniture makers may have taken the lease. I hope so.”

  “It would work well with your business,” he agreed. “And we don’t want vacancies downtown.”

  “No. The next closest apartment is above the barber shop.”

  Slater grimaced. “Lester Orton.”

  Mr. Orton had to be eighty years old. He seemed to cut hair fine, and must handle the stairs to his apartment, but he was going deaf and she’d noticed his lights went out every evening by nine o’clock at the very latest.

  “There are several upstairs apartments across the street, too, but it was my back door that was unlocked. Even if one of those neighbors had been looking out the window, they couldn’t have seen anything.”

  “Unless he was using a flashlight.”

  “Yes, but that wouldn’t tell you anything.”

  He did the neutral cop expression well, but she was already shaking her head.

  “That’s not true. It would...corroborate my story, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that the word police always use?”

  “It is, and yes, it would.” No discernible emotion there.

  Nadia would have liked to resent his suspicion, his ability to shift from cool questions to compassion and back again. Maybe he’d held her hand because he was basically a nice man who really had felt for her. More likely, he’d been trying to make her believe they had a connection. Which was deceitful, but...he was doing his job. She couldn’t dislike him for that.

  He went back to his seat, and they looked at each other, him appraising her, Nadia gazing coolly back.

  Finally she asked, “What should I do now?”

  He hesitated. “I think you need to start letting your committee members know what happened. I’ll be talking to them, too. One of them may have noticed someone expressing unexpected curiosity about the event, or someone hanging around who shouldn’t have been there.” He paused. “Do you have a list of attendees?”