Sue followed Ray up the stairs to the front door, avoiding a missing board on the third step. They stood for a long moment outside the door listening, and then Ray rapped on the window with his knuckles. There was no response. He knocked a second time and waited. He tried the handle on the door. It didn’t move. “Let’s check around back.”
Sue chose to jump off the porch, landing on her feet on the weed-covered lawn. She tried to peek in the side windows, but they were too high off the foundation. She detoured to look in the back of the panel truck.
“Should I call for a search warrant?” asked Sue, sizing up the stack of bulging gunnysacks.
Ray joined her. “Go ahead,” he said, heading off. “I’ll check the back door.”
Standing on a moss-covered slab made of split rock and cement, Ray looked through the yellowed remnants of a lace curtain dangling to one side of the smudged window. Inside it was chaos. Every horizontal surface—the kitchen table, counters, sink, sideboards, even the seats of the chairs, save two—was covered with papers, dishes, cans, and bottles. He banged on the door.
“No answer there,” he said rejoining Sue. “Let’s check the other buildings.”
Smoke was rising faintly from the tin chimney that ran through the roof of the larger of the two outbuildings. Ray knocked on the door. Hearing a response from the inside, he pushed it open. The Veelander brothers, Tucker and Sam, were sitting near a potbellied stove, each holding a mug. A large porcelain coffee pot sat on top of the stove and the remains of lunch—a slab of cheese, some apples, and a partial loaf of bread in a plastic bag—were scattered on top of a workbench surrounded by well-worn hand tools.
“Well, Sheriff,” said Sam, “must be nearing an election. We hardly see you between times.”
“We hear about you, though. You being chauffeured around the county by some pretty lady so you can play games on a computer,” added Tucker.
“While us hard working tax payers can’t afford those kinda toys,” said Sam.
“And our poor friend, Vincent Fox, is dead. Why aren’t you chasing his killers instead of bothering with a couple of poor farmers?”
“What’s with the costumes?” asked Ray, pointing to their black pants and jackets over white shirts. “You fellows going through some kind of religious conversion?”
“We’re trying to seek a simpler life,” said Sam.
“How about the beards?” asked Ray.
“In the truck,” said Tucker. “We don’t put those on….”
“Till when?” asked Ray. He pulled the DVD from his jacket. “Seems you fellows are starting to make it in the movies. I’ve got some great video of you two from a security camera. You appear to be helping yourself to a few hundred pounds of potatoes. Only I noticed you were wearing your usual clothes. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Why aren’t you looking for the killers instead of bothering with us?” Tucker asked again.
“We’ve heard that two elderly Amish men were seen in the bookstore looking at Vincent Fox’s book,” said Ray. “We were also told that several copies of the book were stolen from that bookstore and the library.”
“We didn’t steal no books. We were just looking at the part that interested us,” said Tucker.”
“And what part was that?” asked Ray.
“Vincent said there was some treasure down in Missionary Cove. That’s just down the road, you know,” he said, pointing with a finger over his back. “Said we should buy the book and get some of that gangster gold.”
“So you knew Fox?”
“We knew him a little. Used to run into him at the casino on Senior’s Day.”
“Ever see him anywhere else?” asked Ray.
“No, never,” said Sam.
“How about the Last Chance?” asked Tucker, looking at his brother.
“Oh, yeah, the Last Chance. Had a beer with him there a few times. We asked him for a copy of his book, borrowed like. But he wouldn’t give us one. He was so tight, he squeaked when he walked.”
“Yes,” agreed Tucker, “he squeaked when he walked.”
“Did you ever go to his house?” Ray asked.
“Never,” said Sam.
Ray looked at Tucker, “Never.”
“And what about this?” asked Ray, holding up the DVD again. “Looks like the stolen goods might be in the back of your truck.”
“You can’t do that. You gotta have a search warrant. We know our rights.”
“The door was open; we just looked. And we’ve requested a search warrant.”
A long silence followed. “Tucker’s got a girlfriend downstate in Royal Oak. Hooked up with her again at their 60th high school reunion. She’s just crazy about the Amish. So when we go to visit, we sorta dress up. Makes her happy.”
“The potatoes, Sam?”
“I’m getting to it, Ray. The farm hasn’t been doing too good; the land’s played out. And the price of gasoline for that old truck, maybe 12, 14 miles a gallon. So we were selling potatoes at the farmers market down there, you know gourmet, organic. City people have no sense of money. Five dollars a pound. Couldn’t bring enough. They’d be gone in an hour or two. Even chefs from fancy restaurants buying ’em. So after a few months we ran through all of the ones we’d stored up, so we’ve been borrowing a few. I mean, I’m surprised anyone missed them. And we plan to return them next growing season.”
“Why didn’t you just buy them?”
“Well, like I said, things are tough. The casino and gasoline….”
“So you’re stealing from your friends, and you’re also cheating your customers.”
“That’s not true. We just borrowed them. As for those people in the city, a potato is a potato. No one was cheated.”
“Should I get a search warrant for your house and look for the book?”
Tucker laughed, “I’d like to see you find it. It’s been missing for weeks.”
“What happens now?” asked Sam.
“We give you a ride to town in our fancy police car. Sergeant Lawrence here will tape a statement from each of you, separately. We will compare the two interviews to see if either one of you can tell the truth about anything. Then we’ll turn the case over to the prosecutor’s office and let them sort it out.”
“Are we going to jail?” asked Tucker. “We were planning to vote for you. Guess we can’t do it if we’re behind bars.”
“There’s no justice in this country anymore,” said Sam. “If you’re not part of the one percent, you just get screwed.”
37
It was almost dark when Mackenzie lay down behind a berm at the edge of a wooded area overlooking Jim Moarse’s house. In the fading light, she glassed the area, adjusting the focus on her small, powerful binoculars. There were no signs of a dog or any other animals on the property. The door on the garage, a separate building at the side of the lot some distance from the back door, was closed.
After a few minutes, she moved along the ridgeline, looking for an angle that would allow her to see into the interior of the house. A long set of windows ran along the south-facing wall of the structure. She found a spot near a clump of cedars, halfway down the hill, and slid between the branches. Moarse appeared to be working at the stove, then he moved to a table, carrying a plate. He pushed stacks of newspaper aside before sitting down, his back to the window.
Mackenzie checked her watch. It was after 10 o’clock. When she next looked at the luminous dial again, only five minutes had passed. She was wondering if she could make an hour.
Moarse went back to the sink, plate in hand. He opened the refrigerator, took something out, then walked toward another part of the room. A large flat screen filled a wall with motion and color.
Mackenzie rotated her body, searching for branches that she could lean into. She was becoming stiff and uncomfortable in the cool night air. Her elbows resting on a branch, she kept her focus on the windows. Other than the flicker from the TV, nothing seemed to be happening.