LITMIR.BIZ

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Nor your GWTW.”

      Everyone who knew Ray-Lynn was aware she was a rabid fan of Gone with the Wind and anything to do with it. Their house was a treasure trove of pictures, plates and figurines of scenes from the movie. They’d even worn Civil War costumes for their wedding and reception.

      “I’m listening,” he said. “You’ve got good instincts about people, Ray-Lynn, but I don’t want you poking around in the Victoria Keller investigation, so just tell me what you want to say.”

      “Well, first of all, Charles Dickens was a genius at naming his characters to give his readers a hint about them and their secrets. Miss Have-a-sham, see? A sham is a trick or hypocrisy. She wasn’t what she seemed to be.”

      “What did she seem to be?”

      “A spinster recluse, sad and broken over having been jilted by her bridegroom at the altar. But in reality she wanted others to suffer, too. She wanted revenge. And she was wealthy enough to get it. She picked especially on one innocent person, but I won’t go into that.”

      “Honey, we don’t know whether Victoria Keller had any motive for going out in the storm to help or hurt someone, get revenge—whatever, and we may never know. She had severe Alzheimer’s. I think we can trust Connor and Bess Stark, when Bess gets here from Columbus today, to tell us if there was anything suspicious we should know. And, no offense, but you better stick with Scarlett O’Hara. Now promise me you’ll steer clear of this Keller-Stark real-life minidrama and just worry about ordering some of the Yoder animals for the manger scene.”

      She sensed he was about ready to close this case as soon as he talked to Senator Stark, but Victoria Keller fascinated Ray-Lynn. Hoping he didn’t notice she hadn’t sworn on a stack of Bibles to stay out of his investigation, she asked, “Are you ready for some mincemeat pie?”

      “That, I’m ready for. Let me help you clear these dishes, and I’ll tell you how big a piece I can handle after all that good cooking—one way to a man’s heart, anyway.”

      “And this,” she said as they both stood, “is another,” and she stretched on her tiptoes to give him a long, slanted, openmouthed kiss.

      * * *

      Strange, Lydia thought, but the only person she could trust to help straighten out her worries over Victoria Keller’s note was Josh. He would understand the background circumstances, her rush and panic that night to help the woman. He wouldn’t go all emotional or feel she was challenging him in any way as her parents might. He’d probably tell her she had to show the note to the sheriff right away, but at least she could get his advice first.

      The minute they got into his open corner “office” in the barn, while the Beiler boys were feeding the sheep across the building, she said to him, “I’d like your opinion about something—something strange.”

      He turned to her, nodded wide-eyed, then gestured her toward the bales of straw in the corner. Knees almost touching, they perched on two adjacent ones. Bless him, he seemed instantly intent. His warmth radiated, bathing her in friendship, and she saw in his eyes—something more? In her lap she clutched the envelope with the note and the plastic snow globe with its little scene of a child standing and an angel hovering overhead. An undecorated Christmas tree was off to the side. The liquid inside had gone a bit murky, but if she shook it hard, it still snowed.

      “Last night,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “when I found Miss Keller, she had a damp, blurry note in her hand. I tried to read it then but couldn’t, so I stuffed it in my mitten and didn’t think to look at it again until I got home last night. Very little of it is readable.”

      “And what did it say—the part you could read?”

      She reached into the envelope and extended it to him.

      “You still have it? The sheriff let you keep it?” he asked as he held it up to the kerosene lantern light and squinted to make out the words.

      He glanced at her. She tried hard to blink back tears.

      “Did Sheriff Freeman give you a hard time about not handing this over right away? But why—”

      “I didn’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “I didn’t give it to him—didn’t tell him. I know I should have—have to, but I think it’s about me, the Brand baby. And if so, it says my mother—my birth mother—is still alive and that Victoria must have known something about her, like maybe where to find her. I don’t— It can’t mean, can it—that she is—was my mother?”

      “Victoria Keller? I don’t think she’s ever lived around here before lately.”

      “I know I’m clutching at straws, but I’ve been so desperate to know more about my birth parents. I haven’t acted on it because it would hurt my parents so. Daad would take it personally and Mamm would—I don’t know. She puts on a good front, but she’s very fragile.”

      He nodded. Did he realize that? Most people who observed or knew Susan Brand thought she had a prickly personality and figured it was because of Sammy’s loss. Some thought she blamed herself for that—even blamed God.

      He said, his voice low, “I had a friend when I was in Columbus who researched her roots, as she called them, online. You know, a computer, but that would be tough in this case if you can’t get information directly from your parents. You’d need to hire a researcher privately.”

      “Somehow, I have to get answers on my own.”

      “Like how? First of all, are you sure Victoria wrote this? If she’s as out-of-it as Connor says, couldn’t she have picked it up, found it somewhere in their house, then out in the snow, it got all wet and smeared.”

      “I don’t know! I don’t know where to start. I only know I have to do something. I thought my parents might overhear if I gave it to the sheriff. Then the note would become public property, bring up things I’ve learned not to ask or talk about. Even Bishop Esh told me ‘to learn in whatever state I am to be content.’”

      “That’s in the Bible. But I do have one idea. This friend of mine, Sandra Myerson, who was researching her family tree, is also a writer who was doing a doctoral paper on Christmas customs of immigrant people in the Midwest. She’s a real go-getter.”

      “She’s a doctor?”

      “Not a medical doctor. She’s working on a university degree that will give her the title of doctor so she can teach sociology at the college level.”

      “Oh. So I could write to her with what I know? Maybe trade information about an Amish Christmas for her looking up some things for me? Should I tell her about Old Amish Christmas and how upset our people are about what’s happened to the worldly one? About how Bishop Esh said he’d almost like to kill that other Christmas?”

      “I spent a lot of time trying to convince Sandra that the German immigrant Amish do not have fancy Victorian Christmas trees and lots of wrapped gifts. I explained we have a plain and simple family day without secret Christmas customs. But to most outsiders, I guess Old Amish Christmas is a secret. I’m sure she’d like to meet you, and you can back up what I said. Yet our Christmases are always, well, just plain beautiful.”

      “Yes. Yes, they are. So was she working at the zoo, too?”

      “I met her at a social event there my second year in the city, ironically a Christmas tree holiday extravaganza called Wildlights. We became friends, did some things together. She tried to talk me into going to vet school at Ohio State University by working my way through, but it wasn’t in my plans. I can have Hank phone her for you, ask her to come out to visit. You could meet with her here instead of your house.”

      “Was this Sandra like a social friend? I mean, you dated her?”

      “Something like that, but our lives were on two very different career paths. No way a humble, plain life is for her.”

      Lydia’s heart was beating hard. Her face felt flushed.

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