Miriam and the Stranger (12 page)

“Excellent cod you serve here,” Mr. Westree told the waitress as she dropped off the plates they had ordered. “And you’re pretty as a belle today, my dear.”

The girl blushed and beat a quick retreat. Mr. Westree knew the place well, Tyler thought. He should have insisted on a meeting
place of his choosing, but Mr. Westree wouldn’t have agreed. This arrangement had been difficult enough to finagle.

“Have you found the area’s entertainment pleasing?” Mr. Westree asked. His gaze lingered on the door the waitress had disappeared through.

Tyler didn’t respond.

A grin spread across Mr. Westree’s face. “You’ve been hanging around our fair town long enough to have made some nice connections. I thought something serious might be afoot, which I couldn’t blame you for. They come lovely on the prairie.”

Tyler gave the man a sharp glance. “Let’s get serious for a moment, Mr. Westree. I think I may have found a problem with the relief fund. That’s what I want to ask you about.”

“Then fire away,” Mr. Westree said, pasting on a cheesy smile. “We have nothing to hide here.”

“Okay,” Tyler began, “a large portion of the distribution of funds goes to Wymore Building Supply here in Coalgate.” Mr. Westree’s smile didn’t fade. “Of which you are part owner, I believe.”

Mr. Westree gave a short laugh. “Are you expecting to find some fraud and corruption to spice up your story? If so, I’m afraid there’s nothing for you there. I kept myself out of any individual decisions on distributions of the money that was donated. Those decisions were made by the board. But if you’re suspicious about my character or the character of any of the other members of the board, let me tell you what you should already know. The other two lumber companies in the area, Howard Truss and Western Lumber, received monies on a carefully calculated formula based on their total market share. That should satisfy anyone’s suspicions.”

“And are you willing to make those calculations public?” Tyler probed.

Mr. Westree laughed. “Not a chance. That’s private information,
which you should also be aware of. Besides, you don’t see either Howard Truss or Western Lumber complaining, do you? If they’re content, so should you be. I’d advise you to write your little article on the Amish involvement as you’re supposed to and forget about any attempts to uncover a scandal you imagine might have transpired.”

Tyler forced a laugh. “Now, how do you know what my assignment was?”

Mr. Westree took a large bite of his fish lunch and pointed to Tyler’s plate. “Your fish is getting cold. I strongly suggest you enjoy your lunch and forget about that Pulitzer prize you’re dreaming about.”

The man was clamming up. Tyler nibbled at his meal, all the while trying to come up with a question that would unseal Mr. Westree’s lips.

Tyler finally decided it was no use. He took a bite of his cod and said, “I suppose since you have nothing else to tell me, my next step will be visiting each of your competitors to see what they have to say.”

Mr. Westree had just finished his plate and leaned forward. “That’s a fine idea, son. Do you know what I think you’ll find? I think you’ll find a lot of decent and upbuilding stories of how the recovery effort brought relief to suffering and hurting people. And how the Amish people contributed a large sum, as you know. That’s the story here. That’s the story I’m interested in reading.”

Tyler tried another angle, “Speaking of that, do you know where the Amish came up with two million dollars?”

Mr. Westree laughed. “No. I don’t practice looking a gift horse in the mouth. Surely you’re not imagining fraud and corruption, or the fleecing of poor community members for donations? That kind of notion is dead in the water with the Amish. They’re good folk, as are all of us in these parts.”

Tyler didn’t respond, so Mr. Westree went on. “Son, you should get out of the city more. It’ll put your suspicious mind to rest when you get to know some decent small-town people.”

The waitress appeared and asked, “Dessert anyone?”

“Not for me.” Tyler pushed back his plate.

Mr. Westree thought for a moment but shook his head.

“I’ll get you a box,” the girl offered with a glance toward Tyler’s half-eaten meal.

“That would be great,” Tyler said with a smile. He could eat the rest tonight in his motel room, if nothing else.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Mr. Westree glowed in the girl’s direction. She left the check on the table and vanished again through the door to the kitchen.

Tyler picked up the list of donors Mr. Westree had set on the table. He caught Mr. Westree’s glance out of the corner of his eye. Fear was showing on his face. Tyler paused and followed the look at several names displayed above where his fingers touched the paper. Small donation amounts were listed to the side. He hadn’t paid them any attention earlier. Fraud was perpetuated best where large sums of cash flowed, not small amounts.

Mr. Westree was on his feet now, but Tyler sat down again. “One last question, please,” he said.

Mr. Westree tried his best to smile. “I think we’re through here today, son.” He turned his back but didn’t move away from the table.

“Olga Corporation. Westby Tabled. Eastern Indian Market,” Tyler read out loud. Mr. Westree still hadn’t turned around. “What did these suppliers contribute to the relief effort?”

“You’ll have to ask them,” Mr. Westree said.

“I will,” Tyler allowed, rising to his feet as Mr. Westree walked on ahead.

Tyler took the check and the box of uneaten cod with his gaze
on Mr. Westree’s retreating back. The man went out the door, climbed into his car in the parking lot, and drove away without a backward glance. A nerve had been touched, Tyler told himself, and purely by accident. It could be that he was imagining things, but his instincts were usually correct.

Tyler looked up as the waitress reappeared at the register and accepted his credit card. While waiting, he thought a moment and then asked, “Do you know Mr. Westree well?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. “He comes in here sometimes,” she finally said.

“Seems like a jolly fellow,” Tyler probed.

“A pillar in the community, as they say.” The girl’s look betrayed her praise.

Tyler didn’t push. “It was an excellent meal. Thank you for the box.”

The girl smiled. “You’re welcome. And come back soon. We have a nice prime rib special on Friday nights.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” As Tyler climbed into his car, he wondered,
Now what?
Should he continue what might well be a wild-goose chase? What were the chances he’d find anything? Not good. All he had were looks and insinuations. These were country folks. They wouldn’t embezzle relief funds. The accusation was ludicrous.

Tyler rubbed his eyes as he drove out of Coalgate. He would look into the donation matter later. Right now he needed a distraction. The real reason he was lingering in town was because of a blushing Amish schoolteacher. He hated to admit such a base motive, but the girl gripped his imagination. Her story was absolutely fascinating, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about her in the first article in the planned series he’d e-mailed to his editor last night. Surely the next article would have to have more substance to it, or the editor would be disappointed.

He knew he wanted to show Miriam the story he had written,
and he wanted to see her again. Yes, she was from another world—one he could barely imagine, let alone understand. That first night when he ate supper with the Bylers, he had felt the effects of their lifesyle. The stillness and peace of the house had undergirded their quiet conversation. He’d at first attributed Miriam’s red face to the heat from the stove in the kitchen, but it had been more than that. He was obviously as strange to Miriam as she was to him, but she was perhaps not immune to his charms. That stroked his vanity more than he wished it did. Perhaps that was what drove him to ignore Hilda’s recent texts.

Oddly, his exposure to the Amish was pricking his conscience about his cavalier attitude toward Hilda and the several girlfriends who had preceded her. He couldn’t imagine Miriam taking up a relationship with the same kind of detachment he showed toward Hilda, a detachment he had always justified to himself. But with Miriam things were different. Although he had no business disrupting Miriam’s life, he somehow couldn’t resist. And his excuse was flimsy. If this kept up he might actually feel some guilt about the way he treated the women who liked him.

But in the meantime he would stop again at the schoolhouse after he checked on the loose ends Mr. Westree had left him. Miriam would have finished with her schoolday by then, and she’d be alone. He liked that picture. There was something primitive and personal about Miriam’s presence. Her persona was so open and aboveboard, unlike Mr. Westree’s or Hilda’s. What would it be like to date such a girl? He liked that idea too—more than he wished to admit.

Tyler glanced at the donor list. Westby Tabled’s address was south of Clarita, but he had the time, so he headed in that direction with his thoughts still on Miriam. The whole thing about the two-million-dollar gift still seemed impossible. Was someone not telling the truth? Surely Miriam had been truthful. Her employer
for three years had been a Mr. Bland. He could check on that, just to be sure. That would be easy enough. Newspapers published obituaries. Tyler glanced at his watch before he pulled over into a cattle lane. He turned off the engine and pulled up the Internet feed on his iPad. He searched and found the website for the largest newspaper in Sugarcreek, Ohio. With a broad search of five years and the last name Bland, two obituaries came up. One of them was for a thirty-five-year-old man. The other matched Miriam’s description, and the only surviving relative was a sister, Rose.

Well, what did you expect
, Tyler asked himself,
that Miriam would lie?

Clearly Miriam was as honest as she appeared. He wanted her to be wrong about something. Underhanded or devious was too much, but a little flaw in Miriam would make him feel better for some odd, unexplainable reason. Then perhaps his fascination with the woman would end. But since nothing like that appeared likely, could he possibly ask her out? On a dinner date? Did the Amish even do that? No, he was sure they didn’t. Even if she said yes, it would likely get her into some kind of trouble with the community. He had learned enough about the Amish to know that much anyway.

Miriam would rebuff his advance, Tyler was certain. And there would go what little access he had to her. The thought troubled him more than he wished. No, he would be the perfect gentleman. He would see her again only after he had visited the offices of Westby Tabled, though in his present frame of mind he probably couldn’t focus enough to ask coherent questions, let alone sniff out corruption.

Tyler rubbed the stubble on his chin and drove his rental car back onto the road.

Chapter Twelve

A
bout that same hour in Coalgate, Mose Stoll paused in the door of the Greyhound bus to wave goodbye. Miriam and her Aunt Fannie were standing on the sidewalk nearby to see him off on his return trip. Miriam had found a substitute teacher for the school day, even though Mose had insisted this wasn’t necessary. He had shaken hands with both of them moments before and had hoped they would return to the car. Their driver, Mr. Whitehorse, had driven them all into town to catch the bus, but Miriam wouldn’t leave until the bus pulled away. It just seemed to her the right thing to do.

Mose gave one last wave and climbed up the bus steps. The bus driver gave him a grin. “Did you have a good visit?”

“
Yah
, I did,” Mose answered as he looked back through the bus for a seat, finally settling into a seat across from two middle-aged women and laying his head back on the seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Miriam’s face appeared again on the sidewalk. She
waved again. Mose lifted his hand in a feeble response. Miriam likely didn’t see him through the tinted bus windows anyway. She smiled though, and wisps of her hair were blowing out from under her
kapp
and across her face.

Mose looked away. Miriam was a decent and holy woman, but he hadn’t seen a woman’s long hair unbound for many months now. Miriam’s hair would be beautiful flowing across her shoulders, Mose told himself. He wished now he had asked her last night to wed him. Perhaps his conscience would be more open to these thoughts of Miriam if she was his promised one. But last night he had been too cautious to make such a fast move, much as he wanted to wed Miriam this fall. Mose chided himself. He should have given in to his first impulse, but he couldn’t overcome his scruples. He would have to wait now. Miriam would be his
frau
in a year or so. He felt confident of that, and he’d feel better if she went ahead and completed her promised year of teaching. Then she’d be free to marry him without inconveniencing anyone. That was how he liked things done. Duty first, followed by pleasure.