A woman sitting across from us made a shushing sound, and I realized I missed the end of Mathews’s brief speech.

  After the speech, Miller, Clark, and I got in line for cookies. “It was the weirdest thing,” Clark said, “but I could have sworn I saw his car in the lot this morning. Later, I went outside to search for it, but by then, it was gone.”

  “You did?” Miller asked.

  “What kind of car is it?” I asked, half paying attention as I watched Mathews work the room.

  “A silver sedan.”

  My head snapped around. The car that passed me Saturday night was a silver sedan.

  Clark’s brow knitted together. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. I’ll see you guys back at the office.” I made a beeline for the punch table where Grayson Mathews stood, shaking hands.

  I waited in line as one of the vice presidents gushed over him. “Mr. Mathews, you don’t know how much this donation means to Harshberger and our students.”

  Mathews smiled his perfect-teeth smile and patted the man on the back as if he was a member of the same team. Old habits must die hard for the football hero. The vice president, five foot one at best, had probably not been a former football teammate, yet he beamed.

  At my turn, I held out my hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Mathews.”

  He gave me the same smile he shared with the vice president, but this one didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, yes, Miss Humphrey. It’s nice to see you again. Has Timothy and his family changed their mind about my offer?”

  I shook my head.

  He pursed his lips. “What a shame.”

  “It’s nice of you to donate to the college. Very generous.”

  He smiled. “I have plans to be a large part of Knox County, and in particular, Appleseed Creek. It makes sense I would give back, and what better place to do that than to Harshberger? The college has been here for nearly one hundred years.”

  “How do you plan to be a large part of the Knox County? I mean, other than the development in the Amish district. You do know you will never convince all those Amish families to sell.”

  He set his punch on the table. The cup was full. I wasn’t surprised. Grayson Mathews didn’t strike me as a fruit punch kind of guy. “You may be right. Not all the families will sell—at least not right away. However, if I can convince a few strategic sales, we can move forward with our plans. The plans may have to be scaled back, but we can always add on later as more land becomes available.”

  I selected a sugar cookie from the tray. “Strategic sales? Do you mean the Glick Farm?”

  “I appreciate your curiosity, but that’s simply none of your business.”

  “Are you interested in the Glick’s land or the natural gas pump on the property?”

  His head whipped to one side.

  “I’m guessing you would have to offer each family much more for their property if you took into account their mineral rights. Have you included that in the negotiations?” I folded the cookie into a napkin.

  The developer’s jaw twitched. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “True, I don’t know much about it, but I do know real estate is not as profitable right now as gas and oil is.” The cookie crumbled inside the napkin as I squeezed my hand around it.

  “We are done here. Your college president wishes to speak to me.”

  I turned around to see President Hammerstein standing behind me. As I left, I tossed the mangled cookie and napkin into the trash.

  At the office, Miller and Clark were already back at their desks. It was almost four o’clock. “You guys can go home early.”

  They peeked out over their cubicle walls and nodded in tandem. The two then grabbed their lunchboxes and made a dash for the door. I laughed. I couldn’t believe how much lighter the mood was in the office now that Joel was gone. It had been difficult to let him go, but it was the best thing for the college and the department. I prayed that now Miller, Clark, and I could become a real team.

  Alone, I logged onto the Internet and started researching Grayson Mathews. This time I would dig deeper. Considering his wealth and reputation, there was bound to be a plethora of information about him online. I wasn’t disappointed. The first half-dozen articles talked about all the work that Mathews had done creating a planned community south of Columbus called Jeffersonville Village. Every article mentioned his record as an Ohio State football hero, as if that should give him the credentials to develop property.

  I clicked a tiny icon, a logo of some type, at the bottom on the main page of his website. The logo led me to a new website called Buckeye Tree Companies.

  The CEO of that corporation was Grayson Mathews. A long list of businesses fell under the corporation’s control, from Jeffersonville Village to restaurants to a gas company—Buckeye River Gas. “Got you,” I whispered. I couldn’t wait to tell Timothy why Mathews was really interested in the Amish lands.

  My stomach clenched when I saw the name of another company halfway down the page—Little Owl Greenhouse. I clicked on the link and found a photograph of the place where Becky worked. She was there now.

  My heart revved. Calm down, Chloe. So what if Grayson’s corporation owned the greenhouse? He owned half a dozen other small businesses in and around Knox County, too. There didn’t have to be a connection with the greenhouse and his real estate or gas companies.

  I couldn’t let go of the fact that Scotch and Cookie had offered Becky a job she was clearly unqualified for. Yes, when she lived with her Amish family, she’d helped with the gardening. However her experience had been exclusively related to fruits and vegetables. She didn’t know the scientific names of flowers; she didn’t understand growing zones or how to landscape. She was a fast learner, but she still had a long way to go.

  And then, there was her broken arm.

  I clicked back to Buckeye Tree Companies and found the link to Jeffersonville Village, which had its own Web site. The people in the photos smiled, showing me right away that Jeffersonville Village was the best place to live in the entire state. The village had a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a clubhouse. The list went on and on.

  I clicked on the listing prices. Houses were priced from two hundred thousand dollars to five hundred thousand. I stared at the screen. My father in California wouldn’t blink at these prices. In fact, where he lived these homes would be considered cheap. However, in rural Ohio the prices didn’t ring true. Who in Knox County could afford such an expensive home?

  I sat back, stunned. Clark was right. It wasn’t the land Mathews wanted. It was what was under the land.

  It was after four, and Becky would be done at the greenhouse in half an hour. I thought about calling Timothy, but we hadn’t spoken since the picnic. I held my cell phone in my hand. He was working in Sunbury again this week anyway. I slid the phone back into my purse, telling myself that not calling him had nothing whatsoever to do with Hannah Hilty.

  With so much on my mind, I turned off the computer, grabbed my purse, and headed for Little Owl Greenhouse.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Cookie wasn’t at the cash register when I stepped into the greenhouse, but that was to be expected. Cookie and Scotch were always wandering around. Usually Becky was the easiest to find, but I didn’t see her either.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Becky?”

  No response. That girl really needed a cell phone for times like this. I kicked myself for buying her jeans first. I stepped through the store and hothouse, the thick air greeting me. Still no Becky. I checked outside at the fenced-in part of the property. Becky should be here. She had told me the night before that Scotch was going to teach her how to prune the fir trees. How she planned to manage that with one arm, I couldn’t understand. But I hadn’t wanted to dampen her mood. She’d been upbeat ever since our walk on the trail with Timothy and Aaron.

  I hurried down the long row of maples until reaching the fir trees. It felt like I’d stepped into a potted version of a Christmas tree farm. “Becky?”

  Still no answer. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, prickling my skin. I turned around to head toward the exit.

  Just then, Brock and Curt stepped out from opposite sides. They trapped me in the middle of a stand of pine trees. Curt’s lip curled. “Red’s back, Brock.”

  “Hello, friend.” Brock clapped his hands, the sound of it like thunder. “We missed you.”

  “I can’t say the same,” I snapped. “Get out of my way.”

  Curt shook his head. “No need to get testy.” He took a step toward me.

  My breath caught, and I retreated, the sharp, spiny branches of a fir tree poking me in the back. “Don’t come near me or I will scream. The people working here will hear me.”

  Curt snorted. “You mean Cookie or Scotch? They are old friends of ours. They won’t say anything about your screams.”

  “Old friends? What are you talking about?”

  “My goodness, Brock, she doesn’t have it all figured out. I would have thought Little Miss Super Sleuth would know everything by now. You’ve been all over the county, poking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  I clenched my fists. “Where are Cookie and Scotch?”

  “They’re here. Keeping quiet just like we told them to. They’re good at following orders.”

  “Not all the time,” Brock corrected.

  “They are after we roughed up Scotch a little, you know, as incentive.” Curt smirked.

  My heart pounded in my chest, the sound exploding in my ears. “Where’s Becky?”

  “Don’t worry. She’s here. She’s been spending some time with us. We’ve decided to put the past in the past. Now we’re all chums.” He nodded at Brock. “Aren’t we, brother?”

  “Totally,” Brock agreed.

  “You better not have hurt her.” I removed my phone from my pocket, then swallowed a groan. No service.

  Brock grabbed the phone from my hand. “There will be none of that. No calling for help, especially from that Amish boyfriend of yours.”

  Curt paced in front of me. “Why would you bother with some buggy-rider when you could have a real man like one of us?”

  “Or both of us,” Brock said, his grin sickeningly wide.

  Curt narrowed his eyes. “That’s an idea.”

  I leaned against the fir tree, its branches like knives in my back, and the pot it was planted in wobbled slightly. I threw all my weight against it, and the pot fell over. Tree limbs and needles covered the ground, and I lay in the middle of it. I scrambled to my feet, and ran down the next row of trees.

  Brock stepped into my path, and I pulled up short.

  Curt ran up behind me and yanked my right arm behind my back. “Now you’ve made me mad.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “Get away from me. Where’s Becky?” I glared at Brock. Dear Lord, help me through this. Please protect Becky.

  Curt sighed as if my reaction was a disappointment. He tightened his grip. “We’ll take you to her.”

  Brock grabbed my arm, knocking Curt out of the way. “She’s in the roses.”

  I attempted to yank myself from his grasp. “I know where that is. I can walk there myself.”

  “True, but then you would try to run away again,” Curt said. “Brock could use the exercise by chasing you, but he’s not in the mood for it tonight. Are you, big guy?”

  “Naw, I’m not much for running.”

  Brock dragged me toward the rose garden where I found Becky seated on the floor, her unbroken arm tied to her ankles.

  Cookie and Scotch were on the cement next to her. Their hands were tied as well. Scotch had a gash over his left eyebrow.

  I knelt in front of him. “Are you okay?”

  “We’re sorry,” Cookie said.

  Tears rolled down Scotch’s face and onto his overalls. “We tried to protect Becky. That’s why we drove her back and forth from the greenhouse. We had to know she was safe all the time, so they wouldn’t try to hurt her.”

  Brock grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me away from them. “You can see how well that worked out.”

  Curt pulled something out of his pocket. A handgun. “Don’t try anything stupid, Red, or I’ll shoot all of them, starting with the girl.”

  Becky’s body shook uncontrollably.

  “What time is your uncle going to be here?” Brock asked.

  Curt kept his watch on us. “Any minute.”

  Brock hopped from foot to foot. “He’s going to be impressed with this.” He towered over me. “You’re not going to mess it up for us this time.”

  “This time?”

  “You snatched the girl from us on Route 13. Then we couldn’t grab her. You or that buggy-rider was always with her.”

  I scrunched my forehead. “Why did you want to kidnap Becky?”

  “Someone needed to show the Amish who is in control of this county. They’d sell their land to his uncle if we held the girl.” A smile spread across Brock’s face. “And I wanted to have a little fun with her.”

  Curt grinned, giving me a full view of his tobacco-dip stained teeth. “He will no longer see me as a screw-up. I got it right this time.”

  “You have to let us go,” Cookie said.

  “Shut up,” Curt barked. “My uncle owns this place. You should be grateful for everything he’s done for you.”

  My stomach dropped. “Grayson Mathews is your uncle?”

  Curt glared at me. “Shut your mouth! Sit down next to the girl.” He pointed the gun at me. “You do anything stupid, I shoot the Amish girl.”

  I sat on the cold cement next to Becky. “Becky, did they hurt you?” I whispered.

  “No.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  Relief washed over me. “God will protect us.”

  Curt’s head snapped around. “I said shut your mouth.”

  A voice called from deep in the greenhouse “Curt!”

  Curt gestured with the gun. “That’s my uncle. Go get him.”

  Brock disappeared into the maze of plants. He returned with Grayson Mathews following behind him. “Curt, this better be worth me delaying my trip back to Columbus. I can’t stand all this country life. Those idiots at Harshberger bought my—” He saw Becky, Scotch, Cookie, and me sitting on the ground. His jaw twitched, and he swore. “What is this?”

  Curt melted under his uncle’s glare.

  “Curt, what did you do?” His voice was thunderous.

  “I’m helping you. She was going to connect you to the accident that killed that Amish guy.”

  “Connect me to the accident? I had nothing to do with it. That was another one of your mistakes. I gave the police an alibi for you, and you pull this stunt?”

  Curt removed something from his pocket. I flinched, afraid it might be another gun. Instead, he removed a dirty business card. “She had your card in her car. She knew you asked us to mess with the Amish.”

  I do now.

  Mathews closed his eyes.

  I squared my gaze on him. “You killed the bishop.”

  Brock squeezed my arm and hissed, “The bishop was a lucky casualty.”

  My eyes ran across the three of them. “One of you cut the brake line.”

  “Yeah,” Brock said. “We meant to get you out of the way so we could get the girl”

  Hot bile rose in my throat. I swallowed hard to force it down,

  “If we had the girl, the Amish would sell the land to Curt’s uncle.”

  I glared at Mathews. “You asked them to do that?”

  “I’m not that stupid,” Mathews snapped.

  Brock pulled his chin into his chest, his expression confused. “But you asked us to convince the Amish to sell, whatever it took.”

  Mathews ran a hand through his JFK Jr. hair. “Next time, I’ll make a list of do’s and don’ts.”

  “It’s because of the natural gas, isn’t it?” I said.

  “We’re going to be rich,” Brock said.

  “Would you two stop talking to her?” He glared at Brock. “We wouldn’t even be in this situation if you hadn’t been so stupid. I never told you to cut anything.” He balled up the business card Curt gave him and threw it on the floor. “The deal will never go through now, you idiot.”

  “But Uncle Grayson . . .” Curt winced. “I was trying to help.”

  “You’ve been a screw-up since the day you were born. You couldn’t even join the army.”

  Curt clutched the dog tags hanging from his neck. “That wasn’t my fault. I wanted to serve my country. I’m not a coward like those buggy-riders.”

  “I know all about your heart murmur, nephew. Your mother reminds me about it on a daily basis. You must be brain damaged too if you think kidnapping four people was a good idea.”

  Curt licked his lips.

  Brock stepped back from his friend.

  “I was helping those filthy buggy-riders who don’t deserve that land and gas. What have they ever done for anyone? They don’t even fight for our country. They’d happily let someone else do that for them.” Curt trained the gun on Becky. I slid on my seat in front of her. “Don’t think I won’t shoot you, because I will.”

  “Grayson, you have to let us go. This is going to ruin everything you worked for,” Scotch said.

  “I don’t need your advice,” Mathews snapped and turned to his nephew. “Give me the gun.”

  “They don’t deserve it. You do, uncle, and men like my father, who fought and died for this land. Amish scum.” He spat.

  “Curt. Give. Me. The. Gun.”

  Curt stared at his uncle with tears in his eyes. Slowly, he handed the gun to Mathews. “They don’t deserve it,” Curt whispered.

  “I know,” Mathews said.

  A man stepped out from behind a huge hibiscus bush and aimed the jet stream of a water hose into Mathews’s eyes.

  I blinked. “Joel?”

  Mathews covered his face and dropped the gun. The force of the water pressure forced the weapon to slide under a potted rose of Sharon.

  Before he could dash after it, I donkey-kicked Brock in the knee, the same one he fell on the day I met Becky on the side of Route 13, the day I moved to Appleseed Creek. He cried out in pain and let go of my arm.