Page 8 of Dark Storm Rising

Tomasetti passes his cell phone to him. “Call the number to see if she’s there.”

While Enos makes the call, I kneel at the vanity. There’s a smear of blood on the knob. A spot the size of a quarter soaked into the rug. No one says it, but it seems like too much blood for some benign injury, especially now that she’s missing.

“Nothing out of place in the bedroom.” I look at Tomasetti. “Kitchen?”

“Spick-and-span,” Tomasetti says.

“She’s not at the house.” Enos hands the cell phone back to Tomasetti, then divides his attention between the two of us. “Even if she’d cut herself, she would have wiped up the blood before leaving. The woman’s a stickler for cleaning. Something’s wrong.”

Tomasetti contemplates the Amish man. “Mr. Nisley, have you had any security problems at any of the cabins? Burglaries? Intruders? Anything like that?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Enos shakes his head. “This area is quiet. No break-ins. No theft. No…” The Amish man’s brows knit, his expression growing troubled. “There have been some … unusual occurrences in the last three or four months.”

“Like what?” Tomasetti asks.

“A month ago, we had a bad roof leak at the Bluebird Cabin. The one you’re staying in. I called my cousin down in Geauga County. He’s a roofer and came up with his crew. He looked at the roof and said there was a two-inch hole drilled right through. The decking. The underlayment. And the steel panel. He didn’t know what to make of it. His foreman said it was if someone had used a hole saw on it.”

I’m aware of Tomasetti staring hard at the older man, trying to make sense of the information and figure out how it might relate to his missing wife.

“Are you saying the roofer thought someone had vandalized the roof?” he asks.

“That’s what he said.”

“Any idea who might’ve done something like that?”

“I can’t imagine,” Enos says.

“Have you or your wife had any disagreements or disputes with your neighbors?” I ask. “Anything like that?”

“No,” he replies. “We enjoy what few neighbors we have left. They’re English, but we get along with them just fine.”

“You said there were several odd incidents,” Tomasetti says.

Enos nods. “Two weeks ago, a strange noise woke us up in the middle of the night. I looked around, but I didn’t find anything out of place and we went back to sleep.” He tightens his mouth. “A few days later, Lovina was cleaning the windows and found two bullet holes in the glass.”

“Did you report it to the sheriff’s office?” I ask.

“Well, no.” He shrugs. “It was hunting season at the time. I figured it was a ricochet or stray shot.”

“Anything else?” Tomasetti asks.

He starts to shake his head, but thinks better of it. “About three weeks ago, Lovina was walking to the Bobwhite Cabin. She came back all shook up. Said there was a man on the trail. A stranger.”

Tomasetti narrows his eyes. “Someone hiking?” he asks. “Is that unusual?”

“No one hikes those trails,” Enos tells him. “This is private property. We have signs, you know. Our closest neighbors are three miles away.”

“Did Lovina get a look at the man?” I ask.

“That’s the thing,” Enos says. “She claimed the man was wearing a ski mask.” He grimaces. “It was sixty degrees that day. I didn’t know what to think. I mean, with the Alzheimer’s…” He squeezes his eyes closed, anguish infusing his features. “What if she was right?”

Reaching out, I give his forearm a reassuring squeeze.

“Mr. Nisley,” Tomasetti begins, “what about contractors or workers? Have you had any disagreements? Any unhappy customers? Or disputes over money?”

Enos shakes his head. “We’ve never heard an unkind word from anyone, especially not our customers.” The old man’s brows furrow. “Only other thing I can think of is the fire.”

“Didn’t the fire marshal say it was caused by a burner being left on?” I ask.