“Officer Grumbach, please go find Ms. Markovic a sweater or sweatshirt.”
He nodded and disappeared into her bedroom. She didn’t even seem to notice until Grumbach handed her a zip-front, hooded sweatshirt. After a moment, she put it on and hunched inside it.
“This morning?” he nudged.
She accepted the cue. “This morning, I got up, grabbed clothes and started into the bathroom. That’s when I realized the box was gone. I knew where I’d left it, but I ran around searching anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I sleepwalked? Hallucinated last night? Anyway, I searched this whole damn place, then I ran down to my car to make sure I didn’t leave it on the seat. I parked in front last night,” she added.
“That was smart.” He nodded his approval. “Do you lock the car?” Not everyone in Henness County did. Law enforcement kept busy enough, but the crime rate per capita was substantially lower in what was usually a peaceful town and rural surroundings than it had been in urban Camden, New Jersey.
“I always do. And it was still locked, so I knew—” She gulped to a stop.
Ben straightened, careful not to let her see what he was thinking. Because there were two possibilities here, and the most obvious was that she was lying through her teeth. If so, she was one hell of a liar, but he didn’t know her well. Nobody in these parts did. The first thing he’d do when he got to the station was run a thorough search on Nadia Markovic’s background.
Possibility two was that somebody had somehow unlocked two doors without leaving a scratch or making a lot of noise—because however sound her sleep, Ben was betting she’d have woken if she heard a strange sound right there in her apartment—and walked out with the money. And if that was the case...odds were good the thief had been a participant or volunteer at the auction. Who else would know who had the money?
What would have happened if she had awakened to see someone looming in her bedroom? Had the thief been prepared to kill if necessary?
A question he didn’t need to ask himself until he eliminated the possibility that she had either planned the entire event with the intention of profiting from it, or had succumbed to temptation at some point and decided to keep the money.
“Have you had anything to eat or drink yet this morning?” he asked abruptly.
Comprehension was a little slow coming. “No. No.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t eat.”
“You can,” he said firmly. “Let’s go in the kitchen, and I can at least pour you a cup of coffee.”
“Tea. I drink tea.”
“Tea it is.” He rose and held out a hand. Just like last night, she stared at his hand for a split second longer than would be usual before taking it. He boosted her to her feet. “Officer Grumbach, I think you can go back to patrol now.” On a twinge of memory, Ben glanced at her. “Unless you’d be more comfortable not being alone with me, Ms. Markovic.”
“What? Oh, no. That’s fine.” She summoned a weak smile for the young officer. “Thank you. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“You were understandably upset, ma’am.” Grumbach nodded and departed in what Ben suspected was more relief. He was a new hire, barely experienced enough to be out on his own. He’d done fine, though; Ben made a mental note to tell him so.
Nadia wanted to make her own tea, but he persuaded her to sit and let him do it. Waiting for the water to boil, he investigated her refrigerator and cupboards, finally settling on a croissant he heated in the microwave before splitting it open and slapping on raspberry jam from a local Amish woman. He recognized the label. He added extra sugar to the tea before setting the cup in front of her, then the croissant.
Under his stern gaze, she did eat and sipped at her English breakfast tea. Finally, she admitted to feeling better.
“Then let’s talk.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He thought being recorded might stifle her. “Who knew you were taking the proceeds home?” he asked bluntly.
She blinked. “I can’t imagine...”
He cocked an eyebrow. “But the thief had to know.”
“Oh, dear God,” Nadia whispered. She stared into space for a minute. “Well, Katie-Ann Chupp, of course. Julie Baird, Karen Llewellyn, probably Rachel Schwartz.”
Two Amish, two Englischers. Even he’d come to divide his citizenry that way. From what he’d learned since moving to Byrum, it would be a cold day in hell before either of the warmhearted Amish women would so much as give a passing thought to stealing, never mind carrying out a heist like this. They’d have no need. If either woman’s family was struggling financially, all they’d have to do was ask for help, and it would pour forth. That’s how the Amish worked; they took care of each other. On the other hand, he knew both the other women, at least in passing, and felt reasonably sure neither made a likely suspect, either. Julie Baird’s husband was a doctor, Karen’s a representative for a farm equipment company. Still, he noted all four names.
Nadia reeled off a few more, then admitted that anyone helping with cleanup might have heard or guessed that she would be taking the money.
Yes, it would have been logical to suppose the event chair would deal with the evening’s take, which could widen the suspect pool considerably. But would somebody really break in to look for the cash box without being 100 percent certain Nadia had taken it home? Ben didn’t think so.
Of course, that somebody could have been lurking outside to see who carried the box out, and even though Ben had been watching for just that eventuality, landscaping around the historic mansion included a lot of dark bushes and trees.
“Did you see anyone around last evening who wasn’t involved with the auction?” he asked.
Her forehead crinkled. “I don’t think... Only Mr. Warren, wanting to be sure everything was going smoothly. He left after I promised to lock up and then return the keys sometime today, but I bet he went by after we were gone last night to make sure I had.”
Ben would bet the same. Lyle Warren, head of the historical society that maintained and showed the house, was anal to an extreme. He fussed.
“Anybody ask questions about the money?” Ben asked.
She stared at him. “Well...of course they did.”
“No, I was thinking about interest in how much cash you had versus checks or credit card slips.”
Nadia moaned, and he didn’t blame her. Once word got out, people would have to contact their credit card companies, maybe wait for new cards, put a stop on checks. Those among them with a strong conscience would then reimburse the auction committee, meaning the total sum wasn’t lost. But if the thief made use of credit card numbers or altered and cashed checks, everyone would be pissed, whether the credit card companies and banks took the loss or not.
Unfortunately, some inks were easy to “wash” from a check, allowing the thief to change the recipient’s name and even the amount the check was made out for. Depending on what info the auction cashiers had written down, checks could be an aid to identity theft, too.
And anyone who had not just a credit card number, but also the expiration date, name on the card and the code from the back was home free to spend up to the limit.
When she finally answered, he could tell her thoughts had gone a different direction.
“Nobody asked,” she said, her voice thin. “I think...most of them are so used to transactions with the Amish being primarily cash, nothing about the evening would surprise them. You know? But every time I opened the box, I was surprised. I mean, there were wads of money. So many of the sellers during the day were Amish, I bet three-fourths or more of that twenty thousand dollars was cash. And last night... I’ll have to find out, but even if it was only half...”
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