Dark Crossings by Marta Perry Page A

door at eight-thirty, and
every day she found Mr. Strickland’s breakfast dishes on the table. Her employer
would be in the sunroom on the side of the house, enjoying a second cup of
coffee while he listened to the news. But the coffeemaker was cold, the sink was
empty and shining, and no sound broke the stillness of the old house.
    A chill spread through her. Sarah spun, moving quickly toward
the front of the house. Mr. Strickland must be ill…nothing else would cause him
to change the immutable habits of a lifetime. She hurried through the hallway,
thoughts racing faster than her feet— call Mr. Strickland’s
doctor, or the rescue squad if it looked very serious. They could be here
faster and—
    She skidded to a stop a few feet from the bottom of the stairs.
Neither the doctor nor the rescue squad would be of help. Richard Strickland lay
tumbled on the polished stairs, one hand reaching the tiled floor of the hall.
Sarah didn’t need to touch him to know he was dead.
    She had to, of course. She knelt next to him, silent prayers
forming in her mind, and searched for a pulse. Nothing stirred under her
fingers, and his skin was cold. Pity and grief seemed to have a stranglehold on
her throat. Mr. Strickland hadn’t been an especially likable man…eccentric, the
charitable said. He was the last of the Strickland family, a name that had once
meant something in Lancaster County, and folks just shrugged off his crankiness.
But she was used to him, fond of him, even.
    Standing slowly, Sarah went to the telephone in the small
alcove off the hall and dialed 911. After she’d said what she must, she went
back to kneel by the body, her lips moving in silent prayer.
    Even so, she couldn’t keep her eyes from seeing, or her mind
from wondering. What had Mr. Strickland been doing on the stairs in the night?
And it must have been night, because the upstairs hall light was on. He never
came downstairs after he’d taken his pills in the evening, because he said they
made him dizzy. And he also never came out of his bedroom until he was fully
dressed, so why would he be wearing a robe and slippers?
    The doorbell pealed, followed by insistent knocking, and in a
few minutes the hall was filled with people. The retired doctor who lived just
down the street conferred with the ambulance attendants. A young patrolman stood
by the door, looking so pale Sarah wondered if he’d ever seen a dead person
before. Adam Byler, the township police chief, was deep in conversation with Leo
Frost, Mr. Strickland’s attorney.
    Sarah sat on a straight chair against the wall, hands folded in
her lap, blinking against the tears that threatened to fall, wondering when
she’d be able to go home. Wondering what, if anything, she should say.
    Her gaze was caught by the leather slipper that lay on the tile
floor, and she frowned.
    Chief Byler picked up the slipper, holding it out to Mr. Frost.
“This is probably the culprit,” he said. “It looks as if Strickland was coming
downstairs in the night, and he tripped on the slipper. Easy enough to happen,
and these leather soles are slippery.”
    But Mr. Strickland wouldn’t come down in the night, wouldn’t
wear those slippers.
    Sarah pressed her lips together. She could practically hear Daad’ s voice in her mind.
    Amish have a duty to obey the law of the
land and respect its officials, but we don’t become involved with
them.
    What would Daad say she should do
now? Speak or be silent? She suspected she knew the answer to that. So she sat,
silent, her gaze on her hands.
    “Sarah?”
    She looked up, startled, to find that Chief Byler stood in
front of her, along with Mr. Frost.
    “I know this is upsetting for you, but I have a few
questions.”
    “Ja.” She rose. For sure she should
answer any questions the police asked.
    He glanced at the paramedics, who were moving a stretcher into
place. “Let’s go into the kitchen to talk.”
    Nodding, she led the way back down the hall. He was being