Long Lost: A Kate Burkholder Short Story by Linda Castillo Page B

Tomasetti and me. I don’t want to worry about our hosts condemning me for my choices. To my surprise, she nods and offers a smile. “We were Swartzendruber, you know.”
    “Too strict for our liking,” Harley puts in.
    “We’re Mennonite now.” Fannie crosses to a small coffee station and pours cider into four mugs.
    I nod, letting that bit of information soak in. The Mennonites and the Amish share a long and complex history that goes back over three hundred years. Today, the two groups share many similarities with regard to theologic views and cultural heritage. But the differences, particularly between the Swartzendruber Amish and the Mennonites, are profound. The Swartzendruber group is the most conservative, with stringent rules against technology. All but the most conservative of Mennonites—the Old Order Mennonites—utilize modern conveniences, including cars, electricity, and even computers and the Internet.
    “Don’t recall seeing you folks here before,” Harley says. “This your first visit?”
    Tomasetti nods. “I was out at one of the travel Web sites and one of your guests mentioned something about this place being haunted.”
    The couple exchanges a grim look I don’t understand. The Mennonite man covers the awkward moment with a chuckle. “Well now, we don’t really talk about that too much.” His eyes flick to his wife and he lowers his voice. “But there have been a dozen or so sightings of her since she went missing.”
    “Her?” Tomasetti asks.
    “Harley Hilty, don’t go scaring the guests already.” Straightening, Fannie turns and carries two mugs over to us. “All that talk of ghosts. That’s just a load of horse feathers.”
    “Fannie doesn’t believe in ghosts.” Harley points out the obvious.
    “You just hush about all that.” The Mennonite woman shoves a steaming cup at me. “I’ve got a cinnamon stick if you’d like.”
    The aromas of cider and nutmeg tease my senses as I take the mug. “This is perfect. Thanks.”
    “There’s an apple orchard behind the old barn,” she tells me. “My grossdaddi planted all those trees fifty years ago and they’re still producing the best McIntosh apples I’ve ever had.”
    “The couple that was here last weekend saw her in the orchard,” Harley says.
    Fannie makes a sound of annoyance.
    “You mean the ghost?” I ask, trying not to feel foolish.
    Tomasetti picks up the pen and begins filling out the registration form. “Everyone likes a good ghost story.”
    “Pure silliness.” Fannie shakes her head. “And disrespectful of the dead if you ask me.”
    Harley picks up his mug of cider. “I seen her myself a time or two.”
    I look from husband to wife. “What happened?”
    Looking a little too excited, Harley explains. “A young woman by the name of Angela Blaine stayed here not long after we opened. She was a sweet, pretty thing. But I knew she was running from something. Or someone. Had that scared look about her. You know, in the eyes.” He shrugs. “Anyway, she checked in for two nights. Paid cash. And never checked out.”
    “Disappeared into thin air.” Fannie grimaces. “At first we didn’t know if the poor thing left or if something happened to her. A couple of days later Harley was out walking by the river and found her clothes.” Shaking her head, the woman crosses to the counter and steps behind it, as if she wants nothing to do with what will be said next.
    “They were blood soaked,” Harley whispers.
    “That was when we called the sheriff’s office,” Fannie puts in.
    “A few days later Angela’s mother filed a missing person report.” Harley slurps his cider hard. “What kind of mother waits that long before reporting her daughter missing?”
    Despite my efforts not to be, I’m intrigued by the mystery. “Did they find her?”
    “Not a trace,” Harley responds. “Aside from those bloody clothes, anyway.”
    “Did the sheriff’s department search the property?” Tomasetti