Sanctuary (15 page)

Refusing to stare, she kept busy with her search for the items she needed. Paul was only a small part of her past, a truly happy memory if one left out the way things ended between them. ’Course, now, what with Sadie Nan eager to play matchmaker, well, she just didn’t know what to think about such a thing. And yesterday, after church, Sadie had tried mighty hard to catch Lela’s eye. Yet she would have nothing to do with Paul’s sister’s scheming. The fact of the matter was, she didn’t like the thought of playing second fiddle to the fancy blond girl who’d claimed him as her husband. Dead or not.

“Well, my goodness, is that you, Lela?” She heard his voice, and something in her froze.

Turning, she gave him a cordial smile. “Hello, Paul.”

“I’d hoped to visit with you yesterday after church, but you slipped out before I could—”

“What brings you to Lancaster?” she broke in.

Tall and ruddy, he looked at her with shining blue eyes. His light brown hair was cropped around his ears, cut and styled as though he’d never grown up in a strict Anabaptist community. Still, she found his meekness appealing. “I’m here on business,” he replied.

Somewhat relieved, she wondered how long he would stay, though she had no intention of asking. For sure and for certain, Sadie Nan would be all too eager to fill her in.

“I hope you’ll consider having dinner with me.” His voice was gentle, his eyes sincere. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance.”

What was she to say? Spurned in her youth, here was the man who’d rejected her for another. “That’s awful kind of you,” she said softly.

“May I call you sometime?” He wasn’t mincing words.

“I don’t know … how I feel about that,” she confessed.

He smiled down at her, waiting.

“And … I’m real busy with a boarder presently.”

“Oh?” He seemed surprised to hear it. “I didn’t know.”

Because she was
not
in dire straits, definitely not, she didn’t want him to think she was vulnerable, in need of a man. “God nudged me in that particular direction just recently,” she said, revealing nothing about Melissa or the young Englischer’s desperation.

“Well, then, I’m glad to hear it.” He stepped back, smiling his winning smile. “My sister tells me you’re well.”

“Yes, and you?”

“Very well, thanks.”

She hesitated to inquire of his wife’s fatal illness. The subject seemed rather untouchable. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

“Thank you, Lela. How generous of you to say so.”

To think otherwise would have been erroneous on his part. Surely, he must have known how very painful their breakup was for her.

“God bless you, Paul.” She said it quickly, turning away to tend to her shopping.

  
Chapter Eighteen
  

SETTLING ONTO THE COUCH in the sun-room, Denny was glad he’d brought a long-sleeved shirt. A hint of fall hung in the air, though he knew the day would most likely warm up. After all, this was Connecticut.

He read the newspaper for a few minutes but had trouble concentrating. His gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where Melissa’s easel stood poised, the initial stages of a floral painting on display.

Thinking back to his first visit with Ryan and Melissa, he recalled his earliest impression of Ryan’s wife: she was simply beautiful. Further conversation more than confirmed his initial reaction. Not only was Melissa very attractive, but more important, she had a warm personality and a sweet spirit.

He’d announced to Ryan in her presence, “You definitely married
up
, my friend.”

Ryan had laughed. “You aren’t telling
me
anything.”

Melissa only blushed, slipping her arm through Ryan’s.

He also remembered the morning Ryan ran off to the grocery store, leaving him alone with Melissa in the sun-room. They had exchanged small talk until he broached the subject of faith, discovering her to be open and receptive to spiritual things. While he painted word pictures for her of a loving, personal God, she perched on her stool, painting her oceans and listening intently.

“That sounds so … intriguing,” she replied, seemingly sincere. In answer to her questions, he used Scripture, to the best of his ability. Melissa was definitely searching.

Eventually, Ryan returned with several pints of frozen yogurt. After that singular moment, no other opportunity to discuss spiritual matters with Melissa had presented itself. Yet something about that day stuck in his memory. He had been talking about growing up in Colorado, then switched gears to inquire of her home state, Minnesota. Usually candid, Melissa had turned elusive. At the time he’d dismissed it, thinking perhaps she was uncomfortable discussing her childhood.

To a history and geography buff, Denny found it strange that Melissa was uninformed about the basic facts of her own state, as if ten thousand lakes, enormous mosquitoes, harsh winters, even outlandishly high state taxes were somehow foreign to her. Now, with Mellie on the run, the incongruity of their previous discussion haunted him.

Several scrapbooks were lined up along the top shelf of the bookcase. He reached for them and, one by one, perused the pages—mostly pictures of Melissa and Ryan at scenic or historic sites in New England, intermingled with poses at the beach or in front of quaint B&B’s.

He examined each picture carefully as if something in Melissa’s face, her expression might reveal something important. He was unsure what he was looking for, but he had a peculiar feeling about the whole situation.

The jangle of the phone interrupted his musing. He rushed to the living room in search of the portable. Finding it, he answered, “Hello? James residence.”

“Denny—” Ryan’s voice.

“What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this. Mellie sent me an e-mail message.”

Denny breathed a sigh of relief. “Where is she?”

“She didn’t say, but she’s all right.”

Still confused by Melissa’s secrecy, Denny did not reply.

“Well … I wanted you to know,” Ryan said. “See you later.”

“Later,” Denny said and hung up, puzzled, then headed back to the sun-room. Melissa was safe.
Thanks, Lord
. Carefully, he placed the scrapbooks back on the shelf, determined to focus on other matters. But a smaller album, tucked back in the corner, caught his attention.

Let it go, man
, he thought.
She’s okay
.

Something urged him on. He thumbed through the pages, a single photo to each album leaf. The small scrapbook contained childhood photos of Melissa. Photos of a giggling girl riding her bike, posing shyly next to a woman who was possibly her teacher, walking with several other girls on a pathway beside a small lake, opening Christmas presents. The excitement in the small child’s innocent smile touched his heart. He was about to close the album when he noticed something slightly different about the final page. He felt its thickness—bulkier than the others.
Why?

Clumsily, Denny poked the page protector, creating a gap for his thumb and forefinger to explore. Sure enough, another photo lay hidden between. Carefully, he pulled it out and studied the birthday picture. A current of energy shivered down his back.

The photo was of Melissa blowing out candles on a cake. Denny squinted to count them. Eight. Beside her, an older man stood nearby, probably Melissa’s father, his hand resting protectively behind her chair. Neither Melissa nor the man in the photo caused him concern. Directly behind Melissa was a window, and through it a grove of trees. And not just any kind of trees. These were
aspen trees
.

Aspens didn’t grow in Minnesota. They thrived at higher elevations, typical of Colorado. Even more disturbing was the color of the foliage. The aspens had turned
golden
… an autumn birthday….

Denny tapped the photo. His mind flashed back to a phone conversation he’d had with Ryan last spring. For her birthday, they’d gone out past Fishers Island in their sailboat, taking along a “catered picnic lunch,” a surprise from Ryan. But Melissa’s birthday was supposedly in mid-May, not fall.
Is that why this photo was hidden?

Must be an explanation
, he thought. After all, why would anyone lie about their birth month? For that matter, why fib about your home state? The more he thought about it, the more it bugged him.

Wandering through the living room, he looked out the back window and checked his watch: 10:15. Ryan would be home in a half hour. He recalled his friend’s invitation prior to heading off to his office.
Make yourself at home, Investigator Franklin
.

He knew Ryan’s filing cabinet was just off the family room, downstairs. Hurrying for the stairs, he felt a twinge of chagrin. Was he crossing a line? Maybe.

Flicking on the light, he swept past the pool table to a tall black cabinet standing against the far wall. He reached for the top drawer and tugged. Unlocked, it slid open easily. He began to work his way through the multitude of alphabetized files. The label
Personal Information
caught his eye, and he opened it, finding Ryan and Melissa’s marriage certificate. Examining the document, he found nothing unusual.

He continued his thorough search until he spotted what he had been looking for: Melissa’s birth certificate and social security card. Reading the certificate, he noted the newness of the document and the word “reissue” at the bottom.

Birth Certificate

Louis Weiner Memorial Hospital

Marshall, Minnesota

This certifies that

Melissa Leigh Nolan

was born in this hospital

at 2:21 P.M.,

on Saturday the 7th day of May A.D. 1975.

According to the document, Melissa was born in Marshall, Minnesota. The superintendent of the hospital had signed on the appropriate line, as had the attending physician. Below their signatures, Denny saw something that gave him pause.
Family History
. Mother’s and father’s full names, their birthplaces, and birth dates.

The question nagged at him: Was her birth certificate valid? Denny was somewhat familiar with the process of personal identification in the U.S. and knew that birth certificates were widely considered to be the basis of identity. Before God had nudged him toward becoming a teacher, Denny had worked as a security officer for a high-profile law firm—his size had made it seem a natural career choice. During that time, he’d heard of people wishing to escape some crisis who assumed a new identity by either forging a birth certificate, which was risky, or having a new certificate issued in the name of someone who died at a young age, thus assuming that person’s identity. With a fake birth certificate, all the other pieces of identification could be obtained, including social security number, driver’s license, even passport.

Anyone could verify the authenticity of a forged birth certificate by calling a local agency where records of local births were maintained. A forgery was detectable in minutes; the agency would simply have no verifying records of the forgery. But the assumption of a deceased person’s identity was more difficult to trace. After all, that birth certificate would be registered in a local county office. Unless the country cross-referenced birth certificates with death certificates, this kind of assumption of identity usually went undetected.

This is absurd
, Denny thought.
Who am I kidding? Would Melissa actually fake her identity?
Unassuming and sweet, the young woman’s only real crime was fleeing her home, leaving behind a mysterious note.

He came close to dumping everything back into the file and just forgetting the whole thing. But Denny couldn’t walk away, not knowing for sure. Closing the filing cabinet, documents in hand, he trudged up the steps to the main floor. From the kitchen phone, he dialed Information.

“What city?” the operator asked.

“Marshall, Minnesota.”

“One moment, please.”

A few seconds later, another operator’s voice—“What listing?”

“The county records division, where birth and death records are kept.”

“Just a moment.” A computerized voice read the number, then immediately connected. The phone rang….

“County recorder. Gwen speaking.”

Denny identified himself and told the clerk what he was looking for: the birth and death record of a Melissa Leigh Nolan, born in 1975 at Louis Weiner Hospital. He could hear her keyboard clicking in the background. “Mr. Franklin? We have the record of her birth but not her death.”

Denny thanked her and hung up. He sighed. Maybe he was wrong after all. Maybe Melissa was who she said she was—Melissa Nolan, born in Marshall, Minnesota, in 1975. Denny chuckled.
I must have a bad case of overactive imagination
.

But he wasn’t finished with his follow-up. If a person died outside their home county, the place of birth may not have the death record, even if cross-referenced. One more lead to follow …

Birth history. The mother and father
. Ryan had told him that Melissa’s mother had passed away and that her father had abandoned her to the care of a neighbor. But was the story true? One way to find out.

He dialed Information again, feeling increasingly stupid. He checked his watch again: 10:30. When the operator in Marshall, Minnesota, came on the line, Denny read the names directly off the birth certificate. “Bill and Georgia Nolan, please.”

Silence prevailed while the operator’s computer searched for the listing. “I show no listing for Bill… . I have a William—”

“Let’s try that.”

Denny was connected, and he could hear the phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m trying to locate a Bill and Georgia Nolan.”

“Well, my name’s Bill, but there’s no Georgia here. Wife’s name is Betty.”

“Oh, sorry to bother you,” Denny replied, discouraged.
Time to let it go
.

“But I know just about every Nolan in the area.”

“Yes, sir, well, thanks—”

“We had a Georgia Nolan, now that I think of it. Lived crosstown from us. Let me think … yeah, I think her husband’s name was Bill. Like mine. But I’m thinking they moved away.”

“Oh.” Denny wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I was hoping to get some information concerning their daughter.”

“Daughter, you say?” The man paused, then—“Hey, the wife just walked in. Let me ask her if she remembers anything about the family.”

He heard muffled voices in the background. Bill Nolan had covered the phone with his hand. In a moment he was back on the line. “Well, the wife remembers ’em better’n I do. She says their daughter lives in Minneapolis somewhere.”

“Mr. Nolan, I’ve taken enough of your time—”

But Bill went on. “Guess their
other
daughter died real young. Didn’t even make it to school age.”

Denny shuddered at this revelation. “Do you happen to know her name?”

“Here, you talk to the missus.”

Betty got on the phone and began chattering away as if Denny were an old friend. “Bill doesn’t pay much attention to people—not like I do. I remember Georgia Nolan real well, but they moved away years ago. What a tragedy! I don’t think she ever recovered.”