Falling to Pieces (9 page)

“Are we having more children,
Daed?”
Martha’s head popped up from the back seat.

“Not that I know of, but you’d need to ask your mamm.” Jonas murmured a soothing word to Lightning as the mare trotted down the lane.

“Let’s not talk of more
bopplin
tonight, Martha. I have my hands quite full.” Deborah turned around to settle the twins and found they’d given Joshua a frog to pet.

She took the frog and tossed it out the side of the buggy.

“I was planning to take him home,” Jacob fussed.

“We weren’t hurting him,” Joseph added.

“Weren’t hurting your baby
bruder
or weren’t hurting the frog?” Deborah did her best to sound stern, but baby Joshua was having none of it. He giggled and bounced in Martha’s arms. Mary smiled at her.

The twins stuck their heads together and sank back into the corner of the back seat—no doubt to keep any other varmints they might have a secret.

“Don’t forget to stop at the phone shack,” Deborah murmured to Jonas.

“I gather this is important.”

“You gather correctly.”

“Must have to do with the quilting.” The teasing sound again entered his voice.

“It does—quilting and the terrible news story that came out in the
Gazette.
I think I found a way to change Mr. Stakehorn’s mind, thanks to your mother.”

“My mother?” It was Jonas’s turn to sound surprised.

“Slow down or Lightning will gallop right past it.”

“Ya, ya.
I know where it is.” Jonas had barely stopped the buggy before Deborah jumped out.

“Go with your
mamm,
Joseph. You can hold the flashlight.”

Joseph followed behind her, shining the beam of light on the path that led to the wooden shack.

Walking around to the back, Deborah opened the door and they stepped inside. Approximately two-feet-by-two-feet, the only thing inside the structure was a pay phone and a small countertop.

Deborah placed her coin purse on the countertop. “Shine your light up here, Joseph.”

Deborah found the card easily enough, though entering the numbers was a bit more difficult, since Joseph—and his light—kept jogging left to right and back again.

“Can you hold it a bit more steady?”

Joseph nodded solemnly, holding the light with both hands. The boy’s eyes were dark chocolate brown and wide as an owl’s. He reminded her very much of Jonas at that moment. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek as she waited for the phone at Daisy’s Quilt Shop to ring.

She’d memorized the number at the shop years ago, and Callie had mentioned having the service reconnected earlier in the week. Though she’d also jotted down Callie’s new cell phone number, she was hoping she could catch her at the shop.

C
ALLIE PICKED
up Max’s leash off the hook near the gate, clipped it to his collar, then walked slowly to the shop’s door.

What had she done?

What had she been thinking?

Of course the jerk deserved it, but still—she had better self-control than to throw an entire glass of tea on the man.

Shaking her head, she started up the stairs to her apartment when she heard the phone ringing in the shop below.

Who would be calling the shop at this hour?

Could it be Stakehorn?

Could he have realized how wrong he was? Maybe her iced tea had worked as a wake-up call.

Rushing back down the stairs, she grabbed the phone before the caller disconnected.

“Daisy’s Quilt Shop. This is Callie Harper.”

“Callie, this is Deborah.”

“Deborah?” Callie reached down and unclipped Max, who shook himself and padded off toward the window. “I don’t understand. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s fine. I thought of the answer to our problem. I thought of a way you can settle things with Stakehorn.”

“How are you calling me?” Callie hadn’t learned everything about the Amish in the two weeks since she’d arrived, but she had learned that they didn’t have electricity or phones.

Deborah quickly reminded her about the phone shack, then hurried on. “Callie, I think there’s a video recording of our conversation. Our first conversation. When I came into your shop and asked you to auction the quilts on the internet.”

“You want to say that again?” Callie sat down on the cashier’s stool with a hard thump.

“Are you at the counter now? Near the register?”

“Yes.”

“Look under the counter, behind the curtain, back behind the extra rolls of register tape.”

Callie turned on the lamp next to the register, squatted down on her knees, and poked her head into the space between the two shelves.

“Do you see it?”

“Oh my goodness.” Callie’s pulse raced as she stared at the machine.

“You see it.”

“When did Daisy purchase this? Why did Daisy purchase it?”

“I’ll explain later. I don’t understand how it works—”

“I do. If it was still recording, we might have what we need.”

Deborah’s long sigh carried over the phone. “No reason it wouldn’t be. Daisy only signed up with the service last Christmas. She’d had a minor break-in at the shop, and the insurance company wanted to go up on her premiums. Daisy talked them out of it—”

“By installing a security system.”

“Ya.”

“You’re a genius, Deborah. I might not have ever seen this here.”

“I believe the bill is deducted from her account once a month. You would have noticed it on her next statement.”

“By then Stakehorn’s editorial will have already done its damage.”

“I’m not sure readers will even believe what was in that article.”

“If anyone believes then he should print a retraction. It’s wrong, and I won’t tolerate it.”

“Everyone in Shipshe knows that it is an effort at times for him to fill his paper with news.” Deborah paused, said something to one of the children. “Everyone knows that sometimes what he prints is not truthful.”

“But this time what he printed was about me—about us, Deborah. I can’t just let that go. I’m going to hang up and try to find the correct day on the recording.”

“It would have been last Tuesday. The day you decided to reopen the shop.”

“The day you came over to help me. You and your children.”

A silence filled the line as Callie tried to think of how to thank her, tried to find words to express what it meant to have someone on her side for once.

“Esther, Melinda, and I are quilting tomorrow morning. We’ll come into town when we’re done to visit you at the shop.”

“Thank you.” Callie hung up the phone, reached out to pet Max who had nosed his way over to investigate.

“We can do this, Max. Looks like the same model some of my clients used, back in Houston. Back in the old days—you know, two months ago.”

The surveillance system allowed for instant playback, which apparently Daisy had never done, since it wasn’t currently connected to any type of monitor.

There was a small television upstairs, which Callie had turned on less than a half dozen times. With no cable, she hadn’t been able to get reception to more than three local channels. She dashed upstairs, retrieved the small set, and placed it on the counter in the shop.

Within fifteen minutes she’d found the recording of the day she and Deborah had decided to auction the quilts on eBay—an auction which was now going well above minimum bid. But their success wouldn’t impress Stakehorn.

He was out for blood—English blood.

What might convince him was the somewhat grainy image replaying on the screen.

The camera lens was apparently mounted on the wall’s southeast corner, so much of the recording looked down on Callie’s and Deborah’s head—but even Stakehorn wouldn’t be able to argue about who said what. The audio recording was crisp and clear.

Daisy had bought a newer model, so the system had the ability to record, much like a combination VCR/DVD. Callie found a stack of blank DVDs in a cupboard, placed one in the slot, and after finding the correct spot, hit the RECORD button on the security box.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Deborah? It seems like a big step, seems very different for you and your friends to conduct business this way.”

“It’s what we need to do. The bishop will understand.”

She hit STOP, then ejected the DVD from the player. “This should convince him.”

This could all work out,
she thought. With a retraction, Stakehorn’s little stunt might even benefit her in the long run, with all the free advertising. Callie booted up her laptop and searched online for the phone number of the
Gazette,
then called it from her cell. On the eleventh ring, Stakehorn picked up.

“I have your proof,” she said, not bothering to introduce herself.

“What you have is a cleaning bill coming your way. I’ll expect it to be paid first thing tomorrow.”

“I have proof that it was Deborah’s idea to auction the quilts on eBay.”

“If you plan to drag the little Amish woman over here, forget it. No doubt you’ve coached her plenty since you had your little fit at the deli. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper to—”

“I have a recording.”

Stakehorn stopped talking. Callie could hear the sound of a printing press running in the background. She sat down on the cashier’s stool, put her left hand on top of Max’s head for comfort, and waited.

“What do you mean you have a recording?”

Instead of answering his question, she fired back with one of her own. “Do you want to see it or not? If not, I’d be happy to take it to the owner of your paper and show him—or her—what shoddy drivel you print in your
editorial
section. They might be interested in knowing.”

“If you have a recording, which I strongly doubt, and if you bring it to me, and if I agree that it proves what you think it proves, then I’ll print your retraction, young lady. But those are three mighty big ifs.”

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Give me an hour. I have a paper to print, and I’m behind schedule since someone baptized me in mango-peach tea.”

The line went dead.

The man was infuriatingly rude. She didn’t care though. All that mattered was she’d won, and in an hour he’d know it.

This time, Callie drove to the
Gazette.
She had no problem finding it since she’d so recently been there with Deborah. It sat on the east side of Main Street, sandwiched between the post office to the north and an antique store to the south. Both were closed. Across the street was the local feed store, which was also dark.

This town closed up at six, rolled the carpet up and tucked it inside in case there was rain. Not that she missed the big city lights of Houston. She’d once counted eighteen lanes on the highway—from frontage road, across the southbound lanes of the
freeway, central HOV lanes, then across the northbound lanes and frontage roads. Eighteen lanes of concrete.

No, Houston-ites could keep their big city ways.

She might not end up staying in a place as small as Shipshewana, but she wasn’t ready to go back to a metropolitan area—that much she knew.

She parked in front of the building, walked up to the door and tapped on the glass.

No answer.

Mrs. Caldwell’s desk sat empty, though Callie wouldn’t have been surprised if the battle axe had jumped out of the shrubs and shooed her away.

Pressing her nose against the glass-paned door, she could see past Caldwell’s desk to the small hall leading beyond the reception area she’d been in earlier. At the end of the hall was a door which must open into the main part of the building.

From the street lights on Main, Callie could see well enough to make out a small square window in the door separating the two areas, but she couldn’t see through the window. It seemed to be covered with some sort of film.

She moved to the right, to the large plate glass window for a better look and saw a light beyond the door. A yellowish glow emanated weakly through the tiny window. Pressing her ear to the cool glass, she could hear the thump-thump-thump of the printing press.

She walked back to the door and tried the knob, even rattled it a bit, but of course it was locked.

Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, she redialed the last number. After fifteen rings, it turned over to a recording. “You have reached the
Shipshewana Gazette.
We’re closed for the evening. Please leave a message and we’ll—”

Callie snapped the phone shut and looked around in frustration.

Stakehorn was in there. Either he couldn’t hear her, or else he’d never intended to meet with her in the first place.

Stepping back toward her car, she spotted the sign.
Deliveries drive down alley to back.

Bingo.

Drive or walk?

You’re not in Houston anymore. No need to be afraid of a dark alley. Might as well walk. But she couldn’t help wishing she’d brought Max along for company.

Callie breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the end of the alley.

Which was ridiculous.

It ran the length of the building—no more than fifty feet, and she was never in complete darkness. There was a single street light at the end she’d started from, and light from the window of the printing room of the
Gazette
at the other.

Plus she was a grown woman and not afraid of a little darkness.

Still she was sure she’d heard a rat or some sort of varmint by the large trash dumpster. And the way her sandals had crunched against the asphalt and pieces of broken glasses had sent small shivers down her spine.

“I’m getting what I deserve for reading Agatha Christie novels. I’m more nervous than a catfish on a hook.”

She tried the back door of the
Gazette
and nearly fell down when it opened easily on her first tug.

“Mr. Stakehorn? Hello?”

The printing press continued to roll with an ear-splitting thump-thump-thump. From inside it sounded like a train rolling through the room.

Stepping past the small area for deliveries, Callie pushed through the double doors and into the main press room.

She was instantly overwhelmed by light. Overhead fluorescents shone down from the twelve foot ceilings, revealing yellowed
tile, old presses, and stacks of paper everywhere. The unmistakable odor of ink filled her nasal passages.

Her mind flashed back to sitting at her father’s feet, playing with something. What had it been? Colors. She’d sat there with colors and a pad while her father read the paper. She could hear the rustle as he turned the pages, see the black letters on gray print when she’d glance up at him. And the smell, the smell was the very same—the smell of newsprint.

“Mr. Stakehorn?” This time, Callie raised her voice, trying to be heard above the din of the press.

She walked the length of the room and peered out front, into the reception area she’d been in earlier in the day. She could see through to the front, see her car parked by the curb and the deserted street beyond.

A dark, sepia flap covered the window over the door—which would explain why the light looked dim to her from out front. No doubt it helped to keep the office area cooler.

“Bet these presses heat up the place later in the summer.” Her words echoed in the room.

But where was Stakehorn?

Had he stepped out for a minute?

Callie pivoted back toward the alley door. When she did, she saw that something was wrong with the press. The newspapers rolled off the belt and dropped into a giant crate on the floor, but the crate was full and overflowing.

Papers continued to spew in every direction.

The scene was almost comical. It looked as if a child had been set loose inside the newspaper office, allowed to play with the machines. Except it wasn’t funny.

It was somehow wrong.

She turned slowly in a circle and that was when she spied the small corner office—no bigger than a closet. She could just make out two aluminum folding chairs and the edge of an old oak desk,
papers stacked six inches high on both it and the chairs. Some of the papers had even fallen and scattered across the floor.

But that wasn’t what caused her mouth to fall open, and her hand to clasp her throat.

On top of the stack of papers, rested Stakehorn’s outstretched hand.