Murder, Plain and Simple (12 page)
apter Eighteen
I blinked from my position flat on my back to find Deputy Anderson standing above me with his gun drawn. Slowly, I sat up. “Can you help me up?”
He lowered the gun and seemed to consider my request.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me? Put the gun away, please.”
The young officer holstered his gun and gave me his hand.
I wiped the sawdust from my backside. “Did you see the guy running away?”
Anderson’s eyes flicked around as if he expected the bogeyman to jump out. “Guy? What guy?”
“The guy that was just here two seconds ago.”
“Did you see someone?”
My face grew hot. “No, but I heard the person run away back down the alley.”
He crossed his arms. “I came from the alley and I didn’t see anyone.”
I gritted my teeth. “I know I heard something.”
“Maybe it was a raccoon.”
“I don’t think so. Unless it was a raccoon on steroids,” I muttered.
His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing over here? The sheriff said you’d be waiting for me out front.”
Think fast, Angie.
“I, well, I came over here to see if anyone was in the woodworker’s shop. I wanted to give my condolences to the family.” I smiled sweetly.
His brow furrowed. “It’s Sunday. There ain’t anyone in Rolling Brook on Sunday.”
As if I didn’t know, I laughed. “I’m from Texas, remember?”
“Isn’t that the Bible Belt? Wouldn’t you know about keeping the Sabbath?”
“Well, sure, but that doesn’t stop us from going shopping.”
The young officer watched me for a minute, and then, his shoulders relaxed as he seemed to accept my answer. I realized that it was a very good thing that the sheriff had another engagement because he never would have bought my story.
“Can we go into Running Stitch?” I asked.
“All right. The sheriff said you needed some files.”
“That’s right.”
“And you are not going into the stockroom.”
What, the sheriff didn’t trust me, so he had to tell his officer about my no-stockroom order? Huh.
Rustling came from the quilt shop’s garden. Anderson put his hand on his holster.
“Calm down, cowboy. It’s my dog.” I walked over to the white picket fence. “Oliver!”
My little black-and-white dog backed out of the bushes rear end first.
Anderson relaxed.
I opened the back gate. “Let’s go in this way.”
Anderson hesitated. “You don’t want to go in the front.”
“Won’t that disturb the crime-scene tape? You would have to fix it after we go inside. Back here,” I said reasonably, “you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Oh, you’re right,” he said.
I walked through the gate, and Anderson followed while I rifled through my purse for the shop key.
“Your dog is going to have to stay outside.”
“I think he’s happier out here.” I pointed to Oliver’s rump sticking out from under the azalea bush.
Anderson smiled. He wasn’t so bad. Having a gullible cop around in this case was a bonus.
I removed the key from my purse and unlocked the door. It swung inward.
“Wait,” Anderson said. “Let me go in first.”
“Of course.” I stepped out of his way.
The officer went into the shop. I stood on the threshold. From my vantage point, I could see the door to the stockroom was closed. It was so close, if I reached out my hand, I would touch it.
“Come on in,” he said.
I moved inside. The short hall was dark, but I could see the light coming in from the front window in the main part of the shop. It took all I had not to throw open the stockroom door and look inside. Not because I wanted to see the place Joseph died or remember what he looked like in death, but so that I could search for clues. There had to be something in that stockroom that would give me a clue to who the killer was.
In the semidarkness of the shop, shadows danced on the floor. “Can we turn on the overhead light?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, I guess so,” the deputy replied. He flicked on the switch by the front door. The shadows disappeared as the room was bathed in electric light. I wondered how the Amish functioned without electric lighting. Were they unafraid of shadows?
The shop looked undisturbed. There was no evidence that the police, EMTs, and goodness knew who else were inside the shop the day before. The sheriff ran a neat ship.
“We can’t stay in here very long, Miss Braddock,” Anderson said.
“Right.” I hurried over to the cash register and opened one of the drawers under the counter. Inside was my calendar and address book. I sighed as I glanced at all the appointments that would have to be canceled for the next week: the phone guy, the Internet, and even the quilting circle. Perhaps we could move the quilting circle to another location, like Anna’s house again or maybe even my own house.
Officer Anderson’s radio crackled. “Anderson? This is dispatch.”
“I need to take this,” he said.
The radio crackled again. “The reception is bad inside here. I need to take this outside. Are you almost done?”
“Yes, I need a few more files.”
He hesitated, but the voice on the radio was sharp. “Anderson, do you copy?”
He removed the radio from his belt. “I copy. Go ahead, dispatch.”
He hurried down the hall and outside into the tiny back garden. I grabbed the rest of the files from the drawer, and anything else I thought I might need, and shoved them in my large hobo-style purse. I hurried back to the hallway. Through the open back door, I saw Anderson pacing as he spoke to dispatch. It was an opportunity, but I wouldn’t have much time. I got my phone from my purse and opened the stockroom door. The sheriff’s department already collected the fingerprints they needed from the scene—mine. I turned on the light. Joseph, the destroyed quilt, and the entire box of fabric cutters were gone. There was a deep red stain in the middle of the hardwood floor. I didn’t have enough time to take it all in. I held up my smartphone, and I snapped as many photos as I could.
“Miss Braddock?” Anderson’s voice floated through the back door.
In one motion, I hit the stockroom lights and shut the door. I backed up and stumbled into the closest hiding place I could find: the bathroom.
Anderson stepped into the shop. “Miss Braddock?” he called again. This time his voice had a hint of urgency.
I took a deep breath, dropped my cell phone to the bottom of my purse, and turned on the faucet. There was a fine layer of fingerprinting powder on my hands from touching the door. I pumped soap onto my hands. “I’m in the bathroom,” I called. I opened the door with a big smile. “I’m so sorry. Nature called.”
The deputy’s face turned the color of a beet. “Oh, oh, I’m sorry.”
“Ready to go?”
He seemed relieved that I dropped the bathroom talk. “Are you? Did you get everything that you need?”
I patted the side of my purse. “Yep. Thanks so much for coming out here to do this. I really appreciate it.”
He nodded. “Okay, then.”
We stepped back into the garden. I slapped my thigh. “Oliver.”
The dog ran over, and I pulled his leash from the enormous purse and snapped it onto his collar. Officer Anderson held the gate open for us. “If you need anything else from the shop, don’t hesitate to call the department.”
I smiled brightly. “The sheriff will be the first person I call.”
When I find the real killer.
That night, I downloaded the pictures I’d taken in the stockroom onto my computer. They were grainy and dark when blown up to the full size of the computer screen. Other than a good shot of the large bloodstain in the middle of the floor, I couldn’t make anything out. I powered down the laptop in frustration. The only thing I accomplished by going into Running Stitch Sunday was making the sheriff more suspicious of me. That I didn’t need to do—he was plenty suspicious on his own.
hapter Nineteen
After the last frustrating call was made and all my appointments or deliveries were rescheduled or suspended—at least I hoped that they were—I was ready to venture out. So was Oliver.
“Ollie, you’re going to have to stay home today,” I told the Frenchie. “Mommy needs to do some sleuthing, and I don’t want you to be in any danger. No one can get you in here.”
He pawed at the doggy door. “I know you want that to open, but I can’t do it. Something might happen to you.”
Oliver cocked his head in an obvious plea for me to change my mind. That was not going to happen. It was after eleven in the morning, and the first stop I planned to make was Benjamin Hershberger’s woodworking shop in Rolling Brook. If he was anything like his protégé, Joseph Walker, I knew he would not approve of a canine on his property.
I rolled my little SUV down Sugartree Street and parked in the community parking lot. Sunday the town had dozed through the hot summer afternoon. Now on Monday, Amish shopkeepers and English tourists strolled up and down the street. Buggies and minivans parked in the diagonal parking spaces that lined either side of the road. Rachel’s sister-in-law Mattie stood outside the bakery shaking crumbs out of a white linen tablecloth. As I strolled up the street from the parking lot, I waved at her. She eyed me but did not return my wave.
Running Stitch was the one place that ruined the picturesque landscape, as the yellow crime-scene tape was still firmly in place. Two elderly ladies in Capri pants, flowered blouses, and walking shoes stood in front of the quilt shop.
“This is a disappointment,” the lady wearing the teal visor said. “We made special plans to come to Rolling Brook today because we heard that it had reopened.”
I winced.
“I know, Opal.” Her companion patted her arm.
Part of me was tempted to slink away, but the business owner in me gave that part a swift kick in the pants. These were potential customers, and I needed to pay attention to them. I straightened my shoulders. “Can I help you, ladies?”
The pair turned in my direction. Opal nodded. “Yes, we want to know why this shop is closed. What is the crime-scene tape across the door? We drove all the way here from Akron to buy more fabric and thread for our quilts and our trip is wasted.”
“I’m Angela Braddock, the shop owner.”
“You’re not Amish,” the one holding the large cat-face-printed purse said.
“No. I inherited the shop from my aunt. She was Amish.”
Opal squinted at me. “You’re Eleanor’s niece?”
I nodded.
Opal stepped closer to me and examined my face. “I guess I do see some resemblance around the eyes.”
“Maybe,” her friend agreed. “What happened?”
“There was an accident,” I said. “Unfortunately, we will be closed for a few days because of it. I’m so sorry you drove all this way to be disappointed.” I reached into my purse for a pad of paper. “Let me write you out a note so that the next time you visit, you will get a discount.”
Quickly, I wrote a twenty percent coupon for each of them, dated it, and signed my name at the bottom. I handed them each one of my on-the-fly coupons and a business card.
Cat Purse wrinkled her nose. “Will these coupons work?”
I plastered a friendly smile on my face. “It’s my shop, so they most definitely will. I do hope that you will come back.”
Opal examined the card in her hand. “We just might.”
That was the most I could hope for, I decided as I watched them shuffle across the street toward the bakery. Mattie was still outside. Now she swept the walk with a flat broom. She greeted the ladies as they approached.
I started down the street in the direction of Benjamin Hershberger’s shop. Anna said that it was only a block from Running Stitch. I passed a yarn shop, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement down one of the narrow alleys between the yarn shop and the next building. I turned my head sharply, but there was nothing there. Perhaps I really didn’t see anything, and I was still spooked over the sound of running feet from yesterday.
I hoped Deputy Anderson had been right and my encounter yesterday had been with a raccoon. They grew their raccoons big in Ohio. To tell the truth, I didn’t find it much more comforting to be stalked by an enormous raccoon.
I shook off my anxiety when I saw Benjamin’s shop. It was across the street. A hand-carved wooden sign hung over the front door that read
ROLLING BROOK WOODSHOP
. Two white wooden rockers sat on either side of the door. I waited as a horse and buggy trotted down Sugartree before I crossed the road.
In the shop’s display window there was a beautifully hand-carved rocking horse and cradle.
Wooden chimes clanged together as I opened the door. The shop smelled like sawdust, wood oil, and stain. I felt like I had been transported back in time.
An elderly Amish man with a grizzled beard, which fell to his chest, sat on a three-legged stool by the cash register.
“Gude mariye.”
“Good morning.” I returned his greeting.
“Is there anything I can help you find?” His Pennsylvania Dutch accent was thicker than that of most of the Amish I had met in Rolling Brook.
“Are you Benjamin Hershberger?”
He arched one eyebrow. “
Ya
, I am. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m Angela Braddock. I—”
He pulled on the end of his beard. “You’re Eleanor’s niece, then. She talked about you all the time.”
My eyes widened. “You knew my aunt?”
“Course I did. Rolling Brook is a small place and all the shopkeepers know each other. Your
aenti
and I had shops on this road for years and years. My shop has been here for nearly fifty years.” He knocked wood shavings out of his hair.
“You may have noticed Running Stitch is closed.”
“I did note that as my old horse and I rode down the street today.”
“There was an accident.”
A knowing expression crossed his face. “Ahh, so you’ve come to talk about Joseph.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“It seems to me that the Amish telegraph spread the news. You’re not the first one who has stopped by with questions about my former apprentice.”
I sidestepped a three-foot-tall metal tool cabinet.
“The sheriff was here already with the same questions.”
So Mitchell was considering other suspects. This cheered me up even though it was impossible for me to believe this kind old man would hurt anyone. “What did you tell him?”
“Ahh, you want the easy road. A summary, perhaps? It’s going to take more time than that.” He stood and stepped around the counter. He picked up an identical three-legged stool to his own and set it across from his. “Have a seat now and ask your questions. Who knows? You might ask something that the sheriff didn’t think of.”
“Okay,” I said with some hesitation. This was not how I expected my questions to be accepted. Weren’t the Amish typically guarded people with outsiders?
“First things first. You can call me Old Ben. Everyone else does, so you might as well too. It’s what I hear most and answer to best.”
I smiled.
“Now, what’s your first question?”
I sat on the stool. “Joseph was your apprentice. Did the two of you get along?”
“Not one bit. Joseph was a cranky apprentice and the older he got, the fouler his mood became. He could find fault with anyone about anything.”
That pretty much summed up my assessment of the slain woodworker.
“But,” Old Ben went on, “he was a fine woodworker. The best man at the craft I ever trained. He surpassed me with his skill and talent years ago.”
“How did that make you feel?” I winced at the Dr. Philesque question, though I suspected that Old Ben had no framework for pop psychology and wouldn’t notice the cliché phrasing.
“I felt proud of him, of course. He was my student, and I taught him the trade. It was a
gut
reflection on me as a teacher. Not that I was prideful about it, mind you.”
I held my purse in my lap. “So it didn’t upset you at all?”
“I was angry at first, especially when he decided to open his shop on the same street. There are a lot of locations in Holmes County to open a woodworker shop. Why did he do it here?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “It was his way of telling me that he was better. My business was cut by two-thirds when Joseph opened his shop.”
“Your shop is still open,” I said.
“Yes, it is still open because I have a lot of standing contracts with local gift shops to keep them in the trinkets, like toys and jewelry boxes, and small furniture, like these kitchen stools we’re sitting on. Most of those contracts are about to run out, though.”
“Does that mean the shops will be looking around for other woodworkers to fill their orders?”
“That’s right,” he said.
I tried to keep my expression neutral. Did Old Ben know that he had given me a perfect and timely motive for him to have murdered Joseph?
The next question was a little more difficult to ask. “Where were you Friday night?”
He arched a grizzled eyebrow. “Is that when Joseph died?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“What time exactly?”
“After midnight.”
He harrumphed. “What respectable Amish man would be out after midnight? My shop closes at five on Friday. I was home by six in the evening. My dear wife had dinner on the table for me. Pan-fried chicken. My favorite.”
“Oh,” I said. So much for the perfect motive.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know folks are talking about Joseph’s death. I’m not surprised my name came up. Everyone knew we didn’t care for each other. However, he was a child of God, and I pray his soul finds peace in the hereafter.”
I smiled. “Thank you for talking to me. I know it’s not easy to talk about these things with a stranger.”
He shook his head and his beard moved back and forth in a wave. “You’re not a stranger. You’re Eleanor’s niece.”
I smiled.
“I remember you, you know?”
“Me?” I paused.
“Oh yes, you used to be in the quilt shop during the summer visiting Eleanor. I remember you spent a
gut
deal of your time with Jonah Graber.”
I felt my cheeks flush.
A wide grin spread across the old man’s face. “Ahh.”
“It was nice to meet you,” I said quickly.
“Please visit again.”
“I will,” I promised, and fled.
Outside on the sidewalk, I mentally kicked myself. Why did I blush when Old Ben mentioned Jonah? Jonah and I had nothing in common anymore except our childhood. Maybe the memory of that was what caused my embarrassment. Yes, that must be it.