Murder, Plain and Simple (2 page)

“W
hat do you mean, you can’t find it?” I asked.

Harvey loosened his tie. “I mean that we can’t find it. We’ve looked everywhere. It wasn’t with the will or any of her other papers.”

“Did you search her house?”

Martha gave me an appraising look. “The quilting circle and I packed up and searched Eleanor’s house and now it’s empty. There is nothing there. The farm and land goes to one of Jacob’s cousins.”

My hands began to tingle. “Then it must be in the shop. Did you search the shop?” I took a step toward the back door. “Let’s look for it now.”

Martha shook her head. “We searched the shop too. Angie, it’s not here.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, thinking aloud. “Someone somewhere must have a copy. Like the state or county.”

“Typically the county clerk keeps a copy of all property deeds,” Harvey said.

I waved them to the door. “Let’s go there now and get it.”

Harvey fumbled with the end of his tie. “I tried but it wasn’t there either.”

“How is that possible?”

“Thirty years ago, a frozen pipe burst in the basement of the clerk’s office where the older files were stored. Hundreds of documents were destroyed. When the janitor cleaned up the mess, he just threw the sopping wet documents away without realizing their importance. After the flood, the clerk’s office sent a letter to all the property owners who may have been affected, asking them to bring their deeds and other documents into the clerk’s office to be copied. They didn’t have anything other than the paper copies—the documents were too old to have a digital version. Many of the English folks in the county complied.” He sighed. “However, because they want distance from the English government, many of the Amish didn’t bother. They didn’t see how it would be important to them. Your uncle must have been one of the Amish men who ignored the county’s letter.”

“You’re her lawyer. Didn’t you have a copy?”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t her lawyer then, and the man who was is long dead.”

“Are you saying that I don’t own Running Stitch?”

“No, no, I’m not saying that. I’m certain Eleanor owned the shop. We just have to find the deed to prove it.”

Hadn’t he just told me he looked everywhere for it?

“In the meantime, I recommend that you stay away from Joseph Walker. You don’t want to say or do anything that might hurt our case.”

“Our case?”

He nodded. “If we can’t find the deed, we might have to go to court over this.”

I felt dizzy. At that moment, moving to Ohio seemed like the worst idea I’d ever had.

• • •

Joseph Walker scowled at me each morning as I unlocked the door to Running Stitch. I know Harvey warned me against talking to Joseph while the property was in dispute, but his glares were getting old.

Today was no different. I held the car door open, letting Oliver hop out, and slammed the car door after him. I snapped the leash onto Oliver’s collar. Joseph watched our every move.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to Oliver.

The dog snuffled in agreement.

I stepped on the sidewalk and gave him my best Texas pageant girl smile. When we moved to Texas, my mother suddenly discovered she was a Southern belle trapped in a Yankee’s body and embraced everything she could of Southern living, including picking up a Southern drawl in her forties and, much to my horror, signing me up for Little Miss pageants across the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex.

My dazzling smile had not worked on the judges, nor did they work on Joseph Walker. His glare cut into me. I took a few steps toward Joseph and was jerked back by Oliver, who had wrapped his leash around the leg of a park bench. His round brown eyes popped out of his head.

“Come on, buddy, you’re making me look bad in front of our new neighbor.”

“You should have more control over your animal.” Joseph’s voice was hoarse from lack of use.

I turned to face him, and he glowered at us.

I cleared my throat. “My name is . . .”

“I know who you are.”

I glowered back. Two could play at this game. “I know who you are too. You’re Joseph Walker. I heard you are the best woodworker in town.”

His black felt hat dipped down, hiding his eyes. “A person should not boast, not even about another’s talents. Whoever told you that was in the wrong.”

Oliver wiggled underneath the park bench.

“Animals are for work. They aren’t pets.”

Oliver whimpered as if he understood the woodworker’s words.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” I gritted my teeth. Like me, like my dog. Don’t like my dog, I don’t like you. “I know there’s been a little confusion over my aunt’s shop.”

His eyes narrowed into slits. “There is no confusion. I own the property.”

My eye twitched. “The shop belonged to my aunt, and now it belongs to me.”

“You have the deed?”

I licked my lips. “I’ll find it.”

“Hello?” A breathy voice broke into our conversation. I turned to find a woman with close-cropped silver hair. She stepped onto the walk and a man came out of the shop behind her. He appeared about ten years younger than the woman, maybe forty. His hair was slicked back in
Grease
style. Someone should have told him that hairstyle went the way of poodle skirts and monogrammed sweaters decades ago. He didn’t wave at us but followed the woman across the street.

A purple crystal hanging from the woman’s neck caught the sunlight and sparkled. They made an odd couple: one a 1950s throwback and the other a New Age princess.

I snuck a glance at Joseph. His lip curled as if he’d drunk sour milk.

“Angela Braddock! I’m so pleased to finally meet you.” The woman wrapped her arms around me. Her puffy blouse ballooned into my face until she pulled away. “I told Farley that we need to get over to the Running Stitch and introduce ourselves.”

“Nice to meet you . . .” I let the words hang in the air. Should I know who this woman was? She didn’t look like one of my aunt’s old friends, or a member of my aunt’s Amish quilting circle. Did she know my parents before they flew South?

She lightly smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “It would help if I told you my name. I’m Willow Moon.” She shot a thumb over her shoulder. “I run the Dutchman’s Tea Shop across the street.”

I stopped short of asking her if “Willow Moon” was the name on her birth certificate.

“This is township trustee Farley Jung,” she declared proudly. She pronounced “Jung” with a hard “j” like in “jungle.”

Farley held out his hand, and we shook. He grasped my hand for a few seconds longer than necessary and made eye contact with me until I looked away. Can we say creepy? In the seconds I had known Farley, I decided I would much rather be stuck on a deserted island with Joseph if forced. Joseph, who insulted my dog and claimed to own my shop, so that was saying something.

I discreetly wiped my hand on the back of my jeans. “I’m glad you both stopped by. I’ve been planning to visit the other shops on the street. I haven’t met too many people in town yet.”

Willow’s eyes flitted to Joseph. “I see you’ve met Joseph.”

Joseph scowled and leaned back against the brick facade of his shop.

Willow cleared her throat. “I’d be happy to take you around and introduce you to the rest of the shopkeepers.” She clapped her hands, and for the first time I noticed her fingernails were painted rainbow colors. “You arrived in Rolling Brook at the perfect time.”

I did?

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because of the First Annual Watermelon Fest, of course. It’s only a week and a half away! It will be the most exciting event Rolling Brook has ever seen.”

“We do not need exciting,” Joseph snapped, and pushed off the building. “No more than we need
Englischers
in our town. Rolling Brook is for the Amish, not for you.” He dug his fists into his sides.

I stumbled back and knocked my calf against the park bench. Willow and Farley seemed unfazed by Joseph’s outburst.

“Joseph, we know how you feel about the fest, but you’re in the minority.” Trustee Farley spoke for the first time.

The two men glared at each other in mutual disdain. If we were in a Western movie, someone would have shouted “Draw!”

Joseph straightened to his full six-feet-plus height and vibrated with barely restrained anger. He looked like a furious Pilgrim. “You plan to turn Rolling Brook into an
Englisch
circus. You have no concern for our ways. You use our culture for money. The Amish who go along with you have lost their way. They should speak with their elders to see what the
Ordnung
says about such things.”

Willow trilled a laugh, sounding like a blue jay in a tree. “I doubt your Amish rule book has anything against watermelon, Joseph. Honestly, you’re the most serious man I have ever met—and most of the men in Rolling Brook are Amish.”

“
All
the men of Rolling Brook should be Amish. You
Englischers
don’t have enough squalor in your cities that you must bring it here?”

Squalor? Really?

His dark eyes bored into me. “I suggest you go back to that big city you came from. You are not welcome.” He spun on the heels of his thick work boots and walked through the front door of his shop.

“Well, that was”—she squinted into the sunlight—“awkward. Pay no mind to Joseph Walker. He’s full of hot air.”

Farley glared at the woodworker’s shop. “He has caused nothing but problems for us since the moment we suggested the Watermelon Fest. He refuses to recognize how much business it will bring his shop. If he did, he’d be much happier.”

Willow handed me a flyer for the festival. “We’d love it if you could hang this in the window of your shop.”

I took the piece of paper and saw several other stores on the street had identical flyers displayed in their front windows, including the Amish bakery across the street, which is owned and run by my aunt’s dear friends the Millers.