Murder, Plain and Simple (24 page)
apter Thirty-eight
Oliver whimpered into my ear, chasing the dream from my mind.
I batted him away. “Oliver, the sun isn’t even up.” I shivered, trying to forget the dream. I didn’t know which was worse, the dress or Mitchell and Ryan in the same place. The image of them side by side was jarring.
He smacked his paw onto my cheek.
I grabbed his paw. “Oliver? What was that for?”
He barked in my ear and whimpered again.
I propped myself up on my elbows. A strange glow came from the window. I sat up in the bed. “What’s that? Is someone in the backyard?”
He barked again and pushed me with his front paw. His claws dug into my back.
“Okay, I’m up.” I stumbled to the window.
My hand flew to my mouth. The doghouse was a fireball. The flames licked the wooden fence at the far end of the back lawn. My feet got tangled in the end of my quilt. I landed on the hardwood floor with a thunk. I crawled to my bedside table and yanked my cell phone out of its charger.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“My doghouse is on fire!”
“What’s your address?”
I rattled it off, vaguely aware of how high my voice was.
“Please, ma’am. Stay calm. Are you close to the fire?”
“I’m on the second story of my house.”
“Is the doghouse close?”
“Forty feet away?”
“You should get out of the house as a precaution. The fire department will be there soon. Stay on—”
Oliver bolted out of the room.
“Oliver!” I cried.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m still here.” I detangled myself from the quilt and left my bedroom, carrying the phone with me.
“Ma’am?” the dull voice said in my ear. “Are you still in the house?”
“Yes, I’m looking for my dog. He ran downstairs.”
“I advise you to go out into the front yard.”
“I’m not leaving my dog in here by himself,” I bellowed. “Oliver!” I tripped down the stairs. The smell of smoke was pronounced on the first floor and became worse as I stepped into the kitchen. Tendrils of smoke floated through the half-open doggy door. Canine bite marks dug into the rubberized flab.
I stared at the broken doggy door and felt last night’s dinner in my throat. Would Oliver have gone into the backyard? Why would my cowardly dog run headlong into a fire? I didn’t have time to question. I had to act.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” the dispatcher asked.
I ran out of the front door. My pajamas didn’t have any pockets, so I dropped the phone on a small table on the porch. “Ma’am?” was the last I heard from the dispatcher.
If I couldn’t find Oliver, I could hold the fire back. On the side of the house, I unraveled the knotted hose and pulled it toward the backyard. I gasped as I stepped through the gate. The heat of the flame made me feel like I stepped into a pizza oven. The back fence was on fire now. In my mind, I could see the flames traveling around the fence and onto the siding of my house. I turned the water nozzle to jet and doused the fence with water, soaking myself in the process. The flames on the fence were small and died back. I then turned the hose on the doghouse. The water there made little impact.
Sirens carried in the stillness of the rural night and came closer. I heard the sound of the fire truck screeching to a halt in front of my house. Men yelled at one another as they climbed out of the truck. Poor Oliver. He must be terrified by the noise, wherever he was. He was safe, I told myself. He was only hiding somewhere.
Four firemen crashed through the gate. One took the hose from my hand, and another pushed me out of the way as he trained the fire hose on the doghouse. My back pressed up against the door, which led into the kitchen. The fire grew smaller. A third fireman ran at the doghouse with an ax and beat the structure to the ground. Within seconds, Oliver’s beloved home was chunks of charred wood and smoking splinters.
My chest heaved up and down. The fireman who took the hose from me set it on the ground. “Miss, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I whispered, but it was a lie.
I leaned on the back door for support.
The fireman removed his mask. “We will need to check you out.”
“I can’t find my dog.”
The fireman glanced back at the demolished doghouse.
“He wasn’t in there. He’s hiding somewhere outside or inside. I don’t know.”
“Be careful where you walk. You don’t have any shoes on.”
I realized that he was right. I stood straighter and started for the gate.
Sheriff Mitchell pushed his way through the firemen. “I need a full report on what started this fire,” he barked at the man closest to him.
“Sure, Sheriff,” the young fireman replied. “The fire chief will want to do his own investigation, though.”
Mitchell pointed at him. “This is my case. It’s related to the Walker murder.”
The fireman’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’ll tell the chief, sir.”
Mitchell nodded as if satisfied. “Where’s Miss Braddock?”
He pointed at me. “Over there.”
The security lights in the back of the house caught the green in Mitchell’s eyes, making them sparkle like emeralds.
Inwardly, I groaned as I imagined my appearance in soaking wet pajamas and a soot-covered face.
He stomped over to me.
“Is Oliver okay?” was the first question out of his mouth.
His concern for my dog made me want to cry. I fought back the tears. “I can’t find him. He woke me up to tell me about the fire, but then he raced down the stairs. He’s hiding somewhere.” My chest heaved. “I thought maybe he ran outside because he bit through the doggy door.”
Mitchell spun around to inspect the door and stuck his shoe through it.
Mitchell smiled. “The Frenchie has a little bit of Lassie in him.”
I nodded, but I felt myself start to shake. The harder I tried to hold myself still, the worse the shaking became. “I need to go look for him.”
“Hey, Mitchell.” A fireman with a full beard approached us holding a galvanized canister roughly the size of a chili pot. “We found this in the neighbors’ bushes.”
Mitchell removed a handkerchief from his pocket and took the canister in his hand. He held it loosely against the white cloth. He sniffed the top. “Kerosene.”
“That’s right. I knew right away this wasn’t a normal fire. It burned too hot and too fast.” He pointed his thumb at the canister. “It’s arson.”
Arson.
I felt sick.
“I was afraid of this,” Mitchell said just above a whisper. “It’s an Amish canister.”
I knew the sheriff and I were thinking the same thing—Elijah Knepp.
A yelp went up over Mitchell’s shoulder. “Angie!”
I tore my gaze from Mitchell’s. “Mr. Gooding?”
“Thank goodness you are all right.” The shirttails of Mr. Gooding’s striped pajamas peeked out from under his red sweatshirt.
Mitchell placed a hand on my back. “Let’s the three of us go inside, so that the firemen can do their jobs.”
“I need to find Oliver.”
Mitchell dropped his hand. “Go.”
I ran around the side of the house. Two fire trucks, Mitchell’s department car, and the fire chief’s SUV overflowed from my driveway to the street. Up and down the street, neighbors I hadn’t even met yet stood on their front porches, clutching their bathrobes tightly around their bodies.
I scanned the yard for Oliver. Since Oliver was mostly white, I could usually pick him out when my eyes adjusted. I didn’t see him. I dropped to the ground beside the bushes and peered inside. He wasn’t there. I prayed he was still inside the house.
I concentrated my search there, checking the living room, kitchen, and study. Nothing. Finally, I checked the laundry room, which was really a closet converted to a laundry room at one end of the kitchen. It had a small stacked washer and dryer.
“Oliver!” I called in a hoarse voice.
I heard a whimper coming from behind the washer and dryer unit. I dropped to the floor. Light reflected off Oliver’s terrified eyes. I reached in and caressed his ear. “It’s okay. You can come out now.”
With effort, the Frenchie wriggled out of his hiding place. He launched himself into my lap and buried his muzzle into my stomach. I squinted to hold the tears back as I carried him into the living room.
An hour later, I rehashed my story for Mitchell a third time while Mr. Gooding wrung his hands. “Oh my, oh my! I’m so sorry this happened.”
Oliver lay across my lap. “Mr. Gooding, it’s not your fault, and no one was hurt.”
“It’s awful.” He looked to Mitchell, who stood near the stairs leading to the second floor.
The sound of hammering came from the kitchen. One of the firemen had volunteered to close off Oliver’s doggy door with a plank of wood on both sides. It would do for now, but I planned to ask Mr. Gooding to install a new door altogether. Tonight was not the night to make that request.
I glanced at the clock on the end table. It was almost two in the morning. “It’s late. I promise, Mr. Gooding, tomorrow you can come back and assess the damage to the garden.”
“I’m not worried about the garden.”
“I know, but you need to go home. Mrs. Gooding must be worried about you.”
He ran a hand down his cheek. “You’re right. My poor wife.” He squeezed my hand. “You take care of yourself, miss.”
“I will,” I promised.
He petted Oliver’s head. “You are a hero. I promise to build you an even larger and better doghouse.” Finally, Mr. Gooding started toward the front door as the fireman stepped into the room. He placed my pink-handled hammer on my coffee table. “That’s the first time I used a pink hammer. I need to go watch ESPN and drink beer to salvage my manhood.”
Mitchell snorted.
“Thank you for fixing the door,” I said.
The fireman smiled. “Anytime. See you later, Mitchell.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the sheriff.
After the fireman was outside, the sheriff said, “You can ignore half of what he says. He thinks he’s a comedian.”
“Thanks for coming over. You should go home too. Big day tomorrow . . . I mean today.” I forced a laugh. “The Watermelon Fest.”
He scratched Oliver behind the ear. “You’re welcome.” He stood and peered through the blinds in my front window. “The fire chief is about to leave. I have a few questions for him. I’ll leave right after that, so I will say good night.” He turned his head toward me. “Will you be okay here alone? I could stay or wake up Anderson and have him keep watch.”
Like he’d be a lot of help.
“Go,” I said. “It’s only a few hours until daylight now. I’ll be fine. Whoever it is won’t come back tonight.”
“Whoever,” Mitchell muttered. “I know exactly who did this.”
“Elijah?”
“Bingo.”
“But why? If he’s innocent of his brother-in-law’s murder, why come after me like this?”
“A guy like Knepp doesn’t need more reason than that.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “This was exactly why I didn’t want you involved in the case.”
“I had to be. I thought you were going to arrest me.”
“I don’t think you killed anyone. I never did,” he said as he walked through the door.
“You could have told me that from the beginning,” I called after him.
ter Thirty-nine
He barked.
“Yeah, I don’t want to hear Mom say ‘I told you so’ either.” I tugged on Oliver’s leash. “Come on, boy. Maybe eating watermelon will cheer you up.” I led the Frenchie through the gate. To my relief, I didn’t see Deputy Anderson or any other police detail watching the house. Maybe Mitchell finally had gotten the picture that I didn’t like to be babysat.
Oliver and I parked in the community lot and walked up the street toward Running Stitch. We found Mattie standing outside the quilt shop in a light purple plain dress, white apron, and prayer cap. Immediately, I thought of Rachel. Was she all right? Were the children okay?
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Mattie wrapped her arms around her waist. “N-nothing’s wrong. Why would you think that?”
“I’m sorry. I . . .” I stopped myself from completing the thought. I was going to tell her I was spooked by the fire at my home last night, but that would remind her of Elijah. “Never mind. Can I help you with something? I will be going to the Watermelon Fest soon, but I have a couple of minutes.”
She dropped the sides of her apron that she held. “No, I don’t need any help, but I can help you.”
My brow shot up. “How?”
“I spoke to Rachel and Aaron. I told them that I didn’t want to work at the bakery any longer. I told them that I wanted to work for you.”
“What did they say?”
She examined the side of her apron again. “My brother wasn’t pleased, but Rachel spoke to him. In the end, they said I could work for you because you need the help.”
Oliver licked her white sneakers.
“Oliver,” I complained.
Mattie blushed. “I dropped butter on my shoes this morning. I was so nervous waiting to talk to Aaron and Rachel, I became clumsy.”
I started to move to Oliver to pull him away.
Her cheeks pinkened prettily. “It is fine. He is cleaning my shoes better than I can.”
The dog moved to the next shoe.
I glanced over at the bakery. Rachel stood in the doorway. She waved at me and smiled. With a nod, she gave her consent.
“How about this? You can work in the quilt shop today. You will be on a trial basis, so that both of us can decide if this is a good fit.”
“That’s fair.”
I removed my shop keys from my purse. “Okay, then let me show you around.”
After walking Mattie around the store, I handed her a feather duster. “First assignment.”
She laughed and went straight to work. I knew she’d do a much better job at it than I ever did. Dusting was right up there with scrubbing the toilet for me.
I flipped the store sign to
OPEN
. Outside a market wagon pulled to the side of the street. Minivans and buggies edged around it. Basically the market wagon was the Amish version of the pickup truck. It had a bench seat in the front, but the rest of the wagon was open in order to haul supplies back and forth from market.
Jonah jumped off the wagon and landed perfectly in the middle of the sidewalk. “
Gude mariye
, Angie.
Mamm
sent me to pick up the quilt frame for the quilting bee.”
I held the shop’s door open for him. “It’s in the back.”
Jonah nodded at Mattie when he passed her, not questioning her presence in my shop with a feather duster.
“Do you need help carrying it?” I asked.
Jonah folded the frame and grunted as he lifted it off the ground. “
Nee.
I got it.” He shuffled to the open door, looking as if he might drop it with every step.
Men. Even Amish men. Outside, he lifted the frame into the wagon bed.
“Can I have a lift to the fest?” I asked. “I’m judging the watermelon-eating competition.”
He chuckled as he leapt into the wagon bed and pulled a rope from under a tarp. “How’d you get that job?”
“It’s the least I could do after Willow is giving me all this free publicity for the shop.”
“Sure, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Let me grab my bag and Oliver.” I walked into the store and picked up my purse and the tote bag I brought stuffed with two hundred Running Stitch flyers. With my free hand, I snapped on Oliver’s leash. “Mattie, I will be back in a couple of hours.”
She waved good-bye.
Jonah placed Oliver in the wagon bed next to the quilt frame while I climbed up front. He must have seen the concern on my face. “Don’t worry. I tied the quilt frame down with rope. It’s not going anywhere.”
“I’m sensitive about Oliver right now, I guess.”
Jonah hopped up into the driver’s seat. “You should be.” Jonah pulled the wagon to a stop to let an elderly English couple cross the road in front of us. “I heard about the fire.”
“How? When?”
“This morning. The sheriff came by to ask if I knew where he could find Elijah. He knew that I was still friendly with him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I haven’t seen Elijah for the last day or so. I knew he was staying somewhere on the Walker farm, but the sheriff had already searched the farm and didn’t find him.” Jonah winked at me. “Mitchell seemed concerned about you while he questioned me.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s doing his job.”
Jonah snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think Mattie knows. She didn’t say anything.”
“It’s better that way. She will know that Elijah did it, and it would only hurt her.”
“It has to be Elijah?” I asked. “It can’t be anyone else?”
“I doubt it.” He cleared his throat. “I want to apologize for how my wife treated you on our farm the other day. It’s hard for her to understand that I may have had an
Englisch
friend once who happened to be a girl. It’s not a typical friendship for an Amish boy to have, so she doesn’t trust it. I’ve told her that we were never anything other than friends.”
“We weren’t. Honestly, Jo-Jo, I never thought of you in that way.”
Jonah flicked the reins and his horse began walking up Sugartree.
He kept his eyes on the road. “Trust me—I know.”
I sat back against the bench seat, worrying over his response, afraid to ask what it really meant.
The wagon rocked as Jonah’s horse pulled it from the road to the uneven grass under a large oak tree. Anna and Sarah were already there.
Sarah waved. “Jonah, what took you so long in getting the quilt frame? We need to set up.”
Jonah hopped out of the buggy, and I followed. He lifted Oliver to the ground and began untying the quilt frame.
Anna squatted down to Oliver’s level. “I’m glad you’re okay, Oliver. I’ve grown attached to you.”
“You know about the fire too?” I asked.
Sarah nodded so hard her glasses fell crookedly across the bridge of her nose. “It’s all anyone is talking about.”
My brow wrinkled. “Mattie didn’t seem to know this morning. She started working for me today on a trial basis.”
“Gut,”
Anna said. “The quilt shop will suit her fine. She should find something that she enjoys to do after everything she has gone through with Elijah.”
“What are people saying about the fire?” I asked, knowing that Sarah would share all the gruesome details. She didn’t disappoint.
“They are saying he did it because you found out he killed Joseph, and he wants you dead.”
I frowned. “Actually, I have no idea who killed Joseph. Abigail provided her brother a convincing alibi. She said he was on the Walker farm.”
“Abigail loves her
bruder
, but she would not lie. If she says that Elijah was on the farm at the time of the murder, then he was,” Anna said.
I sighed. “That doesn’t help me.”
I noted the sheriff’s cruiser parked a few yards away. Mitchell was already on the scene. I don’t know why I was surprised by that. He seemed to turn up everywhere. I wondered if the Holmes County sheriff ever slept.
Busloads of English tourists were beginning to descend on the Watermelon Fest. Willow was right; the fest was good business for Rolling Brook. I scanned the faces for Mitchell. I found him in his uniform standing by the door leading into the barn. Hillary, the pretty black-haired woman I met at the fest meeting earlier in the week, and a little boy with the same raven-colored hair stood beside him. He laughed at something the woman said. Hillary Mitchell. That’s how Willow had introduced her at the Watermelon Fest meeting. At the time, I hadn’t thought it odd that she and the sheriff shared that same common last name. I should have in a place as small as Holmes County. Maybe it was his sister.
Anna shooed me away. “Go on. Jonah will set up the frame, and we will get everything settled out here. Don’t you have a watermelon-eating contest to judge?”
“Yes,” I admitted. Reluctantly, I walked toward Hillary and the sheriff by the barn door.
“Angie.” Sheriff Mitchell nodded as I approached. “I’m glad to see you in one piece. How are you this morning?”
“Fine” was the best I could do.
Hillary touched the boy’s shoulder. I guessed he was about eight. “This is our son, Zander. Thank you so much for helping with the fest. It’s a bigger success than we ever expected.”
Our son.
So much for hoping the sheriff and Hillary were siblings. I did my best to keep my expression neutral. “The Amish came out for it. I know you were concerned about that.”
She smiled. “I was. I can be harsh about them at times, I know. How is the shop doing?”
“Very well,” I said.
“I’m glad.” She placed a proprietary hand on Mitchell’s arm. “Personally, I don’t have time for crafts.” The way she said “crafts” made me think she thought of quilting in the same way she regarded her son’s macaroni art.
“Stop in anytime,” I said. “You might be surprised by what you find.”
Mitchell squinted at me. “Angie, is something wrong? Are you still upset about the fire?”
Before I could answer, Zander, who had the same aquamarine-colored eyes as his father, said, “Can we go inside now? I want to see the watermelon-eating contest.”
“That’s what I’m judging,” I said.
He trained his blue-green eyes on me. “Really?”
“There you are,” Willow cried. She wore a hot pink and dark green maxi dress. Honestly, Willow took the watermelon theme a little too seriously. She touched my arm. “Angie, are you ready?”
“Yes, yes, I’m ready.” I said my good-byes to Mitchell and his family, not that any of them noticed.