Murder, Plain and Simple (3 page)

In no time, my snickerdoodle tray was empty. I went back inside the shop to reload. A line of guests stood at the register. Martha rang up each purchase with a smile playing on the corners of her mouth. Both Amish neighbors and English guests admired my aunt’s quilts hanging on the walls. The wedding ring quilt, proudly displayed on the wall behind the cash register, received the most attention. Much to my delight, I saw one of the women from the tour bus holding a basket-patterned quilt, which was one of the most expensive quilts on sale. Some of my fear about running my own business started to slip away when I heard the sound of the cash register drawer opening. After the shop closed, I would search again for the deed.

I walked over to the long table at the front of the store where the baked goods were going fast. As I refilled my tray with snickerdoodles, Rachel placed a hand on my arm. “Look at what a success this is, Angie. Your
aenti
would be so proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for providing the food.”

She waved away my thanks. Her brow creased and a little of the sparkle went out of her eyes. “There’s something I should tell you.”

“Is something wrong?”

She held her bottom lip between her teeth as if she was considering something unpleasant.

“Rachel?” I asked.

She rearranged her fry pies on a platter. “I didn’t know Sarah Leham has joined the quilting circle.”

“I thought you knew. Martha invited her. She said Sarah was an excellent quilter.”

“She is,” Rachel insisted. “It’s only . . .” She trailed off.

“What?” I asked as I watched another visitor walk to the register with a quilt.
Chaching
rang in my head.

“It’s not right to gossip.” Rachel moved on to rearrange the sugar cookies.

“If it’s something I need to know, please tell me. I’m still new here, and I’m depending on you, Martha, and Anna to help me understand how Holmes County works.”

“Just be careful what you say around Sarah.” She glanced behind her to see her son Eli trying to climb one of the shop’s display shelves. “Oh, I’d better stop him.”

I didn’t have time to worry over Rachel’s words as a red-haired man close to my age dressed in jeans and a green polo shirt approached me. “Are you Angela Braddock?” he asked while chomping on a large piece of pink bubble gum.

“Yes.” I placed my tray of snickerdoodles on the table. I know they were for the guests, but would anyone notice if I popped one into my mouth?

He held out his hand. “I’m Danny Nicolson. I run the Web site for the Holmes County Tourism Board and am interested in doing a piece about your shop for our next newsletter. We e-mail the newsletter to over five thousand subscribers. Most of those subscribers are in the state of Ohio, but it would be great exposure for your store.”

After ten years working for an advertising agency, I knew how valuable this interview would be. I couldn’t believe this was the first I’d thought about the tourism board. I had been so consumed with getting the shop back in order for the grand reopening and searching for the deed, it hadn’t occurred to me to publicize beyond sending press releases about the reopening to all the local newspapers, including the large dailies in Akron, Canton, and Cleveland. “That would be great,” I said.

“Excellent.” He grinned, displaying a gap between his two front teeth. “Can I interview you tomorrow morning here at the shop, say, six thirty a.m.?”

I was surprised he wanted to meet so early, and my surprise must have shown on my face.

He cracked the gum in his mouth. “I know that’s early, but I have a meeting in Columbus at nine, and I wanted to get the interview in before I leave.”

“Six thirty is fine. I look forward to it.”

He handed me his card. “Running Stitch has always been a popular shop in Rolling Brook. I know an article about the grand reopening will be a huge hit on the Web site.” With that, he grabbed an apple fry pie and wandered around the room making notes.

The card listed only Danny’s name and phone number. There was no reference to the tourism board. I inwardly shrugged—maybe he was freelancing—and slipped the card into my jean skirt pocket. The interview would be an excellent opportunity I must take advantage of.

“Angie?” Anna called me from the quilting circle. Anna, Rachel, and a third woman I didn’t know sat around the quilt frame. Their callused fingers worked their quilting needles with a speed and efficiency I doubted I’d ever achieve, no matter how many lessons Anna gave me.

Anna didn’t look up from her needlework as I stood behind her chair.

Over the pieced-together blue and black quilt topper, the ladies stitched a tiny heart and tulip design set in perfectly symmetrical diamond-shaped boxes. I stared in amazement as Anna moved her quilting needle up and back along the curve of a heart at least ten times before pulling the thread through the quilt. When she finally tugged the thread through, her tiny stitches were identical and roughly the size of the tip of a ballpoint pen.

Anna tilted her head toward the third woman. “I’d like to introduce you to Sarah Leham.”

Sarah was extremely thin and wore a pair of plain wire-rim glasses. Her glass lenses were two perfect circles and gave her eyes an owl-like appearance.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sarah,” I said. “I’m glad you can be a part of the quilting circle.”

Sarah wrapped a piece of thread around her needle three times and jerked it into a quilter’s knot. She ran her fingers along the thread’s length and snipped off the tail with a pair of tiny scissors. “
Gut
to meet you too. As for the circle, I wouldn’t miss it. I’m just so happy and excited to be asked to join. I’m so sorry about your aunt. She was a wonderful woman. It’s a terrible loss to the entire community.” She took a breath.

I jumped in. “What are you ladies working on?” While I spoke, I shot a glance at Rachel, who was bent over her corner of the quilt, so I couldn’t see her face.

“It’s a quilt for my granddaughter,” Anna said. “A wedding present.”

I flinched and wondered if I would ever have a positive reaction to the word “wedding” again. “Is your granddaughter engaged?”

“No, but it shouldn’t be long. She’s already eighteen.”

I blinked. If eighteen was the marrying age in Holmes County, I was way beyond an old maid. At thirty-four, I was prehistoric.

Sarah adjusted her glasses on the tip of her nose. “What brings you to Rolling Brook, Angie? It’s hard for me to believe that an
Englischer
would leave her exciting life in a big city. We are much simpler here, but I do love living in the country. I don’t think the city would suit me at all, and I know it wouldn’t suit my husband. He’s a farmer through and through.”

“My aunt’s shop brought me here,” I said.

She inserted her needle off her pattern line and brought it back up through the quilt at the precise spot where her last stitch ended. With a yank she buried the quilter’s knot deep within the quilt, so that it looked like the thread magically appeared unbroken on the pattern. “Yes, yes, we know Eleanor left you the shop. I heard about the missing deed. I’m so, so sorry you are facing such a challenge already. Have you found it yet? Any clue to where it might be? I’m happy to help you look. I’m very good at finding things. Ask any of my children. When they can’t find something, they come to their
mamm
to look for it, and sure enough, I usually do. When would you like me to start looking?”

“Ow!” Rachel cried.

“Don’t bleed on the quilt,” Anna gave Rachel an appraising glance.

Rachel jumped out of her seat. “Excuse me. I’ll run this under cold water.” She popped her left index finger into her mouth as she hurried away from the circle.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Martha waving at me from the cash register. “It was nice to see you, Sarah. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”

“We will chat later,” Sarah said. “I have so much to tell you.”

I’ll bet she did. Her confident tone made my back stiffen.

Rachel winked at me. “All better,” she mouthed.

I suspected Rachel was better with a needle than she led us to believe.

“Angie, we made it,” Willow called as she floated over to me. The extra fabric of her gauzy silk blouse followed her in a wave. I wondered where she bought her clothes. Certainly not in Holmes County.

Greasy-haired Farley followed in her wake.

“The shop is doing well. Have you told folks about the Watermelon Fest?” He shared a lopsided smile that I pictured his high-school self practicing in the bathroom mirror to impress the ladies. It didn’t work on me.

“I placed the flyer in the window. I’ve been too busy to speak more than a few words to anyone today.”

“Completely understandable. This is a big day for you.” Willow beamed.

Farley pursed his lip. “Monday we’re having a final planning meeting for the Watermelon Fest. Can you join us?”

“Sure,” I said. Martha would be here to watch the shop then.

“It’s going to bring even more traffic to Rolling Brook,” Farley said. “We placed advertisements about it online and in the papers. Danny Nicolson has been a tremendous help.”

At the cash register, a woman in denim shorts bought a large stack of quilted place mats, and I smiled. “I just met Danny. He wants to interview me to do a piece on the store.”

“You should,” Willow said. “Danny has a talent for getting things noticed.”

Behind Willow, Martha’s waving for me to come to the cash register became more urgent.

“Excuse me.”

“We will see you at the meeting,” Willow said.

Martha scowled. “What were you doing talking to those two?”

My brow shot up in surprise. “They invited me to a meeting about the Watermelon Fest.”

“If Running Stitch supports the Watermelon Fest, it will ruin your connection with the Amish in town.”

“Like Joseph Walker?”

She nodded.

“Why?” I asked. “It sounds like a fun idea and should bring more business to town. That’s always good for everyone. There’s a festival poster in the window of Miller’s Amish Bakery, so Rachel and Aaron must be fine with it.”

“They might be.” She grimaced. “But some think it’s another sign that the
Englischers
are trying to take over the town. Rolling Brook is an Amish town, not an
Englisch
one.”

I cocked my head. “If that’s the case, why is the trustee English?”

She shook her head. “Amish would never run for office.” Her eyes narrowed as she watched Willow and Farley move around the room. “I don’t think you should do it. It is not what Eleanor would have wanted.”

I blinked. “I don’t know why my aunt would have a problem with it. She had both Amish and English customers for decades. It’s great to advertise and grow the business. I think I should at least hear them out to see what it’s all about.”

“You promised that Running Stitch would remain an
Amish
quilt shop.”

“It will.” I gripped the side of the counter. “But the business must grow too.”

Her jaw twitched. “It is your decision. You’re the boss.” She stepped around the counter. “Can you watch the cash register? I’d like to rejoin the circle.”

I watched Martha take her place at the quilting circle with a knot growing in my gut. Apparently life in Rolling Brook wasn’t all peace, tranquillity, and quilts.

A woman in her late forties, wearing a brightly colored sweater, approached the cash register with a basketful of different-colored threads, needles, and patterns. “Are you a quilter?” I asked her.

“No, not really. I’m nothing like the ladies in the corner, that’s for sure. I dabble mostly.” She laughed, and her strawberry blond hair shook back and forth. “I probably won’t use half of this stuff, but I can’t resist buying every time I come into this store.”

“That’s fine with me.” I smiled.

“You’re Eleanor’s niece, right?”

I nodded as I rang up her purchase.

She reached into her wallet. “I’m Jessica Nicolson. I own an antiques shop over in Millersburg.”

I put her needles and thread in a small brown bag. “Nicolson? Are you related to Danny Nicolson?”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “That’s my cousin. Let me guess. He asked you for an interview?”

I nodded.

“He thinks he’s the next big reporter, if he only could catch a break.” She rolled her eyes but had a good-natured smile on her face.

“He said he wanted to interview me for a tourism Web site.”

She took her bag. “I’m sure he did, but what he really wants is a big story.”

“I guess I’ll be a disappointment, then. There’s no big news around here,” I said.

She grinned. “That’s what I keep telling him.” She picked up her shopping bags. “I’m sure I’ll be back soon to buy more things I won’t use. Stop at my shop sometime. It’s called Out of Time. It’s right on Route Eighty-three.”

“I’ll do that,” I promised. I’d already planned to hit the rest of the shops in Rolling Brook and Millersburg.

Jessica headed for the door and ran smack into Joseph Walker, who was stepping into the shop at the same time she was leaving. The two stared at each other, and then, as if she were a horse poked in the rib with a cowboy’s spur, Jessica fled. The woman walking a few steps behind Joseph tipped the edge of her bonnet with a pale hand. She watched Joseph as he glanced back at Jessica, who hurried up the sidewalk.