Murder, Plain and Simple (6 page)
hapter Eight
I climbed the three steps to the porch as if I wore lead shoes.
I’m a murder suspect? That’s just my luck. I get dumped, and then this happens, which is so much worse.
The sheriff’s blue-green eyes came to mind. Did he think I killed Joseph? For some reason, I didn’t want the sheriff thinking badly of me. I blamed this concern on stress. I did just find a dead body in my beloved aunt’s quilt shop, a shop that would go under if the sheriff’s department didn’t let me open back up soon. Anyone would be under distress in those circumstances. The box from Rachel’s bakery felt heavy in my hand. It wouldn’t last long thanks to the stress I was currently under.
I walked through the small living room into the large eat-in kitchen, which was my favorite room in the house. It was twice the size of the living room. All the appliances were vintage apple green. My landlords, the Goodings, assured me that everything worked. I secretly loved the retro appliances and hoped that was true. In the corner of the room stood a round Amish-built oak table with four paddle-back chairs around it. It had been left by the previous tenant. The appliances and table would have been ridiculous in my modern, streamlined Dallas high-rise apartment. Here in Millersburg, they charmed me. Blue flower-patterned curtains decorated the window over the sink.
I rooted through the boxes on the kitchen counter in search of a glass. Finally, I found one in the third box. The one labeled “glasses.” Go figure. I filled the glass with water from the faucet and looked out into the backyard.
“Oliver?” I called, and then remembered that I let him out in the backyard before racing to the shop. Surely, if he’d entered the house through the doggy door, he would be at my feet in the kitchen, begging for a treat.
Through the window, I was startled to see a man bent at the waist and peering into the doghouse Mr. Gooding had made for Oliver. My heart constricted. I grabbed an old broom that leaned against the wall and threw the back door open. “Get away from him!”
The man placed a hand on his back and groaned as he straightened up. “Watch what you’re doing with that thing. You could really wallop someone.”
I lowered the broom. “Mr. Gooding?”
His silver tumbleweed eyebrows knit together. “Course it’s me. Who’d you think it was?” He placed a hand to his chest.
Oliver ran out of the doghouse and braced his paws on my legs. I rubbed his ears between my fingers.
Oh no, I gave the poor guy a heart attack. I took a step closer. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s indigestion.” His jowls jiggled as he talked, reminding me of a Saint Bernard. “I came over because I heard about Joseph Walker.”
Already? Did the buggy telegraph cross with an English cell phone tower?
“I wasn’t sure when you would be getting home. Mrs. Gooding thought the sheriff might have arrested you, so I dropped by to check on Oliver.”
My face felt hot. The Goodings thought I was a criminal. Would they kick me out on the street? I took a deep breath. “As you can see, I’m free.”
He nodded. “Good. Both Mrs. Gooding and I know you wouldn’t do anything wrong. You’re such a nice girl.”
That was a relief—even if it was a ridiculous assumption on the Goodings’ part. Niceness did not negate the ability to commit murder. I wasn’t going to argue the point. “What did you hear about Joseph’s death?” I asked. I realized it might be helpful to know exactly what the rumors floating about the county were.
He pulled at his long eyebrows. “Well, they said that he was found dead in the middle of the shop and wrapped up in a quilt. The Amish say it must have been an English person who did it because the Amish know better than to ruin a perfectly good quilt.”
“He wasn’t found dead in the middle of the shop.” I went on to tell him what I had discovered in Running Stitch’s stockroom.
I left out the part about my aunt’s quilt being shredded, because something about that clue felt important. I planned to keep it to myself until the police mentioned it or someone on the buggy telegraph heard the news. I also left out the detail of the murder weapon, because it was covered with my fingerprints. I internally groaned as I remembered the sheriff asked me to stop by the sheriff’s department to get fingerprinted.
Mr. Gooding clicked his tongue. “Just awful. I don’t imagine you expected to find something like that since moving to Holmes County.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Oliver dropped to the ground and snuffled the grass. A Dallas pooch born and bred, he wasn’t used to all this lush green open space.
“I’m glad to see you’re okay. That will ease Mrs. Gooding’s mind.” He walked over to the gate in the white picket fence. “If there is a way we can help you, you let us know.”
“I will,” I promised.
He disappeared around the side of the house.
Oliver and I went back inside and I locked all the doors and windows. Oliver cocked his head at me. “Just being cautious,” I told the Frenchie. “You don’t want to know about my morning.”
The house was without air-conditioning and was stifling with the windows closed. I didn’t care. I wasn’t taking any chances. Dozens of questions ran through my head. Who could have killed Joseph in such a brutal fashion? What was Joseph doing in my shop? Why was my aunt’s beautiful quilt destroyed?
I needed to do something, or I would lose my mind. Going to the sheriff’s department to get the fingerprinting over with was the best option. First, though, I needed a shower badly. I groaned when I thought of the condition of my hair. The sheriff probably thought I was part of some refugee program.
After I’d showered and tamed my curls, I debated taking Oliver with me. I didn’t like the idea of leaving him home alone with a murderer on the loose. In the end, I left him at home because I didn’t think the sheriff would appreciate it if I showed up with my dog. I squatted in front of the little Frenchie. “Now, if anyone tries to come in here, you hide.”
He licked my face.
The Holmes County Sheriff’s Department was ten minutes north of Millersburg in Holmesville. The building itself looked like a tan brick fortress with sharp triangular shapes. I wondered if the architect built it that way to intimidate criminals. It worked on me.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the glass doors and gave my name to the stony officer at the desk. Without a word, she took me in a windowless back room.
“Do you fingerprint a lot of people?” I asked. It was a dumb question, and I knew it. However, her silence made me nervous.
She grunted in reply. “Place your right hand here.” She pointed to a flat touch screen on the countertop. The touch screen sat in front of a computer monitor. I watched my fingerprint be recorded on the monitor while she pressed down hard on each digit. “Left hand,” she barked.
Giving up on any conversation, I gave her my left hand.
“Take a seat.” She motioned to a metal folding chair and handed me a clipboard. “Record your statement and sign it.”
Taking a deep breath, I sat on the uncomfortable chair and wrote down what I had found that morning. When I was done, I handed her the clipboard.
She flipped through the pages. “You’re free to go.”
I fled before she changed her mind. When I stepped outside, I closed my eyes and inhaled the sweet country air.
I cannot go back in there.
“Glad to see you stopped by so quickly,” a voice in front of me said.
My eyes popped open to find Sheriff Mitchell studying me. I swallowed.
“You changed your hair.”
Self-consciously, my hand flew to my blond curls. Ugh. At least I no longer looked like I used a hand mixer on my hair.
“Did you get fingerprinted?”
“Yes. Your desk officer isn’t the chatty type, is she?”
He barked a laugh. “I’ve worked with Nadine for ten years, and I think she’s said maybe fourteen words to me.”
I gave him a small smile. “Do you know how Joseph got into my shop? I’m sure I locked both doors before I left.”
“We think the person came through the back door. The front has two dead bolts, and the culprit would have risked being seen from passersby. There was no sign of forced entry. The killer may have had a key.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. Forced entry would have gotten me off. A key? That meant the only suspects were Martha and me. What would Martha have against Joseph Walker? I was the more likely suspect between the two of us. There had to be other options.
“That said, the back door is flimsy. An amateur could have broken in with a credit card. Like many of the Amish, your aunt had not been concerned with security. I suggest you have a new lock installed with a dead bolt on that door.”
“I will.”
His expression softened. “I’m going to drop by your house tomorrow to check things out.”
“Check out my house?”
He shrugged as if it were no big deal. “I’d like to take a look around as part of the investigation.”
My back stiffened. “Don’t you need a warrant to do that?”
“Sure, I can get one. Do you have anything to hide?”
“No. Nothing.” I licked my lips. “Do I need a lawyer?”
His eyes shifted to a dark shade of blue. “You are entitled to one.”
I took that as a “yes.”
apter Nine
When I turned the SUV onto my street, I saw a horse and buggy parked on the curb in front of my house. Anna Graber sat on a resin chair on my front porch and stood when I turned into the driveway.
I climbed out of the car.
Anna adjusted her glasses. “Where have you been?”
I swallowed. “I was at the sheriff’s department.”
Her face was somber. “I’ve heard the news.”
I let out a breath. There was no need to ask her what the news was.
She inspected my face. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” I swallowed a lump in my throat.
She clicked her tongue. “Joseph was a stern man, but honest. This is a tragedy for the entire community.”
“The sheriff thinks I killed him.” The lump in my throat grew bigger.
Her eyes went round behind her glasses. “I never heard anything so ridiculous. I’m sure the sheriff doesn’t really feel that way. He had to ask you questions because it’s your shop.”
My shop?
That still sounded strange to my ears. Had I already ruined everything that my aunt had spent decades creating? The murder wasn’t my fault, but I still felt like I let Aunt Eleanor down somehow. “Thank you for stopping by and checking on me. That was nice of you.”
“You’re coming with me. Do you think I would leave Eleanor’s niece alone on a day like this?”
I hedged. Having settled on my hermit plan, I wasn’t eager to give it up. “I really should stay home and unpack. I don’t know where anything is. I’m going to run out of clean socks.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “The best excuse you’ve got is dirty socks. You’re coming to the farm with me. A visit to the country will do you good.”
I raised an eyebrow. “We aren’t in the country now?”
“Course not. We’re in town, an
Englisch
town at that. Now, go fetch your quilting basket and Oliver, and we will be off.”
Ten minutes later, I stepped out of my house with my quilting basket and my dog. Before I left the house, I checked that the door was locked three times. As I was about to check one more time, Anna said, “That locked door isn’t going to protect you from whoever hurt Joseph. Only
Gott
can.”
I let my hand fall from the doorknob and joined Anna and Oliver at the buggy. I smacked the floor of the buggy with my hand. “Up, Oliver.”
He eyed Anna’s horse and glanced back to me as if to ask, “Are you serious?”
Anna’s horse blew air out of his mouth, fluttering his lips and showing off his large square teeth.
Oliver’s brown eyes bulged as he moonwalked back onto the lawn.
“I’ll get him to hop up here.” Anna rooted around in a basket beside her on the bench seat and came up with a six-inch-long piece of beef jerky. She shook the jerky at my dog, and he hopped into the buggy and lay on the floor with the piece of dried meat between his front paws.
She smiled triumphantly. “Works every time.”
“You keep jerky in your buggy?” I asked.
“Buggy rides are long. You never know when you need a bite to eat.” She climbed into the buggy with the ease of someone who did it every day of her life.
I laughed and climbed inside, falling into the seat like a bag of sand. I hoped the dismount would go more smoothly.
Anna clicked at the horse, and we rocked into motion. The childhood memories of riding in my uncle’s buggy came to my mind. The pleasant rattle of the carriage and the rocking back and forth were like being in an adult-sized cradle. In my mind’s eye, I could see
Aenti
in the front of the buggy working on a lap quilt. If she was seated, she was always quilting. Her mind was barely occupied by her stitches. Despite her lack of attention, she never dropped a stitch or strayed from the quilting pattern.
Anna turned on Clay Street, and I pretended to be fascinated with the Holmes County Courthouse, which was a beautiful sandstone building with enormous arched windows on all four sides. A blindfolded lady of justice held scales over the public entrance, and a clock tower was perched on the roof. In front of the courthouse, where Jackson Street and Clay intersected, was a large green courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard was a nineteenth-century American soldier statue, austerely surveying downtown Millersburg. To the north side of the courtyard was a brick building, the Holmes County Old Jail, which now housed civil servant offices even though jailhouse bars remained on many of the windows. I suspect they left them on for historical purposes, but I wondered how the civil servants felt looking through barred windows each day. Was it a view I would come to know well because of Joseph’s murder?
Anna lifted a hand from the reins and squeezed mine, which were folded in my lap. “I miss her too.”
Surprised, I turned to her. How did Anna know I was thinking about my aunt?
She adjusted the reins in her hands. “I miss her every day, but no more than when I sit down to quilt. Your
aenti
was the best quilter in the county. No one else in the circle can come close to her talent.”
I bit the inside of my lip. “What can you tell me about the wedding quilt that was in the shop?”
“It was some of Eleanor’s best work. She made it a few years back. It was one of the last quilts she pieced and quilted herself before she became too ill to do it.”
I winced as I thought of it in tatters and spattered with blood on the stockroom floor.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as a minivan whizzed past us.
I squirmed on the hard seat. “The quilt was with Joseph.”
“You mean he took it?”
“No, I mean . . .” I hadn’t considered that Joseph may have been the one to take the quilt off the wall before, but I guessed it was possible. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Then what?” Her dark brown eyes magnified by her glasses bored holes into me.
I swallowed. “It was with his body, covered in blood and torn to pieces.”
“But it was on the wall.” Her face paled.
“It wasn’t when I went into the shop this morning. I can assure you of that.”
She took a deep breath. This seemed to come as more of a shock to her than Joseph’s death. “But that’s one of her best quilts. It’s priceless.”
Anna’s change of mood wasn’t making me feel any better about the loss of the quilt. “I know.”
She shook her head. “There must be a reason that the quilt was there. Someone had to have made an effort to get it down off the wall. Those quilt hooks aren’t easy to work. Whoever got it down did it for a reason.”
I hadn’t thought about it. “You think it was a message.” The morbid thought brought a sour taste to my mouth.
She nodded and the ties of her prayer cap waved back and forth.
If it was some kind of message, it was meant for me.