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Authors: Isabella Alan

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BOOK: Murder, Plain and Simple
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C
hapter Fourteen

B
ack at home, Oliver and I stared at the pile of boxes in the corner of the living room. Was it even worth unpacking them at this rate? If I was sent to prison, I wouldn’t need those things. And if I had to go back to Texas with my tail between my legs after leading the quilt shop into financial ruin, it would be awfully depressing to repack them all. I’d admit that was the better option over a black-and-white striped jumpsuit.

Oliver barked at me.

“Okay, maybe, just maybe I’m being a tad overdramatic, but I have good reason to be.”

He bumped his head against my calf. I took it as a show of support. Before I could come to a conclusion about the boxes, my cell phone rang. The readout display showed my parents’ home number. I showed it to Oliver. “Should I answer it?”

He barked softly.

“Yeah, I don’t think so either.” Ignoring my instinct, I said, “Hi, Mom.”

“Sugar.” My mother’s adopted Texas drawl rang in my ear. “How are you, darlin’? How are things back in little old Millersburg?”

Peachy, I thought. I found out I may not own Running Stitch, discovered a dead Amish man in Aunt Eleanor’s shop this morning, and may be arrested for the crime. Of course I didn’t say that, but she went on, like I knew she would, before I could come up with a milder response.

She sighed. “I do miss Millersburg sometimes. It looks like a postcard. You would not believe how many ladies here read those Amish romance novels they sell at Cracker Barrel. They love to hear stories about my Amish sister.”

I highly doubted my mother missed Millersburg, but I knew she did love sharing stories. In her mind, any time she was the center of attention was a good one. The one and only time Mom had come back to Millersburg since we moved to Texas over twenty years ago was to attend her sister’s funeral a few weeks ago. I doubt she would ever return to the county again.

“How’s the shop?” she asked. “I’m sure Eleanor left everything in order. She was always so neat.”

Except for the missing deed . . .

“It’s coming along.” I learned long ago, it was easier for everyone if I was vague with my mother. It’s what she wanted. It was what I wanted too.

“Have you found a Realtor yet? I’ve been searching online for recommendations in Holmes County.”

“A Realtor? Why would I need one of those?” I sat on the kitchen stool and looked out the window into the backyard. A cardinal hopped along the white picket fence. I’d wait until he left before letting Oliver outside.

She sniffed. “To sell the shop. That’s what you went there to do, wasn’t it?”

I ground my teeth. “I’m not selling the shop.”

She gasped. “Don’t tell me you plan to stay in Ohio for good.”

“I told you that was my plan when I left.”

She chuckled. “You tease your mother. Both you and your father love to do that.”

My jaw started to ache from clenching it too tightly. “I’m not teasing. Why would I go back to Texas?”

“For the wedding, of course.” All the mirth left her voice.

I felt a migraine beginning to tickle at the base of my skull. “There is no wedding.”

“No wedding?” She gave a sharp intake of breath. “You only need a break after your little spat with Ryan.”

“Mom, it wasn’t a little spat. The wedding is off. The engagement is over.”

“Sweetie, it can’t be. The wedding is three months away. Surely, you two can patch things up by then. I took the liberty of mailing your wedding invitations.”

“You did what?” I grabbed the side of my head just in case it started to spin in place.

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Her flat Midwestern accent came out when she was upset.

I closed my eyes and counted to eight in Spanish. Slowly, I opened my eyes. “Mother, why would you do that?”

She sniffed. “I was only trying to help. People have to make plans to come, book hotels and flights. Things like that. I wouldn’t have to go to such extreme measures if you had sent Save the Date cards months ago like I asked you to.”

I winced because I knew that she really thought she was helping. “Everything’s been canceled.”

She gasped. “No, it hasn’t.”

“Yes, it has. The caterer, the reception hall, the music, everything. Not to mention, the groom has no intention of showing up.” I put a hand to my left eye. It would start twitching any second now. I could feel the beginnings of the twitch deep inside my cornea. “What am I going to do about the invitations? We have to tell the guests the wedding is off.” This was the exact situation I wanted to avoid. The one mercy Ryan gave me during our breakup was he dumped me before I took the invitations to the post office. Now I didn’t even have that.

“No, we don’t. You and Ryan must get back together in time for the wedding. I can get the caterer and reception hall back. I just need to make some calls. They will pull everything together for me. I give them enough business with all those charities and dinner parties I hosted over the years.”

I may have stopped breathing. “Mom, let me make this crystal clear. Ryan and I are
never
getting married.”

“But . . . but he’s perfect.”

Yep, that’s what I used to think too.

“What did you do to upset him?” Her voice was sharp.

She might as well have punched me in the gut. “Nothing. I did nothing.”

“Maybe that was the problem. By doing nothing, you didn’t keep his interest.” She moaned. “I knew you should have gotten married years ago, like I wanted. Now you two would be getting a divorce and this would be so less embarrassing.”

The eye twitch showed up right on schedule.

She sniffled.

“Are you crying?” I knew my tone was accusatory, but I was the one with the license to cry in this situation.

“I knew I should have sent you to those debutante classes when I had the chance. Instead you were able to convince your father to let you take drawing classes. What a waste. What good is drawing going to do you?” She whimpered. “There must be a way to win Ryan back.”

“I don’t want to win Ryan back.” For the first time I realized I meant it. “Mom, I’ve got to go.” I glanced at Oliver. “Oliver has to go outside.”

He cocked his head and started doing the potty dance. I swear the Frenchie understood me better than anyone.

“I’ll think of a way to get you two back together—don’t worry.” She hung up.

I stared at the cell phone in my hand. What just happened? Could this day possibly get worse? It started with my finding a dead body, and now this? I knew the dead-body thing was the worse of the two, but the invitation nightmare rocked me to my very core.

I paced the first floor of my little house. What was I going to do? I needed my computer. I thought the wedding guest list must still be on there. In a rage, I did delete most of the files pertaining to the wedding. Could I re-create the guest list? I knew my mother had a copy, but she might become suspicious if I asked for it. I could feign renewed interest in the wedding. That could work. It had to work.

My cell rang again, causing me to jump. It was my parents’ house number again. Mom was calling back to cover more wedding details. Did Ryan know about this? After our seven years together, he certainly knew how my mother operated, so it wouldn’t be much of a surprise to him. But oh, the humiliation!

“Mom, I—”

“Your mother is in the other room.” In contrast to my mother, Dad had never lost his flat Midwestern accent.

I sighed with relief. “Dad! Thank goodness it’s you.”

He chuckled.

“Do you know what she did?” My voice was just short of a screech.

“Yes, I know about the invitations.”

“I am going to die. Was being dumped not mortification enough?”

“Angie—”

I gripped the cell in my hand. “What am I going to do? Can you get on her computer and grab the guest list? I suppose I can send a mass e-mail or something like that. You know, one that said ‘just kidding, happy April Fools’.’”

“It’s August,” my father replied.

“Well, yeah, but these are desperate times. I have to say something!” My hand began to ache from holding the phone so tightly.

“Angie . . .”

“I have to do something before this goes too far. What if people RSVP?”

“Angie!” he bellowed. My father was not a yeller.

“What?” I asked, startled by his outburst.

“It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

“But she said she sent the invitations.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart. Your mother thinks she sent the invitations. I offered to mail them.”

“You? You were the one who sent them.” I felt like I had been keelhauled. Dad had always been the one on my side. He’d been the one who had my back.

“No.” He laughed a deep tummy laugh. I could almost see his round belly jiggling as it hung over the brown leather belt holding up his khakis. “Never fear. They are safely hidden away in my office. They will never be mailed. They will never see the light of day again. They sleep with the fishes.”

I laughed at my father’s jokes and suddenly felt terribly homesick. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“I love you, and your mother loves you too in her own way. She misses you desperately—we both do—this was her attempt to convince you to move back here.”

Tears sprang in my eyes. Before I could check it, a question popped out of my mouth. “Do you think I did something to drive Ryan away?”

“You? Never. I never cared much for that Ryan.”

I knew that wasn’t true. My father and Ryan had been close. They bonded over corporate America and golf. Ryan was the son my dad never had. However, it made me feel better hearing him lie to me.

“Don’t worry about anything down here. I can manage your mother. I’ve been doing it for nearly forty years. You enjoy yourself in Holmes County. To be selfish, I don’t like how far away you are, but if that’s where you need to be right now, then all right. I want you to be happy.” There was a pause. “Ouch.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked quickly.

“Oh, it’s just my bum knee. I’m having surgery on it Monday.”

“I didn’t know that.” Worry laced my voice. My father had hurt his knee over fifty years ago playing Little League baseball.

“Don’t you worry. It is nothing. It’s only laparoscopic surgery. I have had that before. I’m sure one day the doc will have the whole knee replaced.” He laughed.

“I wish you would have told me,” I said.

“You have enough to worry about. Now, put this invitation mess with your mother out of your head.”

I hung up without breathing a word about the murder to either of my parents. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, I hoped.

Chapter Fifteen

S
unday in Millersburg was
a lazy day. Half the population was in church and the other half was still in bed or watching Sunday morning cartoons. Businesses didn’t open until one. After a restless night’s sleep, even quilting couldn’t calm me, and I put away the twelve-inch practice square Anna had given me yesterday. I didn’t have the patience to concentrate on those tiny stitches. I needed to stretch my legs, and Oliver needed to work off all the treats he’d eaten since moving to Amish Country. All right, we both needed some exercise for the same reason.

I clicked the leash on Oliver’s collar, and he wagged his stubby tail with excitement so hard his entire rump wiggled back and forth. I hadn’t realized how much he’d missed our walks. Back in Dallas we’d walked twice a day, every day. Mostly because I lived in a high-rise apartment building with no backyard, and I needed to accommodate his potty breaks. However, since moving to Ohio, I hadn’t taken him on a real walk. I’d been too consumed with getting the store up and running and then yesterday there was Joseph’s death. I was a horrible doggy mama.

I walked out of the house and turned south toward the center of town. It was slow going as Oliver had to stop every five feet to sniff the ground and inhale all those foreign but lovely country smells. Before long, Oliver and I were in the center of Millersburg where Clay, also known as Route 83, and Jackson, also known as Route 39, intersected. If I drove due east on 39, I would end up in Berlin, one of the most visited Amish communities in the county. Rolling Brook was half of Berlin’s size, but it was still a regular stop on the Amish bus tour circuit. I inwardly groaned as I thought about all the business I would miss. Though I had to admit that I was much better off than Joseph Walker, who was out of business permanently.

Oliver and I stopped beneath the nineteenth-century soldier’s statue on the side etched with Grant’s name, in front of the sandstone Holmes County Courthouse. Ulysses S. Grant was a Civil War hero, the eighteenth president, and an all-around Ohio superstar. Even though it was still early morning, the air was thick. My curls were out of control again today. I needed to invest in some Frizz-Ease fast.

As Oliver snuffled the ground, I considered my options. Sunday wasn’t a good day to investigate any of my Amish leads. All of the Amish were at a church meeting in someone’s house. I didn’t know which house, as the location changed weekly, and it wasn’t a good idea to storm into Amish services, making accusations.

I considered my suspects. Both Elijah and Benjamin were Amish and unavailable. Monday, I would talk to Benjamin at his shop. Elijah was more difficult to find. I suspected that his sister knew where he could be found if I had the chance to speak to her. After my uncle Jacob died, my aunt Eleanor was not left alone for a moment as the Amish community surrounded her. Abigail would be no different. I decided to talk to Rachel about it. I also wanted to ask her for the scoop on Sarah. There was a definite tension between the two Amish women that had more to it than Sarah’s love of gossip.

While I was deep in thought, a dog barked at us from the sidewalk. Oliver stopped his snuffling and stared at the newcomer, a Boston terrier. The little but solid black-and-white dog shook with excitement as he spotted Oliver. Oliver barked a greeting. For all his fears, Oliver wasn’t afraid of other dogs—at least he wasn’t afraid of other dogs smaller than he was.

As cute as the Boston was, it was his human on the other end of the leash who caught my attention. Sheriff Mitchell in perfectly faded jeans and a Millersburg High School T-shirt smiled back at me. The sun reflected on the silver flecks in his hair. I believe my heart literally stopped for a second as all the moisture in my mouth evaporated. The urge to tamp down my unruly hair was almost overpowering.

“Good morning, Miss Braddock,” the sheriff said as he and the little dog walked onto the courthouse green to join us.

Unable to speak, I grunted back. What, I’d lost use of speech?
Get it together, woman. This is the man who thinks you are a killer.
“Hi,” I squeaked. At least it was a start.

A hint of a smile played on the sheriff’s lips. “Is this your dog?”

I blinked. “My dog?”

He pointed at Oliver. “The Frenchie. Is he yours?”

“Oh, oh, yes. This is Oliver.”

Mitchell took three big steps and was within an arm’s length of me. He held out his hand to Oliver, and my dog buried his nose in his palm.
Stocky traitor.

The Boston jumped up and down, and the two animals circled each other, sniffed, and touched pushed-in noses.

“I think they like each other,” Mitchell said.

“Looks like it,” I muttered. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Tux.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What a cute name for a Boston.”

He grinned. “I think so.” He cleared his throat. “How are you doing after yesterday?”

I sighed. “Okay.” I chewed on the inside of my lip. “How is Abigail?”

His face fell. “She’s devastated.”

I dropped my eyes as I thought how Joseph’s widow must feel. Joseph was grumpy, but Abigail must have loved him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He nodded. “The community will support her. That’s the one thing about the Amish. They have the ability to come together in tragedy.”

I thought about all the Amish people who were there to comfort me during Aunt Eleanor’s funeral, many of whom I’d never met before and I suspected would never meet again. “I remember what an Amish funeral is like.”

“That’s right. Your aunt was Amish.”

“Yes. The quilt shop was hers. The ruined quilt was hers.” I looked down. I didn’t want him to see me tear up over a quilt. It felt wrong to be so emotional about it, a material object, when a man was dead.

“So, was your family Amish?”

Either Mitchell took mercy on me or he didn’t notice talk of the quilt choked me up. I bet it was the former. I doubted the seasoned law enforcement officer missed much of anything.

I tried to focus on his question. “No, my mom and Aunt Eleanor were raised in a regular English home. There is a ten-year difference between the sisters. My mother is the younger of the two. My aunt met my uncle Jacob when she was in her thirties and left her English life to marry him.”

“She left everything to be with him.” His voice held awe.

I met his blue-green eyes for the first time. “She really loved him. Everyone did. He was the sweetest, gentlest man you’d ever have the pleasure of meeting.”

“They sound like a wonderful couple.”

I broke eye contact. “They were.” I frowned. “Aunt Eleanor worked so long to make the shop a success. I only had it open for one day, and it’s a disaster. Maybe I should follow my mother’s advice and move back to Texas.”

“First of all, you can’t go back to Texas while the investigation is in progress.”

My skin grew hot as my head slammed back in reality. What was I doing telling the sheriff all this stuff about me? He wasn’t a friend; he wasn’t even an acquaintance. He was a cop who wanted to throw me behind bars.

“Second of all, you should give Holmes County a fair try before you leave,” he added quickly.

“I want to, but it hasn’t been the best of starts.”

He laughed. “I’ll give you that.”

I gave him a small smile. I needed to get back on track, which was steering the sheriff to other suspects. “Have you spoken to Abigail’s brother, Elijah Knepp?”

His gaze sharpened. “Elijah?”

“He just got out of prison, didn’t he? Joseph was the person responsible for him being there. Maybe he was plotting revenge all these years.”

He watched me carefully. “How do you know all that?”

“I didn’t get the impression that it was a secret.”

He removed sunglasses from the breast pocket of his shirt and slipped them on, his beautiful aquamarine eyes hidden from sight. The neighbor with the dog was gone, and the cop was firmly back in control. “You got my message on your answering machine?”

“Yes. You said there was something I left out of my statement. I don’t know what that could be. I told you everything I knew.”

“Seems you were in a fight with Walker at your shop’s grand reopening.”

“A fight?” I yelped. “That’s ridiculous. Who told you we had a fight?”

“People attending the party. They all agreed that you had an argument with Joseph Walker right in the middle of the shop.”

“An argument is not a fight.” I threw up my hands. “You make it sound like we started duking it out in the middle of Running Stitch.”

He shrugged. “Fight, argument—it’s all the same. It’s motive.”

My heart constricted. He
did
think I killed the woodworker. I wished he’d take those stupid sunglasses off, so I could see his eyes, and I wished I had sunglasses with me, so that I could hide mine. “How could I have killed Joseph Walker like that? He was huge and built like a lumberjack. I’m no Minnie Mouse, but he had six inches on me and fifty pounds.”

Mitchell folded his arms. “We already determined that the assailant was smaller than Walker because the cut in his throat angled up. That means it came from below.”

“Well,” I argued, “everyone was smaller than him, so that doesn’t help much.”

“It helps to know from the direction of the cut and blood spatter that the assailant was right-handed.”

Reflexively, I hid my hand behind my back. “Right.”

He held up his hand. “Before you say it, I will. Most people are right-handed.”

“Elijah Knepp is smaller than Joseph and went to prison for arson for burning down a barn.”

Mitchell sighed.

“Was anyone hurt in the barn fire?”

“No.” He crossed his arms. “Some livestock was lost.”

“Why did he do it?”

The sheriff grimaced. “That we never fully discovered. He claimed it was an accident. He said he knocked over a lantern on a hay bale. It’s possible. It’s happened before within the Amish communities.”

“If it was an accident, then why was he sent to prison?”

“Because the place was doused with kerosene before the fire.”

“The fire was deliberate.” I paused. “How long was he in prison?”

“Thirty months,” Mitchell clipped.

“That’s a long time,” I said.

Mitchell stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. “It is.”

“Then why are you talking to me? You should be talking to Elijah. He has a
much
better motive than I do.”

“I plan on speaking with him.” His jaw twitched.

I gave a little sigh of relief. So I wasn’t Mitchell’s only suspect. That was excellent news. “What about Benjamin Hershberger?”

Mitchell removed his sunglasses and stared at me. His blue-green eyes were like electric beams, which I couldn’t look away from even if they burned my retina. “What are you up to? Are you meddling in my investigation?”

Meddling? Me?

I cleared my throat. “Of course not.” I paused. “But I thought you may need some help finding more suspect options. You know, other than me.”

“Miss Braddock, I have been the sheriff of Holmes County for ten years. Before that, I was a chief of the Millersburg Police Department. I know what I’m doing.”

I stepped back and butted into the cement mount holding the stone soldier in place. “There’s no reason to take it personally.”

Mitchell tugged on Tux’s leash. “Come, Tux.”

The dog gave Oliver a forlorn look, and the two touched noses one more time. I wish it were that easy for humans.

“Hey,” I said. “When are you bringing the statement by my house?”

He checked his watch. “I’ll be there in two hours. Do me a favor,” the county sheriff said. “You worry about quilts, and I will worry about who killed Joseph Walker.” He led a disappointed Tux away from Oliver and me. Oliver whimpered as he watched his new playmate go.

“I’ll stop worrying about Joseph Walker if you promise not to arrest me!” I cried after Mitchell.

He appraised me over his shoulder. “That, Angela Braddock, formerly of Dallas, Texas, I cannot do.”

I watched Mitchell and Tux cross the street and make their way up Jackson. I gritted my teeth. “If that’s the case,” I said barely above a whisper, “then, you have given me no choice but to meddle.”

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