Murder, Served Simply (25 page)

A
mber Rustle stared out the front window of my car in the parking lot of the Mennonite meetinghouse. Just yards away, the Mennonite minister and Esther Shetler stood on either side of a fresh grave. Mimi Ford was close to the fence, as if she were afraid to get too close.

I watched Amber. “Are you ready?”

“I still can't believe it was Junie.” She shivered in her seat, even though I had the heater going full blast. “It's all anyone who has come into the library, both Amish and English, has spoken about. Junie would have been the last person I suspected.”

Me too, I thought. Until it was almost too late.

“Why did she do it?” Amber asked. “You promised you would tell me when you found out, but you haven't yet.”

“And that's what you really want to know?”

She nodded. “Yes. It won't bring Eve back, but for some reason, I think it will make me feel better.”

I wasn't so sure of that.

“There had to be a reason. There is always a reason, isn't there?”

“She was jealous because Eve was so beloved.”

“She was jealous? That's her only reason?”

“Not that it excuses her in any way.” I ran my gloved hand back and forth over the steering wheel. “But I guess Junie had trouble living in Eve's shadow all her life. She thought that when Eve left the Amish, she would finally stand out in her family and in her community. But as soon as Eve returned to take the part in the play, everything crumbled for her.” I paused. “I don't know if it will help, but Junie didn't mean to kill her sister. She just wanted to hurt her and scare Eve enough so that Eve would leave again.”

Amber wiped away a tear with the back of her mittened hand. “Do you know what the saddest part was?”

I shook my head.

“Eve loved Junie. She always said Junie was the closest person to her in her entire family. She loved her.” She scrubbed her mittens back and forth over her face as if to push her tears back into her eyes, but it wasn't working.

Oliver hung his head over the seat from the back and nudged her arm with his head.

I placed a hand on her arm. “If you don't want to get out of the car, we don't have to. I can take you back home. Whatever you choose to do is fine.”

As suddenly as she began, she stopped rubbing her face and dropped her hands. Her face was flush. “No. I'm ready now.”

“All right.” I patted Oliver's head and told him to
stay in the car. As if he understood, he curled up in the backseat.

Amber and I went through the cemetery gate together. I stopped by Mimi, and Amber went on to stand next to Eve's mother.

Mimi touched a tissue to the corner of her eye and smiled at me. “I thought I would give her mother some space.”

“Any sign of Nahum around the hotel?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not since the theater troupe left. A few of them left earlier than the others.”

“You mean Lena and Rupert.”

It was her turn to nod. “I guess they are finding themselves on Broadway or trying to. They have Wade's recommendation to help them.”

“Why would Wade write them a recommendation?” I asked.

“From what I hear, Wade has to write a recommendation for everyone in the troupe because all of them found out about his indiscretion with that young woman all those year ago, thanks to Jasper.”

“What will happen to Wade?”

She shrugged. “I know he's out on bail, because he came back to the hotel for his things and checked out. Jasper will sue him for all he's worth for pushing him down the stairs.”

I winced.

“I'm glad they're gone.” Her head drooped. “The playhouse was a bad idea.”

I touched her arm. “No, it wasn't. It was a great idea.
So was the progressive dinner. But maybe next time you should just vet the acting troupe a little bit more.”

She gave me a tiny smile and started toward the three people around Eve's grave.

Another car crunched through the snow into the parking lot. It was one I knew well—the sheriff's department SUV.

I met Mitchell at the gate. “You came.” I smiled at him.

“You asked me to, and I have.” He nodded. “I was able to get away. I put Anderson in charge of any emergencies.”

I chuckled softly. “Do you think that was a good idea?”

“Probably not.” He smiled. His eyes fell on the tiny group around the grave. “What a sad showing for a girl who was so loved.”

I nodded.

“Did your parents get off on their flight okay?”

My parents had left for the airport early that morning to catch a flight back to Dallas. I nodded. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. They are moving back to Holmes County, so you had better start thinking of ways to impress Daphne Braddock.”

Mitchell's mouth fell open. I folded my hand into his and led him to Eve's gravesite.

Amish Quilted Snowman,
the Perfect Holiday Gift

by Angela Braddock, Owner of Running Stitch

The holidays are right around the corner, and if you're like me, you want to give a homemade gift to those you love. At Running Stitch, we are here to help you find all the sewing and quilting supplies that you need to make the perfect gift for your friends and family. However, you may be stumped on what to make, and time is running out to decide. Why not make a quilted snowman? It's a quick and easy project that is guaranteed to charm your loved ones and bring smiles to their faces.

Supplies

fabric

scissors

thread

needle

polyester stuffing

variety of buttons

Step One

Choose a quilting pattern and create three quilted squares of varying size: one twelve-by-twelve inches, one ten-by-ten inches, and one eight-by-eight inches. The twelve-by-twelve-inch block may seem large for the project, but it's better to begin with too much fabric and cut off the excess than to run out. I suggest that you use white or cream fabric.

Step Two

Take polyester stuffing and form a ball to place inside the completed quilt block. Wrap the block around the ball and stitch closed. Repeat this for each block.

Step Three

Now you should have three quilted balls of descending size. Cut off any excess fabric. Stack them so that the stitches holding the balls together are hidden. Stitch the balls together in the form of a snowman, taking care to bury your stitches deep inside the body of the snowman so they don't show.

Step Four

On the face of the snowman, use buttons to add eyes, a nose, and a mouth—or, if you prefer to have you project in the Amish style, don't add a face.

Step Five

If desired, add accessories such as a top hat. You're
done!

Read on for a peek at Isabella Alan's next

Amish Quilt Shop Mystery,

 

MURDER, PLAINLY READ

 

Available from Obsidian in October 2015

“W
hoa!” Rachel Miller called to her buggy's horse. The buggy shuddered to a stop behind a yellow school bus, which three Amish children climbed into. The youngest boy's Spider-Man backpack bounced as he disappeared through the door. I smiled. Clearly he was a member of one of the more liberal Amish districts in Holmes County. A year ago, who knew that I would be able to know the difference? When I first moved to Millersburg, I, like so many outsiders, had thought that all Amish were the same.

Next to me on the buggy's bench seat, Rachel's bonnet cast a shadow over her delicate features. “It shouldn't be too long now,” Rachel said. “Austina telephoned the bakery to tell me the bookmobile would be parked in front of Hock Trail School.”

Austina, a county librarian, had commissioned a quilt for her ailing mother from my quilting circle. The ladies had finished the quilt during our meeting the previous night. It was breathtaking, with a purple, rose, and periwinkle blue Ohio Star. The colors weren't traditionally Amish, but Austina had chosen them because they were her mother's favorites. The quilt was so lovely I almost wished I could keep it in the shop for display, but I
thought that about every quilt my circle created. Each one seemed to be more beautiful than the last.

I scratched my faithful French bulldog, Oliver, between his ears. He leaned into my caress like a cat. I sighed. “I hate for the ride to end. This reminds me of leisurely buggy rides I would take with my aunt and uncle on Sunday afternoons. It's nice to take a breath every so often and think about that time.” My throat tightened as I thought about my Amish aunt. She had been gone for more than a year now, but every so often the pain of losing her was like a baseball bat to the chest.

The crease in Rachel's brow smoothed. “Angie, you need to move at a slower pace. You are so busy with Running Stitch and being a township trustee. You need to take a breath. When was the last time you had a quiet evening with the sheriff?”

I found myself blushing like a sixteen-year-old girl. “It's been a while. He has Zander, who needs his attention. I don't begrudge Z that at all. He's a great kid. And now that my parents have moved to town, they're taking up a lot of my time.”

After my father's retirement, my parents had moved to Holmes County from Dallas to be closer to me, and my mother was in the middle of colossal house renovation, the likes of which my Amish friends had never seen.

I zipped up my jacket against the cool autumn wind
whipping in through the buggy's open windows. “The latest debacle has been over throw pillows for their living room couch. Please don't ever ask me to help you choose a throw pillow. According to my mother, I'm not up to the task.”

Rachel chuckled. “Jonah told me your mother put two chandeliers in the house.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jo-Jo exaggerated. There's only one.”

Rachel's horse turned the next corner. A half mile down the road, I saw the silver-and-green library bookmobile parked in front of a one-room schoolhouse. A small swing set, slide, and metal teeter-totter were next to the bookmobile, but there weren't any children on the playground. In fact, I didn't see any children at all. I frowned. It was autumn and school was in session. I was about to ask Rachel about it when my friend whispered, “Oh, dear.”

“What—” I started to ask, but soon my question was answered. Austina Shaker stood in front of her bookmobile with her arms folded across her chest. Her right foot jutted out, and she leaned back as if waiting for the perfect moment to throw a punch. Despite her bright pink cardigan and the eyeglasses perched on the end of her nose, she looked more like a street fighter ready to go ten rounds than a rural county librarian. The Amish man standing across from her appeared just as fierce, but I would categorize his look more like an angry Pilgrim than a street fighter. It was as if the crossing on the
Mayflower
hadn't agreed with him.

Rachel's horse came to a stop, and I hopped out.
Oliver joined me, although he checked the area for incoming birds first. Oliver hated birds.

Behind me, Rachel said, “Angie, I don't think you should . . .”

I glanced over my shoulder. “I won't get involved. Don't worry.”

My best friend sighed. She knew I was lying to her and to myself if I thought that was true.

From the doorway to the schoolhouse, children stared openmouthed at the arguing pair. Their wide-eyed teacher, a young redheaded girl who didn't look a day more than sixteen, watched with them.

The Amish man pointed a bony finger at Austina. “You have no right to be here. I strictly forbade you from coming. You have to leave the school yard immediately.”

Austina snorted. “You can't tell me what to do. I'm not a member of your church.”

Rachel joined Oliver and me. We stood at the edge of the playground about four yards from where Austina and the Amish man argued. Austina was facing us, and I could see every expression that crossed her face. I saw only the back of the man's head. He stood erect, like there was a board hidden under his navy coat, and his black felt hat sat perfectly straight on his head.

“Do you know who the man is?” I whispered to Rachel.

My friend nodded. “That's Bartholomew Belier. He's the bishop of the strictest Old Order district in the county.”

I frowned. “Do I know anyone in that district?”

“Joseph Walker was a member.” She watched me out of the corner of her eye.

I grimaced. Joseph Walker was an Old Order, extremely conservative Amish man I'd met when I'd first moved to Holmes County and who I later found dead in the stockroom of my quilt shop. I didn't have a lot of good memories where Joseph Walker was concerned.

The bishop glowered at Austina. “You're interfering with the members of my church, and you have no right to do it. I, with
Gotte
's guidance, am the one who should be telling them how to live, not the books you insist on giving them.”

“You act like I'm peddling vacuums door to door. Your church members come to me.
They
ask for them. All I'm doing to providing books to patrons to read. It's my job.”

“It's disrespectful to our culture.”

The librarian arched her left eyebrow. “I will not censor. Now, I think it's time for you to leave.”

The bishop shook with anger. His hands balled into fists. He wouldn't hit her. It was not the Amish way. At least, I hoped that he wouldn't.

Austina stuck out her chin as if inviting a blow from Bartholomew.

Slowly he relaxed his hands and his arms fell loosely at his sides. His voice was low. “You will be sorry you ever drove that
monster
”—he pointed at the bookmobile—“into my district. You think you have the
Englisch
law on your side, but I have
Gott
on mine. We will see who has the last word when this comes to an end.” He stamped away, straight toward Rachel and me.

We jumped to the side, and Oliver dove under the teeter-totter. Bartholomew didn't even acknowledge us. His pockmarked face was molten red. I suspected he saw red too. The young schoolteacher and the children in the doorway filed back into the schoolhouse.

Austina looked as if his threat meant nothing to her, and she had single-handedly run him out of the school yard herself. After a moment, she noticed Rachel and me hovering nearby. Her round face broke into a smile. If I hadn't witnessed it myself, I would never have known she'd been yelling at someone just a moment before. “Angie, Rachel, I'm so glad you are here. Did you bring the quilt?”

“Of course, the quilt.” Rachel slapped her head. “I left it in the buggy. I will go collect it now.”

“That looked intense,” I said after Rachel left.

Austina waved away my concern. “If you're referring to Bartholomew Beiler, he is nothing to worry about.”

He sure looked like something to worry about to me. You wouldn't see me going toe-to-toe with an enraged Pilgrim, especially this close to Thanksgiving.

The librarian started back toward the bookmobile. “Don't wrinkle that cute little nose of yours at me, Angie. Bartholomew is a blowhard. He isn't the first Amish bishop I've argued with about my books, and I doubt he will be the last.”

Rachel returned with the quilt, and she and I unfolded it, holding it up for Austina's inspection. Tears sprang to the librarian's dark eyes. “Oh, it's more gorgeous than I imagined it would be. Mother will love it.” She ran her fingers over a rose triangle in the design.

“I'm glad,” I said as Rachel and I refolded the quilt.

Rachel took the quilt from my hands. “Where would you like me to put it?”

“Put it on my desk inside the bookmobile, please, ” Austina said.

Rachel disappeared inside the mammoth vehicle.

I cocked my head. “So, what was the bishop so upset about?”

“I didn't think you would let me drop the subject that quickly,” Austina said. “He's mad about the books I provide and believes I'm corrupting his followers with new and scandalous ideas. Small men always fear new ideas.”

Rachel tripped down the bookmobile steps. Her lips were set in a thin line. She was open-minded, but she was still Amish and believed in that way of life.

“He wants to take away your books?” I asked.

Austina shook her head. “He wants to keep them out of his district. I guess he caught some of the teenage girls reading romances and flipped out.” She snorted. “They weren't exactly steamy. I mean, maybe the characters shared a smooch at the end of the book. Nothing more.”

“What are you going to do?”

Oliver wriggled out from under the teeter-totter and was now inspecting the bookmobile's tires.

“I don't censor for anyone. If a teenager from his district comes to me looking for a novel, I will give it to her. It's not my position to tell people what to read. In my business, any reading is good.”

Rachel looked as if she wanted to argue, but my Amish friend was far too polite to do it. Instead she said,
“I think we should be on our way, Angie. Aaron will be wondering what's taking me so long.”

“Before you leave,” Austina said, “I have another job for you, Angie.”

That sounded ominous. “Oh?” I squeaked. By her tone, I doubted it was another quilt.

“Yes. Stella Parsons, the chair of our Friends of the Library board, had the nerve to break her hip and now she can't manage our library book sale this month.”

“She broke her hip?!” Rachel exclaimed. “Is she all right?”

“She'll be fine,” Austina said. “As soon as she gets out of traction.” Her dark eyes zeroed in on me. “Angie, I want you to take over for her.”

I pointed at myself. “Me? Why?”

“Because you are the best person for the job according to the head township trustee, Caroline Cramer,” she said matter-of-factly. “When I spoke to her about needing someone to take on the job, she suggested you right away.”

I bet she had.

“Isn't there someone else in the Friends who can take this on?” I asked. “I've never ran an event like this before. Your Friends are the ones with experience.”

She shook her head. “Most of them are pushing eighty, and the ones that aren't I wouldn't trust with a kid's lemonade stand, let alone a library book sale.”

“B-But—,” I stammered.

She jabbed her fists into her sides and looked as fierce as she did when she was staring down the irate bishop.
“Don't tell me you won't do it. You'd be letting the entire county down.”

I rolled my eyes. “That seems like a gross exaggeration.”

She picked a piece of lint off of her cardigan. “It could be great publicity for your quilt shop.”

She had me. I was always trying to grow my business. “When and where will it be?” I asked in a whimper.

Austina's lips curled into a small smile. She knew she was the victor. She'd had the same triumphant expression on her face when she had shooed away the bishop. I wondered how long that smile would
remain.