Suspendered Sentence (An Amish Mystery) (17 page)

She pushed off the wall with her boot and turned to face Jakob, the day’s discovery making it possible for her to shed light on the subject. “From what I was able to gather while talking with Annie today, an Amish bishop is a busy man.”

“Without a doubt.”

“When someone dies, he’s called. When there is a problem to be solved, he’s called. When something awful happens—like the discovery of Sadie’s body the other night—he’s called.” At Jakob’s slow nod, she continued. “He’s oftentimes so busy attending to everyone’s needs outside his home, he has no time for those that arise inside . . . like a Rumspringa-aged teenager who wants nothing more than to talk about life with her father.”

Again, he brought his hand to his mouth, only this time he let it linger there a little longer as he absorbed Claire’s words. “Wow. I guess I’d never really thought of it that way but . . . yeah . . . it makes a ton of sense. By acting out, by being the rebel, her father is almost forced to take notice.”

She swept her focus across the street and to the snatch of Amish farmland visible through the matching alley on the other side of Lighted Way. There was no doubt the Amish lifestyle was less drama-filled than that of the English, but it was, by no means, without its own trials.

“I’m worried about her, Jakob.”

“Who? Annie?”

“She’s sweet. She really is. Thoughtful, too. But I’m afraid she’s so intent on making her father see her that she’s going to do something to really get herself hurt.”

He reached for her hand and smiled broadly when she readily gave it in return. For a moment, she allowed herself to get caught up in the warmth of his skin and the caressing touch of his thumb, but it was his words and the love with which he shared them that spoke to her most. “I don’t discount the need to be noticed by your parent, I really don’t. I get that probably better than anyone else. But I also know that genuine affection and concern is genuine affection and concern no matter where it comes from. Getting a dose of that from you a few days a week might be exactly what she needs to keep her feet firmly on the ground.”

“You really think so?” she whispered, looking up.

“Yeah. I really do.”

She flipped her hand inside his and squeezed. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He pulled her a step closer and brought his forehead to hers. “I’ve got something I’ve gotta do now, but I was hoping that maybe we could meet back up later this evening.”

“Oh?” she teased.

“We could go for a drive . . . or maybe come back into town for a coffee or hot chocolate at Heavenly Brews. Or maybe we could even run out to Breeze Point and pick up a movie and some microwave popcorn and take it back to my place.”

She allowed herself a moment to inhale, to revel in the shift that was taking place in their relationship. “All three of those sound good as long as they’re with you,” she whispered.

*   *   *

Z
ipping her coat all the way to the top, Claire turned and headed toward the inn, the surprisingly abrupt shift in temperatures reminding her of what the melted snow couldn’t. Spring might be on its way, but it wasn’t there yet. Suddenly, the winter coat that had been overkill when she stopped at the post office midday, was now sorely needed as were the gloves and hat she’d gone back to the shop to retrieve after parting ways with Jakob.

Still, there was something about knowing she’d be seeing him again that gave her feet a purpose beyond just merely getting home and out of the cold. One by one, she considered the suggestions he’d tossed out for their postdinner evening together. The drive, while nice, would probably be better suited for a weekend or daylight saving time. The coffee at Heavenly Brews would give them time to talk in a datelike setting. And the movie at his place, while datelike in its own way, also carried a more intimate feel.

She glanced up at her fellow shopkeepers’ front windows as she walked, each one’s nod to spring dependent on their inventory. Ruth Miller’s window showcased an assortment of desserts with floral touches—flower-shaped cookies, pastel iced cakes, and pies that boasted flower imprints across the top crust. Howard Glick’s window boasted the kind of tools most heavily utilized in spring—trowels, garden rakes, pruning shears, and more.

At the end of the block she crossed the street and turned left, the remaining half mile or so of her walk promising blacktop rather than cobblestone, and knee-high political signs rather than quaint storefronts. She knew she should care more than she did about the upcoming election now that she was a local business owner, but she really didn’t. To her, it didn’t matter what color backdrop their name was scrawled across just so long as they cared about Heavenly and its people.

“Excuse me, miss?”

She stopped midstep and turned around to find a young man of about twenty holding out a pamphlet. “Yes?”

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to give you some literature on Mike O’Neil and his run for mayor of Heavenly.”

“Mike O’Neil?” She took the pamphlet and peered down at the mayoral candidate who’d found his way into more than a few conversations with her aunt as of late. “Oh yes, of course, I’ve heard of him.”

“That’s wonderful. When you have a moment, I hope you’ll read what Mike has to say about our town and his plans for its future. That way, come April, you can make an informed vote.”

Holding the professional picture under the closest gas-powered lantern, she took a moment to really study the candidate. She knew, from stories she’d been told about his childhood and the time frame in which they’d happened, the former troublemaker was in his mid to late thirties. The almost too-youthful style with which he wore his burnished red hair was evened out by fine lines that started at the outer corners of his blue-green eyes and branched outward, hinting at a life that hadn’t been as easy as his polished smile might have one believe.

“I’m glad you stopped me.” She inhaled slowly, giving herself a little extra time to think through the untruth she was about to share. When she’d taken in as much air as she could, she let it out along with her story. “I know you’ve been working on Mr. O’Neil’s campaign for quite some time and I know we’re getting awfully close to the election, but I was wondering if maybe I could help a little.”

“Seriously?”

At her nod, he broke out into a grin. “I take it you know him?”

She looked again at the pamphlet and the man it portrayed on the front cover. “Actually, no. I’m just fascinated by the”—she paused to choose her words carefully—“road he’s traveled to get to this place.”

“Me, too. So many folks think he’s just doing it to follow in his father’s footsteps . . . but he’s not. He wants to make his own mark on this town.”

Unsure of what to say, she merely nodded again.

“Hey, I’m Tim, by the way.”

“Claire. Claire Weatherly.”

He shook her hand, and then hooked his thumb in the direction of the empty storefront housed between the police station and the parade of park benches heavily utilized by tourists throughout daylight hours. “Our campaign headquarters just took up shop in this place last night and the electricity has been running inside nonstop ever since. Why don’t you come on in for a few minutes and let me show you around.”

She quickened her step as they neared their destination. “Do you expect Mike will be stopping by often? You know, to check on how everything is going?”

Tim reached for the door handle and nodded. “I absolutely think he’ll be around every chance he gets. He’s real hands-on in everything he does. Heck, he helped us move into this place last night and I’m not sure he’s even gone home to change yet.”

“He’s inside now?”

“He sure is. Want to meet him?”

She refrained from pinching herself long enough to follow Tim through the door and into the hustle and bustle that was Mike O’Neil’s campaign headquarters. A table off to her side was flanked by teenagers tasked with folding a stack of glossy colored printouts into the same brochure Tim had handed Claire. In between the folders were three telephones and three older volunteers who were in varying stages of campaign calls. One was dialing, one was in the throes of her pitch, and the other was answering questions.

Another table off to the left housed a variety of ages hovering around a pair of button-making machines. Each and every button they made found its way into a big box for distribution at a later date.

“I think it says a lot about a candidate when so many people are willing to give up their free time just to see him in office, you know?”

Before she could formulate a reply, he stepped forward and again motioned for her to follow. “I think he might be in the back room with his dad.”

“His father was Heavenly’s mayor for a long time, wasn’t he?” she asked as much to make conversation as for any other reason.

“Not long enough, from what my own dad has said.” Tim headed through an open doorway in the back of the main room and stopped as he reached the other side. “But Mike’s dad is the first one to say new blood is good if for no other reason than it makes you appreciate what you had. Once you do, it’s easier to recognize it again in the future.”

When she caught up, Tim poked his head into a room similar in size to Claire’s office in her own storefront. “Excuse me, Mike? Do you have a minute?”

The younger of the two men stood and met them at the door, his blue-green eyes dancing between his campaign volunteer and Claire.

“Of course, Tim, how can I help you?”

“Claire Weatherly, here, would like to help with your campaign.”

Mike reached for Claire’s hand and shook it warmly. “Claire, I can’t thank you enough for your support. It’s knowing I have the support of people like you that keeps my head held high during what can be a rather grueling process.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “I love knowing you grew up in this town. I’ve only been here a little over a year myself, but I committed to it being my home for many years to come when I opened my own shop here on Lighted Way.”

“Oh? Which one is yours?”

“Heavenly Treasures.” Then, for clarity’s sake, she put its location in perspective using the one shop everyone knew. “It’s next to Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe.”

The man laughed. “Ruth Miller’s apple pie really is something else, isn’t it?”

Movement just beyond the candidate’s shoulder yielded a face similar to Mike’s but older. The older man’s handshake was just as warm. “You must be the niece Diane Weatherly is always talking about whenever I see her out and about, yes?”

“I am.”

“I’m Ryan . . . Michael’s father.” The man jabbed his son in the side with his elbow while jutting his chin toward Claire. “Claire, here, lives at Sleep Heavenly with her aunt.”

“For now,” she interjected. “Eventually I hope to buy my own place in town.”

“Where were you living before you moved to Heavenly?” Mike asked.

“New York City.”

“Wow, that’s quite a change.” Michael reached around his father and liberated a familiar to-go box from the first of two rickety desks he’d managed to cram into the tiny space. “Would you like a cookie? They’re from everyone’s favorite bakery in town.”

She helped herself to a small sugar cookie and took a bite. “Heavenly and New York City are as different as night and day. Here, I fit. There, I didn’t.”

“How so?” he asked as he returned the box to his desk and his undivided attention to Claire.

“If I had to boil it down to one thing, I’d say the quiet. Beyond that, it’s the simple life led by the Amish that spreads itself outward to the rest of us.”

Mike rubbed his thumb along the underside of his chin and nodded, the narrowing of his eyes letting her know he was truly absorbing her words. “I’ve lived here my whole life but have never really been able to put a finger on why I love it in such a clear and concise way. And you’re right. Even though we live our lives very differently than the Amish, their simplicity, their work ethic, and their forgiving hearts have a way of rubbing off. Funny things is, it’s almost ironic that a group of people who are such hard workers can also help the rest of us to slow down, you know?”

“Something we all need to do once in a while,” she added.

“Agreed. In fact, it took some Amish friends in my teen years to make me really step back and look at all the things I thought were so important, but weren’t.”

At the wistful turn to his tone, she broached the subject that had propelled her to sign on as a volunteer for a candidate she’d never met. “You grew up with Leroy Beiler, Miriam Hochstetler, and Elizabeth Troyer, I believe.”

He drew back in benign surprise. “I did, indeed. How did you—”

“Sadie Lehman, the girl whose body was likely recovered last week, was part of your group of friends, too, wasn’t she?”

She didn’t need better lighting to notice the way Mike’s face paled at the mention of Sadie, nor did she need a psychology degree to pick out the genuine sadness that revealed and highlighted the same facial lines she’d seen in his campaign brochure.

What she did need, however, was a muzzle to mute her audible gasp as the elder O’Neil grabbed hold of his son’s arm, propelled him through the doorway, and instructed Claire to leave her name and number in the very unlikely event the campaign needed more volunteers.

Chapter 17