Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery (13 page)

T
he Double Dime Diner was a freestanding building on a corner lot between two state routes. Oliver and I tiptoed over a bed of slick wet leaves to reach the front door from the small parking lot. Thankfully, the storm had finally passed and only the puddles remained. Oliver rubbed his nose in the oak leaves.

“Oliver, unless there is a clue in there to Wanda Hunt’s death, we have to keep moving.”

Reluctantly, he waddled after me through the diner’s door.

A waitress, wearing a powder blue 1950s waitressing uniform, polished the glass of a rotating pie case. I suspected the uniform wasn’t tongue-in-cheek retro, but the real thing retro, as in, the waitress had been wearing that same uniform since the 1950s. Oliver stared at the pie case. I wasn’t sure if it was the rotation or the desserts that captured his attention. Maybe both.

“No dogs allowed,” the waitress rasped like a lifetime smoker. Judging from yellow tobacco stains on her fingers, I suspected that was a good chance.

“I’m sorry.” I started backing out the door. “I’ll put him outside.”

Oliver cocked his head and wiggled his one white and one black batlike ears. He knew when it was time to turn on the charm, and Oliver had plenty to spare.

The waitress tossed her dust rag onto the counter next to the cash register. “You are a cute little feller, aren’t you?”

Oliver certainly agreed with her cuteness comment. He trotted over to her, his nails clicking on the worn and chipped linoleum tiles, lay on his stomach, placed his head on his paws, and gazed upward. Aren’t I precious? he asked with those big brown eyes.

“How darling. He looks like he can handle himself. He can stay as long as he stays up here near the front door. He can’t go in the dining room. Some of the guests might not like it, and I’m not in the mood to hear their bellyaching.”

“Thanks.” I stifled a grin. “Oliver would hate to wait outside. He hates to get his feet wet.”

“Me and him both. There ain’t nothing worse than wet feet. Oliver is a sweet name.” She looked to me. “You can just sit anywhere you like.”

I slipped onto one of the blue spinning stools at the counter. Through a pass-through to the kitchen, I saw a middle-aged man flipping pancakes on the griddle. My stomach rumbled. It was almost eleven, and I hadn’t eaten anything all day.

The waitress slapped a plastic menu in front of me. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee please, with cream and sugar. Are you still serving breakfast?”

She flipped over a white coffee mug and grabbed the coffeepot from the warmer in a practiced move. “We serve breakfast all day long. What would you like?”

“A short stack of pancakes.”

“Cream and sugar is right there on the counter.” She pointed to a shaker of sugar and a dish of creamer cups. “Short stack coming up.”

She turned and called my order in to the cook. After doctoring the coffee to my liking and taking a second to miss the vanilla lattes I used to get from the barista in my office building in Dallas, I turned in my stool. The diner was half full. Two elderly Amish men sat in the first booth, drinking coffee and reading the
Budget
, the Amish newspaper. All the other people in the diner were English, over sixty, and male. I didn’t know how I would be able to pick Wanda’s ex-husband out of the bunch. It could be any one of them.

The waitress topped off my coffee. “You looking for someone?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I’ve never seen you here before. The new people who come in are tourists, and they don’t come by until afternoon. You don’t look like a tourist.” She peered over the counter at my cowboy boots. “Although you don’t look like you are from around here either. And you keep looking around like you’re afraid somebody might sneak up on you.” She leaned in. “You got man trouble?”

I reached for the sugar dispenser again. Talk of man trouble always brings out my sweet tooth. “I recently moved here from Texas.”

She whistled. “Texas. You’re a long way from the longhorns, Little Miss. What brought you here?”

“I inherited an Amish quilt shop from my aunt,” I said.

“Whereabouts is the shop?”

“It’s in Rolling Brook.” I removed a card from my purse and slid it across the counter to her.

She examined the card. “So, Angela Braddock—”

“You can call me Angie,” I said automatically.

“And I’m Linda. So Angie.” She tapped the card with her index finger. “Was this shop the only thing that brought you to Holmes County?”

“Maybe a little man trouble did too,” I admitted.

She wiped the counter with a rag. “I knew it. After sixty years working this counter, I can always sniff out a broken heart.” She propped her elbows on the counter and cupped her face in her hands. “What happened?”

I hesitated from telling. First of all, I didn’t know her at all and second of all, my breakup with Ryan wasn’t something I talked about, even with the quilting circle. However, she may be able to help me find Troy Hunt, and she liked Oliver.

“Ryan and I were together seven years. We were engaged; he dumped me right before our big Texas wedding. End of story.”

“Sweetie.” She walked over to the rotating pie display and hit a button. The rotation came to a halt, and she opened the door. “You need a big piece of pecan pie for that tale of woe.” She chose the largest piece of pecan pie from the display.

“Well . . .” Typically I didn’t indulge before noon, but it was all in the name of finding out more about Wanda, right? “Well, okay. If you think it will help.”

“Pecan pie
always
helps. You can bet your life on it.” She picked up her rag again and began cleaning the rest of the counter.

Before she got too far away, I said, “I am looking for someone.”

She straightened up and came back my way. “I knew that too. In my line of work, you learn how to read people. I can always tell when someone needs a coffee fresh up or another slice of bacon. It’s like a sixth sense.”

I could see where a sixth sense about bacon would come in handy.

“Do you know Troy Hunt? He’s the one I’m looking for.”

She removed a plastic straw from her apron pocket and unwrapped it. “Why would a pretty young girl like you be looking for that old curmudgeon?”

I twisted my mouth. Did I tell her about Wanda? Spilling my guts about Ryan seemed like payment enough for a little information, even considering the pecan pie.

“Order up!” the cook shouted.

Linda turned, grabbed my order of pancakes, and slid them in front of me. “You hold that thought while I go check my tables.”

Saved by pancakes. As the waitress made her rounds, I doused my pancakes with syrup. So much for my diet, but I told myself that it was okay because eating pancakes was part of my cover for being in the diner in the first place. I didn’t want to blow it. I counted the pie as collateral.

Whimpering caught my attention. Oliver belly crawled in my direction.

I shook my head and hissed, “Oliver. No. No. You know what the waitress said.”

He gave me his most pathetic face.

“No.”

Linda came back and Oliver belly crawled backward. The pitiful expression was still on his face, but he didn’t want to be put outside either.

She started a fresh pot of coffee and removed the chewed-up straw from her mouth and used it like a pointer. “He’s back in the corner there with his cronies. They hang out here at the diner most of the time until they get a callout.”

The butter pancake melted in my mouth. “A callout?”

“To pick up some Amish and drive them someplace. It’s a good gig for an old guy to have. It keeps them active, and they can make some good money on it too. The Amish have many places to go.”

“Where do they usually take the Amish?”

She shrugged. “Mostly to the doctor or to appointments in Canton. That’s the closest city. Some of the guys have daily gigs taking vans full of Amish men to job sites as far away as Cleveland and even Cincinnati.”

I slid my fork in the pecan pie. It oozed caramel. Surely, a dentist would go into cardiac arrest if he saw it. “They drive Amish that far every day?”

“Sometimes, but I think Troy likes to keep his pickups closer within the county.” Linda gnawed on her straw like Huck Finn on a piece of hay. “You still haven’t told me why you want to talk to him.”

“Umm.” I shoved a bite of pie in my mouth. Delay tactic.

“You look like a sweet girl. I’m asking for your own good. The sheriff was here earlier this morning looking for Troy too.”

I almost fell off my barstool. “He was?”

She nodded and fanned herself. “He’s a good-looking man who makes you sit up straight and take notice. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be chasing him the moment I heard his divorce was final. Those eyes. Have you ever seen his eyes?”

Mitchell’s peculiar blue-green eyes crossed my mind. I had seen the eyes.

She peered at me. “You’re just about his age and pretty enough. I bet the sheriff would be just the ticket for you to get over that Ryan what’s-his-face.”

“Did the sheriff say why he was here?”

She fiddled with her straw. “Turns out Troy’s ex-wife died at the auction yesterday. The sheriff wanted to know what Troy knew about it.”

“Did the sheriff tell you that?”

“No, but I may have overheard a comment or two while I refilled their coffee. It wasn’t like they tried to keep their conversation private.”

“What did they say?” I asked, hoping that she would want to gossip some more.

She didn’t disappoint. “The sheriff asked him when the last time he saw his ex-wife and where he was all day yesterday. That could only mean he is a suspect.”

That would be my conclusion.

The cook stuck his head through the pass-through. “Linda, stop gabbing and wait on the tables.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” she bellowed back and grabbed the coffeepot, refilling my mug. “See, I’m serving customers.”

The cook threw up his hands. “She’s not the only one. I don’t make money off some skinny girl tourist.”

He called me skinny. How sweet and misguided.

Linda growled but snatched up her coffeepot and moved around the counter. While Linda was occupied, I slipped off my stool and headed in Troy’s direction.

T
he man Linda pointed out as Troy had sparse gray hair, a beer belly, and a five o’clock shadow.

“Troy Hunt?” I asked.

“Yeah?” He folded his newspaper on the table. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Angie Braddock. I own Running Stitch in Rolling Brook.”

He sipped his coffee. “So what?”

I stepped back. “I wondered if I could talk to you for a moment.”

“Wonder no more. The answer is no. For the record, the answer will always be no.”

Linda appeared over my shoulder. “Troy, stop being such a bear and answer this girl’s questions. It’s not like you have anything else better to do.” She pushed me toward the opposite side of the booth. “You have a seat there, sweetie, and chat with him.”

Troy showed her his teeth. “I’m waiting for a callout.”

Linda flipped through her order pad. “Which means you have nothing better to do than talk to this girl while you wait for that call.”

He scowled. “I’m reading the newspaper.”

“You will just depress yourself if you do that. War. Poverty. Corruption. The newspaper is a downer.” Linda lifted her coffeepot higher in the air. “Free coffee for a week if you talk to our friend Angie here.”

He held up his mug. “Fine. It will make the time pass.”

I slipped onto the empty bench across from him.

Linda filled his mug and moved on to the next table.

“You’re lucky the diner makes the best coffee in this county. Not that it’s all that good, but at least it won’t make you choke.” He eyed me. “You look like you are a froufrou coffee drinker.”

“I enjoy a mocha now and again,” I said.

He gagged. “Might as well eat a candy bar if you’re going to drink the sludge.” He sipped from his mug. “What do you want? You’re not Amish, so I know you don’t need a ride from me.”

“Do you ever drive Amish out to the Nissleys’ auction yard?”

“’Course, I do; it’s a regular stop. Lots of Amish from all over the county want to go to the auction.”

“Drive anyone out that way on Wednesday?” I asked.

“I made a couple trips out. Wait!” He slammed his mug onto the table and some of the black liquid sloshed out onto the laminate surface. “Is this about Wanda? I know nothing about it. Are you a cop?”

I swallowed and glanced around for Linda. She was near the pass-through arguing with the cook. “I’m not a cop, but I was there when Wanda’s body was found.”

“So were dozens of Amish people. I don’t see them coming in here, and pestering me while I’m trying to enjoy what peace I have before the pickup calls start coming in.”

“I was the one who found her,” I said.

His mouth fell open. “You were?”

I nodded.

His bushy eyebrows knit together. “So what. That could have happened to anyone. I don’t know why you want to talk to me about it.”

I thought the best policy was to be straight with the guy. “The police suspect a friend of mine had something to do with Wanda’s death. I know she didn’t, so I’m”—I paused—“I’m helping the police out. Unofficially.”

“Well, there’s no reason to
unofficially
help them out here. I’ve already spoken to the sheriff and one of his deputies. Go talk to them to find out what I said.”

That wasn’t really an option.

I barreled ahead. “The sheriff wanted to talk to you because Wanda was your ex-wife.”

“I guess that was his reason.” He gripped the handle of his coffee mug.

“You don’t seem too upset about what happened to her.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I am upset. She was my wife once upon a time. I’m sad at her passing of course, but our marriage ended on bad terms. Excuse me if I don’t start bawling. I haven’t even seen Wanda in well over a year. We speak through our lawyers.”

“That’s hard for me to believe. Holmes County isn’t that large.”

“I don’t care if it’s hard for you to believe or not. It’s the truth.” He shook out his newspaper. “I don’t know why I am answering your questions anyway. The free coffee isn’t worth it.”

“What about the alimony you wanted her to pay? Is that the conversation you two had between your lawyers?”

Troy lowered his newspaper very slowly. Behind it his face was red and blotchy. “Where did you hear that?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“A friend of Wanda’s told me.”

“That
friend
of Wanda’s should also have told you that if that were true, an alimony case would be the exact reason I would
not
want Wanda to die. I won’t be getting any alimony now. All her money will go to whoever inherits it. I can guarantee I’m not in the will.” He studied me.

“I didn’t come here to ask you if you wished her dead,” I said.
At least not outright.
“When was the last time you saw her?”

Troy gripped the edge of his newspaper. “You’re not going away, are you?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

He glowered. “Do I have to repeat that I haven’t seen her in over a year? Because I haven’t.”

“I guess that means you haven’t seen your nephew either.” I dropped my hands to my lap.

He placed his paper back on the table. “My nephew. I don’t have a nephew.”

“Ex-nephew. Sorry. Reed Kent.”

He snorted. “That’s Wanda’s sister’s child. Let me tell you, Wanda’s sister is a bigger pain in the—”

I interrupted him. “What do you know about Reed?”

“Nothing. I wouldn’t know who he was if he were standing right here in front of me. The last time I saw him, it would have been when Wanda and I went to visit her sister when Reed was still a baby. We flew out to California. What a wasted trip. I planned never to go back.”

“Why was it wasted?”

“For one there was no place to smoke. Everything was banned. Little did I know that those liberals would spread to Columbus and change the laws here too. It’s discriminating against smokers. They can skew the statistics so much to make them say what they want.”

I didn’t know any health professional who questioned the harm of secondhand smoke, but I wasn’t going to tell him that, especially now that he was talking to me. Even if it was just to get rid of me, I was okay with that.

He shook his paper so hard, I was surprised the letters didn’t fly off and hit me in the face. “Sometimes a man needs a smoke to take the edge off. Nothing to take the edge off, he might shoot a guy.”

Lovely thought.

“So you haven’t seen Reed at all.”

“What, am I talking to a brick wall?”

I’ll take that as a no.

The bell on the door jangled as someone new stepped into the dinner. Oliver woofed lightly at the teenager and let him pet him. That was interesting. Oliver typically wasn’t that friendly to strangers. Although he was better with human strangers than winged ones. Reed wore black leather pants and a tattered denim jacket over a graphic rock band T-shirt.

“Do you know the kid who just walked in?” I asked, testing Wanda’s ex.

“No, but he looks like trouble. Those Goth kids always are. He’s probably on drugs.”

He seemed to honestly have no idea that the kid in the leather was his former nephew.

Reed glanced our way. His gaze didn’t seem to register his former uncle. They didn’t know each other—of that, I was certain—but he surely recognized me. Instead of waiting for a menu, he turned to go.

“Kid probably saw this wasn’t his kind of place. No heavy metal music blaring.”

Troy’s cell phone rang. “We’re going to have to wrap this up. This is one of my Amish clients calling.”

“No problem,” I said and bolted from the table after Reed.

“Crazy woman,” I heard Troy mutter as I exited the booth.

I left Oliver in the diner. Linda would take good care of him for a few minutes. The two had bonded over their love of sausage while I’d enjoyed that lovely chat with Troy.

Outside, the pavement shone with the recent rain. I looked left and saw nothing. I looked right and saw Reed walking at a slouch up the street. I jogged after him.

The kid spun around in a fighting stance. Maybe he had taken karate as a kid in addition to horseback riding. I thought to play it safe and stay out of range of his kick. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“What’s it to you?” he snapped.

“I want to talk to you about your aunt.”

“I want a car. Seems neither one of us is going to get what we want.” He turned and ran.