Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery (18 page)

A stack of ten or so clipboards with graph-paper notes clipped to them stood in one corner of the desk. Linus picked up one of the boards and clipped another piece of graph paper onto it.

“That guy who left looked pretty angry,” I said.

Linus twirled his pencil in his hand. “Zeke King is young.” He wouldn’t say anything more about it. “What can I do for you, Angie?”

“Gideon sent me to fill out paperwork for tomorrow’s auction. I have more quilts to offer up for the block.”

He dropped another clipboard onto his stack. “Do you have them here at the auction yard today?”

The stack of clipboards teetered from its perch. I pushed the pile back to stop them from toppling over the edge. In the opposite corner there was a bowl of trail mix.

“I don’t, but Gideon said that if I can describe them to you that should work too. He said my quilts are welcome back because they sold so well.”

He grabbed a handful of the trail mix and sorted it on his palm, setting the M&M’s aside before popping a cheese curl in his mouth. He swallowed. “Gideon is right. The quilts did very well. It helped that they were sewn by Eleanor. She had the reputation of being the best quilter in the county to both the English and the Amish. Her quilts are very valuable now.”

Because she’s dead,
I thought. I was grateful he didn’t say that.

“I have an auction block time open at two in the afternoon or four.”

“I’ll take two. By four o’clock people start leaving.”

He made a note on the hand-drawn grid on the clipboard. “You got it. How many quilts will you auction off this time?”

“Two.”

He added that note. “Description?”

“One is a green, blue, and cream Ohio Star. She did a diamond quilting pattern over the top of that. The second is a blue, maroon, cream, and black Bachelor’s Puzzle.”

“Those should both bring a good price. Not everything we auction off does.”

“Did Wanda Hunt ever put anything up for auction?” I asked, even though I knew I was the first English person to participate.

He grabbed another handful of Chex Mix and again sorted through it on his palm. “
Nee.
Wanda wasn’t Amish. This is an Amish auction.”

“I’m not Amish either.”

“That is true, but your business is Amish. Wanda was not selling Amish-made goods like you are.”

“What was her business?”

He glanced up at me before returning his attention to his papers. “She’s an accountant. I thought you would have known that. Her office is right on Sugartree Street above the yarn shop.”

An accountant. What would an accountant be doing hanging around an Amish auction?

“Has this always been strictly an Amish auction?” I asked.

“
Ya.
It has. I know because I have been here since it started.”

Standing outside looking at him over the teacher’s desk made me feel like I was in detention somehow. I shifted my stance. “How long has that been?”

“Four years, thereabouts.”

“And before that this was a goat farm.”

Linus riffled through the trail mix and selected the cashews. “It was.”

“Did you work here then? When it was a farm?”

He lifted his gaze from the cashews on his palm.
“Nee.”

“Did you work somewhere else before?”

“I worked on my family’s farm. I didn’t want to be a farmer. This is a
gut
thing since I am my
daed’s
second son. My family’s farm went to my older brother. Why are you asking all these questions? I thought you were here about your aunt’s quilts.”

I shrugged. “I suppose I’m curious because of what happened to Wanda.”

He flipped to a fresh piece of graph paper. “That was unfortunate, but I don’t know what it has to do with when I started working for Gideon. I have heard before that you stick your nose into Amish business. You could get yourself into trouble that way.”

He said all this without looking up from his notes, which I realized now were details about the blocks he would auction off the next day. I took a small step back. Was that a threat or simply an observation?

“Wanda was English, so this is not only Amish business.”

He shrugged and made more notations. “That doesn’t make it your business.”

“It involves my friend Rachel. That makes it my business.”

He set the M&M on a napkin. The pile of M&M’s grew larger as he picked through his snack.

“You don’t like M&M’s.”

He pushed the candies around the napkin with his index finger. “I love M&M’s, but I am saving them to eat at the end. I always save the best for last.”

Oh-kay. I took a step forward, back into my original spot at the beginning of the conversation. “I heard Wanda was here often.”

He shrugged.

“Was she here on her official duties as an accountant?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know. I run the auction. Any of the accounting would have to be through Gideon. This is his business. Are we done now? I have to finish organizing my blocks for tomorrow.” He flipped to the next piece of graph paper.

“For now,” I said, hoping he would take that as a promise, not a threat.

As I left, I heard Linus crunch down on another bite of Chex Mix, which I couldn’t help but notice contained peanuts.

J
ust because Linus’s Chex Mix contained peanuts didn’t mean he had anything to do with Wanda’s death. Peanuts weren’t exactly hard to come by in Holmes County. Almost every kitchen would have a jar of peanut butter in the pantry.

The most important news I learned from Linus was that Wanda was an accountant. If she was successful at her business that could be why Troy thought he deserved alimony from her.

I knew Mitchell likely already investigated this angle, but it was all I had to go on at the moment. Before I left the auction grounds, I wanted to talk to Gideon again to find out if Wanda was his accountant. I wasn’t sure if the auction yard owner would tell me, but it could explain why Wanda was at the auction so often and why Gideon gave Reed a job.

I headed back to Jonah’s family wagon where I had last seen Gideon. Again, Petunia and Oliver followed close behind me. I was starting to think of them as my shadows.

All the geese were inside their pen squawking and carrying on. Oliver quivered at my feet when we were still ten yards away. I glanced at him. “Do you want to stay here, Ollie, while I go talk to Jonah?”

I swear the Frenchie nodded as he planted his bottom in the grass. Petunia baaed at the dog, but when he wouldn’t move, she stood next to him. What an odd pair. They were even stranger than Oliver and Dodger.

“Jonah,” I called from outside of the pen.

He tossed his prodding stick into the back of the wagon. “You’re still here.”

“Yep. I’m looking for Gideon again. Do you know where I can find him?”

“He headed back home. He likes to rest as much as he can the day before the auction. Tomorrow, he will put in a twenty-hour day. Some farmers will be here before sunlight with their livestock, and Gideon has to be here to greet them, and others won’t leave tomorrow until well after dark. He will see them off.”

I took a couple of steps. “I’ll go talk to him there then.”

Jonah jumped in front of me. “About what?”

“Wanda was an accountant. I want to know if she was Gideon’s accountant. It might explain why she was here so often and why he gave Reed a job.”

“Angie, aren’t you taking this a little far? Gideon isn’t going to like it if you start knocking on his door asking more questions about Wanda.”

“It will take him two seconds to answer. If he doesn’t want to tell me, that might mean something too.”

“It means he’s your average private Amish man. The Amish don’t like to talk about their business with others, especially
Englisch
women.”

I folded my arms. “I’m going to ask anyway.”

“Fine. I feel like we are
kinner
again and you want to make a tree house.”

“You helped me then.”

“Of course I did. You didn’t even know how to hammer a nail.” He shook his finger at me. “You probably still don’t.”

This was not the time to tell him about my pink-handled tool set back home. It was humiliating enough to know the sheriff knew about it.

As we walked toward the Nissley home, Oliver and Petunia joined us. I eyed Petunia. “She probably doesn’t like auction days,” I said.

“She hates them. Gideon coops her up in her pen beside the Nissleys’ house. That’s where the boys found her on Wednesday and
accidentally
—at least they claimed it was an accident—let her out. She took off the moment the gate opened. She was thrilled to be free around all those people. She’s pretty social.” He scratched one of her bunnylike ears. “For a goat.”

I was relieved that Oliver wasn’t showing any signs of being afraid of Petunia, especially since it seemed the goat planned to stick with us as long as we were there.

“We should knock on the kitchen door,” Jonah said. “They are more likely to be at that end of the house.”

I followed Jonah behind the large farmhouse. As we came around the side, we heard the flapping of laundry on the line. Gideon’s wife, Tabitha, was hanging linens on a clothesline that ran from a silver post in the middle of the yard to the corner of the house.

Petunia stared at the white sheets waving in the breeze and charged. Oliver was right there with her. The goat rammed her head into one of the sheets at full speed and yanked it from the line. Since Oliver was so close to the goat’s head, he got tangled up in the sheet and both animals fell into a muddy puddle at the edge of the house.

“Petunia!” Tabitha bellowed and started toward them.

“Let me, Tabitha,” Jonah said. “I will get the animals out of there.”

“That crazy goat my husband insists we keep. The milk and cheese she produces is not worth this headache. I wish she was the one going on the auction block tomorrow.”

“My French bulldog is in there too.” I went to help Jonah. “We have to get him out. Petunia is three times his size.”

As if on cue, Oliver began to bark from inside the sheet as he and Petunia flailed about.

I ripped the sheet from the location of the barking and revealed Oliver’s face. His brown eyes bugged out of his head. While Jonah untangled Petunia from the sheet, I picked up the Frenchie and checked him over for any hoof marks. Even if she hadn’t meant to, Petunia may have kicked him while she was trying to escape. There wasn’t a mark on him.

Petunia shook her head and her floppy ears flew back and forth like airplane propellers. The goat straightened up.

With a sheepish smile, Jonah handed Tabitha the filthy sheet.

“Danki,”
she murmured. “I wish I could say this was the first time this has happened, but Petunia has done this many times before. She thinks she is one of those bulls at the rodeo. I try to dry my laundry on the days of the auction because she is in her pen, but I didn’t have a chance on Wednesday because of all of the upset over Wanda’s death.” She gripped the sheet more tightly. “I will have to wash this again tomorrow, so that the Amish driver can take it to my son.”

“Your son doesn’t live with you? Is he married?” I asked.

She blinked at me. “
Nee.
Josiah is sixteen and living with an
Englisch
family in Columbus.”

I wanted to ask more, but Jonah gave me a look. Fine, if he didn’t want me to ask, he’d better be able to tell me about the Nissleys’ son later on.

I set Oliver back down on the ground. He trotted over and sniffed at Petunia’s ankles, checking her over like he did with Dodger. The bulldog was turning into a mother hen. Not that I thought he would appreciate that comparison since I’d used a bird analogy. “We’re sorry she followed us back here,” I said.

She tossed the dirty sheet into an empty laundry basket. “Why are you here? This is our home and not part of the auction grounds.”

I swallowed. “We were looking for Gideon.”

“My husband has gone into Millersburg to buy some supplies he needs for tomorrow’s auction. I don’t expect him back for some time. You will have to speak with him tomorrow.”

Jonah nodded. “Then, we will be on—”

“Maybe you can answer our question,” I interrupted Jonah and ignored his annoyed expression.

She shook her head. “I can’t answer any questions about the business. That is my husband’s work. I stick to the home and the canning.”

“It must be difficult to have your canning shed roped off by police tape.”

“
Ya,
it is. I have so many orders to do. The root vegetables, beets and turnips, need to be canned. Gideon had to stick them in the root cellar where it is cool. They will keep for some time, but the shops and restaurants waiting for their orders won’t. I will lose business and money we need. I told the sheriff this, but he does not care because Wanda was murdered.”

Jonah adjusted his black felt hat on his head. “Did the sheriff say she was murdered? Is that the word he used?”

“
Nee.
But everyone knows about the fry pie Rachel Miller gave her that caused Wanda to die.” She stuck a clothespin in her mouth as she smoothed a navy tablecloth across the line.

I bit the inside of my lip. “I could help you get your canning shed back, maybe even tomorrow.”

Jonah’s eyes bore into me. He knew I made a promise I may be unable to keep.

She removed the wooden clothespin from her mouth and snapped it over the line. “How would you do that?”

“I could talk to the sheriff for you and tell him how important it is that you reopen it.”

She slid down the tablecloth and added another clothespin. “Why would he listen to you when he has not listened to me?” She turned to me. “Is it because you are
Englisch
?”

“No.” I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “But the sheriff is a close friend of mine.”

Jonah snorted.

I shot him a beady look when Tabitha’s back was turned to us. Okay, it was a stretch, but he didn’t have to blow it for me.

She turned back again, and I smiled brightly, shooting for trustworthy.

“I’m not a simple Amish woman, Angie. I know you will want something from me if you help me. It is the
Englisch
way, isn’t it?”

I winced. Busted. “Not all the time, but in this case, I want an answer to a simple question.”

She removed another damp sheet from her basket. “Is she always like this?” she asked Jonah.

“Always,” my childhood friend said.

I glared at him, but to my surprise, Tabitha laughed. “All right. I can answer your question even if all it accomplishes is you leaving. I know you can’t keep your promise about the sheriff. Sheriff Mitchell may be sweet on you, but he’s a cop first.”

I felt my cheeks blush as they shared a laugh at my expense. Whatever it takes to get my answers. “Was Wanda the accountant for the auction house?”

Her mouth fell open. “Was that all you were going to ask me? You
Englisch
women are strange.
Ya.
Wanda was my husband’s accountant. Many Amish have
Englisch
accountants. It’s nothing to worry over.”

“What did you think I was going to ask you?”

She shook the wrinkles out of the sheet with a crisp snap-snap. “If my husband killed Wanda Hunt.”

I stepped out of the way of the sheet as she slung it over the clothesline. “And what would your answer have been?”

“
Nee,
he did not.”

After that Tabitha Nissley was through answering my questions.