Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery (3 page)

“You can’t do that,” Rachel said. “We have already bought the land. We can’t sell it back to the owner.”

“Maybe your husband should have checked with us about any potential problems before he opened his wallet. That would have been wise.”

Aaron didn’t submit his plans for the factory approval before he bought the land? Why not? I wondered.

I threw up my hands. “Wanda, this is ridiculous. The Millers have been in Rolling Brook for generations. You’ve never had trouble with them in the past.”

She dropped her arms. “There is a first time for everything.”

Rachel closed her eyes as if to collect herself. “I’m sorry you feel this way, Wanda, but my husband must do what he thinks is best. It is not my place to tell him what is right or wrong.”

Wanda glared at her. “That doesn’t sound like much of a marriage to me.”

Rachel winced.

“Wanda, that’s a little harsh,” I said.

Rachel picked up one of the blueberry fry pies from her table. “Here, Wanda, please take this and enjoy the auction today.”

Wanda frowned at the pie. “Are there any nuts in it?”

“Oh, no. Nothing we are selling today has nuts.” Rachel pointed at the small handwritten sign on her table. N
UT
-
FREE
P
IES
AND
PASTRIES
.

Wanda took it from Rachel’s small hand. She shook it at Rachel. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I don’t expect it to,” Rachel whispered to Wanda’s retreating back.

Tears stood in Rachel’s eyes. “Angie, can she do that? Can she stop Aaron from opening the pie factory?”

I frowned. “Probably.” I watched as Wanda wove through the line of English tourists entering the merchants’ tent. She gripped Rachel’s fry pie firmly in her hand.

R
achel took in a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

I gave her a small smile. “I wonder why Wanda’s talking to you instead of Aaron.”

Rachel began straightening her cookies and treats on the tabletop. “She already tried to speak to Aaron. More than once. Aaron refuses to see her or anyone else from the board of trustees.” She pushed a stray crumb off of the tablecloth with her index finger. “I do wish my husband had talked to the trustees before he purchased the land. What if we can’t build the factory there? We will be ruined.”

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Rachel, why didn’t Aaron look into the building codes before he bought the land? Didn’t he think the township would have rules for new construction?”

Rachel didn’t answer. “Buying the land was a rash decision and not characteristic of my husband. More often he takes his time before acting, but the Realtor told him if he waited an
Englisch
developer would buy the land. Aaron had to make his decision at a moment’s notice.” She folded her hands in front of her. “He told me after Wanda started to complain about the factory, he never thought the trustees would be so strict. He thought that they would thank him for keeping the land on Sugartree Street out of an
Englisch
developer’s hands. He was wrong. Angie, I am afraid about what will happen to us.” She forced a smile. “I know it’s wrong to be afraid.
Gott
will provide for us. He always has in the past.”

I couldn’t help but admire Rachel’s faith. I certainly could use some when it came to my own life. “Did you share any of your worries with Aaron?” I asked.

“I started to, but he reminded me it is not my place to question him. He is the head of the family. He is right.” She blushed. “I shouldn’t have asked him. I need to put my trust in
Gott
and my husband.”

As much as I respected Rachel’s faith, I wished too that Aaron had taken the time to talk to the township trustees before he bought the property. I knew the land was expensive. Out of curiosity, I had inquired about it myself. Not because I had planned to buy it. A few hundred thousand was cheap by Dallas standards, but in Rolling Brook, it cost the Millers a fortune.

Mattie joined us at Rachel’s table. “What is wrong, Rachel?”

Rachel turned a pie plate on the tabletop. “It is nothing.”

Mattie’s face fell. I knew she wished Rachel would confide in her like she did in me, but Aaron was Mattie’s brother. Rachel would never say anything critical of her husband to his younger sister.

Rachel’s face turned concerned. “Angie, you are covered in dirt. Here I am talking away and you’re a mess.”

I shot her a crooked smile. “Thanks. That’s what I get for wrestling a goat.”

“What happened?” Mattie asked.

“The Graber twins,” I said.

Both women said, “Ahh.” There really wasn’t any more explanation needed. Everyone in Rolling Brook knew about the twins and their wily ways.

Rachel blushed. “You don’t look too awful.”

“I was only teasing you, Rachel.” I glanced down at my corduroy jacket and jeans. That was a mistake.

Rachel bent over and looked under her table. When she came back up she held a tea towel and a bottle of water. She poured a little bit of water on the towel. “A damp cloth should get most of the dust off, Angie.”

I accepted the cloth. “I’d better do this outside of the tent. I don’t want to get any dirt on my quilts or your pies. Mattie, can you watch our table while I’m gone?”

The young Amish woman’s face held its hurt expression from Rachel’s exclusion.
“Ya
.
”

Across the aisle an English woman admired a Rolling Brook quilt. I elbowed Mattie and raised my eyebrows. “We have a live one,” I whispered. Mattie hurried over to her.

“Rachel, are you going to be okay?” I asked in a low voice.

“
Ya
, I will be fine. I shouldn’t worry so much.
Gott
will sort it out.
Danki
, Angie.”

Outside the large white canvas tent, I did my best to wipe the dust and dirt from my clothes while I worried about the Millers. Rachel claimed God would sort it out and I was thankful she believed that. I, on the other hand, was far less sure. If the township zoned to ban factories from Sugartree Street, the heart and historic downtown area of Rolling Brook, Aaron Miller’s pie factory was truly doomed.

I dumped a small collection of dirt from my jacket pocket and wondered how it had gotten there. As far as cleaning off my clothing, the only thing I accomplished in doing was making Rachel’s tea towel as dirty as I was. I shrugged, it couldn’t be helped. I didn’t have time to go home and change before my quilts were called onto the auction block. I wasn’t going to miss that. It was the entire reason I was there.

Gideon Nissley built the auction grounds in a caravan style. The small barns, sheds, and tents surrounded the main auction barn like spokes on a bicycle wheel. The merchants’ tent, where Rachel and I had our tables, was farthest from the parking lot, which was really a glorified field of grass, and closest to the Nissley’s home and private property.

Anna had told me the Nissley farm had been on this land for generations, but after some time, Gideon, who had struggled as a farmer, decided to transform it from a working farm into an Amish auction. By the look of the number of Amish and English wandering around on the grounds and the number of sales going on in the main barn, he had made the right decision.

Boys’ laughter caught my attention. Three teenaged boys teased one another as they walked across the property from behind the Nissley’s farmhouse in the direction of the main auction barn. This would not have been newsworthy if the trio didn’t look so out of place together. Two of the boys were Amish in plain clothes and bowl haircuts. One was short and built like a fire hydrant and the other was lanky and reminded me of Gumby. However, it was the third boy who really caught my attention. He was English and dressed in all black with matching dyed black hair. Two Amish and a Goth walk into an auction? What was the punch line? The sight was unnerving even in Holmes County where the English and Amish interacted every day.

“I saw you standing here, and I thought I would come over and say hello.”

I’d been staring at the three boys so intently, I hadn’t heard anyone approach. I turned and looked up and up and up at a very tall, clean-shaven Amish man. His lack of beard told me he was unmarried although I guessed he was older than thirty. It was unusual to have an Amish man unmarried at that age. However, his most shocking characteristic was his height. He was tall, but I mean
tall
. At five nine, I wasn’t tiny by any means, and he surpassed my height by a good twelve inches.

“I’m Linus Raber. I’m the auctioneer and will be the one auctioning off your quilts later today.” With his deep voice and height, I could see right away why Gideon had chosen him for his auctioneer. Linus Raber attracted attention.

I smiled up at him. “Nice to meet you.” I held my hand out for a shake, and he shook it very briefly. I had to remind myself that many Amish men were uncomfortable shaking hands with women, especially English women. I dropped my hand. “I’m thrilled to be included in the auction.”

“We are happy to have you here. Eleanor Lapp’s quilts will fetch a good price at auction. Everyone knows she was the best quilter in the county. Do you quilt too?”

“I do, but I’m not nearly as good as she was.” I considered asking Linus about the three boys I had seen, but thought better of it. “Have you seen the three quilts I have up for the block?”

He nodded. “I have. I keep detailed notes about everything that goes through this auction. The quilts you chose will snatch a good price. I should head back to the main barn. I have only the briefest of breaks between blocks.”

As the tall man returned to the main barn, I wondered if the NBA ever scouted in Amish Country because they had a contender.

I stepped back into the merchants’ tent. Running Stitch’s tables were the first when you walked inside of the tent. Mattie was alone at the table. “Did the English woman buy anything?” I asked.

Mattie shook her head. “But she might bid on one of the quilts when they go up for auction. I hope you attract a lot of bids, Angie.”

“I do too,” I said because I really needed it. I had poured a large chunk of my savings into my shop to bring it into the English twenty-first century. I added wiring for a phone line and Wi-Fi. Both were amenities my late Amish aunt would have never considered for her shop, but I, as an English person, required them to run a successful business. And now the slow winter months weren’t that far away. As the weather grew colder, fewer and fewer English tourists would come to town. There were many lean weeks ahead of me. I hoped I wouldn’t come to regret those costly improvements.

“How do you think Sarah is doing at the shop?” Mattie asked.

Sarah Leham was a member of my quilting circle, which also included Mattie, Rachel, and Anna. She also happened to be a notorious gossip. Sarah and Mattie had their issues in the past because Sarah would question Mattie about who was courting her. Sarah was over those disagreements, Mattie was not. While Mattie and I worked at the auction, Sarah promised to watch the store for us. It was a generous offer for her to make because like every Amish woman she had many responsibilities at home.

“I’m sure she’s doing fine.”

Mattie pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d spent all of her time talking to shoppers instead of selling them something from the store.”

“It was kind of her to offer to watch Running Stitch,” I said. “She wouldn’t even accept any payment for her time.”

Mattie dropped her head. “You’re right. It was kind of her. I am sorry.”

I smiled. “It’s fine, Mattie. I know you and Sarah won’t be BFFs or anything.”

“BFFs?” she asked.

I just shook my head.

Oliver whimpered from his spot under the table. Maybe bringing him to the auction had been a bad idea. He would have much rather stayed at home with my new kitten, Dodger, whom Oliver adored, than be here with all the noise and commotion. Most of Oliver’s days were spent alternating between eating, sleeping on his pillow at Running Stitch, and digging up the shop’s backyard garden. He wasn’t accustomed to such a large crowd or goats on the lam.

“He did that the whole time you were outside the tent. I think he wanted to go out there with you, but he was afraid.”

“Can you hold down the table a little longer? I want to take Oliver on a proper walk. We never finished the first one. Petunia-the-runaway-goat interrupted us.”

“Of course.”

I started toward Rachel to ask her if she wanted to go with me on a short walk. Mattie could watch both of our booths, but two English couples arrived at her table just then to select a pie or two. I backed away. I didn’t want to interrupt a sale.

Outside of the tent, I turned right away from the main auction barn and the center of activity with the hope Oliver and I would have a more peaceful walk away from the crowd and avoid any escaped goats along the way.

The Nissleys, a late-middle-aged Amish couple, lived in a large gray farmhouse, and there were several other smaller buildings scattered around the back of the house. Oliver and I passed a small shed and the noise from the auction began to lessen the farther away we went.

The building I found most interesting on the Nissley property was the canning shed. I hadn’t known there were such things before I moved back to Ohio. However, in the Amish world there was. The Nissleys made a nice living off of the auction yard, at least I thought they must, since they made a percentage of all the sales at the auction, but Tabitha Nissley, Gideon’s wife, made extra income for the family by selling her homemade canned goods.

There was a table in the merchants’ tent piled high with her jars. She also sold them to Amish shops all over the county to resell to tourists. She canned everything from beets and other vegetables to jams and jellies.

The canning shed’s door was open, and I peeked inside and marveled at the floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with jars of peppers, pickles, blackberry jam, strawberry preserves, and the list went on. On the right side of the large room, there was a full kitchen with a propane-powered stove, sink without running water—there was a hand water pump outside of the shed—and glass-paned cabinets filled with everything that Tabitha needed for her operation: sugar, salt, pots, pans, spoons, measuring cups, and funnels of every size.

I backed out, vaguely curious as to why the door was open when no one was there.

Oliver pulled on his leash. “Okay, Ollie. I was just taking a peek. No harm done.” I stepped out of the doorway. “Which way should we go?”

Oliver pulled me around the right side of the shed.

“Where’s the fire?” I asked. The Frenchie was far too small to make me walk anywhere if I was unwilling, but I was curious to find out why he was so adamant about our direction. It was out of character for Oliver to lead our walks.

As we came around the corner of the building, I discovered why. Wanda Hunt lay on her side in the shade of the canning shed. She gripped Rachel’s half-eaten blueberry fry pie in her hand. Judging from the blue color of her face, much like the blueberries in the pie, I knew she was dead.