Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery (5 page)

A
fter Mitchell left the tent, Rachel, Mattie, and Aaron spoke to one another in hushed whispers. I returned to my table to give the family some time together and looped Oliver’s leash around the table leg so that he would stay put. Then I waited another five minutes before I slipped out of the tent and wandered back toward the canning shed. I needed to learn what the sheriff knew.

The coroner had driven his station wagon right up to the side of the shed. I supposed it was easier that way for him to access his equipment and, gulp, load the body when it was time to go. Happily, the large car also provided cover between me and the sheriff. This was a very good thing. If Mitchell caught me, he would be livid.

The coroner flexed his knees and they cracked. “Can’t give you an official verdict, but I wager she suffocated from an allergic reaction. She has hives on the inside of her mouth and on the palms of her hands. We’ll know for certain soon enough.”

“The cause?” Mitchell asked.

The coroner stuck out his lower lip as he thought. “Bee sting, maybe.”

“It’s October. Where would the bee come from?”

“There may still be a bee or two around, but, yes, it’s less likely than it would be in the summer. My money is on a food allergy.”

“Would it cause a reaction this severe?”

The coroner nodded. “Oh, yes, food allergies kill people every day. I have a cousin who blows up like a balloon every time he eats shellfish.”

The sheriff rocked back on his heels. “Why does he keep eating shellfish if he has such a terrible reaction?”

“Because he likes it,” the coroner said with a shrug. “He doesn’t do it often, only on his birthday. He always has lobster on his birthday as a special treat. He jabs an EpiPen in his leg and calls it a day after each time.”

I shuddered. Apparently, Mitchell agreed with me because he said, “Your cousin is an idiot and has a death wish.”

“Don’t I know it. I tell him that I’m not any good to have around if he went into anaphylactic shock. I am a dead man’s doctor, so I would only be able to make sure his toe tag is appropriately cataloged.”

Mitchell grunted. “You think Wanda died from a shellfish allergy, then?”

“Naw, if we lived on the coast or even closer to Lake Erie maybe, but the closest seafood restaurant is Arthur Treacher’s in Canton. My money is on peanuts. It’s common and deadly. I should know soon. I will take a simple test back in my lab, but you might know even more quickly. Ask her family. Someone who would have an allergy this extreme would know about it. I wager she’s been avoiding peanuts since she was a child.”

Wearing gloves, the sheriff gingerly looked through Wanda’s large floral purse. “Where’s her EpiPen then, if she knew she had such a severe allergy, wouldn’t she have one?”

“I would think so,” the coroner said.

Mitchell frowned. “And do you think her allergic reaction was the result of foul play?”

My legs started to ache from the squatting beside the station wagon, but I didn’t want to move now. We were just getting to the good part.

“That’s the harder part to determine. Peanuts and peanut oil are in a lot of foods that people eat every day. It doesn’t have to be Skippy peanut butter to have peanuts in it. For some people it only takes a few drops of peanut oil for them to have a reaction like this. She was holding the fry pie from the bakery. I bet that’s your culprit.”

“But it was blueberry.”

“The Millers’ bakery makes peanut butter cookies and pies too. This could be a case of accidental cross contamination.”

What a terrible way to die. I hadn’t particularly cared for Wanda, but no one deserved that. After the horror of the situation fell away, I felt my hopes rise.
Then it wasn’t murder, just a horrible accident.

“If it was an accident, then maybe the Millers won’t be held accountable for her death, but that will be up to the D.A. You head back to the morgue to first prove the allergy originated from the fry pie.”

I chewed on the inside of my lip as I remembered the nut-free sign on Rachel’s table, which she had made a point of showing Wanda. Wanda must have been allergic to nuts. Why would she have asked Rachel if there were any in the fry pie otherwise? In that case, it would look like murder.

I heard a crack like a knee or an elbow. “Ooph!” the coroner said. “I’m getting too old for this line of work, Mitchell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Art. You’re a spring chicken.”

The coroner snorted. “One in a rotisserie oven. I should know about the allergy this afternoon, but I will have a full report for you by Friday.”

Today was Wednesday. There wouldn’t be an official verdict on Wanda’s death for two days. I suspected Mitchell would treat this like a murder until he heard otherwise from the coroner, and after overhearing this conversation, I knew his suspicions were squarely on the Millers.

As if he read my mind, the sheriff said, “I need to talk to the Millers again.”

I ducked and shuffled backward away from the station wagon and scurried back to the tent.

I just made it back when I saw Mitchell walking across the grounds from the canning shed.

Mattie, who was helping Rachel and Aaron pack up their booth, examined my face. “Angie, what is wrong? You are out of breath.”

I just shook my head as the sheriff appeared at the tent’s opening.

“Stop,” Mitchell said as he strode into the tent.

Mattie dropped the plate of cookies that she held. Several maple sugar cookies bounced onto the ground.

“Please leave all of your treats here.”

“B-but why?” Rachel asked.

“We need them for evidence,” the sheriff said.

“Wanda didn’t die anywhere close to Rachel’s table,” I argued.

“This is not a mere suggestion. We are taking all of this into evidence,” the sheriff said as a deputy stepped inside the tent.

Rachel’s face crumbled. “
Ya
, of course, we will do whatever you ask of us. We are so sorry about Wanda. Her poor family . . .” Her voice broke.

The sheriff’s expression softened. “I only want the crime lab to test your baked goods.” He waved his deputy over. “Deputy Mack will assist you in packing your personal belongings.”

Deputy Mack was built like the truck for which I suspected he was named.

“That is not necessary,” Aaron said. “But we will still leave everything except our money box here for you to examine.”

Mitchell sighed. “Very well.” He paused. “Please open the box so that we can see it before we go.”

“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” I asked.

The sheriff clenched his jaw. “Not if the Millers agree to cooperate.”

Rachel’s brow knit together. “Open the box, Aaron, so that we can leave. I want to go home and see the children.”

Aaron lifted the lid. The only items inside were small bills and change.

Mitchell’s jaw twitched. “I need you to bring Rachel to the sheriff’s office tomorrow morning to record her statement about her last encounter with Wanda.”

The Amish man braced his fist on the tabletop. “I can’t bring Rachel there. It is not the place for any Amish woman to be.”

Mitchell sighed. “Fine. Then I will send one of my deputies to your home first thing tomorrow to record it.”

“We will be in the bakery at that time in the morning. I am sorry. Your request is most inconvenient.”

Mitchell’s jaw twitched again. “Then I will send him to the bakery. A woman is dead, Mr. Miller, and I intend to find out why.”

Aaron opened and closed his mouth like a fish but said nothing more.

“You are free to go.” Mitchell stepped to the side.

The Millers shuffled together to the exit. “Do you need me to do anything?” I asked, keeping pace with them.

Aaron frowned as he stepped into the autumn sunlight. “We do not need your help, Angie, but
danki
for being here for my wife and sister.”

Rachel grabbed my hand and squeezed it for a second. She gave me a pleading look. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Questions popped into my head, but I felt Aaron watching us. I simply nodded. “Tomorrow.” I watched them huddle together as they passed the crowd of onlookers who appeared outside of the merchants’ tent as news of Wanda’s death spread.

Mitchell came up and stood beside me just outside of the tent. “You will need to go to the station tomorrow to sign your statement too.”

My shoulders drooped. “All right.”

“Look on the bright side. You don’t have to be fingerprinted. We got you last time.” He strolled off in the direction of the canning shed.

The last time, the murder suspect was me.

Sheriff Mitchell had left Deputy Mack to search through Rachel’s table of goods. I turned back to the merchants’ tent, until a hand reached around the side of the shed Gideon used as an office, and grabbed my hand, yanking me backward.

T
abitha Nissley, Gideon’s wife, released my arm, and I recovered from cardiac arrest. Tabitha was round like her husband with a cute ski-jump nose and wide eyes, which gave people who didn’t know her the impression she lived in a constant state of surprise. Having gone through the rigorous process of auction vendor approval, I doubted anything that happened on the auction yard surprised her. Well, that is until Wanda’s body was discovered.

Tabitha placed a hand to her face. “Did I scare you?”

Uh, yeah.
Instead I said, “I’m okay.”

She picked up a large basket with both hands. The basket’s bottom sagged under the weight of the half dozen quart-sized Mason jars filled with pickles and maybe a few beets. It was hard to see. Most of the jars’ contents were obscured by a weathered cookbook, a spiral-bound loose-leaf binder with a scratched and stained cover. Tabitha’s name was in black block letters on the green cover. Below her name was a hand-drawn picture of a Mason jar. The book must have held all of the preserve and pickling recipes for Tabitha’s canning business. Canning was one culinary art I was too afraid to try. Knowing my luck I would give everyone botulism.

I stepped forward. “Can I carry that for you?”

Forcefully, she swung the basket away. “
Nee,
I can carry it myself. Amish women are used to carrying their own weight. I’ve carried baskets twice as heavy as this before.” Her smile took the bite out of her words.

“At least I could carry the cookbook,” I said with a smile.

Her smile wavered. “
Nee.
No one touches my cookbook.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There are too many in this county who want my canning recipes.”

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about me taking your recipes.”

She laughed. “You are awfully serious for an
Englischer
.
We’ve been looking for you. Your quilts are about to go up on the block.”

I stepped back. “The bids are still going on? I thought with what happened to Wanda—”

Tabitha waved away my concern. “Phweet. That was an accident. We can’t stop the auction.”

“But the police—”

“
Ya.
The police are still here and asking their questions, but most of the tourists don’t even know anything is amiss.” She placed her hands on her wide hips. “Now, stop standing there with your mouth hanging open. You have to be there when your quilts come up on the block or they will be pulled. We don’t want that to happen. They will catch a
gut
price for you and for my son.”

“Pulled?” My eyes widened. “I got to run.”

“That’s what I have been trying to tell you.” She shook her head. “Now, go.”

“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder as I made a dash for the auction barn.

Luckily, the three quilts I submitted to the block that morning were already in the main auction barn. They had been on display there all day, so visitors could preview them before bids opened. Either my aunt or a member of my quilting circle made each one. I knew that no one at the auction, English or Amish, could fault the quality of the work.

Inside the barn, Linus had the auction buzzing as he accepted bids for two dairy calves in the open dirt pen below the platform. The horses and cows were auctioned off from the pen, and the platform was where crafts, household goods, and furniture went up on the auction block.

An elderly Amish man in a straw hat held up his hand. “Seven hundred!”

“There’re seven hundred! We can do better than that folks. Two dairy calves for the price of one. This is a deal,” Linus shouted. “Do I have another bid?”

A younger man, who stood next to me, wiped a trail of sweat from his cheek with a handkerchief. “Eight hundred!”

“There’s eight! Eight from Zeke King. Do I have eight fifty?” Linus pointed at the older man.

The older man narrowed his eyes. “Nine hundred!”

An Amish teen continued to lead the two calves at a very slow pace around the dirt-filled ring. He kept the two animals close together, so their sides touched.

Zeke whispered in Pennsylvania Dutch to a friend standing beside him.

“To you Zeke,” Linus cried.

“Nine fifty,” Zeke said.

“Nine fifty. We have nine fifty. Two dairy calves for the price of one. Great addition to an existing herd or if you want to start your own. Holsteins with the sweetest milk you can find anywhere.”

The older man shook his head and dropped from the bidding.

“Two Holstein calves go to Zeke King for nine fifty. Zeke come see the cashier in the front.”

Zeke shoved his handkerchief into the back pocket of his plain trousers and grinned at his friend before parting the crowd on his way to the cashier.

Behind the commotion, two of the young men who worked at the auction house moved the heavy quilts to the stage area while a third boy looked on. One, a tall Amish boy, climbed a stepladder and clipped a quilt on clothespins hanging from a metal cable. The second young man, who held the bottom edge of the quilt off of the dusty stage as the first pinned, was English and dressed in all black.

I appreciated the care the boys took with the quilt. It was one of my aunt’s and an example of her immeasurable talent. When the boys finished, the red, purple, and navy blue Rolling Block quilt hung six inches from the floor. An ache poked me in the chest. My aunt had been gone for a few months. But looking at that quilt, it felt like I was losing her this very morning. Maybe it was the discovery of Wanda that brought back the feeling of loss that bubbled just beneath the surface of my skin.

I pushed thoughts of my aunt away and realized the three young men were the ones I had seen walking across the auction yard earlier. All three had been walking from the direction of the Nissley house a few yards from the canning shed. Fewer than thirty minutes later I found Wanda dead in that area. Was there a connection?

“Angie, I am glad you were able to come,” Gideon lowered his voice. “I was afraid you were caught up with the police. Please don’t mention the commotion behind the canning shed to our English visitors.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

“Glad to see you are finally here,” Linus said as he loomed above me.

“I got held up.”

“I heard. What an unfortunate event to happen on auction day.”

I wrinkled my brow.
Would it be okay to happen on a nonauction day?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.

The large man smiled. “
Nee.
You’re right on time,” he said and climbed onto the three-foot-high platform with one effortless step. His voice boomed. “Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars. Do I have one?”

I winced. The quilt was worth much more than one hundred dollars. Thankfully, my worry dissolved as the bidding picked up. There was a woman wearing a blue visor in the front row calling bid for bid against an elderly man wearing an argyle sweater in the back.

My heart ached a little every time I sold one of my aunt’s quilts even though I knew she’d think that was silly of me. I could almost hear her say, “Angie, a quilt is meant to warm you at night and to be sold. Keeping it just because it’s pretty to look at is foolish.”

The woman prevailed as Linus crowed, “Sold! Seven fifty!”
Seven fifty.
One of my aunt’s quilts sold for seven hundred and fifty dollars. Did I hear that right? Even though I knew my aunt’s handiwork was well worth that price, I never dared price the quilts in the shop that high because I was afraid I would never sell any of them.

The English woman who purchased the quilt jumped up and down at her good fortune with such enthusiasm that her visor fell off. She wasn’t the only one excited. I grinned from ear to ear. The auction house kept twenty percent of the sales, but I still made more on each quilt than I would have had I sold them at Running Stitch. Plus, I had the good sense to attach a business card on the back of each quilt with a safety pin. Hopefully, these quilt lovers would drop by the shop and become regular customers.

The next quilt sold for eight hundred. I was dizzy at the sudden monetary windfall.

The third quilt was on the block. The bids came so fast, it made my head spin. “Sold! Nine hundred to the lady in the pink ball cap.”

Rachel had been right—the auction was the way to keep my business afloat and even make a profit. Guilt washed over me as I thought of Rachel. She was home by now. I hated to think of how upset she was over Wanda’s death. I knew that with her kind heart, she blamed herself.

The two teenaged boys removed the quilts from the lines. The Goth boy joined them again and helped fold the quilts. I examined his outfit more closely. He wore black jeans, a rock band hooded sweatshirt, and black combat boots. His dyed black hair fell over his eyes. Huh. I thought everyone who worked at the auction house was Amish. This kid wasn’t Amish, not by a long shot, but he looked at home at the auction house and joked with the Amish boys while they carried the quilts to the cashier.

Jonah wove through the crowd that was in flux as the next block, Amish-made furniture, was set on stage by the boys. When he reached me, he removed his hat and dusted it on his knee. “You did all right at the auction.”

“You saw my block?”

“I did indeed.”

I grinned. “Not bad.” My smile faded. “I wish Rachel was here to see it. I have her to thank for me being here.”

He tugged on his sandy blond beard. “Don’t worry about Rachel. She and Aaron will be fine. No one would believe they would hurt Wanda no matter how mad they were at her and the township trustees.”

“I don’t know. People thought I was capable of murder last summer.”

“That is different. You were brand-new here and we didn’t know what to expect from you.”

I frowned. “I wasn’t new to you.”

He laughed. “I didn’t personally doubt you, my
freind
.”

“You better not have.” I returned my attention to the platform. “Jonah, who is the English boy up at the front?”

Jonah paled. “Oh, no.”

“What? What is it?” I stared at the boy to determine what could cause mild-mannered Jonah’s sudden alarm.

“That’s Reed Kent.”

I blinked at him. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“It’s Wanda’s nephew, and he must not know that his aunt is dead.”

Oh, no
was right.