Plain Killing (17 page)

Ada had recommended Joab, and Rachel knew they weren’t relatives. From Ada, this was high praise. “Uncle Aaron likes him better than his brother Eli, that’s for certain,” Rachel said. She poured a glass of lemonade and took a sip. Tart, just the way she liked it. She perched on a stool, finished her drink, and then went to the old pine cupboard for another glass.

“No need for one of my good glasses.” Ada turned the dough out onto her breadboard, floured her hands, and began to knead the mixture. “Only get broken outside. Use one of those quart Mason jars. He likes lots of ice.”

Rachel sighed and did as she was instructed. It might be her house, but it was Ada’s kitchen. She picked up a wicker basket and a pair of scissors, packed the blue glass jar with ice, and went back to the summer kitchen to fill it with cold spring water. As an afterthought, she scooped up a gingerbread cookie the size of her palm cooling on the stone shelf. “Even a man who drinks only water couldn’t pass up Ada’s gingerbread,” she said to Sophie. The bichon frise looked dubious but trotted after her as they exited by the back door and crossed the yard.

The old gristmill stood at the back of the property beside the pond and the remains of the old millrace, the flow of water that had once turned the water wheel. Willow trees bent gracefully over the water, and a pair of ducks paddled in the water. Rachel could picture a wrought-iron table and chairs, ferns, and wildflowers here in the deep shade—if the project ever got done. The building was going to take a lot of repairs to be restored. Now, it was piles of cut stone, sagging doors, and endless expense.

As she approached the building, the mason came around the corner, an empty bucket in one hand. “I brought you some water,” she said. “And a cookie.”

“Not much for sweets.” He took the Mason jar. “Grateful for the water, though. It’s some hot for September,
ya?
” He tipped the container up and swallowed large gulps. “But autumn’s coming. Like as not we’ll soon be wishing it was warm instead of cold.”

“How’s the job coming?” She dropped the cookie into her basket, thinking she might have to eat it herself.

“Passable. Be done when it’s done, not a day before.”

Rachel walked around the gristmill to survey the ongoing work, complimented Joab on his fine craftsmanship, and then picked up her basket and went to the herb garden. The dog followed. She was cutting mint leaves in the herb garden when Mary Aaron appeared.

Sophie barked and leaped up and down as if she had springs in her legs as Mary Aaron pushed through the garden gate.

“Down,” Mary Aaron ordered as the little dog launched itself at her.

“Behave yourself,” Rachel chided. Sophie ignored them both. Rachel knew she should do something about the dog’s behavior, but there never seemed time, and she was adorable.

Wisps of sweaty hair clung to Mary Aaron’s forehead, and there were damp stains under the arms of her maroon work dress.

“Come on your scooter?” Rachel asked.

“
Ya,
better than walking in this heat. At least there’s a little breeze.”

A little,
Rachel thought.
Maybe.
The hills between the Hostetler farm and the town were steep, and Rachel knew from experience that using the scooter, better known to her people as a push-bike, was good exercise and required far more physical energy than riding an ordinary bicycle. Conventional bikes were not permitted by the Old Order Amish in Stone Mill because they were considered too fast and worldly.

“Have you seen Hannah since she left here?” Rachel used kitchen shears to cut mint.

“No. I don’t know
where
she is, but I know
how
she is. She’s fine. Safe, content. Bishop Abner made the announcement at supper last night that he had spoken to Hannah’s bishop. She made her confession before her elders yesterday morning and has been received back into the fold.”

“She told them what happened to her?”

Mary Aaron spread her hands, palms up. “Not any particulars, I bet. More of a general confession. Sinners don’t have to say
exactly
what they did wrong. Especially in a case like this.” She glanced away.

Rachel dropped the mint into her basket. “You must be thirsty,” she said. “You want something to drink?”

“In a bit.” Mary Aaron sank onto the grass, removed one sneaker, and shook out a piece of gravel. “I thought there was something in there.”

Rachel folded her arms and waited, one brow arched impatiently. She knew Mary Aaron. Her cousin had something to tell her, something important, and she was stalling just to tease her. “What else?” Rachel asked. “I know there’s more.”

Mary Aaron noticed the gingerbread cookie in the basket.

“Joab didn’t want it. Go ahead.”

Between bites, Mary Aaron said, “I am to tell you that Hannah’s parents are thankful for what you did for her.” She offered Rachel half.

Rachel accepted the treat and took a big bite. “What
we
did,” she reminded her cousin, joining her in the grass. “I couldn’t have done it alone.” For an instant, memories of the muggy streets of the French Quarter flooded back, and a shiver ran down her spine. “You’re the one who got out of that car and found her. You’re the one who slammed the door in the creep’s face.”

Mary Aaron pushed the last of the cookie into her mouth and wiped the crumbs off her dress. “
Ya,
but for one of us to help our own, that’s one thing.” She shrugged. “They consider you English; that’s different. They wanted me to thank you for them.”

“I don’t expect thanks any more than you do.”

Mary Aaron put her shoe back on and tied the lace firmly. The sneakers were navy blue, unadorned with logos or piping. She pulled her knees up and pressed them to the ground so that her blue dress would modestly cover most of her legs. “And they wanted me to tell you that you’re invited to Hannah’s wedding supper on Thursday.”

Rachel sat up a little straighter. “She’s being
married
Thursday?
This
Thursday?”

“But . . . but how is that possible?” Rachel stared at Mary Aaron. “She’s only been home . . . How could they come up with a husband—a wedding—so fast?”

Mary Aaron plucked blades of grass and tossed it at her. “Do you think that Hannah is the first girl who ever had to be married in a rush?” She smiled slyly. “Remember Eva May’s wedding to the Troyer boy last spring? There was no long engagement there.”

“I do remember.”

“The two had been making mischief, and Eva May was in the family way.” Mary Aaron watched Sophie push a bit of cut grass with her nose. “Their marriage banns were read and they were bound all in the same week.”

“Eva May was pregnant before they were married?” Rachel knew her jaw dropped. “But she’s a preacher’s daughter.”

“The daughter of a preacher maybe, but still human. Which of us is perfect?” Mary Aaron frowned. “Not me. Not even the bishop, I suspect. We all have our own small sins, don’t we? I think Eva May was foolish. But she admitted her mistake and was truly repentant. Should I point a finger of reproach at her now? It’s much the same with Hannah.”

“Hannah’s pregnant?” Rachel blurted. The thought hadn’t occurred to her. She’d suggested that Hannah see a physician, out of concern for her health, but she’d never considered that she could be pregnant.

“
Ne,
Hannah is not in the family way. She went to her doctor yesterday and had tests to be sure that all is well. I meant, like Eva May, she needed to be settled with a husband quickly.” Mary Aaron’s face turned serious, and she stood, brushing grass off her dress, then offering her hand to help Rachel to her feet. “You do think too much like them Englishers,” she said. “Have you forgotten all you learned at your mother’s knee? Hannah is no longer the same girl who had those bad things happen to her. She is made new in spirit. If there had been a babe, would it be the fault of the
kind.
The baby would have been a gift from God, like every other child.”

Rachel looked into her cousin’s eyes as she stood. “It’s a beautiful way of looking at it.”

“It’s our way,” Mary Aaron reminded her gently. “The Amish way.”

“Does she even know him? The husband-to-be? Is he from here?”

“
Ne,
from Wisconsin. He’s a little older than she is, a widower with three children. Hannah’s father will provide a good dowry. It’s a good match for both of them.”

Rachel couldn’t wrap her head around it. “But if they’re strangers . . . How can Hannah agree to marry a man she’s never met? What if they hate each other?”

Mary Aaron put her arm around Rachel and gave her a quick hug. “You worry too much. Where is your faith? This is a good solution. Thomas will be pleased to have a young and devout wife, a mother for his children, and she will be happy to have her own home and a new beginning. All will be well. You will see.”

“I suppose.” She’d heard of arranged marriages among the Old Order people, but she’d never known someone who’d married without some sort of courtship. Rachel didn’t know how she felt about the hasty marriage, but she was relieved to know that Hannah would be safe. If anyone from her old life was looking for her, he’d never find her. And neither would the police. The problem was, whatever Hannah knew would go with her. Rachel sighed. Another lead would end with a stone wall.

“Now, you’re not to mention the wedding to Evan,” Mary Aaron warned. “Hannah’s mother asked me to make that clear.”

Rachel hadn’t thought about that but would have guessed that would be the case. She didn’t like keeping information from Evan, but once again, this wasn’t her business to share. “Are you going to the wedding? Will you go with me?” Rachel picked up her basket. She had wanted to cut some basil, too, but she’d promised Mary Aaron something cold to drink. She’d come back for the rest of the herbs in the morning.

They started toward the house, with Sophie trailing behind them.

“Timothy and I have been asked to be part of the bridal party, so we’ll be there all day,” Mary Aaron said. “The Verklers have invited you to come for the evening wedding supper. It’s being held at her uncle’s house.”

“Are you going to tell me where he lives, or do I have to drive around the county looking for a farm with a lot of buggies parked in the yard?”

Mary Aaron giggled. “Your
mam
said that you can go with them. The whole family is invited to the supper.”

“You spoke to my mother?”

“
Ya.
She said they’ll pick you up at six, and that you should dress English, but modest. What you wear for Plain is not so . . .” She giggled again. “Not so good.”

“So I’m going to Hannah’s wedding with my parents in their buggy?”

Mary Aaron grinned at her. “I hope so. I wouldn’t want to have to go back to your
mam
and tell her that you refused to be seen with her.”

It was nearly seven in the evening when Rachel, wedged between her mother and her father in the front seat of the family buggy, arrived at the site of Hannah’s wedding supper. It was still light, and the ride along the narrow country road—with the sound of buggy wheels, the familiar clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the road, and the whispers and giggling of her younger siblings—filled Rachel with happiness. It was good to sit close beside her
mam,
and even if her mother didn’t actually speak directly to her, it was clear she was happy to have her eldest daughter with her. Rachel’s
dat
seemed pleased to have her with them as well, and he humored her mother, passing information back and forth between her and her mother without losing his patience.

“Is a good match, Aaron tells me,” her
mam
said as her
dat
reined the horse into a farm lane lined with buggies. “This Thomas Miller, he owns nearly five hundred acres and leases more in Wisconsin. Beef cattle he raises. And he has a house of logs and stone. Where it lies Aaron didn’t know. Ask your daughter if she has heard.”

“Ne, Mam,”
Rachel said. “I didn’t even know where the wedding supper was being held.” Not that it was a big secret now—she could see at least a dozen cars and trucks, including Ed and Polly’s delivery van and Hulda’s black Volvo sedan.

By tradition, the wedding service and dinner began in late morning and continued on until midafternoon. That was usually attended only by the Amish, but the supper was much more informal and Englishers and a larger crowd of neighbors and friends were often invited.

Just behind them, in another buggy, came Rachel’s brother Paul; his wife, Miriam; and their two children. Rachel’s sister Sally had told her that their sister Annie and her husband, Benjamin, had stopped by earlier, and sister Lettie had chosen to ride with them. Rachel was looking forward to seeing all of her sisters and brothers and her niece and nephew.

“One of these days, maybe we’ll be holding a wedding supper for you,
ne?
” her father teased. “Even if you pick an Englisher, we’re still your family. You know I have a dowry saved for you.”

Her mother stiffened and sniffed, clearly voicing her disapproval.

“Now, Esther,”
Dat
soothed. “Didn’t you say the same thing to me not a week past?”

“Three more girls to provide for, not to mention the boys. It’s not much of a wedding we can provide for Englishers. And you can tell her that for me.” Rachel’s
dat
’s hands were firm on the reins, his eyes bright and kindly in his bearded face. Tonight, he’d worn his black felt, wide-brimmed hat and his
mutze,
the longer, more formal coat with the split tail, clothing usually reserved for worship services. Rachel thought he looked quite distinguished. For her own outfit, she’d chosen the same suit that she’d worn for Beth’s funeral, which she supposed met her mother’s standards because she hadn’t complained.

“God will provide, Esther,” her father reproved gently. “And when Rachel marries, whoever she chooses, we will do no less for her than each of the others.”

“Did I say we wouldn’t?” Her mother’s tone was meek, but she smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her immaculately ironed navy skirt with a vengeance. “I love my children equally, but the only true marriage is one in our church.”

Her father guided the horse into an open spot between two other buggies and turned to give instructions to the younger children. “You may go and seek out your friends, but do not stray from the supper area, and heed your mother should she need anything. And if your actions are any less than they should be, the next time, you’ll remain home with enough chores to keep you busy until long past dark.”

He got down out of the buggy and opened the back door, holding it wide so that Rachel’s brothers and sisters could scramble out. Then he came around to assist her mother. It was an act that never failed to touch Rachel. Helping his wife in and out of a buggy was one of the few times that they ever touched each other in public, but it was obvious to any who witnessed the act that they were devoted to each other.

Will anyone ever love me like that?
Rachel wondered.
I hope so.

“We’ll leave at ten sharp,” her father said to Rachel. “If you’d like a ride home, be here promptly. If you aren’t here, we’ll assume you’ve found other young people to take you.”

Her mother turned a soft cheek for Rachel to kiss, nodded, and walked away in search of her own friends. Rachel’s father smiled and shrugged. “You two are like a pair of banty hens,” he said, “all ruffled feathers.”

Rachel chuckled. “I suppose we are,” she agreed. “But
Mam
was born a Hostetler, and they’re not known for accepting change easy.”

“I like to think of it as a trait of . . . consistency,” he said, and his eyes lit with mischief. “I was warned about her stubbornness before I took her to wife. Thankfully, I didn’t listen to that good advice. If any team was well matched for a long pull in harness, it’s the two of us.”

“I’ll be here on time if I need a ride home,” she promised. “I’m so glad I came with you.”

Eli Rust came around the row of buggies and called out to her father. Her
dat
strode off to join his friend. From every direction came the sounds of Deitsch conversation, calls of greetings, and easy laughter. Even an observer who didn’t speak the German dialect would have recognized, at once, the difference between this gathering and the somber one that had been Beth Glick’s wake.

Rachel walked toward the house. It was a small, circa-1940s bungalow, but the size of the dining area was of no concern this evening because supper was being served outside. As with communal Sabbath dinners, long tables had been erected with benches on either side. The tables were already laden with bowls of fried chicken and duck, roast turkey, chicken and dumplings, spare ribs, sausages, potato, macaroni and gelatin salads, platters of sliced onions and tomatoes, cooked carrots, lima beans, and applesauce. Young boys walked up and down the outside of the tables with fly whisks, chasing insects away from the food, while teenage girls filled glasses with water.

An array of carefree children, dressed as miniature adults, ran and played, tugged at their parents’ hands, or rode high on a father or older brother’s shoulders. Not a single youngster whined or cried, fought over a toy, or acted out. Although Rachel hated to make comparisons between English babies and Amish-raised, there was no doubt that the more rigid style of parenting seemed to produce happier and less-demanding children.

Tubs full of ice standing under the trees held pitchers of lemonade and bottles of soda pop; all, Rachel suspected, had been donated by Polly and Ed. The Amish were their best customers at the grocery store because they rarely left the valley to shop. The Waglers appreciated their patronage and never failed to show their gratitude by donating food for Amish celebrations.

There had to be more than a hundred people of all ages gathered there to honor the bride and groom. Groups of bearded men stood around, talking crops and livestock and telling jokes. In other areas of the yard, women traded recipes, gave or asked for advice on child rearing, and shared news of illnesses, coming betrothals, and visits from distant relatives.

It was custom for the sexes in Amish gatherings to socialize separately. When it came to sitting down to partake of the meal, the women might wait for a second seating or they might sit at another section of the table. It wasn’t that Amish women were considered inferior to the men; interaction wasn’t forbidden, but conversations naturally tended to cater to one sex or the other. Most men would have felt awkward amid a covey of females, and women preferred the easy give-and-take of their own kind.

The only exceptions to this unwritten code were courting couples, and young people seeking boyfriends or girlfriends. Weddings and other celebrations were one of the few places where teenagers and unmarried adults could meet possible marriage partners and were much anticipated. Rachel noticed her sister Lettie deep in conversation with a cousin; both girls were pretending not to watch the young men unloading benches from the bench wagon and carrying them to the tables. The two might be too young to think of marriage, but they weren’t too young to survey and critique the available candidates.

Across the yard, a couple came down the back steps of the house. Rachel recognized Hannah, even though her white prayer
kapp
and blue dress were identical to many of the young women present; brides didn’t wear special wedding dresses. Walking beside her was a short-statured, average-looking man of perhaps forty years of age. The stocky bridegroom, for Rachel assumed that this must be the mysterious Thomas, was shadowed by a chubby little boy, while Hannah held tightly to the hand of a slightly older girl. To Rachel’s surprise, Hannah was smiling at her new husband, more animated and engaged than Rachel had seen her since their rendezvous in New Orleans. And Thomas, in turn, seemed equally absorbed with his new bride.

Rachel glanced around in hopes of seeing Mary Aaron, but her cousin was nowhere in sight. If the groom was from Wisconsin, Hannah would be traveling there soon; if any information was to be gained from Hannah, Rachel knew they were running out of time. Thinking that Mary Aaron might be inside helping with the food, Rachel started toward the house. She had gone only a few feet when she was waylaid by the Waglers.

“Rachel! I thought that was you,” Polly exclaimed. “Have you met the groom? Such a nice man. Well spoken. Seems devoted to his children. There’s a third, I understand. Too young to make the journey. Stayed with grandparents.” She waved her hand, expansively taking in the guests and the tables laden with food. “Can you imagine? Putting this wedding together in so short a time!”

“It is impressive,” Rachel agreed.

“As many years as I’ve lived among the Amish, I’ve never ceased to be amazed at their ways,” Polly continued. “Good people, though. Salt of the earth. But hard to figure out. Why do you suppose Hannah is marrying so quickly after her return?”

“I don’t know.” Rachel offered a quick smile, glancing at Ed, who seemed eager to escape. His gaze kept wandering to a group of Englisher business owners. Polly was a talker. Rachel imagined celebrations like this gave him the opportunity to escape his wife’s chatter. “Hard to say.”

“Right. Who knows what young people will do today?” Polly exclaimed. “Maybe she met him while she was away, working out there.”

Rachel knew that was the rumor being passed around for the benefit of those who didn’t know the truth about Hannah’s time away. An untruth, perhaps, but one that would shelter the community from scandal.

Polly beamed. “But Hannah does make a lovely bride, doesn’t she? Ed was just saying so, weren’t you, Ed?”

The Waglers had dressed for the occasion. Ed was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with a green, white, and orange leaf pattern, buttoned up and worn with a navy tie, while Polly might have been a candidate for admission to a convent in her midcalf-length, long-sleeve, black knit dress, white Peter Pan collar, and Mary Jane shoes. Her purse, Rachel noted, was a black leather designer clutch. Expensive. Rachel knew Ed liked to play cards for money and traveled to Atlantic City once a month. Or so Hulda had told her.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Ed agreed, nodding at Polly, then glancing in the direction of the knot of men again.

The Waglers always agreed. At least, Ed always seemed supportive of his wife’s opinions. While Ed was almost always in a cheerful mood, Polly could be plainspoken at times. In truth, it seemed to Rachel that Polly, who some thought was a little ditzy, was the brains behind the successful Wagler grocery enterprise. And Rachel had no doubt that Ed held his wife in high regard.

Polly looked to Ed. “We’re boring you with women’s talk, aren’t we? So on with you then.” She made a shooing gesture. “I’ll find you later.”

“Good to see you, Rachel,” Ed said and quickly slipped away.

“I meant to call you today. I did get in a case of that organic wheat flour you were asking for,” Polly told Rachel. “I have to warn you that it’s pricey. So much so that I doubt I’ll find many other customers for it.”

“That’s fine,” Rachel assured her. “Organics are more expensive, but my guests appreciate healthy food. I’ll come by and pick up the order tomorrow.”

“No such thing.” Polly tucked her pricey handbag under her arm. “I’ll have Ed deliver it. That’s what we bought that van for. A customer as good as you are, no need for you to come in. Anything else you want, just call first thing. I’ll send it over with Ed tomorrow.

“Oh, look.” Polly pointed. “That wooden butter churn on the steps. I see people putting envelopes in that hole in the top.” She looked up at Rachel. “I better get that envelope from Ed before we forget it.”

Mary Aaron had warned Rachel that due to the distance the bride and groom would have to travel to get back to their home, guests were bringing money instead of the usual gifts. It seemed a sensible solution to Rachel, especially since Thomas might already have most of what they would need to set up housekeeping. She passed Polly her envelope and took the opportunity to escape because she’d just seen the groom step away to speak with Bishop Abner and Hannah was standing alone.

Knowing that this might be her last opportunity to learn anything from her, Rachel approached her. When Hannah saw her walking toward her, she smiled and hurried forward, hands extended. “Rachel! I was afraid I’d miss you.”

Rachel took Hannah’s hands in hers and looked into her eyes. Hannah gazed back with such an open expression that Rachel thought,
Maybe she will be all right.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” she asked. “Will Thomas be good to you?”

“He is my husband,” Hannah answered. “He needs me, and I need him.” Her lower lip trembled slightly. “He knows the truth, and he accepts it as it is—something that happened in the past. We will not let the bad things keep us from making a good life.”