Plain Murder (10 page)

By eleven, Rachel was done with her immediate chores and was able to slip into her office and make the call to Florida from her office. This time, a cheerful woman answered on the third ring. “Hello,” Rachel said. “Is this Dawn Clough?” She was sure that it wasn't because the person on the other end of the line sounded much older.

“Yes, this is Dawn. I don't want another credit card.”

“No, I'm not selling anything. My name is Rachel Mast. I'm from Stone Mill, Pennsylvania, and I'm looking for a woman who worked at a local restaurant here last fall.”

“Is this a collection agency?” The voice took on a sharper tone. “Dawn is my daughter, but she doesn't live here, and I don't—”

“No, no,” Rachel assured her. “I'm not calling about a credit issue. This is more . . . personal.”

“You're a friend of my daughter's?”

“I just need to speak with her. It's important.” Rachel went on quickly, afraid the woman might hang up. “How about if I give you my number and you ask her—if she should happen to contact you—to call me. I'd really appreciate it.”

“Rachel Mast.”

“Yes. Could you write down my number?” Rachel urged. “It would be a big favor if you would ask her to call me back.”

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt. If she does contact me,” the woman added. “We have the same name. Dawn took back her maiden name after the divorce. I guess that's how you got us mixed up.”

Rachel thanked her again, gave her the number, and ended the call. She wondered if Dawn, the daughter, was there. If she wasn't, she guessed that she lived with her mother or nearby. That wasn't the response of a woman who didn't know where her daughter was. And she hadn't been unpleasant. Rachel could only hope that she would pass on the message, and that the waitress wouldn't ignore her request.

A half hour later, Rachel and Mary Aaron were able to slip away to continue retracing Willy O'Day's progress on the day he disappeared. They were going to see Alvin and Verna Herschberger, an Amish couple who rented a small hillside house and farm from Willy. Willy should have gone by their place to collect their rent that day, too.

Neither Alvin nor Verna had been particularly friendly with Rachel since she'd returned to Stone Mill. She knew they disapproved of her, but the couple often visited with Uncle Aaron and Aunt Hannah, so Mary Aaron knew them well. She'd offered to come along and try to smooth things over.

They pulled off the hard-top road onto a gravel one that led to several properties just below the edge of state game lands. “You aren't wearing makeup, are you?” Mary Aaron asked, glancing at Rachel. “Your cheeks are awfully red.”

“No makeup,” Rachel assured her. She rarely wore anything more than a dab of lipstick, but she hadn't even done that today.

The Amish had no television, and the majority had no radios or cell phones, but generally, they knew more of what was going on in the valley than their English neighbors. Rachel hoped that she'd learn something useful from the Herschbergers, something that would point suspicion away from Uncle Aaron and toward the real killer. She wasn't about to ruin her chances by doing anything to antagonize these people on sight.

“Verna is strict and Alvin stricter.” Mary Aaron glanced out the window. “Not this mailbox. It's the next one, across from the ruins of that stone barn.”

The road was bad, the gravel rutted by buggy and wagon wheels. “This ground is pretty poor,” Rachel said. “I hope the rent isn't too high.”

“Wait until you see the house; it's not much. And I've heard Willy's price was high, but it was the only place the Herschbergers could find to rent. It's not a great property, field-wise, either. Rocky. A garden and corn for the animals is all they can manage. Mostly, they make do by Alvin doing carpenter work when he can get it.”

Rachel slowed and turned onto a long dirt driveway flanked by thick evergreens. Between the trees, Rachel caught sight of a single strand electric fence enclosing a pasture that looked like more rocks than grass. Grazing here and there were goats—a lot of goats.

“They milk them and make cheese.”

“Is the cheese any good?” Rachel asked. “Maybe we could market it on the website.” The goats were pretty, and she'd been around enough livestock in her life to know that the females, the milkers, didn't smell. The only stench came from the mature bucks, and farmers rarely kept more than one around because they fought each other.

“I didn't think so.” Her cousin wrinkled her nose. “Tasted like old socks.”

“Really?” Rachel chuckled. “I never tasted old socks.”

Mary Aaron giggled. “I don't know if they know what they're doing or not.”

“Maybe we could help, bring in some experts to give them pointers or something. Raising goats and making cheese is time-consuming and exact, but cheese can be extremely profitable if we can get it to the right customers.”

“It would be good if you could find a way to help the Herschbergers. They have a young family, and I've heard that they're struggling.” Mary Aaron pointed. “There's the house. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Willy O'Day had been known for his tightfisted ways, but Rachel couldn't believe that even he would have the nerve to charge rent for a house in such bad condition. The main two-story structure was stone, early nineteenth century, maybe even older. The roof had been patched so many times that it looked like a crazy quilt, the porch sagged, and two windows were boarded up. There were no electric lines, obviously, but there were no generators, either. Behind the house was what looked suspiciously like an outhouse. Beyond that was a tumbledown stone barn.

Rachel stopped the Jeep at a gate.

“Maybe it would be better if I went up and talked to them first,” Mary Aaron said. “See if they're willing to speak to you. We'd hate to be run off—”

At that second, a scraggly-bearded man stepped out from behind the barn. He was barefoot and wearing Amish clothing. His expression was fierce, and in his hand, he was carrying an ax.

Rachel gasped. “That's Alvin, right?” she whispered to Mary Aaron.

Her cousin looked at her and nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

For a moment, Alvin Herschberger continued to glare at the two women. “Maybe we should leave,” Mary Aaron said from the passenger's side.

“Ne.”
Then, to Alvin, Rachel called in Deitsch, “We don't mean trouble for you or your family. I just wanted”—her gaze strayed to the field of goats—“to buy a goat,” she said in a rush, looking at him again. “Two goats.”

“Goats?” Mary Aaron said under her breath, cutting her eyes at Rachel. “You didn't say anything to me about buying a
goat
.”

Alvin relaxed a little and lowered the ax to the ground. He squinted. “You want to buy goats?” he asked in the same dialect.

Verna appeared from behind the barn, carrying a toddler. “Mary Aaron?” Another child, a little girl about three, trailed after her. From the look of Verna's middle, there would be another little one before winter.

“Verna!” Mary Aaron smiled and climbed out of the Jeep. “My cousin Rachel wants to buy three of your goats.”

“Three?” Rachel said to Mary Aaron as she got out of the vehicle.

“Ya.”
Mary Aaron nodded, walking around the Jeep. “Maybe a doe and two kids? You have any for sale?”

Alvin walked back and leaned the ax against the building. He picked up his daughter, and she clung to her father's neck and shyly buried her face in his shirt. “These aren't scrub goats,” he said defensively. “They are purebred milking goats. We have Nubian and Toggenburg, and some crosses.” He hesitated. “But some we might part with.”

“Alvin was chopping wood,” Verna volunteered. “He wasn't coming after you with the ax.”

“Of course not.” Rachel forced a chuckle. The notion had been silly, but for a moment there, when she first saw Alvin with his wild beard and the ax, she had to admit, he'd spooked her. She didn't watch much TV since returning to Stone Mill, but in her college days, she'd seen plenty of scary movies.
The Shining
came to mind.

“I have milk cooling in the springhouse,” Verna said. “Would you like to try some?”

Rachel could see the eagerness in the woman's face. They needed the money a sale would bring. “I'd like that. It's a hot morning, eh?”

“Did your father send you here?” Alvin looked at Mary Aaron. “No need, because the bishop's already been.”

“I don't understand. My father didn't send me,” she answered. “I haven't seen the bishop.”

Alvin studied her, his eyes narrowing. “The bishop thought maybe the police would come to talk to me. About your
dat
. He wanted to warn me.”

The bishop was the leader of the church and responsible not only for church services but also for the moral behavior of his congregation. He was
not
responsible for interfering in a police investigation, not even one involving one of his parishioners.

“The police haven't come,” Alvin went on. “I told the bishop, even if they did, I wouldn't say anything about what I saw. This is none of our business.”

“Why was the bishop afraid you might speak to the police? Do you know something about my father . . . and Willy O'Day?”

Alvin glanced at his daughter, still in his arms, and murmured something to her. The little girl smiled, and he whispered again to her.

Though his response might have seemed odd to some, Rachel knew this was typical behavior among the Amish. If they didn't want to answer a question, they just pretended it hadn't been asked. Conversation could be painfully slow when trying to get information, particularly from Amish men. This kind of conversation bordered on an art.

Mary Aaron waited, then glanced at Verna. “I think I'd like some milk, too, if it isn't any trouble.”

Rachel would have continued to prod Alvin, so she was glad she had Mary Aaron along. After living in the English world for so long, Rachel could be impatient with her Amish friends and neighbors. Not Mary Aaron.

Verna shrugged and jiggled the toddler on her hip. The child was in a long dress, but Rachel wasn't sure if it was a boy or a girl. The Amish often dressed male and female babies alike until their second birthday, at which point they would be clothed identical to their father or mother.

“Milk we have aplenty.” Verna looked at her husband. “What about Thomasina? We could sell her.”

Alvin set his daughter on the ground and straightened her white
kapp
. “Maybe.”

The little girl stepped behind her father but then peered around his leg.

“A good doe, friendly to people,” Alvin mused aloud. “She and Meta don't like each other. Meta is my best milker.” He looked at Rachel. “Thomasina was never dehorned. You care about horns?” he asked, squinting.

“I don't mind horns.” Rachel hesitated, then asked, “Did the bishop have reason to be concerned about what you might say if the police
did
come by?” They were still conversing in Deitsch.

His face flushed a dark red. He wasn't a good-looking man, Rachel thought, but when he wasn't scowling, he had a kind face. His hands were rough from hard work, and although his clothes were worn and patched, his hair was clean and freshly cut. Her earlier opinion of the Herschbergers softened. Life here was not easy for them, and maybe they had reason to be wary.

“We want no trouble.” Verna shifted the baby from one hip to the other. “And we want to make none for your father.”

Rachel was puzzled. What could Alvin know or have seen that the bishop didn't want him talking to the authorities about? “Look, I know that Uncle Aaron can be difficult at times, but he didn't kill Willy.”

Verna and her husband exchanged guarded glances, and Rachel tried to read what was unspoken. What did they know?

“You still want that milk?” Verna asked.

Rachel nodded. “I'd like that.” She looked back at Alvin. “And I'd like to see the goats you'd be willing to part with . . . the mother and two little ones.”

Hope flared in Alvin's eyes. “
Ya,
let me go and catch her. She's in the pasture, but they'll all come in for grain.”

“That's the last bag,” Verna warned.

“And cheese,” Rachel said. “I'd like to buy some of your cheese, as well.”

“You would?” Verna looked surprised.

“
Ya.
My guests at the B&B like goat cheese.”
Though maybe not yours,
she thought, thinking about what Mary Aaron had said about the taste of it. If the cheese was awful, though, Ada could always feed it to her chickens.

The young mother, still carrying the infant, led the way to an old stone springhouse built into the side of the hill. Inside, it was cool and dark, and Rachel heard the music of running water.

“We keep our milk here,” Verna explained. “And anything else we need to refrigerate. Our propane ran out, and . . .” She shrugged.

All three women were quiet for a long moment while Verna poured a cup of milk from a covered stainless steel bucket. Several buckets sat on wooden shelves inside the springhouse.

“I saw your garden,” Rachel finally said. “It looks good.”

The garden lay on stony ground between the springhouse and a shed. Rows of lettuce, spinach, and kale ran straight as ranks of soldiers, while the first leafy tops of carrots pushed through the ground. Peas climbed the fence beside hills of potatoes. It was too early for corn or tomatoes here in the higher elevation, but Verna didn't have to tell them how much effort had gone into the vegetable patch that would go a long way toward feeding the family all winter.

“I just have one cup out here,” Verna apologized. “But it's clean. Nobody used it.”

“We don't mind sharing.” Mary smiled and reached for the cup. They walked back out into the hot sunshine, and Mary Aaron and Rachel shared the cool milk.

The three women sat on a low stone wall outside the springhouse, and Rachel admired the blond-haired baby, which Verna proudly told them was a nine-month-old boy. Now, obviously more at ease with her visitors, she smiled in the same shy way as her daughter. She surveyed Rachel's shapeless skirt and blouse. “You still look Plain. Are you sure you wouldn't be more happy if you went back into the church?”

“I think about it sometimes,” Rachel admitted truthfully, “but . . . I don't think so.” Her throat tightened, and she couldn't say anything more.

How many nights had she lain awake and wondered the same thing? But she always came to the same conclusion. Her path lay somewhere between the English world and the Amish one, and she had to find her own happiness on that precarious ridge. She knew she had done the right thing, leaving the Amish all those years ago, but that didn't mean it hadn't been difficult. Or that it didn't hurt . . . even still.

“Thank you for the milk,” she said, handing back the empty cup. “It's good.”

“Some folks don't like goat milk,” Verna said. “We like it fine, and it makes good cheese.”

“I'd like to buy some of your cheese,” Rachel said. “If you have any.”

Verna stood and lifted the baby onto her hip. She motioned for them to follow her to the new shed. When she opened the door, Rachel saw a dairy and cheese-making area. There were cabinets, a propane stove, and a long table. Tall stainless pots, thermometers, ladles, and a cheese press were stored on open shelves. Everything was spotless and orderly.

“Alvin knows how to make cheese,” Verna said. “He learned from his grandfather, and he has bought books and studied them. And he has even talked to the state people about getting a permit to sell it.”

“Do you make different kinds?” Rachel asked.

“Ya.”
Verna opened an insulated box stacked with neat, parchment-paper-wrapped squares and rectangles. “I don't know how much to ask . . .” She blushed. “If you buy some, it would be our first sale. So far, we've just been giving it away.”

“I'll take five pounds,” Rachel said, making a snap decision.

“For sure? You want so much?” Tears gathered in the corners of the Amish woman's eyes. Embarrassed, she shifted the baby from one shoulder to the other and rubbed her face against his blanket.

“Here,” Mary Aaron offered. “Let me take Mosey while you pick out the cheese.” And then, as Verna handed over the baby, she asked, “What is it that the bishop doesn't want your husband to tell about my
dat?
”

Verna didn't answer.

“Please,” Rachel walked over to the cooler and looked into Verna's eyes. “It's important that we find out what happened so we can prove that Mary Aaron's father is innocent.”

Still, Verna held her tongue. But she looked like she wanted to speak.

“Alvin doesn't think he did it, does he?” Mary Aaron asked. She looked at little Mosey in her arms, then at his mother. “He doesn't think my
dat
is guilty of this killing?”

Verna worked her jaw. “He wonders,” she admitted. “You know—because of the argument at the auction. And because everyone knows that Aaron Hostetler has a temper. We saw his temper that day.”

“What happened?” Rachel asked. “Exactly.”

Verna sighed. She looked at the brimming ice chest and then at her bare feet. “We were there to sell some of our male goats. Alvin and me and the children were just walking through the pens to see how long before our goats would go into the ring when we heard shouting. It was Aaron and Willy O'Day. I heard Aaron say something about his dog, and Willy yelled back that he'd shot and killed it. But it wasn't just arguing like some said.” She met Rachel's gaze. “Willy raised his fist and shook it at Aaron. That's when Aaron raised his hand against Willy.”

“My father
hit
him?” Mary Aaron's eyes widened.

“
Ne.
Not exactly. He raised his hand, then dropped it.” She demonstrated. “But then he pushed Willy hard against the wall.”

“It was over our dog Bo,” Mary Aaron explained. “We'd found him dead at the end of our driveway.”

Rachel nodded. Bo had been their sheep and cattle dog. Not only had the family lost a valuable animal, but the children had been attached to him, too.

“He was a good dog,” Mary Aaron continued. “Getting on in years, but he could still herd the animals.
Dat
would send him for the cows, and he'd bring them in.”

Rachel remembered that Mary Aaron had said that the animal had been shot. But why would Willy O'Day shoot an Amish herd dog? “So Willy admitted that he shot Uncle Aaron's dog?” she asked.