Plain Murder (12 page)

“No.” Rachel shook her head. “I won't.”

“
Gut.
I knew you would understand. You were always a sensible girl.” She rubbed her forehead. “I think I'll go and help Elsie with the eggs.”

Rachel watched as Aunt Hannah walked away. She wouldn't mention this incident to her uncle, but she sensed that something wasn't right. It was almost as though Aunt Hannah and Eli were keeping a secret.

On her way back to her golf cart, Rachel ran into Fred Wright and asked him about building a fence for her goats. He ran a small business out of his home building fences. Fred insisted she come to his table to get a pamphlet and price quotes. They chatted for fifteen minutes and agreed that he would start work Monday or Tuesday. She was headed back to her golf cart again when Carol walked toward her.

“I'm leaving early today,” she said. “I had some daisies left over, and I wondered if you'd like them, free?”

“Are you sure?” Rachel asked. “That's so nice of you.”

“You're my best regular customer.” Carol handed over the bucket with the flowers. “I thought that you can always use them at your B&B. I wrapped them in wet newspaper.”

A horse and buggy left the parking lot at a fast trot. As the vehicle passed, Rachel saw Eli Rust on the front seat, back straight, shoulders tense. He kept his eyes on the horse and either didn't see her or pretended not to.

“What's up with him and Hannah Hostetler?” Carol asked, watching the buggy go.

Rachel looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“The two of them. I saw them last week with their heads together. If they weren't Amish, I'd think there was a little hanky-panky going on.”

Rachel choked back a reply. She doubted that Carol knew that Hannah was her aunt or that she couldn't have offered a greater insult about an Old Order Amish man or woman. Amish marriage was sacred, and nothing would make her believe that Aunt Hannah would do anything to threaten her salvation.
A secret romance? Impossible.

“You've got it wrong,” Rachel said. “She's my aunt, and she's devoted to my uncle. Whatever you saw, it couldn't be anything like that.”

“If you say so,” Carol replied. “But under that bonnet, she's still a woman, and you know what they say. ‘Where there's smoke, there's fire.' ”

 

Rachel was still puzzling over Aunt Hannah's behavior a short while later when she stopped in front of Russell's Hardware and Emporium to buy some screws to fix some doorknobs. Sometimes she wondered if doorknobs got together in the middle of the night to plan mischief, because when one came loose, it seemed that two or three others followed suit in the next twenty-four hours.

Russell's was owned by the Schenfelds. When Meir Schenfeld bought the store from Dobry Russell back in the 1880s the Schenfelds were the only Jewish people in Stone Mill. Not wanting to rock any boats, according to Hulda, her husband's grandfather had left the old sign hanging outside the store. Over the years, there had been some family discussion about changing the name of the business, but no one had ever gotten around to it. And although the store had been enlarged and modernized many times over the decades, Russell's it remained.

The hardware store carried everything from Eli's shovels to fancy stainless steel dishwashers. You could find T-shirts, Amish straw hats, lightbulbs, and diapers. They didn't carry food other than candy and an array of chips, sodas, and snacks, but there was a good selection of tools, electrical parts, horse bits and bridles, and every size of screw, nut, and bolt that Rachel had ever needed for Stone Mill House.

She pulled the golf cart into the parking lot at the back of Russell's, and was surprised to see her father's buggy in a covered parking area reserved for the Amish. Rachel supposed that the English thought all black buggies looked alike, but she would have recognized this one anywhere—not to mention her
dat
's favorite horse, now standing hipshot and content in the shade.

It had been Hulda who'd insisted that her husband provide shelter for the horses, along with a source of fresh water and clean troughs. It was a courtesy that the Amish community appreciated, and it gained their loyalty as customers. That, along with the custom of offering each child accompanied by an adult a treat from the old-fashioned glass candy case.

Rachel paused to pet her father's horse and offer him a carrot from her bags of groceries. His nose felt velvety soft against her palm. When he'd finished, she wiped her damp hand on the back of her jeans and turned, nearly bumping into her father.
“Dat.”
She smiled with surprise. “I didn't hear you coming.”

“Daughter.” He smiled back.

Rachel felt a little self-conscious. Her head wasn't covered, and she wasn't wearing a skirt. “Is
Mam
with you?”

He shook his head. “Just me. Your mother needed some canning jar lids, pectin, and some other stuff.” They both smiled, knowing how her
dat
hated shopping, and how her mother asked him to pick up one thing and then handed him a long list. Then, his expression became serious. “I hear that you've been asking questions around the valley about your uncle. Do you think that's wise?”

“Someone has to help Uncle Aaron. It's pretty clear he's not going to do anything for himself.”

“But poking your nose in where it doesn't belong . . . I'm not sure it's best.” He looked away.

“You don't think he's guilty, do you?”

Her
dat
puffed out his cheeks and slowly exhaled. “I wouldn't like to think so, him doing violence. Killing a man. Burying him in a hole in the ground like an animal.” He shook his head. “I pray not, but . . .”

“But?” she pressed, taking one of the bags in his arms and putting it behind the driver's seat of his buggy.

“He has a terrible temper, your Uncle Aaron. Remember when he took an ax to his windmill? Chopped it into firewood.” He sighed. “A terrible waste.”

“Do you believe Willy killed his dog?” She turned to look into her father's eyes. “Someone told me he heard Willy brag about it.”

He made a clicking sound with his tongue, a habit of his when he was troubled. “At the auction, you mean. When your uncle and Willy argued last fall? It was just before Willy disappeared.”

“You were there?”

“At the auction, but not near enough to see what went on between them. I heard gossip. There's always talk when men lose their tempers. I do know that Aaron believed Willy killed his dog.” His mouth tightened. “Aaron put great stock by the dog. He was getting on in dog years, but he was a smart animal.” He went to the hitching rail and untied the horse. “If I could see my way to help Aaron, I would. For your mother's sake as well as Aaron's, but I can't . . .” He averted his eyes. “We are not of this world, Rachel.”

“I know,
Dat
. I understand. Maybe that's why I feel like I have to try and do something.”

He was silent for a moment. “You be careful.”

“I will.”

“And . . .” Her father walked slowly to the open doorway that led to the driver's seat. “Have patience with your mother. She worries for your soul.”

“I know.”

“And she has never stopped loving you.”

“I know that, too,
Dat
.”

He nodded and climbed up into the seat.

She came close to the buggy and put her hand on the dash. “Something else . . .”

She debated whether or not to say what she was thinking . . . then barreled forward. “I saw Aunt Hannah at the farmer's market. She was with Eli Rust, and they were clearly having a disagreement. When I come upon them, she acted . . . strange, as if she was hiding something.” She met her father's gaze. “Like
they
were hiding something.” She hesitated. “And I saw something similar the day Willy's body was found. In Aunt Hannah's driveway.”

“Let it go, daughter. Whatever went on, it was private. Your aunt's business, not yours. Hannah is not a woman to shame her family. Be sure that you do the same.”

“
Ya,
I will,” Rachel answered softly.

He made that clicking noise again. “Your mother likes you better in a dress, with your head decently covered. So do I.”

“I know.”

He nodded again, and his eyes shone. “Don't wait for someone to be dug up in a cow pasture to visit. We all miss you.” With that, he flicked the lines over the horse's back, and the buggy clattered away, leaving Rachel staring after him and wondering if he knew more of her Aunt Hannah's secret than he was willing to tell.

As predicted by George, Willy's body was soon released, and that Wednesday at 12:45, forty-five minutes later than scheduled, Rachel joined the stream of mourners pouring into the Methodist cemetery. Most were there because of their relationships with George, she mused, and in spite of their relationships with Willy.

Workmen had erected a canvas shelter over a new gravesite inside the prestigious O'Day family plot to block the wind, but the tent could hold only a portion of the mourners. A cool temperature only added to the discomfort.

The authorities had released Willy's body late Saturday afternoon, and Rachel had endured both Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning viewings at McCloud's Funeral Home. The viewings—in name only because the casket had been closed—had been bad enough, but the funeral had all the makings of a three-ring circus.

Because she was raised Amish, Rachel had a very different idea about how big a send-off the newly deceased should have. In her community of Plain people, the family and close friends of the deceased sat up all night in the home with the body. The following morning, the body—interred in a simple wooden coffin—was laid to rest in an Amish graveyard. Afterward, there was a shared meal, usually at the home of a relative, but following that, life went on. Death, even when it came suddenly, was as easily accepted as birth. And because, to the Amish, the hereafter was more important than this mortal existence, intense mourning was discouraged.

Not so among the English. There had been tears and wailing aplenty at the two viewings. George had been inconsolable both times, sobbing so hard that he'd barely been able to greet the hundreds of mourners, both Amish and English, who'd come to pay their respects. Rachel had counted two state senators and several representatives, as well as two TV crews and several newspaper reporters. She couldn't help thinking that many were there because Willy had been murdered rather than dying of natural circumstances.

The night before, Teresa Ridley, after an impressive display of hysterics, had fainted over the casket, and had to be revived by two of Stone Mill's volunteer firefighters. An hour later, Dawn Clough's no-account ex, Roy, had arrived at Mc-Cloud's Funeral Home intoxicated, in the mistaken understanding that a free meal was being offered after the viewing. Roy drove his pickup onto the sidewalk, and then overcompensated in trying to correct his mistake and backed into someone's new car in the process.

At the second viewing, early Wednesday, attendance had been so heavy that an extra state trooper had to be called in to direct traffic. An assistant DA, who was running for county office, had given an interview to one of the TV news crews on the front steps of McCloud's. In the ensuing confusion, one of the cameramen had filmed the arrival of an Amish bishop, whom the assistant DA incorrectly identified as Aaron Hostetler,
a person of interest
.

Inside the funeral home, someone tried to sneak a smoke in the restroom, setting off the smoke alarms and causing the evacuation of the funeral home. Then, someone opened the wrong door, thinking that it was the exit to the side parking lot, and accidently let George's Sophie out. The little dog escaped into the street, and Rachel had joined a search party that included Ell and half a dozen Amish teenagers. Twenty minutes passed before Ell discovered Sophie hiding under the staircase that led to her apartment on the O'Day property.

Rachel didn't know what else could go wrong today, but she kept an open mind. Stone Mill didn't lose a leading citizen to murder every day of the week. She'd had quite enough of Willy O'Day's funeral services, and she would rather have had a root canal than attend the burial and following reception at the Methodist church hall. But George was her friend. He needed her support.

Plus, she'd been so busy in the last few days, she'd not come up with any information that would help prove Uncle Aaron's innocence. She needed to be here today. Since almost everyone in the valley over the age of ten was here, other than her mother, it might give her a chance to speak to those people she hadn't been able to catch up with. She had a list of questions she wanted to ask, and this might be the only opportunity she'd have to do so without attracting attention.

The Amish, all in black clothing, were clustered together under the trees. She saw her father and several of her brothers and sisters as well as Aunt Hannah and Uncle Aaron and the elders of their church. She wanted to go over and speak to them, but dressed English as she was and here among so many strangers, she knew that it would be awkward for them. Her Amish relatives might even refuse to acknowledge her. Once again, she was acutely aware of being caught between worlds. Sometimes, she felt as though she was balancing on top of a fence post, poised to fall one way or the other.

She glanced around, hoping to see Evan. She'd met him for coffee Monday morning, but he hadn't been able to—or wasn't willing to—tell her anything more about the case against her uncle. She supposed he was on duty today. As far as she could tell, he wasn't here. She had the impression that he was still unhappy about her intrusion into the murder investigation. Evan was her best friend, but he hadn't grown up Amish; he didn't understand how responsible she felt for her family and the Amish community. She knew bad things sometimes happened to good people. She just couldn't let it happen to Uncle Aaron, not if she could prevent it.

George had phoned the previous night, after the viewing, to ask that she join him in the seats reserved for family inside the tent. She'd tried to refuse, but he'd insisted that while he had friends aplenty, he had no living relatives. He'd sounded so pitiful that she hadn't had the heart to say no.

Rachel had left her umbrella at home and had hoped that the rain would hold off long enough to get Willy in the ground. That wasn't to be. Before she was halfway to the gravesite, thunder rolled overhead, lightning cracked, and the skies opened up. Dripping wet, shoes sodden, Rachel threaded her way through the forest of flower arrangements to George's side. He caught her hand and squeezed it hard. Ell, garbed in her standard black tunic, black boots, and black tights, was standing on George's left. She looked like a scared child, despite the exaggerated dark makeup and the numerous piercings.

Between the thunder, the downpour, and Teresa's ragged sobbing from the row just behind her, Rachel could barely hear the minister. She knew there was no chance that those sheltered by the army of umbrellas or the Amish, standing even farther away, could follow the service. Mercifully, the minister kept the eulogy short. She thought it was just as well, for the Willy O'Day memorialized by his kind words bore little resemblance to the tough businessman she'd known.

When the clergyman finished and the funeral director motioned for anyone who wished to come forward and place a rose on the coffin, Ell's mother pushed forward past George. She fell to her knees, weeping as though her heart would break.

“Mom, please. Don't . . .” Ell, dressed head to toe in black, including silk gloves, dashed forward and caught her mother's arm. “Stop it. You're making a scene,” she whispered loudly. Her face glowed red, and Rachel thought that the young woman looked so embarrassed by her mother's behavior that she might burst into tears herself.

“You don't understand!” Teresa wailed. “He . . . he . . .”

George stood up, seemed to lose all the strength in his legs, and sat back down, hard, in the folding chair. One of the McClouds offered him a rose, but he clutched it so hard that the stem snapped, and the man had to provide a second. “Please . . .” George managed, and Rachel helped him up and walked with him to the graveside.

Ell was still tugging on her mother's arm, trying desperately to get her away from the coffin. Then, Polly Wagler made her way to Teresa's side, put her arm around her, and murmured in her ear. Polly and Teresa had known each other since they were teenagers. Whatever Polly said seemed to console Teresa because she got up and allowed them to lead her away.

George straightened his shoulders, placed the single rose on top of the spray-laden casket, and said his final good-byes to Willy. Rachel was standing right beside him, and as he braced himself against the coffin, she saw that George was wearing Willy's ring—the one that Willy was never seen without, the one that had been on his body. Rachel shivered. She supposed that having his brother's ring meant a lot to George, but she still found it vaguely creepy. Then the minister shook George's hand, and she lost sight of him as mourners swarmed around them to offer condolences.

Rachel took the opportunity and hurried out into the rain. She couldn't avoid going to the reception in the church hall, but she could try and discover where Polly, Ell, and Teresa had gone. Rachel found it odd that Teresa, who rarely showed any emotion at all, seemed so broken up by Willy's death.

Rachel wondered what Polly Wagler had said to Teresa that had allowed the middle-aged woman to get her grief under control. Rachel doubted that she could get Teresa to confide in her, and Ell would naturally be protective of her mother. But Polly was a cat of a different color. Her grocery store was a natural gathering place, and Polly was rarely averse to discussing the affairs of her acquaintances.

Rachel had hoped to catch up with the three women before they returned to the church hall, provided, of course, that they were going there. But it seemed that everyone had made a dash for their vehicles at the same time. Although the rain had slackened somewhat, it was still coming down, and the cemetery was a maze of bobbing umbrellas and people holding coats over their heads. There was no sign of Ell, her mother, or Polly. Since Rachel was already soaked and not that far from Stone Mill House, she decided to stop at home and change into dry clothes before going on to the reception. The day already seemed to be long, but she had a bad feeling it was going to get even longer.

 

Half an hour later, Rachel found a parking place on a back street near the Methodist church and, umbrella now in hand, crossed the boxwood garden to the hall. As she approached the side entrance, a man called out to her.

“Rachel Mast? Wait up. I want to talk to you.”

Rachel turned to see a short, stocky man wearing black shoes, tan corduroy slacks, and a navy-blue sports coat bearing down on her, a disagreeable expression on his face. She didn't know Steve Barber well, but she remembered what Chelsea and Blanche had said about him at the trailer park. Obviously, he was no friend of Willy O'Day's, so what was he doing at his after-funeral reception?

“I understand that you were at my mother-in-law's place asking questions about our family.” Steve pushed his wire-rim glasses up on the ridge of his nose. Rachel guessed that he was somewhere in his late forties, but his hair and mustache were a suspiciously uniform black. Steve had a slight lisp; his tone was sharp and unpleasant. “I want to know why.”

Rachel waited, expecting him to say more. And he did.

“What call do you have to be sticking your nose in our business?” He advanced on her and shook his finger in her face. “Don't you know that Blanche is a sick old woman? How dare you badger her—”

“Wait.” Rachel forced a smile and, at the same time, raised her hand, palm out, to keep him from intruding further into her personal space. “I wasn't
badgering
anyone, and Mrs. Willis invited me into her home.” She drew herself up to her full height and fixed Steve with a firm gaze. “I'm surprised to see you here. It was my understanding that you didn't like Willy O'Day very much.”

“Like him?” Steve muttered something under his breath that sounded like something Rachel would rather not hear on the back steps of a church. “Willy was a con artist and a thief. He took advantage of my late wife, and half the women in this town. I didn't dislike him. I
hated
him.”

“Hard words on the day of a man's funeral.”

“Not hard enough. If you ask me, he got what was coming to him.” Steve's lips drew back into a sneer and his lisp thickened. “Whoever killed him did this town a favor. And if I'd known how he was going to twist my Millie around his little finger, I'd have killed him myself.”

“Did you?” Rachel flung back, taking a step toward him. “Did you kill him, Mr. Barber?”

Steve's eyes widened in surprise. Then he grimaced, hawked, and spat on the ground near her feet. “Sorry. You can't pin this on me. Paper said he went into the ground the day he disappeared. I was in Williamsport that weekend. A family wedding.”

Shouldn't be too hard to prove or disprove.
“Fortunate for you,” she said sweetly. “Weddings are always enjoyable.”

“My cousin Trudy married a welder.” He raised his chin. “I didn't get back until Tuesday, October fifth. Took off from work.”