Plain Murder (13 page)

“You remember a lot of details for something that took place eight months ago.”

He pointed his finger at her again. “We're talking about you, not me. Why are you asking so many questions? That's what I want to know.”

“I'm trying to help my uncle.”

“The Amish guy? Hostetler? Didn't Willy shoot that guy's cow?”

“His dog. At least, that's what people are saying.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the church. George would be wondering where she was. “It's been pleasant talking to you, but—”

“Yeah, pleasant,” Steve scoffed. “Believe me, lady, there were a lot of people in this town who had good reason to want Willy O'Day dead. And you shouldn't be grilling a senile old lady in a wheelchair.”

“She didn't seem senile to me,” Rachel said. “On the contrary, Mrs. Willis was—”

“That's because you don't know the old bat like I do. The whole time Millie and I were married, Blanche tried to cause trouble. Millie was too good for that family. Blanche and that granddaughter of hers are nothing more than trailer-park trash.”

Abruptly, Rachel heard running footfalls behind her, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see her sister Lettie running toward her. Her
kapp
had slid back off her head, and she was hanging on to it by one string.

“Rachel! Come quick!” Her face was pale, her eyes huge in her face. “It's Uncle Aaron!” She seized Rachel's hand. “Hurry!” She turned and raced back up the sidewalk. Together, they dashed into the side entrance of the church hall, down a short corridor lined with classrooms, up a short flight of stairs, and through swinging doors.

As they burst into the hall, Rachel saw a wall of people, their backs to the two of them.

Lettie whispered, under her breath, “The police.”

Townspeople and Amish parted to let her through. Rachel's heart was pounding; she had a bad feeling about this. Directly ahead of her was a woman in a wheelchair, and as Rachel wiggled around it, she recognized Blanche Willis. “What's happening?” she asked the older woman.

Blanche, in sequined black harem pants with a shapeless black-and-white tunic blouse, pointed to the space in the center of the room. “They're reading him his rights,” she said. “Can you imagine? The nerve of him. To come to the man's funeral after he ran a pitchfork through him and buried him in a pigpen?”

Rachel froze in her tracks. Directly in front of her, a hardfaced Evan Parks was placing handcuffs on her Uncle Aaron's wrists. Aunt Hannah was clinging to her husband's black coat and weeping.

“. . . arrest for the murder of Willard O'Day,” Evan said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

Rachel's knees went weak.

“. . . If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you,” Evan continued.

“Ne!”
Aunt Hannah wailed in Deitsch. “You can't take my husband. He's a good man. He didn't hurt anyone. He didn't kill anyone.”

Another trooper reached to grab her, but Rachel's
dat
and Mary Aaron's oldest brother, John Hannah, were suddenly there. They took Aunt Hannah gently by the arms and half dragged, half carried her into the arms of the other Amish women.

Uncle Aaron didn't say a word. His face might have been carved of stone. He didn't fight; he didn't protest. He simply stood there, features immobile, eyes fierce, and looking, for all the world, like a martyr being willingly led to the stake.

Rachel regained use of her muscles. She rushed forward. “Evan, what are you—”

“Stay out of this, Rachel,” he said, not unkindly. “You can't interfere in this. This isn't the place.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Evan's face was stern. “I can't talk to you right now.” He motioned toward the front of the hall. “This way, Mr. Hostetler.”

For a few seconds, Uncle Aaron didn't seem to hear, and then he nodded.
“Ya,”
he said. “I will come.” He went without protest, a state trooper on either side holding his arms.

Rachel went to her aunt. Her father stepped aside to let her embrace Aunt Hannah. “We have to bail him out,” Rachel said. “We can't let him remain in—”

“How much money will it be?” her aunt asked between sobs. “We don't have . . . My poor Aaron . . . my poor, poor Aaron.” She covered her face with her hands and wept.

“If you can't afford it, I'll raise the bail myself,” Rachel offered.

A warm hand settled on her shoulder. “This is a terrible mistake,” George said.

She looked into his tear-swollen eyes. “George, I'm so sorry. It was wrong of the police to come here. I know Uncle Aaron didn't—”

“Of course, he didn't,” George assured her. And then he motioned to the onlookers. “Please,” he said. “There's food. Eat. We need to be together as a community now more than ever. Don't let this sully Willy's memory or our gathering.” He caught Rachel's hand and led her to a quiet corner. “I believe in your uncle's innocence as much as you do,” he said. “And if a judge sets bail for Aaron, I'll gladly put it up myself.”

Rachel stared at him in disbelief. “You? But why would . . .”

George sighed. “Stone Mill is the only home I've ever known. The people here, my friends, Amish and English, are the only family I have. Especially now.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his damp forehead. “We can't let something like this destroy our community.”

“But the money—”

“Money isn't an object. Not now,” he said. “I have more than I need for the business and for Sophie and me to live quite comfortably. You know that I have a special place in my heart for you, Rachel, for what you've done for this town. And if I can help in any way, I will.”

“It's wonderful of you to offer,” she began, “but—”

“No buts, Rachel. I've decided.” He looked down at her with teary eyes. “I want to do this.” He hesitated. “I need to. Not just for Aaron but for the community.” He looked away. “For all of us.”

Rachel kicked off her sandals and curled her legs up under her on the couch as Evan poured her a glass of pinot grigio. It was eight o'clock the next evening, and it had been a long, long day. The two of them were alone in the living room of Evan's ranch house. Rachel had just finished a plate of his famous spaghetti with marinara sauce, one of two entrées Evan had perfected and their usual fare when she dined at his place. She always brought salad and bread, and following their customary pattern, they finished off the meal with a single glass of wine.

Rachel wasn't much of a drinker, and she rarely had anything other than wine. Among the Old Order Amish in her community, partaking of any alcohol was a sin, and doing so always made her feel a bit daring. It was something that her mother would definitely not approve of.

“I think I might have put in too much garlic.” Evan dropped into an easy chair across from her. He'd lit a small fire in the fireplace, even though it was May and the evening was warm.

“No, perfect,” Rachel replied. She took a sip and then turned the wineglass thoughtfully between her fingers. “I still can't get over the judge . . . that he let Uncle Aaron out on such low bail.” Her uncle had been held overnight and then brought before the judge the next day. Against the odds, he was home by milking time.

Evan nodded. “I think the assistant DA was surprised, too.” He gazed down into his glass as if he might find the answer written there. “And then, come to find out, George O'Day put up the money. That's got everyone scratching their heads.”

“George offered yesterday, right after you arrested Uncle Aaron. I appreciated the offer, but I didn't think he really meant it. I was afraid bail was going to be set high, and I was going to have to take a second mortgage on my place, but George insisted. He had me come by his house. He took a fat envelope with a rubber band around it from a kitchen drawer and gave it to me. Inside was a wad of cash. He obviously believes that Uncle Aaron is innocent.”

“That's good, because if George believes in him, it will sway public opinion. In a trial—”

“A trial? You think they'll put Uncle Aaron on trial?”

Evan gave her a surprised look. “He's been arrested. There'll be a trial.”

“Not if I—” She caught herself. “Not if the real murderer is discovered first.”

He scowled. “I know what you've been doing, and it's time you take a step back. You're not qualified to do this.”

“I can't do that.”

Evan massaged the back of his neck, running his fingers over his close-cropped hair. He'd had it chopped short in a military style a few days ago, and Rachel still hadn't gotten used to the new look. “Honestly, Rache, the more I think about this, the more I'm beginning to believe you're right.” He glanced up at her. “Mr. Hostetler's looking less guilty to me every day.”

“I'm glad you think that.” She hesitated and then said what she'd been holding back all through supper. “I was so angry when I saw you putting handcuffs on him. I know it's not fair, but I felt as if . . .” A burning log shifted, and she glanced into the fireplace.

“Rache, you have to—”

“No, it's all right. I understand that your job comes first.” She searched for the right words. “Call me naïve, but I didn't think he'd actually be arrested. It never occurred to me that you'd be the one to—”

“I asked to be on the detail,” he interrupted. He regarded her steadily. “I thought that since he knew me, it might be easier.”

“But at the funeral, Evan? You couldn't have done it later, in the privacy of his home?” She was angry again, but her roots ran deep and she kept the anger out of her tone.

“It wasn't up to me
when
to arrest him. That decision came from way above me.”

She looked away, and they were both quiet for a few moments. She waited until her anger subsided, knowing it would get her nowhere. “You said you were beginning to think Uncle Aaron didn't do it. What makes you say that?”

Evan exhaled slowly. “It was mostly the way he behaved. Not like a guilty man but like someone who's been falsely accused. He was different than most of the perps we have to bring in.”

“Don't most people claim to be innocent?”

“Sure.” Evan sipped his wine. “But all the while they're protesting, they're
acting
guilty. Little things you notice. How they don't look you in the eye, or how they can't tell an alibi the same way twice. Most of them never shut up. They just keep talking. But your uncle just gave me that
look
. Maybe it's a hunch, but I think we've got the wrong man, which means that our real killer—”

“Is still out there,” she said. “Which is exactly what I've been saying.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she'd gone out to the trailer park again today, trying to find some answers to the questions that were nagging at her. This time, either no one was at home, or no one was opening their door to her. She was beginning to think that she wasn't very good at this investigation stuff. But she said nothing about her activities today. Evan had made it clear he didn't approve. “Do you have any idea why the DA's office decided to bring charges against him now?” she asked.

This time it was Evan who glanced away. And he definitely had a guilty look on his face.

She waited. Silence stretched between them. The sweet odor of burning apple wood filled the room. Rachel closed her eyes, determined not to be the first to speak. She was learning that this was a game with hidden rules.

Evan blinked first.

“I don't suppose it's any big secret. Judge Thomas is appointing counsel for your uncle, whether he wants it or not. And as soon as they find someone, it will be common knowledge.” He shrugged. “You know what they say. When more than one person knows something in Stone Mill—”

“Everyone knows it.” She managed a half-smile.

That familiar muscle twitched along Evan's jaw. He was a nice-looking man, but was never able to quite pull it all together. There was something perpetually awkward and boyish about him, as if he'd wandered into a black-tie affair in gym shorts or something. She found it endearing and very human. “Don't keep me in suspense,” she urged. “If you're going to tell me what everyone's going to be talking about, do it.”

“All right, all right. The notebook they found in Willy's pocket . . .” He hesitated. “It had something incriminating in it. Incriminating enough to arrest him.”

“But it was in code, right? That's what you said. So they might be wrong.”

“I don't know. I'm not a detective.”

“Did you actually get a look at the notebook?” Rachel sat up straighter in her chair.

“No, not since we took it off the body. It was just a pocket-size, cheap spiral notebook.”

“This is silly. The police obviously misunderstood Willy's code. George verified that Willy would have had a large sum of cash on him. I know it wasn't found on the body.” She thought for a moment. “I assume you searched my uncle's home. Checked his bank account. You didn't find a large sum of cash anywhere, did you?”

He didn't answer. She went on. “It's logical that whoever killed him took the money. How much are we talking about? Ten thousand dollars? More? If Uncle Aaron had taken the money, you'd have seen evidence of it somewhere in the last eight months. And you haven't. No one has. Because my uncle doesn't have it.”

He still didn't respond.

“Can you let me see the notebook?”

He got up and went into the kitchen. She put her sandals back on and followed him.

“No can do, Rache.” He turned on the water in the sink and began to rinse a plate. “It's already been logged into evidence. Chain of evidence can't be broken. I can't just walk out of the station carrying an evidence bag.”

“So you won't help my uncle?” She stood in the kitchen, hands on her hips.

He slowly turned from the sink to meet her gaze. He looked miserable. “I can't.”

“You can't or you won't?” she asked, her anger bubbling up out of nowhere.

He opened his arms beseechingly. “Does it matter?”

She spun on her heels and went out the back door.

“Rache?”

She headed for her Jeep. The May air was warm and soft. A chorus of spring peepers chirped from the low spot at the back of Evan's yard. The moon was a silver disk rising over the mountain. The air smelled of evergreens, fresh-cut grass, and home.

“Rache, please.”

She got in her Jeep.

“You're not being—”

She slammed the door. She saw him standing in front of her vehicle. She turned the key and pushed the gearshift into reverse. She knew it was childish, but she couldn't help herself. She backed out of his driveway and drove away without looking back.

 

By eleven the following morning, Rachel had paid bills, checked out a guest, and spoken to the plumber about a leak in the bedroom she wanted ready for the wedding party whose reservations Hulda had taken. Mary Aaron was on duty in the gift shop, Ada was busy baking several Moravian hickory nut cakes for the Methodist bazaar, and the muted hum of the vacuum assured Rachel that Minnie was hard at work vacuuming the front staircase.

She was eager to get to her uncle's farm, but she'd wait until the late afternoon. Uncle Aaron had a dentist's appointment in State College, which he had seen no reason to cancel just because he'd been to jail. A driver had taken him this morning and he wouldn't be home until later.

Even though Uncle Aaron had been released on bail and was safely home on the farm, things were still looking bad for him. If he was tried for murder, even if he was found innocent, it would not only devastate the family; it would affect the entire valley. Lurid publicity could brand Stone Mill and the Amish community for decades, destroying the town's revival and the influx of struggling new businesses, including her own B&B.

Naturally, clearing Uncle Aaron of wrongdoing came first, before any financial considerations. He might be difficult at times, but he was her blood, and she loved and respected him. Beyond that, she desperately wanted Stone Mill to be synonymous with peaceful and picturesque farmland, history, clean air, and traditional values, not scandalous headlines. The Plain people found it difficult to accept change, which included welcoming strangers to their valley. They had made this valley their home for more than ten generations. The earth was stained with their blood and sweat. But given reason enough, whole church communities could vote to sell their farms and move west to someplace more isolated. And if the Amish left, Stone Mill would die as surely as had so many isolated coal belt towns.

No matter what Evan had said, Rachel knew that she couldn't sit and wait for the authorities to discover their mistake and free Uncle Aaron. She had to continue her own investigation and hope to stumble on something that the police had missed.

Because she couldn't go to the Hostetler farm until later, she decided to drive out to Park Estates again this morning. As she passed through her kitchen, she snagged a basket of orange-pecan muffins. If she couldn't talk her way into those trailors, maybe she could bribe her way in.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up in front of Blanche Willis's home. The neighborhood dogs must have been off chasing mailmen or rabbits; other than the two barking pit bulls, there wasn't a dog in sight. Taking a deep breath, Rachel grabbed the basket of muffins in one hand and her keys/pepper spray in the other. She marched up to Mrs. Willis's side door and knocked.

“Who is it?” A familiar face peered through a window to the right of the door.

“Mrs. Willis? It's Rachel Mast.”

A metal crank squeaked, and the window cracked open. “What do you want?”

“I came by to drop off some muffins. You were so kind last time that I—”

The floor creaked, and the face vanished. Rachel heard the faint sound of a wheelchair moving across linoleum. A lock clicked, and Mrs. Willis opened the door a few inches. She didn't look particularly friendly, but she
had
opened the door. Rachel took heart.

“I don't want to bother you, but my Amish friend made these this morning, and I thought that you . . .”

The door swung open. “Come in. Wipe your feet. I don't want any dog doo on my clean floor. My great-grandson plays here.” She closed the top of her bathrobe. “And I told you, everyone calls me Blanche.”

Rachel stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The house was quiet. No crying babies, no TV. And no lights. It was almost noon, but the living room was shadowy. Rachel thought it strange that it was so still. The room was neater than the last time she'd been here. No smell of soiled diapers, no scattered toys.