Plain Murder (14 page)

“Muffins?” Blanche's expression softened. “Homemade, you say?”

“Completely from scratch.”

“Ummp.” The older woman turned her wheelchair and rolled toward the kitchen. “I've got coffee. Fresh. Not instant. I can't abide that powdery stuff. Want some?”

“Thank you.” Rachel followed meekly. “I'd love a cup of coffee.”

The table was covered with a faded flowered oilcloth, but it was spotless. A single cup and spoon lay on it. In the center, a lazy Susan held a matching sugar bowl and cream pitcher shaped like a pair of chickens. Blanche waved toward a chair. “Sit down.” Her eyes lingered on the basket of muffins.

Rachel sat at the kitchen table. She couldn't help noticing a clock over the gas stove; the hands had stopped at 3:05. There were no lights on here in the kitchen, either, and the curtains had been pulled back to allow as much sunlight into the room as possible.

“Electric's off,” Blanche conceded. “Check got lost in the mail, but it's all straightened out. The man at the electric company said they were sorry, and they'd have it back on by five. They better. Buddy brought me some ice to keep my perishables from spoiling, but the milk soured.” She gave Rachel a sharp look. “If you want milk in your coffee, I've got canned.”

“No, thank you.” Rachel smiled at her. “Your granddaughter's not here today?”

“Moved back in with her baby's daddy.” She sniffed. “Won't last any longer than the last time they tried to make it work. She's no better at picking men than my Millie was. I told her, find a man that can work when it rains. My Art, he was a good provider. We fussed with each other, but we were together thirty-seven years before he died.” She motioned toward the stove, where a battered aluminum coffeepot stood. “You mind pouring the coffee? Gas stove,” she said. “I just light it with a match. Works fine, with or without the electric. Heats good, too, in a pinch.”

“It must be a change for you.” Rachel rose to pick up the old-fashioned percolator coffeepot. “Being alone. And I know you miss the children.” Without being told, she removed a second cup from a mug tree on the counter and poured each of them a cup.

Blanche sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Finding pink foam curlers, she began hastily pulling them out and tucking them in her bathrobe pocket. Blanche's hair was black, a distinct change from the former gray. Rachel thought she preferred the gray. The unnaturally dark hair did little for Blanche's pale complexion.

“Little Justin . . .” Blanche sighed. Tucking the last curler into her pocket, she rolled up to the table in front of her cup of coffee. “Cute as the dickens and bright as a button. Yes, I miss them both, but Justin most of all. ‘Gram-Gram,' he calls me. ‘I wove you, Gram-Gram,' he'll say when he gets into something he shouldn't. Never a peaceful moment in this house with those two, but . . .” She stirred sugar into her coffee. “Justin's my only great-grand.”

“The baby?”

“Oh, no, she's not ours.” She plucked a muffin from the basket that Rachel had set on the table and took a big bite from it. “Good.” She chewed. Took another bite. “Chelsea watches her for a girlfriend. Sweet little girl, but colicky. I won't miss that crying all the time.”

Something furry brushed up against Rachel's ankle. Surprised, she looked under the table. The tabby cat, no longer plump with kittens, rubbed and purred loudly.

“Danged cat. Had four kittens. Chelsea wants the black one for Justin. Lil, next door, she's taking one for herself and one for her sister.” Blanche threw Rachel a meaningful look.

Rachel didn't bite.

“That's one left.”

“I already have a cat.”

“So you said . . . They're cute. Female. They're all females. Hard to find a good home for females. Buddy said he'd
take care
of any I couldn't get rid of.”

Rachel stirred her black coffee.

“The mother's a good mouser. Maybe you could use a good mouser around those barns of yours. Don't imagine guests like mice in their rooms.” Blanche sighed again and bit off another piece of muffin. “I'm having the mother fixed as soon as these are weaned. Can't afford more than one cat. A pity. Looks like it's going to have them big paws, you know, with an extra toe.”

Rachel could feel herself caving. “Maybe I could find someone to take the kitten. I wouldn't want to see it . . .”

Blanche smiled, her teeth white and perfect. She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. “Smoke?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“You can have the kitten any time after six weeks.”

Rachel nodded dumbly. A kitten? She hadn't found a place for the goats yet, and they were coming next week. Any more animals and she'd have to build an ark.

“Another reason I had for coming by,” Rachel said. “At the funeral, I spoke with your son-in-law, Steve.”

“
Ex
-son-in-law,” Blanche corrected.

Rachel nodded, eager to move on from cats and worthless men to the questions troubling her. “He seemed to think that I was taking advantage of you. If you felt that way, I wanted to apologize. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I'm only trying to help prove my uncle's innocence.”

Blanche scoffed and spat a derogatory phrase that seemed to describe Steve Barber rather aptly. “Don't give anything that jerk says another minute's worry. I've still got all my senses about me. If I didn't want you in my house, you wouldn't be here. And if I didn't want to talk to you, nobody could make me.”

Rachel leaned toward her. “I hoped you'd feel that way. I've been trying to talk to people who saw Willy that last day, but I haven't had much luck.”

“Well, Steve hated him. That's for certain. Maybe you should look at him. If anyone had a reason to hate Willy O'Day, it was Steve Barber.”

Rachel nodded. “I asked him if he'd seen Willy that day, but he told me that he was out of town. At a wedding in another state.”

“There you go! He's a danged liar.” She slurped her coffee. “Chelsea and I always do our grocery shopping on Fridays. I saw him that afternoon at Wagler's. Danged fool nearly backed into us in the parking lot.”

Rachel's muscles tensed. “You're certain? Steve told me he was in Williamsport when Willy disappeared.” Excitement washed over her. If Steve had lied about being away, what else could he be lying about? What had he been up to that he didn't want anyone to know? Maybe he knew something about Willy's death. Or maybe . . . Rachel tucked her hands around the warm coffee mug. “Why do you suppose he'd say that?”

Blanche looked over her shoulder as if Steve were sneaking up on her at that instant, then back at Rachel. She reached for another muffin. “I always knew he was no good. He comes around here pretending to care whether I live or die, but I know he's just trying to see how long I've got to live and whether he'll inherit anything when I'm gone. He tried to take back the car Millie bought me, said it was only a loan. But she wanted me to have it. Chelsea's using it now. I don't drive much,” she confided. “Could if I had to. Nothing wrong with my feet. It's my knees that don't work so well. But it's just easier to let Chelsea drive me where I need to go.”

Blanche's expression pleaded for agreement, so Rachel nodded.

“Steve says Chelsea takes advantage of me, but she's between a rock and a hard place, that girl. Not so easy to raise a little one alone. And you can't count on that boy's daddy for any help. I expect to get a call any minute that she and little Justin are coming home.”

Rachel nodded and finished her coffee; luckily she'd poured herself only half a cup. “Thank you for letting me come in and talk with you,” she said, scooting her chair back. “I just didn't want there to be any hard feelings.”

“Won't you have another cup?” Blanche talked through a mouthful of muffin. “I can make another pot. Coffee I don't run out of. My Art used to say, ‘Blanche, honey, you drink so much coffee, you must have coffee in your veins instead of blood.' He didn't mean anything by it. Just his way of kidding. I was working full time back then. We had a nice little house. I could show you the pictures of the garden we had out back. Used to grow the biggest tomatoes. Would you like—”

“Another time, perhaps,” Rachel smiled and sidestepped toward the door. “I've got to get back to my guests at Stone Mill House, but if you hear anything or think of anything that you haven't told me about that last day Willy came by for the rent, please give me a call.” She took a business card out of her pocket and laid it on the table.

Blanche followed her to the door in her wheelchair, her faded eyes filling over with loneliness. Rachel couldn't help thinking about the Amish way. The Amish didn't leave their elderly to manage on their own. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, even cousins were welcome members of the community, assured of a loving place in the family circle. She'd never known of an Old Order Amish person with Alzheimer's or dementia who was placed in a nursing home.

Rachel didn't know Blanche Willis very well, suspected they didn't have much in common. She wasn't certain that she even liked the woman, but a part of her, deep inside, wanted to scoop Blanche up and carry her home with her. “I'll stop back another day for that coffee,” she offered. “If it's no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. When you come back for the kitten. My Chelsea will be here then, I'm sure of it.” She grimaced. “And the lights will be on. I don't have air, but I've got plenty of fans. You need 'em in the summer. It gets hot as blazes here without a couple of fans blowing on you.”

Rachel reached for the doorknob, but Blanche caught her arm.

“Wait,” the older woman said. “There is something else.” Her face flushed. “I wouldn't want you to think I'm a gossip. Mind my own business, I do, but . . . Have you talked to Buddy? Over there?” She pointed across the street.

“The house with the VW parked outside?” It hadn't been there this morning, but Rachel had seen it there twice. She opened the door.

“No secret. Lil next door, she or Bill would have told you if you'd caught up with them. Everybody in the park heard it—probably everybody in this end of the valley. Buddy can be a loudmouth when he drinks, and a bully. And he usually stays drunk most weekends.”

Rachel turned to face her. “Heard ‘it'?”

Blanche rolled her eyes. “Buddy and Willy O'Day. They argued something fierce. Willy had come for rent, and from what I could gather—not that I'm an eavesdropper—”

“No, of course not. But, if they were loud, you couldn't help—”

“Exactly. They were shouting at each other about Buddy being behind on the rent once too often.” She drew herself up in the wheelchair with a satisfied expression.

“And?” Rachel urged.

“Willy said he was putting him out then and there. And Buddy screamed right back at him that he wasn't going one step. He'd see Willy in hell first!”

“That's terrible.” Rachel glanced out the open door in the direction of Buddy's trailer. If that was true, it added one more person to an ever-lengthening list of those who had reason to wish Willy ill. But if the argument between Willy and Buddy was common knowledge, why hadn't anyone said anything about it before? And how had that missed the Stone Mill gossip line? “But when I asked you before . . .” She waited, uncertain as to what to say.

The woman in the wheelchair seemed to shrink a little. Lines gathered at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her chin sagged. “I didn't know you from Adam before,” she admitted. “Now . . . now maybe we're . . . friends?”

Rachel nodded and smiled. “I think we are, Mrs. Willis.”

“Blanche. Please call me Blanche.” Her lips puckered and her eyes brightened. “Everybody here's a little scared of Buddy. You never know . . . what with the drinking and all. But if he did do something bad, he deserves to pay for it, doesn't he? Maybe you can get to the bottom of it. Because if that Amish farmer didn't kill Willy, who did?”

 

Rachel's thoughts were churning all the way home. She'd been looking for a suspect. Now she had two: Steve and Buddy. Should she go to the police with what she had found out?

Not yet. If they ignored her, thought she was interfering in the investigation, it might hurt Uncle Aaron more than help.

Her thoughts went back to the notebook. And to Evan. It had been unfair of her to pressure him. She hadn't meant to pick a fight with him, if that could even be called a fight. She knew it had been wrong of her to just take off like that. Childish.

She hit the speed dial on her cell for Evan's number. It rang four times and then his voicemail picked up. She ended the call. She wasn't the kind of person to leave an apology message.

At home, Minnie didn't seem any further along on vacuuming the guest rooms upstairs than she'd been when Rachel had left. The office phone was ringing, something was burning on the stove, and someone was knocking on the back door. Rachel shut off the burner under a pot of Swiss chard and hurried to answer the door. An Englisher in work clothes and a Nittany Lions ball cap stood there. Behind him were a black pickup and a stake trailer. A nanny goat and two half-grown kids thrust their inquisitive faces through the wooden bars and bleated.

“Delivery for Rachel Mast,” the man said. She didn't know him, but new people had been moving into the valley lately. “Goats.”

“I can see that,” she said. “But I wasn't expecting them until next week. I'm not sure where—”

“Hauled a billy goat for Jakob Peachey. Alvin Herschberger said you bought these three off him. I don't know anything about next week, but if you're Rachel Mast, these are your goats, and I've got other stops to make. Where do you want them?”

The phone stopped ringing behind her. Then she heard Minnie's voice and Ada's over it. “Burned my nice chard!”

“Just a moment, please,” Rachel said to the Englisher. “If you'd just give me a second, I'll be right with you.” She turned back to find her housekeeper admonishing Minnie in no uncertain words.

“She let a pot burn. Again,” Ada said. “I just stepped out to the herb garden. All she had to do was lower the flame under . . .”

“Ya, ya,”
Rachel agreed. She needed to see if someone had answered the office phone or if whoever was on the other end had left a message. Ada and Minnie's problems would have to get in line behind reservations and goat housing. She hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall to find Hulda manning the desk again.

“Thank you. We'll be expecting you,” her elderly neighbor said to the caller. Hulda Schenfeld beamed when she saw Rachel. “Not to worry. Another reservation. Next weekend. One couple. Saturday and Sunday.”

“You are a lifesaver, Hulda,” Rachel said, and meant it. “I've got to put you on the payroll.”

“I'd be worth every penny.” Hulda's rouge was particularly bright today, but Rachel didn't care. She could have kissed her.

 

“There, that should do it.” Rachel swung the gate closed in a large stall in the stone barn behind the main house. “You girls will be fine here,” she assured the goats, “until we can get some pasture fenced off for you.”

The dam, Thomasina, stuck her nose through a crack in the gate and bleated. Rachel reached over the gate and scratched between her ears. “You've got food, you've got water, and I'll leave the barn door open so you'll have plenty of fresh air and sunlight.”

The goat had a doubtful expression on her face.

Rachel stepped back and studied the interior of the huge barn. There were stacks of junk everywhere: furniture, tires, wooden chicken crates, an old dishwasher. Some of the stuff had been hauled from the house to the barn during the renovations; other items had been here when she moved in. And dust and cobwebs . . . and heaven knows what else. But the building was sound and it didn't leak when it rained—at least not in this corner.

Maybe cleaning the barn would be her next big project. She walked out of the barn and into the sunlight. Minnie had agreed to milk Thomasina tonight and tomorrow morning. That would give her time to set up a schedule with some of her brothers, maybe cousins.

“I'll be back to check on you later,” she called to the goats as she walked out of the barn. “And I'll check about the fencing. I promise.”

Hulda met Rachel at the back door of the kitchen with a glass of iced tea for her.

“It has mint leaves in it,” her neighbor said. “And honey. I always make it with honey instead of sugar. That commercial stuff will give you wrinkles.”

Rachel accepted the drink gladly. “I haven't eaten lunch,” she said. “I'm sure there's something good in the refrigerator. Will you join me?”

“No, no, you go ahead. I already had a salad. Have to watch my figure. Never know when I might meet an interesting gentleman.”

They laughed together. It was Hulda's ongoing joke that she was going to find a new husband. And they both knew that she was only teasing. It was Rachel that she was always trying to marry off.

Rachel grabbed some of the Herschbergers' cheese from the refrigerator, which had turned out to be delicious after aging a few days. She also gathered crackers and cookies from the counter, and she and Hulda carried their tea out to the seating by the grape arbor.

From the backyard, Rachel could hear the steady bleats of the kid goats in the barn. Apparently, they were unhappy or homesick, because they hadn't stopped making that sound since she'd left them.

“Goats,” Hulda said. “Whatever will you do with goats, Rachel?”

“I'm not sure. I didn't exactly plan to buy them.” She didn't mention the kitten, although Hulda had several cats. She might be a possibility . . .

The older woman chattered on, moving from one subject to another. Rachel smiled, made comments at the pauses and nodded her head. She didn't want to be rude, but she kept mulling over the conversation she'd had with Blanche about Buddy being evicted.

Obviously, if he was still living in Park Estates, which he was, he hadn't been evicted. Why not? Had he caught up on his rent? George hadn't mentioned anything about there being a problem with Buddy. And if Buddy hadn't had the money the night Willy came for it and if he was behind on his payments, how had he suddenly come up with enough to . . .

“You aren't listening to a word I say, are you?” Hulda asked.

“I'm sorry,” Rachel said quickly.

“No problem. No one in my house listens, either. I talk too much. It's what Mr. Schenfeld always said. ‘Hulda, you never stop long enough to draw breath.' ” She patted Rachel's arm with a soft hand. “I'm not offended, child. Really. I was talking about the funeral. That will be one for Stone Mill people to gossip about for the next fifty years.”