Plain Murder (16 page)

“
Dat
's shovel. The police came this morning and took it.” Jesse wrinkled his nose. “John Hannah said the shovel had cow manure on it. What would the police want with a dirty shovel?”

 

Instead of heading back to her Jeep as she'd intended, Rachel found herself wandering over to sit on the wooden bench next to the well pump in the yard. She turned her back to the house, pulled out her cell, and tried to reach Evan again. It was foolish to feel guilty for using a telephone. She knew for a fact that her cousin John Hannah had his own cell phone. The community didn't approve of it, but because he hadn't been baptized into the church yet, some irregularities were permitted. Common belief was that young people, especially the boys, had to
sow their wild oats
before settling into the responsibilities of adulthood. So why did she, who was no longer of the faith, go to such lengths to pretend that she wasn't outside the bounds of the Amish community? She'd make an appointment with a good therapist if she weren't so certain that it would be a waste of time and money. She might be crazy, but it was
her
crazy, and she doubted that any sage advice from a stranger would help.

Come on, Evan, pick up.
Again, the call went to his voicemail. They were playing phone tag. She needed to talk to him, to have him verify what she thought—that the whole shovel thing was silly. Every household in the valley owned at least one shovel. She had three at Stone Mill House. What would possess the police to go into Uncle Aaron's barn and confiscate one of his shovels?

While she was still sitting there, Uncle Aaron came back out of the house, muttering to himself, and went back into the barn. He didn't seem to notice her, so she didn't speak to him. On a hunch, she hurried to the house. Maybe now that she'd had time to settle down, her aunt would give her some idea of what all the fuss with Eli had been about.

“Aunt Hannah?” Rachel peered through the opening where the screen door usually hung. The door lay flat on the porch, Uncle Aaron's screwdriver and screws beside it.

Her aunt stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a large aluminum pot. From the smell, Rachel thought it was soup, probably vegetable. One of her younger cousins was setting the table. She looked up at Rachel and smiled shyly. Rachel smiled back.

“Go fetch me a clean apron,” Aunt Hannah said to the child. “There's one hanging on the back of my bedroom door.” And when the girl had hurried off to do as her mother had asked, Aunt Hannah glanced over. “I thought you'd left.”

Rachel hesitated. “I know it really isn't any of my business . . .” she began, “but something . . . Why was Eli Rust here? And what don't you want me to tell anyone?”

Aunt Hannah's chin quivered. “Not now,” she said. “Not here. Your uncle will be back any minute. I cannot talk about this now.” She fluttered her hands. “This is not what you think. If I've done wrong . . .” A man's heavy tread made the porch step creak. “Go, please.”

“All right,” Rachel answered. “But you know that you can trust me.”

The smell of burning soup rose from the pot. “
Ach,
my soup.” Her aunt turned back to the stove and turned off the flame under the kettle. Picking up a wooden spoon, she began to stir it again.

Wrong,
Rachel thought.
Mam
always said that if you burned the soup, you should pour off the good into another pot, not stir the charred bits into the mix. That would ruin the whole batch for sure. But Aunt Hannah had her own ways, and it wasn't for Rachel to try and change them. “I'll come back and visit another day,” she said.

“
Ya,
another day, Rachel . . . when I have more time to sit and talk.”

 

Rachel didn't drive straight home. She had the feeling that her efforts to prove Uncle Aaron's innocence were not only proving futile, but might even be doing more harm than good. But there was no way she could just give up and leave him to his fate. She decided to go back to Park Estates and see if she could catch up with Buddy. If Buddy had threatened Willy, as Blanche had said, why weren't the police searching his trailer and confiscating
his
shovel?

Stripping off her denim skirt and kerchief, she rolled them into a bundle and threw them on the floor behind the driver's seat. She pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall down her back in a single braid. She almost put on lipstick, but thought better of it. If she did find Buddy and started asking questions about his last confrontation with his landlord, he probably wouldn't be all that friendly. And if he was Willy's killer and things started to get really nasty, a dab of cotton-candy pink wouldn't matter one way or the other.

 

This time the VW was gone and a pickup truck was parked in the spot. Rachel drove slowly past Buddy's mobile home, turned around, and eased the Jeep into a narrow spot in front of it.
Just in case I need to make a quick getaway,
she thought wryly. Evan would not be pleased with her if he found out, but she wouldn't have to tell him that she'd talked to Buddy—unless she found out something that needed police attention. And then, Evan would have to admit that she'd only furthered the cause of justice.

As she got out of the Jeep, she noticed someone watching her from the window of Blanche's home.
All the better.
At least, if she went in and didn't come out, Blanche or her granddaughter would know it. Nervously, she walked up to Buddy's door and knocked.

Inside, a large dog barked, and a man shouted for the animal to shut up. Rachel knocked again. The metal door was dented, as if someone had given it a hard whack, and she noticed that, just like on Blanche's trailer, there was a hasp on it.

“Who is it?” came the male voice.

“It's Rachel Mast,” she answered, with more confidence than she felt. “I'm looking for Buddy.”

“Yeah?” The door opened.

Rachel hadn't been able to place the man before, but now that he was standing inches in front of her, she recognized him as someone she'd seen occasionally around town. Buddy was tall, with a wrestler's stocky shoulders and muscular arms. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of jeans. The hand holding the door was covered in reddish hair and bore tattoos on each knuckle. The tattoos spelled out his name.

His face was round, his eyes small and bloodshot; he needed a shave. He was waiting for her to tell him what she wanted.

“I'm trying to get a linear timeline of Willy O'Day's contacts on the day he disappeared,” she said, attempting to sound official without actually representing herself as a member of the investigation. “I understand that you and Mr. O'Day had a misunderstanding—”

“You're not a cop. You're the Amish woman who ran away, then came back.”

She forced a smile. “I'm acting on behalf of my uncle, Aaron Hostetler.”

“The guy they arrested for Willy's murder.”

“Yes.” She stepped closer, close enough to smell the beer on Buddy's breath. “If you could just answer a few questions—”

“If you ain't a cop, I don't have to talk to you.” He started to close the door.

“Please, it will take just a minute.” She thrust her sandaled foot into the crack between the door and doorjamb. “I understand that you were in the process of being evicted when Willy disappeared.”

“Who said that?”

She didn't answer.

“I'm here, right? If I was evicted, I wouldn't still be here.”

Rachel looked up into his eyes. “Did you threaten him that day? When he came to collect the rent and you didn't have it?”

Buddy glanced in the direction of Blanche's trailer.

“Did you threaten Willy in the heat of an argument or not?” she pressed. “It's a simple question.”

“And I'll give you a simple answer, lady.” His face reddened as he glared at her. “Whoever killed Willy O'Day did me and this town a big favor.” He looked down. “You should probably step back before I break your foot.”

Rachel took his advice. The door slammed, and she made a quick but dignified retreat to her Jeep. Again, she was left with more questions than answers.

Early Saturday morning, Rachel was on her knees, planting marigolds and dianthuses in a flower bed on the front lawn, when Hulda drove out of her driveway in her electric golf cart. She spied Rachel, applied the brakes, and backed up.

“Rachel, dear,” she called from the street, waving. “I really need to talk to you.”

“Sure.” Rachel stood up and dusted the dirt off her hands.

She'd put in about half of the flowers and wanted to finish before jumping in the shower and making herself presentable. Evan had texted sometime after she'd gone to bed last night. He'd asked her to come over for breakfast at ten thirty. His text said that he was sorry that he hadn't been able to call earlier, but that he had worked late.

As much as Rachel liked Hulda, she hoped that she wouldn't get tied up with her this morning. She needed to talk to Evan in person. She wanted to apologize to him for getting angry with him Thursday night. She couldn't expect him to do anything unethical, not even for her or her uncle. She knew what kind of person Evan was; it had been wrong of her to even ask him to show her Willy's journal.

She walked over to the street and Hulda's golf cart. Her neighbor was looking especially well put together this morning in a blue-and-white-striped henley, white slacks, and a
Life Is Good
ball cap. Friday afternoons, Mrs. Schenfeld had a standing appointment at Shirley's Kwik Kurl for her styling, pedicure, and manicure, so Saturdays, she was always at her best.

“Can't talk now, though. How about if I come over as soon as I get back from the store?” Hulda bubbled. “They can't get the safe open again, and I've got to go down and do it for them. A fine fettle we'd be in if I wasn't available. The busiest day of the week, customers standing outside waiting to get in, and no cash in the registers.”

Rachel nodded sympathetically. The fifty-year-old safe at the store was the size of a dishwasher and as solid as Fort Knox. If Hulda couldn't open it, it would take a team of locksmiths a week to pry it open. At least twice a month she had to go down and fiddle with it until the combination suddenly worked. Considering her neighbor's age, Rachel wondered if replacing the old safe might not be a better solution, but no one had asked her.

“Wait until you hear.” Hulda lowered her voice to a whisper. “It may help your uncle's case.”

“I have to run out myself, but I should be home for tea this afternoon.” She had two couples checking out today whom she'd invited to stay for tea before they left, and she was expecting another couple to check in around the same time.

“I'll catch you later, then,” Hulda said. “You are not going to believe what I found out.”

Rachel nodded. This was pure Hulda Schenfeld. When she had a bit of gossip, she wouldn't simply spill it. She liked to dangle the tidbit like bait on a fishing line for a while. “Absolutely,” Rachel agreed. “I can't wait. Please feel free to join us for tea.”

The cell phone on the seat rang, and Hulda rolled her eyes. “I'm coming.” She sighed. “You see, retired isn't retired. The store would run better if I went down there every day, but if I do, my grandchildren will never get the hang of it.” She laughed. “Besides, I like having my free time. If I can't play a little now, when can I?”

Hulda put her foot to the pedal and zipped off down the street toward Russell's. Rachel looked back at the remaining flats of unplanted seedlings and decided they could wait until tomorrow. She piled the flowers, trowel, and watering can into her gardening wagon and pulled it around to the shed near the back of the house. As she was leaving the building, Mary Aaron ducked in.

“Rachel, I need to talk to you.”

You, too?
Rachel thought.

Mary Aaron pulled the shed door closed. “I met one of our neighbors this morning on my way here,” her cousin said as she folded her arms over her chest. “I won't say who, but he stopped to tell me that he had a loose yearling colt the Friday night that Willy was last seen. He and his brothers were out looking for the horse, and he saw Eli going down the road in his wagon, not far from our farm. It was late, way too late for Eli to be out on the roads.”

“Did your neighbor speak to Eli?”

Mary Aaron shook her head. “
Ne.
He doesn't think Eli even saw him. Eli's usually in bed by nine, but this was after midnight.” She looked up. “What do you suppose Eli was doing?”

Rachel faintly heard her goats bleating in the barn. She'd already made sure they had food and water this morning, and her brother, Levi, had milked Thomasina, but maybe she needed to toss them another block of hay. She glanced at Mary Aaron. “Why do you think your neighbor told you this
now?
”

“He wanted to know if I knew anything . . . if I'd heard
Dat
mention it.”

“You think your neighbor thinks Eli could be a suspect?” He'd certainly been behaving as if he had something to hide, but she hadn't had time to tell Mary Aaron about the conversation she'd overheard between him and Aunt Hannah at the house.

Mary Aaron shook her head. “I don't know what to think. All along, I've assumed the killer was a stranger, maybe a drug addict or somebody who'd just escaped from prison. I know it wasn't
Dat
. But Eli Rust? What reason would Eli have for wanting Willy dead?”

“I don't know . . .” She didn't want to think Willy's killer could be one of the members of her family's church community. It was difficult enough for her to sort through the people who
did
have reason to hate Willy, let alone adding those who didn't.

“I just thought you should know,” Mary Aaron said. “I promised that I'd help you. Not that I've done much, but—”

“You
are
helping me,” Rachel assured her, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. “I'm glad you told me. It may not mean anything, but who knows? It could be a missing piece of the puzzle.”

“I'd better get back inside,” her cousin said, “and check on breakfast.”

“And I'd better throw some hay to those goats and get a shower. I'm meeting Evan for breakfast this morning, and I wouldn't want to show up at his house looking like I've been—”

“Planting flowers?” Mary Aaron smiled. “He likes you, Rae-Rae, a lot. I don't think he'd care if you showed up after wrestling in the mud with an alligator.”

“Luckily, we don't have too many of those in the valley.”

 

An hour and a half later, Rachel finished off her second blueberry pancake and nodded
yes
to another cup of Earl Grey tea. “I can get it,” she offered. “You don't have to wait on me.”

“Sure I do.” Evan rose to go to the stove. “At my table, I'll do the honors. When I come to Stone Mill House, I'll let you be nice to
me
.”

She accepted the refill he brought to her, stirred in a spoonful of honey, and smiled at him. They were sitting at his kitchen table, and for once neither of their cells had rung and no one was close enough to overhear their conversation.

“Well, I owe you one because I haven't been very nice to you lately,” Rachel admitted. “I'm sorry about the other night. I was wrong. I should never have asked you to let me see what was in Willy's journal.”

Evan's expression turned serious. “You don't have to apologize, Rache. I understand your motives. And I'm sorry for being such a hardnose about my job.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I know you're under a lot of stress. If it were one of my uncles . . .”

He left the rest unsaid, but Rachel knew how close he and his family were . . . at least on his father's side. “No,” she said. “I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Forgive me?”

“Absolutely.” He squeezed her hand. “You know how I hate it when we argue.”

“Me, too.” She smiled at him. “You really are a good guy, Evan.”

He grinned. “Isn't that what I've been telling you all along?” He withdrew his hand, picked up his fork, and captured the last bite of pancake on his plate. “You know that the judge appointed counsel for your uncle. Her name is Monica Cortez. She's young, but she's smart. She'll work hard for your uncle. He could do a lot worse, believe me.”

Rachel grimaced. “A woman? I can hear Uncle Aaron now. I doubt he'll talk to her.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Anyway, apparently, an entry on the day Willy disappeared strongly suggests that Willy was meeting with your uncle that day and that there was an issue to be settled between them.”

“That's why they arrested him?” She tried to control her tone of voice; she and Evan had just made up. And he was trying to help her. There was no reason for her to be angry with him. “That doesn't mean Aaron killed him. Willy met lots of people that day. Like his renters.”

Evan sat back in his chair. “I got the distinct impression from the detective that rent collection wasn't mentioned. They think it was like a . . . to-do list that went beyond his normal activities. Collecting rent on the first of the month was a normal activity. They liked your idea that the page was a list of accounts to be settled that day,” he added sheepishly.

“That was just a guess,” she argued. “The letters might not mean that at all.”

“I don't know, Rache.”

She thought for a minute. “Did the detective say if Willy indicated
why
he was going to talk to Uncle Aaron?”

“No. He didn't say. Maybe the journal didn't say.”

She opened her hands. “So my uncle was arrested based on a journal entry that no one can figure out?”

“It's about all the evidence collected.” Evan moved his hands as if building an invisible snowball. “There's other evidence. You heard about the shovel they confiscated at the Hostetler farm yesterday morning. They sent it to the lab. I imagine they were looking for traces of blood or strands of hair.”

The thought was gruesome. “So the coroner believes that Willy was killed with a shovel?”

Evan nodded. “They weren't looking for just any shovel, though; they were looking for one with a special maker's mark on the back of the blade. A mark exactly like those on the shovels that your uncle's neighbor Eli Rust makes. The shovel confiscated was one Eli made.”

“And they can tell Willy was killed by one of Eli's shovels how?”

“Whoever killed Willy hit him hard enough to leave an impression on his skull. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mr. Rust's shovels are distinct. I think that evidence is sound.”

Rachel suddenly felt as if she'd swallowed lead pellets instead of blueberry pancakes. “Eli's shovel? Uncle Aaron
would
have one, but so do most of the Amish in this valley. I have one. And so do you; I gave it to you.” She took a moment. “Willy may have died from a blow from one of Eli's shovels, but that doesn't mean that it was Uncle Aaron's shovel or that he was the one who committed the murder.”

“No,” Evan agreed. “No, it doesn't.”

She pushed her plate away, unable to finish the last bite. She wondered if she should tell Evan what she'd learned from Mary Aaron about a neighbor seeing Eli on the road that night near the place where the body was found. But if she told Evan, he'd have to report the information to the district attorney's office, and she didn't want to drag Eli into this mess if she didn't have to. He could have had a perfectly good reason for being out on the road that late at night, and her instinct was to not tell the English any more than she had to about the Amish.

She got up and carried her plate to the sink. “I'll wash if you dry,” she offered. She set the plate in the sink. “I need to know exactly what that journal entry said. Do you think you could find out?” She raised her gaze to meet his. “Without doing anything . . . unscrupulous?”

He exhaled. “I know you're trying to help your uncle, but don't you think you're crossing the line? Maybe, at this point, you just need to let us—”

“Please, Evan?” When he didn't respond, she went on quickly. “The way I see it, Uncle Aaron's lawyer is going to learn exactly what the journal says, and she'd tell him, if he'd talk to her. So I'd find out anyway . . .”

He narrowed his gaze. “Did anyone ever tell you that you should be selling refrigerators at the North Pole?”

“You.”

“All right, so I've used that one before. Seriously, I wouldn't be telling you anything if I didn't think your uncle was innocent. I know the Amish don't do things like this. They do some strange things, though. The worst thing I've ever heard of one Amish doing to another was setting fire to his chicken house—and that was down in Lancaster.”