Plain Murder (17 page)

She nodded. “I heard about that. It was a religious squabble. One brother thought the other's chicken house was too fancy, so he set fire to it. In retaliation, the younger brother burned down his brother's empty chicken house. They were both thrown out of their church over the issue and had to move out of state with their families. Violence simply isn't accepted in the faith.”

“Murder is a lot more serious than destruction of property.”

“It is,” Rachel agreed, “and that's why I'm certain Uncle Aaron didn't do it.”

“So if he didn't, who did?”

“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “Hopefully, we'll find out, before the justice system makes a huge mistake, and a lot of innocent people suffer.”

 

This time Rachel's departure from Evan's house was on much better terms. On the way home, she stopped at the farmer's market and picked up a few things. Walking to her golf cart, she spotted Eli Rust getting out of his buggy. Summoning her courage, she approached him. “Eli?”

“Ya? ”
His horse tossed its head and shied at the sound of a motorbike pulling into the parking area. Eli went to the horse's head and spoke to the animal, stroking its head and calming it.

Rachel followed him. “Eli, I need to know . . . what's between you and my aunt—does it have anything to do with Willy's death?”

He kept his attention on the nervous horse that was now pawing at the pavement. “You should not pry. It's not our way.”

“But my Aunt Hannah was obviously upset.”

Still, he wouldn't look at her. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“You were out late the night Willy vanished, weren't you? Very late. Someone saw you near the Hostetler farm, near the spot where the body was found.”

He turned on her. “I had nothing to do with that man's death. You think I would—” He cut himself off.

“Then why all the secrecy?” Rachel pressed. “What did you mean by what you said in Aunt Hannah's kitchen? What are you afraid for my uncle to—”

“Enough!” His glare was so fierce that Rachel found herself taking a step backward. “It's true that I was there on the road that night. I was on my way home.”

“So late?”

“
Ya,
late it was. But where I go is not for you to question.”

“But my Aunt Hannah—”

“If you don't leave it alone, Rachel Mast, you'll be sorry,” he insisted. “People close to you will be hurt.”

“Eli? Rachel? What is this?” Rachel's Aunt Hannah hurried toward them.

“Please,” Eli said under his breath. “Do not put your aunt in this position. Don't force her to speak of . . . what should not be spoken of.”

Rachel glanced at her aunt, now even more confused. Was this about her uncle? Or was it more of a personal nature? She thought about what her uncle had said about Hannah and Eli. Surely he had no reason to—

“I told you, this is not what it appears.” Aunt Hannah spoke as if she knew what Rachel was thinking about. “This . . . it's not a matter for you or your uncle to concern yourself with.”

Rachel was still thinking about what Eli had said—or hadn't said—when she returned home with her purchases from the outdoor market, including two more flats of flowers. She wasn't sure why she'd bought more when she hadn't finished setting out the flowers she already had. But Verna Herschberger had been selling them. Her baby had been wailing, her little girl was pulling at her apron and begging for a cookie, and the crowd of shoppers had been thinning out. Verna's gaze had been so full of hopeful expectation that Rachel couldn't bear to walk away empty-handed.

At least she hadn't been selling goats,
Rachel thought as she carried her basket into the kitchen. No one seemed to be around; the house was quiet, and there were no messages on the phone and no emails that weren't spam. She gathered her plants and tools, hoping to get some flowers into the ground before she had to get ready for afternoon tea. She'd no sooner planted the first petunia than Hulda came through the gate in the hedge between the two properties.

“Ah, Rachel, there you are. I got the safe open, but then that new girl called in sick. Saturday, always Saturday, they fall ill. She'll come back Monday with a tan, looking fit as a fiddle, mark my word. That one won't last long. Anyway, someone had to take her register, so I stayed until the boys finished checking in the new shipment.” She paused to catch her breath.

Still on her knees, Rachel sat back. “Could you hand me another plant, please?” Hulda settled in the grass, and they worked in pleasant silence for ten minutes while Rachel planted petunias. “You said you had something to tell me?” she finally asked as she got to her feet.

“Oh, yes, I did. I nearly forgot.” Hulda accepted the hand Rachel offered and got to her feet. “I love flowers, but I never had the green thumb my mother did. Flowers give us so much pleasure, and they don't ask for much in return. Decent soil, sunlight, and water.” She looked around as if to reassure herself that they were alone. “This is confidential, you understand. But a reliable source—you know that one of my grandnieces works at the bank—anyway, I won't say who, but this person told me that Willy O'Day had been secretly making monthly deposits into Teresa's account for years.”

“To Teresa's bank account?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Schenfeld nodded firmly. “Unethical to mention it, of course, but what is even stranger is that the deposits ended abruptly the month before Willy's disappearance.”

“Do the police know about this?”

Hulda shrugged. “Just about his balance, right after he went missing. They never requested details of withdrawals. An oversight, if you ask me. Of course, Willy O'Day's account was a substantial pillar of our local bank. No one would want Willy moving his business to one of those larger banks elsewhere.”

“Why would he be giving money to Teresa? You don't suppose they were still . . . friendly, do you?” Rachel glanced at the remaining bed. One of Ada's grandsons had worked it up for her, and the ground was ready for the flowers to be set out, but they'd have to wait until tomorrow. “I can't imagine Teresa and Willy were still . . . together.”

“No. Absolutely not. Teresa is long over sowing her wild oats. She's much too involved in her volunteer activities at church and the library to have time for running with Willy O'Day or anyone else, for that matter. Their fling was more than twenty years ago, when she left Stone Mill.”

“More than twenty years ago,” Rachel repeated. “And she came back when Ell was, what? Four or five?”

“Like I said, we all did the math. Teresa was gone almost seven years. The little girl was only five when her mother brought her to Stone Mill.”

“Teresa returned to Stone Mill about the time I left,” Rachel mused. She looked at Hulda. “So what possible reason could Willy have had for giving Teresa money?”

“For
years,
” Hulda interjected. She crossed her arms over her tiny chest. “Suspicious, isn't it?”

“Not blackmail? I can't imagine . . .” Rachel's voice trailed off. She was becoming frustrated. It had been almost two weeks since Willy's body had been found. Two weeks she'd been investigating and she felt as if she'd come no closer to solving the crime.

“We couldn't imagine Willy being robbed and murdered in Stone Mill, either, could we?”

Rachel nodded. “You're right. Thank you for telling me.” She hesitated. “. . . Do you think we should report this to someone?”

“What? Hearsay? The first thing the policeman would want to know is who told me. I couldn't hardly lie, and that would put my—my
confidant's
position in jeopardy. It wasn't a professional thing to do—telling tales out of school, as it were. But . . . it's certainly nothing like blackmail or murder. And someone committed a terrible crime right here in our town, and your dear uncle is being blamed for it. It's a travesty of justice.”

“I agree, but . . . Well,” Rachel hedged, “I suppose I'll simply have to find out if your
confidant's
statement is accurate. You think I could talk to her?”

Hulda grimaced. “Then she'd know I shared.”

Rachel thought for a moment. “Well, if it
was
blackmail, what could Teresa have known about Willy that he didn't want anyone to know about? I mean, he may not have been a likeable man, but he never hid who he was.” She paused. “Maybe it wasn't blackmail. Maybe Teresa loaned him money or—”

“Not possible.” Hulda stooped to pick up a fallen petunia head from the lawn. “Teresa was struggling financially when she left, and she certainly doesn't make a large salary now. The O'Days have always been well off, gas and oil money—even railroad money, some say. I have heard that the great-great-grandfather came here from Ireland during one of the potato famines, and that their first money came from marrying into a wealthy Quaker family. Hearsay only, of course.”

“Of course.”

“My husband's family predates them. The Schenfelds emigrated from Austria to Philadelphia in the late seventeenth century.”

Rachel smiled. “So what you're saying is that the O'Days are
new
money?”

“Exactly.”

“And the Schenfelds have had the common sense not to offend anyone enough to end up buried in an Amish cow pasture.”

 

The couple who had reservations for that night changed their plans and rescheduled for the following weekend, so Rachel had a bowl of cereal for supper and enjoyed the quiet of the house. After her delicious meal, she decided to take a walk and headed for The George. She wasn't satisfied with Buddy's explanation of what had taken place between him and Willy the night that Blanche said Buddy had been evicted. She wanted to ask George if he knew anything about it. And, of course, she wanted to see how he was doing. When you lost someone close to you, as George had, shock often got you through the funeral, but once life went back to
normal,
that, she knew, was when you realized nothing would ever be
normal
again.

Ell was at the checkout desk. The bookstore seemed empty of customers, and Rachel's footsteps echoed on the granite floor as she entered what had been the old lobby. Although she knew it wasn't possible, Rachel never came into The George without sensing that dozens of theatergoers were laughing, talking, and walking around her. “Hi,” she called to Ell. She would have loved to ask the young woman about the details of her mother's association with Willy, but of course that would have been wrong. What if Ell knew nothing about it? It wasn't Rachel's place to cause trouble between a mother and daughter.

“Hi.” Ell gave her a shy smile. “Rachel. It's been as quiet as a tomb here tonight. I'm glad to see you.”

“Unusual for a Saturday evening, isn't it?” Rachel remarked. The theater had been boarded up for many years, and when George bought it, most of the original features remained intact, including the six-foot-long glass refreshment cases, filled now with displays of children's books.

“Not so many people want to come out at night since Willy's body was found,” Ell said. “I guess they see murderers behind every bush.” She tugged at a lock of straight, dark hair that had fallen forward. “It was busy today, but after supper . . .” She motioned toward the empty aisles between the bookcases in the main room. “George is here, though, upstairs. He had a delivery from London, and he's unpacking it.”

“How's he doing?”

“Not so good. He can't stop thinking about Willy, talking about him. You know how the two of them were. Twins are supposed to have a psychic bond stronger than other brothers and sisters.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I've always thought that it would be neat to be a twin . . . or even to have a brother or sister.”

Ell was particularly talkative tonight. While her Goth persona, the piercings, and the impossible hairdo were all a little unsettling, Rachel liked the young woman. She was smart and sweet, but seemed to be struggling to figure out who she was. Rachel had rarely seen her with other girls, and as far as she knew, Ell didn't have a boyfriend.

“How's your mother?” Rachel asked. “She seemed so upset the day of Willy's funeral.”
That certainly wasn't crossing the line.

“Mom can be very emotional. Most people don't know that about her. She doesn't do death well. It's a natural part of the circle of life, you know. It's what I like about you, Rachel. You never freak out when I talk about that stuff.”

A dog's bark echoed in the lobby. Rachel glanced toward the curving staircase, with its ornate brass railing. The brass shone, and the wide steps were rose granite like the lobby. “Sophie?”

Ell nodded. “George won't let Sophie out of his sight since she ran away at the funeral home. I don't know what he'd do if anything happened to her.” She lowered her voice. “George doesn't think of her as a dog. He knows she's a dog, but he treats her as more human than animal.”

Rachel picked up a flyer off the front desk advertising an Amish breakfast being held to raise money to help pay the medical bills for a baby who needed heart surgery. The Old Order Amish didn't believe in insurance because they felt that it showed a lack of belief in God's plan, but whenever someone needed help, the communities would pitch in to assist in easing the financial burden. Giving breakfasts or holding auctions were popular fundraisers, and most of the valley's residents, Amish and English alike, could be counted on to offer support. When there was a sick child or someone in need of lifesaving care in the valley, the differences between Amish and English residents seemed insignificant.

“I was wondering,” Rachel said, glancing at the information in the flyer. “Do you remember when the last time was you saw Willy before he disappeared? Did he happen to come to the bookstore that day? I know that sometimes he picked up a paper here.”

“I don't know.” Ell paused from putting price stickers on a box of assorted best sellers that had just come in. “I was out sick. Worst day of my life. Either a stomach bug or the pad Thai I had the night before. The place I got it in State College was kind of shady. I was barfing nonstop.”

“So you were at the house all day and the evening, too?”

“Yup. Mindy covered for me. I only got out of bed to let the cat in or out or to run to the toilet. She was my third cat last year. I didn't seem to be having much luck with them. They kept disappearing. Anyway, Paws turned out to be a winner. I still have her. Anyway . . .” She waved. “I didn't set foot out of my apartment until Sunday afternoon. I wasn't scheduled to work that Saturday. It was my day off.”

“So I guess you were asleep early that night. Friday night,” Rachel said.

“Nah. I stayed up pretty late watching
Interview with the Vampire
on TV. I couldn't sleep because I slept a lot of the day. Great movie. Not as good as the book, but still prime. One of my top five faves. Have you seen it?”

“No, but if you recommend it, maybe I will.”

“You won't be sorry.” Ell went back to her stickers. “Pretty much anything Anne Rice writes is heavy. A shame they didn't make all of her novels into movies.”

Rachel returned the flyer to the pile on the counter. “And you never heard Willy come home that night? Never heard his truck come up the drive?”

Ell rented a small apartment over Willy and George's barn, or what had once been a barn and was now a garage and storage area. Rachel had never been in the apartment, but George had told her about it. Hulda said the O'Days had done a nice job on the remodeling. All the appliances had come from Russell's Hardware. Willy might have been known for his tight grasp on his wallet, but that had been one time he'd apparently loosened his grip.