Plain Murder (19 page)

Rachel slid into one of the chairs. “I'll be honest. The treats weren't the only reason I stopped by. I was wondering if you could help me,” she said. “I've been attempting to help Uncle Aaron. You know, because of his arrest.”

“You don't have to convince me.” Teresa filled a teakettle with water from the tap. “Aaron Hostetler couldn't have done such a thing. I know people say he has a temper, but he's never been anything but nice to me.” She took down two matching cups and saucers. The china was red and white, decorated with red hens and baby chicks. “I hope you don't mind instant. I have those little coffee pouches that make one cup at a time. I try to limit myself to one cup a day. Milk?”

“Just black, please.” Rachel forced another smile, wondering what her mother would think of all the poultry décor. “The court has appointed a lawyer for Uncle Aaron, but I'm talking to everyone who saw Willy that last Friday. Just looking for anyone who might have noticed him talking to a stranger or seen anything out of the usual.”

“I see.” Teresa's mouth tightened. “Of course, if I could be of any assistance, I'd be happy to see justice prevail.”

“Did you see Willy that day?”

“Me?” She looked uncomfortable. “I don't think so. No, I'm sure I didn't—”

“You're certain? Maybe at the restaurant or the grocery—”

“I said I didn't.” Teresa's face paled. “Why are you asking me these questions?” Her hand tightened on the back of the other chair. “I'm suddenly feeling a little light-headed. This might not be the best time for us to visit.” She seemed to sag. “I think it's best if you go and come back another day.”

“You want me to leave?”

“It would be best.”

And as swiftly as Rachel had talked her way into Teresa's home, she found herself gently ejected and standing on the walk outside the closed front door. “Interesting,” Rachel muttered to herself. What was Teresa hiding?

 

Rachel's next stop was Wagler's Grocery. She didn't really need anything, but she took a cart, threw in some staples, and wheeled it up and down the aisles until she found Buddy stocking cans of tuna fish on an end cap. She waited until two women that she knew passed by and there was a lull in the flow of shoppers before approaching him.

He'd obviously already seen her because his face had taken on the same shade red as the Wagler's apron he wore over his khaki pants and blue shirt. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for an escape route, but Rachel was too quick for him. She shoved her cart forward, pinning Buddy between a five-foot-tall dancing tuna fish and the towering display of cans.

“I know that you didn't tell me the truth about the night Willy disappeared,” she said in a low but determined voice. “I'm giving you one more chance before I go to the authorities with what I suspect.”

“Please.” Buddy groaned. “I'm working.” He glanced around. “I can't talk here.”

“We couldn't talk at your place, and you made it clear that you didn't want to see me there again. So it'll have to be here.”

“You'll make me lose my job.”

A loaded cart nosed around the end of the aisle, manned by a young couple. “Rachel,” the woman said. “How are you?”

“Good.” Rachel gave her a big smile. “And you? How are the sheep?”

“Good, good,” the husband said.

“And your mother?” Rachel asked. “Her sprained wrist is better?”

“Praise be to God,” the woman answered. “And your parents?”

“Well, well,” Rachel said, ignoring Buddy. The three exchanged a few more pleasantries before the couple moved on.

When they were out of earshot, Rachel returned her attention to Buddy, only to find that his eyes were welling up with tears.

“Are you
crying?
” she asked, staring at him. “Why are you crying?”

“I'm not . . . crying.” Buddy trembled and a large tear slid down a five-o'clock-shadowed cheek. “Just . . . just something in my eye.” He rubbed at his face with the back of a big, hairy, tattooed hand.

Rachel put her hand on his arm. Suddenly she felt terrible. She hadn't meant to make him cry. Apparently, he wasn't the tough guy he pretended to be at his house the other day. “It's all right, Buddy. Just tell me the truth now.”

“If I get fired, I'll lose my new truck. And my new girlfriend. There's no way she'll stay with me if I don't have a car and I have to borrow her Bug again to get to work.”

“I don't want you to be fired,” she said, keeping her voice down. “But I want to know what happened that night with Willy. I already know you argued about your rent.”

“Yeah,” Buddy admitted. “I lied to you. Please don't say anything to my girlfriend. She's real religious. I had a little too much to drink, and I lost my temper with Willy. I didn't want you to know that I'd said some bad stuff to him, but I didn't mean it. I've just got a big mouth when I drink.”

She patted his shoulder. “Tell me what did happen.”

“I got mad because Willy locked me out of my house. Put a padlock right on the door. There's hasps on all the doors—even Blanche's and she owns her own trailer.” He hung his head. “It was my own fault. I'd already been late twice. Three times and you're out. That was Willy's rule. I can understand why he'd have to be tough. Nobody would pay their rent if he let you slide too many times.”

George hadn't said anything about Willy locking Buddy out, only that Buddy brought him the rent the next day. “So,” Rachel said gently, “what happened after Willy put the padlock on your door?”

“Put one on the back door, too. He actually carries padlocks with him.
Carried,
” he corrected.

She waited a moment, then went on. “Did you kill Willy, Buddy? Did he make you so mad that you followed him and—”

“Did I
kill
him? Heck, no. I did what any guy would do. I bought another six-pack and went to a friend's to crash on his couch. The next morning I went to the bank as soon as it opened and cashed a check. See, I had the money to pay my rent because I sold my
old
truck to a buddy. But he said I couldn't cash the check till the second.”

“So that's the money you used to pay your rent to George?” she asked.
And not money from Willy's pocket?
she wondered.

“How'd you know I gave George the money?” He wiped his eyes. When she didn't answer, he went on. “I took it right over to Willy's house, but his brother said he wasn't there, so I gave it to him. George was real nice. He followed me back to the park and used Willy's keys to take off the padlocks. It was decent of him. He didn't have to do that. He could have told me to wait until Willy got home.” He pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “I haven't been late once since then. I pay George every month on the dot. You can ask him.”

“If you lied to me before, Buddy, how can I be certain that you're telling the truth now?”

“I am. I swear it. I didn't hurt Willy. I never saw him again after he left the trailer park.” He blew his nose again.

“So,” she said, thinking out loud, “you went to a friend's house that night?”

“Ricky's. Ricky Truder's. He and some guys play
Call of Duty
every Friday. I was there all night, killing Nazi zombies.”

“So if I asked Ricky, he'd tell me that you were with him all night?”

“Sure. I whipped his butt at
Call of Duty
. I had a real good night.”

She arched a brow. “I hope so,” she said quietly, “because I will find Ricky and ask him if you were there.”

“That's okay,” Buddy said, nodding. “If you don't believe me, you can ask Evan.”

“Evan?” she said.

“Evan Parks. I know you know him.” He smiled. “I've also heard he's sweet on you. But I'm probably not supposed to tell you that,” he added quickly.

“You were playing video games with Evan Parks the night Willy O'Day disappeared?” The minute he said it, she knew his alibi was solid. Evan
did
play video games on Friday nights, once in a while, with some guys he had known from high school. Ricky was one of those guys.

Rachel went home, went straight upstairs to her bedroom, and crossed Buddy's name off on the dry-erase board.

Rachel put a clay pot of blue and violet pansies in the center of the wrought-iron table and stood back to admire them. The day had been warm, and since George had insisted on bringing steaks to cook on the grill, she had decided to have supper outside on the porch. Hulda was throwing together her fantastic organic salad with wild greens and tiny tomatoes that she grew in her orangery, and Coyote had promised a cherry torte. Rachel's contribution was green beans sautéed with olive oil, pecans, and garlic. She didn't call herself a cook, but she could make decent green beans. And, of course, yesterday Ada had whipped up yeast rolls so light that they practically floated up out of the breadbasket.

Rachel centered a plate at one of the place settings. She was looking forward to an evening with friends, when she could forget about her worries for a few hours. Satisfied with the table, Rachel went back to the house for a pitcher of lemonade. As she came out onto the back porch with it, Hulda appeared, carrying a bowl of salad large enough to feed half of Stone Mill. Rachel greeted her warmly, and the two of them finished setting the table. They chatted about the weather and the price of gas until George arrived in his golf cart with Coyote sitting beside him. George was wearing his usual ball cap and a red apron that proclaimed
CHEF
in white lettering.

“Where's the baby?” Mrs. Schenfeld asked. “I was hoping to get to see that sweet baby of yours.”

“Home with Daddy and the rest of them.” Coyote's infectious smile lit up her pretty face. Her white-blond hair hung loose around her shoulders, and beaded deerskin moccasins peeped out from beneath her long gypsy skirt. Coyote was such a free spirit that it was hard for Rachel to remember she was the mother of four children. “It's only fair he gets
daddy time
with all of them.” Coyote put her cherry torte on the table beside Hulda's salad. “It was so nice of you to invite me, Rachel. I love my kids, but sometimes it's a treat to get out of the house and the pottery shed and just talk to grown-ups.”

George kissed cheeks all around and then set about getting the steaks on. Hulda and Coyote quickly discovered their mutual love of Florence, Italian art, and growing their own herbs. Although the two hadn't known each other well before this evening, Rachel was delighted to see how well they got along. She genuinely liked Coyote, and it pleased her to see how easily she and her family had fit into life in Stone Mill.

“I forgot the pepper,” George called over his shoulder. “Rachel, could you—”

“Sure thing. I have to get my green beans anyway.”

Coyote was pouring lemonade in the tall glasses as Rachel dashed back into the house for a pepper mill and her beans, which she had kept warm in the oven. She hurried back to George with them and watched as he seasoned the sizzling T-bones. There were only three. Coyote was an easygoing vegetarian. She didn't eat meat, but she jokingly said she never minded watching barbarians enjoy it.

“Stand back,” George warned. “I wouldn't want you to get burned.” He used a long-handled fork to turn the steaks. “Should be ready in the flick of a lamb's tail.”

Rachel hesitated. She didn't want to do anything to spoil their relaxed evening, but Buddy's statement about George unlocking the mobile home for him the day after Willy's disappearance kept nagging at her. “George,” she said, too quietly for Hulda and Coyote to hear. They were too busy discussing the best way to grow basil. “There's something I'd like to ask you.”

“Sure, anything.” He smiled at her.

“You know that I've been talking to people who saw Willy that last day.”

He nodded.

“Well, I'm a little confused.” Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to offend George or suggest that he wasn't telling the truth when it was probably Buddy who was being less than forthcoming, but . . . “You said that you didn't know anything about Willy evicting Buddy,” she said quietly. “But Buddy told me that Willy locked him out of his trailer that night, and that he came by your house the following morning with the money he owed Willy. He said Willy wasn't there, so he paid you what he owed your brother.”

“Really?” George rubbed his chin. “Buddy said that?” His face flushed, either from embarrassment or from the heat of the grill.

Rachel nodded. “Buddy also said that you followed him out to his place and took the padlocks off for him so that he could get in.”

George rubbed his hands on his apron. “Gosh, Rachel. Maybe I
did
let Buddy in.” George hesitated, obviously trying to recall. “The truth is, I've been becoming more forgetful lately. Ell says I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached.” He grimaced. “I guess I just didn't remember.”

Rachel didn't know what to say. She was certainly forgetful at times. Everyone was. But this was a big thing to forget.

“You know,” George mused, “my aunt had memory problems. Of course, she was in her eighties, but it got so bad that Willy and I had to hire someone to stay with her around the clock.” His brow wrinkled. “Do you think I should make an appointment with my doctor?”

“It probably wouldn't hurt,” Rachel said. “This has been a stressful time. I'm sure it's just that, but best to get checked out.”

“I'll do it,” he agreed. “I'll call tomorrow morning.”

“How long does it take you to grill three steaks?” Hulda called. “We're starving over here.”

“They're done!” George slid the T-bones onto a serving plate, tented them with foil, and carried them to the table.

“I didn't think to put steak knives out,” Rachel said.

“No problem.” George grinned. “I brought my own.” He walked back to where his cart stood at the edge of the lawn. “I stuck them in the picnic basket with the . . . pepper!” he called, holding up a silver pepper mill. “I did remember it.” He chuckled. “I've got steak sauce, too. But, apparently, I forgot the steak knives.”

“I'll get some out of the house,” Rachel offered. “Be right back.”

George followed her across the lawn and into the kitchen. “Just a quick visit to the boys' room,” he said.

She waited, and when he returned, she touched his arm lightly. “There's something else,” Rachel said.

“Yes?”

Rachel took a deep breath. “I learned that . . .” She swallowed. This was personal, and definitely not her business. “George, did you know that your brother was paying Teresa a regular sum of money every month—deposits that went on for years and years?”

The lines around George's mouth tightened. “How did you find that out?” he asked quietly.

“Does it matter?”

His features hardened. “I suspect someone at the bank has a loose tongue. Not very professional.”

“No,” she agreed. “But considering that those deposits stopped a month before Willy's disappearance and death, it might be something that the police should know about.”

“No, they shouldn't.” George shook his head. “I'm stunned. I never thought . . .” His Adam's apple bobbed, and he looked away.

“You knew?” Rachel asked with genuine surprise.

“I knew. Willy and I were always very close. There wasn't much about him I didn't know. I didn't always approve of how he did things, but we never kept secrets.”

Rachel's grip tightened on George's arm. “Was Willy loaning Teresa money?” She wanted to ask if he thought his brother was being blackmailed, but that sounded too dramatic.

“No.” George sighed. “It was a private matter.” He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “This isn't the time or the place. If you just give me some time . . . to think.” He replaced his glasses; his eyes were teary. “I can assure you that there's no need for the authorities to become involved. It had nothing to do with Willy's death. I can promise you.”

Rachel felt her cheeks grow warm. “I didn't mean to cause you more upset. It's just that—”

“I understand.” He forced a wan smile. “And it will be all right.” His smile grew warmer. “Now, enough of all this fuss. Let's get to that dinner before the steaks get cold.”

 

Monday morning, Rachel chatted with Fred Wright for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries. He'd brought three men with him and promised to have the half acre fenced in maybe by the end of the day, the following day at the latest. He gave her his business card, and she headed out. She was riding out to Alvin Herschberger's farm. This time, she went alone. He might answer her questions or he might not, but she had an idea that if she took Mary Aaron with her, they'd learn no more than they had the first time.

As she was pulling onto Alvin's road, her cell rang. She reached for it, saw that it was George, and braked the Jeep to a stop. There was no one else in sight, not even an Amish buggy, and there were potholes in the blacktop deep enough to swallow her vehicle. Better to take the time to see what George had to say and not risk popping a tire or breaking an axle as she had last winter, taking a logging road over Stone Mountain.

“George. Hi!”

“Hi . . . dinner was lovely last night. I really enjoyed myself. Hulda is a card, and that young lady, Coyote, is certainly a wonderful addition to our town.”

“She is, isn't she? I had a good time, too. It's always wonderful to spend time together.”

George rattled on about the food and the conversation, then said, “Where are you?”

“On my way out to Alvin Herschberger's farm.”

“Buying more goats?” George chuckled at his own joke.

“Hardly.” The goats had bleated and baaed all through Sunday evening's supper. Coyote had insisted on seeing them and thought they were adorable. Rachel, not so much. She hoped she wasn't making a mistake, having thought she could keep them.

“Listen, I'm holding you up, running on as I always do. But I did want to talk to you . . . about Willy and Teresa.”

“Okay.”

“Not on the phone, though. Could you stop by my house on your way back through town?”

“Of course,” she said.

“I need to come clean with you,” he said. “I need to do that, I realized. No more secrets between us.”

“I imagine I can be there in an hour. Would that be okay?”

“That would be fine, I just . . . I'd ask that you not mention this to anyone. Coming to talk to me about . . . you know, a delicate subject.”

She agreed, and they disconnected. As she drove, she wondered what the big secret was. It was just like George to drag out the suspense and make her wait for what might be a simple explanation. He and Hulda both. She pushed George and his secret to the back of her mind. For now, she had to concentrate on the best way to approach Alvin; she didn't know exactly why she thought she needed to see him. It was just a feeling she had. The police thought the “Bearded A” of Willy's journal meant Bearded Aaron. But what if it meant Bearded
Alvin?
If that was what it meant, would Alvin be willing to admit it?

Her dealings with the Amish were a delicate dance, and sometimes she didn't remember all the steps. Or, maybe, she decided, she'd never known the steps in the first place.

 

To her pleasant surprise, Alvin was repairing a fence near the end of his driveway. His wife and children were nowhere in sight. She parked the Jeep, got out, and approached him. “Good morning,” she called cheerfully.

“Morning.”

He used English, not Deitsch, and she wondered if it was because she was wearing a flowered skirt, not her usual plain denim one. But her arms weren't bare and she did have on her head covering. Gallantly, she charged ahead.

“How is Verna? And the children?” She wanted to get right to business, but she knew better. Good manners meant a lot among the Amish, and they hated to be rushed.

“
Gut.
All
gut
.” He concentrated on hammering an oversized staple into a fence post, securing a section of stock fencing. “Thomasina and the kids getting on all right?”

“They are. They're in a stall in my barn right now, but I've got fencing going in today.”

“You need a good fence for goats.” He continued to hammer. “Otherwise, they go under or over.”

“That's what Fred said. Fred Wright. He's putting a fence in for me today: stockade and wire.”

“Fred builds a sound fence.” Alvin took another staple from his pocket and began to bang it in.

Rachel hesitated. “I need to talk to you, Alvin.”

“Ya? ”
He turned to look at her, and she saw an uneasiness in his eyes. “What about?”