Plain Murder (20 page)

She folded her arms, taking care to stand a proper distance from him. Amish women were not nearly as dominated by men as the English liked to believe, but there were standards to uphold. “It's about Willy,” she said. “Did you know that the police found a journal on his body?”

“
Ya,
I heard something like that.”

His expression was clearly that of distress. He looked as though he'd turn and run at any second. Rachel didn't bother wondering how the Amish knew about Willy's book. Sooner or later, they knew everything, and news could fly up and down the valley in a flash.

“Willy kept a list of all the people he meant to meet with that last day he was alive.”

Alvin's mouth quivered.

“I think your name was in that book,” she said. She didn't tell him it just said “Bearded A.” She was taking a chance . . . following her gut feeling. “Can you think of any reason why Willy would—”

The hammer slipped through his fingers and fell onto the ground, nearly hitting the toe of his black leatherwork shoe. “I told you I paid him the rent that day. He came and I gave him the money and he left.”

“This wasn't about rent, Alvin. Plenty of people paid their rent that day, and their names didn't end up in that notebook.” She watched him pick up the hammer. “Do you know why he would have written down your name?”

“Ya,”
he admitted. “I do.”

“You do?”

“Money,” he said from between clenched teeth. He gripped the hammer in his hand. “I borrowed money from Willy. For the doctor bills. They threatened to take me to court if I didn't pay, so I went to Willy. He gave me the money. Verna didn't know. She would be ashamed. She already feels bad about us owing so much to people.”

“You really did meet him that Friday night about the borrowed money?” She couldn't hide her surprise. It had just been a hunch.

Alvin nodded. “But I paid him the last of it. That night. He gave me a receipt.” He set the hammer on the fence post, fumbled a wallet out of his back pocket with a stack of neatly folded little pieces of paper. From the pile he extracted one. It was on a piece of lined notebook paper identical to the paper in Willy's notebook.

He handed it to Rachel. “See. ‘Paid,' it says. ‘Paid in full, with interest.' ” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Twenty-four percent. High, but just a handshake I give him. And . . .” He trailed off. “I wish you would say nothing of this to my wife . . . or my neighbors.”

“I won't,” Rachel promised.

Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “It proves that I had no part in his death, doesn't it?” he said quietly.

“Ya,”
Rachel agreed, switching to their common dialect. “It proves that you are an honest man who thinks only of his family.”

 

Back in her Jeep, headed into town, Rachel thought about Willy's journal. After speaking with Alvin, she was convinced that the reference to “Bearded A” meant Willy intended to collect the money Alvin had borrowed from him. Her first impulse was to go right to Evan and tell him what she'd learned from Alvin. But that would mean violating Alvin's trust. If he didn't want his wife to know he owed Willy money, he certainly didn't want Evan or the police or anyone else to know. So even though she was convinced this was proof that Aaron wasn't the man the police were looking for, she couldn't provide the evidence to the police. She still had to figure out who had killed Willy.

The smartest thing for her to do was to track down the other entries in Willy's journal. Maybe one of them would lead her to the killer. “Fencing Fred” was the next entry to check on; she was almost sure it referred to Fred Wright. There was an easy way to find out.

She pulled over and fished his business card out of her bag. He answered on the third ring.

“Hi, it's Rachel Mast.”

“Hey, Rachel. Hope you didn't change your mind because this baby's going up fast. Got a new auger that digs a heck of a deep hole fast.”

“No, no, it's fine, Fred.” A horse and buggy approached her from the opposite direction. “I was calling because I have a crazy question to ask you.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Did you see Willy O'Day that Friday that he disappeared? It would have been October first.”

“Nope.”

A sense of disappointment and frustration washed over her. “You didn't?” She frowned. Waved to the family that passed her in the buggy. “You're sure?”

“Positive.”

She groaned inwardly. So much for her clever guess. “Well, thanks for—”

“I'm positive,” he interrupted, “because we were supposed to meet. Out on his property next to Aaron Hostetler's. His real estate guy suggested he'd have a better chance selling the place if he fenced in the pond.”

“Okay . . .” she said drawing out the word. “But you didn't meet with him?”

“Nope. My mom fell and broke her hip. Got the call in the middle of the night. Flew out of Harrisburg at six. My wife called and cancelled the appointment. Willy rescheduled for the following Wednesday.” He paused. “But of course, by then, he'd gone missing.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said excitedly. “Thanks so much. You've been a huge help.”

“I have?”

“You have.”

Disconnecting, she dropped the phone into her lap, feeling very satisfied. She started the Jeep and pulled back onto the road. There were two entries left: “stamp collecting” and “Sophia Loren.” Neither made any sense. A hobby and a silver screen star . . . Willy had been no stamp collector. She knew that for a fact because they'd once had a conversation about hobbies, and he'd made a point of telling her how ridiculous hobbies were.

Stamp collecting . . .

Stamps . . .

For a few minutes she drove along, enjoying the sunshine and warm air. It came to her out of nowhere.

Stamp collecting . . . postage stamps . . . post office?
she mused.

She was almost back to town. She wondered if she should stop at the post office. But George was expecting her. Instead, she ignored the law and used her phone while driving. She activated the voice commands on her iPhone and called directory assistance. She was quickly connected with the Stone Mill post office. The postmistress, who had been postmistress since Rachel was a little girl, answered the phone.

Rachel moved quickly through the pleasantries and then said, “Cora, do you happen to remember if Willy O'Day came into the post office the day he disappeared?”

“Sure do,” she answered pleasantly.

Rachel hesitated. “So . . . he did or he didn't?”

“Came in that morning.”

“He came to the post office that morning?” she echoed. She couldn't believe her luck. Or believe that she'd been clever enough to figure it out.

“Sure did. Bought two books of American flag stamps. I remember because it was the last time I ever saw Willy. He complained about tripping on the doormat as he came in. Bought his stamps and left.”

Stamp collecting . . . he was
collecting
his stamps.

“Thanks so much, Cora!”

Rachel was still smiling to herself when she parked on George's cobblestone drive a few minutes later. Getting out of her Jeep, she walked past the stairs that led up to Ell's apartment and rang the bell at the back door. Inside, Sophie began to bark. George and Willy's gray stone house was of the same era as her own, a tribute to early settlers of wealth and vision. And next to Stone Mill House, it was her favorite structure in the valley.

“Rachel, come in,” George called.

She opened the screen door and stepped into the cool, shadowy kitchen. “Good morning.”

Sophie bounced into the kitchen, barking so loudly that George had to repeat himself for Rachel to hear him.

“In here.” George's voice echoed over the flagstone floor and the heavy oak beams. “In the great room.”

She passed through the dining room, with its massive, antique German furniture and worn but still lush Kerman carpet. Sophie followed, keeping up her steady barking. “George?”

George stepped through the archway and took her hands. Sophie danced between them, then around them, bark, bark, barking.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry I was so . . . last night. I should have . . .”

He held her hands between his and looked into her eyes. “I can't stand it anymore, Rachel.” He let go of her hands and looked away. “I have to confess.”

Goose bumps rose on Rachel's arms, and her mouth went suddenly dry. She wasn't sure what to say.
Confess?
What could George possibly have to confess? Why was he acting so odd? A thought rose in the back of her mind, a thought so impossible to consider that she shook her head.
No. Not George.

“Sophie!” he ordered sharply. “Enough.”

The dog sat down and was immediately silent.

“Please,” George said to Rachel. “Come into the library. Teresa and Ell are already here.”

Teresa? Here?
Immediately, Rachel felt a rush of guilt and embarrassment about her vague suspicion.

George scooped up the little white bichon. Sophie responded with her usual whimpers of joy as she wiggled and licked his face and neck. “What can I say? She's spoiled rotten, and I've got no one to blame for it but myself. Doggy school, that's what you need, Sophie. That's what Ell says,” he told the dog with mock severity. “Doggy boot camp.”

Rachel followed George across the wide center hall and into a large room with a baby grand piano. A pair of tall sterling-silver candlesticks rested on top. She had been in this room many times, but today she wasn't entranced by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, the American Primitive oil paintings, or the antique furniture. Instead, she focused all of her attention on Ell and her mother, Teresa, who were seated side by side on a brown leather couch.

“Hi,” Rachel said. She hadn't expected them to be here. “Who's minding the store, Ell?” There were several other employees who worked at The George, but George rarely left the business unless Ell was in charge.

“Megan. She can hold down the fort for a little while. For something this important. Whatever it is.” She glanced at Teresa. “Finding Mom here was already a surprise.”

“Yes,” George agreed, waving Rachel to a Sheraton chair. “You'll find this house to be full of surprises.”

Rachel glanced at Teresa, who, along with George, seemed to know exactly why they'd been invited here. A flush colored her throat and cheeks, and she looked as though she might have been crying. Rachel looked at Ell. “Maybe I shouldn't be here,” she said hesitantly.

“No. You should be. Teresa and I agreed.” George raised an open palm. “Bear with me. This isn't the way this should have been done, but Willy's tragic death has thrown more than
our
lives out of kilter. We've asked you here, Teresa and I, because you discovered our secret while hunting for my brother's murderer.”

“I did?” Rachel asked.

“We couldn't have you continuing to ask questions,” Teresa said quietly. “Not and risk Ell finding out from someone else.”

Rachel's and Ell's gazes met.

Rachel thought the young woman looked particularly vulnerable today. She wore a modest black-lace dress that fell to her calves over high laced-up boots fashioned of black leather. Her long, black hair was pulled back and secured with a silver clip in the shape of a crescent moon, and her lovely eyes were lined in black kohl. Ell's lipstick was a deep purple, matching the intricate henna tattoos on her wrists and the backs of her graceful hands. Some might have thought that Ell's nose ring and pierced lip made her appear freakish, but Rachel had never seen anything but a quiet desperation under her Goth exterior.
A kindred spirit,
she'd thought, trying to find somewhere to belong and never quite succeeding.

“This is where the creepy music rises and Mom tells me that I'm not really human. Aliens from another galaxy left me on her doorstep when I was a baby,” Ell said in a strained attempt at humor. “They're going to tell me I should never handle kryptonite.” She looked from her mother to George. “No?”

George shook his head.

“Eleanor,” Teresa said. “This is serious.”

Ell made a face. “Do I win a prize if I guess what you're going to tell me?”

Teresa drew in a ragged breath. “All I ever wanted was to protect you—to do what was best.”

“Wait.” Ell rose, folded her arms, and fixed her mother with an
I knew it
look. “Let's cut to the chase. My last name should really be O'Day, shouldn't it?”

Teresa's face blanched.

“I knew it!” Ell pronounced. Laughing, she darted across the room and threw her arms around George. “I've got your eyes, don't I?”

“No,” George protested, but he tightened his arms around the girl and hugged her against him. “No, Ell. Not me. I wish . . .”

Rachel looked at Ell and George wrapped in each other's arms, then at Teresa, then back at Ell and George.

His voice cracked and then steadied. “Willy. Willy was your father.”

“Willy?” Ell stepped back and stared at him. “Really?
Willy?
”

George nodded dumbly. He threw Teresa a desperate look.

“It's true.” Teresa rose and crossed the room to her daughter.

Ell seemed reluctant to let go of George, and he made no effort to pull away. “So you're really my uncle, not my father?” He murmured something, and she hugged him again. “Bummer, but I'll settle for Uncle George.”

“I wish . . .” he said. “I've always wished you were
my
daughter.”

Rachel felt as though she was intruding on what should have been a private moment, but getting up to leave would have made the situation more awkward.

She wondered why Willy and Teresa had felt the need to keep their relationship secret, and how George could have allowed himself to be dragged into it. It was Ell who'd suffered, not from being born out of wedlock but because she'd been robbed of her identity and that sense of belonging she would have felt if she'd known who her father was.

George seemed to have read her thoughts. He glanced over Ell's shoulder. “You understand now, Rachel, what those payments to Teresa were?”

“Child support.”

“Yes.” Teresa sighed. “Not telling anyone, that was my idea. I was afraid I'd be ostracized when I returned to Stone Mill. For being an unwed mother.”

“Sounds like the dark ages.” Ell said. She left George's embrace but continued to cling to his hand. “I'm glad people are more accepting now.”

Teresa nodded. “Even fifteen years ago, things were different here. But I want you to know, that it wasn't just a fling. I truly cared for your father. Foolish, I know, but he had many good qualities. But . . . being content with only one woman just wasn't one of them. He wasn't interested in marriage until after you were born. And by that time, I didn't want to marry him. I simply came back to Stone Mill because this seemed the best place to raise a child. I had roots here, and since we were alone, I thought that you needed a sense of community.”

Rachel wanted to ask why Willy had continued child support until a short time before his death. According to what Hulda had told her, Teresa had moved away almost two years before Ell was born. Under normal circumstances, Willy should have paid until Ell was eighteen. Could Teresa and Willy have agreed privately on twenty-one? But that still didn't make sense. “Ell,” she asked. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one this year.”

“That's another misunderstanding,” George said.

Ell looked at him and then back to her mother.

“Forgive me.” Teresa burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

“You were actually twenty-one on your
last
birthday,” George explained.

“But I have a copy of my birth certificate.” Ell released his hand.

George shook his head. “Willy had it altered somehow. But it wasn't his idea. Your mother wanted everyone in Stone Mill to think you had been born well after she left.”

“So they wouldn't suspect I was an O'Day,” Ell said.

To Rachel's surprise, there were no tears from the young girl. She didn't even appear to be angry. In fact, she seemed . . . relieved.

“It could have been worse, I suppose. Something bad could have happened to
you
.” Ell went to her mother and slipped an arm around her trembling shoulders. “Don't cry. You know how I hate it when you cry.”

Rachel got to her feet, thinking,
Well, I can cross Teresa off my list.
Mystery deposits solved. “I really should go.”

“Sure,” George said. “I just thought you needed to know. I didn't want you to think that Teresa had anything to do with my brother's death. As I said, his passing had nothing to do with her or the money he put in her account every month.”

“There was never any court involvement,” Teresa explained to Ell. “But Willy was most certainly your father, Eleanor. I never . . . had . . .” She sniffed and blew her nose on the tissue that George handed her. “There was never any other man.”

“Oh, you're Willy's daughter, all right,” George said. “He insisted on a paternity test.”

“So everything you two did for me . . . renting me the apartment over the garage, hiring me to work at The George, it was
all
because he was my father?”

“Yes and no,” George explained. “My brother was a shrewd businessman. He thought you had great potential as an employee. You were ambitious and bright. Everything you have, you earned on your own.” He paused. “But there is something else you should know . . . something more.”

“More?” Ell looked at him. “How could there be more?”

“My brother named you in his will as his sole heir. And he left you—”

“Willy left me some money?” Ell's mouth dropped open.

“He left you
everything
.” George smiled at her. “I certainly don't need more than I already have. But other than this house and a couple of other properties he and I owned jointly, you are his sole beneficiary.” His eyes twinkled.

“Wow. That's enough to mess with my head. He left me some money.”

“A lot of money. And land. And businesses. And stocks in . . . Well, our attorney will explain it all to you in detail. I'll be seeing him this week to start the process.” He hesitated. “There's just one stipulation.”

“Yes?” the young woman said suspiciously.

“He wanted you to assume the O'Day name.”

“That's it?” Ell glanced at Teresa. “Mom? What do you think? Should I do it? If I did, we could probably manage that vacation to Italy you've always talked about.”

Teresa turned her tear-streaked face toward Ell. “You don't hate me?”

“No, I don't hate you. I'm furious with you for not telling me sooner. But I don't hate you.”

“And me?” George asked.

“Neither of you,” Ell said. “I love you both. And you,
Uncle George,
I've fantasized that you were my father since I was ten years old. You've always been so good to me, there when I needed a friend.” She looked up at Rachel. “What do you think? Should I take the money?”

“You'd be a fool if you didn't,” Rachel answered. “And I've always known that you're no one's fool.”

“Ell O'Day.” Ell laughed. “That should give the town something to talk about.”

“Welcome to the family, darling,” George said. “I only wish Willy were here to be part of it.”

 

The following morning, Rachel drove over the mountain toward State College, with Aunt Hannah clutching the edges of her seat beside her. Rachel didn't know why they were going to State College or why her aunt was being so mysterious. She only knew that Mary Aaron had arrived before breakfast and asked Rachel to pick her mother up at the site of an old springhouse on the edge of Eli's farm. And to say nothing to Ada or anyone else of what she was doing.

Aunt Hannah had never ridden in Rachel's Jeep before, and she had the frozen expression of someone going to the headsman's block. “Thank you, Niece,” she'd said in Deitsch. “It's good of you to drop your plans on such short notice to take me.”

“You know that I'll do anything I can for you and Uncle Aaron,” Rachel shifted into second gear as the road climbed steeply. On her right, an unsubstantial-looking guardrail was all that was between them and the sheer drop to the valley below. The road had been cut out of solid rock . . . almost solid. In winter, when freezing temperatures and heavy snowfall made the route iffy, chunks of stone as large as watermelons often fell onto the blacktop. Once, when Rachel had been younger and a little more daring, she'd tried to come over the pass in a snowstorm, and four-foot drifts had blocked the way. She'd had to abandon her car and walk back down the mountain.