Plain Murder (4 page)

“
Dat
's coming out of the barn,” Mary Aaron said. “And I think Eli's leaving.”

Rachel stood on tiptoes to peer through a break in the bushes. Eli was climbing back up onto the wagon seat. “I wonder what's going on,” she said. Then her heart sank as movement in the distance caught her eye. Beyond the cow pasture, a car turned off the hard-top road onto Uncle Aaron's dirt driveway—a police cruiser.

Her cousin craned her neck to see. “You don't think they're coming for
Dat,
do you?”

Rachel watched as the white car with the gold-and-black keystone on the door slowly crawled toward them. “Maybe they're coming to say it's all a mistake, that Willy was involved with the mob and they offed him for cheating them in a Ponzi scheme.”

“I don't know what that means,” Mary Aaron said. “But I don't think that's what happened.” She ducked down. “
Mam
's coming into the house.”

“Uncle Aaron, too.” Rachel grabbed her cousin's hand, and they stepped away from the edge of the porch. “We're getting ahead of ourselves. It might be Evan coming to talk to me.” She tried to sound confident, but she had the sinking feeling that whoever was in the police car, it wasn't going to be good news for her uncle. She tried to think fast. “I've got to talk to your
dat
. Right now.”

Mary Aaron nodded, and they hurried back to the kitchen, where her aunt had grabbed a broom and was sweeping the already spotless floor. Uncle Aaron stood in the center of the room, stroking his whiskers and looking thoughtful.

“Uncle Aaron,” Rachel asked, “could I please speak to you?” She glanced at her aunt. “Privately?”

Aunt Hannah sniffed loudly, propped the broom against the wall, and picked up the coffeepot. “This is just grounds,” she said. “I'll make a fresh pot, if it suits you, Aaron.”

“It does.”

“Uncle Aaron?” Rachel repeated. She motioned toward the hall that led to the interior of the house.

“Strong, Hannah,” he said. “I think we all need a strong cup of coffee.”

Aunt Hannah pursed her mouth, took down a canister, and began to ladle tablespoons of coffee into the black coffeepot.

Rachel walked out of the kitchen toward the parlor, used only for visits from the bishop and church services. Mary Aaron followed. In a strict Amish home, a private conversation didn't mean an unchaperoned one between an unmarried
English
woman and a married man, even if that man was her uncle. Technically, Rachel didn't consider herself English, but like many situations in her life, it was complicated. She expected Mary Aaron to understand and come with them, and she did so without being asked.

All the windows were closed in the parlor, and the room smelled musty. It wasn't dirty; she doubted anyone could find a speck of dust in Aunt Hannah's house. But the parlor was warm and she felt a little claustrophobic. A lone fly buzzed overhead, and sweat beaded under Rachel's T-shirt and heavy blouse and trickled down her back. She waited for what seemed like a long time before her uncle joined them.
Hurry,
she wanted to shout.
The police are coming!
For once she was grateful that Uncle Aaron's lane was long and full of potholes.

“Ya,”
he said. “What is it, Rachel? What is so important that you can't speak in front of your aunt?” He ignored Mary Aaron, who tried to make herself invisible and didn't utter a peep.

“This is a terrible thing that has happened to Willy,” Rachel began.

“
Ya,
terrible.”

“I know that you've been unhappy with me since I made the decision to leave—”

“Since you were a baby,” he cut her off, “I have known you, Rachel Mast. Always, I tell your mother, that one is too headstrong for a girl.” He pointed at her. “Trouble she will be, and as much as I hate to be right in this instance, it's true. You brought great shame to your parents and to your family when you chose to abandon the faith of your father, to live a fancy life among the English.”

“Uncle Aaron—” she began, but he wouldn't let her speak.

“I know you have thought me too strict and too harsh, but it was to me your father came when you ran away like a thief in the night. Not speaking to your parents of your wayward thoughts, not trusting them to help guide you, but leaving a note and sneaking out of the house.”

She tried again. “I know you don't understand why I had to leave, that you don't approve of my choice. But you must believe that right now I want only what's best for you and Aunt Hannah, for your children. You need my help, Uncle Aaron.”

“You think I did such a thing?” he demanded gruffly. “That I could crush a man's head? What manner of monster do you think I am, Rachel Mast?”

“That's not what I'm saying,” she protested. “I don't believe you had anything to do with his death, but what I'm trying to make you understand is that the police think you did. You have to have an attorney. That's how the world works. You need a lawyer to prove your innocence.”

“This is God's world, and as His child, I will put my faith in Him. He will protect me, not some English lawyer. I am not speaking another word about this, not another word, child.”

“This isn't a matter of faith; it's a matter of—”

Rachel was met with the unmistakable gesture of a single wagging index finger in her face. Her uncle looked sternly into her eyes, turned, and walked away, leaving her with . . . not another word.

Rachel followed him back into the kitchen to find her aunt opening the door to two state troopers, one she recognized as the sergeant whom she'd exchanged words with earlier. The second man, standing behind his superior, was Evan, his face a solemn mask. Rachel's heart rose in her throat.

“Aaron Hostetler?” the police sergeant demanded.

“Ya,”
Aunt Hannah answered, bristling. “You know his face. Who else would it be in his house?”

“Aaron Hostetler,” the trooper repeated. “You'll have to come with us.”

Rachel took a deep breath before she entered her mother's kitchen, letting her little sister Sally scoot in ahead of her. Rachel was torn. She needed to get back to Stone Mill House to see to her guests before Ada drove them all away, but she also had to deal with Uncle Aaron's crisis. There was no choice, really. Family had to come first.

Since Uncle Aaron refused to discuss Willy O'Day with her, the next best thing was to talk to her mother and father.
Mam
was Uncle Aaron's favorite sister and might know something of value in proving his innocence. Talking to her mother, however, wouldn't be easy because Rachel and her mother had been estranged since Rachel left the Amish community fifteen years ago.

Rachel swallowed, summoning her courage as she scanned the dining area of her former home. Her
dat
was already seated at the head of the table for the midday meal. Her two brothers, Danny and Levi, were on the bench closest to the wall. Two of Rachel's sisters were helping their mother bring food to the table.

When her mother saw her, she put down a bowl of applesauce, came to her, and hugged her tightly. But she didn't speak. She never spoke directly to Rachel, not since Rachel had left the faith fifteen years ago. The two stood for a moment, arms wrapped around each other, and then
Mam
let go of her and went back to setting the table.

“Daughter, sit.” Her father's weathered face creased into a smile, and he motioned toward a smaller table beside the window that was reserved for her and any overflow of visiting children. “Break bread with us. It's good to have you here, even on such a sad day.”

“Set another place, Lettie,”
Mam
said.

Sixteen-year-old Lettie took down another plate from the old Welsh cupboard and grabbed a fork and knife from a drawer. She stepped around Amanda, fourteen and wide-eyed, and arranged the lovely plate with the rosebud pattern and the everyday silverware at the children's table.

“Thank you, no.” Rachel shook her head. “I didn't mean to intrude on your meal. I just came to—”

“Sit.” Her father's soft order left no room for discussion. “Whatever trouble has come to our family, we need strength to persevere. You especially. You're too thin. You need food, and your mother has cooked plenty.”

Rachel washed her hands at the kitchen sink and winked at Lettie. Her sister grinned as Rachel took her place in the straight-backed chair that generations of heavy use had worn down to a child's height. Feeling foolish, Rachel had to stretch her long legs out under the table.

Sally exchanged glances with their father, and when he gave an almost imperceptible nod, she left her place at the family table and joined Rachel at the smaller one by the window. Sally didn't utter a peep, but her eyes—the exact hazel shade of Rachel's own—sparkled with mischief.

Mam
and Rachel's siblings sat down, and everyone bowed their heads for silent grace. As soon as that was observed, her father complimented her mother on the chicken and dumplings. That was the signal for everyone to begin eating. Sally rose, took both her own and Rachel's plates, and filled them from the food still on the counter and stove.

Rachel's position in her family and in the Amish community was complicated. If she'd been baptized into the faith and then left for the English world, she would have been publicly shunned. No members of the church or their children would have been permitted to speak with her or share meals with her. Shunning wasn't meant as punishment, but as a time-honored method of bringing the lost sheep back into the fold.

Rachel, however, had left home before she'd made a commitment to the Amish faith. In some families—because she hadn't been baptized—she was welcome at the family table, at weddings, funerals, and other gatherings. Most of her relatives accepted her as a stray lamb, but not entirely lost from the fold. It was only here in her mother's kitchen that she was isolated from the adult family. It wasn't her father's wish, and he obviously didn't approve, but the kitchen was traditionally the woman's domain. It was Esther's choice to have their daughter sit at the
lower
table, and so she did.

There was little discussion during the meal to suggest that today was any different from any other weekday. Dinner was a time for eating and sharing general conversation, such as the promise of rain or the birth of a neighbor's new colt. Exchanges between adults might touch on last Sunday's sermon or a planned school auction, but the fact that a citizen of Stone Mill had been murdered and buried in
Mam
's brother's cow pasture would definitely be ignored. Young children were expected to remain quiet at the table, and Lettie, who might have been considered old enough to have an opinion, sensed that with the tension in the room, she'd be better off paying attention to the chicken and dumplings on her plate.

Sally remained silent, but the sparkle in her eyes and her delighted expressions spoke volumes. Auburn-haired Sally was clever, spirited, and devoted to her oldest sister. Little Sally, Rachel feared, was somewhat of a rebel and bound to clash with their mother when she grew into her teens. If any of her siblings followed her out of the Amish fold, it would probably be Sally.

“Pass her the biscuits,”
Mam
directed Amanda. “And the butter dish.”

Rachel checked herself from saying
thank you
and nodded. Her
dat
had adopted the Englisher habit of this small and sometimes meaningless courtesy, but her Hostetler-born mother considered the practice
fancy
. Kindness and generosity were expected, and to mention what was a given was prideful, not Plain, behavior. Thus, Rachel and all her brothers and sisters had grown up saying
thank you
and
please
to the Masts and Englishers and omitting the same to the Hostetlers. As for the other Old Order Amish families in the valley,
you had to know the rules to play the game
.

“The dumplings are fantastic,
Mam,
” Rachel declared. Just because her mother wouldn't speak to her didn't mean Rachel couldn't speak to her mother. “Better than usual, and yours are always the best.”

“Tell her that I used the same recipe I've always used, the one I learned from my mother.” She gave Lettie a
look,
and Lettie dutifully repeated their mother's statement.

“No . . . something's different,” Rachel insisted. “The chicken just falls off the bone. Must have been a young fryer rather than an old hen.”

“I think the dumplings are especially good, too,” her
dat
put in. Her
mam
didn't comment, but Rachel was sure that she saw a look of pleasure in her mother's eyes. “And the biscuits are
gut,
too,” he added, patting his stomach. “I think our Amanda made those.”

“I did,
Dat
.” Amanda's chubby, freckled cheeks warmed to a rosy red. “But Lettie helped,” she quickly added. She glanced at their mother. “Too much salt, though. I think.”

“Practice,” her
mam
said. “Make them another twenty years, and then you can expect to get it right. It took me that long to make them like my mother.”

Rachel looked at Sally, who stuffed another mouthful of mashed potatoes into her mouth to keep from giggling, and then nearly choked on them. It went without saying that Amanda, the most dutiful of all the Mast children, would never claim credit for any task well done, for fear of appearing
proud
. Lettie always said that Amanda would make a perfect wife for a bishop, and Rachel didn't doubt it one bit.

After the apple pie and tall glasses of fresh milk, Rachel's
mam
and
dat
retired to the parlor while the girls cleared away the dishes and began to wash up. Normally, Rachel would have pitched in, and once her mother was out of the kitchen, no one would have minded. But today, she needed to talk to her parents, so she followed them into the family parlor.

The sliding double doors, which opened up the parlor and adjoining formal sitting room to make a large single space for church services, were open wide. Rachel entered the front parlor and slid the doors closed to keep the children from hearing. She hadn't been in this part of the house she'd grown up in for months. It was exactly as she remembered, as it had been for years.

She felt a twinge of nostalgia as she glanced around the familiar area. Everything was the same as it had always been: the navy-blue sofa and matching chairs, benches along two walls, a small, vintage oak table with turned legs, and a bookcase containing more than a dozen large Bibles of varying ages. The walls were white plaster, and the only decorations in the room were her parent's marriage certificate and a family tree done in cross-stitch hanging between the two windows.

Dat
had taken off his work shoes and put his feet up on a stool. He settled back with the latest copy of
The Budget,
the weekly Amish and Mennonite newspaper published in Ohio. Her mother had taken a rocker by the window and pulled her mending into her lap. Her
mam
pretended not to notice her presence, but her father's eyes lit with curiosity when Rachel entered the parlor and closed the doors behind her.

She didn't keep him in suspense. “What are we going to do about Uncle Aaron?”

“Pray for him. Samuel,” her
mam
added hastily, “I think you should ask the bishop to hold a special prayer meeting.”

“Prayer is always good,” Rachel responded, “but Uncle Aaron really needs an attorney. I'd be willing to contact one on his behalf, but I may not be able to cover the entire fee. It could run into tens of thousands. Do you think that his legal defense is something the community would be willing to contribute to?”

Dat
's brow furrowed as he gave the question consideration. “I can't speak for others. For me,
ya
, I would give money.”

Mam
drove a needle into a boy's worn blue shirt. The garment was small and probably belonged to Levi. “Tell your daughter that she well knows her uncle would never accept such a thing. He is innocent. What need does an innocent man have of Englisher lawyers?”

“It's not that simple.” Rachel perched on the end of the sofa. “They could take Uncle Aaron to prison. He'd be locked up with all sorts of ungodly people, some of them hardened criminals. Anything could happen to him there. We have to convince him that he has to defend himself against this charge.”

“Tell
her
that Aaron is in God's hands, Samuel,” her
mam
said, not taking her eyes off her neat, even stitches. “It's what we believe. It's what she believed once.”

Rachel considered her mother's words. “Maybe God wants us to help ourselves. In the eyes of the legal system, saying nothing might mean that he's guilty.”

“Do you think your uncle could be guilty of murder?” her father asked. He folded the paper and laid it across his lap.

“No, of course not. But
someone
is.”

“Not Amish,”
Mam
put in. “Tell her that it wasn't Amish who would do such a dreadful thing. We are peaceful people.”

“Your mother says . . .”

Rachel nodded. “
Ya,
and I agree with her.” She looked at
Mam,
then back at her
dat
. “When have any of our people been violent? Violence resulting in a person's death,” she corrected herself, thinking of an Amish domestic abuse case Evan had told her about a few months ago. But as terrible and unusual as that was, it hadn't happened in Stone Mill, and it hadn't resulted in serious injury, let alone a death.

Rachel looked at her mother. “Did he say anything to you? Uncle Aaron? I know that he and Willy didn't like each other.”

“Samuel, that is true.” As usual, her mother refused to address her directly. “My brother didn't like Willy O'Day, but with good reason. Did you know that Willy shot Aaron's sheepdog, the black-and-white one?”

Her father sighed. “I am not yet so forgetful, Esther. I helped Aaron bury the dog. I know they argued about it at the auction. Willy laid hands on your brother and pushed him up against the wall.”

“It was a good dog,” her mother said. She looked up from the mending. “Ask her if she knows about the cows. Aaron's cows. They got through the fence onto Willy's property.” She knotted the thread, bit it off close to the cloth, and searched for the matching spool of thread in her sewing box.

“Twice, I think,” her father said. “Got out. There's that pond on the O'Day acreage. I think Willy meant to sell it as a farmette, for an Englisher. It's not big, five acres maybe, but level ground,
gut
for a house.” He shrugged. “It seems Aaron's cows left footprints on the bank.” He looked at Rachel and chuckled. “More than tracks. Patties. Lots of patties.”