Plain Murder (5 page)

“I heard about that,” Rachel said. “Willy's brother, George, mentioned it once when I was in the bookstore. Apparently, Willy met some prospective clients out at the property, and they weren't pleased to find”—she chuckled—“
evidence
that the cows had been there. I think George said that the client stepped in a pile. And when they got back into their car, some got on their mats.”

“So much fuss over a little cow pie.”
Mam
held up the shirt, found a seam that had come unraveled, and began to stitch the sides together. “But you tell her that an argument over stray cows is a long way from killing someone.”

“Do you know how they discovered the body?” Rachel asked. “The kids said it was someone from—”

“Does it matter, Samuel?” Her mother's voice was brusque. “I don't wish to talk about such an awful thing. We should be praying for Aaron, not taking pleasure from idle gossip about such an awful act.”

“I don't know who it was who found the . . . the grave,” her father said, “but your brother Danny said that a groundhog had dug a hole into the . . . depression. I don't know any more.” He shook his head. “It's a bad business. Everybody wondered why Willy O'Day had run off without saying a word to his brother about where he was going. But nobody thought he was dead.” He glanced at his wife, then back at his daughter.

Her father's expression told Rachel that they'd probably discussed the matter long enough, for now at least. She made the excuse of getting back to her guests at Stone Mill House, said her good-byes to her family, and left.

She'd walked over from Uncle Aaron's farm, where Mary Aaron had remained with her family. The Jeep was still on the other side of the river, and she didn't want to push her luck by attempting to cross the dilapidated bridge again. She'd just walk the long way back to the Jeep.

She'd reached the end of the lane and started along the road when a police car approached. It slowed, then stopped. It was Evan.

“Where are you going?” he asked, rolling down his window.

“Home.”

“On foot?”

“I couldn't get to Uncle Aaron's in the Jeep. The cops had closed the road. I left it on the far side of the river.”

He pushed up his sunglasses and peered at her, his face stern. “How did you get through the roadblock?”

“You don't want to know.”

Evan grimaced. “Get in the car. This road's still closed to traffic, but I'll get you through and back to your vehicle. That was a crazy stunt you pulled, you know. The
distraction
. You could have gotten yourself arrested for interfering in an investigation.”

Rachel pulled the handkerchief off her head, balled it up, and stuck it into her skirt pocket. “Won't you get into trouble for having a civilian in your vehicle?”

“Will you just get in, please?”

She did as she was told, sliding onto the seat and snapping the seat belt in place. “He needed someone,” she said softly. “He doesn't understand.”

“Your uncle will be given a fair trial like any other citizen. If he can't afford an attorney—”

“One will be provided for him,” she finished. Then she turned to him. “Do they really think Uncle Aaron—”

“I can't discuss this with you, Rache. It's an open investigation.”

“He's innocent. Uncle Aaron could never do anything like that.” She looked straight ahead. “I remember that Willy's truck was found in town, parked near the post office.”

It had been easy to find; Willy was the only one in town who drove a twenty-five-year-old Ford F-150. Two-tone. The body was blue, one door red. He'd never bothered to have it repainted after being involved in a fender bender years before.

She glanced at Evan. “Anyone have any idea how the truck ended up in town and Willy in a cow pasture?”

He shook his head. “No idea. The truck was on the street, unlocked, but the keys were missing. It was impounded, looked over, and released. George came and got it—had a spare key, I imagine. He still drives it once in a while. There was no evidence of foul play. The only thing they found unusual was a big ham in a cardboard box in the bed of the pickup.”

She frowned. “A ham?”

“A ham. Like ten pounds.” Evan pushed down his visor and drove west. “You know,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “if your uncle's innocent, he has nothing to worry about.”

“And now you're the innocent, Evan. You know better.” She rubbed her eyes. “I don't even know where they've taken him. He may be on his way to prison as we speak.”

“He's at the station. He'll be held and questioned there.”

“I have to talk to him.”

“They're not going to let you do that.”

“But that's not fair. English isn't even his primary language.”

“Your Uncle Aaron speaks English very well.”

“But he doesn't understand what's happening, or what he might be agreeing to. If his first language were Korean or Greek, they'd allow him an interpreter, wouldn't they?”

“And that would be you?” Evan lowered his sunglasses. “Sit there and don't say a word,” he said firmly as he approached a roadblock. “Nada.”

Rachel held her tongue and kept her eyes averted as Evan stopped the police car, got out, and spoke to the trooper at the barrier. There were a few back-and-forth exchanges, and then the other trooper stepped aside and waved them through.

“Thanks,” she said as Evan got back into the car.

“So where's your Jeep?”

She told him, and she was pretty certain he swore under his breath. “You crossed the old bridge, didn't you? With the water still this high. If you'd fallen in, no one would have known until it was too late, Rache.”

“Mary Aaron was with me,” she admitted sheepishly. “She'd have fished me out.”

“So you endangered her life, too?”

She decided to take that as a rhetorical question and was silent until he pulled up beside her Jeep.

He didn't speak until she got out of the cruiser. “You're probably right about Aaron Hostetler needing an interpreter. I'll see what I can do about getting you in to see him.”

She broke into a smile, walked around the car, leaned in, and kissed his cleanly shaven cheek. “Thank you. I'll see you at the station?”

He stared straight ahead. “See you there. But do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

He glanced at her long skirt and properly Plain shirt. “Change out of that getup.”

An hour later, Evan was standing in the parking lot of the local state police station as Rachel wheeled her Jeep into the area reserved for visitors. She forced a smile. What was she going to do? Uncle Aaron couldn't be forced to give incriminating evidence against himself, but how could she make him understand that by not cooperating with the police he appeared guilty?

“They didn't buy the ‘he needs a translator' strategy,” Evan said as he stepped closer. “Half the men out of this station have Amish or Mennonite relatives, and they all speak a little Pennsylvania Dutch.”

“Deitsch,”
she corrected automatically. It wasn't Dutch at all, as many Englishers believed, but a form of German. “It's more complicated than the language; he isn't of your world.”

Evan placed a hand on the hood of her Jeep. “I did what I could, Rache. I called in a favor and got you five minutes with him. It's the best I could manage. If I were you, I'd use the time wisely. Find a way to convince him to accept legal counsel.” His normally pleasant features were drawn into a grim expression. He stepped back and motioned for her to pull into one of the vacant parking spaces.

“We can go in by the side door,” he said. “I've asked the sergeant to have your uncle brought to the conference room rather than the interrogation room.” He raised a dark brow. “I'll be right outside the door.”

Rachel got out of her Jeep. She'd traded her unconventional skirt and kerchief for a designer-knockoff gray tweed business suit with a pencil skirt, jacket, and black silk shirt. It was a little dowdy, left over from her corporate days, but it was modest enough not to offend her uncle.

An odor of cedar closet clung to the wool, courtesy of her attic storage. However, she'd known better than to try to cover the scent and anger Uncle Aaron by radiating Marc Jacobs Lola. The use of perfume was definitely a worldly practice, and not one of which he would approve.

Evan pushed a button that looked like a doorbell, and someone unlocked the door from the inside. Rachel and Evan entered a short hallway. The interior of the station reflected the economic depression of the area: 1970s wood-grain paneling, faded green tile, and old fluorescent light fixtures.

“In here.” Evan waved her into a windowless room containing a table and four chairs. A corkboard took up most of one wall, and on the opposing one hung framed photographs of uniformed troopers and a wall clock. The room smelled of floor wax and . . . corn chips.

“You all could use an interior decorator,” Rachel quipped, in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

Evan didn't even crack a smile. “Have a seat.”

She nodded. On the scarred table lay a yellow lined tablet.

“Mr. Hostetler will be here in a few minutes,” Evan advised. “He's still being questioned.”

“Has he been arrested?”

“Not yet, but it doesn't look good. He can only help himself by—”

“Cooperating with the investigation,” she finished. “I know.” Neither of them voiced the unthinkable:
unless Uncle Aaron
did
murder Willy
O'Day. She knew that wasn't possible, but her heart was beating quicker than it should have. She took a seat on the side of the table farthest from the door.

“Five minutes,” Evan reminded her before he left the room.

Rachel waited. Twice she tensed at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, but both times the source passed the room, and she heard the click of the outer doorway.

Come on, come on,
she thought.
What's taking so long?
The room felt overly warm, and she tugged at the neckline of her blouse. She was glad she'd remembered to put on more deodorant.

To pass the time, she removed a pen from her bag and began to doodle on the top sheet of the yellow pad. She still had no idea what she would say to Uncle Aaron. She wondered why the authorities were rushing to point the finger at him simply because the body was found on his property.

Willy's disappearance the previous fall had caused quite a stir in the community. It was definitely out of character for a man who had lived his whole life in the town and owned several businesses there. Dawn Clough, a waitress at Junior's Family Restaurant, out on the interstate, had gone missing the same weekend. There'd been some idle speculation that Dawn, who was spoken of as a “hot dish” by some, had run off with Willy.

Rachel doubted that. Dawn was a newcomer to the area who'd only worked at the restaurant a few months. The most reasonable explanation was that she'd gotten sick of her abusive boyfriend and gone back to Florida, where her kids lived with her mother.

Willy was a confirmed bachelor, and although he dated occasionally, his usual ladies of choice were plump, churchgoing, middle-aged widows with nice homes and solid bank accounts. Willy was infamous for being tight, and a waitress, especially one with all the curves of a cheap broom, could expect her tip in small change. Rachel couldn't see how any attraction between the struggling thirty-something waitress and the tightfisted entrepreneur would have developed. It had to be a simple coincidence that Dawn and Willy had vanished the same weekend.

Willard Calvin
O'Day, Rachel scribbled across the top line of the blank sheet of paper. Other than his brother, George, no one in Stone Mill had loved Willy, and few admitted to being his friend. But she couldn't think of anyone who disliked Willy enough to do him bodily harm. It still seemed impossible that someone had killed him and buried him in a field. It was more than frightening . . . it was something out of a horror movie. And what about his truck? She remembered that it had been found in town, but she couldn't recall any other details. How had he gotten separated from it?

The door opened and Rachel looked up to see her Uncle Aaron standing on the threshold, framed by two troopers: Evan and an African-American female. Rachel was relieved that her uncle wasn't in handcuffs, but was dismayed by the demeanor of his escorts.

The woman, tall and solidly built, with a flawless caramel complexion, scanned the room. “I'll have to ask you for your bag,” she said.

Rachel glanced at Evan, and he nodded.

Rachel handed over her bag. Uncle Aaron stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him.

“Are you all right?” Rachel asked.

Her uncle folded his arms and stared at her. “Why wouldn't I be well? I was not sick when I left home.”

“Sit down.”

He looked at her.

“Please.” She patted the table. “We only have five minutes.”

He reluctantly took the chair across from her.

“What kinds of questions have they asked you?” She planted her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Why do they think you would know what happened to Willy?”

“What did I tell you?” he asked in the Deitsch dialect.

She stopped short. “I'm sorry?”

“Enough.” He brought his weathered palm down on the table sharply, and she sat back in the chair. “No more.” He was a big, square-framed man with a stern Old Testament face and a long, graying beard. She had known him all her life, and not once had he ever laid hands on her in anger, but he still intimidated her. “Did I not tell you that I would speak no more of this matter?”

She nodded.

“And have you ever known me to say that which I do not mean?”

“Ne.”
She switched from English to the same dialect. “But you have to defend yourself against these charges. Otherwise, people will think you're guilty. You must let me find you an attorney.”

“I never thought you a stupid girl, Rachel Mast. Foolish, but not stupid. Can it be that you are so lost to the world that you can no longer understand me? I will have no Englisher of the law to speak for me. I put my trust in God, and that is that. Now, think no more of me. Go home and pray for your salvation. Look to your soul, and allow me to look to mine.”

“But Uncle Aaron . . . you can't do this. You have to give the police reason to believe that you're innocent.”

Hooded eyes glared back at her with a fierce gleam. His hands clenched into fists on the table and his body stiffened. He did not utter another word.

Thirty seconds passed. Another.

A knock came at the door. “Rachel.” It was Evan's voice. “You'll have to go now.”

“Please consider what I've said,” Rachel murmured, looking into her uncle's eyes. “For Aunt Hannah's sake. For your children and your community. If you don't know anything about Willy's death, you have to tell that to the police. But only with your attorney present. Don't say anything to anyone without an attorney present. Not even to Evan,” she added in a whisper.

Evan walked in.

Her uncle scowled, but didn't answer Rachel. With a sinking heart, she left him, retrieved her bag from the female officer in the hall, and exited the station by the same side entrance.

In the short time that she'd been inside, the sky had clouded over. She hoped she'd get home before it rained. The road over the mountain was narrow and tree-lined. Leaves and pine needles made the surface slick, and too many drivers didn't heed the caution signs on the steep curves.

As Rachel reached her vehicle, Evan came out the door and walked over to her. “No luck?”

She shook her head. “I don't know what to do. If he's charged, will the court appoint counsel whether he wants it or not?”

Evan shrugged. “I'm not sure how that works. Him not wanting an attorney, but not wanting to represent himself, either.”

“I know he didn't do it, but he thinks that it would indicate a lack of faith to accept an attorney. He's certain God will protect him and prove his innocence.”

“Let's hope he's right.”

 

Teatime at Stone Mill House was at three o'clock on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Rachel pulled into the driveway at five. If any of her guests had been expecting her to be present for tea, they had been disappointed.

She'd left Ada in charge. Ada would have baked the scones, the miniature cheesecakes, and individual gingerbreads with a cherry on top. She would have made fresh coffee and hot tea and hand-squeezed lemonade. She would have closely supervised her kitchen assistant and grandniece Minnie. The sixteen-year-old's duties included putting together chicken salad sandwiches and ham on tiny cheese biscuits. But neither of them would have opened the dining room and welcomed the guests in.

Ada didn't serve. Ada cooked and directed the housecleaning staff. She purchased groceries and sent her nephews to find the freshest fruits and vegetables and the finest country-cured hams for Stone Mill House. What Ada
didn't
do was interact with the Englishers who came to stay at the B&B.

Ada went home at four sharp, no exceptions. When Rachel walked into the dining room, with its deep windowsills and heavy walnut sideboard, she found sandwiches, fruit, and sweets on the table. A teapot and French press stood ready for hot water. No one had touched anything, which meant her guests hadn't made it back to the inn. It happened often; guests certainly weren't required to attend tea. But usually, on weekdays, she checked with everyone. In all the confusion of the day, she'd forgotten. She picked up a miniature biscuit-and-ham sandwich and took a bite.

Grabbing a chicken salad triangle, Rachel pushed open the door to the hallway. The ham was delicious, and she was famished. She'd go back for another after she checked her answering machine. Then she'd start packing up the goodies. The sweets, fruit, and ham could be served the next day; she'd just have to eat the chicken salad. Or maybe take it over to Aunt Hannah's tomorrow.

“Rachel? Is that you, dear?”

“Hulda?” She ate the chicken salad sandwich in two bites.

The thin voice—that of her next-door neighbor Hulda Schenfeld—had come from the small parlor that Rachel used as an office.

Rachel walked into the parlor, licking her fingertips.

A smiling face, framed in white hair, peered up from a laptop on the desk. “Good, good. Glad it's you and not a burglar sneaking around the house. I think I've done this right.” She pointed to the screen. “A wedding party. The mother of the bride called and said they would need seven doubles for the nights of the fourteenth through the sixteenth. Next month. Three nights. I told her that you would get back to her within the hour.”

Rachel chuckled. “You're taking calls for me?”

“And who else? Certainly not your Ada or that silly little Minnie Stoltzfus. And the mother wants to know if there's a discount, seeing as how they're taking so many rooms. I told her there would be. I hope that's all right.” She raised a sheet of paper. “I wrote her name and the phone number here. I'm not sure about these lap computers. I use a desktop. Six years old, but runs like a tomcat.”