Plain Murder (6 page)

“Seven rooms?” Rachel shook her head. “I should mind? I should put you on the payroll.”

“Rooms aren't paid for yet. She wanted to leave a credit card number, but I said, no, you would do that. I didn't want to make a mistake, not with someone's credit card. I'm not as sharp as I used to be.”

Rachel took the paper. The name and number and other details were written clearly in beautiful penmanship.
I should be so sharp at ninety-three,
she thought. “You're a lifesaver, Hulda Schenfeld. Thank you.”

“Hulda Schenfeld.” She chuckled. “Still sounds funny. Kline was my maiden name. My father was Joseph Kline. Maybe you've heard of him? He was an old-time family doctor in Huntingdon.”

“I
have
heard of him,” Rachel said, not bothering to remind Hulda that she told the story often. She was a treasure. Rachel wondered, though, how it was that she'd been here to answer the office phone.

Almost as if she'd read her mind, Hulda continued. “I came hoping something would be left over from tea. The phone started ringing before I made it to the dining room. You have a single next weekend, a regular, a Miss Harper, and a couple for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I checked your calendar, saw you had plenty of rooms open, and confirmed both.”

“That settles it. I am putting you on the payroll, payment is an open invitation to come to afternoon tea whenever you like, no charge. And I insist you take some of those ham-and-biscuit sandwiches and gingerbread home.”

“I won't say no,” Hulda replied with a chuckle. “Most fun I've had in days. If I weren't here interfering in your affairs, I'd be home ordering something off a shopping network. I got the most beautiful scarf Monday, silk. You can wear it five ways. It's multicolored. Goes with everything. You must come over and see it when it arrives.” She rose and came spryly around the desk. She was a small woman, no more than four feet ten or eleven inches tall, wearing a pink-and-white jogging suit and tan Birkenstock sandals. Bishop strolled after her, long tail curled over his back.

“I wondered where you were,” Rachel said.

“Curled up in my lap. Knows how I love cats. You know I have an Abyssinian. Thomas. A lovely creature, but very particular about his diet.” Hulda stooped to stroke Bishop. “Oh, and you had visitors, dear. John Hannah and your sister Annie. I told them that you had gone to see what you could do to get your uncle out of that horrible prison.”

“He isn't in
prison
yet,” Rachel said. She sighed. If Hulda knew, then Willy O'Day's homecoming was already common knowledge. “He's at the state police station.”

“Terrible tragedy,” she said with a shake of her head. “How could they ever believe one of your people would do such a thing? A stranger did it, I'm sure. Murdered for the money in his pocket. Everyone knew Willy liked to collect his rents in cash on the first of the month. George told me that Willy would sometimes come home with several thousand dollars on him. Cash money.” She made a clucking noise with her tongue. “I'll not be able to rest easy in my bed tonight, I can tell you that.”

“I'm sure you'll be safe enough. You have your son and grandsons in the house. And your daughter-in-law.” Hulda's grand old home next door provided ample living space for her extended family and a never-ending round of relatives.

“True, I have them there.”

“See, you're well protected. And well loved by the whole community.” Rachel led the way back through the hall into the dining room. “I'll make you a basket of goodies to take home.” She opened the right-hand door on the sideboard to remove a basket just as the kitchen door popped open.

“Rachel.” It was Mary Aaron. “I'm sorry I didn't get back in time to serve the tea. The house was in an uproar. What did you find out about
Dat?
Are they going to bring him home?”

Rachel motioned, and Mary Aaron came into the dining room. Mary Aaron greeted the older woman, who smiled and asked about her mother.

“Like you'd expect,” Mary Aaron said. “Heartsick that anybody would think
Dat
could harm someone. Upset that anyone would think him foolish enough to bury him in his own cow pasture.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Schenfeld agreed. “Just what I told Rachel. Some stranger, probably high on pills or maybe an escaped convict from that super-max prison in Waynesburg.”

Rachel murmured something appropriate and finished making the basket of goodies for her neighbor. It would be easier to think that it was a stranger who'd murdered Willy, but if it was a stranger, how did he know that Willy regularly carried large sums of money? And if it
was
a robbery, why hadn't the perpetrator taken his diamond ring?

Once Hulda was on her way, Rachel turned to Mary Aaron and relayed what had happened at the police station, which was, basically, nothing. “Evan thinks that they will charge him with Willy's murder, but no one, including your
dat,
will say why.”

“
Dat
could never do such a thing.”

“I know that, and you know that. It's convincing the authorities that will be difficult, especially since your father refuses to even consider a lawyer and won't talk to the police or to me.”

Mary Aaron grabbed two plates and followed Rachel to help put the food away. Her normally pink and rosy complexion was a pasty gray, and the worry showed in her eyes. “Will they let him come home? After they question him?”

“I don't know,” she mused, giving Mary Aaron's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Rachel felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility, not just to Mary Aaron and her father, but to the whole community. When she'd returned to Stone Mill two years ago, the town had been in decline. It had been
her
idea to make Stone Mill a destination for tourists and to advertise it on the Internet. It had been
her
idea to produce income with tourist dollars.
She
had been the one to encourage both Amish and Englishers to have market days, to build roadside stands to sell their organic fruits and vegetables, and offer wagon and buggy rides to visitors. Her family and neighbors had put their trust in her, and the town really did seem to be taking a turn for the better. But with that trust had come responsibility. One that she felt heavily on her shoulders today.

The following morning, Ms. Hess and her sister checked out early. They refused the free breakfast, saying that they'd eat on the road. They did, however, ask that she open the gift shop so that Ms. Hess could look at Mary Aaron's “Diamond in the Square” crib quilt again. And Ms. Baird requested rooms for the coming weekend for the two of them.

“Are you certain the price isn't negotiable?” Ms. Hess asked as she fingered the quilt. “Everyone dickers at flea markets.”

Rachel forced a smile, but before she could utter a suitable comeback, the sister filled the void.

“This is hardly a flea market, Tina, and this would be perfect for Sasha's baby. The blanket could be displayed on the family room wall near their stone fireplace. It will become a family heirloom in days to come.”

Ms. Hess's red lips puckered, and she peered over the rim of her pink glasses. “Did you see this?” She tugged at the cloth tag with the price worked in cross-stitch. The previous day's tight yellow capris were nowhere in sight. Instead, she wore a pink-flowered, see-through top over the now-familiar tiger-striped bra, white shorts with
Hottie
spelled out in rhinestones on the back, and, of course, the four-inch wedges. Balanced on her arm was a high-end zebra-striped bag, presumably to match her bra.

Dealing with Ms. Hess this morning was almost comic relief after the previous day and the sleepless night Rachel had had. She'd wanted to go to her aunt's this morning, but she knew that the police must still be holding her uncle, as she hadn't heard otherwise from Evan. If she left Stone Mill House before seeing to her guests, Ada might make good on her threats and quit. And if Ada quit, Minnie and the other girls would go with her. Then where would she be? Without staff, that's where. Without altering her uncle's fate one iota.

“So leave the price on,” Ms. Baird suggested to her sister. “Aunt Dot will be impressed. A pity you didn't snap a picture of the
Aim
-ish girl yesterday, the one she”—Ms. Baird pointed at Rachel—“said made it. It would have made the gift more special. You know, with the
Aim
-ish woman holding the blanket.”

“Rachel!” Ada called from the kitchen. “Minnie's not here and . . .”

Rachel couldn't hear the rest of it, but she did see her one remaining guest, Father Young, coming down the stairs. “I think I just need to pop into the dining room for a moment,” Rachel said to the two women. “Feel free to look around.”

“No,” Ms. Hess said. “We want to be in Lancaster for lunch. I'll take the blanket. You accept credit cards, don't you?”

Rachel motioned to the sign. “MasterCard and Visa.”

“Not American Express? That's inconvenient,” Ms. Hess grumbled, but she produced a suitable credit card.

By the time Rachel had rung up the quilt and wrapped it, Ms. Baird had picked out three jars of Ada's jam, a copper tray, an antique butter dish, and an original eight-by-ten watercolor of a one-room schoolhouse with a stream of children in the foreground. The figures were small and all painted from the back so that no faces were revealed.

“You want all of these?” Rachel asked, stunned. Apparently, she did. Ms. Baird paid in cash without a quibble over the prices.

Rachel waved as they hurried out the front door, overnight cases in hand. She couldn't believe that she'd just sold Mary Aaron's quilt and a painting at the same time. Mary Aaron would be ecstatic about the quilt. This was her first big sale, and it made the months of work worthwhile, something a lot of the Amish hadn't expected.

“Use the sewing machine,” Aunt Hannah had advised. “It's faster. The stitches are more even, and the Englishers won't know the difference. No one makes quilts the old way anymore.”

But Mary Aaron did make it the old way, and it had paid off handsomely. And best of all, this sale might influence other women to emulate her. Even among the Amish, skills were being lost as the old people died. Maintaining centuries-old artistry was vital to their community and their faith. Few large families could survive on farming alone in these difficult economic times, and people all over the country were coming to appreciate Amish artistry. Women, married or unmarried, didn't have to choose between picking apples, working behind the counter at a fruit stand, or cleaning other people's houses. Thanks to the Stone Mill Heirloom Arts website, the possibilities for real alternatives were unlimited.

But Rachel didn't have time to savor this small success. Father Young would want his breakfast. With Minnie not there, Rachel would need to see to her guest personally. Ada cooked, but she didn't serve. And she spoke only Deitsch to the visitors, pretending that she didn't understand English. If she hadn't been such a miracle worker in the kitchen, Rachel might have rethought her decision to hire Ada in the first place.

Father Young was both pleasant and hungry. He drank most of a pot of coffee and devoured scones, strawberries, pancakes, eggs, toast, and bacon. Today, he'd planned a hike up Black Mountain onto state game lands, and he asked if it was possible to purchase a bag lunch. She assured him that it was no trouble, and no charge. It was the least she could do since he'd missed Ada's wonderful afternoon tea.

Rachel was just clearing away the breakfast dishes when her brother Levi walked into the kitchen from the back door. Rachel waved him into the dining room and told him to help himself to the breakfast goodies. Levi was always hungry, and although their mother was a good cook, her baked goods didn't come close to Ada's.

“Watch out,” Levi warned between bites of almond scone. Rachel handed him a napkin, and he wiped the ring of milk off his mouth. “
Mam
's set on sending the deacon around to try and convince you to give up this house and come home for good.” Eleven years old, he was the dark-haired one of the brood, but he had the same color eyes as Rachel. He was a good-natured scamp, and she thought he might be the brightest of all her brothers.

“Aren't you supposed to be in school?” Rachel asked. “Does
Mam
know you're here?” Her mother disapproved of the younger children visiting Stone Mill House.

Rachel supposed her mother thought that she would try to lure them away from Amish ways with television cartoons and iPads. What
Mam
didn't know, and would probably dislike even more, was that Levi came to read. He'd just finished
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,
and he was halfway through
Treasure Island
. One of the rooms upstairs had been a library, and she'd taken immense pleasure in filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves with secondhand volumes of classics that George O'Day acquired for her.

“No school this morning.” Levi grinned. “Teacher's not feeling good from having her teeth pulled. I have to be there at eleven, and we won't get recess in the afternoon.”

“And
Mam
didn't have chores for you?”

He shrugged. “She thought there was school. She went to Aunt Hannah's.” He stuffed a strip of now-cold bacon into his mouth. “Did Uncle Aaron really kill Willy O'Day?”

“No, he didn't. How could you ask such a thing?”

“Jesse said they took his
dat
away and locked him in a prison, just like the old martyrs. He said Uncle Aaron couldn't come home until he was a hundred years old.”

“Jesse is wrong, too. I don't know what happened to Willy, but Uncle Aaron would never hurt anyone.”

“Oh, and Jesse said to tell you that Mary Aaron can't come today. Her mother needs her. And . . . and . . .” He stuffed another slice of bacon in his mouth. “She's sorry.” He stood up. “Can I go upstairs and read?”

She considered, knowing that she didn't have the heart to forbid him access to the books that she'd loved when she was his age—children's favorites that she would never have known existed if it hadn't been for kindly Mrs. Schenfeld. “For a little while, but listen for the clock on the landing. When it chimes ten thirty, you scoot.” She reached out and brushed down his cowlick. “How did you get here? Did you come on your scooter-bike?”

Levi headed for the stairs. “Zebby Beiler's pony. I cut through the woods. I won't be late.”

Once Levi was gone, Rachel stood for a moment gathering her thoughts and making a plan for the morning. Since neither Minnie nor Mary Aaron was coming today, she'd have to make up the guest rooms and do the laundry herself. She'd start with Father Young's room so that if he returned early and wanted an afternoon nap, she wouldn't have to disturb him.

She went to the kitchen to gather the cleaning supplies. Changing linen, vacuuming, and dusting three guest rooms were only a start to the day's housekeeping. There was the staircase, the landing, and the upstairs hall to sweep, the bathrooms to scrub. And while she was at it, she took the opportunity to air out the scatter rugs and replace the vase of flowers that stood in the downstairs entranceway. By the time she'd thrown the last load of sheets into the commercial washer in a laundry room, it was after two.

Did she have time to drive over to Aunt Hannah's? There was an electric bill to be paid, but she could do that online. She needed to check her email to see if there were any more inquiries or, hopefully, reservations.

“Rachel!” Ada's voice called from the kitchen. “An Englisher to see you!” The last bit of information was yelled in Deitsch.

In the kitchen, she found Ada, barefoot, her back to the visitor, kneading dough on the butcher block island with all her might.

“Evan?” Rachel looked at Ada with her back to him and rolled her eyes. Ada had known Evan since he was no older than Levi, yet for the most part, she ignored him because he was English.

Evan wasn't wearing his uniform, which meant it wasn't an official visit, but his expression was grave. “Good news, I hope?” Her tone was one of false cheerfulness.

“Can we talk?”

“Sure.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of lemonade. She filled two tall glasses. “Listen for the dryer, would you, Ada? When it rings, take out the load and fold it, if you don't mind.”

“Sun's out,” Ada replied, again in Deitsch. “Why didn't you hang the towels out on the line?”

“Maybe next time,” Rachel answered. She loved the smell of towels hung in the sunshine, too, but guests, she'd learned, preferred their towels fluffy and smelling of fabric softener.

She picked up the glasses and motioned to Evan to bring the pitcher. He held the door open for her, and they went out into the back and crossed the yard to the seating area under the grapevine arbor. It was one of her favorite spots around the house. She'd strung twinkle lights over the arbor and planted shrubs and flowers that attracted butterflies and hummingbirds.

Evan sat on the cushioned glider, and she handed him his lemonade and took a seat beside him. It never failed to amaze her how comfortable she was with him and how much they enjoyed each other's company. Sometimes, when weather permitted, they would sit out here in the evening and enjoy a glass of wine. It was too early in the afternoon to offer Evan wine, but she almost wished that it weren't.

“It is good news, isn't it?” she urged. “They've realized that they've made a mistake. They're going to let Uncle Aaron go home?”

“I just dropped him off at his farm,” he said. “They haven't arrested him yet, but you've got to get over there, Rache. You've got to talk some sense into him.”

Suddenly, she didn't want her lemonade. She felt as if the swing were falling and the ground were a long way off. “But if they let him go, surely—”

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. It wasn't Evan's way to raise his voice. He was a gentle man. He'd been soft-spoken even when they were kids. He didn't talk a lot, but when he did, he commanded attention. “This is serious. Someone . . . I can't say who . . . told me that an arrest is imminent. And if he doesn't accept legal counsel—and post bail—he'll end up in county prison. I don't think I have to elaborate on what that would do to a man like Aaron.”

She exhaled, thinking. “Do we . . . Do the police know how long Willy's body has . . . you know, been there?”

“ME's initial report will take another day or two, but the coroner who came for the body confirmed that it looked as if it had been there about eight months.”

Rachel bit the inside of her lip. “Did anyone say why Uncle Aaron was going to be arrested? I mean, specifically.”

He frowned. “No, but I have an idea it has something to do with the book they found on the body.”

She glanced at him. “What book?”