Plain Murder (7 page)

“A notebook. A journal. Whatever you want to call it,” he told her, obviously wrestling with whether or not he should say even that much.

She waited.

“Apparently, he kept track of things. Groceries to pick up. Phone calls to make. Whatever.” He took a sip of lemonade. “There was a page dated the day he disappeared. Across the top were the letters
A, T, B, R.
”

“A, T, B, R,”
she repeated. “What does it mean?”

“We don't know. Not yet. I'm sure someone will ask George.”

She swirled the ice in her glass, stared down at it.
This isn't happening.
In a few minutes, she would wake up and discover that it had all been a bad dream. But reason told her that she was refusing to face reality. “He's no killer. Uncle Aaron.”

“That said, there was bad blood between him and Willy O'Day. The whole valley knows it. Everyone knows they argued at the auction a week before he disappeared. And the year before that, there was a disagreement over where the other's property line started and ended. I know that for a fact because I was called to calm them both down in the grocery store parking lot.”

“Having an argument isn't proof of murder. They can't arrest someone for murder without proof.” Her gaze met his. “There isn't proof, is there?”

“I've already said too much, Rache. I'm risking my career by discussing the case with you. It's unprofessional, to say the least.” He stood up and placed his lemonade on the table beside the wooden glider. “If your uncle's innocent, why won't he cooperate? Why won't he answer our questions?”

It was a sunny May afternoon. The temperature was seventy degrees, but Rachel suddenly felt chilly. Goose bumps rose on her bare arms. “He doesn't understand. It's a matter of faith. The way Uncle Aaron sees it, he didn't do anything wrong. Denying it or accepting the help of a lawyer would be admitting to a lack of faith in God's plan.”

“This could destroy his life.”

She hugged herself. “Even if he's innocent? I thought you believed in our legal system—innocent until proven guilty.”

“I do believe in it. You know I do. You know how long I wanted to be a cop, to do something positive with my life. But you're not like the rest of your family. You know enough about the world to know that bad things happen to good people. Justice is blind, Rache. It doesn't make exceptions for Amish acts of faith. You need to convince him to accept help, or it may go very badly for him.”

“I've tried. He wouldn't listen,” she protested.

“Try harder.”

“I don't know that I can do anything to change his mind. He doesn't trust me.” She looked up at him. “To him, I'm a lost soul.”

“That may be true, but he trusts you more than he trusts me.” Evan placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe you could talk to your aunt. Get her to work on him. They have young children and a farm. What will happen to her and his family if he goes to jail?”

“Can you at least find out exactly what evidence they have against him?”

Evan shook his head. “I can't.” He took a step back away from her. “I shouldn't even have come here.” A muscle twitched on the side of his jaw. “But I had to. You might be his only chance.”

“I'll go and try to talk some sense into him.” She rose. “Into all of them. Of course, I'll go.” She always thought of Evan as being a big man, but standing beside him, he wasn't all that much taller than she was. “It means a lot to me that you would care enough to come to me.”

He nodded. “You're special to me, Rache,” he admitted huskily. “You know that . . . Always have been.”

“You, too,” she answered.

As they gazed into each other's eyes, something passed between them. Something that suggested maybe it was time to take their relationship to the next level. Or to at least admit that there
was
a relationship, for starters. But this wasn't the place. It certainly wasn't the time. And they both knew it.

Half an hour later, Rachel stood outside her Uncle Aaron's enormous two-story stone barn with Mary Aaron and her Aunt Hannah. The double doors were open, and inside the center hallway, her uncle and Mary Aaron's brother John Hannah were putting the harness on a team of workhorses. Her cousin Elsie, nineteen, was sweeping the back step. Rachel saw none of the younger cousins and assumed that they hadn't gotten home from school yet. It seemed a normal workday, one that Rachel had witnessed hundreds of times before in her own childhood. But it wasn't.

“You just missed your
mam,
” Mary Aaron said. “She and Lettie left not ten minutes ago.” She touched her
kapp
and looked at Rachel meaningfully.

Understanding the silent warning, Rachel adjusted her kerchief. It had slid backward, revealing more of her hair than was appropriate. “I didn't see the buggy.”

“They walked across the fields. You know your mother,” her aunt said. Aunt Hannah's eyes and nose were red, as if she'd been crying. She seemed agitated, which Rachel could certainly understand. Having a body discovered on her farm and having her husband questioned for the crime must have been terrible for her.

“It was good of Aunt Esther to come and stay with
Mam,
” Mary Aaron said. She glanced at her father and brother and then back to her mother. “
Mam
's been beside herself.”

“My nerves can't take much more, I can tell you.” Aunt Hannah looked down at her everyday apron and brushed at the stains. “The bishop's wife came and prayed with us.”

“She's a kind woman.” Rachel glanced in the direction of the barn again. “I was hoping to talk to Uncle Aaron—”

“He doesn't want to see you.” She shook her head for emphasis. “ ‘Keep Rachel away from me,' he said. ‘I've told her that I don't need her help, and I don't want any English lawyer speaking for me.' ”

“But I just want to help,” Rachel replied. She'd been afraid of this. Her uncle hadn't been happy that she'd come to the police station. They'd never been close, even before she left Stone Mill. And since her return, he'd openly expressed his disapproval that she'd not yet rediscovered her Amish faith.

“You don't believe this is over, do you?” Mary Aaron reached for her mother's hand. “
Mam,
isn't there anything you can say to make him listen to her? She knows way more about the English world than
Dat
does.”

“If your father is innocent, the Lord will protect him.”

“She doesn't doubt
Dat,
” Mary Aaron hurried to say. “We know he didn't do this terrible thing.”

Rachel stood there for a moment, then turned away from them and walked to the barn door. She didn't need her aunt's permission to speak to her uncle. And she couldn't leave here without at least trying. “Uncle Aaron,” she called, “it's Rachel.”

“I know who it is. I heard that car of yours. Go away,” her uncle called. “This is none of your affair.”

“Please, just listen to me. I—”

“
Ne.
Enough. Best you leave before I say things that cannot be unsaid.” He turned his back on her and strode deeper into the interior of the barn. John Hannah cast a sympathetic look in Rachel's direction, but his father called back. “John!”

He followed his father into the barn.

Her uncle's glance had carried such dark anger that she felt as though she'd been slapped. Stunned, she turned toward her aunt, but Hannah was already walking toward the house.

Mary Aaron came to her and put her arms around her. “You see how he is? How they both are? You have to help us, Rachel.”

“If he won't help himself—”

“He won't,” her cousin whispered. “You can see that. But we're your family. You have to do something.”

The back of Rachel's eyelids stung. She wasn't a crier, but she wanted to weep now. She felt so hurt . . . so helpless. She looked into Mary Aaron's eyes. “If there was anything I could do, you know I would. But we have to trust that justice will prevail. This is a matter for the authorities.”

“But you're smart. You know how the English world works. You could find the man who is truly guilty of this. If you learn who killed Willy, they'll let
Dat
go.”

“Mary Aaron, I don't know the first thing about investigating a murder. That's a police detective's job.”

“You're as smart as any policeman.”

Rachel sucked in a ragged breath. Thought for a moment. “I guess I could ask a few questions.”

“
Ya,
you can. And I'll help you. I'll talk to our people . . . the ones who don't want to talk to you. Together . . . we could do this.” Mary Aaron's eyes were pleading. “Please, Rachel.”

She found herself nodding. “I'll do what I can. It won't hurt to nose around a little because . . .”

“Because if
Dat
is innocent,” Mary Aaron murmured, saying what they were both thinking, “the man who killed Willy is still out there, and he . . .”

“Might kill again,” Rachel finished. She shivered. One murder in Stone Mill was terrible enough . . . but what if Willy's death wasn't the end of it? She knew every person in this valley. Who else might be in danger?

It was a little before seven that evening when Rachel approached the main entrance to George O'Day's bookstore. She hadn't expected to find The George open, but she'd spoken to Hulda when she was pulling out of her driveway, and the elderly woman had assured her that George was at work.

“I can't blame him, poor man.” Hulda made a clucking sound with her tongue as she shook her head. For her age, she had remarkably few lines in her face, and the expression in her faded blue eyes was as kind as ever. “What would he do? Rattling around in that big, empty house, just him and Sophie. Better he be with his books and his friends.”

Stone Mill and the surrounding valley were small enough that most people here had known George for years. Many had been his students, and those who hadn't had relatives who had either worked with him or gone to the same high school where he taught for twenty-five years. Hulda was right, Rachel decided. Despite the shock and grief at losing his twin, being at the bookstore was probably the best choice for George.

Normally, Rachel would have walked. It wasn't that far to the intersecting streets that composed the downtown business section of Stone Mill, but she was taking George a big tray of Ada's raisin-cinnamon rolls, his favorite. So she'd taken the electric golf cart. Inside town limits and on private country lanes, she often used it to give her guests tours of the town. It made no noise and moved at about the same pace as a horse and buggy; Hulda and several other business owners had acquired carts for their own use.

The bookstore sat on the corner of Main and Poplar and had been constructed, originally, as an opera house in 1904. In the '30s, it became a theater, but fell into disrepair in the '70s and was closed. It was George who, after retiring from teaching, had repurposed it as a bookstore and opened the doors again three years earlier.

Rachel parked the golf cart in front of The George, picked up Ada's cinnamon rolls, and pushed through the brass-handled double doors. What had once been a refreshment area was now the checkout desk, commanded by George's right-hand girl, Ell. She glanced up from her computer, waved, and smiled.

“Hi, Ell,” Rachel said, balancing the tray of cinnamon rolls in her right hand. “Is George here?”

The young woman with the head of short, spiky black hair motioned to the winding staircase on the right side of the reception area. “Upstairs, checking in a package of books just in from Dublin.” Ell was just beyond her teens, with a long, thin face, dark eyes, and a pale complexion marred by acne scars. Her round Irish nose was adorned with a shiny piece of hardware, vying for attention with the multiple piercings in her eyebrows, lower lip, and ears. The voluminous black tunic, tights, and black lace-up leather boots didn't quite match her shy but eager-to-help nature.

“How is he?” Rachel asked.

Ell sighed. “About how you'd guess. Nobody expects death to come knocking. We all thought Willy had run off with Dawn . . . you know, that waitress.” Ell spread her long, thin fingers. “Unless . . . maybe Dawn was with him, and she's been murdered, too.”

“I suppose that's something the police will look into,” Rachel said, though she doubted it. The most logical answer was that Dawn had simply gotten tired of putting up with her boyfriend's abuse and gone back to where she'd come from. But . . . could they have had a lover's quarrel that ended in Willy's violent death? Maybe the waitress and her jealous boyfriend should be suspects. Rachel nibbled at her bottom lip. She'd have to start taking notes so she could keep all the possibilities straight in her mind.

“You can put the goodies in there with all the others,” Ell said with another wave. “People have been coming by and dropping things off all day.” She walked out from behind the counter. “Wait, I can do it for you. Ada made these, right?”

Rachel nodded. “You wouldn't want them if I'd baked them.”

Ell chuckled as she took the tray. “I just made coffee. I want to get one of these before the customers zoom in on them.”

“Busy?”

Ell rolled her eyes. “You know it! Business has doubled since . . . well . . . since they found him. It's all anyone wants to talk about. Like, like maybe your uncle didn't do it, and there's a murderer stalking the valley. I . . . oh! Take this!” She handed the tray of cinnamon rolls back to Rachel, turned away, and sneezed. “Sorry.” She pulled a tissue out of her tunic pocket and blew her nose. “I swear I'm allergic to that dog.”

“Impossible.” George came down the curved steps, followed by a plump, white fifteen-pound dog that looked very much like a miniature poodle. The dog barked, a high-pitched yip-yip-yip that pierced Rachel's eardrums. “The bichon frise was bred to be hypoallergenic.”

Ell cut her eyes at George. “ ‘It is important to note that human sensitivity to dog fur, dander, and saliva varies considerably. Although hair, dander, and saliva can be minimized, inhaling the allergens, or being licked by the dog, can trigger a reaction in a sensitive person.' And I quote,” she said, “Wikipedia.”

Rachel chuckled as she placed the tray of rolls on a pillar that had once been the station of a uniformed ticket taker. She extended her arms to hug George. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks sunken, and his signature smile was missing under his ball cap. “I'm so sorry,” she murmured as she embraced him.

“Rachel, Rachel.” He held her for an instant before releasing her. “I still can't believe it, you know.” He shook his head. “I was worried, naturally, but I kept expecting the phone to ring and Willy's voice to boom out on the other end. I thought . . . anytime now, I'll look up, and he'll come walking through the stacks. But he won't. He's gone, Rachel.” George's voice broke. “He's all I had, and . . . he's really gone.”

“I can't imagine what you're going through,” Rachel said. George smelled faintly of Calvin Klein cologne, and his button-down shirt and tie were fresh and unwrinkled. His clean white hair was knotted at the back of his neck in the style of another age. But then George had always insisted that this wasn't his century—he was better suited to the life of a Victorian gentleman.

Sophie bounced up and down, her razor-like nails scratching Rachel's shins through her jeans. She tried to ignore the assault.

“Stop that, Sophie,” George ordered. “Behave yourself.” Sophie kept barking and bouncing until Ell broke off a tiny corner of cinnamon bun and tossed it on the marble floor tiles. Immediately, Sophie abandoned the attack and went after the crumb of food.

“She's so spoiled,” George apologized. “Willy always said she was spoiled rotten. He never took to her.”

“Took to her?” Ell made a face. “He
hated
her. Used to say he was going to wring her neck.”

George blanched, as if speaking so of his brother cut him deeply. “My fault, I admit it. We were never allowed to have pets, growing up, and now that I can, I'm hopeless as a disciplinarian.”

“Maybe obedience classes would help,” Rachel suggested.

“Boot camp,” Ell put in. “Definitely doggy boot camp. We could ship her out to California to the Dog Whisperer. He'd whip her into shape.”

Three teenagers entered, and one of the girls called out to Ell, “Did my book come in?”

“I think so. 'Scuse me, Rachel. Duty calls.” Ell hurried back to the desk.

“I don't want to bother you,” Rachel said to George. “I know this is a terrible time for you, but I wanted to come by and . . . say hi.”

“I was just going to make a pot of tea,” he said. “Join me, please.” He led the way into the huge room that housed the books. Most of the original seating had been removed to make space for the tables and shelves, but groups of two or three remained scattered about. At the far end, on what had been the stage, heavy drapes framed a comfortable reading area with sofas, easy chairs, and a self-serve coffee bar. Ell was right. People had been coming all day. A table groaned under the weight of coffee cakes, cookies, pies, brownies, and plates of homemade candy. Rachel counted two coconut cakes, a pineapple upside-down cake, and three chocolate cakes.

Teresa Ridley, Ell's mother, was the only customer in the reading lounge. She was seated at one of the small tables in the back corner, pretending to be engrossed in a mystery. Rachel wasn't convinced that Teresa was all that interested in her book because her reading glasses were perched on her forehead. Teresa had a reputation for being a loner.

Rachel put on her innkeeper smile and offered a cheerful “Hi.”

Teresa returned a tepid greeting and gathered her purse and a pile of crumpled tissues. Leaving the novel on the table, she murmured regrets to George and made an awkward retreat. As she passed, Rachel noticed that she looked as if she'd been crying, too. If Willy's death had upset the unflappable Teresa Ridley to the point of tears, it had certainly knocked Stone Mill for a loop.

Rachel offered to make the tea, but George insisted that she was his guest. “It gives me something to do with my hands,” he said. “Otherwise, I'm afraid I'd have to take up smoking or something. I just seem so . . . so out of sorts.” He sighed. “It still doesn't seem real. I can't believe it. I saw . . .” He swallowed. “Saw his remains . . . but I still can't accept it.” He looked up from measuring tea into a white porcelain teapot. “All these months, I hoped . . . And now . . .” His voice trailed off.

Rachel felt so bad for him that her chest actually ached. “George, I don't know who could have done such a thing, but it wasn't my Uncle Aaron. You know that, right?” She took a seat at one of the café-style tables.

George raised a hand to his forehead and absently rubbed his temple. “I'm so sorry about that. Aaron wouldn't do such a thing. He couldn't. He's a stern man, your uncle, but not a vengeful man. He couldn't have killed Willy.”

“I'm glad to hear you say you believe in Uncle Aaron's innocence. He couldn't have murdered anyone. He doesn't even butcher his own pigs. Sends them all to Reuben's and picks them up all wrapped neatly in paper bundles marked
pork chops
and
sausage
.” It wasn't until the words were out of her mouth that she realized how insensitive they sounded; his
brother
had been butchered. Fortunately, George didn't seem to be offended; in fact, it seemed as if he had barely heard her.

He removed a little carton of half-and-half from a small refrigerator and carried that to the table. Honey and a bowl of raw sugar were already there. “Do you want that artificial stuff? I have it, but not many people—”

“No. I like mine with honey,” she said. The container was a plain pint-size canning jar with a bee sticker that read
Fresh Local Honey
on the side. She recognized the container; the honey had been collected from hives in her sister Annie's backyard. Rachel sold the honey in her shop, and they used it exclusively in the kitchen at Stone Mill House.

“I know I've got arrangements to make.” George took a chair across from her. “But I haven't had the heart to start. McCloud's, of course. They've buried the O'Days since . . . well . . . for a long, long time.” Sophie began to whine, and George lifted the dog into his lap, where she curled up, tucked her nose under her paws, and closed her eyes. “The trouble is,” George said as he scratched behind the bichon's ears, “I don't know how long before the authorities will release the . . .” He swallowed again, and moisture glistened in his eyes. “The remains.”

“I don't know, either,” Rachel said. “I could ask, if you like . . . if it would help. Evan might know.”

“Yes, your young man. He might know.”

“Oh, he isn't . . .” she began, and then decided to let the subject of Evan drop. No need to go into a detailed explanation of the relationship between her and Evan Parks, a relationship that was . . . well . . . complicated. Was he her boyfriend or not? They were certainly friends . . . but maybe more. “I'll see what I can find out,” she promised.

“I'd be grateful.” George stroked the dog in his lap. “Sophia Lazzaro's all I have now. Aren't you?” he crooned. He looked up at Rachel again. “Willy and I lost our parents when we were young. A train wreck. They were vacationing in Europe.”

“I'm so sorry,” Rachel said. “I didn't know that.”

“It was a long time ago.” He sighed and stroked Sophie's head. “A maiden aunt raised us. She loved us, in her own way, but Aunt Helen had never considered marriage nor wanted children. She'd wanted to join a cloistered order of Catholic nuns, Order of the Most Blessed Virgin Mary, in Philadelphia. As you can imagine, a pair of boys were a great trial to her.”