Plain Murder (9 page)

“Millie was my daughter,” Blanche explained. “She was a good girl, meant to take care of me. Always used to help out, pay my phone bill, pay something on the electric. She promised that I'd have her business if her heart gave out. Millie had a bad heart for years. Had four bypasses and more stents than you can count. It was too big, her heart.”

“Uncle Steve—that was her husband,” Chelsea explained. Still talking, she wandered into the kitchen and returned with a can of soda. “Third husband. Uncle Steve tried to sue the crook after Aunt Millie died, but you know, money talks. A judge threw it out of court; said it didn't matter if he was her husband, not if it was spelled out in the will. Not if his name wasn't on anything. Said she could do what she wanted with her estate. Said she could leave it to her cat, if she wanted to. She didn't even have a cat.”

“But to give it to Willy and not her own mother? I still don't believe it,” Blanche said.

Millie's romance with Willy O'Day had been common knowledge in Stone Mill, but no one had expected her to die in the middle of heart surgery. Afterward, public opinion had changed, elevating Millie, the newly deceased, as an innocent woman lured into a relationship by a Romeo.

“I guess you could call Steve a husband,” Blanche went on. “But Millie knew he was two-timin' her. She never intended Steve to have any of her money. He took enough when she was alive. He wasn't worth the powder it would take . . . well, you know.” She grimaced. “She never would have stayed with him if she'd lived. Lazy, he was. Always had big ideas. But at least he wasn't a thief.”

“So your daughter left her estate to Willy?” Rachel asked. She had no idea. She didn't think anyone in town did. “I suppose Steve had reason to dislike Willy O'Day then?”

“Dislike him?” Chelsea laughed. “More like hated his guts.”

Rachel nodded sympathetically. “Did you think about suing Willy?”

Blanche pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bathrobe pocket. “Smoke?” she offered.

“No, thanks.” Rachel shook her head.

“Thought about it.”

“Gran was afraid that O'Day would evict her if she did,” Chelsea said. “It's not so easy to find a place in this valley to put a double-wide.”

Blanche lit her cigarette and took a long drag. “He warned me against trying, Willy did. Steve had asked me, but I never put much truck in lawsuits. And the judge had already told Steve that Millie could do what she pleased. All I've got is this place. It's not much, but it's mine. It puts a roof over my head, my granddaughter's, and my great-grandson's. I'm not messing with what I've got.”

A pregnant tabby cat padded into the living room from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. It walked over and rubbed against Chelsea's ankle. “She's expecting kittens. Maybe you'd want one? The tom's longhaired. Her last kittens were pretty.”

“No, thanks. Already have a cat. Did Willy seem worried?” Rachel asked. “The last time you saw him? Different in any way?”

“No,” Blanche answered. “Same as always. Banging on the door, hand out for the cash money like every month. Always stood in my living room and counted out every dollar.”

“And he collected from every home here in”—Rachel tried to keep a straight face—“Park Estates?”

“Every single trailer. You'd better be home when he came around, too.”

“I'd like to speak to your neighbors. Do you think they'd talk to me?” Rachel asked as she rose to her feet.

“Some might,” Blanche said. “Wonder what Willy did to that Amish man to cause him to kill him?”

“I heard he shot him,” Chelsea said.

“I don't think the police have released the cause of death,” Rachel replied. “But the Amish man didn't do it. The Amish are nonviolent.”

“Supposed to be,” Blanche said. “But I hear there's a lot of abuse in those families. The men are the head of the house, you know. The women don't dare say a word to them.”

“A few,” Rachel admitted, “but not nearly as many as Englishers—the
non
-Amish,” she corrected. “The majority are really good people. God-fearing and gentle.”

“That's what they'd like you to think,” Blanche said. She puffed again on her cigarette and blew smoke at the cat. “Nasty-looking, if you ask me, all that face hair. I always liked a clean-shaven man. My Art shaved every day. You remember your grandfather?” she asked Chelsea. “A fine-looking man.”

“Yeah,” her granddaughter agreed. “He used to take me fishing when I was little.”

Rachel moved toward the door, carefully avoiding the cat and the scattered toys. Justin rolled onto his back, and she got a strong whiff of the ripe diaper. “Thank you for your time,” she said. “I appreciate it.” She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “One more question. Do you know of anyone who disliked Willy enough to want him dead?”

Blanche snickered. “Who didn't? Half the folks in this valley, sweetie, and everybody in this sinkhole of a trailer park for certain.”

As she made her way down the muddy path from Blanche's trailer, Rachel heard her cell phone ring. She'd deliberately left it in her car. Now, she opened the door and retrieved it. The call was from Evan. She was tempted to answer, but she wanted to talk to more residents here in Park Estates. What if Evan asked where she was? She didn't want to lie to him . . . but she knew he would disapprove of her being here.

She placed the phone gingerly on the seat. If she didn't talk to him, he couldn't ask, and she wouldn't have to tell him she was snooping around. She ignored two dogs tailing her, in hopes of more snacks probably, and started for the next trailer.

If she found out anything important, naturally she'd tell the police. She didn't want to cause a problem. She wanted to right an impending wrong, and arresting Uncle Aaron for killing someone—even unlikeable Willy O'Day—would be as wrong as you could get.

Being raised Amish, she'd heard from the time she was a toddler that God has a plan, that everything that happens is meant to be. If Uncle Aaron was arrested, the conservative Amish would believe that that was part of God's mysterious plan.

She wasn't Amish anymore. She didn't know exactly what she believed, but she didn't believe God meant for her uncle to be charged with a murder he didn't commit. So on this matter, she and her family would have to agree to disagree.

That didn't mean that the Amish weren't still blood and bone of her body. She shared their history, their customs, and their language. And she loved her family and friends with every ounce of her being. Being rejected by some of the Plain folk hurt. Having her own mother refuse to speak directly to her caused her grief every time it happened. But it didn't lessen the ties she felt to her mother, and it didn't make her doubt her mother's deep love for her. If Esther Mast kept herself apart from her daughter, it wasn't for lack of caring. It was because she cared so much for Rachel's soul and wanted to bring her back to the faith.
Mam
and Uncle Aaron had always been close. Perhaps helping him would help breach the gap that had opened between them all.

With renewed vigor and determination, Rachel approached the next single-wide, a yellow Royal Crest model. The chrome
R
and
C
were missing, so that it actually read
oyal rest
. However, unlike the majority of the other homes, someone had made the effort to
spruce up
the tiny yard with crockery flowerpots full of early-blooming marigolds, seven brightly painted cement gnomes, and a collection of white wooden rabbits holding orange wooden carrots. There was also a four-foot-high blue plastic windmill with yellow blades that spun merrily in the breeze.

There was no vehicle in front of the trailer, but muddy tracks showed that there had been one there recently. Homemade cement stepping stones set with bits of colored glass led to a side door and a small stoop. This one bore a fresh coat of white paint. A plaque proclaimed,
The Blatts—Lil & Bill,
and just beneath it, a smaller sticker read,
Warning! House Guarded by Attack Cat!
Rachel knocked.

There was no answer. She knocked again, harder. Again, she was rewarded only by silence. “Hello!” she called. “Mrs. Blatt? Is anyone home?”

“They're not there!”

Rachel turned around to see Chelsea's face at one of the windows of Blanche's trailer. “They went to visit their daughter in Harrisburg! Home next week, I think!”

“Oh, thank you,” Rachel answered, disappointed. She was curious to see what Bill and Lil were like. The gnomes intrigued her. And, of course, she wanted to see if they had any information about Willy's last day.

Rachel retreated past the row of rabbits and the round-eyed stares of the gnomes to the main and only street. The next space was empty, and the one after that contained one of the ruined trailers, but across the drive was a promising prospect, a green single-wide with a tiny bit of close-cropped grass and a five-inch-high picket fence. There were no flowerpots, gnomes, or windmills, but there didn't seem to be any dogs tied outside, either.

As she crossed the road, she could hear her cell ringing again. Evan was nothing if not persistent. The thought that he might have news about Uncle Aaron rose to worry her, but she was already approaching the mobile home. She'd try this one and then leave. She'd have to return later to question Bill and Lil. She could try the other residents then.

Here, at least, there was an older-model VW Bug parked in front, and the Bug had tags that were current. Maybe someone was home here.

A stack of concrete blocks formed the steps. Rachel took them gamely, opened the storm door, and knocked. There was silence within. “Hello?” she called. She rapped harder, waited a good two minutes, and then conceded defeat.

Retreating, head high, she returned to her Jeep, got in, and inserted the key in the ignition. Her trusty motor purred, and she drove to the far end of the drive and turned around in front of the Dumpster. As she steered the vehicle slowly through the ruts toward the access road, she glanced back at the trailer with the VW in the driveway. She saw the distinct movement of a curtain.

A prickling at the back of her neck seconded what her eyes told her. The trailer wasn't empty. And someone was watching her, now, as she drove away . . . someone who didn't want to talk to her.

 

Rachel stopped at Wagler's Grocery for two gallons of organic milk and two pints of heavy whipping cream. Wagler's was an institution in Stone Mill, and although she ordered paper goods, cleaning supplies, and dish and laundry detergents online, she did as much of her day-to-day food shopping here as possible. Ed and Polly carried a full line of fresh and canned vegetables and fruits, cereals, baked goods, candy, bread, meat, and assorted sundries. The store was a little higher priced than the chain supermarkets in the larger towns, but most of Stone Mill, Amish and Englishers alike, preferred to support local businesses. Plus, Wagler's was only a few blocks from home.

Rachel added three pounds of butter and a dozen lemons to her cart and wheeled it into the checkout line. Naturally, she knew most of the customers in the store on a first name basis, including the teenage boy at the register. They all were buzzing about Willy's death and her uncle's questioning, and Rachel had to field questions, trying hard not to give away any information while not offending anyone. She waited until she was back at Stone Mill House and was pulling into the driveway before she called Evan back.

“Hi,” she said when he picked up. “I thought you were on duty today.” She drove to the carriage shed and parked the Jeep.

“Clearing up some old files at the station. Where have you been? I left two messages.”

“Just got back from Wagler's,” she said. Her mother was probably right. She
was
going to hell. She might not be lying, but this was
way
too close. “Have you heard anything about Uncle Aaron? Is he going to be arrested?” She scooped up her groceries and started for the back door.

“Haven't heard anything.”

They were both quiet for a second.

“Anyway, the reason I was calling,” Evan said, “was to see if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight. I thought maybe we could drive over to Huntingdon and eat at that Italian place you like, the one with the huge salads and the great antipasto.”

She groaned. “Can't. High tea this afternoon and a meeting of the fund-raising committee for the Historical Preservation Society tonight.”

“You can't skip the meeting?”

“Sorry. Wish I could, but it's here.” She swung open the back door and blocked Bishop's escape with one foot. “Plus, I've got two couples coming in this evening after five. Can I take a rain check?”

“Sure.” He sounded disappointed. “But I have to work through the weekend. How about Monday night?”

“Maybe. But I'm not sure they're open on Mondays. I'm really sorry. Why don't you go tonight anyway? Take your mom.”

Now it was Evan who groaned. “I'm not
that
desperate. We'll try for next week, but don't say I didn't ask.”

“Sorry. Our schedules don't seem to be in sync.” She dropped the bags on the counter. Lemons rolled out of one, bounced, and rolled across the floor. Bishop yowled and flew out of the room, his tail fluffed into a bottlebrush.

Evan chuckled. “Sounds like you're trying to kill your cat.”

“Tried. Failed. Again.” They shared a laugh together, both knowing how absolutely devoted she was to the spoiled Siamese. “You're welcome to come to our meeting,” she offered.

“Not
that
desperate, either. Dinner out with my mother sounds better.”

She smiled. “Hey, any word on the notebook that was found on Willy's body?”

“Nope.”

“The letters. They seem familiar. Like I've seen them before,” she said. “But I can't think where.”

“Well, let me know if you think of it. At this point, anything would be helpful.”

“Right.” She picked up one of the lemons and tossed it in the air and caught it again. “What else was in Willy's pockets?”

“His wallet with the credit cards. All accounted for. But no cash. George confirmed that he carried his cash in his front pocket with a rubber band around it.”

“And nothing else, huh?”

“Nope. You're pretty nosy.”

Rachel set the lemon on the counter. She thought about telling Evan what she'd been up to, but she decided not to. “That's me,” she said. “Always nosing in other people's business.”

“Well, I better go,” he said.

“Sorry about dinner.”

“Later.”

 

Thursday night was so busy that Rachel didn't get a moment to herself until after nine, too late to try to find Dawn Clough in Florida. The committee meeting had gone all right. At least, Ada's sandwiches and cherry scones had been a hit.

It would have been better if the members had been able to agree on anything, anything at all, but they hadn't. Plans for a Christmas house tour were still in the works without any decisions made, since George, who was serving as president of the Society, was absent. The tour was his idea, and so far, George and Hulda were the only residents, besides herself, who'd agreed to open their houses to visitors.

George had also been writing a self-guided tour of the valley, with stops at various historical sites, including a Revolutionary War skirmish site and a farmhouse that had been on the Underground Railroad. He also wanted to include a cave that had been used by Native Americans for thousands of years and was now being excavated by state archeologists. George had said at the last meeting that the map and text were almost ready, but again, without his input, there wasn't much they could do. The one conclusion that the committee did reach was that Stone Mill House was the best place to hold the general meeting next month.

They also decided unanimously that Rachel should take over the bookkeeping for the committee. She didn't mind. With her business background and their small budget, it wouldn't be hard. She picked up the ledger she'd been given and set it on the table. The hardest thing was going to be reconciling years of—

She glanced at the ledger. Reconciling . . . She picked up her cell. Evan answered on the second ring. “Accounts to be reconciled,” she said.

“What?”

“I'm sorry, were you asleep?”

“No,” he said, but he sounded drowsy. “In bed, reading.”

“The letters in Willy's notebook, ‘A.T.B.R.' Accounts to be reconciled. That might be what it means.”

“Accounts to be reconciled,” he repeated. “Okay. Exactly what does that mean?”

“If you reconcile an account, you double-check numbers, make sure all the columns add up. That sort of thing. It's like a final accounting.”

He was quiet on the other end.

“Does that make sense?” she asked. “I mean, what was under the heading?”

“I don't know. I didn't see inside the notebook. The detective just mentioned the letters. He was thinking out loud, I guess. Wondered if any of us knew what it meant.”

“Well, I could be wrong. I just wanted to tell you because it came to me that that might be what it meant. You know, Willy being a money man.”

“Well, thanks. I'll mention it to the detective.”

“You have dinner with your mom?'

“I did.”

They talked for another five minutes and then Rachel let him go.

 

Friday morning was hectic, but Mary Aaron arrived early, and breakfast went off smoothly. Mary Aaron packed new orders for the craft co-op, and she had everything ready to go when the parcel truck arrived for pickup. Together, Rachel and Mary Aaron cleared away the dining room things while Ada and Minnie took care of housekeeping.