Murder Tightly Knit Page 12

  “I can read you as easily as Mamm reads a quilt pattern.”

  “Oh.”

  “So spill. What’s on your mind?”

  He and Susan had grown closer over the last few years. Was that one of the blessings from Andrew’s absence? He’d never thought of it that way before. Watching his sister in the glow of the flashlight, he realized he could count it as a blessing. What might have been evil, God had used for good. Despite the six-year age difference, they’d pulled together to help out their parents. They’d pulled together to bind the hole in their family caused by Andrew’s move.

  “Why are you up so late?” Turning the question back on her usually worked. Jesse sat back and rubbed his stomach. He probably should have stopped at the one roll.

  Susan shrugged. “Thinking about the luncheon and Andrew being home and Owen’s funeral.” This last part was a whisper.

  “People die, Susan. It’s the way of things, and it’s not for us to question why.”

  “People don’t die that way, Jesse. So don’t get all big bruder on me.” She smiled at him as she drained the last of the milk from her glass.

  Jesse held up his hands, palms out. “I was just saying.”

  “Uh-huh. I heard that Naomi isn’t doing so well.”

  “Where—”

  “Everyone was talking about it. If you weren’t so focused on Hannah, you might have noticed.” She rubbed her finger around the rim of the glass. “Naomi was counting on Owen’s help. She thought he’d returned home for good. Now she’s back to raising all those kids alone.”

  “Her husband is still around. He hasn’t died recently, has he?” He gave her a wink to let her know he was joking.

  “Ya. I hear you. But Jonas is not much help around the house, and he doesn’t make any money. His disabilities—” She shook her head, causing her hair to fall forward. “The cancer treatments leave him very weak. Though the docs say he’s free of it, his recovery will take some time. And then he’s so much older than Naomi. You can stop looking at me that way. I’m only repeating what everyone else is saying.”

  “Perhaps that is a habit you shouldn’t get into.”

  “Do you practice sounding like Dat, or does it come natural?”

  “Natural, I think.”

  “That’s not all I heard. I also heard Naomi received a box.”

  “What kind of box?”

  Susan shrugged. “Is there more than one kind? It was a box. Anyway, it had a note in it and money.”

  When she’d told him what the note said, Jesse sat back and stared at her.

  “Does she think it was from the killer?”

  “The police do. They took everything—box, money, and note. Said it might have clues or fingerprints on it.”

  “Huh.” Jesse scratched his head. Now he was wishing he’d drunk coffee instead of milk. He felt sluggish from the calories, and his eyes were stinging, a clear sign that he should be in bed. He couldn’t seem to wake enough to take in all that Susan was saying.

  She crossed her arms and leaned forward onto the table. “So everyone’s saying he must be Amish.”

  “The killer?”

  “Who else?”

  “That’s narrisch. Amish aren’t violent, Susan. We don’t solve our problems that way.”

  “You have to admit the note sounded Amish. ‘When life ends, it is complete.’ That’s an Amish saying for sure.”

  “A saying anyone could read in one of the thousands of books lining shelves in the stores in town. Many Englischers are fascinated with our lifestyle.”

  “True, someone could have read it in a book. But what about the rest of the note? Who ever heard of a killer praying for his victim’s wife? Sounds like an Amish man with a guilty conscience.”

  Jesse considered that for a moment but then shook his head. “We’re not preppers. The note said something about how she should prepare, right?”

  Susan nodded.

  “We don’t do that. We work hard and trust the rest to Gotte.”

  “We have storerooms,” she argued.

  “Sure, but it’s nothing like what survivalists keep. I . . . um . . . saw one of those television shows once. Day of Reckoning Preppers or something like that.”

  “Doomsday Preppers? You watched Doomsday Preppers on television?”

  “Ya. I did have a rumspringa.”

  “For a week or two, that I remember. It was the shortest rumspringa I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Are you planning something longer?”

  Susan’s cheeks reddened—he could tell even in the dim light.

  “Nein, but I wouldn’t mind trying a few things before I settle down.”

  “Like?”

  “Clothes. Maybe a phone.” Susan tapped her finger against the milk glass. “And you’re changing the subject. Don’t think I don’t notice when you do that, because I do.”

  Jesse laughed, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “I thought I was being subtle.”

  “Like the sound of an ax on firewood.”

  They stood and carried their plates and glasses to the sink, rinsing them out and leaving them there for washing in the morning.

  They were out of the kitchen and starting up the stairs when Jesse reached out and touched her arm. “Did Naomi say anything else? Did anyone see who left the box?”

  “Nein, but her youngest boy claims he heard hooves and the neigh of a horse outside—even saw the warning triangle on the back of a buggy when he peeked out the upstairs window. The oldest boy was working in the barn at the time and heard nothing. It must have been before five because Naomi was still dressing.”

  “Someone in a buggy delivered the box?”

  “Ya, and if that’s true then it almost certainly was an Amish person, probably someone from our community. Kind of creepy to think of someone out there, delivering boxes with warnings . . .”

  “And money. Don’t forget that.” Jesse patted her on the back. “Don’t worry about it, Susan. No one’s lurking in our yard waiting to attack. I don’t know why this happened, but it sounds like a personal grudge to me.”

  As he walked up the stairs and collapsed onto his bed, he found himself thanking God for that buggy. If it was a buggy, then surely Andrew wasn’t involved. As he was falling into a deep and restful sleep, he realized that had been one of his worries all along. Not that Andrew was guilty of such a thing—that wasn’t even possible. But that he’d somehow become involved with the wrong people, people capable of committing murder.

  Now he could stop worrying.

  Andrew hadn’t driven the buggy since he’d been home. All that time with the Englisch, he’d probably forgotten how. And then there was the night Jesse had followed him. A car had picked him up, not a buggy.

  Perhaps his brother was involved in something he shouldn’t be, but he wasn’t involved in the murder of Owen Esch. For that, Jesse was more than grateful.

  Nineteen

  His guilty conscience bothered him less each day. He woke Monday morning refreshed and feeling more rested than he had since the incident. That was how he thought of it now—an incident that should have been avoided, could have been avoided if people would mind their own business.

  The South Bend meeting on Saturday night had confirmed some of his fears and allayed others. The police were looking into local survivalist groups. It seemed they had found out that Owen had attended a meeting. No doubt the boy had blabbed about it to the woman in the shop, Mary. He had glanced down at the phone when the boy dropped it, as he lay dying. The screen had displayed the words Mary, Cat’s Meow.

  He couldn’t know if Owen had talked to her earlier, what he had told her, or if she had shared the information with the police. Since he wasn’t yet arrested, he didn’t think so. But he couldn’t be too careful—not at this point.

  He’d taken care of Mary with a note delivered to her before he’d left town. She wouldn’t share that with the police. He knew Amish women. They stayed within the lines of the Ordnung,
even more so than men. No, she wouldn’t go to the police. They were sworn to live a life set apart, and that included handling their own problems. If she had any common sense at all, she’d forget anything Owen told her. He was certain the note would convince her to remain quiet.

  “Are your eggs all right?”

  He looked across the table at Fern. He loved her name. It reminded him of summer days spent down by the creek. He loved everything about her. She was round in the hips, soft, and caring. Certainly God had blessed him the day he’d met her. Certainly he had smiled upon them.

  “They’re fine. Danki.”

  She stood, kissed him on the cheek, and fetched the coffeepot to pour him another cup.

  He vowed then and there, looking around his house in South Bend, that he would do whatever was necessary to protect his home and his family. There was nothing wrong with that. Pacifism was fine, to a point. That point did not include losing what he’d worked for.

  The elders might not agree, but then, their lives hadn’t been threatened.

  And it was his life that was at stake here. He could lose everything, just as if a thief had entered his home in the middle of the night and stolen everything. Was he to stand by and do nothing?

  He’d prayed about it, even studied the Scriptures. What he’d found was what he’d already known in his heart—the Old Testament was filled with warriors. Joshua, Samson, Jonathan, Saul, and even David had all battled in the name of the Lord.

  He would do no less.

  Twenty

  Hannah finished her work at precisely eleven, when she’d hoped to be done. The first few months she’d been manager of A Simple Blend, she’d kept the kaffi shop closed on Mondays. About half of the shops did so. Monday was a day for restocking, setting up new displays, and taking care of paperwork.

  Seth had been assigned to help her from the very first week, and she’d come to depend on him. It helped that his mishaps were further apart. Though, the week before, he had managed to put one of their flavored syrups into the tiny freezer compartment. When he found it frozen, and someone needed it, he tried microwaving the caramel sauce, which had then exploded, causing quite the mess. To his credit, he had most of it cleaned up by the time she checked in on him.

  Yes, work was going well.

  The problem was her nagging worries over Mary. Her mother had cautioned her about falling into the habit of fretting over things out of her control. “That will rob the joy from your life faster than many other things.” But no matter how Hannah tried to change her focus, Mary kept popping up in her mind.

  What did her friend know that she wasn’t sharing?

  Why was Owen’s death affecting her so deeply?

  And why was she so frightened?

  Hannah was deep in thought, walking toward the Village parking lot, when she nearly bumped into Carol Jennings. Carol had been her boss when Hannah had worked at The Quilting Bee.

  “How are you, Hannah?”

  “Gut.” Hannah realized that was a lie and corrected herself. “Fair.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Say, I need more of those quilted lunch bags if you’ve had time to make any. They fly off my shelves.”

  “Ya, I’ve finished a dozen more. I was waiting until you needed them, but I can bring them in tomorrow.”

  “Excellent.” Carol was an older woman. Though she was Englisch, she often struck Hannah as being Amish. She was strict in an old-fashioned way, and she wore conservative, simple dresses and no jewelry except her plain gold wedding ring. Her brown hair was cut in a nice fashion just below her jawline, but she didn’t bother with dyeing the gray streaks, which accented the brown. Ash gray—was that what Hannah had heard it called? Well, no matter. Carol always looked professional and in control. Perhaps that sort of calmness came when you entered your sixties.

  “Is there anything you need, Hannah? Anything I can do? This whole disaster with the young Amish man is awful. It reminds me too much of what happened here in the spring.”

  “Ya. It is terrible, but today is the viewing and tomorrow the funeral. Perhaps once those are over . . .” Her words trailed off as she realized how foolish she sounded. Putting Owen in the ground would not answer the question of who killed him. It would not make anyone feel safer.

  Was that what she was worried about? Their need for protection? Did they need more security around the Village and on the trail? It was hard to believe their little community had come to such a sad possibility. Her confusion must have shown, because Carol lowered her voice and stepped closer.

  “Walking through the valley of the shadow of death is always difficult. Psalm 23 has been a comfort to me in the past. Take some time to read it, dear.”

  Perhaps it was the look of genuine concern, or it could have been the way Carol reached out and touched her arm compassionately. She realized then that Carol was her friend, and they’d been through much together. That was probably what gave her the courage to bring up what was bothering her. “It’s Mary I’m worried about right now.”

  “Mary Weaver?”

  “Ya.”

  “She runs a fine shop. I’m always happy to send customers over to her.”

  “Ya, but . . . something is wrong. Something she won’t talk to me about. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anything unusual.”

  “Funny that you bring up the subject. We had a breakfast meeting scheduled this morning. We do that once a month to be sure the stock we each carry complements the other’s. She missed the meeting but then stopped by later to apologize.”

  “That’s not like her, is it?”

  “Heavens, no. Mary is always quite prompt. No one’s perfect, though, and there was no harm done. We rescheduled.”

  “I see. Thank you for taking time to talk with me, Carol. It does help.”

  “You’re so welcome. Remember to bring me those quilted lunch bags.”

  She would. At first she’d hand sewn the lunch bags together with scraps of fabric left over from her mother’s quilting. More recently she’d taken to buying small swatches of fabric Carol rotated into her sales bin. Since she’d begun quilting the bags, they’d sold as fast as the shoofly pie over at the bakery. The bags provided a nice little extra income—money she could use, especially with Christmas less than three months away.

  Thoughts of Christmas cheered her a bit. She’d spied the beautiful blue-and-gray variegated yarn at The Cat’s Meow. She wanted to knit Jesse that buggy blanket, but she’d need quite a few skeins. Now she’d have the money to do so.

  As she hurried home, thoughts of quilting and knitting faded away, and she once again began to worry over Mary.

  Why had Mary missed her meeting with Carol?

  Had something else happened since yesterday afternoon?

  And what should she do about it?

  Three hours later Hannah was in the buggy with her mamm, dat, three brothers, and little Mattie. Since Mattie had been born, and with the boys growing nearly to the size of their father, they didn’t fit easily into a single buggy. However, this day it seemed appropriate to all ride together, to squeeze in and draw comfort from each other’s presence.

  They were all dressed in their sets of black clothes, even Mattie. Her little sister’s wild hair did not like to be corralled into a kapp, and some golden curls were already escaping. Hannah reached over to tuck them in, and Mattie promptly crawled into her lap.

  The boys were acting as if they were headed to a picnic, jostling one another and talking about the fish they’d caught on Saturday. One look from their father settled them down.

  “It was quite a gut catch,” Ben murmured. He was nineteen, and the younger boys looked up to him as if he could do no wrong. To be fair, he rarely did. Ben’s life consisted mostly of working and . . . working. Did he even have a girlfriend? Hannah had been so wrapped up in her own problems, she hadn’t noticed. At least she hadn’t noticed since things had cooled between him and a young girl from Shipshewana.

  “Funerals are solemn affairs.
” Their mamm spoke loud enough that they could all hear her over the rattling of the buggy. “Since Naomi only has the one day for viewing, I expect it will be quite crowded.”

  “Why didn’t she take the full three days?” Ben asked. “It’s not as if Owen is going anywhere.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful, son.” Their dat delivered the reprimand softly but firmly.

  “Nein. I was wondering, is all.”

  “The police kept the body for so long that Naomi thought it was best to have only the one day. The funeral will be tomorrow, and we’ll attend that as well.”

  When Noah began to protest with, “But I have someone coming to look at my newest litter of pups,” Eunice waved away his concerns.

  “The buyer will come again if he’s interested. We gather together and support one another during such times. Business can wait.”

  Mattie had been struggling to climb over into the front buggy seat. Eunice helped her over and then wrapped her arms around her youngest child—her surprise daughter.

  She’d explained to Hannah that pregnancies sometimes occurred when a woman was going through the change—when she thought her time of birthing was over. It was one of those situations, Eunice had said, when God had other plans.

  Hannah sat back against the buggy seat, Ben on her left, Noah and Dan on her right. She’d always thought their family was typically Amish. They spent their days as most Amish families did—farming, quilting, even raising pups. The oddest thing about them had been Dan’s fascination with the camels, but it had proven quite profitable for Manasses Hochstetler. Perhaps the two of them would start an entire industry.

  As the buggy horse clip-clopped down the lane, Hannah pulled in a deep breath and prayed that they would always remain together, as they were today. Suddenly she didn’t mind her brother’s mumbled complaints about missing out on a sale or the fact that Mattie still sucked her thumb. Would she ever abandon that practice? Did it matter? Few children sucked their thumbs by the time they began school. So why worry about it today, when Mattie was barely two years old?

  Hannah realized how fortunate she was that their family was whole, they were together, and they watched out for one another. She thanked God for that, closing her eyes and allowing the lull of the buggy to calm her nerves.