Murder Freshly Baked Read online

  He was later glad for those few quiet moments, as the day grew more chaotic than usual with each passing moment. His phone chirped when he’d covered less than half the distance to the Village—a text from Amber, asking him to stop by her office first thing. Once he was there, she told him and Elizabeth about the previous night’s excitement.

  “How long will the bakery be closed?” Elizabeth asked. She was older, competent, and reminded Preston of a cross between his commanding officer and his grandmother.

  “I’m hoping to open it back up first thing tomorrow, but I’ll have to hear from the police department before that happens.”

  “Any idea why this person is picking the Village bakery to harass?” Preston sipped the coffee Elizabeth had handed him and considered what he could do to help the situation, but nothing came to mind.

  “None. Why even warn someone that you’re going to poison them? It all makes no sense.”

  “Unless they’re doing it for the drama.” Elizabeth removed her glasses, little reading cheaters that were attached to a jeweled chain, and cleaned them with the hem of her blouse. “Whoever this is wants attention. They’re not doing it in secret. Maybe they enjoy the limelight.”

  “I hope they enjoy a jail cell, because that’s where they’re going to end up.” Amber drummed her fingers against the top of her desk. “I suppose that didn’t sound very charitable, but I’m completely frustrated with this entire situation. I’ve phoned the Village owners, and they have offered any resources we need, even suggesting we could hire private security personnel.”

  “To guard the pies?” Elizabeth donned her glasses and stared at Amber over the tops of them.

  “Exactly. Every aspect of this threat is ludicrous. I told them we’d think about it, but at this time it doesn’t feel necessary.” Amber sat back, sipped her coffee, and then focused her gaze on Preston. “Pam was here late, so I told her you could handle this morning alone.”

  “No problem.”

  “But I still want you out of here by two.”

  “Not necessary. I can call Tomas and—”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Mocha’s coming today, Preston. We’re not going to let a poison freak who indulges in bad poetry ruin this day.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.” Amber shared a smile with Elizabeth. “This is a new beginning, Preston.”

  “I never thought of myself as a dog person.”

  “I never thought I’d be running an Amish Village.”

  “And I certainly didn’t expect to still be working well into my sixties.” Elizabeth stood and picked up the empty coffee mugs. “Turns out I actually enjoy my job. A rare thing if you believe what you read in the paper. As far as the dog, never discount what God can do through his creatures. Be glad he didn’t send you a donkey.”

  It was with that image that Preston went about his morning work, muttering, “A dog. God is going to solve my problems by sending me a dog?” Could be worse, he supposed, just as Elizabeth had suggested. What if he had a service donkey that followed him everywhere? Like Balaam’s donkey, perhaps it could warn him when he was about to encounter an angel. The thought lightened his mood. Suddenly it didn’t seem to be such a huge deal that he’d agreed to take ownership of one yellow Labrador.

  He spent the next six hours attending to minor emergencies, directing projects by the maintenance crew, and preparing the bakery to reopen the next day. The police had called Amber and okayed removing the crime scene tape, though they warned her that the forensic results were still not back. That was the only detail she shared, but Preston knew she was relieved to be able to reopen. She was preparing an announcement to put in the local paper, post on the door of the bakery, and put in customer bags.

  Preston was so focused on moving quickly from one task to another that he barely noticed the lunch hour, pausing long enough to grab a vitamin drink from the lunchroom vending machine. Then the alarm on his phone was ringing, reminding him that it was nearly two. It was time to go home and accept delivery of his dog.

  Though he’d met Mocha the day before, this felt different. This was at his home, on his turf, and it was permanent. Preston and Zoey sat on the front porch and watched the small SUV make its way down the lane. “ICAN” was painted on the side with large blue letters.

  Zoey reached over and squeezed his hand.

  “Nervous?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “This is a wonderful day, Preston. I’m proud of you.”

  He started to ask her why, what had he possibly done to merit her praise, but then Tomas was pulling in front of the house. He opened the car door, walked around to the back, and opened the hatchback. Now that the car was closer, Preston could see there was a wire mesh separating the two front seats from the back. He supposed when you regularly transported animals, you made adjustments to your vehicle.

  Tomas called to Mocha. She jumped out, shook herself thoroughly, and followed him to the porch.

  Preston made the introductions.

  Zoey shook hands with Tomas and then knelt in front of Mocha. “You’re a beautiful girl.” She reached out and ran her hand from the top of Mocha’s blonde head down her back. The dog panted appreciatively, but for the most part she kept her warm brown eyes on Preston.

  And he could feel it.

  As crazy as it sounded, he could feel the connection between them, like a rope that tethered them together. Was that possible after only one afternoon together? A part of his heart that he’d kept guarded for a very long time opened up when he looked into Mocha’s patient gaze.

  His life was filled with complicated things. His past in Afghanistan. His time living on the streets. Even his feelings for Zoey. When he looked at Mocha, when he reached down and settled his hand on the dog’s head, he was reminded of the simplest things in life—a parent’s love, God’s goodness, and the trust and loyalty of a dog.

  “Let’s take a look around,” Tomas suggested. “I’ll walk you through some of the procedures we use to help a dog adjust to her new home.”

  Preston had carefully set out the supplies he and Zoey had purchased the night before. Using the list Tomas provided, they had purchased dog food (the healthy, expensive kind), one bowl for food and another for water, and, of course, the large, circular pet bed Zoey had chosen. Preston had argued that they should wait, that Tomas or even Mocha might change their mind. Zoey had smiled, pushed those lovely blonde curls back away from her face, and said that she liked the bed in the red plaid best.

  It was that easy for her—not when or if he would take the dog, but whether the bed should be plain, puppy print, or red plaid. Preston realized in that moment that life was easier for Zoey, probably because she met it head-on with an undying optimism. And he couldn’t blame it on the fact that she hadn’t seen battle. She fought terminal diseases, dealt with difficult families, and endured a heavy workload every day. He thought about their discussion the night before—even faced with his disabilities she was optimistic. Was it because she had an easier life? No, the difference was that Zoey had been blessed with a positive view of life, and he had been blessed with Zoey.

  They spent half an hour going over the commands Preston had learned the day before. Each time Mocha responded as she’d been taught. Each time she leveled that thoughtful gaze at him and waited expectantly. He could feel her creeping into the protected places of his heart. He could feel her becoming a part of his life.

  After they’d given Mocha time to check out the backyard and sniff around the perimeter of the house, they went inside. Mocha gobbled the food he set out and lapped appreciatively at the water. Then she glanced up at Preston, as if to say, “What’s next?”

  So they all traipsed down the hall where the red plaid bed now sat in the corner of his bedroom, the same corner he’d crouched in a few days before. The irony of that wasn’t lost on him.

  “It looks to me like you’ve done everything I asked.” They returned to the small dining room table, and
Tomas walked Preston through the paperwork.

  “You’re sure I don’t owe you anything?”

  “All remaining costs were covered through the VA grant. We’re good.” Tomas slapped him on the back and they walked out to the front porch. Tomas stood looking out over Preston’s front yard and beyond that to the Village property. “I couldn’t have envisioned a better place for Mocha.”

  “Thank you, Tomas.” Zoey stepped closer to Preston and tucked her hand inside his arm. “We know you did a lot to make this possible.”

  “I only did my job, and I’m glad to be of help. We appreciate your service to our country, Preston. If Mocha can repay even a small portion of the debt this country owes you, then I will feel like we all have a reason to celebrate.”

  He thrust his hand toward Preston, who hesitated only a moment before shaking it.

  “That’s it?” he asked. “We’re done?”

  “We are. You have my number if you have any questions. I’ll stop by once a week to see how you two are doing. Of course, I’ll text you first to make sure I’m coming at a good time.”

  “What if I . . .” Preston swallowed and started again. “What if I mess it up? What if I mess her up?”

  “That’s not going to happen, Preston. I wouldn’t leave Mocha unless I was sure you were a good match.”

  Mocha pressed against his leg, and Preston couldn’t help but lower his hand to touch the top of her head. Was she worried about him? Could she tell that his heart was beating in a triple rhythm?

  “As far as training, we went over the basic commands yesterday and again today. If you come across something you don’t know how to handle, give me a call.”

  Preston nodded. He wanted to thank him again. A part of him wanted to tell Tomas that he was overwhelmed by his trust. That he appreciated this new beginning. But Tomas was already moving toward his car, then smiling and waving as he backed up before driving away.

  If Preston expected Mocha to be distressed or look longingly after Tomas, he was mistaken. The dog turned around three times, then curled into a circle, her head on her paws, her eyes glancing occasionally at Preston.

  “It looks like you’re the proud parent of a yellow Lab.” Zoey stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. “This is good, Preston. Don’t look so scared.”

  “Easy for you to say.” He tried to growl, but there was a grin spreading across his face that he couldn’t stop.

  “Uh-huh. How about you feed me some lunch?”

  “Lunch?”

  “I bet you didn’t eat.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then let’s eat.”

  Preston pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on top of her head. “You want to eat?”

  “I do.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I say we take Mocha for a walk.”

  “A walk, huh?”

  “Yeah, there’s someone else who is dying to meet her.”

  Mocha looked up expectantly, as if she understood every word of what they were saying.

  “Pop’s going to love her,” Preston agreed.

  Mocha’s tail slapped a beat against the porch floor, but her eyes—they were as patient and calm as the clouds drifting lazily across the sky.

  Twenty

  Amber did not feel up to continuing her normal routine, but she was afraid any change in what she did each day might set off the person sending her the threatening notes. Yesterday had been a nightmare. Two potentially poisoned pies in the same day. Two notes declaring the poison poet’s nefarious intentions. And then the personal e-mail to her.

  The stress was beginning to take its toll, and she was having trouble hiding it from those who cared about her. Tate had quizzed her twice the evening before, finally suggesting she try a hot bath and go to bed early. Pam had left a message, telling her to call if she wanted to talk.

  She might have to avoid those she loved most until she figured this thing out. She couldn’t afford to arouse their suspicions.

  That was one of the reasons she decided to go ahead with her weekly luncheon with one of her managers. The lunches were never with a group of them. That would have ruined what she was hoping to achieve. No, the purpose of the luncheons was to spend some one-on-one time with each of the managers, to get to know them a little better, to become more of a family.

  Today’s luncheon was with Letha Keim, the manager of Village Fashions. If anyone thought it odd to have an Amish woman in charge of a clothing boutique, their doubts fled when they walked into the little store. The clothes displayed were simple, but they were not Amish. Instead Letha had an eye for dresses that were cut well, blouses that weren’t too busy but had a special accent, and pants that complimented many different shapes and sizes of women. Of late, she’d begun to add a variety of accessories—everything from jewelry to scarves to socks and shoes. Again, they weren’t plain, but they bore a marvelous simplicity and charm.

  Village Fashions and Letha Keim were a bright spot in the Village shops—but then all of the shops had been quite successful. Amber daily thanked the Lord for her group of managers and their workers. Together they made a prosperous and productive team.

  The Village bakery had reopened late morning, and both the bakery and the restaurant were busier than ever. Amber and Letha stood outside the main building, watching the crowd of folks come and go.

  “How about we head to town?” Amber asked. “We could eat at that small coffee shop in the back of the furniture store.”

  “Ya, gut idea. They make delicious sandwiches.”

  So they climbed into Amber’s little red car and motored the few blocks to the downtown area. The sky had turned cloudy and rain was predicted, but at the moment it was merely a cool spring day. Coffee and a hot sandwich sounded perfect to Amber.

  Letha wasn’t as shy as most Amish women. She wasn’t small, but neither was she particularly large—she was what Amber’s mom would have called sturdy. Little about Letha was what a stranger would expect to see in the Amish. She was outspoken and had a quick sense of humor. Though in her early forties, she had never married. And her dress—well, it surprised even Amber. Though she stayed within the conventions set by the local Ordnung, she always managed to wear something slightly unconventional.

  “Cute socks.” Amber stirred creamer into her coffee and smiled at Letha.

  “These?” Letha stuck her foot out from under the booth where they were sitting. She was wearing tennis shoes, fairly common among Amish women, but her socks were white athletic anklets embroidered around the top with spring flowers. “I’m carrying these in the shop now. Aren’t they fantastic?”

  Part of the reason Amber had made Letha manager of Village Fashions over five years ago was that the woman had an excellent eye for what would be popular. Amber had no doubt that she’d soon see guests sporting embroidered athletic socks.

  As she sipped her coffee and relaxed in the cozy atmosphere of the coffee shop, Amber felt the weight of stress she’d been carrying slip away. “You enjoy your job, don’t you, Letha?”

  “What’s not to enjoy? I get to order things with the Village money, and we all know women love to shop. My job—it’s like shopping all day long.” She reached into her purse, a Vera Bradley bag covered with bright spring flowers. “Have I shown you the new lipsticks?”

  She pulled out a small tube imprinted with a designer logo. Amber took the lipstick and studied it. The label claimed the lipstick contained aloe and sunscreen and was lemon flavored.

  “It’s available in a variety of light tints.”

  “It was a smart move to begin carrying a few cosmetics.”

  “Ya, and Amish women can wear this as well as Englisch.”

  “Lipstick?” Amber peered over her steaming coffee. “I’m skeptical.”

  “Because you don’t understand our ways—not completely. Makeup is forbidden, but this is a lightly colored cream good for the protection of lips from exposure to the sun. I researched it before purch
asing. Our bishop can’t possibly have a problem with it, especially since we’ve had two instances of skin cancer in the last year—one that was on the lips.”

  The girl at the counter, a friend of Hannah’s if Amber wasn’t mistaken, called out their names. They suspended their conversation while Amber picked up their grilled sandwiches and Letha collected napkins and refilled their coffee mugs. After pausing for a moment of silent prayer, Amber bit into her ham and cheese on rye and nearly groaned.

  “Gut, ya? ” Letha smiled over her BLT.

  “It is. Nearly as good as what we make at the Village.”

  “We have a gut restaurant.”

  “And bakery,” Amber reminded her. “Georgia and Stanley see to that.”

  “Those two make a pair. Georgia’s domain is the bakery and Stanley’s is the restaurant—and never the two shall meet!”

  “Two strong personalities, that is for certain.”

  “Don’t admit to Stanley you like the sandwiches here. He’s convinced he operates the best restaurant in a hundred miles—says we’ll be having bigger crowds than the Blue Gate soon.”

  “He’s enthusiastic about his job, but I believe there are enough tourists for our Village here in Middlebury and the Blue Gate in Shipshe.”

  “Ya, many eat lunch at one and dinner at the other.” Letha wagged a finger at her. “A highlight of coming to Amish country is enjoying the food.”

  They both savored their meal for a few moments before resuming their conversation.

  Pushing away her plate, Letha stood and refilled their coffee mugs once more from the containers by the sandwich bar.

  “Decaf for me this time,” Amber called out. The last thing she needed was caffeine-induced jitters all afternoon.

  When Letha returned to the table, she slipped the tube of lipstick back into her purse.

  “So you seem to like walking on the line of what is allowed. Am I right, or am I imagining that?”