Material Witness Page 17

  “And the border on Melinda’s is the top half.”

  “What about Deborah’s quilt?”

  Deborah stood and placed hers on the opposite side. “We hadn’t thought to look until just now.”

  Melinda pulled in a deep breath. It was obvious to all five of them, the borders matched.

  “I may be the one person in this room who doesn’t know German,” Shane said.

  “No. There are two of us.” Callie knelt beside Melinda.

  “Who wants to do the translation?”

  Esther ran her hand along the border, her fingers touching each word as she read. “An industrious fraa is the best savings account.” When she reached the corner, she looked up.

  “Amish proverb?” Callie asked.

  “Ya. I remember that one from my grossmammi.” Deborah shrugged. “Not an unusual saying, but it is unusual to stitch it on a quilt.”

  “What does the other say?”

  Melinda ran her fingers down the edge in the same way Esther had, as if touching it would bestow some blessing. “A handful of patience is worth more than a bushel of brains.”

  Shane rubbed at the muscle on his neck. “I’ll be honest, ladies. I don’t see any connection. So Mrs. Hochstetler stitched Amish proverbs on the borders of her quilts. How would that be related to our murderer? Why would it be related? She must have done this sewing years ago —”

  “We’ve been able to date the oldest back to the mid-1900s.” Callie smoothed the fabric. “I understand your skepticism, Shane. It does seem like a jump from these old pieces of cloth to a madman’s quest for some unknown treasure.”

  Shane shrugged, sat in the rocking chair Melinda had vacated.

  “On the other hand, both of these quotes refer to money —”

  Shane groaned. Sitting forward, he rubbed his temples with his eyes closed, then opened them wide and focused again on the quilts. “Vaguely.”

  “We did receive them earlier this month.” Melinda wondered why that fact made her heart beat faster.

  “Less than three weeks ago, Shane.” Callie crossed her arms stubbornly. “And then Creeper appears. Coincidence?”

  “I heard from my mother two weeks ago. That doesn’t mean she’s involved in this.”

  “But Callie is involved.” Melinda was warming to the idea. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe Callie’s enthusiasm was contagious. “This man singled out Callie for a reason. What else has changed in her life during the last month, other than coming into possession of the quilts?”

  “But they’re quilts.” Shane didn’t exactly scoff at the word, but it was obvious he was out of his element.

  The four women exchanged knowing looks.

  “You tell him, Callie.” Melinda sat back on her heels.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Do you have any idea what these are worth, Shane?”

  “No. I’ve never given it much thought.”

  “I won’t divulge the financial details of people in this room —”

  “Go ahead and tell him.” Esther stood and walked to the stove in the corner. Opening the small iron door, she put in another piece of wood. “We’re all freinden here.”

  “The quilts I auctioned when I first arrived in town —”

  “The ones made by Deborah and Esther and Melinda?”

  “Yes. The ones we auctioned on eBay. They went for as much as four thousand dollars each.”

  Shane let out a whistle. “For a blanket?”

  “Ya, we were surprised too.” Melinda nodded at the memory. “The money was a big help, especially with Aaron’s medical costs.”

  “Englischers don’t view them as blankets or, in many instances, even quilts. They view them as art.” Callie motioned toward Deborah. “When we went to Chicago for the textile display, the sale price went even higher.”

  “So you think these would be worth that much?”

  “No.” Esther sat back on the couch. “These would bring a far greater price. The stitching is more detailed than what even we can do.”

  “Plus they’re antiques,” Callie explained. “It increases the value. If the seams are reinforced … The quilts have been stored in a trunk for many years, and they’ve suffered from the humidity. Quilts fare better when they’re hung.”

  “How much more could these be worth?” Shane asked.

  “I’d estimate they’re each worth thirty thousand dollars, possibly. If we’re lucky.”

  Melinda looked at Callie in surprise. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on what the quilts might be worth, what it might mean as far as Aaron’s future.

  “So we could be looking at ninety thousand dollars.” Shane covered his face with his hands as he peered out at the quilts through his fingers. “That’s not it. This guy isn’t looking for quilts. He’s looking for money. He expected you to have it in a bank account or a box somewhere. That’s pretty obvious from the way he trashed your apartment and the way he’s talked to you.”

  Deborah stood and began pacing back and forth.

  No one spoke for several minutes. Melinda found herself listening for the sound of the boys, something she did every night. She found herself listening for Aaron’s breathing. Everything remained quiet throughout the house.

  Finally Deborah returned to the middle of the room. Hands on hips, she stared down at the quilts. “Have any of you seen this design before?”

  “I haven’t,” Shane muttered.

  Callie slapped him on the arm, but he smiled, snatched her hand, and laced his fingers with hers.

  “It reminds me of something I saw on the National Quilting webpage,” Callie said. “They’re called storybook quilts. Sometimes they’re sent to schools that set up a display of quilts. Each quilt tells a story. The display includes books with each quilt, and the idea is to encourage students to read more and appreciate the history surrounding quilting.”

  “Ya, we’ve heard of storybook quilts,” Esther said.

  “But I’ve never seen one.” Melinda cocked her head.

  Deborah frowned.

  Everyone leaned forward and stared at the blocks of each quilt — four squares across and five down.

  “What if the money is hidden?” Deborah asked softly. “And what if these pictures tell us a story of sorts, a story of where the money could be found?”

  “A story?” Esther asked.

  “Oh, good grief.” Shane sank back against the couch and allowed his eyes to close.

  “Storybook quilts …” Callie began pacing again.

  Melinda had never been good at puzzles — not like Deborah and Callie. The only puzzle she’d ever cared about was the one regarding her son’s health.

  What did she need to do to help him through each day?

  Would this food bother him in some way?

  Would that food make him stronger?

  But as she gazed at the quilt squares laid out in front of them, she understood Deborah might be on to something. If she was, then it was up to Melinda to figure it out.

  She needed to figure it out, or the killer would keep attacking her son and Callie.

  She needed to figure it out, or they could all be in danger.

  Of the people in this room, she’d been closer to Mrs. Hochstetler than anyone else.

  She should be able to unravel this. Her son’s safety depended on it. She needed to focus — ignore the fear coursing through her veins, and focus.

  Deborah had been staring at the quilts, but she noticed when Melinda practically turned to stone beside her.

  “Was iss letz?”

  Melinda finally tore her eyes from the quilt.

  When she did, the desperation in her friend’s eyes nearly broke Deborah’s heart. She hadn’t forgotten what was at stake here — not exactly. But as usual, she’d become caught up in solving the mystery. She’d lost sight of the human element. She’d lost sight of her friend’s suffering.

  “Everything will be fine.” She put an arm around Melinda. “We’ll figure this out — to
gether. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to happen to Aaron.”

  Tears filled Melinda’s eyes, slipped down beneath the rim of her glasses. “First the murder, then the car, and I wasn’t there to protect him either time. But this, if I could figure this out, then maybe it will all be okay again.”

  Pulling her into a hug, Deborah reached for the handkerchief Esther offered, slipped it into Melinda’s hand. “We will figure this out. All of us together. Look at how hard Callie is concentrating. Her hair is starting to stick out from the effort.”

  “Hey!”

  “I only bring it up to point out to Melinda that we’re all focused.” Deborah smiled.

  Melinda nodded as she swiped at her cheeks.

  Shane looked relieved when his phone rang. “I’ll take this outside.”

  “Maybe we’ll crack the code while he’s out of the room,” Callie said. “That’ll show him we really might be on to something.”

  “Can’t blame him for being skeptical. It probably sounds farfetched to anyone who doesn’t work with quilts.” Esther stood and walked slowly around the three quilts. “Do the pictures in the blocks look familiar to anyone?”

  “Nope.” Melinda’s voice sounded calmer.

  “Uh-uh.” Callie patted her hair.

  “Wonderful stitching.” Deborah knelt closer, her nose nearly touching the quilt, but she still couldn’t find anything recognizable.

  “Stand up. All of you stand back here with me.” Esther’s voice left no room for argument, so they followed her directions with some groans about growing old and tired bones.

  “Now? Anything look familiar?”

  Everyone shook their heads no.

  “Think of the game the kinner play.”

  “Uno? Like where they match the cards?” When they all turned to stare at Melinda, she pushed on. “I’ve never seen a quilt pieced together this way, but they remind me of cards in a deck, shuffled randomly.”

  “That’s not bad.” Esther walked over to her cup of tea, which had long since grown cold. She took a sip and grimaced. “I was leaning more toward Dutch Blitz, what with the four decks you have — pump, carriage, pail, and plow.”

  “Okay, I see why your mind would head that direction.” Deborah was still cocking her head, looking at the quilts with an odd expression. Then she leaned over, reached out, and ran a finger along the quilt squares. “There’s a pump house and a carriage.”

  “And I see a pail and a plow!” Callie smiled as if she’d earned an A on her lessons.

  Esther lowered her cup of tea slowly, afraid she would drop it now that the puzzle was beginning to fall into place.

  “Not any plow. That’s Mrs. Hochstetler’s plow,” Melinda commented.

  “Huh?” Callie moved closer, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “Look. See the broken piece here? See the flowers growing around it?”

  “I wondered about that. Thought it was a way of adding color to the quilt.” Esther was on the floor with them now. “I remember noticing the plow when I walked by her garden, when we were there a few weeks ago for the reading of the will.”

  “Her plow sits in her garden?” Callie looked from Deborah to Esther.

  It was Melinda who answered. She sat on the far side of the three quilts, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle as if she were very cold. “The old rusty plow has been there for as long as I’ve known her. I asked her why once, and she said the iron helps the flowers grow taller and bloom brighter. She said when it broke years ago and couldn’t be fixed, she asked Mr. Hochstetler to move it there for her.”

  “How many years ago, Melinda?” Deborah could practically hear the first real piece of the puzzle clicking into place.

  “When she was but a young woman. She said her first boppli was just born. Must have been in the early 1940s.”

  “Before she sewed the quilts then.”

  “Ya. I imagine so.”

  “So these squares, they could be a picture of her land.”

  “Why though? Why would she want to put her farm on a quilt?” Esther reached for the strings of her prayer kapp, ran her fingers from the top to the bottom as if doing so would produce answers to questions they all needed.

  Deborah knew they were close to those answers. She could feel them in the air around them.

  The night sounds deepened, and they heard Shane’s footsteps as he walked across the front porch.

  He stepped into the room when Deborah found the answer that had been lurking at the corner of her mind.

  “Maybe it’s not a picture or a story. Maybe it’s a map.”

  Chapter 18

  SHANE SNAPPED THE PHONE SHUT as he walked into the house. Things were moving quickly now. The knowledge of it thrummed through his veins, and he wanted to be out in the Buick chasing down the leads.

  But he knew he needed to be here.

  He needed to confirm what Trent had found.

  And he needed to be certain Callie was okay before he left. Callie and Aaron. Fear tightened around Shane’s heart like a belt cinched too tightly, but he pushed it away. He was not going to allow anything to happen to either one of them.

  Deborah was talking about something being a map.

  “Maybe what’s a map?” he asked.

  “The quilts. We think they’re a map of Mrs. Hochstetler’s place.” Callie twirled her hair around her finger. “The squares seem to represent different places on her farm — possibly.”

  “So maybe she liked sewing what she saw out her window? You know, like we take a picture.” Shane stood over the quilts, trying to see the women’s point of view. After all, they’d been right about the newspaper article.

  “That’s not the Amish way, Shane.” Esther’s voice was soft, gentle, and he was reminded of the times he’d spent trying to coax details from her regarding Seth’s death.

  The people who killed Seth still hadn’t been brought to trial. It rankled him that the case was one of the few he’d been forced to walk away from, at the insistence of his superiors. But he’d always known Esther wanted the case closed without a conviction.

  Callie had tried to explain it to him once, during one of their late-night phone conversations. She said it had to do with forgiveness and grace. Shane knew about grace. He’d been raised submerged in a healthy dose of it. But that type of forgiveness? No. That was beyond what he could imagine. His training didn’t allow him to imagine it.

  Esther was still fingering the material in front of her. “We wouldn’t quilt a picture of our own place anymore than we’d take a photograph. It would feel like boasting, and we strive to be humble.”

  “Ya, Esther’s right,” Melinda said. “Elizabeth Hochstetler wasn’t one to brag either. No, I think if she quilted a scene, there was a reason for it — it wouldn’t have been an idle venture.”

  “So what could her reason have been?” Shane struggled to understand what was happening, what the girls were trying to tell him, and what Mrs. Hochstetler could have been thinking.

  “Perhaps she was trying to tell someone something. Or maybe she wanted to leave a record.” Callie’s hands were out now, waving in front of her as she tended to do when she was excited. “Storybook quilts are a controversial topic. Some insist that as far back as the Civil War, quilts were used to guide folks, like runaway slaves.”

  “A code?” Shane’s voice went up a notch, in spite of his determination to remain neutral.

  “Yes. But others argue that no such codes existed. I’ve done a little reading on it, but not nearly enough. The point is that no one knows if such a code did exist, because the people who did the quilting are long dead and can’t attest to their true intentions.”

  “Same is true of Mrs. Hochstetler and these quilts,” Deborah said.

  “But the patterns are unusual, and it could be she quilted them for a reason. I never knew Elizabeth to do something on a whim.” Melinda’s voice was low, thoughtful.

  “So you think the pictures might be … what? Like a
treasure map?” Shane couldn’t keep the note of incredulity out of his voice now. He had a thug to catch, and it felt like the women were wasting his time chasing fantasies.

  “Let’s consider the interior borders again now that we’re looking at the actual patterns in a different light.” Deborah walked around the quilts as she spoke. “The border connecting the first and the second says —”

  “An industrious fraa is the best savings account,” Melinda recited the words.

  “And what about the one connecting the second and the third?” Shane asked.

  “A handful of patience is worth more than a bushel of brains.”

  Shane met the gaze of each woman before speaking. He was willing to admit they were on to something. That much was clear. But what? And did it really have anything to do with the killer?

  No one spoke as Deborah’s words faded into the night. Both proverbs were apparently everyday sayings, common among the Amish community. Both could be interpreted to focus on wealth or prosperity.

  Shane decided they’d have to move on what they knew. Time was running out, and he didn’t want to give their killer any additional advantage. “I just spoke with Trent. There was one article in the Gazette mentioning Callie in the past three months. Actually it mentioned Mrs. Hochstetler in the same piece.”

  “The reading of the will —” Callie’s eyes widened.

  “Yes. I have the wording right here.” Shane pulled out his phone, thumbed through a few messages until he found it. “The reading of Mrs. Hochstetler’s last will and testament took place yesterday, September 14. Most of her belongings were left to friends and family, but in one surprise request, a special gift was made to Miss Callie Harper, who wasn’t available for comment at the time we went to print.”

  “Oh, my gosh. That could sound like she gave me a million dollars. I barely knew the woman.”

  Silence once more filled the room as the fire crackled.

  “We’re getting closer. We know why this person might think you have money. And you ladies seem to think the answer is right here in front of us.” Shane stood and pulled Callie to her feet. “Get your jacket.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Levi Hochstetler’s farm. We need some answers, and he may be the one who has them.”