Murder Simply Brewed Read online

  She could have taken a shortcut from the parking lot, through the lobby of the inn, and back out the far door. But the April sunshine beckoned her outside. She enjoyed working in the quilt shop on the far side of the pond. Carol Jennings managed the Quilting Bee. She was a fair boss, if a bit strict.

  Hannah was used to strict, so she had no problem with her boss’s rules. One rule was that the shop must be opened by eight a.m. on the dot, which meant Hannah had to arrive at seven thirty. There was the display board to set out on the walk. The music needed to be turned on, filling the shop with the tunes Carol insisted had been proven to soothe shoppers and put them in a buying mood. Any dusting had to be done before the door was opened because Carol wanted her clerks to give complete attention to customers.

  The concrete path that skirted the pond was completely empty. Several of the stores did not open until eight thirty or even nine. Hannah had the morning walk to herself. She enjoyed the sweet moments of solitude. Occasionally she peeked at her reflection in the shop windows. When she did, she would smooth down her apron or adjust her kapp slightly. She rather liked being the one to open the shop. She enjoyed the moments of quiet before the day began.

  No one else bothered to come so early.

  No one except old Ethan Gray, who would have arrived ahead of her. His shop, A Simple Blend, was the last in the line that circled the northern and eastern sides of the pond. The shop practically adjoined theirs. Only a small grassy area separated the two buildings. All day, Hannah smelled kaffi and lattes and espresso. All day, Englischers strolled to the end of the line of shops to purchase Ethan’s drinks. Once they had their first quota of caffeine firmly grasped in their hands, some of those customers would blink twice, notice the Quilting Bee was open, and walk inside.

  Hannah unlocked the front door of their shop and hurried to the back room. She still had twenty minutes to prepare for opening, but she would rather be ready a minute early than a minute late. Mrs. Jennings had told her more than once, “Hannah, you do everything I ask and you complete the task early. You’re a gut girl.”

  Her boss wasn’t Amish, but sometimes the Pennsylvania Dutch words they used slipped into her vocabulary. Perhaps she’d lived among the Amish for so long, she was almost Amish.

  The next twenty minutes passed quickly. She made sure there was plenty of change in the cash register. Checked the roll of register tape and checked that there was an extra under the counter. Turned on the music and dusted the shelves of their bookcase, which held quilting books. Where did so much dust come from? Hadn’t she done the same thing two days ago?

  Satisfied that everything was ready, she walked to the front door and turned the sign to “Open.” The temperature was supposed to rise to the low sixties, so she propped the door open with a life-size iron cat. Then she moved their Daily Specials board out in front of their display window. It was a chalkboard, like the ones in her old schoolhouse, but built on an A-frame. Each day Carol had different items on sale so that customers staying several nights at the inn would return. The board currently declared, “Fat Squares for Spring—Starting at $1.29.”

  She pushed up her glasses and pivoted in a circle, studying the walk, the pond, and then their shop. Something was wrong.

  Hannah reached for the strings of her prayer kapp and ran her fingers from the tops to the bottoms. She again checked the sign. It looked fine to her. She glanced left and then behind her, but saw nothing out of place. Ducks were floating on the pond. A few customers had stepped out of the inn and were walking down to the water’s edge. The Quilting Bee’s display window sparkled—sunny and inviting, showcasing a pretty variety of spring fabrics.

  So what was amiss?

  Why was there a niggling doubt at the back of her prayer kapp?

  Kaffi!

  She didn’t smell Ethan’s kaffi, which he always had brewing well before she arrived.

  Stepping to her right and moving into A Simple Blend’s front flower bed, which was a little muddy from the sprinklers, she pushed up on her glasses again and tried to peer through the front window. When she did, her mind had trouble piecing together what she saw.

  There were several holes in the bottom left corner of the store’s window, and cracks in the glass had webbed out in every direction.

  What could have caused such a thing?

  When could it have happened?

  Her heart beat in a triple rhythm and her hands slicked with sweat as she moved closer. She again attempted to peer through the window, but it was like trying to look through broken eyeglasses.

  Slowly, she continued past the window to the door and tried the handle.

  It was unlocked!

  Where was Ethan?

  A dozen tiny spiders slipped down Hannah’s spine. She slapped at her neck, then chided herself. There were no spiders. She was acting like a silly child.

  Still, she whispered a prayer.

  Of course the door was unlocked. It was nearly eight o’clock. It was time for them to begin their day, a perfect day up until this moment. Hannah chided herself again for hesitating. The shop was no longer locked because old Ethan was inside making kaffi, and soon she would smell its rich aroma drifting outside and down the sidewalk.

  But the window . . .

  She pulled the door open, intending to step inside and call out to Ethan.

  Which was when she saw him.

  Her heart slammed against her chest and she stumbled backward.

  Ethan lay slumped sideways over the front counter, one hand at his heart and the other resting on top of a spilled pile of dark kaffi beans. He’d never placed the beans into the grinder, and Hannah realized as she rushed to his side that he never would.

  Ethan Gray was dead.

  She stopped short of the body, stopped and prayed that he had found favor in God’s eyes and that even now he was standing with the angels.

  Amber Wright had been at her desk in her office on the second floor above the Village restaurant for nearly an hour when her cell phone rang. The switchboard didn’t open until eight, but a recording directed visitors to dial nine for an emergency and she had any such calls forwarded straight to her cell. No doubt this was not an emergency, but whoever was calling probably thought it was, thought whatever it was couldn’t wait until eight a.m. when the offices opened. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it could.

  Years ago, when she’d first started the job as general manager of Amish Artisan Village, she’d learned that her only moments of uninterrupted quiet were from seven to eight in the morning. So when her phone rang at seven fifty-five, she was not happy. She’d been counting on that additional five minutes.

  “Amber Wright.” She aimed for a pleasant but busy tone.

  “It’s Ethan. Ethan is . . . what I mean to say is he’s . . .”

  “Slow down.”

  The young girl on the other end of the line sounded frantic. Her voice trembled and her Pennsylvania Dutch accent was strong. So strong Amber had trouble making out what she was saying. The girl sounded as if she had been running. Amber could hear her panic loud and clear—more clearly than the words she was stumbling over.

  “Who is this?”

  “Hannah, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is Ethan, and he’s . . .”

  Amber’s mind combed over the nearly five hundred employees and landed on a young Amish girl. “Hannah. You work at the quilt shop, correct?”

  “Ya, but it’s Ethan I’m calling about. He’s—”

  “Ethan Gray.” Ethan had been at the Village longer than Amber had, and she’d been there more than two decades. She’d taken the job straight out of college. In all those years, she’d never heard anyone sound so desperate.

  Now the girl’s story came out in a rush, like a storm blowing down from Lake Michigan. “Ethan from the kaffi shop, ya. I noticed I couldn’t smell kaffi yet, and I stepped over to check on him, and that was when I saw the glass. The glass was all cracked and I couldn’t see through it. I opened the door, and I f
ound him. He’s . . . he’s dead.”

  “Hannah, I want you to take a deep breath.” Amber was already logging off her computer and grabbing her tablet and ring of keys—the keys she never left her office without. There was no telling what room or closet she might need access to. They’d been meaning to master key the entire Village, so a single key would open any door, but it kept being pushed down her to-do list. Until then, she and Larry each carried a large ring of keys. The tablet she took with her out of pure habit. She typed all her notes on the tablet.

  Amber pressed her cell phone tightly against her ear as she rushed out of her office. She wanted to keep the girl talking.

  Her office assistant, Elizabeth, was at her desk in the reception area outside Amber’s office. She was bent over, storing her purse in her bottom desk drawer, and all Amber could see as she rushed out was the top of the woman’s gray head.

  Elizabeth called out, “Something wrong?”

  But Amber slowed for only a few seconds as she started down the stairs and then hollered up, “Call 9-1-1. Have them meet me at A Simple Blend. We need an ambulance.” Then she fled down the remaining stairs and out the door into the hall of the restaurant.

  Maybe Ethan had passed out.

  Maybe he merely looked dead.

  She prayed the girl was mistaken.

  “Are you still on the line, Hannah?”

  “Ya. I’m here.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the quilt shop. I ran back to use our phone. I left him there. He’s alone. Shouldn’t I—”

  “Hannah, you’re doing great. You did the right thing. I want you to go next door and make sure his sign is turned to “Closed.” Make sure no customers go into that shop. Do you understand?”

  “No customers.”

  “Right. I’m on my way now. I can be there—”

  It sounded like Hannah dropped the phone. Amber heard it clatter and could make out the sound of shoes slapping against the floor. She had intended to keep the conversation going in the hopes she could calm the girl down. But Hannah had done exactly as directed. No doubt she was headed next door to close the shop and stand guard at the door.

  There was a moderate crowd in the restaurant, but few seemed to pay attention to her. One older Hispanic man held the outside door open as she rushed through it. The shops fanned out around the pond from the central point of the inn and restaurant. They made a nice little village—and the name Amish Artisan Village fit what she was staring at perfectly. The shops offered products made by local Amish men and women. Amber considered them all to be artists, whether they sewed quilts or made wooden toys or baked. She was proud of the fact that their stores offered original Amish goods and in the process helped to provide income for local families.

  Inn with a conference center. Restaurant. Shops.

  The Village had expanded over the years until now it circled halfway around the pond. Ethan had always worked at a coffee booth, which had originally sat next to the restaurant. A year ago, they’d moved him to a shop on the far side of the other shops, hoping the desire for a strong cup of coffee would lure shoppers as they strolled down the walk, which circled the pond. It had worked. Sales had been up 12 percent since they’d made the move. Some customers even skipped morning coffee at the restaurant and went straight to A Simple Blend.

  But now something had happened, and she knew deep down that today she would have more to worry about than sales.

  Two

  Tate Bowman stood in the middle of his field at the fence gate separating his two western pastures. He stood there and stared after the ambulance and police car speeding past his farm. Their declaration of emergency split the morning and shattered the pleasant peace of springtime.

  Not that the morning had been completely calm, though it had started well enough.

  Tate had risen at five, brewed coffee, and fixed a bowl of steaming oatmeal. He knew many folks stopped eating oatmeal in the spring, switching to cold cereals instead, but the sugary stuff didn’t stay with him like a large bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar and raisins. Which was possibly every ounce as sweet as the store-bought stuff, but it seemed like a more natural breakfast. At least that’s what he told himself.

  Yes, the day had started out peaceful enough, with time for a second cup of coffee and a few moments spent reading. He was in the sixth chapter of Luke, having started back through the Gospels at the first of the year. He couldn’t claim to understand the Scripture any better this time around. He’d been doggedly sticking with the Good Book though, because he knew Peggy would want him to continue reading and studying. But since her death, the words fell flat and meaningless around him.

  He might not understand Luke, but he could relate to him a little. The disciple who had been a doctor was the easiest of Christ’s followers for him to grapple with. Luke seemed to see things like a common man, like someone who worked out among everyday folk.

  He had the feeling Luke would be someone he’d like to sit down with for a cup of coffee. Ask him to clarify a few things. But that wasn’t possible, and he’d pushed the questions away and headed outside to tend to the animals.

  The morning had immediately gone downhill.

  His two new donkeys, which were supposed to act as guards to protect the cattle, had managed to butt their way out of the field he’d put them in for the evening. They’d wanted in with the horses for some reason. And the horses had scattered in with the cattle. Not a big problem, since the cattle were up near the house, and his two mares were grazing near the road. But Tate knew from experience that it was best to keep the animals separate. So he’d set about repairing the fence at the point where the donkeys had broken through.

  He was in the middle of the job when the ambulance and police car tore down the road and pulled into the Village.

  Tate set the new post into the ground and poured the concrete he’d mixed around it, filling up the hole. The old post had rotted during the winter, which was why the donkeys had been able to push through it. He accepted responsibility for the resulting break in the fence. He should have repaired it sooner, but interior fences weren’t usually a priority.

  The donkeys aggravated him, which was why he’d put off buying any. But most folks insisted they were a necessary part of life if you were going to raise animals and work a farm. And Tate had recently lost two cows to coyotes. At least it had appeared to him to be coyotes, based on what was left of them. The one sure protection against coyotes, as far as he knew, was donkeys. So he’d purchased them almost a month ago. He didn’t particularly like the animals, and so far it seemed all they had done was create havoc and roll on the ground, scratching their backs against the hard soil. Maybe the fact that he hadn’t lost any more cattle to coyotes, though, meant they were earning their feed.

  The emergency vehicles were another problem altogether.

  He supposed the apostle Luke would have been concerned about whatever was happening on the property next door. Maybe he would have hustled over and offered his medical skills, but Tate didn’t have any medical skills. He had farming skills. He’d chosen to be a farmer thirty years ago, following a brief stint in the army, which had followed his graduation from college.

  He’d chosen farming because he enjoyed the quiet life.

  He could have made more money in another profession, but money didn’t matter that much to him. Work with results you could see and be proud of did matter. His wife, Peggy, had once said she’d never guessed a man could be so happy as long as he had mud on his boots and calluses on his hands. Peggy had understood him—that was for certain. There wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t miss her. Four years had passed, and still his life didn’t seem completely whole. He supposed it never would.

  The emergency vehicles were out of sight, but their sirens continued to splinter the morning’s quiet, as if folks couldn’t tell it was an emergency by the pulsing lights alone. He suspected one of the Village guests had managed to fall into the pond
or slip on the dewy grass. Those folks should stay in the city. They came from Chicago and Fort Wayne and Indianapolis. They didn’t belong in a small town, didn’t know how to react when they were in one, and usually caused trouble.

  Like this morning.

  He realized that was an uncharitable thought, but the Village had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

  Tate braced the fence post with a board he wedged into the ground, giving it a little added support until the concrete had time to set up properly. Then he picked up the bucket that held the remaining concrete. As long as he was mending fences, he might as well walk the line and see what else had managed to work its way loose. He’d checked the exterior fence line when the snows had melted, but with the addition of the two new donkeys, he might have to increase his patrolling to a monthly chore.

  The blaring sirens fell quiet, and Tate stopped and stared over toward the Village. He could think of two reasons that could have happened. Either it wasn’t an emergency—the place had been known for false alarms—or someone had died.

  He knew most of the emergency personnel. He had grown up with the older ones, and his two sons had grown up with the younger ones. It was standard procedure to cut the sirens if someone died. Almost seemed like a way of respecting the dead.

  Tate was glad that for the moment, peace and quiet had returned to his corner of Middlebury. He found himself whistling as he turned his back on the Village and continued walking down the fence line.

  Amber watched in disbelief as the paramedics loaded Ethan’s body on a gurney and wheeled it down the sidewalk past each of her shops. Within moments they had settled him into the back of the ambulance, slapped the doors shut, and driven the emergency vehicle out of the parking area.