Murder Freshly Baked Page 22

  “You can’t leave, Letha. Over a man? Over Ryan?” Amber had thought of a dozen ways to reason with her, but the woman’s silence provoked her into her last resort—guilt. “No one can run the fashions shop the way you do. You know this. We talked about it at lunch. You have a special flair.”

  “Even I’ve purchased items from your shop—and I usually go to specialty stores.” Pam frowned and then gazed up at the sky. The rain had stopped, but it was temporary. The air was thick and no doubt they were in for the real storm soon.

  “Don’t throw away what you’ve worked for,” Amber said.

  Those words finally loosened Letha’s tongue.

  “Worked for? I’ve worked for you. Did you think I was building an empire in fashion? Nein. It’s not our plain way.” She said the word plain with unmitigated skepticism. “And if you think I’m leaving over Ryan Duvall, you are sadly mistaken. I’m leaving for myself.”

  “To Pinecraft?”

  “Ya. I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve had enough with our Indiana winters and our Indiana ways. A change will do me good.”

  “It might do you good in April,” Pam agreed. “Come June or July you might feel differently. Have you ever been in Florida during the summer?”

  “Nein.”

  “You’re going to be wishing for Indiana—trust me. I’m from the South. I know how hot and humid the weather can be.”

  Letha raised her chin in defiance, but didn’t offer a response.

  “Please reconsider, Letha. We care about you—Pam and I both will miss you so if you leave.”

  “You’ve been a gut boss and a gut friend. You both have.” Letha hesitated, then plunged on. “Is my heart broken? Nein. But it’s sore. I thought I was special to him.”

  Amber didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

  “I’m not a kind. I know these feelings will pass. That’s why I want to leave before they do. That’s why I’m leaving on the bus this Friday. I know two weeks’ notice is customary, but I also know you have backups. I need to leave as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pam said.

  “Don’t you? You’re a single woman, like me.” Letha glanced from Pam to Amber. “It hasn’t been that long since you were unmarried.”

  Amber thought back to the conversation they’d had at the coffee shop when Letha had reminded her of the days before she’d fallen in love with Tate.

  “These last few weeks, I have envisioned an entirely different life—one where I’m not alone. I’ve realized that I want to marry, if it’s Gotte’s wille for me. But I don’t see how that’s possible here. Not only have I made a fool of myself, but I know all the men in our district as if they were my bruders.”

  Letha pulled Amber into a hug, and then clasped Pam’s hand. “Danki, both of you. But I will take my chances in a new community. The change, it will do me gut.”

  Amber and Pam finally left, depressed and discouraged.

  “How can one man cause this much trouble?” Amber asked.

  “I knew that boy was going to be a problem when I first laid eyes on him.”

  “We might as well go see Georgia.”

  “Why not? Maybe we can get something to eat. All this coffee is making me hungry.”

  But they didn’t eat.

  Georgia was working in the bakery, and she said she didn’t have time to come out and talk with them. So they abandoned their booth and went back into the kitchen.

  “If you’re here to talk to me about Ryan Duvall, I’m much too busy for such silliness.”

  Amber and Pam shared a glance.

  “Don’t think I haven’t heard about your visiting Letha and Martha.”

  “We just got back,” Pam said. “How . . .?”

  Georgia waved away her protest with a flour-covered hand. “No matter. Word travels fast.”

  She dusted the piecrust she was rolling out and set it into a baking pan. Amber noticed she was wearing a pretty pink lipstick, but her new hairdo looked a bit disheveled, as if she’d become frustrated with it and given up. “I don’t need your pep talk, and I don’t need your sympathy. What I need is to get my work done.”

  So they’d left her to her baking. There didn’t seem to be much more they could do.

  As if the day hadn’t been depressing enough, they bumped into Preston as they walked toward the office. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, looking completely dumbfounded.

  At first Amber thought it must be another poison note, but then she saw the LaGrange County Court insignia across the top.

  “I’ve been served . . . with this.”

  Mocha whined, as if she understood her part in the situation.

  “A restraining order?” Amber read the sheet twice and then handed it to Pam.

  “He’s gone too far now.” Pam studied the paper before thrusting it back into Preston’s hands. “Who does Ryan Duvall think he is? He’s the one causing all this trouble and then he issues a restraining order against you?”

  “And my dog.”

  “It’s okay, Mocha. You’re a good dog.” Amber reached into her pocket and pulled out a dog treat.

  Preston shook his head in mock disgust.

  “What? You let Hannah feed him.”

  Instead of answering, he refolded the restraining order and stuck it into his back pocket.

  “It’s no matter to me. I’d be happy not to lay eyes on Ryan for a very long time. How are the girls?”

  So they shared their fruitless attempts to bring a sense of resolution to the Ryan Duvall problem. As they discussed the situation, Amber realized the day had been a total failure.

  They would have talked about it longer, but Preston received a text that a truck was ready to unload some of the supplies for the Race for a Cure. Pam remembered a meeting she had with housekeeping, and Amber realized she hadn’t checked her e-mail in hours. But there was nothing there—nothing out of the ordinary. The last few hours of the workday passed without any escalating events. By the time she went home, she wanted to put up her feet, grab a good book, and forget about any trouble at the Village.

  Fortunately, she was able to do just that—at least for one night, before trouble once again found her friends.

  Thirty-One

  Amber had just climbed into bed the next night when she realized they’d left Leo outside.

  “I’ll get him,” Tate murmured with a groan.

  “Stay where you are. I’m pretty sure I forgot to put my phone on the charger. I’ll take care of both and be back in a flash.”

  She found her phone on the table beside the recliner. Plugging it into the charger she kept in the kitchen, she resisted the urge to check her e-mail. No one would have sent her a message so late in the evening. She was halfway back to the bedroom when she remembered the cat.

  Usually Leo went outside for a half hour or so, then pawed on the door to ask to be let back in. What had happened to him? Hopefully he wasn’t becoming a tomcat.

  Amber turned on the front porch light and unlocked the door. Stepping outside she saw Leo, lying on his side. At first she thought he had fallen asleep, but then her mind registered the pie pan, the pool of vomit next to him, and the fact that he wasn’t breathing.

  Was he breathing?

  She fell to her knees beside him and put her hand gently on his tummy. There was a rise and fall, but just barely. She didn’t realize she was screaming until Tate came barreling out the door.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  By that point, she had scooped Leo up into her arms. Tears were streaming down her face. She shouldered past him, back into the house, and Tate said, “I’ll get the truck keys.”

  Amber grabbed a small afghan off the couch and wrapped it around her ginger cat. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, hadn’t acknowledged her in any way.

  She found herself praying that Leo would hold on, that they would be able to reach the vet, that some maniac had not succeeded in killing her cat.

>   Tate drove while Amber held the cat in her arms. She called their vet—Dr. England—on her cell phone and reached him on the first try.

  Closing the phone’s case, she said, “He’s going to meet us at the clinic.”

  They didn’t speak the rest of the way, but Tate reached over and petted Leo, then clasped her hand. Amber prayed. Yes, she knew he was only a cat, but he was her cat and she adored him.

  Dr. England—a very large man with a handlebar mustache—met them at the door. Amber had used him for the animals on the Village property and as her personal veterinarian for years. That was the only reason she had his direct number rather than having to go through his answering service. She explained quickly about finding Leo on the porch, the pie pan, and the vomit.

  “Is there any reason someone would have wanted to poison your cat?”

  Amber and Tate exchanged a quick glance. Tate said, “There is actually a pretty good chance that’s what happened. Any idea what they would have used?”

  “Quickest and easiest substance to poison an animal?” Dr. England’s mustache drooped as his frown grew more pronounced. “Freon. You can buy it anywhere, and the sweet taste attracts them. Let me take this guy to the back. Hopefully you found him in time.”

  They waited in the front room, the bright lights reflecting off the windows and blocking out any view of the night. To Amber it seemed that they were there for hours, as if the sun would rise before they knew anything, but in fact Dr. England was back within an hour.

  “I did a urinalysis, which detected a high concentration of calcium oxalate crystals in his urine—Freon. That’s the bad news. The good news is that there was no blood, protein, or glucose in the urine—which means that you found him within a few minutes of his digesting the tainted substance.”

  “So he’s going to be okay?” Amber clutched Tate’s hand.

  “I can’t promise anything, but my opinion? Yes, he’s going to be fine. He’s a tough little guy, and you did the right thing bringing him here immediately.”

  “Can we . . . can we take him home?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I’ve administered ethanol to counterbalance the effect of the Freon, but he needs treatment to correct the imbalance in his fluids and electrolytes.” Dr. England stood, shook Tate’s hand, and squeezed Amber’s arm. “Let me keep him on an IV for twelve more hours and then watch him another twelve after that. Feel free to call tomorrow morning and check on his condition.”

  “You’ll call us if there’s any change?” Amber’s knees felt weak with relief, and she was suddenly so tired she wasn’t sure she could walk back outside to the truck.

  “Of course. Now go home and get some sleep.” He added with a smile, “You’ll want to be rested when you see my bill.”

  Together Amber and Tate walked back out into the night. As he opened the truck door, she turned and stared up into his face. “You know what this means? Whoever is behind this, they’ve moved from bragging and planning to actually doing . . . and the next time, they might poison more than an animal. The next time it could be one of our friends.”

  Preston’s eyes opened the first time Mocha whined. She was a good sleeper, a quiet sleeper, and the only time she’d ever wakened him was when she needed to—when she was alerting on his PTSD. This was different. She didn’t push her nose into his hand or stand near him with her paws on the side of the bed.

  He reached down and found the top of her head in the darkness. “What is it, girl? What’s wrong?”

  Mocha’s answer was another low whine. She didn’t leave his side. She was trained to stay with him, especially at night, but there was something raising her hackles.

  Preston tossed the covers back. He’d been in a deep sleep. As he stood the details flooded back over him—yet another dream where he’d been running and worried. It hadn’t been a flashback, though. This time his dream had been about Zoey and the Village and a dark shadow. There had been an urgency as he’d hurried across the back side of the property, but he’d known somewhere deep inside that he could catch whoever or whatever it was—if he could just move a little faster. He’d felt certain about that, and perhaps his certainty had been why Mocha hadn’t alerted to his nightmare. Perhaps his confidence had been obvious even in his sleep.

  Maybe she only alerted to fear.

  So what had wakened her?

  “Let’s check it out, girl.”

  He pulled on the blue jeans he’d folded over the chair next to his bed.

  Mocha padded beside him as he walked from the bedroom to the living room. The Dawdy Haus was small, which was one of the things he liked about it. He had a glimpse out the front window even before he entered the living room. The full moon was high and bright after the showers and clouds of the last few days. He could easily see the person sitting in the rocker and the long shadow stretching across the wooden porch floor. A glance at the clock told him it was nearly two thirty, much too late—or too early—for someone to be stopping by. Especially without knocking.

  Preston motioned for Mocha to sit. He reached up and flicked on the porch light at the same moment he turned the dead bolt lock. Then he pulled open the door and stepped outside to confront his late-night visitor.

  One look at Ryan Duvall’s face—at the fatigue in his eyes and the wounds across his cheek—told him that the situation had once again changed. He wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon.

  The porch was cold on his bare feet. The discomfort assured him this wasn’t another bad dream.

  Instead of inviting Ryan inside, he called to Mocha. She joined him on the porch in less time than it took for Ryan to stand and stuff his hands into his pockets. Preston gave Mocha the all-is-well signal, and she ambled off the porch, sticking close but taking advantage of the unexpected middle-of-the-night bathroom break.

  “Preston.”

  Preston nodded but didn’t speak. What was he going to say? That Ryan looked terrible? That he had no business being on his porch? That he should be ashamed of himself for filing the restraining order against him? Come to think of it, he was probably breaching that order being so close to Ryan, though it was the man’s own fault, coming to his house this way.

  “I didn’t know where else to go.” Ryan answered in response to the question Preston hadn’t asked.

  “For . . .”

  “Safety? I don’t know.” Ryan scrubbed his hand across his face, the portion of his face that was unscathed.

  It was apparent he hadn’t shaved in several days. The stubble was dark and heavy on his chin and cheeks. His clothes were rumpled and his hair unkempt. Then there was the dried blood caked into the long scratches down the left side of his face and across his forehead. He had the look of someone who was on the run, someone who had no place to sleep, nowhere to spend the hours until dawn’s light dispelled his fears.

  It was that last thought that caused Preston to invite him inside.

  “I’ll make some coffee. Looks like neither of us is going to get any sleep.”

  Ryan remained silent until they were sitting at the kitchen table, Mocha lying on the floor between them.

  “She seems like a good dog.”

  “She is.”

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  “I know.”

  Ryan raised the coffee mug to his lips, then set it back down, his hand shaking slightly. “I’m sorry.”

  Preston nodded. He could easily forget the slights and even the bad decision Ryan had made in filing the restraining order. He couldn’t so easily forgive the chaos he was causing in Letha’s, Georgia’s, and Martha’s lives.

  “Someone’s following me. I don’t know who or why.”

  Preston didn’t even think about doubting him. Ryan might be a playboy, and he might make immature decisions as far as his personal life, but a guy knew when someone was watching. Call it primal instinct. His mind flashed back on Wanat and the desert and the certain feeling when you had been sighted in by someone else’s weapon. He pushed t
he memory away, but not before Mocha raised her head and licked his hand once, then resettled.

  “How? With a surveillance device?”

  “I thought it might be a bug—some sort of listening device. Apparently you can purchase them at Radio Shack now or any of a dozen different internet sites.” Ryan stared into his coffee. “So yeah, I went to the PD.”

  “And?”

  “They swept my car and my person. Couldn’t find anything. Suggested I get some sleep and lay off the caffeine.”

  Preston glanced down at their coffee mugs and shrugged. It was none of his business what Ryan did or didn’t drink.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t have any place else to go. My parents are ready to disown me after the situation at the horse show—after the scene with the ladies and you. They’ve suggested I look for somewhere else to live. I left their house on Monday and have been trying to decide what to do.”

  “Might be a good idea for you to get your own place.”

  “Except I’m not signing a lease until I know who is following me. Someone is, and I’d rather they not know my new address. Maybe it would be better if I leave town. I don’t know.”

  “So you came here?”

  Ryan hesitated, then blurted out, “Everyone knows your combat history. You’re practically a celebrity after the piece in the paper about—”

  “Mocha.” When the local reporter called, Zoey had encouraged him to share his story so others with severe PTSD could know how a dog like Mocha could help them.

  “Right.” Ryan shook his head. “I was wrong about you and about her. I knew that when I was going off on you, and yes, even as I filed the restraining order. Some things seem to take on their own momentum, and I was angry. Honestly, I was embarrassed.”

  When Preston didn’t contradict him, Ryan continued. “I was even wrong about the way I treated the ladies, though I swear I didn’t realize it at the time. I was wrong about a lot of things.”

  “Have you told them that?”

  “I tried! None of them will talk to me.”

  For the first time since he’d wakened, Preston wanted to smile. If Letha and Martha and even Georgia were learning to be wary, to question people’s motives . . . maybe the experience with Ryan had served a useful purpose. Maybe God had used it for good.