Murder Tightly Knit Page 27

  “I imagine you see and hear a lot of what’s going on in your community.” Shaw paid her, accepted his change, and dropped it into the tip jar. Then he removed the lid from his coffee and blew on it. “Have you seen anything strange lately? Anything that might worry or frighten you? Anything at all since Owen’s brutal murder?”

  Hannah’s palms began to sweat, but she resisted wiping them on her apron. She would not allow this man to see how much he rattled her.

  “You know, Hannah, not everyone is who they appear to be. For instance, you’re looking at me like I’m a relative of the Big Bad Wolf, but I’m actually a nice guy.” He sipped the coffee and smiled. “I’m trying to do my job.”

  When she still didn’t respond, he added, “You can’t blame me for being suspicious of folks who live like you do.”

  The cat that had held her tongue walked away, and suddenly Hannah couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried, and she did not want to try. “Like we do?”

  “Sure. Your dress—nice color, by the way, but it’s quite old-fashioned.”

  She stared down at her dark-green dress.

  “The way you keep to yourselves. It’s rather suspicious. You’ve barely spoken to me since I walked in . . . other than greeting me in that strange language—”

  “It’s Pennsylvania Dutch.”

  “—and taking my order.”

  She was beginning to wish she could rethink that decision.

  “Then there’s the way you people contradict yourself. You don’t have cars, but you hire drivers. You don’t have electricity, but I’ve seen plenty of kids with cell phones and even iPods. I’d heard of telephone shacks, but someone told me there’s a television shack around here. Is that true?”

  Hannah didn’t answer, though she was certain her face was turning as red as the beets they’d grown in their garden. She forced herself to remember the rules of their Ordnung, how they were to be kind and compassionate yet live a life set apart. How could she ever explain those things to a man like Roland Shaw?

  He added, “It’s all a little bizarre.”

  “It is not bizarre. We live the way we always have, the way most people in this country lived two generations ago.”

  “That’s my point. Why haven’t you changed? What are you all trying to hide?”

  “Maybe you should leave.” Hannah’s eyes flicked toward the door.

  Instead of being offended, Shaw laughed and leaned against the counter, causing her to take a step back.

  “Now see, when you get flustered like that, I think there’s something you’re not telling me. What about that boyfriend of yours? Do you think he knew what his brother was doing? And are all of you survivalists?”

  Hannah had been raised to be polite. She couldn’t believe she’d found the courage to suggest he leave, but his final questions were too much. She had never met anyone so arrogant and so closed minded and so misinformed in all her life.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed for help. She petitioned God for some sort of intervention and for grace to handle this situation.

  Then the door to the shop opened and Preston Johnstone walked in.

  “Hello, Hannah.”

  She smiled at him nervously, relief flooding through her heart that she was no longer alone with Shaw.

  “Thought I’d stop in and pick up a cup of coffee.”

  “Espresso?”

  “Nah. Plain coffee is fine for me.” Preston turned and fixed his gaze on Shaw. He didn’t say a word to the man, but it seemed he didn’t have to.

  Shaw nodded to them both, turned, and walked out the door.

  Hannah handed Preston his coffee and plopped down on the stool she kept behind the counter. “I’m so glad you came in when you did. That man makes me naerfich.”

  Preston had stopped by often enough when something needed to be done, but he never bought coffee. Employees were given free coffee in the break room. Unless they wanted something special, there was no reason to purchase it from her shop.

  “Why is he so unpleasant?” She worried the strings of her prayer kapp and peeked around Preston, assuring herself Shaw had left and wasn’t lurking around outside.

  “His goal is to make you nervous, maybe even make you angry. With some people that works. They become upset and tell him what he needs to know.”

  “I don’t know what he needs to know!”

  “Something he was slow to realize.”

  “How did you happen to come in?” Hannah reached into the pastry case and pulled out an apple Danish. “This is on the house, and you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t take it.”

  “Thank you, Hannah.” Preston took a bite. The contentment that covered his face was all the thanks Hannah needed. “I was working outside on the drainage system that feeds into the pond. In fact, I was almost directly across from you. I saw him walk in. I didn’t see him walk out, so I thought I should come and check with you. Was he giving you a hard time?”

  “Ya. He was asking me questions.”

  “About the murder?”

  “About . . . things. Like how we live and why we live the way we do.”

  “He can read that in a book.”

  “I wish he would! His comments were ignorant and offensive. Why can’t he go back to whatever city he came from?”

  “This case will be solved soon and he’ll leave. Don’t let him upset you.

  “Solved? You don’t think Andrew—”

  “No. I do not.” Preston finished the Danish, swiped at his mouth with the napkin, then threw it away. “I’ve known folks who kill, each for different reasons.”

  “In the military?”

  “Yes.” A quiet sorrow flooded Preston’s eyes. “Some did so because they had to, because they were protecting others. But some killed because they enjoyed it. Andrew doesn’t strike me as either type.”

  It was good to hear that someone believed in Andrew besides Amber and Tate, someone else outside of their community.

  Preston finished his coffee and deposited the cup into the trash can. He stared out the door for a moment and then turned back to Hannah. “You should tell Amber about Shaw. I think she would want to know.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yeah. There was a plumbing problem on the second floor of the inn, and she wanted to help move the guests to another room.”

  “She’s supposed to be at the police station.”

  “I know. She told me about last night’s call, and we agree that the caller is probably the same person who shot at her and Tate. He might even be the same person who killed Owen.”

  “It’s a little frightening.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid. This person is a coward, and he’s trying to run her off his trail. I had the impression she was going to the police station on her lunch break.”

  Hannah sighed and refused the money Preston tried to give her for the coffee. “It’s on the house too. I’m relieved you did come by. I was afraid Shaw would never leave.”

  “Next time you call me. Do you have my number?”

  When she shook her head no, he borrowed a pen and wrote it on a napkin.

  “Don’t call the switchboard. Call this number and I’ll get here faster. It’s my cell, which I keep on me.” He hesitated and then added, “Shaw reminds me of people I worked with in the military. Sometimes they’re bad and sometimes they’re merely overeager to bring resolution to a situation. Then there are the times when it’s hard to tell the difference between the two. Regardless, it’s not you Shaw is interested in. He was probably hoping you would say something that would point him to the killer.”

  Hannah picked up a dishcloth and began wiping the countertop, her tension finally melting away. Maybe Preston was right. If he was, Shaw probably wouldn’t come back.

  “You call me if you need anything.”

  Forty-Six

  Jesse met Adalyn Landt outside the Middlebury police building. He had no problem recognizing her. She was exactly as Tate had described—an o
lder woman, dressed conservatively.

  Today she was in light-gray slacks, a starched white shirt, and a dark-gray jacket. She had a more medium build than most Englisch women he’d seen . . . not fat, but not rail thin. She looked as if she enjoyed a decent meal. Her hair was gray, not dyed as many women had, and pulled back in a practical bun. He was sure he had the right woman when he saw the dark-gray leather case she was carrying—as Amber had described, it boasted a V overlaid on top of an L, the Louis Vuitton emblem. He wondered what something like that cost. More than a rig for his work horses, that was for sure.

  “I’m Jesse Miller, Andrew’s bruder.”

  She had led him to a bench outside the station, and he’d shown her the journal and explained where he’d found it and what some of the contents were.

  Adalyn didn’t even hesitate. She stood and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Inside?”

  “Yes. That’s where your brother is—”

  “I know he’s inside.”

  “And his initial hearing is at ten so we shouldn’t waste any time.”

  “What about the journal?”

  “I’ll take care of it. Wait for me in one of those chairs.”

  So he’d sat in the waiting room, wondering what this Englisch woman would do and whether it would help Andrew’s case.

  Thirty minutes later the officer at the front desk, an older man with a name tag that read “Walter Hopkins,” offered to take him back to the visiting room. He hadn’t been there the day before. He had thin, white hair and bright-blue eyes. He reminded Jesse of some of the older men in their community, except for the uniform he wore.

  Walter tapped on the door once, then opened it for Jesse. Adalyn was already sitting at the table with what looked like copies of the journal pages in front of her. Andrew was ushered in before Jesse could sit.

  The room had seemed small before. With the three of them, it was crowded. Adalyn introduced herself to Andrew, explaining that she’d helped the Amish involved in the Shipshewana murder cases. She also assured him he was in good hands.

  Andrew looked rested and not at all worried.

  Adalyn didn’t waste any time. “Want to tell me about this notebook? We surrendered the original because it’s evidence, and we don’t want to anger the judge by withholding evidence. Plus, I won’t do anything that’s illegal, even if I think it would help with your case.”

  “Glad you found it, Jesse. I didn’t have time to fetch it before the funeral, before they came after me, and anyway . . . I didn’t want to lose my notes.”

  “Notes?” Jesse’s voice rose in surprise.

  “Ya.”

  “Is that what you call them—because we could barely read it.”

  “The important thing is what’s in it and why you wrote it.” Adalyn pushed the copied sheets to the middle of the table.

  “We haven’t talked about your fees.” Andrew crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “I want to make sure I can afford you.”

  “My time is donated in cases like these, unless the employer you mentioned when you contacted me decides to pay, and then I bill at $125 per hour.”

  “They’ll pay.”

  “Who is your employer?” Jesse reached out and touched the copies. “We couldn’t make any sense of this. What is it? And why did you hide it?”

  Andrew studied the clock on the wall and then leaned back against the metal chair. “I hid it because I didn’t want to lose it. I have a story to write when this is over, and I’m going to need those notes.”

  “A story?”

  “Ya. I’m a reporter and they pay me to write.” He named the newspaper he worked for. Jesse had heard of it, even seen it at the newsstands in town and at the local library.

  “Since when?”

  “A few months after I moved north, I started there. Small things at first. Back when you came to see me in Chicago, I was working for the Chicago Tribune on a piece about Amish in the city. My editor liked it, and I’ve been doing feature pieces since.”

  “Is that why you were back in Indiana, here in town?” Adalyn had pulled a pad of yellow paper out of her leather bag and was taking notes with what looked to be a very expensive fountain pen. No wonder she charged so much. Jesse wondered about that, but then he remembered her saying that she would waive her fees if Andrew couldn’t pay. Why would she do that?

  “Yes, that’s why I came home.” Now Andrew crossed his arms, his eyes darting left and then right.

  “What story were you working on?”

  “Can anyone hear us?”

  “No.” Adalyn tapped her pen against her pad, then pointed to a tiny box mounted in the corner of the room. “They can and will watch everything you do via that camera. They also keep video recordings, but they’re not allowed to listen in and tape any audio.”

  Andrew shifted in his chair.

  “I understand you’re uncomfortable with the cameras.” When Andrew looked surprised, Adalyn added, “I’ve lived here in northern Indiana most of my life, and I’m well acquainted with your beliefs. I assume that’s why you called me.”

  “Ya. It is.”

  “Try to forget the camera and tell me what story you were working on.”

  When he still didn’t reply, she added, “In a little over an hour, the police are going to tell the judge that you were seen entering the Pumpkinvine Trail not far from where Owen Esch was murdered. You were carrying a large pack that might have contained a compound bow, and such a bow was later found at your home. Based on the proximity of the shooter, the police are going to lay forth that Owen knew his killer, and of course they have plenty of witnesses who say you two did know each other. Furthermore, you turned down a ride from an Amish person named Nathan.”

  Andrew gave a quick nod.

  “That was fairly near the place of the murder—certainly within walking distance. The police will say you turned down the ride because you had a plan—what the court system calls intent to murder.”

  Sweat trickled down the back of Jesse’s neck.

  He was glad Adalyn was on their side. This woman didn’t fool around.

  “At this very moment they are dissecting every hour of your time in Chicago and everywhere else you’ve been in the last few months—interviewing people you lived with, people you knew, and showing them Owen’s photo. Yes, they took a photo of him, a crime-scene photo. If you ever had an argument with this boy, they’ll know it within a few days. They won’t stop hunting until they find the evidence and motive they need to convict. It’s what they do. It’s their job.”

  Andrew flicked his gaze to Jesse. “I told you she was good.” Then he cleared his throat and turned his attention to Adalyn. “Ya. Owen and I did argue, but it was in South Bend, not Chicago. As far as I know, Owen didn’t come up to the big city.”

  “Was he working with you on this story?”

  “Ya. Ya, he was.”

  “And what was the story?”

  “We were supposed to find a way into the ISG.”

  “Indiana Survivalist Group.”

  Andrew sat forward, clasping his hands together on the tabletop. “My editor wanted a story on survivalists in the Indiana area. But he wanted it from the inside. Also, he’d read an article somewhere, comparing the survivalist lifestyle to the Amish. He wanted me to find a way into the group. He especially wanted me to see if any Amish folks were members. I was told to bring back hard facts about what type of men and what type of families these people were.”

  “How did Owen fit in?”

  “I had traveled down to South Bend. I wanted to move into the area slowly so as not to spook anyone. I met up with Owen at a Mennonite church service . . . ya, we still go to church even when we’re on our rumspringas, or like me, when we’ve moved away and are living a life outside the Amish community. Church is still important, or at least Owen and I thought so.”

  “So you met up with Owen by accident.”

  “Didn’t even know he was in town. The bishop o
f the church can confirm that.” Andrew gave her the bishop’s name, and Adalyn added it to the notes she was taking.

  “Go on.”

  “Owen needed work. I had a little money and offered to loan him some. Then I told him that if he’d help me out, I’d give him part of my payment for the piece. That’s when we argued. He wanted to storm in and earn the money fast. I told him newspaper writing didn’t work like that, at least not when it was about Amish communities. Slower is better.”

  “Newspaper reporters don’t make that much. It wouldn’t have been enough to share.”

  “Usually that’s true. But I was on assignment. At this point I’d already turned in several good pieces . . . I’d been to Chicago, Michigan, and Madisonville.”

  “Why?”

  “I was studying the Amish communities I visited. Different things.”

  “You spied on people?” It was the first thing Jesse had said in several minutes. He’d sat there listening to the questions and answers as if he were viewing a volleyball game. Except this was his brother’s future, not a game.

  “Nein. I didn’t spy. I gave an accurate portrayal in the media, which the Englisch could use. They need to know that it’s not like the reality television shows or sensational books that are so popular. And I always changed people’s names and locations. I respected their privacy.”

  Jesse tried to act as if this weren’t a surprise, as if his brother were revealing what they’d always expected, but in truth he was stunned. This wasn’t the happy-go-lucky brother he’d known all his life. This was a man with a passion and a determination to see things through. He’d misjudged Andrew, and he regretted that. He sincerely hoped he’d have the opportunity to tell him as much.

  Adalyn quickly checked her watch and made a tell-me-more gesture with her left hand as she wrote with her right.

  “Owen agreed to come here to Middlebury first and try to attend a meeting of the local ISG, maybe even join up. I continued to do research from South Bend. He called me the night before he was killed and said he was in.”

  “That’s it? That’s all he said? Because the police have a record of a phone call to a cell phone number they say was leased to you. The call lasted for seven minutes.”