Murder Freshly Baked Page 4

  “The LORD then said to Noah, ‘Go into the ark, you and your whole family, because I have found you righteous in this generation. Take with you seven of every kind of clean animal—’ ”

  “Dogs.” Mattie walked her fingers across the page.

  “—‘a male and its mate, and two of every kind of unclean animal, a male and its mate—’ ”

  “Dogs!” Mattie insisted again.

  “—‘and also seven of every kind of bird, male and female, to keep their various kinds alive throughout the earth.’ ”

  “Dogs, Mamm. Dogs!” Mattie pointed to the page, though it was filled with words, not pictures. Even the words were in German, but that didn’t slow Mattie down.

  “Yes, God put dogs on Noah’s ark.”

  Hannah had unbraided Mattie’s hair and now ran the brush gently from top to bottom. Her sister’s hair was a warm blonde, and it already reached to the middle of her back.

  “Cats!”

  “Yes, I suppose there were cats too.” Eunice smiled at Hannah over the top of Mattie’s head.

  “Camel!”

  Both Hannah and Eunice laughed, and soon Mattie was joining in.

  “I imagine your bruder taught you that word.” Eunice closed the Bible and pulled down the quilt on Mattie’s bed.

  “Camel!”

  “Is Dan actually going to purchase a camel?”

  “He’s ordered one, though it may be some time before it’s delivered.”

  “Horse!”

  “We’ll have Englischers stopping by to take pictures.” Hannah frowned as she returned the brush to the drawer of their nightstand.

  “Unlikely. Manasses practically has a herd at this point. I’m sure he’ll be the better photo op.”

  Mattie had escaped and begun jumping around the floor like a dog, or maybe she thought she was mimicking a camel. Eunice patted the spot beside her.

  Mattie returned to the bed, her expression suddenly serious. She placed the palms of her hands together and closed her eyes, all thoughts of rebelling long gone, though she continued to whisper the names of various animals.

  When Hannah and Eunice bowed their heads, Mattie grew quiet, then slipped one small hand into her mother’s and the other small hand into Hannah’s. In that moment, life was so right and so precious that Hannah felt a physical ache. She wanted to freeze time, to pretend things would never change.

  It was after they’d tucked Mattie into bed and moved downstairs to work on their crocheting, that Hannah mentioned what was on her heart to her mother.

  The sound of her three brothers and father in the kitchen, rummaging for a late-night snack and talking about the weather, provided a comfortable, familiar background.

  “I’m going to miss all of this after the wedding.”

  “You’ll be down the road, only a few minutes away.” Eunice didn’t pause as her crochet needle pulled the warm blue yarn so that the ball twisted and turned where it sat in the basket beside her chair. Hannah suspected it was a throw blanket she was making, and that it would be a gift for her and Jesse. She knew full well that it was a work of love, as Eunice had been up longer than any of them and no doubt would have liked to have gone straight to bed. But she sat in the rocker, working the yarn, and listening to Hannah’s foolish fears.

  “Ya, I know we won’t be far away. Jesse’s parents will begin work on two extra rooms now that the crops are all planted—one room for us and the other for Andrew and Mary.”

  “The four of you will be very close, Hannah. I’m so pleased you are marrying at the same time. You’ll be able to share your joys and your burdens.”

  “But I’ll miss”—Hannah’s hand came out and waved toward the upstairs and then the kitchen—“all of this.”

  Eunice smiled at her over the top of her reader glasses.

  “Change is difficult, even when it’s something we’ve looked forward to for many years.”

  Hannah pulled out the dish towels she’d been knitting for Mary and Andrew. She had eight completed, but she was hoping to give them an even dozen. The yarn was a nice cotton blend—an off-white with a light dash of pink, Mary’s favorite color.

  “Do you ever worry?” Hannah asked. “About us all moving away and being left here alone with Dat?”

  “Nein.” Eunice rocked as she crocheted. “The chatter of kinner will be replaced with the sweet sounds of grandkinner. Yet another kind of change, but a natural one.”

  “Which of the boys will stay to help Dat with the farm?” Hannah’s brothers were twenty, seventeen, and sixteen. The oldest two had girlfriends, but neither seemed to take their relationship seriously the last time she’d asked. Of course, that could change quickly. Look at her and Jesse!

  Six months ago, they’d been best of friends, and Hannah had worried they’d never be anything more. Now they’d soon be wed. Relationships had a way of changing suddenly and permanently. She’d eyed each girl the boys sat with during singings and wondered if they would one day be her sister. More change.

  “We can’t possibly know who will stay and who will have their own place to farm. It will depend on what your bruders decide to do and whom they marry—the situation of the family they are marrying into. Then there’s Dan’s fascination with camels, which might keep him here, or he may go to Pennsylvania—”

  “Pennsylvania?”

  “Ya. There is much he could learn there. Some of your dat’s family live in the Lancaster district, and several of the men have worked with camels for years. As Manasses told us, the milk is good for those who are sick—people with Crohn’s disease and diabetes. Perhaps it can also help those who have chronic intestinal problems. Instead of the supplements, they can drink the camel’s milk and be able to digest it, providing them the nutrients they need.” Eunice shook her head. “Even the Englisch doctors don’t fully understand the benefits yet, but it seems as if it will be a gut profession for your bruder.”

  “I didn’t know he was thinking of leaving.” Hannah stared at the half-made dish towel in her hands and wondered what stitch she had been using.

  “Visiting is a better word. He doesn’t plan to stay.”

  “Mamm, why didn’t I know about this?”

  “We speak of it at dinner, but sometimes you—”

  “Daydream?”

  “Ya.” Eunice again smiled. It wasn’t a criticism as much as an observation.

  “What else have I missed?”

  Her mother seemed about to share more news, hesitated, then shook her head as if she had thought better of it.

  “The point is that your dat and I understand this is a time of change, and that it’s natural. You don’t need to worry about us being alone. You’ll be down the road, and Mattie still has many years before she is gone.”

  “It’s hard to imagine her married.”

  “True. Whoever Gotte intends for her husband will need to be a patient man.”

  “And it might help if he likes all the animals Gotte put on the ark.”

  They both resumed their crochet work, and then Hannah’s mind drifted to Martha and Ryan.

  She spoke to her mother of her concern for Martha, who seemed hopelessly naive, and how she didn’t understand Ryan Duvall one bit.

  “We can never truly know what’s in another person’s heart, Hannah. We can pray for them, and you can do your best to be a true friend to Martha—not only in word but also in deed. Talk to her, listen to her, and be there if she needs you.”

  It was with those words of wisdom ringing through her heart that Hannah slipped back upstairs to her room and fell into a restless, troubled sleep. In her dreams, she and Amber were once again scouring Middlebury, following a shadow that she could never quite make out.

  Six

  Amber knew better than to work late in the evening. She’d already spent a half hour revisiting her Stitch Club project from earlier that day, and now she had an urge to confirm that everything was running smoothly at the Village. She hesitated for a moment, then reached for her
tablet. It wouldn’t hurt to check her e-mail one final time before heading to bed. She wasn’t sure why she had fallen into the habit of doing so. Who would e-mail her at ten in the evening? Yet habits die hard, and she was able to rest better knowing nothing at work needed her attention.

  Plus Tate enjoyed watching the local late news. They both finished up by the half hour. He’d been winking at her for the last twenty minutes, causing laughter to bubble up and goose bumps to scatter across her arms. She’d known that marrying Tate had been the right thing to do—he was steady, practical, and kind. Plus she loved him! What she hadn’t realized was that being married to him would be so much fun.

  Leo stared at her from his place in the seat of the rocker, his feet tucked neatly underneath him. The golden-colored cat had adjusted easily to their new home with Tate. Though he was pretending to sleep, he’d open his eyes occasionally to study her. She could hear his purring from across the room.

  She logged on quickly, thinking there would be nothing of importance, and she could beat Tate to their room. The smile on her face quickly faded when she saw the subject line for the top e-mail, “Poisonous Sweets.”

  Glancing at Tate, she decided not to interrupt his concentration—his attention was completely focused on watching the local sports report. The Northridge Raider High School softball team was off to a strong start for the season and had apparently fared well in the first weekend tournament.

  Amber’s finger hovered over the “Delete” button.

  Perhaps it was spam.

  Opening it might release a data-eating virus.

  Then again, her spam filter should have caught any e-mail that looked even remotely sinister. She’d recently installed all the updates. Surely that had beefed up her tablet to protect her against any type of malware.

  In the end, it was her curiosity that caused her to click it open.

  A small squeak escaped her lips as she quickly read over the short message.

  Tate muted the sound on the television.

  “What’s up? I haven’t heard that sound since Leo brought in a—” Tate stood and moved beside her on the couch. “Tell me what’s wrong. You’re pale as the patch between Trixie’s eyes.”

  Any mention of their donkeys usually lightened Amber’s mood, but not this time. This time she placed the tablet in Tate’s hands and pointed toward the screen.

  Kindness is a virtue

  Meanness is a sin

  Better watch your bakery pies

  For poison I’ve slipped in

  “Prank e-mail?” Tate scanned to the top of the screen. “I don’t recognize the name of whoever sent it.”

  “Because it’s not a name. It looks like random letters and numbers. I’m surprised my spam filter allowed it through.”

  “It must have been addressed specifically to you. Most spam goes out to a batch of folks. That’s the main way it’s caught.”

  “I don’t understand, though. Why me? And what does it mean?”

  “That someone wants you to throw away all of tomorrow’s pies. Do you have any new competition in town?”

  “Not that I know of, and wouldn’t that be rather obvious? Why not walk up to our house and nail a note on the door?”

  Tate set the tablet on the end table and pulled her into his arms.

  “Anything new going on at the Village?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Have you fired anyone lately?”

  “No.”

  “Turned down someone for employment who might be angry?”

  “Not that I can remember, but Pam does most of the hiring now.”

  “You can call her first thing tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “No one is going to be in your bakery eating pie at this hour. You can rest easy. The restaurant and bakery are closed by now, correct?”

  “They should be.”

  “Not to mention this is a hoax. It’s designed to rattle you.”

  “Mission accomplished.” Amber snuggled into his arms and breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of him and the steadiness, reminding herself how far she’d come in learning to trust God with the details of her life.

  Tate kissed the top of her head.

  “We’ve been through too much to let some teen punk rattle us.”

  “What makes you think it’s a teen?”

  “Cyberbullying? It’s a classic teenage move—anonymous and instantaneous.”

  Amber supposed he was right. She couldn’t think of one person who would be angry with her or the Village. Things had been going smoothly since—

  She pushed the thought of Owen Esch from her mind.

  That murder was solved, and they’d all moved on from the events of the previous fall.

  Tate was probably right.

  She was overreacting.

  With a conscious effort, she slowed her breathing and forced her shoulders to relax. She’d show the e-mail to Pam in the morning. Her assistant was like Tate—not easily shaken. If necessary they’d go see Georgia, the bakery manager. The last thing she needed to do was call Gordon Avery after ten o’clock at night. She’d been through two murder investigations with the Middlebury Police sergeant. He deserved a rest from her meddling. Not that this would be meddling. A girl needed to protect her business, not to mention her customers.

  It was with the conviction that everything was okay that she went to bed, convinced the note was indeed from a spammer with poor poetry skills.

  Preston struggled up the rocky slope, placing his hand against the mountain wall. Instead of dirt, he touched rock, gravel, and grit. The sun blazed down on the four of them—Toby, Bogar, Frank, and him. The harshness of the sun cast everything and everyone in an uncompromising light. It hadn’t rained in the last sixty days, not since he’d arrived in northeastern Afghanistan. He moved slowly and methodically, careful to avoid kicking up dust. Something wasn’t as it should be. He couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t single out one thing that was out of place, but his instincts told him something was wrong.

  His instincts told him to run.

  He gripped his rifle more tightly, ignoring the slickness of his palms and the way his heart thumped and thundered in his chest.

  Toby was ten meters in front of him, Frank ten meters behind. When Toby held up his right hand, they both stopped instantaneously.

  So they felt it too. The thing that was wrong. The danger lurking close, closer each moment.

  Preston scanned the slope below them and the valley that spread out to the south. Nothing moved. Even the animals sought what shade could be found at this time of day. The image before him was like something out of a picture, an ageless vista that had withstood countless armies and men.

  Toby signaled for them to continue. He’d barely lowered his arm when the first explosion shook the ground, and then Preston’s regiment leader vanished.

  One moment there, the next—gone.

  It was as if he had dropped over the ridge, but Preston knew he hadn’t. Through the dust and smoke he could see what was left of Toby’s pack. The man hadn’t even had time to scream.

  Preston turned, the cry of “Go back!” attempting to claw its way out of his throat. Frank’s eyes met his for a split second, and then the man turned and was running down the mountain trail, retracing their steps.

  Preston tried to sprint after him, but his legs refused to budge. He stood there, frozen, moving nothing except for his eyes—scanning to the right, where Toby had been, then to his left, at Frank who was beating a path to their previous location. In front of him, sunlight glinted off metal. Preston raised his rifle, took the shot, and saw the insurgent fall to the ground.

  He turned to run after Frank, but found his way blocked. Seized with an instinctive panic, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then forced his legs to move. He would crawl if need be, but he would find a way over or around the rock and gravel debris that had fallen, obscuring the path.

  His boots scraped against the trail.


  Desert sounds slowly returned—first the cry of a hawk and then the sound of the wind rushing across the sand below.

  Sweat poured down his back.

  Their fallback position seemed a hundred miles away.

  He stopped to rest, scan the horizon, and drink from his canteen. He needed to close his eyes—if only for a brief second. He needed to wipe away the image of the sights he had just seen, but it seemed that they had been carved upon his heart. He closed his eyes and vowed to rest no more than two minutes.

  When he opened them he was crouched in the mouth of a cave looking out over the desert. The sun’s rays were still beating down, but there was an angle to the light now. Darkness would fall within a few hours. How long had they been there?

  Frank lay beside him, a makeshift tourniquet wrapped above his right knee, the leg below the tourniquet a bloody mess. It took only a brief look to understand that no doctor would be fixing what was left of Frank Cannopy’s right leg. Had Preston placed the tourniquet? How had he moved the man from the ridge to the cave?

  How?

  And why?

  Why didn’t he carry him back to camp?

  “Are they still out there?” Frank’s voice was barely a whisper, but still Preston flinched.

  If they were found they had enough ammunition to stop the first dozen who attempted to breach the cave where they were hidden. Their chances against an entire group of Taliban, and that had to be who had attacked, were slim. Against an RPG or grenade attack they had no chance at all.

  He turned toward Frank, and in doing so he knocked over their packs. The sound echoed through the cave, amplified by the rock walls, signaling their exact location to whoever was out there.

  Preston blinked once, twice, and then a third time before he realized he was in the Dawdy Haus, crouched in the corner of his bedroom, not in the province of Nuristan south of the Hindu Kush Valley. He blinked again, reached up, and wiped away the sweat dripping down his face and into his eyes, mixing with salty tears.