Murder Simply Brewed Page 5

  Tate Bowman, struggling to handle two donkeys.

  The sight almost made her laugh.

  Tate wasn’t a small man. He towered well above her five feet four inches, and though he had to be on the other side of fifty, he was still all sinewy muscle like many of the farmers in the area. He’d apparently taken to shaving his head, so she couldn’t tell how much of his black hair had turned gray. Not that it mattered to her.

  The man was as unfriendly as a disgruntled guest, which she only had to deal with occasionally. On the other hand, Tate was her neighbor.

  “Problem with the donkeys?” She reached over the fence to pet the donkey nearest her, a beautiful reddish-brown jenny with a white patch between her long ears.

  “The donkeys aren’t why I called you.”

  Amber looked at him then. She forgot about her dinner waiting in the house and the rain that had begun to fall in fat drops. She looked at him and saw something on his face that alarmed her. There was a warning in his dark brown eyes that she couldn’t quite place. What could be so serious? And why the expression of grim concern? For the Village or for her? The thought embarrassed her and she laughed uncomfortably.

  “You seem to be having trouble with these two.” She nodded at the lead ropes he was holding in his hands. One donkey was standing at the very edge of her rope, apparently refusing to budge. The other, the one with the white patch, was cornered in between the two fences.

  “I am, but I called you because of the trail.” He nodded to an area behind her, pointed at what she hadn’t seen when she walked up.

  Someone had painted large ugly letters on the concrete path with a dark red paint. At least it looked like paint. As she stepped closer, the rain picked up, and the letters began to smear. The running red paint resembled blood, and the words—the words sent a river of worry through her heart.

  She closed her eyes and breathed a prayer for patience.

  Who would do this?

  And why?

  “Either it’s not paint or it’s fresh. Dried paint wouldn’t run that way.”

  “You didn’t see anything?” Amber turned back toward him. “Or anyone?”

  “No. I came out to gather the donkeys . . .” Tate glanced up at the sky at the exact moment the bottom fell out of the clouds and rain began to drench them.

  Amber pulled out her phone long enough to take two pictures, then she stuffed it back into her jeans pocket, under the poncho, safe from the rain.

  Tate had begun pulling on the donkeys, who were plainly not going to move for him.

  Without knowing why she was doing it, Amber climbed over the fence and took the lead rope for the donkey she’d petted.

  She leaned her head close to the donkey’s and stroked her again between the eyes. “Good girl. Let’s walk. Good girl.”

  Walking in front of the donkey, but not pulling, she intended to lead the way. Sometimes donkeys needed to know it was safe to go forward, but Tate’s donkey still refused to move.

  Amber walked back, the rain now pelting down so hard she could see Tate, the two donkeys, and nothing else. “Good girl. That’s it.” She moved so that the donkey’s head was in front of her and she could place a hand on her side. A tremor passed under her hand, and the donkey turned to eye her once. Then she began moving toward the barn.

  “Good girl. Walk on. That’s it.”

  They passed Tate at a fast clip, but it didn’t matter. Once her donkey had set off across the pasture, Tate’s donkey had seen that it was safe to do so. Either that or she didn’t want to be left alone in the pouring rain.

  Within a few minutes, they were walking in through the large front door of the barn.

  “I have no idea what I was thinking when I bought these animals. I imagined they’d be the same as horses, but they’re not. They’re unreasonable and impossible to train.” As Tate grumbled, he began putting fresh hay into the donkeys’ feed buckets. He walked out of their stall and proceeded to fasten its doors.

  “Wait.” Amber removed her rain poncho and stepped forward. Picking up a brush that was hanging on a hook on the wall, she began to brush one of the donkeys as the jenny ate her feed.

  “I’m wetter than that donkey is. Do you actually think I’m going to stand in here and—”

  “You’d do it for your horse.”

  Tate snapped his mouth shut, sighed heavily, and picked up the other brush. It occurred to Amber that he was a good-looking man. It was unfortunate that all her contact with him was over disputes. In another life, they might have been friends, possibly even more than friends. The thought both amused and embarrassed her.

  For several minutes the only sounds were brushes against hide and rain on the roof. How long had it been since Amber stood in a barn and took care of any animal? Probably since her grandparents had been alive. The memory sent a rush of warmth through her. They had lived farther south but still in Indiana. She’d loved those summers more than anything she could remember from her childhood. Perhaps they were the reason she’d decided to return to Indiana after college.

  “I’d still be out there in the rain with them if you hadn’t convinced her to start moving. How did you know what to do?” Tate stood facing her, the two donkeys between them, but he didn’t look at her when he spoke. Instead, he focused intently on the donkey he was brushing.

  “We have a couple of jennies at the Village, not that I work with them much. But my granddad raised and trained donkeys, and I loved helping him.”

  Tate nodded as if he understood. “My parents and grandparents had cattle. It’s why I have them, even though it doesn’t make sense money-wise.”

  “These seem like good donkeys, only a little unsettled. How long have you had them?”

  “Three weeks or so.”

  “What have you named them?” Amber moved to the other side of her donkey and continued brushing her.

  “I haven’t.”

  She jerked her head around and stared at him. “Nearly a month and you haven’t named them?”

  Tate’s expression changed to irritation, a look she was more used to seeing on his face. “I never named my sheep. I don’t name my cows. Why would I name my donkeys?”

  “Well, you name your horses, and donkeys are more like horses than they are like sheep or cows. Donkeys are very affectionate animals, and they need interaction with people or they become depressed.”

  “Depressed?” Tate shook his head. “I’m not sure I buy that one. I think they’re just an ill-natured lot.”

  Amber wanted to point out that was one thing he had in common with them, but she decided to keep that observation to herself. “Many people don’t understand donkeys. It’s important that you give them a name. Donkeys can easily live between twenty-five and thirty-five years.”

  Tate groaned.

  “Donkeys are fine animals, Tate.” She suddenly remembered her pastor’s sermon from the previous Sunday about recognizing when God was working in your life. “They’re even in the Bible.”

  When he looked at her skeptically, she added, “Balaam’s donkey. Give it a read sometime. It’s in the book of Numbers, but I don’t remember where.”

  She had stopped brushing and the donkey nudged her hand.

  “I’d name this one Trixie.” Amber rubbed the white patch between the donkey’s ears. “She’s a beautiful animal.”

  “Trixie, huh?” Tate placed his brush back on the hook on the wall. “And what about this one?”

  Amber walked over to his animal. Now there were only a few feet between her and Tate, and suddenly it felt very cozy in the stall, almost intimate.

  “Velvet. Her color reminds me of velvet chocolate cake.”

  “I think Vixen would be more appropriate for her, or maybe Viper.” Tate took the brush from her, and for a brief second their hands touched. Something deep inside Amber fluttered and a warm flush crept up her neck.

  What was wrong with her?

  Maybe she’d caught a cold out in the rain.

  Mayb
e she needed to accept Gordon’s next offer for a date, because she could not be imagining anything between her and Tate. The thought was ludicrous! He was a grandpa! She’d never even had kids. No, they were total opposites.

  “Come on,” he said roughly. “I’ll drive you home.”

  Amber wanted to argue that she could walk, but then Tate opened the barn door and she saw the intensity of the storm outside. Rain pounded the ground so hard that the drops splashed back up again. She could barely see Tate’s house though it was only a few yards away.

  She wouldn’t be walking.

  How bad could a short car ride with her neighbor be?

  She’d thank him for the lift and hurry back into her cozy house, where she could be dry, alone, and satisfied once again.

  Five

  When Hannah reached home, the bishop was there, sitting in the kitchen with her parents.

  “Joseph came by to speak with you, Hannah. To offer to pray with you after what happened . . . at the Village today.”

  Hannah slid into a seat at the end of the table. She wasn’t surprised that her parents already knew about Ethan’s death. Word would have spread quickly, through both the Englisch and Amish communities.

  She wasn’t sure she was ready to pray about Ethan yet. She didn’t even know how to put into words all the things weighing down her heart.

  Joseph smiled at her and pushed a plate of cookies her direction. Though he was young, already his hair was disappearing from the top of his head. His beard was full though—a dark brown with only a hint of gray, and his eyes were kind. “Your mamm, she’s a gut cook, ya?”

  “She is.” Hannah didn’t want one of the oatmeal cookies, but she took one so she wouldn’t appear rude. Breaking off a little piece, she popped it into her mouth. The sugar and raisins reminded her of when she was a child, when things made sense.

  “Perhaps you should begin by telling us what happened this morning.” Her dat stroked his beard. “We were worried when we heard, but your mamm said you would have come home if you’d needed to do so.”

  “There was no need for me to leave work.” Hannah stared down at the cookie, and then she told them all that had happened, from the moment she’d arrived, through finding Ethan’s body, and even answering the police officer’s questions.

  “I thank Gotte you were safe, Hannah.” Her mother stood and fetched the coffeepot, then refilled Joseph’s cup. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher that always sat on the counter and set it in front of Hannah.

  “Ya, I was safe, but poor Ethan . . .” The tears started then, the ones she’d been holding back all day.

  Joseph moved beside her. He opened the black Bible he often carried with him, and he moved through the Scripture, pointing out the places where God tells his people not to fear. He worked his way from Psalms into the New Testament. The message was the same. God would take care of them. There was no need to be afraid.

  Closing the Bible, he said, “Let’s pray.”

  So they did—her mother and father, the bishop, and Hannah. At first she didn’t know what to pray. Her mind was blank. But then she remembered Ethan and prayed for his soul, prayed for his family, and even prayed for his coworkers and herself. By the time the bishop stood, she was starting to feel grounded again.

  Joseph was young, as she’d reminded Jesse, but he was a good leader. Hannah no longer felt as if the world around her was fragile, and she didn’t worry if she’d be able to sleep later that night. The words fear not echoed through her mind and her heart.

  Two hours later, Hannah held her baby sister while her mother worked on repairing her brother’s pants. Ben, Noah, and Dan were all out in the barn. The storm had caught them by surprise, and they’d claimed to have more work to do after dinner. Hannah suspected it was their way of avoiding dishes. At nineteen, sixteen, and fifteen, they all thought they were too old for women’s work. Occasionally her mother, Eunice, made sure they understood kitchen work was for whoever had the time to do it.

  Tonight hadn’t been one of those times.

  Her father had agreed with the three boys that they had more work to do, nodding in his somber way, and all four of them had trooped out through the rain to the barn.

  Hannah had washed all the dishes herself while her mother had given Mattie a bath. Afterward, she’d joined her mother in the sitting room, and Mattie had crawled up into her lap. Hannah breathed in the sweet smells of her little sister, shampoo and powder and baby. Mattie was growing sleepy, which was the only reason she’d settled on Hannah’s lap. She had her thumb plopped in her mouth. They were both watching Eunice mend clothes, the needle moving back and forth through the material with mesmerizing speed. It was almost enough to settle the worries troubling Hannah’s mind.

  “Are you sure Mattie will be your last boppli?”

  “Ya, I think so.” Eunice leaned forward and added, “Forty-two is old to be birthing babies.”

  “You’re not old.” Hannah combed her fingers through Mattie’s curly brown hair.

  “Maybe not, but I started over twenty years ago. Three boys and two girls are quite the blessing! Some days I wonder how the gut Lord thought I could keep up with five children, though I realize many families have more.”

  “You keep up fine!” As Hannah studied her mom, she realized that she did look tired. Gray had started creeping into her brown hair, but that was normal. Amish women didn’t dye their hair like so many of the Englisch. They didn’t try to hide the effects of time. Yes, Eunice was gray and she looked tired, but in every other way her mom seemed the same. She was the same height as Hannah, five foot four, but quite a bit rounder. Moms were supposed to be rounder. Weren’t they?

  “You do make a gut point. I shouldn’t take that new job because I’m needed here.”

  “Nein. Your hours would be the same. Isn’t that what Amber said?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I expect you’d be receiving tips like the girls in the restaurant. The extra money would be gut for you to put back.”

  “But, Mamm, I’m not a barista.”

  “A what?”

  “Person who makes kaffi—at least that’s what the tip cup says. Barista tips. Not that I saw much money in it. I believe Ethan was too grumpy with the customers. They wanted the kaffi but didn’t feel a need to tip him for it.”

  “Each person can do their best and no more. I suppose Ethan was as pleasant as he knew how to be.”

  “But I’m not a kaffi maker. I’m a quilter. That’s what I enjoy doing—putting together pieces of a quilt as if they were part of a puzzle.”

  “And now you can put together customers’ drinks like a puzzle. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Eunice held up the pair of pants she was mending and studied them in the soft light of the gas lantern. “I won’t be able to repair these again. Noah has torn them so often the fabric is becoming ragged.”

  “He still runs around like a kind. Didn’t he tear those chasing after a wild turkey?”

  “Yes, he did.” Eunice set aside the pants and picked up a shirt that needed the seam under the arm mended. “I am pretty sure I recall you acting like a child when you were sixteen.”

  “That was a long time ago. I can’t remember.”

  When her mother paused to stare at her with raised eyebrows, Hannah started laughing.

  “You’ve forgotten how you used to spend every spare hour down at our pond? And you always came back muddy or with clothes that needed mending.”

  Mattie reached up and tried to snag Hannah’s glasses. When Hannah pulled away, Mattie put the middle three fingers of her left hand on Hannah’s lips. Her sister’s right thumb remained firmly planted in her own mouth.

  “Tell me what is bothering you most about changing jobs.”

  “I will miss the quilt shop.”

  “And I’m sure Carol will miss you, but you’ll be right next door. At night you can still sew your projects to sell in the shop. There’s something else you’re worried about. What is it?” />
  “He died in there, Mamm. Ethan died in his shop just this morning, and I’m supposed to be making kaffi in the same spot tomorrow?”

  Eunice completed mending the seam before she answered. “Death is a natural part of life, Hannah. The Bible tells us as much.”

  “I know, but—”

  “People die in all manner of ways and all sorts of places. It doesn’t scar a place. It marks a place with special memories because it’s where a soul left this world and entered the next.”

  “I’m not comfortable being near Ethan’s departure point.”

  Eunice smiled, stored her sewing, and pulled out a pair of knitting needles. It seemed her mother’s hands were never still. She placed a ball of pink yarn where it would unravel easily and set to work on the sweater she was making for Mattie.

  “Sometimes Gotte has a way of putting us in situations where we’re uncomfortable. Though you’re uneasy about this new assignment, you can trust Gotte. And you can trust your boss. Amber Wright is very thoughtful in the way she runs the Village, and she has always been a fair boss to you. She must think you’d do a gut job there.”

  “I suppose.”

  Silence settled over them. Hannah could tell by Mattie’s breathing that she had fallen asleep. She should move her to the room they shared, but holding her was comforting.

  “I’ve reminded you often that we named you Hannah because it means ‘grace.’ ”

  “Ya. I know it does, but—”

  “And every night I pray Gotte’s grace on you, on all my kinner. He will see you through any changes at your job, dochder.”

  “I know he will.”

  “You don’t need to worry about whether it’s permanent or concern yourself with what happened to Ethan. Gotte already knows all those things.”