Murder Freshly Baked Read online

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I woke up one morning and realized that life doesn’t stand still. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I don’t want to end up like some of the old women in our district who never had a chance to experience romance or love or having their own family.”

  “But, Martha, you’re nowhere near as old as the women you’re thinking about—and yes, I know who it is you’re referring to.”

  An image of Katie Schmucker popped into Hannah’s mind. Katie had been married, but when her husband died it was as if a part of her heart died too. She never remarried, never had children, and she’d lived in a room at her brother’s for as long as Hannah could remember. Then there was Letha Keim, who loved working at the Village but was still single. Why she had never married, Hannah couldn’t begin to guess. As far as she knew, Letha had never even attended singings, and of course now she was too old for such things.

  “You’re not that old,” Hannah said again.

  “Maybe not, but I think it sneaks up on you. I’m not going to let that happen to me. I’m going to do something about it.”

  “Something like go out with Ryan Duvall?”

  Martha hesitated, staring down at her hands. When she did look up, there was a smile tugging at her lips. “He’s very sweet, Hannah. And he knows about our ways. He’s lived here all his life.”

  “Still, he’s not Amish.”

  “That’s true, but we only went to see his father’s horses. They’re wunderbaar. All sorts of buggy horses and work horses too. The foals are a sight for sure.”

  “And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “You’re seeing him again, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you keep smiling as if you have a special secret.”

  “He offered to take me to Goshen to dinner at the Hibachi Grill.”

  “When?”

  “Thursday night. It’s the next evening he has free. I’m sure his father keeps him very busy with so many horses.”

  “I’m sure.”

  If Martha recognized the sarcasm in Hannah’s voice, she didn’t react to it. “I don’t even know what a Hibachi Grill is, but it sounds like fun!”

  “You said yes already?”

  “Of course I said yes. Do you think I want to stay home and eat with my parents every night? Always one of my bruders or schweschders has something happening with their beaus or their spouses, and I sit there—like a cat everyone ignores. I’d much rather be at the Hibachi Grill.”

  Hannah took a moment before she answered. She had the feeling anything she said would push Martha closer to Ryan. And what did she actually know about him? Nothing. Only what she had heard, which wasn’t actually a fair basis to decide whether or not you like someone.

  She knew from Jesse that Ryan had given Letha a ride to the Village, but perhaps a ride with an Englischer did not mean the same thing as a buggy ride with an eligible Amish man. Perhaps this wasn’t her business.

  Finally, she pulled Martha’s hands into her lap, and waited until she raised her eyes.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful, ya?”

  “Of course.” Martha jumped up. “I should go back inside. Jake’s gut with the computer, but if we have a rush of folks checking out he’ll need help.”

  As Martha walked back into the inn, Hannah couldn’t help noticing there was a new spring in her step and a healthier color in her cheeks. Perhaps this would all blow over in a couple of weeks, but in the meantime, she’d be supportive of her friend.

  That’s what friends did.

  They stood by one another, even through the murky waters. But as she walked back toward the coffee shop, she prayed that those murky waters would clear quickly. She didn’t want to be worrying over Martha and Ryan and Letha. It was enough to think about her job and supervising Seth, not to mention preparing for her upcoming wedding.

  And then there was Amber’s disgruntled poet.

  Why would anyone claim to taint the Village pies with poison?

  Another mystery, and the last one they’d solved had involved uncovering a murderer. Fortunately, this didn’t seem quite so serious.

  Delusional? Maybe.

  Dangerous? She doubted it.

  No one would have access to the bakery supplies unless Georgia personally handed them the key. The woman ran a tight shop, and for once Hannah was very glad for that.

  She didn’t doubt for a minute that everything would be cleared up in a few days. By the time May rolled around, they would be laughing at the problems of the month before.

  And hopefully by then, Ryan Duvall would be out of their lives for good.

  Amber’s morning had gone well.

  She’d met with Pam. Together they’d gone over the mysterious e-mail from the night before, and they had both decided it was the product of a sick, bored person. There was nothing to worry about. This in no way compared to the incident with Owen Esch or Ethan Gray.

  Relieved, Amber had gone about her morning with a quieted mind and a reassured heart. She’d tackled her in-box, clearing it out completely, and she’d fielded a couple of phone calls regarding the upcoming Race for a Cure. This was to be their first time to serve as host. To her surprise she stared at her calendar and realized the date was fast approaching with less than four weeks to prepare. Pam was handling the bulk of the details, but there were still a few matters Amber needed to address. She was happy to get those out of the way and focus her attention on the day-to-day running of the Village.

  Her stomach grumbled, reminding her it was time for lunch. She stood and collected her keys and tablet, then glanced toward her main computer. Three new e-mails had popped up in her mailbox. Read them now or wait?

  She decided to deal with them before leaving. She was meeting Tate for lunch in town. They were to grab a sandwich and then stop by the local nursery. It was Amber’s first time to have a real home garden, and she was beside herself with enthusiasm—something Tate tolerated with a smile and a warning that they’d have to weed all the rows she was insistent upon planting. Their vegetables had been set in the ground, and now she wanted to add a few flowers. The lunch would probably stretch to two hours. She’d already cleared her calendar, but the e-mails . . . well, they might be something she needed to deal with.

  When she clicked the little mail button, her heart skidded to a stop. She stared at the screen, unable to accept what she was seeing. Two of the e-mails were from Elizabeth—one with the weekly comments from their webpage and the other a forwarded message from their local newspaper requesting an interview.

  It was the third e-mail that caused her to feel as if she were sinking back into an all-too-familiar nightmare.

  Another anonymous e-mail.

  This time the subject line read “First Warning.”

  Amber didn’t know whether to be worried or irritated as her finger hovered over the Open button. She could just delete it, but if she did she’d spend the rest of the day wondering what it said.

  Sitting back down in her chair and pulling her mouse closer, she opened the e-mail, fully expecting a skull and crossbones to greet her before her computer crashed.

  Never read anonymous e-mails!

  She’d seen the advice a dozen times, but . . . she had an inquisitive nature. Surely her malware would have filtered out any malicious programming.

  If I had wanted our business blabbed to the entire Village I would have done so myself. It would have been a piece of cake to involve your precious friends. I don’t want that. I want this to stay between me and you.

  Keep Hannah out of our business. It would be tragic if something happened to the poor girl—right before her wedding and all.

  I’m guessing you showed our previous correspondence to your uppity assistant and goody-two-shoes husband as well.

  Stop!

  Or you’ll force me to do something we’ll both regret.

  Amber tried to breathe, but she felt as if a giant hand were squeezing her heart. She rea
d the e-mail again, and then one more time after that. The words didn’t change. The threat was plain as could be. She was once more in the crosshairs of a crazed killer—or wannabe killer—and this time she was supposed to endure it alone.

  Nine

  Preston hurried toward the Village restaurant, intent on his mission. Several times a week he purchased a sack lunch as well as the local newspaper. He went to visit his dad at least every other day, always stopping to buy him a current paper. His father wasn’t much of a reader. He’d recently turned eighty-two and had some trouble focusing on an article for any amount of time. Perhaps that was a side effect of his dementia. He might not read a lot anymore, but he delighted in completing the crossword puzzle out of the paper every day.

  Preston’s relationship with his father had been a rocky one since his return from Afghanistan. Initially he had lived with his dad, but that hadn’t worked out so well. His dad was still mourning the loss of his mother, who had died while Preston was overseas. He also didn’t understand why Preston was having problems adjusting to civilian life. He couldn’t understand or even comprehend what PTSD was.

  Preston still winced at that diagnosis, but he had at least reached the place where he no longer denied it. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was a real illness that many people suffered from, not just soldiers. Realizing that had been the first step on his road to recovery, and he’d been able to at least admit he had a serious problem. Soon after that realization he’d moved out of his dad’s home and begun living on the streets of Middlebury.

  Folks thought living on the streets was difficult, and it was problematic in many respects. But it wasn’t as hard as seeing the disappointment and confusion in his dad’s eyes. Then there had been the time he’d come out of a flashback, and he was holding an iron skillet and swinging it wildly to protect himself. His father had stood a few feet away, frozen, unsure how to handle what he was seeing. Preston had moved out the next day.

  He would have tried to lease an apartment, but he soon discovered that holding a job was going to be a problem. He’d do well for a week or so, then he’d have an episode at work. If he had told any of his employers he had PTSD, they would have kept him on, would have probably offered counseling of some sort. But he was still in denial as to the extent of his problem at that point. For a time he’d tried coping with alcohol and drugs. Those things had numbed the pain, but they hadn’t resolved anything.

  The dreams and flashbacks continued to plague him, even when he slept in the park. But he woke from them more quickly, and there was seldom anyone close enough to him to be in danger.

  It had taken some convincing for him to move off the streets. Tate and Amber had been persistent, though. At first he’d stayed in the barn on the Amish Village property. He’d worked each day, and begun eating regular meals again. When Amber married, she suggested he move into the Dawdy Haus because she was moving into Tate’s home. He’d been less sure about that, but agreed to it on a trial basis.

  The best part of the entire situation was that his dad had since moved to a retirement home across the street from the Village. Preston was able to check on him often. When any type of issue arose, the staff there called the Village, and Preston was able to leave work and be at his dad’s side in a matter of minutes.

  Preston stepped into the restaurant, bypassing the line of waiting guests and moving down the hall to the bakery. Georgia was bustling behind the counter, fetching cinnamon rolls and freshly baked cookies for the folks waiting in line. Spring had come to Middlebury, a fact reflected in the size of the crowds. When she glanced up and saw Preston, she motioned toward the register with a tilt of her head.

  “One turkey on wheat, today’s and yesterday’s newspaper, and two whoopie pies.” Georgia was probably five feet and a couple of inches, but she was a presence in the bakery. There was no doubt that she was the captain of this particular ship. Preston guessed her to be in her fifties. She was neither heavy nor thin, and her hair was a solid gray teased into a bouffant hairdo like those the older women wore.

  “I didn’t—”

  “I did. Your father doesn’t receive many sweets at that home, and I happen to know he doesn’t have a problem with his blood sugar. It’s fine to be healthy, but everyone can use a dash of sugar now and then.”

  “Thank you, Georgia.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The woman’s voice was all business, but the look on her face was pure compassion.

  At times Preston found people’s kindness more difficult to bear than his own problems. Alone, he could turn off his emotions, attempt to look at life’s problems in an objective way—unless he was huddled in the corner of his bedroom. He pushed that memory away as he headed across the Village property to where his dad now lived.

  Grace Homes had been built two years earlier. It could barely be recognized as a place for old folks, unless you looked closely. Each home had wheelchair access. They were also placed in semicircles with paved paths leading around and behind them for easy access to the recreation center, which was positioned in the middle of the property.

  Preston had been living on the streets for a little over three months when his dad sold the house and moved into Grace. At the time, it felt like another small piece of his heart had died. Seeing the home he had grown up in sporting a “For Sale” sign in the front yard had been a real blow. Those months he was homeless, he had regularly walked by the old house. He’d needed to see it, to be sure everything looked okay. Only on rare occasions did he actually stop.

  The morning he had first seen the Realtor’s sign, he had stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring at his childhood home.

  His pop had greeted him with a wary handshake and a cup of coffee. That was the way it was between them. They never mentioned the night he had torn apart the kitchen, or the fact that he was living on the streets. Those things sat between them like a solid wall, which they could peer over but never break through.

  “What’s going on, Pops? Why the ‘For Sale’ sign?”

  “Better to do it while I can. Your mom would want that.” He’d gone on to explain that the doctor had confirmed an Alzheimer’s diagnosis with a genetic test. He was in the early stages and wanted to take care of such decisions while he was still able.

  “Nights are the worst.” Gerald had looked away and then glanced back at him. “I guess that’s something we have in common.”

  After that Preston had stopped by each day to help him box up the few things he’d be moving with him. The rest was sold in an “estate sale”—a fancy term for giving away the accumulations of a lifetime.

  Once more Preston had locked his emotions down and done what needed to be done. Like Afghanistan. Like that day he struggled to forget.

  One “blessing,” as Amber would call it, was the windfall his father had made on the sale of the home and three acres. The house had been paid off when Preston was still in high school, and property values had risen in spite of the recession five years ago. The money had been put into a fund to pay for Gerald’s home at Grace. Preston supplemented that nest egg with a sizable portion of his check—something Gerald would never know. Preston didn’t do it so his dad would know. He did it because it was the right thing to do.

  The second blessing had been Zoey.

  He rang the doorbell at his pop’s house and waited. Unlike the traditional nursing facility, residents at Grace lived in homes they shared with several others. Each resident had their own bedroom and bath. A nurse and orderly also lived in the home, staying four nights and then off three. The weekend crew stayed Friday through Sunday.

  Zoey opened the door, and something tight inside of Preston’s chest loosened.

  She was a vision of beauty and peace to him.

  Zoey’s eyes danced as she pulled him into the foyer.

  Preston was six feet, and Zoey was a good six inches shorter than him.

  Her nurse’s scrubs accentuated her curvy figure. Today she wore green the color of summer grass. Cats danced ac
ross the fabric, reminding him of a blanket he’d had as a child. Zoey’s blonde hair bounced and curled around her face. Preston’s mom would have called her a strawberry blonde, whatever that meant.

  He’d plunged his fingers into that hair a few times, but not often. He had recognized the moment he began falling in love with Zoey. It was when he’d first seen her reach forward to wipe a little broth from his father’s chin. Yes, she was his nurse. Yes, it was her job. But the expression of kindness, well, it had been his undoing.

  And now?

  He didn’t know.

  As he’d cleaned his bedroom that morning, setting aside the pieces of the broken nightstand to fix that evening, he’d vowed that he would break off their relationship and tell her to find someone else. Zoey deserved a better life than he could offer.

  Ten

  Standing in the entryway, her blue eyes smiling at him, her hand on his arm, Preston’s resolve weakened. Life without Zoey? His mouth went dry and his throat tightened at the thought.

  What he wouldn’t give to spend the rest of his life with her, to offer her the home and love she deserved. If only there were a way.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Preston shook his head. He had no idea how to explain to her the hopelessness of his situation. She always waved such concerns aside, as if they were no more serious than a pesky summer fly.

  “Your dad’s doing well today. We were about to sit down to lunch.”

  He followed her into the dining area. Seated around the table were six residents, including his dad. While the grounds and the room might belie the fact that this was indeed a nursing home, one look at those gathered around the dining room table spoke the truth. Three had suffered strokes and obviously favored their “good” side. Two had had broken hips. Their walkers were positioned against the wall behind them. And then there was his father . . . Posture still erect, his father stood behind his chair, waiting for everyone else to sit. He had neatly combed his solid-white hair, and he wore black trousers with a light blue golf shirt.