Murder Simply Brewed Page 6

  “Sure, but, Mamm—”

  “You need to do gut work each day, and always be kind to those you meet.” The needles and yarn blurred as her mother continued to knit the sweater.

  Hannah fiddled with her glasses. She wanted to argue with her mother, wanted to tell her about Jesse’s theory that Ethan’s death wasn’t merely caused by a heart attack. And what of the strange way Carol had looked at her when Hannah had first told her about Ethan. Carol had hidden her distress well enough and soon enough that the customers hadn’t noticed, but Hannah had.

  Hannah knew her employer very well.

  What was that look of concern about?

  When they’d spoken of it later, she had clutched the bolt of sky-blue fabric so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

  Still, her mother’s words rang true.

  Gotte would provide the answers, if he wanted them to know. Of course, Hannah thought, he must also have given her a curious nature for a reason.

  It was with those discordant thoughts that she stood and carried her sister upstairs.

  Perhaps the next day would be better. She couldn’t imagine how it could be worse.

  “Will you look at the pictures with me? See if there are any clues as to who did this or why or what it means?” Amber peered up at Tate with such a beseeching look, he found himself nodding in agreement.

  They were standing in his mudroom.

  Tate had planned on grabbing a raincoat, hopping in the truck, and delivering her to her house. The raincoat wasn’t going to do much good though. He was already soaked through and through.

  Amber pulled the phone out of her jeans pocket and tapped the icon of the first photo from the Pumpkinvine Trail. It enlarged, but not much. He stepped closer and then shook his head. “Can’t tell much from this. The picture is too small.”

  “I can load it on my computer at home. When you drive me over, you could come inside for a minute. It won’t take long.”

  Tate stared at her in disbelief. They’d barely had a civil conversation between them the whole time she’d lived next door, unless you counted the last few minutes in the barn. What had come over her?

  “It’s only that the incident occurred on the border of our properties, and we should probably decide together whether to involve Gor—whether to involve the police.”

  Rolling his shoulders to relax the muscles that were tensed there, Tate stared out the window at the steady rain. He did not want to become involved with this woman or the Village. He wanted to go and rest in his recliner and watch a little television. Glancing back at Amber, he saw that she had been peering up at him as she adjusted her rain poncho.

  “But I understand if you’re too busy.”

  “No. I suppose I’m not.” He ran his hand from the top to the back of his head. “Let me change clothes first. I’ll be quick.”

  He hurried up the stairs and into his bedroom. The house was ridiculously large for one person, but on holidays it was full with the boys, their wives, and Camille. He expected that over the years he’d have even more grandchildren. At least that was what he and Peggy always said to each other whenever they questioned living in the big farmhouse. Many of the couples their age had sold their farms and bought homes with little or no yards. But the thought of living in such a place made Tate restless and annoyed.

  He liked his home, even though it was too empty, too quiet, and too filled with memories of the way things were. He considered the positive side as he toweled off and began changing clothes. The boys came home no more than three times a year, but when they did there was plenty of room for everyone. Pulling off his wet socks and shoes, he shook his head at the absurd turn his thoughts had taken. He could never sell the farm anyway. It had been in his family for three generations.

  He quickly changed into dry clothes—shoes, jeans, and a T-shirt. Should have been a quick thing to do, but the first two shirts he tried on looked ridiculous. One was stained and the other had holes in it. Walking to his closet, he pulled a golf shirt off a hanger. He rarely golfed, but the kids insisted on updating his wardrobe. Checking himself in the mirror, he decided he was presentable.

  Not that he cared how he looked for Amber Wright.

  As he walked down the stairs, he admitted to himself that she wasn’t as bad as he had remembered. Maybe she’d softened up a little over the years, or perhaps he’d become less critical.

  The thought caused him to remember the Scripture he’d read that morning. Something about judging others. Had he been doing that?

  “Ready?” He’d left her in the kitchen. When he walked back in, she was studying the collection of pictures on his refrigerator.

  “Are these all your family?”

  “Yeah. Every time they send me a photo, I move the others closer together and stick the new one under a magnet.”

  “At this rate, you might need another refrigerator.”

  Tate nodded, realizing she was right. “I should take down the old ones, but I can’t quite talk myself into doing it. They make me smile, especially the ones of the boys when they were younger. You probably met my boys.”

  “Sure. Collin is the oldest, right? Star running back.”

  Tate was surprised she remembered. “Yes. This picture is of him, his wife, and their daughter.”

  Amber stepped closer to study the photo as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “How did he get old enough to marry and have a child?”

  Tate laughed. The sound was strange even to his ears. “Time doesn’t stand still, does it?”

  “It seems impossible that they are adults.”

  “Alan married last year, though I expect they will wait awhile to have children. He’s finishing up his master’s degree in business and she’s a nurse.”

  Turning to glance up at him, Amber smiled—a real, genuine smile. “I know you are proud.”

  Her expression turned serious, and she added, “I want to say I’m very sorry about your wife. I came to the visitation, but I’m sure you don’t remember.”

  Something in his chest tightened. Did just the mention of that time still have the ability to hurt him? “There aren’t many details about the funeral itself that I remember. Sometimes it seems all of it happened to someone else, but the grief . . . I can recall that well enough.”

  An awkward silence filled the room. Tate became aware of the clock ticking on the wall, the rain falling outside, and the scent of Amber’s perfume—a light floral scent that was also a little powdery.

  “I guess we should go.” He offered her an umbrella, but she waved him away.

  “I have a rain poncho on, though that won’t help my jeans or shoes. Sorry about dripping water on your floor.”

  He shrugged, and she added, “Dashing to the truck won’t make me any wetter.”

  But they didn’t have to dash. The truck was pulled up under the carport, and long ago he’d built a covered walkway between the mudroom and where they parked. Peggy had said she was tired of being trapped in the truck, waiting for a wayward shower to pass. She’d had a way of convincing him to do things—not whining but thanking him for it before he’d even begun.

  They drove to Amber’s house without talking. The only sounds were the rain beating a rhythm on the roof and the radio set low in Tate’s old truck. Something by George Strait. He couldn’t make out what, and he didn’t want to turn it up.

  Tate had lived next to the Village all his life, though when he was growing up it was hardly more than a small inn with a café attached to the side. Over the years it had grown until now it was a sprawling complex, like a scar across the fields. He didn’t much abide development. Folks could go to the city for that. He bit back the complaint that came to mind. Hadn’t worked before, and it wouldn’t work now.

  “Progress marches on,” Peggy would say, a smile playing across her lips. She understood why he hated seeing the fields plowed and replaced with more buildings. She understood, but she was always reminding him not to struggle against thing
s he couldn’t change.

  He’d never been inside the Dawdy Haus where Amber lived, though he’d stood at his window often enough and watched the light in her window. It was on the far side of his property and he could just make it out most evenings—like a sort of beacon assuring him he wasn’t completely alone.

  Following her up the Dawdy Haus porch steps, he had to admire the way she’d left the original style. He was also surprised she hadn’t added on to it over the years. Even for a single person, it seemed small—or cozy depending on how you thought of such things.

  “Would you like some hot tea or coffee?” She placed her rain poncho on the coatrack near the front door and her wet shoes on a mat. Since he had changed his shoes, his were still fairly dry.

  “No. Thank you. I should probably take a look and get back.”

  “Sure. It will only take me a minute to turn on my computer.”

  Her clothes had actually remained somewhat dry except for the bottom of her jeans, which were soaked as she’d said, wet from the knees down. Her hair was beginning to curl all over her head. She probably had no idea that the curly look was good on her, or she wouldn’t wear it so straight every day. Tate wasn’t going to tell her. It was none of his business how she wore her hair.

  She’d walked to a small computer desk in the corner of the dining room. The one thing on it was a laptop. He’d never seen a work area so tidy.

  A single plate was sitting on the table—the meal uneaten. So that was what he’d interrupted.

  “Eggs for dinner?”

  “Too often. It’s about all I can cook.” She clicked away on the computer, opening an Internet browser and her e-mail.

  Tate felt something brush up against his legs. He moved to the left, bumped into Amber, and then saw the cat. Jumping back to the right, he managed to avoid stepping on it.

  “Does he do that on purpose?”

  “Leo? Yeah. It’s his way of saying hello.”

  “Tripping me?”

  “No. Winding through your legs. Think of it as a handshake.”

  Tate didn’t want a handshake from a cat. He didn’t trust cats. They had a way of staring at you in an arrogant, I-know-something-you-don’t manner.

  He decided to ignore the cat and focus on the screen.

  When Amber double-clicked on the picture and expanded it to full size, he let out a long, low whistle. He’d seen it well enough from his field, but displayed on the computer the message appeared even more sinister.

  It struck him as a sad commentary on their community, that such a thing should happen in their midst. And beneath that sense of disappointment was a nervous worry that tonight was only the beginning.

  Six

  Amber stared at the screen, unable to comprehend the how and why of what she was looking at. The graffiti had been written with red paint, the letters shaped in all caps and spaced haphazardly as if someone was in a hurry. Or maybe they merely wanted to cover the entire width of the concrete path.

  BEWARE. IRON BREAKS AND SMASHES EVERYTHING.

  Amber frowned at the screen.

  “Looks worse than it did in person. What could it possibly mean?”

  She felt more puzzled than concerned. She wasn’t exactly rattled by what this person had done, but she was puzzled and, under that, a little angry.

  Tate leaned closer to the monitor. “The ‘beware’ is easy enough to understand.”

  “Beware what?”

  “Well, the arrow points toward the Village.” Tate pulled a chair over from the dining room table and sat down beside her.

  “So are they warning the people already at the Village to beware, or are they warning prospective guests to beware the Village? Neither makes sense.”

  “Maybe they’re warning the employees.”

  Now Amber turned and studied him. Finally she cleared her throat and asked, “Have you heard about Ethan? Ethan Gray?”

  “I know Ethan. Not well, but I know him.”

  “He died this morning, at work.”

  Tate had been leaning forward to study the screen, but now he sat back against the chair and stared at her. “Today? At the Village?”

  Amber filled him in on the day’s events, and then she added, “The police are sure it was a heart attack.”

  “And yet you had vandalism this morning—the breaking of Ethan’s glass—followed by this.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m not much of a believer in coincidences.”

  “How could the two possibly be connected?”

  Tate didn’t answer her question. Instead he pointed out the obvious. “Whoever did this placed it at the Village property line for a reason.”

  “And they knew where the property line was.” Amber frowned at the screen, more irritated by it with each passing moment.

  “Do you think there are similar warnings at the other end of the trail?”

  “I doubt it. Someone would have seen it and notified Larry, who would have called me right away.” Amber moved her cursor over the screen, tracing the red letters. “ ‘Iron breaks and smashes everything.’ What in the world could that mean? And why was it written in red?”

  Tate frowned as he tried to make some sense of it, but he only shook his head instead of answering her. Leo had hopped up on the desk and sat staring at them, paws tucked under him and large green eyes revealing no interest in what was on the computer screen.

  Should they be concerned?

  “Maybe it was a prank,” Tate said. “Kids. You know as well as I do that we have our share of hoodlums in this town.”

  “I wouldn’t call them hoodlums. We were young once . . . right?” She smiled, remembering the soap her senior class had placed into the fountain located in the center of the town square in South Bend. Each student involved had been caught. They’d been forced to help drain and clean the bubbles out, plus write a report covering the harmful effects of soapy water on birds. What a sight it had been though, like some giant bubble bath gone wild.

  “Maybe we were. But I never would have done that. My dad would have tanned my hide.”

  Amber tapped her fingers against the desk. “My parents were strict as well.”

  She picked up a pencil and pulled a pad toward her. “So we have two possibilities for motive—a prank or something darker.”

  “Darker as in a warning.”

  Her pencil hovered over what she had written, and then she added his words.

  “Why at your property line?” Amber drew question marks in the margin.

  “Lucky, I guess. It certainly isn’t the first time someone connected to the Village caused damage on my property.”

  Amber set down the pencil. “It’s been better, right? Nothing in the last year. And we paid for the last fence that was damaged and the—”

  “I know you did.” Tate raised his hand to stop her, like a school crossing guard. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, at least not that way.”

  She started to apologize again, but he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry if I sounded bitter,” he said. “What I was trying to say is that in a small town, or in the country, what happens to one person often affects their neighbor.”

  “Good point.” She clicked off the e-mail and stood. Tate stood as well.

  Then she followed her instincts and reached out and touched his arm. He flinched slightly, but he didn’t step away.

  “After living here for twenty-two years, I understand how much you care about the area. I do apologize for causing you trouble again.”

  “Not your fault,” he mumbled.

  They crossed her living room, which suddenly seemed tiny to her when compared to his home. The room was barely large enough to hold her recliner, small couch, and bookcase. “Do you think I should share this with the police?”

  “Not on my account, but if you’d feel more comfortable doing so—”

  “No.” She ran her hand over her hair, and instantly became conscious of what the rain had done to her styling. “Say
, you could have mentioned that I look like Shirley Temple.”

  A smile twitched his lips, but Tate didn’t give in to it. He told her to call if she needed anything else, and she promised to let him know if they found out who had done the vandalism.

  Standing on her front porch, watching the taillights of his truck as he drove away in the rain, Amber realized she’d enjoyed the evening. Not what they’d dealt with, of course, but the fact that they had spent the better part of the evening together. As she tossed her cold dinner into the trash and set about making a mug of hot tea, she thought of how Tate had looked, dripping wet, standing in his mudroom.

  He probably had no idea that he was still an attractive man, that a woman might want to pursue a relationship with him. Was he ready to come out from under the cloud of grief he’d lived with since Peggy had died? Was there room in his heart to care for someone new?

  She couldn’t say, and it didn’t matter to her anyway since she wasn’t looking for a relationship. It was nice to know that she had a friend instead of an enemy on the other side of her pasture fence. That thought brought some peace to the most hectic day she’d had in quite some time.

  The rest of the evening passed quietly. A long shower warmed her, and she still had time to enjoy her favorite chair and the book she was nearly done with. Leo curled on the back of her recliner, his purring harmonizing nicely with the last few minutes of rain that pattered softly against her roof. Within an hour her eyes grew heavy, and she placed her bookmark in her book—a mere twenty pages from the end, but she couldn’t stay awake any longer.

  Leo tiptoed behind her, following her first to the bathroom to watch her brush her teeth and then hopping onto the corner of the bed. He looked like a golden sun drop on the dark blue Amish quilt that was made in an Old Country Tulip pattern. Red tulips were appliquéd to a black background. The first row of border was a dark blue, and the outer border was a warm pink. The quilt soothed her in a way she would have had a hard time explaining. Sliding beneath the sheets, she turned out the lights and nearly groaned when her head met the pillow.