Murder Tightly Knit Read online

  “Mr. Shaw.” Pam’s voice was sweet and carried an accent far more Southern than was usual. “What makes you think this is a federal crime?”

  “I can’t share that information, ma’am.”

  Shaw smoothed his tie, a basic black against a plaid shirt. He wore black dress slacks and designer leather shoes. He didn’t fit in with Amber’s staff or her clientele. He would make everyone nervous, like he was making her nervous. Everything about him screamed trouble, in Amber’s opinion.

  “It’s ISG, isn’t it?” Amber clutched her tablet to her chest. “That’s why you’re here. I did a little research myself today. I discovered that any group with the word survivalist in its title is considered antigovernment.”

  “They are antigovernment.” Shaw’s voice dropped an octave, all pretense of pleasantness now gone. “And I will not be slowed in my investigation by your desire to protect your friends.”

  “You’re the reason I feel a need to protect them. I will not have you lurking around and intimidating my workers or my guests.”

  “Why don’t we move this inside?” Gordon suggested.

  But the last thing Amber wanted was to be in close quarters with this man. He reminded her of a hungry hyena.

  “Just because they’re Amish doesn’t mean they’re survivalist.”

  “I fail to see any difference.” Shaw ticked off his reasoning on his overly long fingers. “Large bunkers—”

  “I think you’re referring to cellars, which most homes around here were built with.”

  “Large supplies of canned goods put back.”

  “A practice they have followed for generations.”

  “Collection of arms.” He had ticked off three fingers.

  “They hunt,” Pam murmured, “which isn’t a crime last time I checked.”

  Gordon, for his part, was looking distinctly uncomfortable, but he also wasn’t jumping in to argue with Shaw.

  “A distrust of the medical community.”

  Amber was speechless. How did she explain the Amish culture to this man? He obviously had no desire to hear the truth.

  “And most telling of all, a disrespect for the US government.”

  Amber, Pam, and even Gordon stared at him in disbelief.

  “I’m merely pointing out the obvious.”

  “They are Amish.” Amber spoke as if she were trying to reason with a toddler. “Do you know anything about the Anabaptist faith?”

  “I’m not asking for a history lesson. In fact, I’m not asking for anything. As a courtesy, I stopped by to inform you that I will be watching. I’ll also question your employees as I deem necessary. If you have a problem with that, maybe there’s something you haven’t told Sergeant Avery.”

  Shaw turned and sauntered off—it was the best word for the way the man walked.

  Amber and Pam were left staring at Gordon.

  “Stay calm, Amber.”

  “Calm?”

  “I don’t like this any more than you do.” And with that confession, Gordon trudged off after his new sidekick.

  “Trouble in paradise. That’s what we have,” Pam said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” As they walked back toward the office, Amber’s mind was whirling.

  Shaw’s presence had unsettled her day.

  The fact that the Village had been thrown into the middle of another murder investigation caused her lunch to turn slightly in her stomach.

  But the thing that bothered her most, the thing she knew would distract her from her afternoon work, was what Pam had told her about Mary Weaver.

  Trouble in paradise, indeed.

  Ten

  Jesse’s Friday was turning into a disaster. In fact, it was shaping up to be worse than his Thursday had been. The evening before weighed on his mind, followed him through the day, and set his mood to foul.

  All four of his sisters, ages nine to sixteen, had been ecstatic to find Andrew home once again. The youngest hadn’t been born the first time Andrew left. Of course, Teresa had met Andrew. He’d managed to show up intermittently through the years. He’d managed to disrupt their lives before.

  Susan, Ruth, and Roseann waited on Andrew as his mother had, as if he might disappear before their eyes. And Teresa, the youngest, refused to budge from his side.

  Jesse had been sent over to Linda Rainey’s with the cinnamon flop cake his mother had made that afternoon, to replace the pineapple cake they’d eaten. It was nearly dark when he crossed the pasture to her house, and he wasn’t in much of a mood for visiting. Though it wasn’t her fault that his life had taken a curve, Jesse felt his impatience grow as he trudged toward the sprawling one-story house next door.

  He remembered Linda’s husband, an elderly Englisch man named Douglas who drove an old Ford truck. He’d died only two years earlier. Linda could have moved to Indianapolis to live with one of her children, but she insisted that she intended to spend her last days on the farm where she’d lived since she married.

  As soon as he spied her sitting on her front porch, his irritation melted away. She’d always been a kind woman, even when he and Andrew were boys and constantly cut across her fields because it was a faster route home. Back in those days, before the lupus had crippled her hands, she’d been the one to bake and offer cookies, brownies, and oat bars to the boys. Now his mother was returning the favor. It was what neighbors did.

  “Good evening, Linda.” He climbed the porch steps and stopped.

  Linda sat in one of her two oak rockers, her hands curled around a lap quilt. Jesse knew she’d probably used it all afternoon, though the day had been warm.

  “Jesse, it’s good to see you. I do enjoy visitors so much.” She motioned to the empty rocker. “Sit and tell me what you’ve brought today.”

  Still standing, Jesse replied, “Cinnamon flop cake.”

  “Your mamm knows I won’t be eating an entire cake myself.”

  “She thought you could share it with the nurse who visits.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. Also, my grandchildren will be here this weekend. It will be nice to have something sweet to offer them.”

  “Would you like me to take it inside?”

  “Yes, I would appreciate that. I’ve left the dish from last week near the sink drain. It’s washed and ready to go back. And perhaps you could bring us both a glass of lemonade. The pitcher is in the refrigerator.” He started inside and she called after him, “Place that cake on the kitchen counter for me and set it well back. Though your mamm has wrapped it up nicely, Socks might be tempted to knock it off onto the floor.”

  Socks was an old, gray tomcat with white feet. Linda had adopted him years ago, and occasionally Jesse spied the cat prowling through the high grass or, more often, lying in the sun, dozing. As far as Jesse knew, he’d never done a thing to earn his keep. He definitely wasn’t a mouser; a few weeks before Jesse had set traps behind the stove for a mouse Linda had seen. As he’d baited the traps with cheese and peanut butter, Socks had lain there in the middle of the kitchen floor, methodically grooming himself with a purr that rattled like an old-time coffeemaker. The cat was useless.

  There was no sign of him in the house.

  Jesse had been in Linda’s home many times. It looked no different than it ever had, down to the checkerboard sitting on the table by the window. He knew Linda didn’t play checkers, but Douglas had. She kept the board there for the grandchildren. If he remembered right, she had three—two girls and a boy.

  He walked back out onto the porch, carrying the empty baking pan under his arm and a glass of lemonade in each hand. He gave one to Linda and drank his in a long gulp. The cold, tart sweetness slid down his throat, easing an ache he didn’t realize was there. After finishing the drink, he wavered between the rocking chair and the steps.

  “Go ahead and sit. You know you want to.”

  “Ya. It’s a nice evening for sitting outside, but I should probably be going.”

  “Because your brother’s home?”


  Jesse squinted at her in surprise.

  “I saw him walking down the lane toward your house. Near lunchtime, wasn’t it?”

  “Ya.” Jesse sat down in the rocker. When he did, he had a clearer view of Linda. She’d been sitting in the darkened corner of the porch since even the fading sunlight irritated her lupus. Sinking farther back into the rocker, with the light from a living room lamp spilling through the window, he had a good look at her hands. They were swollen as usual, but they were also covered in an angry red rash that extended up her wrists and probably under the long sleeves of her cotton blouse.

  Linda was in her late fifties, maybe even sixty now. Her hair was cut in a short, straight fashion and had turned mostly gray. It reminded him of the wool caps Amish boys and even men often wore. She always wore loose-fitting pants and large cotton shirts. Perhaps the baggy clothes irritated her skin less. As he studied her, she reached up, nudged her glasses aside, and rubbed at her right eye.

  “The rash is worse today, but there’s no need to look so concerned, Jesse. The Lord won’t give me more than I can handle with his help.”

  He nodded. The words were easy enough to believe when quoted at church meeting, but difficult when looking at Linda’s hands. How did she bear it? And what of all the idle time she had? He couldn’t think of many things he could do without the use of his hands.

  As if reading his thoughts, Linda said, “I enjoy sitting here and watching the world, studying all of God’s creation. I decided after Douglas’s death that I could either spend my remaining years feeling sorry for myself or appreciating God’s handiwork. Appreciation is always the better choice. Now, tell me about your brother.”

  “As you said, he’s home.”

  “To stay?”

  “Hasn’t said that.”

  “I know how your mother worries over that boy. It would be good if he was done with his wandering.”

  Jesse wondered about that. Would it be good? It had been so long—he had a hard time remembering what life was like with Andrew around on a daily basis. Though he’d resented his brother’s leaving, he couldn’t say he was thrilled about his return. How messed up was that?

  “Seems like only yesterday when you two were dashing across the back of our property, hurrying home from school.”

  “Do you remember the summer your husband kept a bull in that pasture? It’s the one time I can remember him being angry, when we climbed the fence and ran. We were convinced that we could outrun the bull. We did too, but not by much.”

  Linda smiled, the years falling away. “He came home and told me that you boys were going to give him a heart attack. Douglas found a buyer for that bull the next week and put sheep back there instead.”

  “Which were much easier to run through.”

  The stars were beginning to make an appearance. Jesse knew he should head back home, but it was peaceful and quiet on the porch. Sitting there, he could forget about the questions swirling through his mind.

  “Andrew must have missed his home.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the reason he returned.”

  “I say that because I saw him earlier today. First he carried that large pack into your barn, and then he made his way past it—to the creek, I imagine. You two boys used to fish there every chance you had.”

  “Haven’t seen a fishing pole in Andrew’s hands in years.”

  “Perhaps he was soaking up the memories rather than pining for fish.”

  “Maybe so.”

  When Jesse stood to go, Linda rose from the rocker, walked to his side, and reached up to place a swollen hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been a good son to your parents, Jesse. I know your mother and dad appreciate all that you’ve done, all that you’ve had to do since you’ve been the only boy around.”

  Were his concerns so transparent?

  Jesse didn’t know how to respond, so he thanked her for the lemonade and left.

  The rest of the evening had passed quickly, and he’d gone to bed before Andrew. He wasn’t ready to have a private conversation with him. He didn’t understand the uneasiness and confusion he was feeling. Was it Andrew’s fault? Or his? And what was he going to do about it?

  Now today, as he worked at the Village, he still couldn’t say what was causing his unease. Andrew had risen early and helped them in the barn. They’d had breakfast together, and then Andrew had walked to town, claiming he needed to meet someone.

  Jesse saw him dart into the barn before he left.

  No doubt to reclaim something he’d hidden there in his backpack. The pack had never come into their bedroom, and he had never brought it into the kitchen where Andrew had first appeared during lunch. So he must have stored it outside on the porch until he could take it to the barn, as Linda had seen.

  What was in the pack?

  Who was he meeting in town?

  And why had he gone down to the pond the day before? Had he met someone there? Perhaps he had gone there to make some phone calls in private. Jesse had no doubt his brother had a cell phone. His father wouldn’t reprimand him about it unless Andrew brought it into the house.

  What—exactly—was his brother involved in?

  And did it have anything to do with Owen’s murder?

  Eleven

  Hannah went in search of Jesse and found him helping the work crew. They were still repainting the old, red covered bridge, though they hadn’t been able to start on the barn roof repairs yet. He looked up in surprise when she called out to him.

  “I thought you were getting off at five.” His response was a blank look, so she added, “You said you wanted to go to the library with me. Dat allowed me to bring the buggy because he knew I needed to go into town after work. I stayed late so we could go together.”

  Jesse removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. “I suppose I forgot about that.”

  “Oh.” Hannah glanced around and then back at him. “If you’d rather not go—”

  “Nein. I want to go. Can you give me ten minutes to help put up these supplies?”

  “We’ll take care of that, Jesse.” Preston Johnstone was the new assistant manager of maintenance. Last spring he’d been helpful in catching Ethan Gray’s killer. Though he was homeless at the time, Amber had offered him a job. He was one of Hannah’s favorite people at the Village—soft-spoken, friendly, and quick to finish his work.

  She’d heard that he once served in the military. Folks said his time in the service fighting had caused him problems when he came home. She couldn’t imagine such a soft-spoken man carrying a gun, but she supposed it was possible. He did have a no-nonsense resolve about him.

  “Thank you, Preston, but there’s no need.” Jesse stored his hammer and tape measure in his toolbox and motioned toward the maintenance shed. “I’ve finished measuring, and now I can order those materials for our roof repairs. I have to pick up my lunch bucket, so I’ll take these back since we’re going there.”

  Hannah walked beside him, feeling something was wrong but unable to guess what it was.

  Jesse stored his toolbox, found the small cooler he used for a lunch bucket, and led the way out to the parking area.

  With a start, Hannah realized what was different, why Jesse seemed so distant. He hadn’t smiled once and he hadn’t touched her. Usually Jesse reached out and put a hand on her arm, guided her by putting a palm under her elbow, or even held her hand. As they walked toward where she’d left Shiloh, a sleek, black, five-year-old gelding, she shot little glances at Jesse.

  He harnessed the horse to the buggy in no time, and they set off toward town. The privacy of the buggy might be the only alone time they had, so she decided to ask him what was going on. Better to know than to wonder and worry.

  “Would you like to share with me what’s bothering you?”

  Jesse looked at her in surprise. “What makes you think something’s bothering me?”

  “You’re acting different.”

  “Different?”<
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  “Ya.” Hannah blushed slightly as she spoke the worries in her heart. “You’re keeping a distance between us, and you seem lost in your own thoughts.”

  “I believe you’re imagining things, Hannah Bell.”

  The pet name eased some of her worries for a moment, but before they’d ridden another mile those concerns rushed back like a persistent storm. They walked into the library, a new, modern building. Hannah loved visiting it. There were plenty of computers, books, and magazines. Clusters of comfortable chairs were positioned here and there. The library even had a snack area with coffee, sodas, vending machines, and small tables.

  Hannah headed toward the magazine racks and proceeded to look through the newest editions for drink recipes. Usually Jesse would spend his time perusing the agriculture magazines or occasionally do online research about some sort of farming technique. This evening he did neither. Instead, he sat in one of the armchairs, a closed magazine on his lap, staring off across the room.

  Hannah found two recipes she thought her clients would like, copied the ingredients and directions into her notebook, and returned the magazines to the rack. When she touched Jesse on the shoulder, he jumped and his magazine fell to the floor. He picked it up, set it on the table, and they walked outside where Shiloh was patiently waiting.

  Normally at this point Jesse would suggest they go for a scoop of ice cream, or maybe have some coffee and pie at the corner deli. Instead, he directed Shiloh toward home, his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled down low, silently brooding as he stared out the front of the buggy.

  Brooding was the perfect description of Jesse at the moment.

  Hannah didn’t want to push by asking again what was bothering him, but she couldn’t figure out what could be causing this drastic change in her boyfriend. And Jesse was her boyfriend. A few days ago she’d thought he might be about to ask her to marry him. Now it seemed he didn’t even realize she was in the buggy.

  When they reached her home, Jesse glanced around in surprise, as if he hadn’t been the one to drive them there.