Murder Simply Brewed Page 8

  Eight

  Tate’s tractor had stopped running the week before. He’d spent the last hour trying to squash his frustration by working on the old engine. He wasn’t having success on either front. The frustration had formed a knot across his shoulders. The tractor repair had turned into a fiasco. He had managed to get the engine to start, but then he’d broken a different part, which forced him back into town, this time to the Tractor Supply store.

  Fortunately, they had what he needed, and he was soon at the register checking out.

  “Say, I hear there’s been a lot of action out by your place.” Since there were no other customers in line, Bryan Nordman took his time ringing up Tate’s purchase.

  Bryan was in his midtwenties and had a man’s body but a teenager’s attitude. He was close to six feet, wore his dark hair too long, and was growing something on his chin. The boy could stand to see a barber. What irked Tate the most was the kid’s arrogance. Bryan knew everything about everything, or at least he thought he did. Every time Tate had come into the store, the boy had voiced a strong opinion about something—usually something he didn’t know anything about. Bryan was a young man who didn’t realize he still had much to learn.

  “The Village is keeping our local cops busy.” Bryan punched a key, and Tate’s total appeared on the register display.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “You were right to complain about them. A death and two instances of vandalism . . .”

  Tate winced. He did not want to be pulled into another discussion about all that had occurred at the Village in the last twenty-four hours.

  Just thinking of the Village, recent events, and Amber Wright caused the vein in his left temple to throb. After he’d left her house the night before, it had taken him more than an hour to convince himself that she was safe and that the graffiti on the trail was done by a couple of teenage punks. Then this morning he’d gone into town for gas for the tractor—the same tractor that wasn’t running. It was there he’d heard about what had happened at Amber’s place during the night.

  Why hadn’t she called him?

  Why did she insist on handling things alone?

  Or maybe she’d had help. Several folks had been happy to share their suspicions about a relationship between her and Gordon Avery, which was another thing he didn’t want to think about. It was none of his business whom she dated, but Gordon didn’t seem like her type.

  Bryan took his time accepting Tate’s credit card and charging him for the purchase. The boy moved slower than an old dog on a cold morning. “No one wants that sort of thing going on next to their home. If it had been at my place—”

  “Didn’t know you had a place. I thought you were still living with your parents.”

  Bryan must have heard the remark, but he ignored it. “—I would have sat out back with my hunting rifle.”

  “Didn’t know you were a hunter.”

  “Folks can’t trespass at will.”

  “Technically the trail is public land.”

  Bryan shook his head as he pulled the tape from the register and handed it to Tate to sign. “If Amber Wright would—”

  “Wasn’t her fault.”

  “What?”

  “I said, it wasn’t her fault.”

  Bryan bagged the tractor part, stuffing the receipt inside the plastic sack.

  “Seems to me she should have—”

  “Seems to me you should shut your mouth regarding things you don’t know anything about.” Tate realized he ought to stop there, but the frustration had been building all morning.

  “No problem. I thought since it’s practically on your property line you would wish that she had done more to prevent such things.”

  “Prevent them how? Amber did not ask anyone to leave threatening messages on the trail or drop bloody packages on her porch. All she’s done is run a business that happens to employ over five hundred people in this community, including your sister, if I remember right.”

  Without waiting for Bryan to respond, he snatched his bag off the counter and hustled out of the store. Why couldn’t people mind their own business? And what kind of idiot placed the blame for violence on the person who had been violated?

  Amber was a hard worker. She at least cared about what kind of job she did, which was more than he could say for Bryan Nordman. Rather than cleaning or shelving items, he’d been leaning against the counter reading a magazine when Tate walked up.

  Tate might not have liked the Village expansion, but he had to admit that Amber had done a good job keeping the place in pristine condition and helping the local economy. No doubt she spent more time on the job than she should. He expected it was hard on a single woman.

  Suddenly he remembered her uneaten plate of cold eggs the night before and her admission that she rarely cooked. She’d missed her dinner, her night had been shattered by more violence, and still she’d gone into work at her normal time. He knew because he’d been out in the pasture when her little red car had pulled out of her driveway. Usually she walked to work, so he expected she had errands on top of her normal day—a day that had started too early and would probably end too late.

  There wasn’t much he could do about what was happening at the Village, and he couldn’t shorten her work hours, but he did know how to barbecue. He turned left at the light and headed back toward the grocery store.

  He could put some ribs on the grill, or maybe a few pieces of chicken. Women seemed to like chicken. He’d cook both in case she didn’t like one or the other.

  Taking her dinner would be the neighborly thing to do.

  Amber sat in Ethan Gray’s living room and tried not to stare at his wife. Margaret Gray wore her short black hair perfectly styled. It had so much hair spray in it that Amber was certain it would withstand a small windstorm without dislodging a single strand. Her eyebrows were waxed, her makeup perfect, if a bit heavy, and her nails manicured with a deep red polish. She was a few pounds heavy for her height, which seemed to be about the same as Amber’s five foot four. Fortunately for Margaret, the weight was concealed by designer clothes.

  In other words, she was the polar opposite of Ethan, who had gray hair, something of a paunchy stomach, and rarely updated his wardrobe. He had always been presentable for work, but it had seemed to Amber that he’d stepped out of 1950-something, wearing the same clothes and hairstyle he probably had then.

  Gordon sat beside her on the couch, and Margaret was perched across from them. She sat with ramrod posture in a straight-back chair. The house looked as if it had been furnished by an interior designer, right down to the custom-made, gold-colored drapes. There was no indication of a pet—cat or dog. Considering the snow-white carpet, Amber suspected there never would be. She’d been tempted to remove her shoes before walking into the living room.

  “So you’re saying the Village isn’t at fault.” Margaret had sat silently as Gordon had explained again the results of what he’d found the day before.

  “At fault?” Amber’s voice came out too high and too surprised. She pulled it down a register. “At fault for what, Mrs. Gray?”

  “Ethan’s death, of course.”

  Gordon cleared his throat. “As I explained, Ethan died of a heart attack according to the paramedics and the medical examiner who signed his death certificate. If you’d like to have an autopsy performed, then of course that is your right, but one is not being requested by the police department.”

  “Of course not. If the police department requested it, then you’d have to pay for the procedure.” Margaret’s red lips formed a straight line, almost as if she was trying to hold back the rest of her words. Her hand fluttered out, and she added, “Two thousand dollars. That’s what it would cost. You expect me to pay for that?”

  Amber knew Gordon well enough to read his body language. He’d started out polite when they’d walked in, but now the muscles along his back had gone rigid. When she glanced at him, she saw the tic next to his right eye. Oh yeah.
Margaret was skating on very thin ice.

  “If the department had found any evidence of a sudden, unexpected, violent, or traumatic death, we would have—”

  “You don’t call that violent?” The words dropped like stones on the white carpet. “He died clutching his chest. That’s what you told me, Sergeant Avery.”

  “The medical examiner accessed his medical files and found a well-documented history of heart disease.”

  “Because of your Village.” Margaret’s smile reminded Amber of a snake about to bite. “The way you people worked him from sunup to sundown was disgraceful. Add to that the harassment from the local hooligans—”

  “Mrs. Gray, if you have suspicions that this was more complicated than a heart attack, I’d appreciate it if you would share them with me. And if you would like an autopsy, then by all means order one.”

  Ethan’s wife stared out the front window. For a fraction of a second, Amber thought she saw grief shadow her features—a trembling in her bottom lip and a softening of her eyes. Perhaps she imagined those things though because when Margaret turned back toward them, her expression had changed back to the same look of disdain she’d worn since they arrived. “The viewing will be tomorrow evening. An autopsy would interfere with that, and I couldn’t bear . . . It’s hard enough as things are.”

  “A brief delay for a viewing or funeral generally doesn’t interfere with autopsy results. We have a county pathologist who would perform the procedure and work with the funeral director.”

  “Why are you suddenly pushing this? What are you hiding?”

  Gordon sighed. It was so soft, so miniscule, that Amber suspected Margaret didn’t notice. He stood, and Amber popped up as well. She certainly didn’t want to be left alone in this room with Ethan’s bitter widow.

  “For the record, Mrs. Gray, I found nothing at the scene of Ethan’s death to suggest the need for an autopsy. Should you choose to order one for personal reasons, that is always a family’s right. If you have any further questions, feel free to contact me at the number on the card I gave you.”

  “Oh, I do have questions, Sergeant.” She remained seated, piercing them with a cold, hard glare. “Maybe not questions that you’re willing to answer. You can trust me when I say I know plenty of people in this town. One way or another, I will get to the bottom of Ethan’s death.”

  Gordon apparently thought it best not to answer that. He thanked her for her time and moved toward the front door. Margaret stood as well, probably to make sure they actually left, since her manners to this point surely didn’t dictate seeing them out.

  Amber decided she would try one more time. “What would you like me to do about Ethan’s truck?”

  “I can’t think of that right now. I’ll call you next week.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gray. The Village will miss Ethan. He was an excellent employee. If there’s anything that I can do—”

  Margaret sniffed, as if something about Amber smelled offensive to her. “You can see that the life insurance check is delivered in a timely fashion.”

  Amber’s mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut and hurried to catch up with Gordon. He was standing in the entryway of the home, studying the mahogany gun case.

  “Are all of these yours, Mrs. Gray?”

  “They were Ethan’s.” If anything, her expression became darker. “A complete waste of money, money that I could use now that he has deserted me.”

  Gordon nodded once and then stepped out into the spring sunshine. Amber practically ran to catch up with him.

  When Margaret shut the door firmly behind them, Amber drew in a deep breath of fresh air. How long had they been in there? Hours? Days? She felt as if she should go home and shower.

  “I don’t know how you do it.”

  Gordon had followed her to her car and stood next to it, dwarfed it actually, as she fished out her keys and used the fob to unlock the door.

  “Part of the job.”

  When Amber cocked her head, he admitted, “Though few are as bad as that one. I think I prefer a crying widow to one who is hostile.”

  “But what is she so angry about? She can’t seriously blame the Village or the police department.”

  “Probably not. She’s striking out at anyone who is close to her.”

  “I’m sure she did love him, but—”

  “Who knows if she did or not? We can never completely know the inside of a marriage, can we?”

  Amber shrugged, but the thought depressed her.

  Suddenly she remembered Tate and the expression of naked grief on his face the night before when he’d talked of his wife’s funeral. That had been four years ago, and he still cared for her. Wasn’t that the way loss was supposed to be?

  She was about to pull away from the curb when she thought of what she wanted to ask Gordon. She placed the car in park, rolled down her window, and motioned him back toward her.

  “Why did you ask her about the rifles?”

  “Curious.”

  “Because—”

  “Because the one on the right was a commercial air gun.”

  “A BB gun?”

  Gordon nodded and tapped the top of her car.

  She pulled away from the house and headed back to work. The sun fell through the trees like a blessing after the storm of the day before. Flowers were beginning to bloom and yards were turning green. Amber registered all the sights, smells, and sounds of spring. She tried to pull a measure of comfort from them.

  But as she drove back to the Village, a feeling of dread persisted. She had the nagging suspicion that she would have to deal with Margaret Gray again—and probably soon.

  Nine

  Hannah thought she would miss the quilt shop terribly, but she was too busy to think about it. Customers came into the kaffi shop blurry-eyed and barely coherent. When she handed them their order, most smiled at her as if she’d given them a piece of gold.

  What was with the kaffi addiction?

  Did it brighten their day that much?

  Her parents drank kaffi, but it smelled nothing like what she brewed in the shop. What was the difference between the two blends?

  Customers kept her busy, as did the employees who happened to be working near the kaffi shop and decided to pop in to say hello.

  She’d had several unexpected visitors, all nearly as unsettling as Karl had been.

  When Amber walked into the shop, she didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or worry that her boss was checking up on her.

  “Hello, Hannah.”

  “Gudemariye. That is, good morning.” Hannah’s hand went to her kapp to check if she was presentable. The kapp had slipped to the back of her head and her hair was spilling out. She wasn’t making the best impression! She tugged it forward and pushed her hair back underneath. Maybe she could run to the restroom and re-pin it during her lunch break—if she had a lunch break.

  “I wanted to tell you that I checked my e-mail when I arrived back in the parking lot.” Amber tapped the small tablet she carried with her everywhere. “Several people have mentioned to the staff how well you’re doing.”

  “Me?”

  “They say your sweet attitude is refreshing and a nice start to the day.”

  Hannah swallowed, slowly looked around to make sure no customers were in the store, and then asked, “Are you sure they meant me?”

  Amber’s laugh set her nerves at ease. “You’re the only young Amish woman we have working in our only coffee shop, so yes—I’m sure it was you.”

  Perching on one of the stools near the window, she patted the spot next to her. “Take a break. Come and tell me about your day.”

  So she did.

  She admitted that she couldn’t figure out how to turn the bean grinder on, and that she’d forgotten to set out the containers of whole milk, low-fat milk, and skim milk. A customer had asked where they were, and she’d run to the back and found them in the larger refrigerator in the storeroom.

  “Even w
ith Ethan’s binder, it’s a lot to remember.”

  “But you’re enjoying yourself?” Amber smiled and sipped on the bottle of water she’d purchased from the shop.

  “Ya. More than I thought I would. I thought I’d be miserable outside the quilt shop, but there is so much to do that I haven’t had time to focus on what I would normally be doing this time of day.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “And the customers are so grateful. I’ve never had anyone call me an angel when I sold them a yard of fabric.”

  Amber nodded. “You’re providing an important service for them. Quilting is a hobby, even a passion for some people. But coffee? Well, some of our guests consider that sustenance.”

  “Do you think the music is okay? Carol plays it in the quilt shop, so I knew how to turn the system on. I know Ethan never played any, and of course we don’t have any in our homes, but the customers seem to enjoy it.”

  Hannah noticed Amber didn’t answer right away. She stared up at the ceiling as if looking for the string orchestra that was playing the hymns. Finally she smiled and patted Hannah on the knee. “The music is a nice touch. Ethan was stubborn about certain things. He thought music would cause customers to loiter.”

  “Loiter?”

  “Hang around. He wanted them to purchase their order and leave. This is more . . . inviting. Now tell me about the binder of instructions he made.”

  Hannah did, even offering to fetch it so that Amber could see it for herself.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  When she brought it back to the table, Amber spent a few moments paging through it. Finally she closed it and pushed it back across the table toward Hannah. “You say you’ve never seen it before?”

  “Nein. The last time I filled in for him was . . . I think it was two weeks ago. He had two sheets of instructions in a folder then.”