by Emma Miller
Sensible, yes, but could she just walk away? Doubt nagged at Rachel. It wasn’t just Moses who was odd; the entire family was strange. No one had a negative word to say about the deceased, yet his widow and her family didn’t appear to be all that heartbroken at his death. Something just didn’t add up.
She wished she knew why the authorities were so certain that Daniel’s death hadn’t been a simple accident. If it wasn’t an accident, it had to have been deliberate, and murder wasn’t common among the Amish. If the shooter was Amish, he would believe that the act doomed him to hell. In a culture that believed that the next life was far more important than this mortal one, it would take a compelling reason for someone to trade hope of eternal life for the alternative. Of course, maybe it hadn’t been an Amish man who shot him. The killer could be English. But who would have such a grudge against Daniel—a man reportedly without enemies—that they would deliberately take his life?
Dusk was falling when she reached Stone Mill House. Her neighbor, Hulda, clad in a hot-pink down ski coat, snow boots, and a fur hat, was in front of the inn, sweeping leaves from the sidewalk. Rachel pulled into the driveway, stopped the Jeep, and got out. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Hulda believed she was invincible, but no one in their nineties was invincible. Rachel shuddered to think how easy it would be for her elderly friend to fall and break a hip.
“Planting turnips,” Hulda shouted back and then laughed. “What does it look like I’m doing? If it rains, these leaves will make the brick walk slick. Someone could fall and you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.”
Rachel crossed the lawn to her friend. “I’m not arguing with you about the leaves,” she said. “I meant to do something about these this morning and I forgot. I’m asking why you’re out here doing the sweeping.”
“I’m sweeping a few leaves. I’m not up on the roof cleaning out the gutters, and I’m not washing the upstairs windows, although they could use it. But I’m not in my coffin yet, and until I am, I intend to do pretty much as I please.”
Rachel grimaced, properly chastised. “But I worry about you.”
“And I worry about you, all this running back and forth, involving yourself in murder investigations, but I don’t ask you to sit in a rocking chair and knit.” She removed a tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed at her nose. “And speaking of upstairs windows, the woman in the middle room is complaining about the squirrels. She claims they’re scratching on her window. Staring at her. She wants you to chase them away.”
“Mrs. Morris.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “Last time she stayed with us, it was a giant cardinal pecking on her window. And before that . . .” She chuckled. “A suspicious number of barn swallows.”
“She’s right there. There were a lot of them,” Hulda agreed. She blew her nose and tucked the tissue back into her pocket. “Sounds like a case of ornithophobia to me. Not sure what her problem with the squirrels is. Don’t know if they’ve got a name for that.”
Rachel sighed. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Morris, reassure her that the squirrels are only searching for food. For someone who’s so unhappy with our wildlife, she comes here a lot.”
“Is she the one who takes the lightbulbs from her room when she leaves?”
Rachel shook her head. “No, different peculiar guest. Mrs. Morris just complains about the wildlife. I think she’s lonely and wants a reason to come down and talk with whoever’s on the desk.”
“Maybe.” Hulda leaned on the broom. “Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Rachel chuckled again. “You’re hardly retired. You still control the store and your house, not to mention that you’re treasurer of the historical committee and still serve on how many boards?”
“Don’t be impertinent. We were talking about Mrs. Morris, if I recall,” Hulda reminded her.
“Right. Well, there’s a concert tonight at our Methodist church with refreshments after. Evan was supposed to go with me, but I got a text from him that he’s got to take a double shift. Maybe Mrs. Morris would be interested in going with me.”
“Someone sick?”
“No. Trooper’s wife is in the hospital. First baby. Apparently, she’s in labor. Anyway, since Evan can’t go, I’ll ask Mrs. Morris if she’d like to join me. Maybe you’d like to come. The violinist is really good, and the coffee and dessert table following the program aren’t to be missed.”
“Thanks, dear, but not tonight. It’s my standing date with my grandson. One of those foolish TV shows about the end of the world. Might be some zombies involved. He loves it, and I can’t understand for the life of me what’s going on. But we eat bowls of popcorn and drink cocoa with marshmallows. I can put on my pajamas and crank up the gas fireplace. The boy will never be the financial success his grandfather was, but he’s a lot sweeter. Any other evening and I’d be happy to come. But I don’t want to disappoint him.”
Rachel took the broom from her. “I understand. And I can’t thank you enough for helping out again today, but from now on, when you want leaves swept, call me or one of the girls. You aren’t Superwoman.”
Hulda chuckled. “I’m not? And just when I—” She broke off in mid-sentence as Rachel’s cell rang.
“Excuse me,” Rachel said. She looked at the caller ID. She didn’t recognize it; she took the call. “Rachel Mast. Good evening.”
“Hi, this is Irene Glidden. You called my office yesterday. I apologize for calling after hours but it’s been a crazy day.”
Glidden. The name suddenly registered with Rachel. “Could you hold on just a second,” she said, pressing the phone against her coat to muffle the sound. And then, to Hulda, she whispered, “It’s an attorney. I told you I’ve been trying to get one to take Moses’s case.”
Hulda waved a hand. “Take your call, honey. I was about to wander on home anyway. See you tomorrow. And good luck finding someone to defend that boy.” The older woman stood on tiptoes to deliver a peck to Rachel’s cheek and then headed next door to her own house.
Rachel returned to the Jeep. “Ms. Glidden? Sorry about that. Thank you for returning my call.”
“Call me Irene. My father’s a Quaker, and . . . well, let’s say I’m more comfortable on a first-name basis. Have you found anyone to represent Moses Studer?”
“No, I haven’t. I was hoping that you’d consider taking the case.”
“I’m setting up an appointment with Mr. Studer first thing tomorrow morning. Provided, of course, that he still needs representation.”
“Oh, he needs it, all right. You come highly recommended.” Rachel pulled the car door closed behind her. She must have left the door open when she’d gone to speak to Hulda on the lawn because one of the barn cats was curled up on the passenger’s seat beside her. She couldn’t blame the cat. The heater was a good one, and it was rapidly getting nippy outside.
“I come highly recommended because of my record or because my grandparents were Amish?” Irene chuckled. “A private joke. I represent a lot of Plain people, Amish and Mennonite, that is. Truthfully, most of my practice is real estate and civil matters, but I have an extensive record, first as a public defender for the state of Pennsylvania, and then as associate and partner in a prominent law firm in Harrisburg before I moved home and opened my own office. I’m not promising that I’ll take the case. I want to speak with Moses first.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Rachel said. “But I have to be honest with you. I’m working on securing funds for Moses’s defense, but it may take some time. The family may not be in a position to pay you.”
“We can work out something later if I definitely come onboard. My Amish grandparents? Just between us, their farm is an amazing source of natural gas. It paid for my education, my brothers’ and cousins’ educations, and it continues to provide the foundation for my law practice. God has been good to my family, and I do my best to share some of those blessings.”
Rachel took a deep breath. “Irene, I think you may be the answer to my prayers.”
“If an old Quaker hippie can qualify as that.” Irene laughed. “Now, give me a quick rundown on Moses’s problem.”
The two talked for another twenty minutes and then Irene said she had another call coming in. She promised to get back one way or another, and the conversation ended on a friendly note. Please, God, Rachel prayed silently as she got out of her Jeep. Let this woman be the one we’re looking for.
Rachel was halfway to the house when her phone rang again. Thinking it was Irene with another question, she answered without checking the caller ID. It was Babs from the bridal shop.
“You are impossible to catch up with,” Babs jabbered, never letting Rachel get beyond hello. “I call both your phones and leave messages. I text but you never get back to me except to tell me you’ll get back to me. And that Hostetler girl isn’t any better. I’ve got an opening, a cancellation, really. Tomorrow morning at ten. Can you make it?”
“Tomorrow morning?” Rachel tried to remember if she had anything else scheduled. “I think so.”
“You have to make it or my seamstress can’t promise that the gown will be finished on time. Tomorrow, Miss Mast. Please don’t disappoint us again. You wouldn’t believe how many December weddings we have. Our schedule is jammed. Be here tomorrow at ten sharp.”
“Love you, too,” Rachel murmured after she disconnected and slid her phone into her pocket. She was beginning to wish she had just convinced Evan to elope.
Inside the kitchen door, she took off her coat and scarf. She hung them on the hook and glanced into the dining room to see if any of her guests were in there.
All seemed quiet, so she opened the refrigerator to see what Ada had left for her. She wanted to take time for a long, hot shower, and she wanted to check the computer for the new guests coming for the weekend before she tracked down Mrs. Morris and invited her to the concert.
A turkey sandwich, cranberry sauce, and German potato salad waited on a blue-and-white pottery plate. Perfect, Rachel thought. Ada might be as prickly as a porcupine, but what would she do without her?
Rachel poured a tall glass of milk and took her meal into the small parlor where she’d spoken with Moses’s mother. The supper smelled marvelous, and she’d spied an apple pie standing on the counter in a Siamese-proof glass cake dish. Not that Bishop would deign to eat people food. Roasted chicken hearts and canned tuna were his only deviation from the premium dry cat chow he favored. But her housekeeper was a cautious woman who was suspicious of all indoor cats.
Rachel had just lit the fire on the hearth when Evan’s ringtone made her smile and dive for the cell phone.
“Hey, hon, how’s it going?”
“It’s going. How about you?” she asked. “Safe and sound?”
“Safe and sound. A quiet evening, so far. Sorry I won’t be able to make the concert tonight.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you are.” Evan’s taste ran to country and western, rather than violins and piano, not to mention flute. “But I understand. Work has to come first. Did the baby arrive?”
“Not yet, not that I’ve heard.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that I have an appointment for my fitting tomorrow morning at ten a.m.”
“I’ll be pleased when you tell me you showed up for the appointment,” he replied dryly.
“I do love you.”
“Love you more.”
“I love you the most,” she responded. “The lawyer called. Irene Glidden. The one you suggested. She hasn’t agreed to take the case, but she’s going to talk to Moses tomorrow.”
“Pit-bull Glidden? She actually called you back? I told you that was a long shot. She’s a tough lady, a legend. I can’t tell you how many judge appointments she turned down. She’s getting on in years, but if anyone can help Moses, it will be her.”
“Thank you for suggesting her.”
“The kid deserves good counsel, even if he’s guilty. And my motives aren’t entirely altruistic. I was thinking that if you get someone of the caliber of Irene Glidden to represent Moses, maybe we can get on with our wedding.”
Rachel curled her foot under her and leaned back in the easy chair. “I am getting on with it,” she said. “I’ll be wearing a white gown when I walk down that aisle, and not an Amish dress that would double as my funeral shroud.”
“Pleasant subject. Where did that come from?”
“It’s the custom. At least in our church . . . my parents’ community and many of the Old Order groups I know. A woman’s wedding dress is a plain dress, usually blue, but it can be a different color. After her wedding day, it’s packed away for her to be buried in.”
“I don’t want to think about the dress you’re going to be buried in. Not on our wedding day and not today.”
She smiled. “And you won’t have to, because I’m wearing an English bridal gown.”
“When will I see this amazing dress?”
“When I walk down the aisle. Not before.”
“It can’t come soon enough for me,” he said.
“Or for me.”
“Oops, someone’s in a big hurry. Got to go, Rachel. Duty calls.”
She heard the wail of a siren. “Be safe,” she warned. “I love you.”
She suddenly felt a chill. Why Evan loved being on the road, she didn’t know. “Be safe,” she whispered again into the empty room. “And God watch over you.”
* * *
On the way home from State College for her gown fitting the following day, Rachel made her way to Joe Troyer’s farm and lumber mill, where Moses had lived and worked. Joe’s property was outside of her mother’s church community, but not far as the crow flies, backed up against a section of state forest land. As she drove up the lane, she glanced to her left at the mill, where stacks of freshly sawn lumber cured under open sheds and mountains of logs waited the sharp bite of steel-toothed saws. A tractor-trailer stood in the process of being loaded, and trucks and Amish buggies were parked along the driveway.
Rachel continued on toward the main house and barns on the crown of a hill. Whitewashed wooden fencing lined the lane, enclosing pastureland where dairy and beef cattle grazed. Huge round bales of hay were covered in plastic and the stubble from a cornfield stretched off to the right. No tepee-shaped shocks of corn adorned the field. This had been cut and harvested by machine. From all accounts, Joe Troyer was a modern farmer with enough acreage, financial stability, and knowledge to earn a tidy living from the farm. Pennsylvania soil was some of the richest in the world, and Joe’s family had made the most of it for two hundred years. And if they, like many of their neighbors who’d come here when this was wilderness, had shed precious blood to claim this land, they cherished the land all the more for the high price their ancestors had paid to settle here.
She found Joe on the telephone in a small building near the barn. Like many Amish businessmen, he’d obtained permission from his bishop to possess a phone, so long as it was a distance from the house. He saw her, nodded, and quickly wrapped up his conversation.
He came toward her, a chubby, middle-aged man of medium height with a curly red beard and lively brown eyes. “A buyer for some prime walnut we’ve had seasoning in the barn loft,” he explained once they’d exchanged names and greetings. “A custom furniture manufacturer in Albany, New York. I hate to part with it. Old timber, really nice boards.”
Rachel nodded and smiled as Joe went on at length about the walnut and the history of the tree he’d harvested it from. For all his successful ventures, Joe was a farmer. No business could be contracted without allowing for the courtesy of a pleasant exchange of conversation. Finally, when the weather and scarcity of wild turkeys so far this year had been covered and Joe was assured of the improving health of Rachel’s mother, he said, “I suppose you’ve come to ask me about Moses.”
“I have.”
“Not a lot to say. Good worker. Kept to himself. Not what you’d call a bushel of laughs, but a young man who was a credit to his upbringing.”
/> “A young man facing serious charges,” Rachel said.
He thought on that for a moment. “I find it hard to believe that Moses could do such a thing. Terrible, losing Daniel that way.” Joe hooked a thumb in his coat pocket. “Loss to the family. But . . .” He shook his head. “Not Moses Studer. Too much like his father.”
“But Moses is . . . different.”
“Like his father. Grossfader, too, so I heard. But I never knew old Jonah. Ernst, I did know. And he was much as Moses, maybe a little easier around strangers. But Ernst held hard to his faith, despite his chronic sickness and being in the wheelchair. Rarely missed church service. Different the Studer men might be, but they aren’t killers.” He waved Rachel to a bench in the sunshine, out of the way of the wind.
She sat down. “You were going to be part of a hunt the day Daniel died, weren’t you?”
“I was.” Joe settled onto the bench beside Rachel, keeping a decent distance away from her. He spread his legs, planted his boots squarely on the gravel, and folded his arms. “But it didn’t work out that way. I’m sure you’ve heard we decided not to do a drive.”
“I’m guessing I only got part of the story. I understand that it was a disagreement over where to hunt,” she suggested.
Joe shook his head. “Ne. Who told you that?” When she didn’t answer, he went on. “Me and Daniel. We exchanged hard words.”
“But not over the hunting?”
“Ne,” he muttered under his breath. “When I got there, Daniel already had his dander up about something. I saw him slap Lemuel on the back of the head. Said the boy was disrespectful, something of that sort. No big deal; I’ve got sons of my own. They can say things they shouldn’t. But the way I see it, you don’t train up a child like that. Horses, dogs, or boys, there’s a right way. It doesn’t take the weight of a man’s hand to teach right from wrong.”
“So, you said something to Daniel? About hitting Lemuel?”