Plain Confession

by Emma Miller

“You know, any other woman would choose a waterfall or maybe a quiet woods clearing beside a creek. But, no, my girl wants to picnic at the site of a homicide.”

  “It’s important that I see where Daniel Fisher died. You describing it to me isn’t enough. I’m trying to picture the whole thing in my mind,” she said, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. This afternoon, he was wearing civvies: blue jeans, Dr. Martens, a medium-weight jacket, and a corduroy ball cap that read Stone Mill Bears. She thought he looked even more handsome than he did in his police uniform, more approachable, sweeter.

  “Fine, we can check it out, but I put my foot down at actually eating under the tree stand where they found his body,” Evan told her. “It’s been a long week. I’m hungry and I want to relax with the woman I intend to marry. So we have a look and then we sit down and we enjoy our lunch. I don’t want to think about or talk about Daniel Fisher or the Studers or any part of the investigation. Understood?”

  “Perfectly. Let’s talk about something else.” She smiled slyly. “You know, we’re the object of the town gossip. You and I.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “And that’s something new? Since when haven’t you been? Or me for letting you wrap me around your little finger.”

  “I don’t wrap you around my finger. I adore you, Evan Parks. And I can’t wait to be your wife. In spite of what everybody says.”

  He stopped and waited for her. “And what is it that everybody says?”

  It was the opening she needed to tell him about what had happened at Wagler’s the previous afternoon. Because she kept telling herself she didn’t care, but she did. “Coyote says the town is divided on whether or not I’ll get cold feet and not show up at the church. She says everyone is talking about it.”

  “I’ve heard it, too. I met some of the guys after work at the pub.”

  “You were at the pub?” she asked, not minding, just surprised.

  He shrugged. “My last days being single, I thought I should act like it.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “Anyway, some of them were razzing me about you skipping out with an Amish guy at the last minute and leaving me at the altar.”

  She laughed. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” He caught her hand with his free one. “Should I be worried?”

  “About what?” She looked up at him.

  “About you getting cold feet.”

  “Evan, I told you. I want to marry you.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be there. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  Rachel grimaced. “I think Margaret O’Meara, from church, may be behind this whole town twittering about the state of our relationship. Apparently, she found out where I was getting my dress and kept track of how many bridal gown fittings I missed. Then added a few.”

  He stopped and smiled at her, his face creasing in a boyish grin. “And the caterer. You missed that one, too.”

  “I had a good reason,” she defended, making a face at him. “And, as I recall, you couldn’t make it, either. That’s why we had to reconsider the whole food thing.”

  “I was working. And I don’t care what we eat at the wedding. Chicken. Steak, blueberry pie, bread and water.”

  “Which is why just letting my mother and Ada take care of the food was the best solution.”

  “I agree,” Evan said. “I’m only interested in hearing the minister say, ‘Do you take this man to be your husband, to love and to cherish . . .’ ”

  “Me, too.” She groaned. “Sometimes, I wish we’d eloped. Just gone off to Las Vegas and had Elvis marry us. It would have been less hectic.”

  “We still can,” he offered, cutting his eyes at her.

  “No, we can’t. We have to make our vows before God and our families. My mother has finally come around and I’m not going to threaten that with a Nevada marriage.”

  “A courthouse ceremony would be legal.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It would be, and that’s fine for some, but not for me. And I don’t think it would be for you, either.”

  Evan put the basket on the ground in the middle of the path and opened his arms. “Come here.”

  She stepped into them and he lowered his head and pressed his warm lips to hers. For a tender moment, they kissed, and a tingling joy spread through her. She pushed away. “That was . . . lovely,” she murmured and stepped back.

  He smiled down at her. “Have I told you that I love you?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Once or twice.”

  He cupped a hand around his ear. “Come again?”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  “That’s better.” He caught her fingers and tugged. “I don’t suppose I could have one more of those?”

  “No more kissing. Eating our lunch. Talking. The kissing waits until after the wedding.”

  Evan clasped a fist to his heart dramatically. “She spurns me.”

  Rachel laughed. “She doesn’t spurn you often, and that’s the trouble.”

  They laughed together and he pointed ahead. She hadn’t noticed the row of new fence posts and the four strands of barbed wire on the next rise. Behind the fence line was a relatively flat section of ground and the remains of an old orchard stretching to the left and back to blend into the wooded hillside of the mountain ridge.

  “No one’s tended the orchard in years, but there’s enough fruit to bring the deer here every fall. Apparently, Daniel, or someone, regularly cut the barbed wire to get in. They take portable deer stands in. You’ll be able to see the tree that Daniel’s tree stand is in from where we’re going to have lunch, but you can’t see much of the actual stand. And I’m not letting you go over there. The crime scene is still taped off.” He picked up the picnic basket. “Not much farther, but I’m not pointing out the deer stand until we have our lunch. First eating, then we satisfy your curiosity.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  Evan kept walking. It was rocky ground and uphill. Rachel could manage well enough, but it was more difficult than walking across a flat pasture, the footing uneven. “I’m serious,” he warned. “You’re not going to set foot on Baker’s property. I’m not certain the man’s mentally stable.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me, but I won’t go in there if you don’t want me to.” She considered the information. “Mary Rose Studer seems to think the old orchard was part of their farm, and her mother didn’t correct her when she said it. But it isn’t. It belongs to Chuck . . . Charles Baker.”

  “That’s why we questioned Baker. The detectives, not me. Because the death happened on his land.”

  “Why do you think that Alma and Mary Rose would say it was their farm?” Rachel asked.

  “Maybe they didn’t know. I doubt if they came up here. It’s quite a hike, and steeper coming from the direction of the farmhouse. People say all kinds of things, especially during times of stress. It doesn’t necessarily mean she was intending to lie to you.”

  Rachel followed him a few hundred feet farther up the slope to the spot he chose for their picnic. “This is lovely,” she said, turning around to take it all in. A trickle of spring water bubbled through a crack in the remains of an old stone wall, creating an enchanting spot under a grove of oak and hemlock trees. Instead of weeds and dried grass, the ground was carpeted in thick, velvety moss that cushioned their steps. “Beautiful,” she murmured.

  Evan spread the blanket on the moss. Rachel knelt on it and opened the top of the wicker basket. The smells that drifted up were wonderful. “Fried chicken and peach hand pies,” she said, closing her eyes and sniffing the delicious aromas. “Deviled eggs and pickles and—I don’t remember what else.”

  “Cheese,” Evan supplied, holding it up. “Sharp cheddar. Made in Belleville.”

  Rachel chuckled, opened her eyes, and began to remove dishes, forks, and spoons. Ada had even tucked in a small jug of sweet cider. “She thinks of everything.”

  “Ada is a treasure, bu
t she’s twice as fussy as my mother.”

  “Maybe not twice as fussy,” Rachel teased. “But she can be difficult.”

  “You’re telling me. I’m a little scared about moving in with you after the wedding,” Evan admitted.

  She laughed. “It’s going to be fine.”

  He glanced uphill and pointed again. “Up there. See the tree with the crows sitting in the top branch? That’s the deer stand where Daniel Fisher was murdered.”

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t show me until after we finished eating,” she teased.

  “I know you. You won’t be able to enjoy your lunch unless I give in a little.”

  “You’re really very sweet, Evan Parks.”

  “And you are a woman who always manages to get your own way.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Not always.” She hesitated. “I do have a question.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Be serious, Evan. Daniel’s death, first thought to be an accident, is now a murder. But you’ve never told me why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why the police are so certain that Daniel was murdered. If he was hunting from a deer stand, isn’t it possible that he accidentally dropped his shotgun and it went off?”

  “Two bullet wounds.”

  “Right. He was probably hunting with a double-barreled shotgun like most Amish in this valley. He fell and both barrels went off.”

  “Nope,” Evan said firmly. “That’s definitely not what happened. Mr. Fisher was struck twice with twelve-gauge deer slugs, both wounds being potentially fatal, but those shots didn’t come from his weapon. Ballistics proved that. Secondly, the two shots were fired from different angles. Whoever killed him shot him once, probably knocked him out of the stand, and then put a second slug into him.”

  The enormity of that information took a few seconds to sink in. Rachel took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” she asked softly.

  “Because it was confidential, information not meant for the general public. At least not at the time.”

  “And you feel comfortable sharing it with me?” she asked. Evan usually talked to her about his job, but he’d never given her inside information before without her really, really pressing him. And then he never broke the law, just walked very close to the line.

  “May as well. Some idiot leaked the medical examiner’s report to a reporter. It’ll be on the local nightly news and probably in the papers by Monday.” He held up his finger. “You’re not to breathe a word until it comes out.”

  “I won’t.” She shivered, despite the warmth of her fleece-lined ski jacket. She couldn’t believe someone had been callous enough to shoot Daniel, and then, as he lay bleeding, shoot him a second time. “What kind of person would do such a thing?” Rachel murmured, trying to imagine Moses Studer aiming a shotgun at his dying brother-in-law and pulling the trigger again. It wasn’t possible. Asperger’s or not, Moses wasn’t a murderer.

  “Let’s not think about all that now.” Evan offered her a saltshaker to season her chicken leg. “We don’t get that much time alone. Let’s talk about something fun. I booked a kayak eco tour. Lunch on a deserted beach is included.”

  “I just keep thinking that there’s something I haven’t found out about yet,” Rachel said, barely hearing him. She gestured toward him with her drumstick. “Something the detectives haven’t discovered yet, something that will make them realize Moses couldn’t have done it.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the investigation is over. The district attorney has a confession. As far as he’s concerned, Moses Studer confessed, and that makes him guilty. The case is closed.”

  “But why?” Rachel asked. “What if later down the road they find out that Moses didn’t do it? Where will their case be then?”

  Evan sighed. “It’s about money, hon. The state has only so many resources and a lot of cases to bring to trial. Cases where the answers aren’t clear-cut. It’s not the best scenario, because you’re right, years down the road, we sometimes find out we’ve put the wrong man or woman in jail. But it’s how our system works. Unless DNA turns up or someone else confesses, your Moses Studer is going to be convicted for this crime. And there’s little you can do about this.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  “Rachel, you can’t solve the world’s problems. Can’t you let this go?”

  She met his gaze. “Maybe . . . I think so . . . just not quite yet.”

  Chapter 11

  Alma was standing at the stable door when Rachel drove up the Studer driveway, and immediately came out into the yard. Rachel had taken the chance that the Studers might be home at chore time, so she’d changed into her near-Amish garb and driven out to the farm again. After their wonderful afternoon together, Evan had left Stone Mill to escort his mother to a formal mother-son affair at her country club. The only child of a widow, he had obligations to his own family.

  “Did you go to see Moses again?” Alma asked in Deitsch when Rachel got out of the Jeep. “Are they feeding my boy enough? Is he well?” she worried aloud, not really seeming to expect an answer. “I talked with the bishop. He says he will go to the prison to pray with Moses if they will let him in.” She looked up at Rachel earnestly through eyeglasses that needed a good cleaning. “Do you think they will? I don’t see why not. My son should have that right.” The older woman was again dressed for outside work. She wore a man’s heavy coat, muck boots, and a navy wool scarf.

  “I’ve stopped a couple of times, but you haven’t been home,” Rachel told her, tugging on an old denim jacket she’d borrowed from her parents’ laundry room months ago. “To tell you what’s going on with Moses. Did Mary Rose mention it?”

  “Come in.” Alma motioned toward the barn. “We were just milking the cows when I heard your motorcar.”

  Rachel spotted Mary Rose at the clothesline across the yard, taking down a load of wash. She waved to her before she followed Alma into the old stone barn. Although it was still light outside, the stable had only a few narrow slits for windows, and it took a moment for Rachel’s eyes to adjust to the semidarkness.

  “The wind is sharp,” Alma said. “No need for you to catch an ague.”

  Rachel offered a tight-lipped smile, taking in the sights and sounds of the barn. A person could learn a lot about someone else from the way they kept their animals.

  There were five tie stalls and a larger box stall with several half-grown calves. She counted three cows and a driving horse, all munching hay and grain from their individual mangers. The stable was as clean and orderly as Alma’s kitchen. There was an underlying scent of animals and dung, but the primary smells were sweet clover hay, molasses, and grain. Above her head, a low wide-plank ceiling told her that there was a substantial loft.

  “I wanted to tell you that the attorney I spoke with will take Moses’s case. He’s still saying he did it, but at least he’s agreed to let the lawyer help him. She’ll make sure that Moses’s rights are upheld.” Rachel spotted Lemuel in a corner stall, seated on a low stool, milking a black-and-white cow. A lantern hung from an overhead beam, casting a pale light and even more shadows.

  “I don’t care what it costs,” Alma said, breaking open a bale of hay. “We’ll sell land if we have to.” She walked down a passageway in front of the stalls and dropped sections of hay into each cow’s manger. “That crazy Englisher on the mountain is always offering to buy our pastures. They’re just growing up in brush anyway. More rock than soil.” She took a breath. “My Moses didn’t do this terrible thing, and they have to let him go. I don’t understand why they would put him in prison. You only put bad people in prison. People who do the bad things.”

  Alma’s words reminded Rachel of how naïve the Amish in Stone Mill could be. They really did hold themselves apart from the world. “Let’s wait and see how much her fees will be before you start thinking about selling land. It’s
too soon for that.”

  Rachel glanced at the waiting cows. She could tell that there were still two to be milked by their full bags. She had been raised on a farm much like this one, and she’d always found well-tended barns to be comforting places. “Would you like help?” she asked. “I’ve been milking since I was six years old. At home, I mean. When I lived with my mam and dat.”

  “Would you?” Alma asked. “The three are a lot for Lemuel and he still has the sheep and hogs to feed. My hands are near crippled from arthritis.” She raised her hands, covered in knit half-gloves. “My fingers are so stiff, I can barely pull a teat anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Rachel started rolling up the sleeves on her coat. It was warm enough in the barn that she might end up having to take it off. “Have you talked to your doctor about it?”

  Alma scoffed. “I don’t hold with doctors and their drugstore medicines. I drink ginseng tea and I can a lot of cherries. Salome says cherries and tea help with the pain. She knows a lot about the old cures.”

  “Salome? Ya, the midwife.” Rachel nodded. “I know her.”

  Salome Plank was an Amish lay-midwife who many of her people consulted for simple ailments. Salome was up in years, but she’d delivered many of the babies in this valley for generations and she knew a great deal about the properties of herbs and folk medicine such as using cobwebs to stop a wound from bleeding.

  “She’s a wise woman,” Alma said. “She brought all three of my children into the world and one who never drew breath, God rest his soul. Born too soon, he was. Just a scrap of a baby. Not as big as a man’s hand.”

  “Is there another milking bucket?” Rachel asked, looking around.

  “I’ll fetch it for you.” Alma headed out of the barn and Rachel followed her.

  In the barnyard, Alma walked a few feet away to where several milk buckets stood stacked. Rachel remained near the barn door. She watched Mary Rose take down one of the last sheets from the line, struggling with it in the wind. “Need help?” Rachel called.

  “Ne. I’ve got it!”

  Beyond Mary Rose, there was an open, grassy area and then, on the rocky slope, a hedgerow of Osage orange, often planted to keep livestock out of gardens. Movement caught Rachel’s eye and she stared hard at the line of shrub trees. There was something there . . . no, not something—someone. For just an instant, she made out the form of a man. Then he saw Rachel and ducked down out of sight.