Assaulted Pretzel

by Laura Bradford

  The sound of a diesel engine at her back made her stop and turn, her heart sinking in her chest as she did. Despite her best efforts, Keith Watson and his minibus of Amish enthusiasts had arrived, squashing any hope she had of cornering Daniel.

  “Good day, Claire,” Keith called as he paused the bus at the base of the Lapps’ turnoff. “Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?” Glancing into the rearview mirror he flashed a warm smile at the dozen or so riders who filled the comfortable seats. “Folks, if you haven’t had an opportunity to stroll along Lighted Way’s shopping district yet, be sure to stop inside Heavenly Treasures. It’s a delightful little gift shop with all sorts of Amish-made items from dolls and bibs to quilts and rocking chairs. Miss Weatherly, right here, opened the shop a couple of months ago and it’s quickly becoming a favorite among our tourists.”

  She lifted her hand in a wave to those sitting on her side of the bus and then smiled up at the driver. “Thank you, Keith.” Hooking a finger over her shoulder, she willed herself to take the high road. “Heading in to the toy shop?”

  At Keith’s nod, she stepped onto the bus and looked down the aisle at his customers. “You are all in for quite a treat. Daniel makes his toys in a workshop at the back of his barn, and watching him in action is absolutely fascinating. In fact, that’s where I’m headed at the moment, as well.”

  A wave of smiles made its way through the bus, prompting one from Keith in return. “Then why don’t you hop in that first seat right there and I’ll take you the rest of the way up the driveway.”

  Slowly, the bus ambled up the dirt path and came to a stop in front of the white outbuilding depicted on Rob Karble’s camera. Opening the door, Keith looked back at his passengers and smiled. “Okay, folks, we’re here. Enjoy.”

  Seconds later, as the first handful of people descended the steps, Daniel stepped outside and nodded a warm welcome to the English tourists. “Good afternoon. Welcome to my toy shop. There are many toys made by myself and by my friend, Isaac Schrock. When you are done, if you would like to see workshop”—he swept his arm toward the barn—“I would be happy to show you.”

  At the tourists’ enthusiastic agreement, Daniel stepped aside to afford them entry into the toy shop. When Claire emerged from the bus behind Keith, the toy maker drew back, his brows scrunched together in surprise. “Miss Weatherly? You take Mr. Watson’s tour, too?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at the look on the Amish man’s round, bearded face. “Not exactly. Keith picked me up at the end of your driveway.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was on her way to see you and it seemed silly to leave her there.” Keith glanced toward the open doors of the barn. “Sounds like Isaac is working now, yes?”

  Daniel nodded. “He is.”

  “Then when my folks are done looking and, hopefully, buying, why don’t you let Isaac take care of them in the workshop. I know Claire would like a moment of your time.” Keith tugged open the toy shop door and stepped inside, the delighted oohs and aahs from inside bringing a smile to Claire’s lips.

  “People love your toys, Daniel. Adults, children, it makes no difference,” she mused. “And from what I’ve heard from Keith, the chance to get to watch an Amish toy maker at work was just the ticket in getting—and keeping—Heavenly Tours off the ground.”

  “Mr. Watson’s customers are good customers for me, too. And they stay good customers even after they have gone home.”

  “Which is why that catalogue you have is such a good idea.” She peeked inside a small window to the right of the door and took in the line forming at the counter. “Gives people a way to still buy our goods long after their vacation is over.”

  “You have a catalogue, too?” he asked.

  “I’m working on one, as well as a website where people can order online. Soon, though.” She gestured toward the toy shop. “I think you better head in. Looks like you’ve got quite a few grandmothers lined up to buy presents for their grandchildren right now.”

  He moved toward the door but paused just shy of walking inside. “Sarah is inside the house. She has been tired lately. I think a visit would do her good. When I am done, we will speak.”

  “I don’t want to intrude.” But even as Claire spoke, she knew her hesitation went much deeper than the standard protest. Sarah was already worried about Daniel. In fact, the woman’s worry ran so deep it had been one of two factors in why Martha had risked her standing in the Amish community to reach out to her excommunicated brother. To question Daniel about Rob Karble in front of Sarah wasn’t a good idea. “Besides, Sarah should be resting in her condition, not entertaining.”

  “It is no intrusion. It will be a welcome visit.”

  Long after Daniel disappeared into his toy shop, Claire remained standing in the exact spot she’d claimed, torn between doing what Daniel asked and listening to her gut. If she went into the house to see Sarah, she’d have to keep her questions tame. But if she didn’t go inside, she’d appear unfriendly—a persona that was against everything she wanted for herself…

  Her mind made up, Claire headed toward the neatly kept farmhouse where Daniel and Sarah lived alongside their four children. A fifth child, who’d been due the previous spring, had died just before birth, making Martha’s concern for Sarah’s stress level all the more valid.

  No, she’d keep their visit light and happy, saving her questions for Daniel until just the right moment. It was the least she could do for Sarah and baby number six.

  Chapter 12

  All thoughts of light and happy went out the window the moment Sarah Lapp answered Claire’s knock. For stretched across the young woman’s relatively nondescript face was the kind of stress and worry you simply couldn’t miss. It was there in the lines around her slender lips, and it was there in the dullness of her eyes and the tightness of her jaw.

  The only thing that wasn’t there was a ready explanation as to why.

  “Sarah?” Claire’s gaze skipped down to the tiny mound jutting outward from beneath Sarah’s black aproned dress. “Is everything alright? Are you feeling poorly?”

  Lifting her hand to her abdomen, Sarah glanced down at the floor and swallowed, Claire’s answer coming in a barely discernible shake of the woman’s head.

  “I was at the toy shop just now and decided I’d stop by and say hello.” Claire looked around for something to help ease the tension emanating off the woman and settled on the closest thing she could find. She gestured toward the pairing of rocking chairs in the center of the porch. “It’s such a lovely day, I thought you might enjoy sitting out here on the porch and visiting with me for a little while.”

  A little boy, clad in a light blue shirt and a pair of black suspendered pants, poked his straw-hatted head around Sarah’s lower body and flashed a shy smile at Claire. Something about the movement snapped Sarah from her fog and pushed the dullness from her eyes.

  “Amos, did you feed all of the chickens?”

  The three-year-old looked up at his mother and nodded solemnly. “Yah.”

  “Where is David?”

  “Making toys. With Mr. Schrock.” A burst of respect for his older brother made its way across the youngster’s face before disappearing behind the silent question even Claire could read.

  “You may go, too, Amos.” Pulling her splayed hand from her stomach, Sarah moved it to the top of her son’s hat. “But do not get in Mr. Schrock’s way. He and Dat have much work to do.”

  In a flash, Amos was out the door and down the porch, his bare feet carrying him across the yard and over to the barn in record time.

  “I take it he wants to be a toy maker like his Dat?” Claire asked around the smile that stretched her mouth wide.

  “He does. But I do not know how much of that is the toys and how much of that is his Dat. Sometimes I think he and David would be excited to collect sticks if that is what Daniel did.” Sarah stepped to the side of the doorway and offered Claire the first semblance of a smile. “Please…please come in. I
t will be nice to visit, Miss Weatherly.”

  “Claire. Please, call me Claire,” she reminded as she preceded the woman into the sparsely furnished front room that seemed to be the norm in the handful of Amish homes she’d been inside. From Esther, she knew these rooms were where families would host Sunday church service when it fell to them by way of rotation. The wide-open space easily accommodated the many benches brought in for the occasion and the dozens of Amish families that followed suit.

  “I will try to remember and call you Claire.” Sarah’s simple black boots made soft, gentle sounds against the wood-planked floor as she closed the gap between them. “I have bread baking in the oven that I must check.”

  Claire lifted her nose into the air and inhaled, the aroma she’d detected from the porch finally identified. “Mmmm, Sarah, that smells wonderful.”

  When they reached the kitchen, Sarah gestured toward the wooden benches that lined the long sides of the simple wooden rectangular table. “Please sit. This will take just a moment.”

  Claire settled herself on the bench facing the oven and looked around the plain yet adequate kitchen, noting the presence of many of the traditional staples. Yet in this home—as in all the other Amish homes around them—the refrigerator and stove ran on propane, and the water in the sink was delivered via the wheel she’d seen turning round and round not far from the outbuilding that served as Daniel’s toy shop.

  She took in the pale green walls adorned only by one clock, a simple shelf with a smattering of plates, and a calendar that depicted a large maple tree adorned in its autumn finery. She knew, from Esther, that the only decorations the Amish were permitted to have were those of the functional variety.

  The plunk of metal atop the counter brought her focus back to the oven and Sarah just in time to see the woman’s shoulders slump heavily. “Claire, I do not know what to do with all of this.”

  Leaning to the side just a little, Claire noted the perfect rise and color of both loaves. “Sarah, they look perfect to me…”

  “I do not mean the bread.” Sarah’s voice stopped just shy of a whisper as her back remained turned. “I mean about the toy man’s…murder.”

  Claire sat up tall, her eyes, her ears trained on nothing but the pregnant woman standing beside the stove with a simple white cap on her head and a mountain of stress atop her diminutive shoulders. “There isn’t anything for you to do with all of that, Sarah. Detective Fisher will figure it out.”

  “That is what I am afraid of.” Slowly, Sarah turned to face Claire, tears running down her round face.

  “Sarah!” Claire sprang off the bench and pulled the weeping woman into her arms. “Hey, it’s okay. Everything is fine.”

  “It—it is not fine,” Sarah stammered. “P-people are—are talking and they are pointing.”

  “Shhh…It’s okay.” Stepping back, she took hold of Sarah’s shoulders and peered into her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, Sarah, but I’d like to help if you’ll let me.” Then, with gentle hands, she guided the woman over to the bench she’d just vacated. “Sit with me. Talk to me. We’ll figure this out, Sarah…I promise.”

  With only a modicum of hesitation, the woman sat at the table and buried her head in her hands. “I do not want Daniel to know I am upset. I do not want him to know what people are saying.”

  Claire sat down beside the woman and began to rub her back. “If you do not want him to know, I will not tell him. But let’s talk this out. You’re carrying too much stress right now and it’s not good for the baby.”

  A nod was followed by a sniffle. “I went to town the day after that man…that Mr. Karble was murdered. I saw them pointing at me and I heard them say that my Daniel would be a suspect because he was…angry.” Sarah released a breath then pulled her head from her hands to look at Claire. “But I did not think he was angry.”

  “Do you mean about Karble Toys making the Amish line in a factory somewhere other than here?”

  Sarah nodded again. “I saw the letter at the festival just like Daniel did and I was shocked. Like everyone else. But I did not think he would be angry.”

  “Did he show you the letter?” She removed her hand from Sarah’s back and rested it, instead, on the top of the table.

  “No. Martha did. She came to my fruit stand and showed me. I knew it was bad, I knew it would make Daniel worry, but I did not think it would make him angry.”

  “You saw him later on, though, didn’t you? After Mr. Karble’s body was found?”

  “I did,” Sarah said. “He helped me pack up my stand and he took me home.”

  “Did he seem angry to you at that time?”

  Tipping her chin upward, Sarah seemed to contemplate the question, her answer coming after a few beats of silence. “No. He did not seem angry. He was tired and worried, but I would not say he was angry.”

  “Then ignore what the people in town are saying. Sarah, when things like this happen in the English world, it is people’s nature to be curious…to even speculate on what might have happened.” She glanced down at her hands and searched for the best way to wipe the worry from her friend’s face. “But you know your husband better than anyone else. If you say he was not angry, then he wasn’t angry. Take comfort in that conviction.”

  “I tried but it was hard. Daniel is my husband. I do not like people to think such things of him. He is a good man. A hard worker. He is quiet but not anger-filled.”

  Pivoting her body to the right, she took Sarah’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Then know that. Believe that.”

  “I did. I still worried, of course, as I do not want him to be bothered by this talk of the toy company anymore, but I believed it would be okay,” Sarah explained in a raspy, almost garbled whisper.

  “Then why are you so upset?” It seemed a fair question in light of the woman’s tears, yet as soon as she posed it aloud, she couldn’t help but feel she’d crossed some invisible line.

  In a flash, Sarah was on her feet, busying herself around the kitchen with jobs that had clearly been done already. Clean counters were made cleaner and spotless floors were swept once, twice.

  “Sarah?” she prompted as her internal radar began to ping.

  “Daniel will be in for lunch soon.”

  “Sarah? What’s going on?”

  The woman paused midsweep, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I can not say.”

  “But I want to help you and I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” Again, she rose from the bench and made her way over to Sarah only to have her progress thwarted by a hand. “Sarah, please.”

  “Martha says you are friends with the detective…with her brother.”

  It was a statement she couldn’t dispute. “I am. But Jakob is a good man, Sarah. A fair man. And the last thing he wants to do is hurt anyone in this community.”

  “Do you share everything with him?”

  Surprised by the question, Claire drew back. “Jakob is not my boyfriend, Sarah. He is a friend…just as Esther is my friend…and Martha is my friend…and, I hope, you are my friend. I do not share things one friend says with another unless I am permitted to do so.”

  She stood perfectly still as Sarah studied her closely, the woman’s quandary over sharing personal fears aloud as tangible as the broom in her hand. When Sarah did finally speak, it was in a tone so hushed Claire had to bring her ear within mere inches of the woman’s mouth.

  “The people were right.”

  “People?” she whispered back.

  “The people in town. The ones who pointed and say such things.” Removing her hand from the broomstick, Sarah reached into the space between her apron and her burgundy-hued dress and pulled out a sloppily folded piece of typewritten paper. Before Claire could make sense of what was happening, the paper was shoved against her own hand. “They were right, Claire. Daniel must have been angry. Very, very angry. Now, please…you must go.”

  Chapter 13

  She stepped to the side of the road, yielding
the way for Keith Watson and his busload of satisfied customers as they made their way back toward the center of town. The smattering of waves she earned from the left side of the bus managed to register in some dusty corner of her thoughts, but not until the opportunity to return the connection-making gesture was long gone.

  “Good one, Claire,” she mumbled to herself. “Great way to bridge the gap between the tour and the shop…”

  Slowly, she released a whoosh of air from her lungs and dropped her gaze back to her feet, the pace with which they were moving more than a little hypnotic. She’d walked this same road not more than sixty minutes earlier with one real task in mind. Yet, here she was, on her way back to Lighted Way, with more questions than ever about Daniel Lapp—questions she’d been unable to ask him in light of Sarah’s less-than-subtle desire for Claire to leave.

  When he’d come to the house after ringing up Keith’s customers, Claire had wanted nothing more than to secure the previously sought moment or two alone with the toy maker. But, Sarah’s well-timed stomach clutch, coupled with impressively realistic complaints of feeling light-headed, nixed that.

  “What has you so afraid, Sarah?” She listened to the question as it left her lips then cringed at the answer that formed in its wake.

  She thinks her husband killed Rob Karble.

  Claire stopped and reached into the pocket of her trousers, her fingers closing around the folded note Sarah had shoved into her hand mere moments before Daniel entered the house. For whatever reason, the toy maker’s wife had felt the paper was something Claire needed to see. And, based on the sudden thumping in her chest at the notion of what it could be, she couldn’t help but agree.