Appleseed Creek Trilogy, Books 1-3

by Amanda Flower

  Collette nodded. “In the end, I think it would be best to have a nonfaculty member, like you on the float. We don’t want to look elitist to the community.”

  Dean Klink waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, they’ve all had their chances to volunteer. Can you believe I brought this problem up at the faculty meeting today, and no one offered to take Tony’s place?”

  I could believe it.

  “Will you be on the float, Dean Klink?” Clark asked.

  The dean licked his lips. “Well, no, I’m leaving on a flight tonight to go to my daughter’s.”

  I sighed. “I . . . well . . . what would I have to do?”

  A grin broke on the dean’s face. “I knew I could count on you, Chloe. You always pull through.”

  I was beginning to think that pulling through wasn’t always a good attribute.

  He tapped his fingers on the tabletop as if playing piano keys. “All you will have to do is show up, stand on the float, and wave.” He stood. “Collette will e-mail the details of where you should be and when.”

  Sounded simple enough.

  I made one more valiant effort. “Since this is Collette’s idea, maybe she would like to ride on the float.” I turned to her. “You should be recognized for all your hard work.”

  She smiled coolly as if she knew what I was up to. “Thank you for thinking of me, Chloe, but I will be too busy supervising the float to ride on it.”

  Dean Klink stood. “One more thing . . . each year the parade has a theme. This year it’s winter wonderland.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  A smile curved on Collette’s face, reminding me of Gigabyte when he was up to something. If she started purring, I was out of there. “That sounds like a nice theme,” I murmured.

  “It is,” the dean replied. “Who would have thought we’d have actual snow this Thanksgiving. Everything will look spectacular.”

  Collette stood as well and brushed nonexistent specs from her skirt. “Chloe, in keeping with the theme you will have to dress up like a snowman.”

  A snowman? Did I hear that right?

  The dean chuckled. “If we had more time and knew we were making the switch, we would have had the costume changed to a snowwoman.” He smacked the table and stood.

  The marketing director inspected her manicure. “There is also something else I’d like to talk to you about, a special project for the good of the college. I’m sure you’re the best person for the job.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She glanced at Clark. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

  Dean Klink and Collette left the office.

  Clark looked as if he were about to burst. “Remember, when you wave to your public to move your hand back and forth like you are screwing in a lightbulb.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” I returned to my office.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I stumbled out of Dennis, the academic building that held the computer services department, carrying the jumbo mums. It wasn’t until I shoved the flowers into the backseat of my car that I realized I’d forgotten to ask Clark and Miller what they knew about Dylan Tanner. I had promised Timothy I would. No time to worry. Both men were long gone and I was late for my appointment at the elementary school. I promised Becky I would be there for the end of her site visit with her probation officer.

  It was 4:15 already, so the after-school art program was wrapping up. Thankfully, the elementary school was only a block away from Harshberger.

  I pulled into the back lot of the elementary school. Parents sat in their cars with motors running waiting for children to emerge. One by one, fourth and fifth graders stepped out of the school carrying newly fired clay pots and lopsided vases. I moved against the tide of children in the direction of the art room.

  Two children remained in the room along with Becky and the art teacher, Ms. Snow. Becky sat across from a freckle-covered eleven-year-old boy. “If you press down on the brush, do you see how the stroke gets wider? The harder you press, the wider your stroke.”

  The child nodded and stuck out his tongue a little as he painted a red line the width of his vase.

  A voice rumbled behind me. “She’s doing a great job,”

  I spun around to find Carl Fisher, Becky’s probation officer, sitting on a stool in the corner of the art room as if the teacher had sent him there for bad behavior. Carl was the size of a lumberjack and had the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. I was sure those eyebrows, not to mention Fisher’s size, could be intimidating when he got angry, which came in handy in his profession. He’d never used them when speaking of Becky. He held a clipboard and made notes on an evaluation form.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I replied.

  He eyed me. “I heard about Ezekiel Young.”

  I wasn’t surprised the probation officer knew about the murder.

  Fisher squinted at me. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Instinctively, I touched the bump on the back of my head. It felt smaller. “I feel horrible for the Young family though. I know how much they relied on Ezekiel to run the business. Ellie, his mother, must be heartbroken.”

  “It’s a horrible thing to lose a loved one to murder.” He said this as if he knew something about it. “Who does Greta suspect?”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t told me, not that I thought she would.” I shot a quick glance in Becky’s direction to make sure she wasn’t listening to us. “Curt and Brock are a possibility. They were released from prison.”

  “I heard that too,” Fisher said.

  What hadn’t the probation officer heard?

  He folded his arms. “I was Curt Fanning’s PO a few years back. That boy is as bad as they come.”

  “Chief Rose doesn’t think Curt and Brock would resort to murder.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the probation officer murmured. “You and Becky need to be careful. Lock your doors and pay attention to who is around you at all times.”

  My pulse quickened as his warning sunk in.

  Becky waved at us. “Pack up,” she told her student. “Your mom’s waiting for you outside.”

  The boy frowned as if he could listen to Becky’s instructions forever, and reluctantly began packing his backpack.

  “I wish I had a dozen Beckies,” Fisher said.

  Ms. Snow, a petite woman in her mid-forties, joined us. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and a peasant skirt. “I do too. I’ve noticed a big increase in the numbers of boys interested in the after-school art program since Becky started helping out.” She signed the form on Fisher’s clipboard.

  The other student left the room, and the freckled boy and Becky walked to the classroom door. “Bye, Miss Troyer,” the boy said with a slight blush on his cheeks.

  Becky smiled. “Bye, Cameron. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  He grinned back at her and disappeared through the door.

  Fisher stood up. “Becky, Ms. Snow tells me you are doing an excellent job, and I can see it with my own eyes. You only have three hundred hours of community service left. I’m sure you will finish that in record time between this and the other places you are volunteering. When you do finish, I’ll recommend to the judge that he grant you an early release from probation for good behavior.”

  Becky’s face lit up. “Really?” Her original probation sentence was for one year and wouldn’t expire until August of next year.

  “I completely support that,” Ms. Snow said, giving Becky a little squeeze. “You’re doing great and will make a wonderful art teacher one day.”

  Becky beamed.

  Fisher held out his clipboard and a pen. “Sign here to say you received your monthly evaluation.”

  I found myself smil
ing. Becky left the Amish to pursue her art as she saw fit. Finally, she received praise for her talent instead of criticism as she had from the leaders in the district.

  Fisher set his bowler hat on his head, which made him look like a 1920s mobster, and tipped it at us before leaving the room.

  Ms. Snow smiled at Becky. “I want you to seriously think about teaching art, Becky. You’re a gifted artist and good with children. That’s a hard combination to come by. You will make the perfect art teacher.”

  “I will think about it,” Becky promised.

  Ms. Snow nodded. “Good. Now, the classroom door is locked. Just pull it shut when you leave after you finish cleaning up.”

  “I know what to do.”

  Ms. Snow nodded at me. “Nice to see you again, Chloe.”

  I offered to help Becky clean up. We made short work of emptying dirty water cups into the stainless steel sink and rinsing out the paint brushes.

  Becky’s cell rang. She pulled it out from her pocket and checked the readout. “It’s Timothy. I’ll get it.”

  “Go ahead.” I held up a blue-tipped paint brush. “This is the last one.” I almost asked her to thank him for the flowers but stopped myself. I thought they were from Timothy, but what if they weren’t?

  I heard the low murmur of Becky’s conversation on the phone, but with the water coming full force out of the faucet I couldn’t make out the words. I turned off the water and reached for a paper towel to dry the paint brush. I faced Becky, and she looked like someone had just told her Iron Chef America was canceled.

  I blotted the brush on the paper towel. “What’s wrong?”

  She swiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s Grossdaddi.”

  The throbbing began again in my head. “Is he all right?”

  “No. He’s at the hospital.”

  I dropped the paint brush onto the linoleum floor. “What happened?”

  “Someone cut off his beard,” she whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When we arrived at the county hospital in Mount Vernon, both the Troyer family buggy and Grandfather Zook’s stood tethered to the hitching post. Sparky, Grandfather Zook’s beloved horse, wore a forest green horse blanket and neighed at Becky and me as we walked by.

  Dear Lord, please let Grandfather Zook be okay.

  The automatic emergency room doors opened. Inside the waiting room, Timothy sat with his parents. Mrs. Troyer huddled in her heavy cape and winter bonnet. Her husband wore a black stocking cap pulled down over his ears and a frown. Timothy murmured to his parents before walking over to us.

  Becky hugged her brother. “Is he okay?”

  Timothy stuck his hands into his jeans pockets. “He will be. He only has a few scrapes and bruises.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. Praise the Lord, Grandfather Zook would recover. I felt like I could breathe again. On the drive to the hospital my mind played tricks on me. I had envisioned Grandfather Zook in Ezekiel’s place, dead in the pavilion. Although I knew it wasn’t true, the image was branded in my mind and would be there until I saw Grandfather Zook alive and well with my own eyes.

  “What happened?” I asked just above a whisper.

  “Grossdaddi was outside of the grocery store when someone jumped him.”

  Becky gasped.

  Timothy shot a glance at his mother, her face buried in a handkerchief. “Maam asked him to go pick up a few things for the evening meal.”

  “How did someone jump him?” I asked.

  “He did it while Grossdaddi covered Sparky with a horse blanket. The person came up behind him, threw a bag over his head, smashed him against the side of the buggy and cut off his beard.”

  Becky chewed a layer of lip gloss off of her lower lip. “He could have been killed. Why would anyone do that?”

  Timothy shook his head.

  “Did the person take his money?” I asked.

  “No.” Timothy glanced over his shoulder to his parents who whispered to each other in Pennsylvania Dutch. Mrs. Troyer wiped at her eyes, and her husband placed a hand on his wife’s arm.

  Becky wagged her head. “Who would attack a sick old man like that?”

  Who indeed? Curt and Brock came to mind, especially now that the Troyer family was involved. Chief Rose didn’t think Curt and Brock would resort to murder, but Probation Officer Fisher did. Since Fisher used to be Curt’s PO, he knew Curt better than the chief did, didn’t he?

  The attack on Grandfather Zook and the three Amish girls must be related to Ezekiel Young’s death. Could there be more than one person loose in Knox County cutting off Amish hair? It seemed unlikely. If it were Curt and Brock, why risk going back to prison? Curt, whose father died in the First Iraq War, particularly despised the Amish culture. He felt that the Amish were disloyal to the country by being conscientious objectors. His hatred led him and Brock to harassing the Amish last summer, which ultimately landed the pair in prison. Would they do it again? And so soon?

  I removed my winter hat. “Is Chief Rose here?”

  Timothy nodded. “She’s been here and gone already. She got a callout right after she spoke with Grossdaddi.”

  Becky fingered her braid. “I want to see him.”

  “The nurse said they’d bring him out as soon as his paperwork for the hospital is complete. It shouldn’t be too long now.”

  Mr. Troyer removed his hand from his wife’s arm and stared straight ahead. Through his granite-like expression, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. All he wanted was a simple life and his children to live the Amish way. Instead his two eldest children had left the culture, putting him in a precarious position with the church. Now, his father-in-law had been attacked in a way that seemed so specifically insulting to the Amish life Mr. Troyer loved.

  Becky watched her parents. She leaned close to her brother and whispered, “How are Maam and Daed?”

  Timothy’s jaw twitched. “Maam is a wreck, and you know Daed. You can never quite know what he’s thinking.”

  A nurse’s aide appeared in the waiting room, pushing Grandfather Zook in a hospital-issued wheelchair. The elderly Amish man clutched his aluminum crutches in his hand. When Grandfather Zook was a child, he had contracted polio during the epidemic. As he aged, his symptoms worsened, and he became more and more dependent on the crutches to walk, and at times, even used a wheelchair. It wasn’t often that I would see Grandfather Zook in his wheelchair. He was far too stubborn.

  More striking than the wheelchair was the absence of his white, fluffy beard. The beard had once hung down to the middle of his chest and been reminiscent of untreated cotton. Jaggedly cut whiskers hung only an inch from his chin.

  Mrs. Troyer jumped from her chair and hugged her father. She spoke to him in Pennsylvania Dutch at breakneck speed. In English, she said, “Daed, your beautiful beard. What would Maam say?”

  He shook his finger at his adult daughter. “Your maam would be upset, yes, but not put on such dramatics like this.”

  His reprimand dried up her tears.

  He grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry, kinner. I know you are only worried. You have your maam’s big heart.” He plucked at the short whiskers. “This is only hair. It will grow back.”

  Mrs. Troyer wrung her hands.

  The nurse’s aide let go of the wheelchair handles. “Do you need help getting him into the car, er, buggy?”

  Timothy smiled at her. “We got it.”

  She nodded and left.

  “Chloe!” Grandfather Zook’s eyes sparkled as they fell on me. “You and Becky didn’t have to come all the way to the hospital.”

  I gave him a hug. “Of course we did. We had to make sure for ourselves that you’re okay.”

  His eyes twinkled. “It’s going to take mo
re than a pair of scissors to stop me.”

  “Were you scared?” Becky held her grandfather’s hand.

  “It happened too fast to be scared. I was throwing the blanket over Sparky’s back and the next thing I knew my face was up against the side of the buggy.” He rubbed his cheek. A bruise had begun to form on his right cheekbone. “The good news is Old Spark got a piece of him before the perp got away.”

  “Perp?” Becky’s brows shot up. “Where did you learn that word?”

  “That lady police officer said it. I rather like it. It seems fitting for the scoundrel who did this.”

  “What do you mean he got a piece of him?” Timothy asked.

  “Sparky took a bite out of the man’s shoulder. You should have heard him scream. Horse bites hurt, and Sparky made this one count. He came away with a mouthful of the perp’s coat too.”

  “Where’s the piece of coat?” Timothy asked.

  “The lady police officer took it. She said it was evidence.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” Becky let go of her grandfather’s hand and twisted her braid. “First Chloe finds a dead body, and now this.”

  Internally, I groaned.

  Mr. Troyer’s head whipped around to his eldest daughter. “What?”

  Becky’s mouth fell open as she realized her mistake.

  “Ezekiel Young is dead.” Timothy went on to explain the events at the flea market the day before.

  Grandfather Zook paled. “How’s Ellie? She must be heartbroken.” His eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, grandkinner?”

  Timothy’s brow creased. “I’m sorry. I thought you would have heard it from a neighbor in the district by now.”

  Mrs. Troyer touched her husband’s coat sleeve. “Why didn’t we hear this from our neighbors?”

  He said something back to her in their language. Mr. Troyer was more comfortable speaking Pennsylvania Dutch, but I knew sometimes he spoke it when he didn’t want me to know what was going on.

  Becky gave me a tiny, lopsided smile as if she knew what I was thinking.