Willow laughed nervously. “Oh, Angie, you are simplifying it too much.”
Was I?
Hillary’s face looked pinched. “You’re new and don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I was about to argue with her, when Farley leaned closer to me. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
I scooted my chair away from him as I selected a cheese sandwich from the tray. “The sheriff hasn’t shared that with me.”
Willow placed a scone on my plate. “I hope the police don’t think you did it.”
“They must think Angela is the killer,” Wanda said, going back for some more butter. “He was found dead in her store.” She eyed me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the police weren’t doing a thorough background check on you right now. Do you have anything to hide?”
The piece of dry scone lodged in my throat and the only option to wash it down was the watermelon tea. I took a huge gulp, figuring the faster I drank, the less I would taste it. Wrong.
Willow laughed nervously. “Don’t mind Wanda; she’s suspicious by nature.”
“I’m not suspicious, just realistic.”
“I think we should focus on the fest. That’s why we are all here, isn’t it?” Willow asked.
Farley selected one of the small tea sandwiches to add to his plate. “The fest begins on Friday, and there are still so many more arrangements to be made.”
Hillary had a checklist at the ready. “I disagree, Farley. Everything seems to be well in hand.” She tapped her pen on the list. “We have the watermelon carving and watermelon eating set and ready to go. The watermelon weigh-in order too.”
“Watermelon weigh-in?” I asked.
Farley grew serious. “Farmers have been babying their watermelon patches for a month trying to grow the biggest and best watermelon.”
I set the cup back on its saucer. “What still needs to be done?” I asked, hoping to move the meeting’s agenda along. “What do you need me to do?”
Willow refilled my teacup. “We will find a job for you.”
That sounded ominous.
Wanda leaned toward me. “Just think of all the traffic your involvement in the Watermelon Fest will bring to Running Stitch.”
I shifted away from the aggressive woman with a grimace. “But Running Stitch is closed. Indefinitely. I have no idea if it will be open by the beginning of the fest.”
Farley reached a hand across the table and squeezed my wrist. “Just leave that to me, Angela. I will talk to the sheriff.”
I slipped my hand out of his grasp on the pretense of wanting a sip of the awful tea. “You can talk the sheriff into letting me back into my shop?”
“Yes. I’m the township trustee, after all.”
I resisted the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans. “I would appreciate it.” I thought for a moment. I knew it would infuriate Martha if I participated in the fest, but I had to think of what was best for the business. “I’m happy to help out.”
Willow grinned from ear to ear. “I knew when I heard you were coming, Angie, you’d be great for the town.”
Great for the town? The only newsworthy event that had occurred since I arrived was the death of Joseph Walker. That wasn’t great—it was a nightmare.
Chapter Twenty-two
As I left the tea shop, I again felt that prickly sensation on the back of my neck like I was being watched. I didn’t believe the culprit was a raccoon. Since Willow was still inside the tea shop hammering out final details about the Watermelon Fest, it wasn’t her. My heart constricted. Could it be Elijah Knepp? After Rachel’s warning, I wasn’t keen on meeting him alone—even in broad daylight in the middle of Rolling Brook with English tourists and Amish folks milling around.
I ambled away from the bakery on the pretense of looking into shop windows, but at the same time, I made sure to always keep close to a group of tourists. There was safety in numbers. I paused in front of the yarn shop. The sunlight hit the window just right to mirror my reflection back at me. Behind me, I could clearly make out the figure of a man on the other side of the street. The image was warped, but the color of the hair unmistakably red. Danny Nicolson. I should have known. Hadn’t several people warned me about his desire for a big story? Even his cousin Jessica took the time to caution me.
Slowly, I turned my head as if to watch a buggy park in front of the bakery. The reporter jumped into the alley. He was following me. Relief washed over me that it wasn’t Elijah Knepp. But my relief was almost immediately replaced by irritation.
I went inside the yarn shop, where three English women were comparing different shades of Amish yarn. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged Amish woman, sat in a wooden rocker crocheting an afghan. I stepped behind a display where I could see out of the window, but I couldn’t be seen from the street.
“Can I help you, miss?” the Amish woman asked.
The back of my neck flushed red. “Umm, no, I’m just looking.”
She eyed me over her silver-rimmed reading glasses. “You’re hiding, not looking.”
I winced. “Am I that obvious?”
She smiled. “Yes, but if you want to hide out in my shop for a little while, that’s fine with me.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “I’m Angie Braddock.”
“You’re Eleanor’s niece.” She began a new row. The crochet hook moved in and around the yarn with little attention from her. “There’s been a lot of talk since you moved here to take over your aenti’s shop.”
I glanced through the window. Danny was still across the street eyeing the yarn shop. He seemed to be trying to decide what he should do next. Should he stay or should he go? I was weighing the same options.
The woman rocked and crocheted in perfect rhythm. “There’s been even more talk since Joseph Walker was found in Running Stitch. What a terrible thing to have happened.”
I winced. It was time to change the subject. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Fannie Springer. I was a gut friend of your aenti. Many times when business was slow, we’d pass the time chatting and having a cup of kaffi together.”
Everyone loved Aunt Eleanor. I hoped their love for her would be enough to convince them I was innocent.
“I’d like to visit your shop again.”
“I would love to have you over for a cup of coffee.” I paused. “Just as soon as the police remove the crime-scene tape.”
“Oh, gut, I haven’t been in the shop in several years.”
“You haven’t?”
“Nee.” Her rocking slowed, and she set her crochet hook and blanket on her lap. “It wasn’t the same after your aenti became ill. Martha Yoder didn’t have time for quiet cups of coffee.”
“Martha is a hard worker,” I said, coming to her defense.
“That I know,” Fannie said. Her tone told me it wasn’t a compliment. This surprised me, as the Amish were big into hard work. “You be careful around Martha.”
“Martha?”
“Yes. She is an ambitious woman. She does not work so hard because it’s the right thing to do. She does so because of what she wants.”
I didn’t see anything wrong with that, but I knew ambition was not a trait held in high regard among the Amish. However, it was par for the course in the English world.
Through the window, I saw Danny slip out of the alley and move down the street. How was I going to catch him red-handed? I needed to act fast. I hurried to the door. “I will see you later, Fannie, and we will make plans for that coffee.”
She nodded and returned to her crocheting.
I jumped onto the sidewalk and saw Danny heading north toward the old barn where the Watermelon Fest would be held. The sound of construction resounded from that direction as Amish men made final repairs to the dilapidated structure before Friday’s opening.
Two could play at th
is game, I thought as I followed Danny down Sugartree. I hung back twenty yards and stayed close to groups of English tourists whenever I could, hoping I could blend in and he wouldn’t see me. We walked almost all the way back to Old Ben’s woodshop when Danny suddenly made an about-face and turned in my direction.
In the nick of time, I slipped into an alleyway between two of the brick buildings. I peeked out just enough to see Danny glance in both directions. Did he know he was being followed? As if he were a scent hound who caught a whiff of the lure on the breeze, he headed in my direction. I jerked back and knocked my funny bone on the Dumpster behind me.
“Oww,” I softly moaned.
I heard Danny’s quick steps approach. I stuck my foot out of the alley. “Ahh!” Danny went sprawling face-first onto the sidewalk.
“Are you okay?” I asked, shooting for sympathy and falling short.
He moved to all fours and brushed the grit off his palms. “You tripped me.”
I held out my hand to help him up. He glared at my gesture but grudgingly took my hand.
“Sorry,” I said. “He’s fine,” I told a cluster of English tourists who walked by us. “Just a little clumsy.”
Danny scowled. “Sorry?” He brushed dirt off his knees and hands. He had red abrasions on the heels of his hand where he caught himself. He wasn’t bleeding, so I didn’t feel too guilty about it. Danny noticed. “You don’t look sorry.”
I placed my hands on my hips. “Maybe I would be sorry if you weren’t following me all over town.”
Danny’s face turned the same color as his hair. “I’m not following you.”
“Give me a break. I can prove you were following me. I bet that camera you’re holding is full of photos of me from yesterday and today. Let me see your camera.”
He hid it behind his back. “No way.”
“Seriously, I don’t want this to get ugly. I’m from Texas, remember?”
He snorted. “I lost a camera memory card because of you. I’m not risking another.”
“I didn’t take it. The sheriff did.”
“Because of you. Because you told him I took photos of Joseph.”
“Why would you do that? It’s disgusting. Don’t you have any respect for his family? What if they had seen those photos on the Internet?”
He laughed. “First of all, they are Amish, so there’s no chance that they would have seen those on the Internet, and second of all, I wasn’t planning to publish the photos. I wanted them to help me write my story.”
The first part might be true, but the second part I didn’t believe for a millisecond. Even Danny’s own cousin Jessica said that Danny dreamed about a big break that would get him noticed by one of the larger papers in the region. A photograph of a murdered Amish man might be just the ticket. “Why are you following me?”
He snapped a photo in my face.
“Hey!” I grabbed at his camera.
He laughed. “Test shot. Sorry.”
I gritted my teeth and lowered my voice. I noticed that both English and Amish on the street were staring at us. “Now, spill it.”
He gave a dramatic sigh. “You will lead me to the killer.”
“I’ll what?” I practically yelled.
An elderly couple in board shorts and matching T-shirts stared at us as they passed. I felt myself blush.
Danny’s smile was sly. “Careful. You don’t want to scare the tourists away.”
“Talk,” I said through gritted teeth.
He shrugged. “You’re either the murderer or you’re trying to find the person who did it to clear your name.”
I felt unbelievably hot. I could blame my rise in temperature on the humidity. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Okay,” he said as if it were no concern of his. “Then, you’re tracking down who did. That means I keep following you.”
“You can’t follow me.”
“Why not? It’s a free country. In fact, I can help you. You’re new. You don’t know your way around.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Admit it. You need my help.” His smile widened. “Or are you going to be able to find Elijah Knepp on your own?”
My face turned hot. “How . . .”
“How did I know you’re looking for him? Because he’s the obvious choice. No one has a better motive to off the woodworker than his brother-in-law.”
“Do you know where to find him?”
He grinned, knowing that he had won. “I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“No way. We have to talk to him together. You want to clear your name, and I want the story about it.”
I looked heavenward. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “I guess I could use some help.”
He clapped his hands. “Excellent. Meet me behind Running Stitch in an hour.”
“Running Stitch is closed,” I said. “We can’t even go inside.”
“Do you want to solve this case or not? You might not look bad in orange. That’s the color the inmates wear around here.”
“We can meet in the back in the garden. Why can’t we go there now? It’s a block away.”
“I need to make a stop first.”
“Where?”
“Don’t worry about that.” He winked at me and started back up the street.
I hoped my new partnership with the hungry reporter wouldn’t fall into the category “it seemed like a good idea at the time.” I had a sinking suspicion it just might.
Chapter Twenty-three
It wasn’t worth driving home to Millersburg if I was going to meet Danny in an hour behind Running Stitch. Since I was on that edge of town, I decided to walk the rest of the way to where the Watermelon Fest would be held on Friday and Saturday.
Would Farley really be able to talk the sheriff into letting me open Running Stitch? He gave the impression he had a lot of pull as a trustee of the township, but Sheriff Mitchell did not strike me as a man who was easily swayed.
Elijah was still my number one suspect, but Farley and the Watermelon Fest folks had a pretty good motive too. Even Willow did, although I hated to think she was involved. I’d grown to like the eccentric tea shop mistress.
Beyond Old Ben’s shop and the retail district of Rolling Brook, the barn came into full view as Sugartree Street curved to the east. The structure sat roughly twenty yards back from the road. An Amish man rode a lawn tractor and mowed the overgrown grass around the barn, an acceptable use of modern technology, I presumed. The barn itself was a small building perhaps for a hobby farm and roughly the size of a small colonial-style home. The weathered sides were gray from decades of wind, rain, and snow. The foundation was cinder block cement. The twenty-foot-tall sliding barn door was opened wide. Sawing and hammering sounds became louder as I approached the open barn.
Ten Amish men occupied different spots in the barn, mending cracks in the boards and stabilizing beams. They all worked with a confident air and every movement was meaningful. The man closest to me drove a nail into the wooden support beam with one strike of his hammer on the nailhead. It reminded me of the sheriff fixing Oliver’s doggy door.
Despite the barn’s open door, it was dim in the barn with no electric lights. Then Jonah came into view carrying a hammer.
His face broke into a smile. “Angie, what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see the place where the fest will be. I came from a meeting with Willow about it.”
“I see. She was able to talk you into helping. Willow is enthusiastic.”
“Is she the one you’ve been working with about the barn?”
“I think so. I’ve only been able to help as I can. One of the other men here is in charge of making sure it’s finished. I am in charge of everything on my farm. Sometimes it is nice not to be the boss.”
“Ever
ything? Even the geese?”
He snorted. “I’m not much of a boss of them. My mamm may have been right. Maybe we should have gotten a quieter animal to farm. We have not had a solid night’s sleep since they arrived. After I leave here, I’m starting to work on a geese barn for them that will be out of earshot.”
“Anna will be happy.”
“Ahh, she has already complained to you, then? My mamm says what she thinks.” He removed a bandanna from his pocket. “What will you be doing for the Watermelon Fest?”
“I’m not sure yet. Everything is up in the air with Running Stitch closed down.”
“Will the shop be open by then?” He set the hammer in a wheelbarrow parked by the door.
I frowned. “I hope so.” I gestured toward the barn. “Will it be ready in time?”
“We should finish today. It’s a gut thing. Willow is anxious to get to work for her watermelon party.” He walked through the barn door and blinked against the bright sunlight. “The guys are working on a platform to place the enormous watermelons on.”
“Are you going to the Watermelon Fest?”
“Ya. I told them I would help out even if it is a party more for the Englischers.”
“So you’re not against it, like some of the Amish are.”
He raised one eyebrow at me. It was like looking into his ten-year-old face. That expression used to infuriate me as a child because I could never get it down, as much as I practiced in the mirror. From the smirk forming on Jonah’s face, I could tell he remembered too. “I wouldn’t be here helping prepare the barn for the party if I thought the party was wrong. Watching Englischers eat watermelon until they get sick is not my idea of a gut way to pass the time when there is so much work to be done.”
I laughed. “It doesn’t sound like much fun when you put it like that.”
He wiped his hands on a blue bandanna. “It will be gut for Rolling Brook to have such an event, no matter what some of the Amish in town say. It will bring more notice and tourists. Maybe more buses will come here instead of Berlin.”
Murder, Plain and Simple Page 15