She dropped the beads onto her chest. “It does, but that doesn’t mean we have to wait until then to talk about it. Let’s go. It’s in the barn at the end of the road. It’s better if I show you.”
I grabbed the steering wheel, which was now cool to the touch. Mitchell wanted me to go to work and home. That was it. He would not approve of my walking about town with Willow, a suspect, out in the open where Elijah could see me.
“What’s the holdup? You got something better to do?”
“Not really,” I admitted, and I climbed out of the car.
“Didn’t think so.”
I opened the door to the backseat and snapped the lead onto Oliver’s collar. He snuffled. You promised we were going home, his expression said.
“Change of plans, buddy.”
He buried his face under his paw.
Willow peered into the backseat of my car. “He wants to take a nap. Just leave him there. He will be fine.”
I would have agreed with her before my face-to-face with Elijah Knepp. “The walk will do him good. He’s lain around Running Stitch most of the day.” I picked up Oliver and set him on the blacktop, careful to avoid the horse dropping left there earlier in the day by a passing horse and buggy.
Oliver held his nose in the air as if in disgust. He never had these types of problems in Dallas.
Willow waved us on and the strings of beads around her neck clattered against one another with her every step. “The weatherman predicts eighty percent chance of sunshine for tomorrow. I plan to hold him to it.”
“How are you going to do that?” I laughed.
“I will drive to Cleveland and give him a piece of my mind if I feel one drop of rain.”
Now that Oliver was out of the car and moving, his mood improved—he stopped every few yards to smell a tree or bench along the sidewalk.
Beyond Old Ben’s woodworker’s shop, which was closed for the day, the barn came into view. Fresh wood on the siding and shiny pieces of slate roof marked the places where Jonah and the other Amish men made repairs on the old structure. “It’s a hundred times better,” I said.
Willow nodded. “It is. Jonah Graber and his team did an excellent job.” She pointed to the open grassy area, which had recently been mowed. “Because of the good weather, the quilting circle can go there. It shouldn’t be too hot, because the barn will provide the ladies shade most of the day.”
A sense of dread fell over me. “I forgot to check with Anna about the other ladies joining the quilting bee.”
“I knew you were busy the last couple of days with the shop, so Anna Graber and I settled the whole event. All you have to do is allow us to use your quilt frame.”
I gave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad. The quilt frame is heavy, though.”
She waved my concern away. “There are plenty of strapping Amish men around here who can carry it up the street.”
“I’m not sure how I’m going to be in two places at one time,” I said. “I don’t have any help in the quilt shop right now.”
She held on to the longest of her beaded necklaces. “What about Martha?”
“She quit.”
“Well, you need to be here for your special assignment. We’ll find someone to watch Running Stitch,” she said as we crossed the grass to the barn. “You might want some flyers to hand out to the folks watching the quilters. This will be a gold mine in PR as far as Running Stitch goes.”
“I’ll work on them tonight.” I hoped my printer could handle spitting out two hundred flyers. Rolling Brook wasn’t the kind of place you could find an all-night print shop.
The barn’s doors were wide-open and volunteers were inside setting up tables and chairs for the next day’s festivities.
“Running Stitch will get plenty of exposure with the quilting bee. Thank you again for including it.”
“It’s no problem. Anna and I discussed that the bee needs a watermelon tie-in. We don’t want it to be too out of place, so she proposed a watermelon quilt pattern.”
“I’ve never heard of that.” I sidestepped a teenager hurrying into the barn with a bunch of green and pink balloons.
“She’s going to make it.” Willow stepped inside the barn. Despite all the stall windows being opened to let light inside, the space was dim. “We are bringing in some barn lights to hang from the ceiling. They should be here any time.”
“You still haven’t told me what my special assignment is.”
“We need a timekeeper for a watermelon-eating contest.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound that hard. Was there a catch?
Willow pointed to one corner where two teenagers set up chairs stadium-style. “That’s where the watermelon-eating contest will be at eleven in the morning.”
“How many people are entered?”
“Five.” She sighed. “I was hoping for more, but I must remind myself this is the first Watermelon Fest. Next year, it will be bigger.”
Not if the Amish like Joseph have anything to say about it, I thought. “What exactly will I have to do during the contest?”
“It’s as easy as an Amish fry pie. You start the clock and stop it when the first person finishes eating all of his or her watermelon.”
It sounded too easy, but I thought this was a situation in which not knowing everything might be best. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
She grinned. “I’ve wanted to bring an event like this to Rolling Brook for years. You don’t know how hard I had to push and lobby for it.”
I stopped walking. “I thought the Watermelon Fest was Farley’s idea.”
“Pfft!” Willow snorted. “That’s just what he tells people. Don’t get me wrong, I have appreciated his help. Especially when trying to get it approved by the town trustees. But the Watermelon Fest has always been my idea.”
The force with which Willow said this surprised me, as it wasn’t the reaction that I’d expected from the mellow tea shop owner. Up to this point, I hadn’t really considered Willow a viable suspect because of her relaxed demeanor. That had been a mistake. “I’m sorry if my comment upset you.”
Her expression softened. “Sometimes Farley can get under my skin, which is not a small feat. He’s a blowhard, but at the same time, I know I need him to get the job done.”
Had Joseph gotten under her skin too? Clearly, she was passionate about the Watermelon Fest.
“Do you trust Farley?”
She stopped walking. “Of course. Why?”
“You seem upset with him.” I cleared my throat. “Do you think that he could have killed Joseph?”
“Over watermelon?” She laughed. “Oh, Angie, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Who knew you were a comedian?”
Who said I was joking?
“The next thing you’re going to ask is if I did it.” She doubled over in mirth.
“I was thinking about it,” I admitted.
She wiped a tear from her eye. “I can assure you I didn’t. I know some of the Amish aren’t overjoyed at the idea, but it will bring so much business. If people come for the fest and see everything our little town has to offer, they are bound to return. We get our share of tourists, but nothing like what Berlin or Sugarcreek do. I think Rolling Brook is just as quaint as those towns and should attract the same number of visitors.”
“Have preparations gone more smoothly now that Joseph is gone?”
“Not at all. In fact, the trustees were considering calling the whole thing off. They would have had it not been for Farley. How can we have all these tourists in town with a killer on the loose? Two of the trustees are especially nervous. It’s one thing for an Amish shopkeeper to get murdered, but what if it’s a tourist? That would ruin everything.”
I winced. Abigail and her children would have a difference of opinion.
I opened my mouth, b
ut Farley’s oily voice broke into our conversation. “Willow, I’m so glad to see you. Tomorrow will be a day to remember for Rolling Brook. Ah! I see you found Angela.” He grinned.
“I did, and she agreed to be timekeeper for the watermelon-eating contest.”
To my relief, Willow said nothing of my suspicions toward Farley.
“Excellent.” He eyed me. “I see you aren’t wandering around the countryside.”
I gave him a weak smile, feeling exposed. I should have gone straight home like Mitchell wanted me to. “It’s getting late. I should head home. Oliver wants his dinner.”
The Frenchie barked agreement.
Willow smoothed the sleeves of her thin blouse over her arms. “Remember, we need you in the barn at ten thirty sharp.” She seemed to want to say something more, but her eye flitted in Farley’s direction.
I hoped that my suspecting her of murder didn’t ruin any chances I had of building a friendship with Willow. Despite everything, I really did like the tea shop owner. Trusting her was another story.
“I’ll be there,” I promised, wondering how I was going to find someone to watch the shop.
“I’m headed back to the tea shop,” Farley said. “I’ll walk you back to your car.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, and headed across the grass.
Farley didn’t take the hint and followed me.
When we reached the sidewalk, Farley said, “I’ve heard that you have been about town, trying to find out who killed Joseph Walker. I must be a suspect.”
I stepped as far away from Farley as I could while still not walking on the grass. Had Farley overheard my conversation with Willow? “I know the Watermelon Fest is important to you.”
“It’s important to Rolling Brook’s survival. We need to make our mark in Holmes County. We need to be known for something.”
The best theme you could come up with was watermelon? I wondered. Thankfully, I didn’t voice my opinion on this.
“Sheriff Mitchell already spoke to me twice about the murder. As you can see, I haven’t been arrested.”
We walked by Old Ben’s store and the yarn shop. The lights were off in every building and the doors locked up tight. The barn and everyone in it felt very far away. If Farley could drive straight to the point, so could I. “Do you have an alibi?”
A thin smile pulled across his face. “I do.”
“What is it?” We had almost reached the bakery. I wished Rachel, Aaron, or Mattie were still there. Why did everyone in Rolling Brook have to leave so early in the day? In Dallas, five o’clock wasn’t even quitting time.
“That you don’t need to know. I’ve told the sheriff to get him off my case. He verified that I told the truth. You can ask him about it.”
“I will,” I promised.
Farley squeezed my shoulder from behind me. “Just remember, Miss Angela, I don’t need to kill someone to get what I want.”
I jerked away from him before crossing the street in the direction of the community lot and my SUV. I unlocked the car and hopped in with Oliver on my lap. The question remained. What did Farley want?
Chapter Thirty-eight
Ryan and Mitchell stood in front of Miller’s Bakery on Sugartree Street. I was across the road, in front of Running Stitch. The two men shouted at me, both scowling and angry. Their cries dissipated halfway across the street as if they hit an invisible wall. I fluffed the skirt of the poufy pink and green watermelon princess dress I wore. How did I end up in the getup? My mother appeared, clapping her manicured hands. “Finally, she will get married!”
Oliver whimpered into my ear, chasing the dream from my mind.
I batted him away. “Oliver, the sun isn’t even up.” I shivered, trying to forget the dream. I didn’t know which was worse, the dress or Mitchell and Ryan in the same place. The image of them side by side was jarring.
He smacked his paw onto my cheek.
I grabbed his paw. “Oliver? What was that for?”
He barked in my ear and whimpered again.
I propped myself up on my elbows. A strange glow came from the window. I sat up in the bed. “What’s that? Is someone in the backyard?”
He barked again and pushed me with his front paw. His claws dug into my back.
“Okay, I’m up.” I stumbled to the window.
My hand flew to my mouth. The doghouse was a fireball. The flames licked the wooden fence at the far end of the back lawn. My feet got tangled in the end of my quilt. I landed on the hardwood floor with a thunk. I crawled to my bedside table and yanked my cell phone out of its charger.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“My doghouse is on fire!”
“What’s your address?”
I rattled it off, vaguely aware of how high my voice was.
“Please, ma’am. Stay calm. Are you close to the fire?”
“I’m on the second story of my house.”
“Is the doghouse close?”
“Forty feet away?”
“You should get out of the house as a precaution. The fire department will be there soon. Stay on—”
Oliver bolted out of the room.
“Oliver!” I cried.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m still here.” I detangled myself from the quilt and left my bedroom, carrying the phone with me.
“Ma’am?” the dull voice said in my ear. “Are you still in the house?”
“Yes, I’m looking for my dog. He ran downstairs.”
“I advise you to go out into the front yard.”
“I’m not leaving my dog in here by himself,” I bellowed. “Oliver!” I tripped down the stairs. The smell of smoke was pronounced on the first floor and became worse as I stepped into the kitchen. Tendrils of smoke floated through the half-open doggy door. Canine bite marks dug into the rubberized flab.
I stared at the broken doggy door and felt last night’s dinner in my throat. Would Oliver have gone into the backyard? Why would my cowardly dog run headlong into a fire? I didn’t have time to question. I had to act.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” the dispatcher asked.
I ran out of the front door. My pajamas didn’t have any pockets, so I dropped the phone on a small table on the porch. “Ma’am?” was the last I heard from the dispatcher.
If I couldn’t find Oliver, I could hold the fire back. On the side of the house, I unraveled the knotted hose and pulled it toward the backyard. I gasped as I stepped through the gate. The heat of the flame made me feel like I stepped into a pizza oven. The back fence was on fire now. In my mind, I could see the flames traveling around the fence and onto the siding of my house. I turned the water nozzle to jet and doused the fence with water, soaking myself in the process. The flames on the fence were small and died back. I then turned the hose on the doghouse. The water there made little impact.
Sirens carried in the stillness of the rural night and came closer. I heard the sound of the fire truck screeching to a halt in front of my house. Men yelled at one another as they climbed out of the truck. Poor Oliver. He must be terrified by the noise, wherever he was. He was safe, I told myself. He was only hiding somewhere.
Four firemen crashed through the gate. One took the hose from my hand, and another pushed me out of the way as he trained the fire hose on the doghouse. My back pressed up against the door, which led into the kitchen. The fire grew smaller. A third fireman ran at the doghouse with an ax and beat the structure to the ground. Within seconds, Oliver’s beloved home was chunks of charred wood and smoking splinters.
My chest heaved up and down. The fireman who took the hose from me set it on the ground. “Miss, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I whispered, but it was a lie.
I leaned on the back door for support.
The fireman removed his mask. “We
will need to check you out.”
“I can’t find my dog.”
The fireman glanced back at the demolished doghouse.
“He wasn’t in there. He’s hiding somewhere outside or inside. I don’t know.”
“Be careful where you walk. You don’t have any shoes on.”
I realized that he was right. I stood straighter and started for the gate.
Sheriff Mitchell pushed his way through the firemen. “I need a full report on what started this fire,” he barked at the man closest to him.
“Sure, Sheriff,” the young fireman replied. “The fire chief will want to do his own investigation, though.”
Mitchell pointed at him. “This is my case. It’s related to the Walker murder.”
The fireman’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’ll tell the chief, sir.”
Mitchell nodded as if satisfied. “Where’s Miss Braddock?”
He pointed at me. “Over there.”
The security lights in the back of the house caught the green in Mitchell’s eyes, making them sparkle like emeralds.
Inwardly, I groaned as I imagined my appearance in soaking wet pajamas and a soot-covered face.
He stomped over to me.
“Is Oliver okay?” was the first question out of his mouth.
His concern for my dog made me want to cry. I fought back the tears. “I can’t find him. He woke me up to tell me about the fire, but then he raced down the stairs. He’s hiding somewhere.” My chest heaved. “I thought maybe he ran outside because he bit through the doggy door.”
Mitchell spun around to inspect the door and stuck his shoe through it.
Mitchell smiled. “The Frenchie has a little bit of Lassie in him.”
I nodded, but I felt myself start to shake. The harder I tried to hold myself still, the worse the shaking became. “I need to go look for him.”
“Hey, Mitchell.” A fireman with a full beard approached us holding a galvanized canister roughly the size of a chili pot. “We found this in the neighbors’ bushes.”
Mitchell removed a handkerchief from his pocket and took the canister in his hand. He held it loosely against the white cloth. He sniffed the top. “Kerosene.”
Murder, Plain and Simple Page 24